CHAPTER IX: ‘KIND OF A MISFIT’

Hashknife and Sleepy were standing in front of the hotel when Nan Lane rode in to Cañonville. Her horse was lathered to the ears, and almost fell with her in front of them, but she yanked him up and headed for the sheriff’s office.

‘Little Miss Somebody’s in a hell of a hurry,’ observed Sleepy.

‘Y’betcha,’ agreed Hashknife. ‘Come to visit the sheriff, too. Let’s see what’s all the hurry about.’

They strode down to the office, where they found Nan telling Lem and Noah what had happened at the ranch.

‘But what was it all about?’ asked Lem. ‘Doggone it, Nan, don’tcha know what they wanted?’

Nan clung to the back of a chair, weary from her wild ride over the Coyote Cañon grades.

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Rex slammed the door in their faces before they had time to tell, I suppose. Then he ran in through my room and fell through the window. I—I guess they thought it was my father; so they took out after him.’

‘Dad didn’t know what it was all about, but he decided to keep away until he could find out; so he took one of their horses and I—I took another.’

‘And all them jiggers went huntin’ young Morgan, eh?’ grinned Noah. ‘I’ll betcha they ruin him before they’re through.’

Lem frowned reflectively, wondering what to do. Then he stepped over to his desk, opened a drawer and took out Peter Morgan’s six-shooter, which he held out to Nan.

‘Didja ever see that gun before?’ he asked.

Nan looked at it, knowing down in her heart that it was the gun Lem had picked up in the corral, but at that time she had paid no attention to the general appearance of the gun.

‘I don’t believe I have,’ she replied calmly.

Lem tossed it back in the drawer, as though dismissing it from the conversation.

‘I reckon we better ride up thataway and see what’s what,’ he said slowly, and turned to Hashknife. ‘Want to go along?’

‘Like to,’ nodded Hashknife. ‘But our broncs are so sore-footed that——’

‘Plenty broncs,’ said Noah quickly. ‘I’ll get yuh a couple. C’mon.’

When the three men were gone, Lem turned to Nan, who was standing beside the doorway, looking out at the street.

‘Was that all yuh knowed about it, Nan?’ he asked.

‘All?’ She turned her head quickly.

‘Yeah. Yuh didn’t know why they came after yore father?’

She shook her head and looked back at the street.

‘Yuh knew I found Peter Morgan’s gun in yore corral this mornin’, didn’t yuh, Nan?’

‘I saw you pick up a gun, Lem.’

‘Yuh didn’t know whose gun it was?’

‘How would I know?’ she parried.

‘It’s got his initials on it.’

‘Has it? He must have lost it in our corral.’

‘Looks like it,’ sighed Lem. ‘Hear anythin’ of yore brother?’

Nan shook her head. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘you couldn’t expect me to answer that, could you, Lem?’

‘I’m yore friend.’

‘And sheriff of this county.’

‘Yeah, I reckon that’s right.’

‘Who are those two strange cowboys, Lem?’

‘Hartley and Stevens. The tall one is Hartley.’

‘He has fine eyes, hasn’t he?’

‘Never noticed. His brother used to work with Noah. But what is fine about his eyes?’

‘The way they look at you, Lem.’

The sheriff laughed softly. ‘You’re a pretty girl, Nan.’

‘But they didn’t look at me that way.’

‘I pass,’ sighed Lem.

The three men were coming from the livery-stable with their horses.

‘Mebby you better stay here in town until this thing is over,’ suggested Lem.

‘Not me,’ declared Nan. ‘I’m going back with you, if that stolen horse is able to make the trip.’

‘Looks like Dave Morgan’s bronc,’ grinned Lem. ‘He’ll want me to arrest yuh for stealin’ his horse, I suppose. Mebby I will, Nan; who knows?’

‘I—I hope you won’t, Lem,’ she said seriously.

‘Well, I won’t. And if he swears out a warrant, I’ll give yuh plenty of room for a getaway.’

Lem introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Nan, and they all rode out of town together. Nan was worried over what might happen to Rex Morgan, but Lem refused to hurry.

‘Yore horse is all tired out, and, anyway, they won’t hurt young Morgan,’ he said. ‘Them boys will find out their mistake. One of ’em might take a punch at him for foxin’ ’em thataway.’

‘Oh, I hope not,’ said Nan. ‘His head is badly hurt, and he isn’t very strong, anyway.’

‘Did he pull that winder stunt to give yore dad a chance to git away?’ asked Noah.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps he was so frightened at the sight of those guns that he went right out through the window. You see,’ turning to Hashknife, ‘he isn’t used to this kind of a country, Mr. Hartley.’

‘I can imagine how he’d feel,’ smiled Hashknife. ‘What do yuh know about young Morgan, Miss Lane?’

‘Only what he has told us.’

‘Kind of a misfit,’ growled Lem. ‘Ort to be back in the city where he belongs.’

Noah winked at Hashknife meaningly, and Nan saw it. She blushed and turned her head away. It was nearly dark when they reached the Lane ranch. Rex was sitting on the front porch, with Paul Lane’s double-barrel shotgun across his lap. In the dim light he recognized Nan, and came out to meet them.

‘What did they do to you, Rex?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Not much,’ cheerfully. ‘One of the boys knocked me down, and then I knocked him down.’

‘The hell yuh did!’ blurted Lem, swinging down from his saddle. ‘Which one was it, Morgan?’

‘I think it was Mr. Cahill.’

‘Spike Cahill!’ exploded Noah. ‘You knocked him down?’

‘Yes. It was quite a while before he recovered.’

‘Say-a-a! C’mere and shake hands.’

Rex shook hands with Noah, who doubled up with mirth.

‘Is Spike Cahill a fighter?’ asked Hashknife.

‘Not necessarily; but he’s shore belligerent. Wish t’ gosh I’d ’a’ seen it. That’ll stigmatize Spike to his dyin’ day.’

‘C’mere, Morgan,’ ordered Lem severely. ‘What was it all about? Didn’t they tell yuh?’

‘Yes, they told me. I tried to find out how they knew so much about it—the evidence, you know—but they——’

‘The evidence of what?’

‘That Mr. Lane had killed Peter Morgan.’

‘F’r God’s sake! Is Peter Morgan dead?’

‘I would gather from their remarks that he is, Mr. Sheeley. I asked them where he was killed and when he was killed, but none of them were able to answer my questions. They rode away without molesting me further.’

‘Did Spike Cahill knock you down, Rex?’ asked Nan.

‘Oh, certainly. I suppose he was excited. In fact, one of them fired three shots at me, and one went through my sleeve, but no harm was done. But for fear that some of them might come back, I armed myself.’

Sleepy picked up the shotgun and opened it.

‘This gun is empty,’ he said.

‘Didn’t you load it, Rex?’ asked Nan.

‘No. You see, I didn’t know——’

‘And there yuh are!’ snorted Lem. ‘Hell’s bells! We’ve got to get to town and find out about this. Noah, you stay here and help hold down the ranch. We can’t leave Nan alone with that damn idiot.’

‘Suppose you stay here, too, Sleepy,’ suggested Hashknife.

‘Suits me.’

‘I thought it would,’ meaningly.

Lem and Hashknife mounted and headed for Mesa City, riding knee-to-knee.

‘What was it about that gun in the corral?’ queried Hashknife, as they swung back on the main road.

‘I dunno, Hartley. Gad, it looks bad for Lane. Of course, we’ll have to get the details before we can figure on anythin’. I feel awful sorry for that girl. But she’s plumb game, she is. Imagine a girl actin’ like her, when her father and brother are both accused of murder, and both hidin’ in the hills.’

‘She’s shore cool, sheriff. It takes cool folks to live in this kind of a country.’

‘In more ways than one, Hartley.’

They rode into Mesa City and tied their horses at the Oasis saloon, where they found Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson, Spike Cahill, Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, and Red Eller, all more or less drunk. They looked the sheriff over coldly.

‘What’s been goin’ on, boys?’ asked the sheriff.

‘A-a-a-a plenty!’ snorted Dave Morgan. ‘Didn’t yuh hear about it?’

‘I haven’t heard much, Dave. Nan Lane came to Cañonville after me, but she didn’t know what it was all about. Young Morgan said yuh accused Paul Lane of murderin’ Peter Morgan. It’s a damn wonder that some of yuh couldn’t have come after me in the first place. Now, the soberest one of yuh tell me what happened to-day. No, don’t all talk at once. Spike, you tell it.’

‘I can damn soon tell yuh, Lem,’ declared Spike. ‘When we got up this mornin’, Peter Morgan was gone. He’d saddled up and pulled out before breakfast. Me and Bert Roddy came to town. Well, you met us here, Lem. We went back to the ranch, and it wasn’t so very long after that when here comes Peter Morgan’s horse, and on his back is Pete Morgan, tied on—dead as a doornail.[’]

‘He’d been hit over the head with somethin’, and his gun was gone. There was blood on the horse’s shoulder, and we thought the horse had been shot, but it was Pete’s blood. And the horse came from down toward the Lane ranch. You know that Pete and old Lane had a fight yesterday here in town, and Lane said he’d kill the first one of the 6X6 that ever came on his ranch.’

‘Where’s Pete’s body now, Spike?’

‘Out at the ranch.’

‘And nobody thought to notify me, eh? I suppose the sheriff and the coroner——’

‘We didn’t need yore help,’ said Dave Morgan. ‘You haven’t even tried to find young Lane. Things like this don’t require a sheriff, Lem.’

‘Things like this require a little brains and horse-sense,’ retorted Lem. ‘And there ain’t a damn one of you fellers that qualify. You was jist smart enough to send old man Lane into the hills.’

‘If it hadn’t been for that fool kid——’

‘Smart, I’d call it,’ said Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs.

‘Hello, Napoleon,’ smiled Lem. ‘How come you in town?’

‘He’s scared to stay on the ranch with a corpse,’ laughed Spike. ‘Wouldn’t even stay there along with Dell Bowen and Bert Roddy.’

‘All right,’ grunted Briggs. ‘I don’t crave no dead folks. Every person’s got a hobby. Mine’s to keep a long ways ahead of the dead.’

‘You got a rig we can take the body to Cañonville in?’ asked Lem.

‘Shore,’ nodded Spike. ‘Got a hack.’

‘All right; c’mon and drive it.’

‘Aw, hell, Lem! I’m all——’

‘You’re deputized, Spike.’

‘I hoped yuh wouldn’t do that, Lem.’

‘Well, it’s done—c’mon.’

‘You have to come back through here, don’tcha?’ asked Hashknife. ‘All right; I’ll stay here until yuh come back.’

‘You got a hobby like mine?’ asked Briggs.

‘Somethin’ like it.’

‘Good! I’ll buy a drink.’

Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson, and Spike Cahill went with the sheriff, while Hashknife stayed with Napoleon and Red Eller. The Oasis was not busy. Only on Saturday and Sunday was the trade heavy. The bartender was a portly sort of person, collarless, moist of skin, with the proverbial ‘spit-curl’ over his left eye and an odor of perfume.

‘It sure was a blow to this country when Peter Morgan died,’ he said mournfully. ‘Grand man; big man. In fact, he was the biggest——’

‘Yore loop’s around yore feet,’ warned Briggs. ‘All you know about him is seein’ him once or twice a week.’

‘I worked for him, didn’t I?’

‘Yea-a-ah, yuh did and yuh do. But I knowed him better than you ever could. I’ve filled his belly with food for years, and I shore know him from his chilblains to his dandruff. And he wasn’t a big man. He was pretty much of a damn fool in lotsa ways.’

‘Just what ways?’ asked the bartender.

‘Lotsa ways. Say! He shore got popped over the head awful hard. I got one look at him, and that was s’ficient f’r me. I says t’ myself, “Pete, you’re a gonner.” And he was, too.’

‘Who was there when he came, Briggs?’

‘Oh, me and Spike and Bert and Dell and Dave Morgan. It shore hit Dave awful hard. Him and Peter never was real friendly, but they was cousins.’

‘Who gets the 6X6 ranch?’ asked Hashknife.

‘Prob’ly lotsa folks are wonderin’ about that,’ said Briggs slowly. ‘Dave looks like the lee-gitimate heir, unless old Pete made out a will. That’ll all be found out later on, I reckon. Pete wasn’t much of a hand to monkey with lawyers. Kinda wanted t’ be his own law.’

‘Dave’ll probably git the Oasis saloon, too,’ said the bartender. ‘Mebby he’ll get his fill of liquor and poker.’

‘Dave’s all right,’ defended Red Eller.

‘I’m not sayin’ a word agin’ him, Red. Let’s all have a drink.’

They accepted the drink, and Hashknife turned to Red.

‘Were you at the Lane ranch this mornin’?’

‘I shore was,’ grinned Red. ‘That tenderfoot shore foxed us a-plenty. We was so anxious to git our hands on old man Lane that we plumb forgot he might stampede; and when we heard that winder go smash, we busted our legs tryin’ to head him off.[’]

‘And he shore led us a merry chase. By the time we did catch him, Spike was awful sore. He busted the kid flat with a punch on the jaw, but the kid got up, kinda white, spiffin’ blood. And when Spike grabbed him by the arm, the kid knocked Spike plumb cold with an uppercut to the jaw.[’]

‘Oh, it was a complete knockout. That tenderfoot kid may be crazy, but don’t never let anybody tell yuh he can’t hit. He took all the fight out of Spike. Why, he hit Spike so damn hard that Spike got on his horse from the wrong side.’

‘Is he any relation to Dave Morgan?’ asked Hashknife.

‘Na-a-aaw!’

‘What’s he doin’ in this country?’

‘Quien sabe? He ain’t been here long enough for anybody to find out. Hello, Bunty.’

Bunty Smith came over to the bar, glanced quickly at Hashknife, and returned Red’s greeting. Red turned to Hashknife.

‘I dunno yore name, pardner; but whatever it is, this is Bunty Smith, one of the stage drivers. Bunty’s the owner of the stage line, and drives every other day.’

‘My name’s Hartley,’ smiled Hashknife, and shook hands with Bunty.

‘We was jist talkin’ about young Morgan,’ said Red.

‘Oh, that damn fool! Is he still alive?’

‘Live enough to knock Spike Cahill out.’

‘You love to lie, don’tcha, Red?’

Red explained what had happened that morning, and Bunty apologized by buying a drink.

‘That tenderfoot shore had me moppin’ my brow,’ laughed Bunty. ‘I still think he’s loco. Hartley, did yuh hear about him headin’ for town on one of my horses, and failin’ off on his head in front of the Lane ranch-house?’

‘He said somebody hit him, didn’t he?’

‘Shore he did. Alibi for failin’ off.’

‘I never thought of that,’ laughed Red. ‘By golly, and I thought it was a mystery.’

‘It’s like the usual mystery,’ smiled Hashknife.

‘Do you like mishteries?’ asked Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs, who was not carrying his liquor so well.

‘I don’t,’ replied Hashknife.

‘Shame here. I like romansh. Didja ever read “Lef’ at the Altar”? Great book. You don’t happen to know where I c’n fin’ the rest of it, do yuh?’

‘The rest of the book?’

‘Shertinly. Mine’s been docked. Right on the las’ line it says, “Lord Mort’mer flung the heavy draperies ashide with the point of his sh-sh-shword, and there stood——” And that’s the end of it.[’]

‘I’ve ’magined my own endin’ for the shtory, but it ain’t so good. But she’s a dinger up to where she skips off into space.’

‘Sheriff ain’t caught young Lane yet, has he?’ asked Bunty.

‘Na-a-aw, and he never will,’ flared Red. ‘I think he’s stuck on that girl.’

‘Shows damn good taste,’ said Briggs. ‘I’ve only sheen her once, but I was shober enough to r’lize that she was pretty nice for to gaze upon.’

‘The sheriff,’ said Hashknife, anxious to switch the subject away from Nan, ‘seems of the opinion that this young Lane shot in self-defense.’

‘All right,’ said Red, ready for an argument. ‘If he did, why did he take Ben’s horse and gun? I’m not tryin’ to stick him for killin’ Ben, if he had to do it; but he took the horse and the gun.’

‘Yes, that looks bad. But he was drunk.’

‘Not too drunk, Hartley. Remember he shot straight.’

‘That’s true. And what evidence have yuh that old man Lane killed Peter Morgan?’

‘None,’ said Red honestly. ‘Lane swore he’d kill him, if he came to his ranch. Peter Morgan is dead, and his body came from toward the Lane ranch. That’s all we’ve got.’

‘Lane was heard to say that he’d kill any of the 6X6 that came to his ranch, wasn’t he?’

‘He shore was.’

‘And if Peter Morgan went there, after that warnin’, wasn’t he expectin’ to kill or be killed?’

‘I dunno what he thought. But that can’t be made out as self-defense, Hartley. If Lane killed him, why didn’t Lane report it to the sheriff? I mean, if it was self-defense, Lane could clear himself, I reckon.’

‘Could he, Eller? With his own son hidin’ out from the law? With the feeling against nesters? Do yuh think he could clear himself? Remember, Peter Morgan was a big man around here—Lane the smallest. Look at it from Lane’s angle.’

Red gazed moodily at his empty glass.

‘I see what yuh mean, Hartley. I never did put myself in Lane’s place—until now.’

‘The law,’ said the bartender wisely, ‘is supposed to play square with yuh.’

‘It very often does,’ nodded Hashknife. ‘In case they decide yuh deserve hangin’, they’ll furnish the rope.’

Red squinted at Hashknife, a half-grin on his lips.

‘You ain’t very strong for the law, are yuh, pardner?’

‘Not for the law—but for justice.’

‘There’s a difference,’ agreed Red. ‘Well, I reckon I better take Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs over to the hotel and put him to bed.’

‘Lemme shee yuh do it,’ urged Briggs.

‘Oh, I can do it all right,’ declared Red.

He grasped Briggs by the collar and one sleeve and was hustling him to the doorway, when Rex Morgan came in. He was hatless, dirty, one shirtsleeve almost torn off at the shoulder. For several moments he stood there, breathing heavily, before he could speak.

‘Get a doctor!’ he blurted. ‘Mr. Evans has been shot.’

Red released Briggs, who stumbled against the wall and fell in a heap, swearing drunkenly.

‘Who do yuh mean?’ demanded Red. ‘Noah Evans, the deputy sheriff?’

Rex nodded painfully. ‘At the Lane home. He—he went out on the porch and somebody shot him.’

‘How badly is he hurt?’ asked Hashknife.

‘Through the shoulder. Mr. Stevens says it is quite bad. They made me ride here after the doctor and I fell off. But’—he tried to grin—‘I held to the lines, and got on again.’

‘I’ll get the doctor,’ said Red, and ran from the saloon.

‘You look as though yuh needed a drink,’ said the bartender, pouring out a stiff drink of whiskey. ‘Throw that into yuh, kid.’

Rex shook his head. ‘I—I never did drink anything.’

‘You prob’ly never needed it before.’

‘Do yuh good,’ nodded Hashknife. ‘Better mix a little water in it, if yore neck is tender.’

Rex choked over the drink and his eyes filled with tears. Mesa City liquor was powerful stuff, and after a few moments the effects of the drink brought a pleasant glow to its owner.

‘Feelin’ better?’ asked the bartender.

‘Wonderful. What was in it?’

‘God only knows. For some men it’s full of fights; for some it’s full of songs. Didn’t yuh ever take a shot of hooch before?’

‘No, sir.’

‘I reckon you’ve been raised by hand,’ sighed the bartender. ‘Have another?’

Rex did. Hashknife was standing beside the doorway, listening for Red Eller to come back with the doctor, and he turned to watch Rex take his second drink.

‘Are you the feller who knocked out Spike Cahill?’ asked the bartender.

‘Yes,’ choked Rex. ‘Ah-h-h-h!’

‘They tell me you’re a fighter.’

‘I—I do very nicely, thank you.’

‘My Gawd!’ grunted the bartender. ‘You do nicely, eh?’

Hashknife studied the flushed face of Rex Morgan. The two drinks of powerful liquor were almost too much for the young man.

‘C’mere, Morgan,’ said Hashknife, and Rex came over to him, slightly unsteady on his feet.

‘Just what are you doin’ in this country?’ asked Hashknife.

‘Well—’ Rex rubbed the palm of his right hand along his jaw, his eyes half-shut, as he tried to concentrate on Hashknife’s question.

‘Well, I don’t exactly know,’ he confessed. ‘I’m sure I did not come here to get the things I have already received. I—I think I came out of curiosity.’

‘Curiosity, eh? And how did you happen to pick on this part of the country?’

‘It was a check on the Mesa City Bank, Mr. Hartley; a check which was sent to my mother. After she died I found the check.’

‘A check sent from here to your mother, eh? Whose name was on that check?’

‘I don’t know. Queer, isn’t it? The writing was so blurred, don’t you see? Or perhaps the signature was not well written.’

He grinned at Hashknife foolishly. ‘I feel so free of all pain,’ he said slowly. ‘Even my head does not pain me now. It is the first time since I woke up at the Lane residence that my head has not hurt me.’

‘You’re drunk,’ said Hashknife shortly. A horse and buggy were coming down the street, and turned in at the front of the saloon.

It was Red Eller and the doctor.

‘Better let Morgan ride with the doctor,’ suggested Hashknife. ‘I’ll go back to the Lane place, and as soon as the sheriff shows up, you can tell him what happened, Eller.’

‘All right. It’ll give me a chance to put Briggs to bed.’

‘I’m going to ride a horsh,’ declared Rex.

‘You’re goin’ to ride on a buggy seat,’ replied Hashknife. ‘Get in with the doctor and I’ll lead yore horse.’