Hashknife and the Fantom Riders Page 6

He called to Lonesome and asked him about the Lanpher family.

  “I don’t know his address, and I don’t reckon that Fat does either,” replied Lonesome. “Jim Trainor’d know it.”

  “Suppose we ride to the Circle Cross and tell Trainor? He’d probably want to know about Smoky Cole.”

  “That’s a good idea,” admitted Lonesome. “You go ahead.”

  Lonesome drove on, and the two cowboys turned and rode back up the highway toward the Circle Cross.

  Hashknife was very thoughtful, but finally turned to Sleepy.

  “Cowboy, it kinda looks like we’ve bit off a big chaw.”

  “Sure does,” agreed Sleepy, “and there don’t seem to be no handy place to start chawin’, does there?”

  Hashknife shook his head, his eyes squinted thoughtfully.

  “No, there don’t, Sleepy. I reckon its a fact that a gang of rustlers are makin’ a cleanup in this range, but everybody is scared to talk about it.

  “It must ’a’ been that gang who killed the two cattle detectives, but I don’t think they had anythin’ to do with this killin’ today.”

  “Mebbe old man Cassidy is one of the gang,” suggested Sleepy.

  “Might be. As far as that’s concerned, Ben Lanpher might be one of ’em, too. It looks to me like Smoky Cole tried to convict old Cassidy at that trial. He sure stuck for conviction. I’m just wonderin’ if Smoky Cole didn’t try to make love to Lorna Cassidy, and that was why the old man drew a dead-line against the Circle Cross outfit.

  “Smoky was a mean sort of a jasper, and that would be his idea of revenge, to hang the old man. Still I don’t think that Ben belongs to the rustlers, because he wouldn’t hardly steal from his own father.”

  “How about that warning that Lorna told us about, Hashknife?”

  “Don’t mean anythin’, Sleepy. They’d naturally want everybody to think they was sufferin’, too. But where in hell are they disposin’ of the stock? Workin’ in the dark thisaway is kinda hard, don’tcha know it? And we can’t ask a lot of fool questions, because we don’t know when we’re talkin’ to some of the gang.”

  They passed the spot where Cole had been killed, and took the right-hand road at the forks, which wound in and out of the brushy coulées and into a wide swale on the bank of a creek where the Circle Cross buildings were located.

  CHAPTER V

  IT WAS growing late, but there was still enough light to show that the Circle Cross was no small outfit. The ranch-house was pretentious in size, the barns, fences and corrals were in good repair, and even the front yard of the ranch-house seemed well-kept.

  “Looks like the teepee of a millionaire,” observed Sleepy, as they dismounted at the ranch-house.

  A fat Chinese answered their knock at the front door and nodded solemnly when they asked for Trainor.

  “Yessah, he in. I call.”

  “Who’s out there?” yelled Trainor’s voice.

  “This is Hartley,” called Hashknife.

  “Come on in and rest your feet.”

  They followed the Chinaman into the living-room, and in a few moments Trainor came in. He was carrying a bottle of liquor and some glasses, and seemed a trifle unsteady in his walk.

  “Glad to see yuh,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Circle Cross, gents. I’ve just been tryin’ out some new liquor and I find that it has a lot of authority.”

  He started to pour out a glass.

  “Say when, Hartley.”

  “When!” grunted Hashknife quickly.

  “Say, that ain’t half-full, cowboy. Why—”

  “Too late in the afternoon, and we ain’t been fed since breakfast.”

  “You ain’t?” Trainor turned and yelled toward the kitchen.

  “Hey, Quong! Throw on a couple of steaks. Cut ’em thick, yuh hear me?”

  “Yessah, can do,” called the Chinaman.

  “Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “We didn’t come out here to bum a meal and a drink, Trainor; we came to tell you that Smoky Cole was killed a little while ago, and that the sheriff has gone to arrest Ben Lanpher for murder.”

  Trainor stared at Hashknife, started to put the bottle on the table, but missed, and it fell to the floor, where its contents gurgled out over a fine Navajo mg.

  “Smoky Cole? How did this happen, Hartley?”

  Hashknife explained how Cole’s body had been found and how the evidence all pointed to Ben Lanpher. He told Trainor of the bloodless gun-fight at Wolf Wells, and that Ben Lanpher had ridden away ahead of Smoky Cole.

  “And he shot Smoky from the brush, eh?” Trainor’s jaw muscles bulged angrily. “Never gave him a chance. Wait a minute.”

  Trainor stepped out onto the front porch and yelled at two cowpunchers, who were down near a corral. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him out and watched the two men come up to them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never seen these two, and Trainor introduced them as “Buck” Avery and “Poco” Saunders.

  Avery was a square-faced, pig-eyed, medium-sized man, about thirty years of age, whose face was badly marked from smallpox.

  Saunders was of medium height, but thin-faced and as dark as a Mexican. His eyes were sullen and the pupils seemed flecked with red. After a searching glance, which seemed to take in every inch of both Hashknife and Sleepy, Saunders kept his eyes on Trainor’s face, while Trainor repeated what Hashknife had told him.

  Buck Avery swore witheringly, but Saunders said nothing when they learned that Smoky Cole was dead.

  “We’ll all have a drink and then go to town,” said Trainor. “C’mon.”

  But Poco Saunders did not accept the invitation. He turned and walked back toward the corral, without a word.

  “He was Smoky’s bunkie,” said Trainor, which seemed sufficient explanation for refusing to drink.

  “Poco don’t drink much, anyway,” added Buck, “but I feel like a drink would kinda take the edge off a shock like that. It ain’t that it’s any surprize t’me, though. Smoky always got mean when he was drinkin’, but he thought he was such a devil of a gunman that he’d git past with anythin’.”

  “He was shot from behind,” reminded Sleepy.

  “Which’ll make it go hard with Ben Lanpher,” nodded Buck over his drink. “It’s a fine start for a kid like him, and I feel a lot more sorry for his folks than I do for him. Yuh goin’ to wire ’em, ain’tcha, Trainor?”

  “Just as soon as I get to town, Buck. Let’s go.”

  Poco Saunders had saddled his horse and was waiting for them. Hashknife studied Poco, while Trainor and Buck Avery were saddling, and decided that Poco was a very sinister-looking young man; and might well be marked with a danger signal.

  Whereas Smoky Cole was a talkative gunman, prone to boast of his prowess and more or less audible threatening, Poco would probably shoot first and talk about it later, if at all.

  Trainor and Avery rode out from the corral, joined them, and the five of them headed for Wolf Wells at a gallop. Hashknife showed them where Smoky’s body had been discovered, and where Ben Lanpher’s gun and hat had been picked up, but Poco showed no interest in this.

  Trainor looked curiously at Poco, who went on without them.

  “Hit him kinda hard, I reckon,” he observed. “Him and Smoky were bunkies for a long time. Poco’s a good puncher, but he ain’t got much sense.”

  “Part Mexican?” asked Hashknife.

  “He’s got some Mexican blood in him, I reckon,” replied Buck. “Used to talk it a little once in a while. That’s where he got his nickname.”

  They rode into town and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where they found several men talking with the sheriff. He had brought Ben Lanpher back with him and had locked him in a cell.

  “He was still drunk,” said the sheriff, “and he sure was a meek jasper. Didn’t object to bein’ locked up, except to tell me he never done it. Mebbe he was so drunk that he didn’t know when he shot Cole. I dunno.”

  “Man never gets so drunk that he don’t remember bushwhack
in’ and killin’ a man,” declared Hashknife.

  “Dang right he don’t,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “That ain’t no alibi,” and added sadly, “I wish I’d let their guns alone t’ day. One or both of ’em would ’a’ got killed, but it would ’a’ been legal. I s’pose I’ve got to spend most of my time feedin’ and takin’ care of prisoners now. Thank gosh, we’ve only got two cells. If we get any more prisoners we’ll have to pasture ’em out some’ers.”

  A man came across the street and joined the group. He was a sallow-faced man, with tobacco-stained teeth and ink-stained fingers.

  “I was just comin’ down to send a telegram to Lanpher,” said Trainor, addressing the newcomer. “You heard what happened, didn’t yuh, Whitey?”

  “Yeah, I heard about it. Looks kinda bad for the kid.”

  Trainor walked away with Whitey, going to the depot, and Hashknife and Sleepy put their horses into a corral. At the depot, Trainor sent a long message to William Lanpher, giving him the details of the trouble.

  “There’s a telegram here for yuh, Trainor,” said the depot agent, as he checked off the words on Trainor’s message.

  “I was goin’ to send it out to yuh, if somebody was goin’ out your way. This’ll cost yuh a dollar and sixty cents.”

  Trainor paid for the message and walked out. At the edge of the platform he tore open the envelope and read the message, a serious frown on his face. Then he grinned softly and went back up the street.

  * * * *

  When Ben Lanpher sobered up he failed to become the least bit repentant over what had happened to him. Trainor had consulted with George Mitchell, the lawyer from San Francisco, and had hired him to defend Ben, but Ben would have none of him.

  Hashknife and Sleepy talked with the sheriff about Lanpher.

  “He’s loco,” declared the sheriff. “Tells a tale that no jury would believe.”

  “What about?” queried Hashknife.

  “Aw, he says he never bushwhacked Cole a-tall.”

  “I’d like to talk with him a while,” observed Hashknife, “and see if he tells the same thing twice.”

  “Might be a good idea,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “Me and Fat’ll listen and see what it sounds like.”

  “Prob’ly won’t talk to yuh. Mitchell comes down here to have a talk with him, but he cussed Mitchell plumb out of the jail. Mitchell told him that Trainor hired him to defend him, and it made Lanpher sore as hell. I’ll see if Ben’ll talk to yuh.”

  The sheriff came back in a few minutes with the information that Ben was willing to talk to anybody who wasn’t connected with the Circle Cross outfit. They went through the office and into the rear, where two cells were built in at the back of the room.

  Old Pinto Cassidy scowled at them through the bars, but noticed that they were strangers and became more friendly. Ben came to the barred door and squinted at Hashknife.

  “I know you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re the jasper that winked over my shoulder. By God, that seems a long time ago. What did yuh want to see me for?”

  “Ye don’t have to talk with ’em, if ye don’t want to, remimber that, Ben,” warned Cassidy. “Ye have to be careful who ye talk wid in here. Sure, it’s a hell of a place to be in, so it is.”

  “That’s all right, Cassidy,” grunted Ben. “I’ve nothin’ to conceal.”

  “Then tell us about it,” urged Hashknife. “What did you do after you left town yesterday?”

  Ben forced a laugh and tried to peer around the corner of his door.

  “I remember that Lonesome Hobbs played a dirty trick on me. After that I got on my horse and started home. I was pretty drunk—too drunk to ride fast, and I had a bad horse.

  “I loaded my gun on the way, I remember that because I dropped some shells and got off to pick ’em up. I had a hard time getting back on my bronc, but finally made it.

  “Then I seen Smoky Cole coming. He was quite a ways behind me, but he was foggin’ right along as though he was tryin’ to catch me. I didn’t want him to catch me, because I was just sober enough to know that a killing out there might look like murder.

  “I rode on, but had a lot of trouble with that damn horse of mine. He almost threw me a couple of times, and I guess we wasted a lot of time along that brushy road. All to once, I thought that Smoky was shootin’ at me.”

  Ben grinned wearily and shook his head.

  “No, I didn’t see Smoky at all, but I sure heard him shoot. I drew my gun and waited for him to swing around the curve, but I guess I was just drunk enough to cause me to accidently pull the trigger. Anyway, I felt the gun kick out of my hand, and then that fool bronc started to buck again. That was the first time I ever shot off that horse, and I guess it was scared stiff.

  “Anyway, we must have gone real fast, because I remember we were close to the Tomahawk when I got my reins back again. And that’s all, except that the sheriff woke me up later on and told me I had killed Smoky Cole.”

  Hashknife nodded over his cigaret.

  “That’s the whole story,” sighed Ben.

  “And, by golly, it’s a good one, too,” added Cassidy. “You stick to that story, me lad. I stuck to mine—and look where I am.”

  Hashknife laughed at Cassidy. Squaw-man he might be; a bitter old cattleman he surely was, but he still retained his sense of humor.

  “If Cole had been killed several days ago, you might be a free man now, Cassidy,” said Hashknife.

  “Ah, that’s true, me lad; but I’d suffer a long time in jail, if the poor misguided lad could be brought back to life. He was but goin’ accordin’ to his own lights, so he was.”

  “Then he had a damn poor light!” snapped Ben.

  “A lot of us have,” sighed Cassidy. “Mine has flickered badly at times. ’Tis hard to sit here the long days and know that me old ranch has no keeper, except Lorna and Jimmy. Sure, that’s no job for a bit of a lass and a well-meanin’, but poor managin’ lad. They’ll hold me and Bennie for the nixt term of court, which will be a long, long time away.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” assured Sleepy. “We’ll do what we can to help yuh out.”

  “Well, now that’s nice of ye,” said Cassidy, scratching his head as if wondering why these strangers would promise to help him in any way.

  “What do you think of my story?” asked Ben anxiously.

  “I dunno,” Hashknife shook his head. “It sounds reasonable, Lanpher—to me. But they’ll likely hold you for the next term of court. You’ve got an even break thasall.”

  “That’s all I want.”

  As they started away, Cassidy called to them:

  “Come again, lads. Ye’r the first folks I ever known in Wolf Wells that showed common sense. Ye’ll probably not find us out when ye come again.”

  “All right,” laughed Hashknife as they passed out and shut the door behind them.

  The sheriff and Lonesome had heard every word, and nodded to the two cow-punchers.

  “Same story,” said Lonesome, leading the way outside. “Ben sure has got it rehearsed well, or he’s tellin’ the truth.”

  “Sounds reasonable, at that,” commented Hashknife. “He shot the gun accidental, got his hat bucked off. But who in thunder killed Smoky Cole, if Ben Lanpher didn’t?”

  The sheriff scowled and shook his head.

  “I dunno of anybody that would bushwhack him, Hartley.”

  “It’s kinda gettin’ to be a habit around here, ain’t it? Trainer has lost two other men in the same way.”

  “Yeah,” breathed the sheriff, “damn it! It makes me nervous to think about it. Feller never knows who’s next.”

  The sheriff looked so lugubrious that Hashknife laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “I reckon yo’re safe, as long as yuh don’t antagonize the bushwhackers,” said Hashknife.

  “Huh! Well, I dunno.”

  Poco Saunders came into the upper end of town, dismounted at the Lily of the Valley hitch-rack, and walked down to them. Poco had a
queer, stiff-legged walk, and held his elbows dose to his sides.

  “Trainor said he wanted to see yuh,” he told Hashknife.

  “What’s he got on his mind?” queried Hashknife.

  “I dunno. Bronc stepped on his foot this mornin’, and he can’t walk. Mebbe he wants to hire yuh? I dunno.”

  “Did he ask for both of us?” queried Sleepy.

  Poco shook his head, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon.

  “He’s a queer jigger,” observed Lonesome; “dangdest feller to run out of words thataway.”

  “He don’t talk much, that’s a cinch,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his feet. “I reckon we’ll get a bit to eat, Sleepy.”

  They walked up to a restaurant and ordered a meal. It was not like Hashknife to accept a job alone, but the circumstances were, different this time.

  “Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Sleepy.

  “I been wonderin’ a lot m’self, Sleepy. Suppose you go out to the Tomahawk and help ’em out a little, cowboy. Keep yore eyes open and yore mouth shut; sabe? I’ll take this Circle Cross job, if that’s what Trainor wants.

  “But—” Hashknife put his hand on Sleepy’s arm and spoke softly—“for gosh sake, look out. I’ve got a feelin’ that we’re marked right now. This is goin’ to be our hardest job, Sleepy. Yuh can’t dodge a bullet that’s fired at yore back—and that’s their game. There’s a dirty bunch of murderers in these hills, and they’ll hand us a harp if they get a chance.”

  “But there ain’t’ nothin’ to work on,” complained Sleepy. “They won’t come out into the open and everybody’s afraid to say what they think. I’ll find out what I ran without askin’ questions, and if I do stumble on to anythin’ worth talkin’ about, I’ll sec yuh real quick.”

  They finished their meal and went to the corral after their horses. Poco Saunders saw them ride past the saloon, but made no move to join them. About half-way to where the road forked to the Circle Cross, they met Jimmy, the half-breed, from the Tomahawk.

  He grinned widely and drew up his broncho.

  “You go Tomahawk?” he asked.

  “I’m goin’ out there,” said Sleepy. “Maybe I stay and help for a while.”