Hashknife and the Fantom Riders Page 10

  “My mother is better than a doctor. She knows what to do. He knew I came over to tell you, and he said to tell you that he’s all right.”

  “And you didn’t see the man that fired the shots?” said the sheriff.

  Lorna looked around the circle again and back at the sheriff.

  “Yes, I seen him.”

  “Yuh did? My gosh! Who was he?”

  “I got up, after my horse fell with me. I was dizzy for a minute, but I looked back toward the hill and I seen the man riding away. It was the same man we saw a while before.”

  “But who was he?” urged half-a-dozen voices, as the cattlemen crowded around her.

  “Give us his name,” demanded the sheriff.

  But Lorna shook her head.

  “No, not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I told Sleepy about it and he said for me to not tell anybody.”

  “Well, that’s a hell of a note!” wailed Lonesome.

  Hashknife smiled grimly. He knew that Sleepy, even though badly hurt, knew that this information would be for them alone.

  “You want to be party to a crime?” queried the sheriff. “If yuh don’t tell, yo’re as guilty as the shooter.”

  Lorna backed against the door and looked defiantly at him.

  “All right, arrest me.”

  “Oh hell!”

  The sheriff turned appealingly to the men.

  “What can yuh do in a case like that?”

  Hashknife turned and went out through the kitchen, heading for the barn. He saddled and led his horse outside, where he found the cattlemen waiting for him. Poco brushed past him, saying that he and Trainor were going along.

  Lorna was already in the saddle; so he rode in beside her and they led the way. There was little conversation. Every man felt that they would soon know the name of the man who had been terrorizing the Ghost Hills Range, and they also knew that he would never live to be tried by a court of law.

  Hashknife did not question Lorna, and he felt that these men would have their ride in vain. If Sleepy did not want her to tell the name of the killer, it was because this information might serve them to uncover the whole band.

  Near the forks of the road he asked if it might not be well to send one man after the doctor at Wolf Wells, but she said:

  “My mother good doctor. She knows what to do.”

  Hashknife knew that many of the Indians were adept at treating gunshot wounds, and a rangeland doctor is not usually a surgeon; so he agreed that her idea was probably the best.

  It was a silent group of riders that dismounted at the open door of the Tomahawk ranch-house and filed inside. Sleepy was stretched out on a cot and beside him sat the Indian woman, Mrs. Cassidy.

  Sleepy was very white, but he grinned at Hashknife and looked around at the crowd.

  “Pardner, how do yuh feel?” asked Hashknife softly.

  “Fine.” Sleepy’s voice was weak. “They come danged near handin’ me a harp, Hashknife.”

  “Where did it hit yuh?”

  “Kinda under the pit of m’ arm and come out over m’ chest. It sure ripped out hell of me. I must have cast-iron ribs, ’cause she didn’t go inside.”

  “Then yuh ain’t hurt bad.” There was a note of relief in Hashknife’s voice.

  “F’r a minute I thought yuh was dead, cowboy.”

  “You didn’t have nothin’ on me. I seen seven flocks of angels flyin’ in a V-shape over me. I says to myself, ‘Sleepy, yo’re goin’ to be a migratory bird, instead of a harpist.’”

  The sheriff shoved his way to the front and looked down at Sleepy.

  “The girl says that yuh know who shot yuh.”

  Sleepy squinted up at the sheriff in amazement. He turned his head slowly and looked at the ring of faces around him.

  “Well, I know that somebody did,” he said softly, “but a feller with his face in the dust can’t hardly see behind him and up a hill.”

  “But you seen the same feller before today,” persisted the sheriff. “By God, we want to know who it was!”

  “So do I,” said Sleepy. “I want to be sure.”

  “You give us his name and we’ll find out for yuh,” stated old man Shappee.

  Sleepy shook his head and looked appealingly at Hashknife, who turned to the crowd.

  “Gents, yuh can’t bother him no more now. He’s been bad hurt, and he don’t want to talk.”

  The crowd moved back to the doorway and the Indian woman sat down beside Sleepy, giving him a drink of something that had a most peculiar odor.

  There was no question but what the cattlemen were not in the best of humor. They had come a long way after information and had not received it.

  “I don’t understand why they won’t talk,” said Trainor. “This ain’t a thing to keep secret. If the guilty one finds out that they are known, they’ll fog out of the country and we’ll never see ’em again.”

  “Well,” Lonesome shook his head sadly, “that sure wouldn’t hurt my feelin’s, none whatever. They can’t fog too soon nor too far to suit old man Hobbs’ little son.”

  “Damn it!” wailed the sheriff dismally. “What’s the good of havin’ a sheriff.”

  “I’ve argued the same question many times,” smiled Hashknife, “but yuh never can make folks listen to reason. I never seen one yet that was good for anythin’, except pitchin’ horseshoes.”

  “What I want to know is this.” Jud Carey spat dryly and looked around. “When do we git informed as to who the shooter was?”

  “Don’t look at me!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ve asked questions until m’ tonsils are all raw. I don’t see why they’re keepin’ this to themselves, danged if I do.”

  “I reckon there’s nothin’ to be learned here,” said Shappee wearily, “and it’s a long ride back to the old Flyin’ M. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

  “Come over and stay with us tonight,” offered Trainor.

  “Yeah, and have ma pawin’ holes in the carpet, ’cause I don’t come home. She’s scared stiff, jist thinkin’ that I might git shot in the back. I told her that at my age it didn’t make a damn bit of difference whether they shot me in the back or the front. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the same, Trainor.”

  “You’re sure welcome to come,” laughed Trainor, and turned to Hashknife.

  “You goin’ back with us, Hartley?”

  Hashknife shook his head quickly.

  “No, I reckon I’ll stay here tonight. Mebbe I’ll have to go after a doctor, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll be over early in the mornin’.”

  They went back to their horses and rode away down the moonlit highway, which wound in and out of the brushy cañons. Hashknife watched them until they faded out in the distance, and turned back, closing the door behind him.

  He crossed the room and drew the blanket curtain across the window near the cot. Lorna had sat down near the fireplace, and a moment later Jimmy, the half-breed, slipped in the front door and closed it quickly.

  Jimmy was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned against the wall. The squaw spoke to him in the Sioux tongue and he shook his head.

  “Lorna go way, Jimmy watch,” volunteered the squaw in explanation.

  “See nothin’,” grunted Jimmy, coming closer to the cot and grinning at Sleepy.

  “You feel good, eh? Minnie damn good doctor.”

  Hashknife walked over and squatted down on his heels beside the cot.

  “Yuh want to talk about it, Sleepy?” he asked.

  “Ask Lorna.”

  Lorna came closer and spoke softly.

  “It was Buck Avery.”

  “Buck Avery?”

  Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. Buck had been drunk for two days. He was still drinking that morning, and was dead drunk just before supper.

  “I’m sorry, but I reckon yuh made a mistake, Lorna,” he said slowly, and told them of Buck’s drinking.

  “I told her not to tell anybody, and I’m glad she didn’t,
” said Sleepy weakly. “It don’t pay to be too quick in a thing like that.”

  Lorna shook her head slowly and stared at the blank wall.

  “No talk much,” grunted the squaw, “damn good thing.”

  “I seen that man,” persisted Lorna, as if visualizing him now. “He rode like Buck Avery and he looked like Buck Avery. But this man was not drunk.”

  “Got me the second shot,” grinned Sleepy. “His first one must ’a’ just grazed me and hit Lorna’s horse in the head. No drunken man fired them two shots.”

  “Which lets Buck out,” declared Hashknife. “He’s been drunk ever since I went to the Circle Cross. But this sure puts us in one fine fix. The guilty party will think that we know ’em, and they’ll either pull out of the country or try harder to wipe us out.”

  “Don’t worry sick man,” advised the squaw. “Go to bed.”

  “That’s good advice,” admitted Hashknife, and to Sleepy—

  “If that bullet tore yuh up bad, suppose I go after a doctor and have him sew yuh up.”

  “I fixum,” grunted the squaw. “No need doctor.”

  “That’s a cinch,” grinned Sleepy. “Mother fixed me up fine. I couldn’t be sewed tighter if they used a sewing-machine on me. Don’tcha bother about me, Hashknife; you keep yore own skin together.”

  Hashknife accepted a blanket from Lorna, kicked off his boots and rolled up in a corner. He was dog-tired, but his mind refused to rest. He wondered who rode and looked like Buck Avery.

  Mentally he compared every Ghost Hills cowpuncher that he knew, but none of them looked like Buck. Still, at a distance, there was a similarity between Buck and Honey Simpson, the silent puncher from the 66. Even Bility Edwards might be mistaken for Buck.

  But his mind always jerked back to Buck Avery, snoring on the bunk, with the empty bottle beside him and the bunk-house smelling strongly of liquor. Buck was drunk the night that Jimmy, the half-breed, had been shot, and Buck had gone to the Flying M ranch at the time that Quong had nearly been hit.

  The Flying M was west of the Circle Cross, while the shots had been fired from the east. Buck had been to Wolf Wells that day, and had also carried the message to the Flying M for Trainor.

  And last, but not least, there was not a .30-30 rifle on the Circle Cross. The bullet that wrecked Quong’s kettle was a .30-30. Hashknife had seen Smoky Cole’s wound, but it was hard to tell what kind of a bullet had killed him. He wished now that he had examined it more closely.

  He resolved to examine the dead horse in the morning and see if he could find the bullet. Lorna was sitting by the fireplace, her chin cupped in her hands and Hashknife studied her profile.

  Just beyond her, and to the right, sat her mother, a short, squat, typical Indian woman. He thought of Pinto Cassidy, with his wizened, wrinkled, Irish countenance, and wondered what freak of nature had given these two an offspring like Lorna. She was as unlike either of them as a child could be.

  And then he went to sleep to dream of miles of mesquite clumps with a bushwhacker behind each one, and him with a .45-70 rifle and nothing to shoot in it, except .30-30 caliber cartridges.

  Just after midnight a severe thunderstorm swept the Ghost Hills, and the downpour of rain thudded hollowly On the roof of the Tomahawk ranch-house; but Hashknife slept the sleep of the just, in spite of it all.

  It was barely past daylight when Hashknife awoke and rolled out of his blanket. The old squaw was already preparing breakfast and Sleepy was snoring soundly. Jimmy, the half-breed, put in a yawning appearance, and peered cautiously out of a window.

  “Whatcha see?” queried Hashknife.

  “I just look,” replied Jimmy.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Hashknife rolled a cigaret and turned to the squaw.

  “Mother, how’s the patient gettin’ along?”

  She smiled widely and nodded toward the cot.

  “He get well now—pretty quick.”

  “He sure didn’t git hit in his snoser,” grinned Hashknife, and nodded to Lorna who had just come in.

  She walked over, looked at Sleepy, who awoke and grinned up at her.

  “How are yuh feelin’, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.

  “Finer ’n frawg-hair. Gimme a cigaret.”

  They sat down and discussed the happenings of the evening before, but Lorna still persisted that the man looked exactly like Buck Avery.

  “But,” argued Hashknife, “Buck has been drunk for several days. He was drunk when we found him yesterday.”

  “Lorna know Buck pretty good,” said Jimmy.

  “All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If it was Buck, he’s headin’ out of this country right now. He’d hear that Lorna seen him, and he’d sure fade away fast. But where would Buck fit into the scheme of things?”

  No one seemed to have an answer for that question. They ate breakfast and Hashknife announced his intentions of going back to the Circle Cross ranch.

  “No damn good,” declared Jimmy.

  “Yuh think they’d bushwhack me, Jimmy?”

  “Think plenty now,” advised Jimmy.

  Hashknife grinned and puffed on his cigaret.

  “Mebbe yo’re right, Jimmy,” he finally agreed. “They’d hate to have me pack information back with me, I reckon. None of ’em know the name that Lorna had in mind, but they’d know clanged well that I’d have it now. Mebbe we better try somethin’ easy at first.”

  Hashknife selected an old pair of overalls, an old shirt and a pair of boots. Three blankets sufficed for the stuffing of them. He tied a rope around the dummy under the arms and left a length of rope extending from each side. Then he surmounted the thing with his own hat, fitting it to the roll of blanket which extended up through the neck of the shirt.

  “Grab hold of a rope, Jimmy,” he ordered, and the half-breed obeyed with a grin.

  “Looks more like me than I do,” laughed Hashknife as he dragged the dummy over to the door.

  “Now, Jimmy, you stand on one side and hold yore rope high and tight enough to make the darned things stand up like a man. Don’t expose yourself, young feller. All set?”

  Jimmy nodded and drew the rope tight. Hashknife looked back in the room to see that nothing was in line. Then he shoved the door wide open. The dummy looked like a cowboy. Perhaps it was a trifle limp-looking at close range.

  It stood there for perhaps five seconds motionless. Then it jerked convulsively and fell sidewise. From the rear of the roam came the splat of a bullet striking wood, and from the hills came the thin pop of a high-power cartridge.

  Hashknife reached out and drew the door shut. Jimmy stood there, looking foolishly at a piece of rope in his hand, which had been cleanly severed. It was a rope made from Maguey fiber, about the size of a clothes-line, but very hard and brittle.

  “Well,” said Hashknife, shoving the dummy aside, “I’ll say that it worked to the queen’s taste.”

  The two women were staring wonderingly at him, but Sleepy was laughing joyously. Jimmy crossed the room and poked his finger at the spot where the bullet had bored into the seasoned wall.

  “We’re sure hived up for keeps,” said Sleepy, as if rather pleased at the prospect. Sleepy loved a fight, and nothing pleased him more than to give odds.

  “You ain’t in it, you doggone cripple,” reminded Hashknife. “Yuh don’t need to start cheerin’ about it.”

  Jimmy had moved the curtain an inch and was staring out through the window.

  “See anythin’?” asked Hashknife.

  “Nothin’. They think you dead—mebbe.”

  “Very likely. But they won’t stop at one killin’. They will naturally think that we all know the guilty man, acid they’ll try to stop all of us. You got a rifle, Jimmy?”

  “You damn right!”

  Jimmy went into another room and came back with an old .50-90 Sharps, which he handled lovingly before giving it to Hashknife.

  “That good-gun, you bet.”

  Hashknife grinned and examined it. He knew
the killing power of the old Sharps, even though they did not compare with the high-power rifle. He accepted a handful of cartridges from the half-breed.

  “Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

  “I’m goin’ into the hills,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m goin’ to have a perfectly good little fight, and yo’re goin’ to lay here in yore nice little beddie and wish you was along; sabe?”

  “Aw hell! You’ll go out there and get yore danged hide all filled up with soft-nose bullets that’s what you’ll do. Ain’tcha got no sense, Hashknife?”

  “Sour grapes,” retorted Hashknife, and to Jimmy—

  “Gimme more shells.”

  Jimmy gave him several more, which Hashknife pocketed. He rescued his hat from the dummy and drew it tightly on his head.

  “Now, you folks just set tight, will yuh? I’ve got to teach them bushwhackers that they ain’t got the only rifle in the Ghost Hills. Adios. That means good-by in Spanish.”

  “Thirty-thirty,” retorted Sleepy. “That means good-by in any darned language.”

  Hashknife went to the rear of the house, opened a window as wide as possible, stood up on a chair and fairly dived outside. He landed on his feet, ducked low and ran swiftly toward the upper corral, running in a zigzag angle to confuse any one who might be trying to use him for a target.

  He had almost reached the angle of the corral fence when—

  Whim-m-m-m!

  A bullet tore up the ground almost under his feet and zee-e-e-e’d its way up the slope of the hills. It was too close for comfort, and Hashknife was thankful for the protection of a patch of brush behind the corral fence.

  “Good shootin’,” he panted aloud, as he crawled like a snake fifty feet from where he had dropped behind the brush.

  The shooter was evidently unable to determine just where Hashknife had gone; so he tore a few splinters off the pole-corral, just taking a chance on scoring a hit.

  Hashknife worked his way the length of the corral and into a bunch of brush on the side of the hill, where he snuggled into a depression and prayed for a chance to do a little shooting. He studied the hills beyond the ranch-house, but could see nothing.

  He knew that the man had not seen him take cover on the hill, because no more shots had been fired. He had watched closely for about five minutes, when his vigilance was rewarded.