Hashknife and the Fantom Riders Page 8
“Take yore time, Hartley. I’m goin’ to bed right now. This danged foot is givin’ me thunder tonight, and I drank too much last night. Feller’s a fool to drink whisky.” Hashknife sat down across from Poco and accepted of Quong’s culinary art. He had not eaten since breakfast, and the fat Celestial grinned with delight as Hashknife stowed away great quantities of food.
“Belly good,” observed Quong, “Cook plenty—nobody eat. Too much whisky, yo’ sabe? Yo’ eat good, I’m ve’y glad.”
“Then I’ll make yuh glad a lot of times,” laughed Hashknife
* * * *
Hashknife took his time, and it was growing dark when he mounted his gray bronco and headed for Wolf Wells. Just before he reached the forks of the road he saw a rider pass, going toward town.
It was a little too far for identification, but he noted that the man was riding a gray or a grayish-roan horse. The rider had disappeared when Hashknife reached the main road, and he made no effort to overtake him.
The air was cool and Hashknife had plenty of time to go to town and arrange for the livery-rig before train-time. He was riding slowly, scanning the road, near the spot where Ben Lanpher’s gun had been found, when the whip-like report of a rifle sounded from left.
Hashknife’s horse swerved quickly, and for a moment Hashknife thought the shot had been fired at him, but there had been no sound from a bullet. He dropped off his horse, drew his six-shooter and led the horse down the road.
There were no more shots. The fringe of timber and brush along the road masked him from the hillside, but also precluded any chance of his seeing the shooter.
He led his horse around the first turn and stopped short. Almost at the same spot where Smoky Cole had been killed stood a man and a horse. The man appeared to be leaning against the horse, as if bracing himself, but when he saw Hashknife he threw up a six-shooter and fired.
Hashknife instinctively ducked, but the bullet hummed off through the brush ten feet away, and the man mounted swiftly although awkwardly and raced down the road.
Hashknife threw up his gun, but snapped it back into its holster, as he mounted swiftly and spurred after the rider.
He knew the speed of his gray horse, and felt sure that he could run his quarry down, if they kept to the road.
“Left handed son-of-a-gun!” snorted Hashknife. “Can’t shoot straight, that’s a cinch. C’mon, bronc!”
They whirled out into the more open country and Hashknife grinned to see that the rider was still traveling down the road. But the horse ahead, even with its long handicap start, was no match for the long-legged gray, which cut down its lead at every stride.
The rider looked wildly back and even turned in his saddle and tried to get into position for another shot, but, as the running gray horse drew closer, he jerked up on his reins and threw up his hands in token of surrender.
“Don’t shoot!” he called, and Hashknife squinted through a cloud of dust at the face of Jimmy, the half-breed.
Hashknife moved in closer and noticed that Jimmy’s right arm was bleeding badly.
“That’s why yuh shot left-handed, eh?” panted Hashknife.
“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded quickly. “Other arm no good.”
“Who shot yuh?”
Jimmy squinted at Hashknife and licked his lips.
“You don’t shoot me?” he asked.
“No. I heard the shot. Then you shot at me?”
Jimmy nodded and felt of his arm tenderly.
“I thought you shoot me, but I guess not. You can’t be two place same time. Who shoot me, you s’pose?”
“Hard to tell, Jimmy. Is your arm hurt bad?”
“Pretty bad. Almost knock me off horse.”
He rolled up his sleeve and they examined the wound. The bullet had struck near the wrist and had cut a furrow almost to the elbow. It was a painful, but not a serious wound; and Hashknife bound it up with a big handkerchief.
“How in thunder did yuh get hit in that arm?” queried Hashknife. “The shot came from the left-side of the road.”
“I dunno,” said Jimmy blankly. “I reach up to rub my nose, I think.”
“By gosh, that was close!” exploded Hashknife, “that bullet must ’a’ passed close to yore chin, hooked into yore wrist and kicked loose at your elbow. Now, who in hell wants to kill you, Jimmy?”
Jimmy’s eyes were troubled as he thought deeply, but his answer was not at all evasive:
“I dunno. I never hurt nobody.”
“All right, Jimmy; let’s be driftin’.”
“I go after coffee,” explained Jimmy. “Lorna want coffee for Sleepy.”
Hashknife grinned widely, as they rode on, but deep in his heart he was afraid that Sleepy might fall in love with this half-breed girl. But he forgot that as he studied Jimmy and his grayish-roan horse.
It would have been easy to mistake them in that light for himself and the gray horse, he reflected. Were the Fantom Riders aware that he and Sleepy were trying to smoke them out, and were trying to ambush them?
If that were the case, they would get them sooner or later. Hashknife shuddered slightly. He was convinced that they had mistaken their man and had injured Jimmy. There was no way to guard against an ambush. They would likely try another place next time. He turned to Jimmy.
“You better see a doctor about that arm, Jimmy. I’ll pay the bill.”
“No,” Jimmy shook his head quickly. “I go back and let Minnie fix it. She know how.”
“Minnie is Mrs. Cassidy, ain’t she?”
“Yeah.”
“Are you and Lorna related?”
“Hell no! My mother and Minnie sisters, thasall.”
Hashknife grinned, but did not try to explain that Jimmy and Lorna were cousins. Anyway, it would mean nothing to Jimmy.
Hashknife left Jimmy at the general store and went to arrange for the livery-rig. He knew that Jimmy would not discuss the shooting with any one. Coming back from the livery-stable he found the sheriff at his office.
“Lanpher’s comin’, eh? said the sheriff, after Hashknife had spoken of meeting him at the depot.
“The rest of the family comin’?”
“I dunno. The telegram didn’t say, but Trainor talks like they was all comin’.”
“I kinda feel sorry for them folks,” mused the sheriff. “I like Lanpher. Never did get acquainted with his wife and daughter. I reckon I’ll go over with yuh and meet ’em.”
Contrary to predictions the train was on time. Lanpher, his wife and daughter were all there, with innumerable bags and suitcases. Hashknife was lucky enough to reach Lanpher first, and gave him the whispered warning—
“Remember, you don’t know me.”
Then came the sheriff, hand outstretched.
“Glad to meetcha ag’in, Lanpher; but not under these circumstances.”
Lanpher shook hands with him, and asked—
“Can we see Ben?”
“Sure thing, yuh can. He don’t know yo’re comin’, but I’ll bet he’ll be glad to see yuh all. Hartley’ll take case of yore things.”
Hashknife was glad to get them out of his way, while he loaded the baggage. He drove the team down to the sheriff’s office and waited for them to finish their visit. They were in there quite a while, and had nothing to say when they climbed into the two-seater and headed for the ranch.
Lanpher rode with Hashknife on the front seat, and after they were out of the town he asked—
“Well, what have you found out, Hartley?”
“We’ve found out that a man’s life ain’t worth a plugged dime, Lanpher. As far as the rustlers are concerned, they’re as safe as ever. We can’t find out a thing. I’m with the Circle Cross and Sleepy is with the Tomahawk; but we’ll both be cowboy angels pretty soon, I reckon.”
“But they do not know what you are doing here,” protested Lanpher.
“Don’t they? That’s fine,” Hashknife laughed softly. “There’s been a leak somewhere, Lanpher. They sure do know us
. You didn’t wire anybody, did yuh?”
“No, I did not. I was willing to let you two run this to suit yourselves, Hartley. I wired Trainor that we were coming, but that is the only wire I have sent him since you were at my home.”
“It’s sure got me fightin’ my head,” admitted Hashknife.
“What do you make of the case against Ben?”
“Well, it looks to me like another Fantom Rider deal, and Ben accidently happens along and gets the blame for it. He didn’t kill Smoky Cole.”
“I want to thank you for that,” said Mrs. Lanpher brokenly. “It is good to think that some one besides us believe him innocent.”
“Cassidy is very bitter,” said Lanpher, after a long pause. “He cursed me in the jail a while ago. He seemes to blame me for what has happened to him, but I had nothing to do with it. The sheriff told me that Trainor was crippled.”
“Yeah, I forgot to tell yuh that. A horse stepped on him.”
“Too bad. What do you think of the Circle Cross?”
“Dunno yet. Looks like a rich ranch.”
“Rich! Say, you’d be surprized to know what that ranch has already cost me, Hartley. I’d sell out in a minute, if I could get back what I’ve spent on it.”
“I’ll betcha. Hills are pretty tonight, ain’t they?”
They drove up to the ranch-house and Trainor hobbled out to meet them, with the aid of a cane. Hashknife unloaded the baggage and placed it on the porch, while they went into the house.
Then he drove to the barn, unhitched the horses, stabled them and went to the bunk-house where he found Buck and Poco snoring a duet. Buck had a half-empty whisky-bottle on a chair beside his bunk, and one of his boots had been placed upside down over a bunk-post.
Hashknife rolled a cigaret and sat down on the edge of his bunk to remove his boots. Poco stirred, sat up, his eyes filled with sleep. He squinted at Hashknife, grunted a hoarse greeting and slumped back on to his pillow. One of Poco’s hands was exposed and Hashknife noticed that there was a circle of whang-leather around his wrist. He looked closer, when he saw that a leather thong ran from the wrist under the blanket, and was drawn taut.
Poco’s cartridge belt was hanging from the bunk-post, and over this was hung a coat, but when Hashknife crossed to the table to light his cigaret from over the chimney of the oil-lamp, he was able to see that the holster was empty.
Hashknife went back, undressed and blew out the lamp. He sat on the edge of the bunk for a long time, but finally crawled between the blankets and placed his six-shooter under the blanket beside him.
“Poco is scared of somethin’,” mused Hashknife. “He’s got his six-gun linked to him—and a feller don’t anchor himself to a thing like that to keep from fallin’ out of bed. Dang him, I’d like to trade talk with him. But I reckon he’s scared like everybody else—and me included.”
* * * *
“Buck is goin’ over to the Flyin’ M to see old man Shappee for me, and Poco is goin’ to drive an extra team to town; so we can get rid of this livery-outfit. You can go with Buck, if yuh want to, or yuh can stay here and see what yuh can do about fixin’ up the fence of the brandin’ corral.”
Trainor had hobbled down to the barn, with the aid of a cane, and was talking with Hashknife while Poco and Buck harnessed the teams.
“Well, yo’re the boss,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll go with Buck if yuh say so; but it don’t take two men to pack a message. Mebbe I better fix up that fence.”
“Whatever yuh want to do, Hartley. Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher want to go down and see Ben; so I’ll go with ’em. Miss Lanpher has a bad headache and will stay home.”
“All right, I’ll stay here and help Quong run the ranch.”
Poco drove away with the ranch-wagon, while Buck drove up to the house with the livery-rig, picked up the Lanphers and Trainor and drove away.
Hashknife secured a hammer and nails and worked on the corral for a time; but Hashknife was no carpenter and the work palled. Anyway, it was too hot to work. He went back and sat down in the shade of the bunk-house. Somehow, he felt much safer with a solid wall at his back.
Miss Lanpher came out on the ranch-house porch and sat down with a magazine. She glanced idly through it for a while, but put it aside and looked around.
Hashknife got up and walked to the porch.
“Mornin’, Miss Lanpher. How’s the headache?”
She looked at him closely, frowned slightly and said—
“I do not believe I have ever met you.”
“Yes’m, yuh have,” he smiled. “Me and Sleepy was at your house in Frisco not long ago. Yore pa introduced us.”
“Perhaps,” she nodded coldly, “but I do not remember you. Are you one of the cowboys?”
“Well,” Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully, “yuh might brand me as such. I brought yuh in from Wolf Wells last night, if yuh remember.”
“Oh, you were the driver.”
She picked up the magazine and opened it before she looked at him and said—
“Is there something I can do for you?”
Hashknife’s smile faded and he studied her for a moment.
“Yes’m, I was just kinda wonderin’, don’tcha know it?”
“Well?” Icily.
“Just kinda wonderin’ if it’s the fogs that make Frisco folks so chilly.”
She looked questioningly at him, as if at a loss to know what he meant; but he merely turned, put on his hat and walked back toward the bunk-house.
“That was a damn mean thing to say,” he chuckled to himself. “But she’s prob’ly so high-toned that she’d have to have it explained to her.”
He went back to the corral and spent the rest of the morning hammering lustily. The ringing of the triangle, as Quong announced the mid-day meal, caused him to hang up his hammer and admire the collection of bruises he had acquired.
Quong was standing just outside the kitchen, fanning himself with a towel as Hashknife came striding across the yard, heading for the wash-bench.
Suddenly he jolted hard in his stride and jerked sidewise. An angry bee had buzzed past his head, or what had seemed to be a whizzer of some sort; but the buzz was punctuated by a loud—
Whap!
Quong dropped his towel and jerked away, staring wildly at the door-casing behind him, where a bullet had drilled a neat hole.
“Zee-e-e-e—blam!”
Then came the thin, far-away crack of a rifle. Quong fairly fell into the kitchen, and Hashknife was right on his heels.
The second bullet had gone in through the doorway and had torn a gaping hole in Quong’s big copper kettle on the stove, and the soup was spewing out all over the hot griddles.
The room was filled with steam and odors of burning grease, plentifully mixed with Celestial chatter that might be oaths or prayers.
Hashknife grasped a cloth and managed to fling the kettle outside. Miss Lanpher came to the door from the dining-room, wondering at the turmoil. She stared around, and Quong caught sight of her. He immediately began bombarding her with pidgin-English, but Hashknife stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Quong,” and then to Miss Lanpher—
“Miss Lanpher, this is Quong, the cook. Quong, this is Miss Lanpher.”
Hashknife stepped gracefully back and motioned for Quong to continue, but Quong had forgotten what to say, and turned back to his stove.
Miss Lanpher looked coldly at Hashknife and her eyebrows lifted a trifle, as she said:
“That was very thoughtful of you, I am sure. But I have known Quong a long time. I was here several weeks about a year ago.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it was my mistake, ma’am.”
“Now, what happened in here, Mr. Hartley?”
“Well, Miss Lanpher; somebody took two shots at the cook and ventilated the soup-pot. Nothin’ serious.”
“Took a shot at the cook?” she gasped. “Why—why how ridiculous!”
“Yes’m, I s’pose it was. Missed him both times, too.”
“Quong, did somebody shoot at you?”
He looked fearfully toward the door and nodded violently.
“Yessash, two time. I go way bimeby. Too damn much shoot fo’ me. Soup all gone; kittle busted. Hell’s bells!”
“Quong!”
Hashknife laughed and went to the door, where he managed to retrieve the punctured kettle with a broom-handle. He dumped out the soup-bone, and with it came a battered piece of lead—the badly mushroomed bullet that had busted up Quong’s soup.
Hashknife examined it closely and showed it to Quong.
“Looks like a thirty-thirty, Quong.”
Calibers meant nothing in Quong’s life, but he realized what that bullet would have done to him. Hashknife showed it to Miss Lanpher, but it failed to excite her in the least.
“Who would shoot at Quong?” she asked as if she did not believe it at all.
Quong turned quickly, a grin on his fat face.
“Mebbyso acclident. Somebody shoot clyote—bullet come heah. What you t’ink?”
“Now that’s fine,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that’s it, Quong. Too bad it busted the kettle.”
“You mean that they were shooting at something else and the bullet accidently came down here?” Thus Miss Lanpher, credulously.
“There’s a lot of coyotes in the hills,” said Hashknife, evading the direct question.
“There’s some wolves and a lot of polecats, too, ma’am. I wish—say, Quong; has Trainor got a rifle here in the house?”
“Yessah. One rifle in room. I show you.”
Quong trotted out and came back in a minute with a Winchester 45-70, which he handed to Hashknife, but Hashknife told him to take it back.
He had thought of going out into the hills and try to find the man who had fired the two shots, but decided that it would be a hopeless search.
Hashknife also knew that those shots were fired at him and not at the Chinese cook. He had been in line with Quong, who was in the shade and probably not visible to the man behind the rifle. From the reports of the gun, the man was shooting at extreme long range—and shooting only too well to suit Hashknife.