Part 2

“Ed Weed recognized it,” said Uncle Andy sadly. “He’d seen it lots of times. But Johnny, darn his soul, won’t tell what he done with it. Just sets there and shakes his head. Yuh see,” Uncle Andy cleared his throat harshly, “yuh see, Johnny and Nell Frawley was due to get married Christmas Eve.”

“Loveliest girl I ever knew,” said Aunt Judy wearily.

“I’m wonderin’ if Johnny would talk with me,” said Hashknife.

Uncle Andy shook his head. “I don’t believe he would. Won’t talk to anybody, not even a lawyer. Stubborn’s a bull calf.”

“He might,” said Aunt Judy hopefully, but added, “He ort to. Nobody can help him, if he won’t talk.”

“Let’s try it,” suggested Hashknife. “He can’t no more than refuse.”

“All right,” replied Uncle Andy. “We’ll try, but don’t say I didn’t warn yuh, Hashknife.”

* * * * *

They found Nick McGarvin in the office. He didn’t think that Johnny would talk, especially to strangers, but was willing for them to try. Johnny Davidson was a good-looking young cowboy, but he had stubborn eyes and a stubborn chin. Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to him, but he didn’t seem interested.

“These here men want to help yuh, Johnny,” explained Uncle Andy. “But before they can help yuh, they’ve got to hear yore story.”

“I have no story,” declared Johnny stonily. “Nothin’ to tell.”

Hashknife moved in close to the bars, and Johnny looked at him, rather defiantly, at first. Their eyes met for several moments, and Johnny turned away, looking at his mother.

“Johnny, you ought to talk to him,” she said quietly.

Johnny looked at Hashknife again, and a weak smile twisted his lips for a moment. Then he said, “All right, what do I talk about?”

“That ring, Johnny,” replied Hashknife. “We’ve got to know what yuh done with it.”

Johnny shook his head. “It won’t do a bit of good,” he said. “It can’t do any good now--it’s too damned late, Hartley.”

“Why is it too late?” asked Hashknife.

“Because Chiquita Morales is dead. Oren Blakely is dead, too.”

Uncle Andy said, “What did Chiquita--”

“Wait!” interrupted Hashknife. “Johnny can tell us--in his own way. Go ahead, Johnny.”

Johnny gnawed at his lower lip for several moments, his eyes bleak. Hashknife noticed that his hands were clenched behind him. Finally he said:

“I traded that ring, to Chiquita Morales for a pinto horse. She wanted the ring--I wanted that _pintado_. I--I was goin’ to tell Nell about it. I dunno--mebbe Nell was a little jealous of Chiquita. She didn’t mean anythin’ to me, Chiquita didn’t. There wasn’t any bill-of-sale--nothin’ to prove I traded. I was goin’ to get the pinto--and that’s all there was to it.

“She wanted the ring to wear to a dance--so I let her have it. I was down at Agua Verde that night, but I left there about seven o’clock. On the way back, at a little rancho, there was a lot of music, so I stopped to see what was goin’ on. It was a dance--a pretty wild dance, too. Chiquita was there with Oren Blakely. Everybody was drunk, except Chiquita, and there had been several fist-fights. Oren was drunk, too. Chiquita wanted to go home--to get away from the place. Well, at least, I’m a gentleman--I hope. We got Oren on a horse, and all three of us came back across the line. Oren wasn’t too drunk then; so we put him on the road to the Circle H, and I took Chiquita home.”

“And you was afraid that Nell would find it out?” asked Uncle Andy.

“Yeah, I was,” admitted Johnny. “Maybe I had no business doin’ it--takin’ her home, and all that--but I did.”

“Was she wearin’ the ring at the dance?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she wasn’t,” replied Johnny. “I asked her where it was, and she told me she left it at home, because it was too big, and she was afraid she’d lose it.”

“I’ll explain it to Nell,” offered Aunt Judy.

“Thanks, Ma--but I’d rather tell her. I didn’t take Chiquita to the dance--didn’t even know she was there--and when she explained that she was scared to stay there--what could I do?”

“Couldn’t anybody at that rancho testify that you were there, instead of robbin’ a bank?” asked Uncle Andy.

“I doubt it, ’cause I didn’t mix in the dance. And, anyway,” said Johnny, “nobody knows what time of night the bank was robbed. Ed Weed didn’t know. They woke him up, but he never seen a clock.”

“I heard that Chiquita was to marry Frenchy Arnett,” said Hashknife.

“_Quien sabe?_” Johnny smiled sourly. “Chiquita liked to have fun. She asked me to not tell Frenchy. I wouldn’t, anyway. It wasn’t my business.”

“Johnny,” said Hashknife, “do you know of anybody who hated Oren Barkley enough to shoot him? Maybe somebody who knew he took Chiquita to a dance.”

Johnny shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hartley. Frenchy was supposed to be keepin’ steady company with Chiquita. Frenchy was either in Northgate, or on his way up there, when she was killed. Oren wasn’t quarrelsome. In fact, that night was the first time I had ever seen him drunk. Oh, he took a drink now and then, I suppose, but not enough to affect him.”

“Well, much obliged, Johnny,” said Hashknife, shaking hands through the bars.

“Yo’re welcome, Hartley. Glad to have met yuh--and you, too, Stevens.”

He kissed his mother between the bars, and they went out. Aunt Judy took hold of Hashknife’s shoulders and turned him around on the sidewalk, looking straight into his eyes.

“I just wanted to find out why Johnny talked to you,” she said as he smiled slowly at her.

“Don’t be silly, Ma,” grinned Uncle Andy.

“I’m not silly,” she said quietly, and turned away. Hashknife patted her on the shoulder.

“I dunno how it was done--but it was,” Uncle Andy said. “Hashknife, we want you and Sleepy to make the ranch yore home. We’ve got room out there, and we’d sure admire havin’ yuh stay there.”

“Later--maybe,” said Hashknife. “Thank yuh both a lot.”

“Make it when yuh can; we’ll be lookin’ for yuh.”

* * * * *

Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, was a little amazed over the willingness of Johnny Davidson to talk to a stranger. And he was also a bit curious as to just why Andy Davidson had brought these two strangers to the jail for the conference. He asked Johnny, who thought it over for several moments.

“I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Mother and Dad brought ’em in here, and Hartley, the tall one asked me questions.”

“Which you answered,” said the sheriff dryly.

“That’s right, I did--but don’t ask me why, Nick. It is kinda funny. Somethin’ about him--I dunno what.”

Pete Morales and his wife came to town, and the sheriff asked Pete if he knew anything about Chiquita trading a pinto horse to Johnny Davidson for a turquoise ring.

Pete shook his head sadly. “_Mi amigo_,” he said wearily, “I know notheeng, excep’s Chiquita ees died. I see no reeng.”

“Did you know that Chiquita went to the dance in Mexico with Oren Blakely?”

Again the little Mexican shook his head. “No,” he said huskily. “I tell her, ‘Kip to hell from those dance at Miguel’s rancho. Bad pippil down there.’ But I theenk she go anyway.”

Nick McGarvin went back to his office. Frenchy hadn’t showed up yet. The death of Chiquita Morales was a terrible blow to the little deputy--and he was drinking too much.

Sam Hack and his only remaining cowboy, Gus Staley, came over to the sheriff’s office. Hack was a tall, gaunt man, with deep-set eyes, long arms and huge, bony hands. Hack was really a newcomer to the Dancing Devil range, having bought the NK spread from the bank, which had it on a foreclosure, and registered his own brand. Oren Blakely had been one of his two men. Gus Staley was rather a nondescript cowpoke, who liked liquor and cards.

Hack wanted action. He said, “Nick, you’ve got to do somethin’ about the murder of Oren. Yuh can’t let things like that go--”

“Suggest somethin’,” replied the harassed sheriff. “It’s easy to talk about, Sam. Nobody knows why Oren headed for Northgate, nobody knows who wanted to shoot him. Everyone seemed to like him. If you know anythin’ else, let me know.”

“Well,” replied Hack soberly, “I wish I could, Nick. Has Johnny Davidson talked yet?”

“Johnny talked this mornin’, Sam. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he wouldn’t talk to his ma and pa--but he talked to a stranger.”

“Meanin’ what?” asked Hack flatly.

The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno, Sam--I can’t figure it.”

And then the sheriff told them what Johnny told Hashknife.

Sam Hack and Gus Staley listened closely while the sheriff related Johnny’s story, and the sheriff finished with:

“I asked Johnny why he told all this to Hartley, when he wouldn’t talk with anybody else, and he said he didn’t know.”

“Kinda funny,” remarked Hack. He turned to Staley, “Gus, did you know that Oren took Chiquita to that dance?”

Staley shook his head. “Oren didn’t talk much,” he replied. “He was drunk when he got back to the ranch that night, but he didn’t say where he’d been, I figured he got drunk here.”

“Gus,” said the sheriff, “you’ve been with Oren a long time. If I remember right, you came here with him. Do you know anybody who hated him enough to shoot him?”

“Hell, no!” snorted Gus Staley.

“Well, there yuh are,” said the sheriff, shrugging helplessly. “Gus has been bunkin’ the man all this time, and even _he_ don’t know who’d shoot him.”

“Who is Hartley and Stevens?” asked Hack.

The sheriff smiled. “I rode all the way down here from Northgate with them two,” he said, “and all I know is that they’ve each got two legs and two arms. Yuh might ask Andy Davidson--he seemed to know ’em.”

“Just a couple driftin’ cowpokes, eh?”

“You name ’em,” replied the sheriff. “They came in on the freight-train, got off at Northgate, just before Oren climbed on and got shot. They had their saddles along with ’em, and I know they bought two horses at the feed corral.”

“Well,” yawned Hack, “we’ve got to be driftin’, Nick. When is the inquest?”

“Tomorrow mornin’, Doc Talbert told me. You’ll be here?”

“Yeah. After all, Oren was one of my boys.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy sprawled on chairs under the porch of the hotel. Hashknife, as relaxed as a cat, smoked thoughtfully, paying little attention to activity on the street.

“How much of Johnny Davidson’s story do yuh reckon a jury would believe?” inquired Sleepy.

“Very little, Sleepy.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Certainly, I believe him. With all the lies possible, he told a story that can’t possibly help him. The girl is dead--and he didn’t have to tell the truth about the ring. The kid’s honest.”

“Yo’re like Aunt Judy--everybody is all right.”

Sam Hack and Gus Staley came past the porch and went on up the street. Both of them looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy. Frank Olds, the hotel-keeper, standing in the doorway of the hotel, waved a greeting to them, and he said to the two cowboys:

“That’s the feller Oren Blakely worked for--Sam Hack. He’s the tall one; the other is Gus Staley.”

“Is Hack an old-timer down here?” asked Hashknife.

“No, he came here a little over a year ago and bought out the NK. Bought it from the bank, I reckon--they held a big mortgage, and Kinney, the owner, couldn’t make the grade.”

“You knew Blakely?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah. Nice boy, too. I know most everybody. Growed up here.”

“I hear,” remarked Hashknife lazily, “that the bank bust hurt folks pretty hard around here.”

“Busted some of ’em. Yuh take Andy Davidson and Ed Frawley, they got hit awful hard. Had most all their money in the bank, I’ve been told. Davidson just sold a train-load of cows, and they tell me he lost every cent in the bank. Frawley got hit about as hard. They ain’t kickin’--’cause they ain’t that kind.”

“What do yuh think of Johnny Davidson’s chances?” asked Sleepy.

“Well, I’ll tell yuh; with that ring as evidence, and with a Dancin’ Devil jury, he’s got about as much chance as a celluloid cat has in hell. The jury will believe Ed Weed. I hate to see it happen to the Davidson family, but Johnny is stuck.”

“What happened to the banker?” asked Sleepy.

“Oh, he’s still livin’ here. Tom Colton’s his name. Got sort of a no-good son, named Harry. He tried to make a banker out of him, but it didn’t work. Make a better banker for a faro game, I reckon. Drinks like a fish, Harry does.”

After all this information Frank Olds went back to his hotel work, and Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to the livery-stable. The stableman was also a loquacious soul. He was standing in the rear doorway of the stable, staring out at a rather dilapidated top-buggy. He said, complainingly, “I wish they’d take that damn thing away from here.”

“Why?” asked Sleepy.

“That’s the buggy Chiquita Morales was killed in. They brung it here. Said that it was mebbe evidence. Huh! Blood all over it, too. I sleep in the tack-room--and I dream about that blasted, old buggy. Chiquita was awful pretty. I dunno, I reckon it’ll stay there, until the sheriff takes it away.”

Hashknife walked out and looked it over. Not much of a buggy, the worn cushion spattered with gore, dried black now, a broken buggy-whip in the old socket, ready to fall off the dash. Sleepy and the stableman had turned to talk with someone, when Hashknife pulled the seat-cushion loose from the back. Something rattled loosely, and Hashknife readied in and picked it up. One swift glance and he put the object in his pocket, shoved the cushion into place and walked back to the doorway.

A young man was talking with the stableman, paying him some money. He was wearing “store-clothes,” except for his high-heel boots, and seemed just a trifle inebriated. A good-looking young man, too, except for the deep lines of dissipation in his face. After he went out, the stableman said:

“That’s Harry Colton, the busted banker’s son. He keeps his horse here in the stable, and pays his bills regular. I hate to see a young man drinkin’ thataway. His old man tried to keep him straight, but I don’t reckon it was any use. Too much money and nothin’ else to do.”

“Mebbe,” suggested Sleepy, “he won’t have too much money now.”

“Did yuh hear what he said?” asked the stableman.

Sleepy shook his head.

“He said he’d prob’ly have to sell his horse. Can’t afford to pay feed bills much longer.”

“He might cut down on his whiskey bills,” suggested Hashknife.

“You don’t know Harry,” grinned the stableman.

* * * * *

They walked back to the hotel and went up to their room, where Hashknife took the object from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was a huge, Mexican silver ring, with a turquoise cross. Sleepy stared at it, picked it up gingerly and examined it. He put it back on the table and sat down by the window.

“It was under that seat cushion,” said Hashknife.

“Maybe,” suggested Sleepy, “Chiquita thought she was bein’ held up, and hid it under the cushion.”

“It kinda figures out like this,” said Hashknife. “Chiquita made the trade with Johnny. She wasn’t in love with Johnny, but it kinda seems that she--well, she wasn’t a one-man woman. Before the robbery, she let somebody have that ring. Maybe she got it back. Maybe she was scared to keep it. Maybe she hid it under the cushion. Maybe--”

“After all that,” interrupted Sleepy, “what do yuh think actually happened?”

“I don’t know,” grinned Hashknife, and pocketed the ring.

“This can’t help Johnny none,” said Sleepy.

“I don’t reckon it can help anybody,” smiled Hashknife, “but it’s a mighty pretty ring.”

They went back to the hotel lobby, where they were accosted by an elderly, well-dressed man. He said, “You are Mr. Hartley?”

“That’s my name,” nodded Hashknife.

“I am Thomas Colton, Mr. Hartley. Shall we sit down?”

Sleepy sprawled on a chair near a window, while Hashknife and Thomas Colton, former banker, sat down together.

The banker said, “I have a confidential letter from a land syndicate in Phoenix, saying that they are interested in buying cattle ranches in the Dancing Devil range, as an investment, and asking about prices. Today I received this telegram, which I will show you.”

The telegram was sent to the banker, and signed James Morison. It read:

ADVISE YOU THAT A MR. HARTLEY IS AUTHORIZED TO CONTACT RANCH OWNERS AND CONSULT THEM ON PRICES.

Hashknife read the telegram and handed it back to Colton, who said quietly, “The bank holds paper against nearly every ranch down here--rather big paper, I might say, and--”

“I understand that,” interrupted Hashknife, “but mortgages have nothin’ to do with my job. I merely ask prices.”

“And I might say,” continued the banker, “that few, if any, can meet their mortgages. Confidentially, Mr. Hartley, the ranches of this valley are in bad shape. I mean, financially, of course.”

“Nothin’ wrong with the ranches?” queried Hashknife. “This looks like a good range.”

“Oh, it is, indeed! That is one reason that the bank was generous. Have you made any inquiries, Mr. Hartley?”

“I didn’t want to rush ’em,” said Hashknife. “Why?”

“Well, I--no reason at all, except that I--well, I might be able to get a better price than you could--knowing conditions.”

Hashknife smiled as he looked at Colton. “Maybe yuh don’t think I’m the right man to buy cattle ranches,” he suggested.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that! After all, the Cattlemen’s Association wouldn’t recommend a--well, a man who wasn’t capable.”

“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife dryly. “You go ahead, Mr. Colton. Maybe you can do better than I could. Anyway, it’s worth tryin’.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Hartley. I’ll see what I can do, and then we can compare notes. I’ll see you again--and thank you. It might be well to not mention our little talk to anyone?”

“I’ll keep still,” agreed Hashknife.

Sleepy was curious, and came over as soon as Colton left. Hashknife told him the conversation, and Sleepy said, “What’s he tryin’ to do--beat us out of our jobs?”

“Even a banker can make a mistake, pardner,” smiled Hashknife.,

“He’s shore mistaken if he thinks he can take our jobs over,” declared Sleepy. “I like to draw money for loafin’.”

* * * * *

A double inquest was held next forenoon in Tomahawk Flats, and it seemed as though everybody in Dancing Devil Valley came to listen. Because they had been present at the shooting of Oren Blakely, both Hashknife and Sleepy were called to the stand to testify. Both Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy were there, and with them sat Ed Frawley and his daughter, Nell. Huddled together were Pete Morales and his wife, listening closely, but not understanding much of what was said. Frenchy Arnett was there, still half-drunk. Sam Hack and his one man, Gus Staley, were there, and Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Buck Nolan, who owned the Bar N.

There was no one to testify in the murder of Chiquita Morales. They put Pete Morales on the stand, but Pete either didn’t understand, or had nothing to tell them. The jury in both cases brought in the only possible verdict--killed by a party or parties unknown.

Hashknife and Sleepy met the Davidsons on the street after the inquest, and were introduced to Nell Frawley and her father. Nell was a pretty, brunette, tall and willowy, but very sad over the plight of Johnny Davidson. Aunt Judy said, “Ed, you and Nell are comin’ out to have supper with us, and I’m askin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to come out with us.”

“What are we waitin’ for?” asked Sleepy quickly.

“But, Aunt Judy, we didn’t intend--” began Ed Frawley.

“Don’t lie to me, Ed Frawley,” she said. “I saw that hunger-for-sour-milk-biscuits in your eye, when I mentioned supper.”

“Well, I--uh--shore,” agreed Frawley, while Sleepy remarked:

“Speakin’ about love--I ain’t et a sour-milk biscuit since ol’ Settin’ Bull got up and leaned against a tree.”

“As Sleepy said,” remarked Uncle Andy, “what are we waitin’ for, folks?”

“It isn’t noon yet,” said Ed Frawley.

“Don’t you folks eat at noon?” asked Sleepy soberly.

“Let’s go out to the ranch,” said Aunt Judy. “I’ve got to fill him up, before he starves on our hands.”

The ranch-house and buildings at the AD were well-kept, the grounds clean. Uncle Andy admitted to Hashknife that Aunt Judy was responsible for the appearance of the place.

They met Ted Evans and Eddie Connors, the two cowpokes.

“I’ve allus wanted to see what you looked like, Hartley,” remarked Connors.

“Wanted to see what I looked like?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s right. I heard about you up on the Wind River, and then I heard more about yuh in Colorado, and the last feller to speak about yuh was from the Thunder River country.”

“I didn’t know I was worth talkin’ about,” said Hashknife.

“Well, I’m tellin’ yuh,” grinned Connors. “If yo’re half as good as the lies I’ve heard--yo’re a ring-tailed wonder.”

“I’m not, Connors,” assured Hashknife.

“Men will lie, yuh know.”

“Then I shore ran into several, Hartley--and they all lied about the same things.” “What’s this all about?” demanded Aunt Judy.

“Somebody tryin’ to ruin my reputation, Aunt Judy.”

“Ruin it!” exclaimed Connors. “Lemme tell yuh what--”

“Don’t repeat it--there’s ladies present,” interrupted Hashknife, and went into the house with the others.

* * * * *

Nell volunteered to help Aunt Judy in the kitchen, and two ranch owners sat down with Hashknife and Sleepy in the main room. There was plenty of food for conversation, but no one seemed inclined to start it, until Ed Frawley, his pipe drawing well, said, “Andy, have you talked with Tom Colton?”

“Not for a couple of days, Ed.”

“I talked with him this mornin’. It seems that he’s representin’ a land-buying syndicate, and they’d like to buy the Rafter F--if they can get it cheap enough.”

“Yea-a-ah? The buzzards are already wingin’ in, eh?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“I can see his angle,” said Uncle Andy. “We owe money to the bank, which don’t exist now. Him bein’ the owner of the bank, wants his money out of the deal.”

“And we can’t pay him,” said Frawley flatly. “If we get any kind of a decent offer, we’ll have to sell.”

Uncle Andy turned to Hashknife, “Sorry to talk about somethin’ you don’t know about,” he said. “I’ll tell yuh how I’m fixed. I owe the bank twelve thousand dollars. Not long ago I sold a lot of beef, and I put twenty-eight thousand dollars on deposit. I wanted to pay off that mortgage right now, but Colton said-- Oh, I don’t understand bankin’, Hashknife. Somethin’ about havin’ to pay a lot of interest and a bonus if I took it up now; so I let it lay. Well, the twenty-eight thousand dollars is gone--and I can’t pay the mortgage.”

“I’m in the same boat,” said Frawley. “My mortgage was due two days after the robbery. I owed Colton ten thousand, and I had--well, I had enough in there to pay it off and not mind.”

“Tough deal,” murmured Hashknife. “Just how was this robbery pulled off?”