Hashknife and the Fantom Riders Read online

  “No, I guess that’s a fact. Too bad about that jury.”

  “Too damn bad,” corrected Jimmy, and was immediately sorry he had spoken.

  Trainor turned and looked straight at him.

  “When I speak to you, I’ll call you by name.”

  Jimmy swallowed with difficulty and sidled toward the door. He was not of a belligerent disposition and he greatly respected Trainor’s fighting ability. At the doorway he turned and fired a parting shot.

  “Next time jury agree, mebbe. You know what Pinto Cassidy said about Circle Cross men.”

  And then Jimmy Droop-drawers faded out of sight. Trainor’s face went black for a moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted across the old squaw’s face, but Trainor passed it off with a laugh.

  “I hope they do agree,” he laughed, “and I don’t think that Pinto Cassidy will be so hasty next time.”

  “You believe my father killed him?”

  Lorna leaned across the table and looked Trainor square in the eyes.

  “Well—” Trainor looked away and rubbed his chin with the ball of his right thumb. “Well, I hope not, Lorna. But if he did he was only making good his threat. Ed Meeker had no business coming over here. He knew what Cassidy had said.”

  “Who killed the other man—Lloyd Hansen? He wasn’t found on the Tomahawk.”

  “I don’t know who killed him. But your father ain’t accused of that killin’.”

  “Why was he killed?” demanded Lorna.

  “Why?” Trainor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. But that does not interest me. Did Ben get a letter from his father lately?”

  Lorna turned away from the table and sat down near the old squaw.

  “I know nothing about Ben’s mail,” she replied.

  Trainor smiled.

  “He’s sayin’ that he’s goin’ to marry you, Lorna.”

  “I have no strings on his tongue,” indifferently.

  “I thought he was lyin’,” smiled Trainor. “His father wrote me that he had sent word to Ben that his money supply was cut off. It’s about time, I reckon.”

  “Ben is a fool,” continued Trainor, when Lorna ignored his statement. “His father is wealthy and can give him everything he would want. He can marry a white girl and live in a fine house; so why should he stay around here?”

  “And marry a damn Injun,” added Lorna.

  Trainor looked keenly at her. He remembered saying those same words to Ben, and wondered if he had told her.

  “Well, you know how city folks look at Indians, Lorna. You don’t look like an Injun. If I didn’t know different, I’d never know that you had a drop of Indian blood in yuh.”

  “What have the Indians ever done to make a white man look down upon their blood?” asked Lorna hoarsely. “They only fought for what had belonged to them for many years. It was not that they wanted to win more, but to keep what they already owned.

  “I know. I have read history in school. I have read many tales of the Indian—written by men who knew only the one half of the tale—the white half. The Indian fought in his own way—the only way he knew.

  “The Indian was lazy, because that was his disposition, but the squaw was not lazy. And the Indian was honest and sober until the white man—that superior race—came to ruin his morals and soul. He taught the Indian to lie, steal and drink. Perhaps—” Lorna turned away scornfully—“it will take many more years to bring the Indian up to the standard which the white man started to teach him many years ago.”

  Trainor laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.

  “Lorna, when you turn loose, I wonder if you’ve got any white blood in yuh.”

  “I am never ashamed of Indian blood,” she retorted, “but there are times when I am ashamed of my white blood.”

  “All right,” grinned Trainor. “I don’t blame yuh. Let’s drop the subject. I never like to argue with a lady.”

  “Bad business,” grunted the old squaw.

  “That’s right, Minnie,” agreed Trainor, laughing. “Anyway, I like Lorna too well to argue with her.”

  He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

  “I’m going to run in real often,” he stated. “Cassidy won’t get another trial before the next term of court, and that’ll be three months from now. You’ll probably be needing a little help before he can get cleared, and I want yuh to understand that the Circle Cross is willing to help yuh in any way we can.”

  “Good!” grunted the old squaw.

  But Lorna did not express any thanks for his offer. He looked keenly at her before he turned toward the door. She gave him a sidelong glance as he went out through the door, but it was not a look of gratitude.

  She heard him gallop away, going back toward the Circle Cross, and then she sat down beside the table. The old squaw had put away her pipe and was softly crooning a Sioux cradle-song, a chanting, tuneless thing that recited the superiority of the Sioux papoose over anything else on earth. It was one of the first things Lorna remembered, but she shuddered just now. It seemed so foolish to think that the Indian could be superior.

  “Perhaps,” she told herself, “it is the white blood that rises above the red and makes me dislike Indian songs.”

  The squaw finished the song and started all over again. Lorna got to her feet and walked to the door, as if to get away from the song, and as she looked out into the sunlight, two riders, the two men who had lifted their hats to her in Wolf Wells, were riding up to the house.

  Jimmy, the half-breed, was working around one of the corrals, but when he saw the two men he came up toward the house. Hashknife and Sleepy took off their hats and spoke to Lorna pleasantly.

  “We was just ridin’ around, ma’am, and thought mebbe we could get a drink of water,” explained Hashknife, “We tried to take a drink out of the little creek below here, but it was a little too bitter with alkali.”

  “We have plenty of water,” replied the girl, and turned to the half-breed.

  “Jimmy, will you get some water from the well? These men want a drink.” Jimmy squinted at the two cowboys for a moment before he turned and went around the house. Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted and came up to the steps, just as Mrs. Cassidy came over to the door.

  “Hello, mother,” smiled Hashknife. “How are you today?”

  The old squaw smiled broadly at the title and nodded pleasantly. Hashknife turned to Lorna.

  “This is the Tomahawk ranch, ain’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Uh-huh. Yuh see, I wasn’t sure. Somebody told us that we’d likely get shot if we came here, but we don’t believe everythin’ we hear.”

  Lorna smiled, but there was little happiness in it.

  “I am glad you did not believe,” she replied. “We have never killed any one.”

  “Sure yuh ain’t,” agreed Sleepy heartily. “I can jist look at you and see that yuh never. Gosh dang it, some folks sure do get things twisted.”

  Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy and a grin spread his lips. Sleepy saw the grin and shuffled his feet nervously.

  “Well,” he said defensively, “can’t you, Hashknife?”

  “I never disputed yuh, cowboy,” grinned Hashknife.

  Jimmy came around the corner with a bucket of water and the two cowboys quenched their thirst.

  “Best water I ever drank,” declared Sleepy. “Never knowed that water could taste so danged good. Betcha I’ll be ridin’ this way real of ten f’r my drinks. Don’tcha know.” Sleepy was almost confidential. “I wonder why men drink strong liquor, when water tastes so good.”

  “Now, little Dew-drop, don’t get so enthusiastic,” advised Hashknife seriously, and then to Lorna—

  “He’s the same way over everythin, ma’am.”

  “He likes water,” said the old squaw.

  “Under bridges,” admitted Hashknife. “Sleepy—say, I plumb forgot to introduce us. I’m Hashknife Hartley and this here water-soaked pardner of mine is named Sleepy Stevens.”

&
nbsp; “I am Lorna Cassidy,” said the girl, “and this is my mother, Mrs. Cassidy.”

  “We’re sure pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy, bowing gracefully, but kicking over the water-bucket at the same time.

  “You’ve gotta watch him all the time,” explained Hashknife, as Sleepy hastened to right the bucket. “He’ll get his feet right into anythin’ that’s got water in it.”

  Sleepy stood up, a grin on his flushed face. Lorna was laughing and a wide grin overspread the old squaw’s face. Jimmy, the half-breed stepped in and held out his hand to Hashknife.

  “I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Nobody speak my name.”

  Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with him.

  “You’ll excuse me, won’t yuh Jimmy?” asked Hashknife, “and we both thank yuh for the water.”

  Jimmy grinned.

  “Plenty water. You want more?”

  “No, thank yuh, Jimmy. If there was any more water around here, I’d have to get a canoe for Sleepy. He can’t swim a lick.”

  Jimmy grunted and went away with the bucket. He had no sense of humor, but he instinctively liked these two cowpunchers. Perhaps it was because they shook hands with him and treated him as an equal.

  “My man in jail,” said Mrs. Cassidy, as if explaining his absence. “Can’t get out. Too damn much law.”

  “Yeah, I reckon that’s right, mother,” said Hashknife, “but he’ll get out.”

  “Won’t you come in?” asked Lorna. “It is cool in the house.”

  “Betcha we will,” agreed Sleepy quickly. “I’m about fried to a cinder.”

  Jimmy followed them into the house and sat down against the wall.

  “Ben Lanpher lives here, don’t he?” asked Hashknife.

  “He has been staying here,” corrected Lorna. “Do you know him?”

  “He was pointed out to me, and they said he was livin’ here.”

  “Too much whisky,” grunted the old squaw.

  Hashknife smiled and rolled a cigaret. He had been afraid to ask questions in Wolf Wells for fear that some one might find out that he and Sleepy were investigating the rustling situation.

  “You folks been losin’ any cattle?” he asked.

  Lorna nodded quickly.

  “Yes, I think so. Dad insists that we have. He told everybody that he was losing cattle, and two days after that we found a card pinned to the front door. It had been written with a pencil and told us to keep our mouths shut or something worse than loss of cattle would come to us.”

  “Don’t talk about it,” advised Jimmy warningly.

  Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. They knew now why there was no talk about the rustlers. It was the fear of the unknown that had shut the lips of the cattlemen. It was a condition that would make every man suspect his neighbor.

  “Where do the cattle go?” asked Hashknife. “You’ve got to have a market for stolen stock. Is there any way out of here, except by railroad, where cattle could have been sent?”

  Lorna shook her head.

  “I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. “You are strangers to us, and for all we know you may belong to the Ghost Hills gang. Every one is afraid around here. Two men have already been killed and I think they were killed by the rustlers, but we have no proofs.”

  “Ghost Hills gang, eh?” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Have they ever been seen by any one?”

  “No seeum,” grunted the old squaw.

  “Sort of fantom riders, eh?” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno whether we want jobs in this range or not, Hashknife. I’m kinda spooky m’self.”

  “Does kinda make a feller feel creepy,” admitted Hashknife seriously, “and I don’t blame you folks for not talkin’ too much. I don’t suppose the sheriff is spendin’ much time tryin’ to round ’em up.”

  “He stay home,” grunted Jimmy. “Sheriff smart man.”

  Hashknife laughed softly and picked up his hat.

  “Well, folks, I reckon we’ll drift along. Can we cut straight across the hills to Wolf Wells?”

  “Yeah,” grunted Jimmy. “No fence, no trail. Not so long as road.”

  Lorna followed them to the door and watched them mount.

  “Will you come again?” she asked, just a trifle wistfully.

  “Unless the ghost riders plug me first,” said Sleepy quickly.

  “She meant both of us,” grinned Hashknife, as they rode away. “Sleepy, you sure do lose what little sense yuh got when yuh see a pretty girl.”

  “Well, by golly, she sure is a pretty girl, Hashknife. She’s got Lanpher’s daughter beat four ways from the jack.”

  Hashknife turned in his saddle and looked keenly at Sleepy, who was looking back toward the Tomahawk ranch-house. Sleepy turned and encountered Hashknife’s gaze.

  “Rope’s draggin’ ag’in, Sleepy,” warned Hashknife.

  “Lemme alone, will yuh?” snapped Sleepy, spurring his horse ahead and up the brushy slope.

  “There’s some nice lookin’ girls in the city,” said Hashknife, quoting what Sleepy had said the night he had met Miss Lanpher.

  But Sleepy only grunted. He and Hashknife had been partners for years, riding the ranges from Alberta to Mexico, and both were still heart and fancy free. Neither of them had ever been willing to marry and settle down. No range had ever been home to them for more than a few months at a time, and neither of them was young.

  Both of them bore scars of conflict, and behind them were greater scars, which they had left in payment of injustice to others. They did not seek trouble, but, as Hashknife had said:

  “There’s an antidote for every kind of poison, Sleepy. Some of it ain’t nothin’ more than salt-water or soapsuds, but it does the trick. Poison is poison, whether it’s somethin’ yuh get out of a bottle or somethin’ that grows in yore soul.

  “When me and you first started hornin’ into dirty deals, I figured we was professional trouble-shooters, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the good Lord intended us as an antidote for range poison. And we’ve sure cured a lot of hard cases.”

  “And never profited thereby,” reminded Sleepy.

  “No-o-o, but yuh never heard of soapsuds and salt-water yelpin’ for pay. We’re just antidotes, thasall.”

  Sleepy had a habit of falling in love at first sight, but it never went beyond that. Both of them realized that the marriage of one would mean the end of their adventures, and they were not ready to lead a peaceful life.

  CHAPTER IV

  FAT FLEAGER was putting in a bad afternoon. It was bad enough to have Smoky Cole in town, drunk. Smoky had been drinking alone since the jury had been discharged, and he was beginning to move around, as, if defying the whole world.

  He had imbibed raw whisky for twenty-four hours, and was still on his feet. Not only was he on his feet, but he was fairly steady on them. His eye was bloodshot, but not at all bleary.

  Fleager had observed Smoky Cole closely, waiting for him to run into some of the folks who had denounced him in the courtroom. Then came Ben Lanpher to add to the slat-like sheriff’s troubles. Ben was nearly drunk when he reached town, and he lost no time in bracing his chest against the Lily of the Valley bar and filling his interior with fighting liquor.

  Fat lost no time in hot-footing it back to the office and waking Lonesome Hobbs out of his mid-day siesta.

  “Nouk,” grunted Lonesome. “To hell with ’em both. Let ’em git at each other, Fat.”

  “But me and you have sworn to uphold the law,” wailed the sheriff. “We’ve gotta do it, Lonesome.”

  “I’ll hold her up,” agreed Lonesome, getting off the bunk, adjusting his hat and selecting a sawed-off shotgun from the gun-rack.

  “Where’s all them buckshot shells, Fat?”

  “Now whatcha goin’ to do?”

  “Shoot the hell out of both of ’em. It’s gettin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Where’s the shells?”

  “Aw-w-w, go lay down!” wailed the sheriff. “You ain’t no help to me, L
onesome. You’re either as lazy as the devil, or as bloodthirsty as a cannibal. I hired yuh as a deputy and all I got was a drawback.”

  “Well, whatcha want me to do?” grunted Lonesome. “I only know how to do two things real well—sleep and shoot. You woke me up, darn yuh, and now yuh won’t let me know where them shells are. You ain’t noways consistent.”

  “Yuh might use a little brains!” snapped the sheriff.

  “If I had brains—” The cot creaked raspingly, as Lonesome stretched himself out again— “If I had brains I’d never live in Wolf Wells, I’ll tell yuh that, Fat Fleager. Anyway, it ain’t no job for a fat man, this ain’t. All you’ve got to do is stand sideways and nobody can hit yuh. With me—”

  Lonesome lifted his head and looked toward the door, but the sheriff had gone, and Lonesome did not finish his sentence.

  Then he groaned dismally, got off the cot and buckled on his belt. He was in no mood to be trifled with now. It was his usual siesta time, and he meant to make it worth losing sleep over.

  With Ben Lanpher in the Lily of the Valley, and Smoky Cole in the Antelope saloon, the sheriff planted himself between the two, which were half-a-block apart, and made a resolution that they—Ben and Smoky—must be kept apart.

  The fact that one of them did not know the other was in town helped the sheriff considerably. Lonesome looked witheringly upon the watchful sheriff and went into the Lily of the Valley, where he found Ben Lanpher, standing with his shoulder-blades sort of hooked over the top of the bar, while he considered things of importance.

  Lonesome Hobbs was no diplomat. He knew that Ben was just drunk enough to pick trouble. His bleary eye and the belligerent angle of his sombrero proclaimed to Lonesome that Bennie was contemplating starting something.

  Lonesome walked up to the bar beside Ben, as if to buy a drink, turned swiftly and kicked Bennie’s feet from under him. And while Bennie was going down in a sitting position, Lonesome uppercut him with a right fist, which landed Bennie into dreamland.

  Then, while everything in the saloon suspended operations to watch him, Lonesome removed Bennie’s gun, flipped out the cartridges and replaced the gun.

  “And that’s some sudden!” exclaimed the bartender.