Hashknife and the Fantom Riders Page 9

  “They’ll be dynamitin’ the bunk-house next,” mused Hashknife to himself, as Quong prepared the meal. “I’ve been lucky so far—but can it last?”

  Miss Lanpher had retired to the front of the house, so Hashknife ate alone.

  CHAPTER VII

  IT WAS in the middle of the afternoon when Trainor, Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher and Poco Saunders came back from town. Hashknife did not go up to the house, but helped Poco unhitch the team. Poco was as uncommunicative as ever.

  As they came out of the stable, Trainor was hobbling toward them, but stopped and called to Hashknife—

  “What’s this I hear about somebody shootin’ at Quong?”

  “Oh, that,” Hashknife laughed and looked back toward the hills, “I reckon somebody was shootin’ at coyotes. They came dam near hittin’ the Chinaman, though. Lotsa folks are careless thataway.”

  “Uu-huh,” Trainor grunted his unbelief. “Shootin’ kinda high, wasn’t they, Hartley?”

  “Kinda.”

  “Say, do you really think they were shootin’ at coyotes?”

  “Well,” smiled Hashknife, “that’s all a matter of opinion. Mebbe the shooter felt thataway about it.”

  “Uh-huh, I see what yuh mean.”

  Trainor turned and went back to the house. Poco Saunders had heard the conversation, and now he turned and went into the bunk-house ahead of Hashknife, who shut the door and faced him.

  Poco’s eyes narrowed, but he feigned not to notice Hashknife’s steady gaze. Finally Hashknife said—

  “Poco, I’ll trade talk with yuh.”

  “Trade talk?” Poco did not seem to understand.

  “Yeah. I was shot at twice this afternoon.”

  “I had nothin’ to do with that, Hartley.”

  “Why do yuh tie yore gun to yuh at night, Poco?”

  Poco started slightly, but his face did not betray that he was caught off his guard.

  “Yore bunkie was shot from ambush, Poco,” continued Hashknife. “Are you afraid of the same thing?”

  Poco studied the question thoughtfully.

  “Why should I be afraid?” he asked.

  “I asked to trade talk—not to answer questions.”

  “Why should I trade talk? I know nothin’.”

  “All right.”

  Hashknife turned to his bunk, but stopped.

  “Why did Pinto Cassidy draw a deadline between his place and the Circle Cross?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Poco; and Hashknife felt that he was telling the truth.

  “Are yuh afraid to talk about the rustlers who have been stealing stock on this range, Poco?”

  “Why talk about ’em?”

  “Well, for one reason is this—they’ve killed three men from ambush already.”

  “Three? You don’t think that Ben Lanpher killed—”

  Hashknife shook his head.

  “Last night Jimmy, the half-breed; was shot in the arm, at the same spot where Smoky Cole was killed.”

  “He was?” Poco squinted thoughtfully, and Hashknife noticed that Poco’s knuckles were white from their grip on his belt.

  “Now, will yuh trade talk with me, Poco?”

  But Poco shook his head slowly, his teeth shut tight.

  “No, I can’t trade a talk, because I know nothin’.”

  As Hashknife turned away, Buck Avery came in. He was half-drunk and was carrying a bottle in his hand, which he put under his pillow.

  “Hyah, cowboys!” he greeted them. “Help yourself to the liquor. Reg’lar old poultry cocktail, that is. Six drinks and yuh lay. Hartley, yuh old son-of-a-gun, don’t yuh never drink anythin’?”

  But before Hashknife could reply, Trainor came to the door.

  “Did you see old man Shappee, Buck?” he asked.

  “Yeah; be right with yuh, Jim.”

  Buck kicked off his chaps, joined Trainor and they went toward the house together.

  “Buck’s drink in’ too much,” observed Poco. “He can’t let it alone when he starts once. Trainor knows that, and he was a damn fool to start Buck off the other night.”

  “Trainor ain’t picked another foreman yet, has he?” asked Hashknife casually.

  “Nope. Prob’ly pick Buck, though. Buck has been with him ever since he took over the Circle Cross. Smoky and Buck came here together.”

  “How long you been here, Poco?”

  “’Bout a year. Me and Smoky worked together before.”

  “Well, I’m not goin’ to stay a year,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s too much promiscuous shootin’ goin’ on around here to suit me. Everybody’s scared to talk for fear they’re talkin’ to the person who is doin’ all the dirty work. It’s a hell of a country, thasall.”

  “Yeah,” nodded Poco solemnly. “I reckon that about describes it, Hartley.”

  Hashknife went outside and sat down on a bench beside the door. Buck was near the kitchen door, busy at the wash-bench and talking to Quong who was standing in the doorway. Miss Lanpher was out in the front yard, looking at a stunted rosebush, and Trainor was walking out to her.

  She looked up, as he drew closer and seemed to be talking to her. For a few moments she listened to him; and then walked past him and into the house.

  “He got froze up, too,” chuckled Hashknife aloud.

  “He sure did,” agreed Poco, who had come to the door and noticed it.

  “He’s stuck on her pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, he was kinda hard hit when she turned him down. I don’t see nothin’ to her m’self. Too danged high-toned. Tramor’s a lot older than she is, and he ain’t so damn handsome either.”

  “If she wants beauty I might stand a chance,” laughed Hashknife.

  “Yuh can’t any more than get turned down.”

  “I’ve had mine, Poco.”

  Trainor walked around to the kitchen door and began talking to Buck, who threw his wash-pan of dirty water out on to the ground and slammed the pan viciously onto the bench.

  They both seemed angry, but talked in low tones. Finally Buck whirled and came toward the bunk-house, swearing to himself. As he came up to the door he looked back toward the house, where Trainor was standing, looking toward them.

  “I’ll drink when and where I damn well please!” snarled Buck, and went into the bunk-house, where he, piled up on his bed and went to sleep.

  That Buck had no respect for Trainor’s authority was attested by the fact that Buck drank at intervals all night, and dug a fresh quart of liquor from beneath his straw tick the next morning.

  He was incoherent in everything, except profanity, and refused to answer the breakfast call. Trainor’s foot was much better, and he was jovial at breakfast.

  “Hartley, you will go with Lanpher and me today. We’re goin’ to look over the range. Poco will drive the ladies to town.”

  “Somebody ought to stay with Buck,” said Hashknife. “He’s in bad shape.”

  “Let him sleep it off!” grated Trainor. “The fool won’t let whisky alone; so he’s the one to suffer.”

  They saddled their horses after breakfast and rode into the hills. Lanpher was unused to the saddle and knew little about riding, which handicapped them as far as speed was concerned.

  They rode northeast almost to the main divide and swung around through the breaks, giving Lanpher some idea of what he owned. He had little to say, except in an undertone to Trainor. In fact, most of their conversation was handled in such a way that Hashknife was excluded.

  Hashknife kept his eyes open and studied the country. On this side of the range there were few cattle of any brand, although there was plenty of water and feed. Hashknife remarked about it, but Trainor merely nodded and did not reply.

  Lanpher looked queerly at Hashknife, as much as to say—

  “You know the reason well enough.”

  Trainor had tied a lunch to the back of his saddle, and they ate at a spring far back in the hills. During the course of the lunch, Lanpher remarked—

  “Carsten was in t
o see me not long ago, Jim.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes. Just a friendly call, he said; but wanted to know what we had that was for sale.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “Well, I told him I didn’t know. He said that beef was due to take a raise pretty soon. I’m not kicking on prices.”

  “No.” Trainor shook his head. “We have no kick on the price of beef and hides.”

  They finished their lunch and mounted again. Hashknife grinned as Lanpher settled himself tenderly in the saddle and braced his feet solidly in the stirrups.

  It was almost dark when they arrived at the ranch-house. Lanpher was thoroughly tired so Hashknife took care of the horse for him. Poco had just fed the wagon-team and told Hashknife that they had just arrived a short time before.

  “What’s new in Wolf Wells?” asked Hashknife.

  “Nothin’ much. I seen your pardner and the half-breed girl down there about noon. He’s workin’ at the Tomahawk, ain’t he?”

  “Well, I dunno about the work part of it,” laughed Hashknife, as they entered the bunk-house.

  Buck was still stretched out on the bunk and an empty bottle attested to the fact that Buck was “full as a tick.” Poco tried to rouse him, but Buck refused to give more than a grunt.

  Trainor ate supper with Hashknife and Poco, after the Lanpher family had eaten, and during the meal the sheriff and Lonesome Hobbs rode in. Hashknife saw them from the window, but said nothing. They dismounted and went to the front of the house.

  “What’s comin’ off around here?” wondered Hashknife, as he saw three more riders ride down past the house and tie their horses to a corral fence.

  He recognized one of them as being Ability Edwards. Trainor saw them, too, and hurriedly finished the rest of his meal. After he went out, Hashknife said to Poco:

  “The sheriff and deputy came a few minutes ago, and just now, three more men rode in. What do yuh make of it?”

  Poco halted with a cup at his lips, slowly placed it back in the saucer and got to his feet. He went to the door and looked out. Hashknife got up and went over to him.

  The men had grouped a short distance from the porch and were talking as they looked down the road toward town. In a few moments three more riders appeared.

  “That’s Jud Carey, Bert Elhoff and Honey Simpson, all from the 66 outfit,” said Poco. “Them first three are old man Shappee, Bility Edwards and Baldy Shannon, from the Flyin’ M. I wonder what it means.”

  “Let’s horn in and find out,” grinned Hashknife.

  The three riders dismounted and joined the group.

  “Well, I reckon we’re all here,” observed Trainor, “so we might as well go into the house.”

  He led the way into the living-room and the men sat down on the chairs, or squatted on their heels against the wall. Lanpher had joined them at the door. Trainor glanced around at the group, but said nothing to Poco and Hashknife, who had invited themselves.

  “Gentlemen,” said Trainor seriously, “I reckon you all know why yo’re here this evenin’. We’ve all suffered alike in this matter, and I think the time has come when we will have to step out into the open.

  “Mr. Lanpher—” Trainor indicated him—“I reckon most of yuh met him when he was here before, and yuh know he is half-owner of the Circle Cross. He advised me to have yuh meet here and try to figure out some way to handle this proposition.

  “I know how yuh feel about it. We’ve all been afraid to talk about it—or to do much. But I’ll tell yuh it’s comin’ to a showdown. I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that the two men of mine that were killed were detectives; sent here by the association.

  “Whether or not Smoky Cole was killed by the same gang, we don’t know. I hope it can be proved on ’em. Yesterday two shots were fired from back there in the hills. One of ’em hit the casing of the kitchen door, while the other went into the kitchen and smashed into a kettle. Hartley, over there, was going toward the door at the time, and my cook was beside the doorway. I don’t know which they were trying to kill.”

  The cattlemen considered this, as they looked at Hashknife and at each other. Old man Shappee, a typical old cattleman, cleared his throat raspingly.

  “What did you ever do to ’em, Hartley?” he asked.

  “It was kinda hard to tell—at that distance,” grinned Hashknife, and the men smiled with him.

  “Now, who has an idea to work on?” asked Trainor.

  The men stirred uneasily. None of than seemed to want to commit themselves. Finally Jud Carey, a lanky, middle-aged man stood up.

  “I dunno how anybody could figure out an idea,” he drawled slowly. “It ain’t like buckin’ somethin’ that yuh can see, Jim. The 66 has lost a lot of stock, but none of us has been shot at—yet.”

  He sat down slowly and lighted a cigaret.

  “Aw, hell!” exploded Trainor. “Is everybody afraid to talk? Are we goin’ to set here and shiver in our boots while a gang of bushwackin’ rustlers shoot our men from ambush and run off our stock?”

  “All right—tell us what to do,” suggested Shappee.

  “Well,” Trainor hesitated, “I’m damned if I know what to do. Lanpher and I have done what we think is the best thing; but we can’t ask the association to send more men to the slaughter.”

  “How did this gang find out that they were detectives?” asked Bility Edwards.

  “Nobody knows.”

  “They’re sure a slick outfit,” observed the sheriff. “I didn’t know that these men were detectives. Nobody ever told me about ’em. One was killed near town and the other one on the Tomahawk ranch. It’s almost a cinch that old Cassidy didn’t kill both of ’em.”

  “Cassidy’s a salty old son-of-a-gun, but I’ll bet he never killed that feller,” said Shappee, but qualified his statement with—

  “Unless he’s one of the gang himself.”

  “And that’s what we don’t know,” said Trainor.

  “Would it do you any good to make up a big posse and hunt every inch of the hills?” asked the sheriff.

  “How would we know but what the men we’re lookin’ for would be ridin’ along with us?” asked Carey.

  “I dunno,” said the sheriff foolishly.

  “Well, anythin’ is better than settin’ around and bein’ shot at, I should think,” observed Shappee. “I’m ready to ride or do anythin’ the majority wants to do.”

  “I wish I knew what to suggest.” Thus William Lanpher, who had been a good listener.

  “I have spent money for investigators, who have been killed. This is very unfortunate. I do not know how much stock you men have lost, but I do know that we have suffered severely. And, gentlemen, it is not going to stop, unless we are able to stop it.”

  “Yuh can’t expect ’em to draw out of a cinch game, can yuh?” queried Bility Edwards.

  “Why would they kill Smoky Cole?” demanded Lonesome, who had hardly spoken since he arrived.

  “Smoky wasn’t no detective.”

  “We don’t know that they did,” said Trainor, “but we hope it can be laid to their door so as to clear Ben Lanpher of the charge.”

  “Hell, he was too drunk to bushwhack anybody that day,” declared Lonesome. “I reckon they done it.”

  “They’re promiscuous all right,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “Night before last they shot Jimmy Droop-drawers, the Tomahawk half-breed, while he was ridin’ along the same place that Smoky Cole was killed.”

  “For gosh sake!” exploded Shappee, while the rest of them grunted or cursed in astonishment.

  “You didn’t tell me about this,” said Trainor seriously.

  Hashknife shook his head.

  “No, I thought yuh had troubles enough, Trainor.”

  “Nobody told me,” complained the sheriff. “Was he hurt much?”

  Hashknife explained the extent of his injuries.

  “And why did they try to kill the breed?” queried Lonesome dismally.

  “My God, why
don’tcha do somethin’, except ask questions?” snorted the sheriff.

  “Show me anybody that’s doin’ better than that,” replied Lonesome. “I’m askin’ damn pointed ones, y’betcha.”

  Lonesome’s reply brought a grin, but it was short-lived.

  Came the sound of a hurried footstep, the door was flung open and Lorna Cassidy almost fell inside the room. She shut the door behind her and stood with her back against it.

  She was hatless, one sleeve of her dress was torn badly. Her hair was wind-blown and one of her long braids was wrapped once around her neck; as though she had ridden fast and far through the wind.

  She looked from face to face in that smoke-fogged room, her lips shut tight, her eyes blazing, until she caught sight of Hashknife, and spoke directly to him.

  “Your pardner was shot—hour—or—so—ago!” she panted.

  Hashknife sprang to his feet, as did the rest of the men.

  “My pardner—Sleepy. Shot? Not dead?”

  She shook her head, her eyes still searching the room.

  “No, not dead; hurt bad.”

  Hashknife went to her and took her by the arm.

  “Don’t hurry,” he advised her hoarsely. “Take yore time and tell us all about it.”

  She nodded, leaning against the door, as she looked from face to face. She appeared to be looking for some one.

  “We were out riding,” she said slowly. “We had been to town and when we were coming back we decided to take a ride into the hills.

  “We saw a man riding alone, but paid no attention to him. As we were riding down to our ranch, a shot was fired and my horse fell. I hurt my head a little, and before I could get up another shot was fired and Sleepy fell off his horse.

  “I got him to the house and—” she shook her head wearily— “My mother helped me. She heard the shots, too.”

  “But how bad is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.

  “I don’t know. The bullet struck him under the left arm and knocked him off the horse. He didn’t know anything for a while, but he woke up all right.”

  “How long ago did this happen?” asked Trainor.

  “Oh, I don’t know. It was a while before dark.”

  “And he hasn’t had a doctor?” queried Hashknife.

  Lorna shook her head.