Part 3

“I can tell yuh what Weed said,” replied Uncle Andy. “Weed is a bachelor, livin’ alone. Been here years. He said he went to bed, but he don’t know what time--maybe nine o’clock, and went to sleep. He don’t know what time he woke up, but the lamp was lighted and three masked men was around him. They told him they wanted the key to the bank and the combination of the vault.

“One of them told him that he’d either do what they want, or they’d kill him, take the keys to the bank and bust it with dynamite. They got the keys and the combination, tied Weed up tight, and pulled out. They had all night to do the job--and they shore done a complete job.”

“And he saw that turquoise ring, eh?” said Hashknife.

And Davidson nodded slowly. “He says he saw it plain.”

“Weed is honest, eh?”

“Honest as a dollar,” sighed Uncle Andy. “I’ve talked with him several times, and he’s just about sick. Weed is pretty old, and he ain’t got any job. Everythin’ he owned was in the bank, too.”

“I told him,” said Frawley quietly, “that if things got too tough he could come out and live with us.”

“I told him the same thing,” said Uncle Andy, “and so did Buck Nolan. Buck didn’t owe the bank anythin’, but he lost every dollar he had in there.”

“Seems like we’re askin’ Weed to join us in the poor-house,” said Frawley dryly. “I know I can’t keep goin’. I’ve got a couple good cowpokes out at my place, but I can’t afford to keep ’em more’n a couple weeks longer.”

“This looks like a mighty good range,” remarked Sleepy.

“There ain’t any better,” declared Uncle Andy warmly.

“Maybe they’ll offer yuh a _good_ price.”

“Why should they?” asked Frawley. “Colton didn’t suggest any price. He said they’d naturally buy as cheap as possible, and he said for me to figure out my lowest price. He’ll prob’ly make you the same proposition, Andy.”

Uncle Andy stared thoughtfully at the carpet for several moments, before he said quietly:

“We’ve been here a long time, Ed. It ain’t just like sellin’ a piece of property--it’s home. Yuh can’t tear up roots that have gone as deep as ours, my friend. We ain’t young men--me and you. Ed, I just can’t sell the AD.”

“I feel the same, Andy,” replied Frawley.

“Will Nolan have to sell, too?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno, Hashknife,” replied Uncle Andy. “It hit him hard, but he don’t owe the bank anythin’.”

“What about Sam Hack?”

“I don’t believe he had much in the bank. Yuh see, he’s only had the Circle H a little over a year. He bought out the NK from a feller named Kinney. The bank had to foreclose a mortgage on the NK, and I reckon Hack made a good deal for the spread. He’s buildin’ it up.”

“How long,” asked Hashknife, “has Colton owned the bank?”

“A little over two years,” replied Frawley. “Weed worked for the bank for at least twenty years Harry Colton was in college when his father bought the bank, and has only been here about a year. He’s no good. Drinks like a fish, and gambles like a fool. He had the gall to want Nell to marry him.”

“That,” declared Sleepy soberly, “don’t take much gall.”

“You know what I mean, Stevens,” laughed Frawley.

* * * * *

Hashknife walked out into the kitchen. Aunt Judy was working at the stove, while Nell was on the back porch, talking with Eddie Connors, who went down the steps and headed for the bunkhouse. Hashknife went out on the shaded porch. Nell said, “Your ears must have burned, Mr. Hartley.”

Hashknife smiled and Shook his head.

“I haven’t felt ’em.”

“We were talking about you.”

“That’s a pretty dry topic for conversation,” he said soberly.

“Eddie didn’t think so. Oh, I didn’t want to be curious, but Uncle Andy talked about you--and Eddie--” She hesitated.

“That’s the trouble,” he said quietly. “Somethin’ ordinary happens, and somebody with a big imagination spins a windy about it. The next feller enlarges it. Well, after it’s been told several times, you’ve either got wings and one of them halos, or a forked tail and a pair of horns. But even with all the lies, the poor devil remains a tired ol’ cowpoke, just gettin’ along in his own dumb way, Ma’am.”

“You’re not so old,” said Nell.

“I’m old enough to know better, Ma’am.”

“I don’t like to be called Ma’am. My name is Nell.”

Hashknife smiled slowly. “I like that name. I’m Hashknife.”

“Just a poor, old, tired cowpoke,” she said slowly. “Johnny said you just looked at him, and he decided to tell the truth, but he wouldn’t talk to anybody before that. How did you do it, Hashknife?”

Hashknife looked at her thoughtfully. “I just asked him, Nell.”

“Do people always do what you ask?”

“Well,” Hashknife grinned widely, “I don’t ask--much. Did you know Chiquita Morales very well?”

“Are you practicing on me?” asked Nell quickly.

“No, I just wondered if yuh knew her pretty well.”

“Not too well,” replied Nell. “Chiquita was pretty, tiny, full of life. She liked to have a good time, wear pretty clothes. But the Morales are poor people. I don’t believe they had much control over her. I liked her. She was very generous, sympathetic, but very emotional.”

“Do you think she would have married Frenchy Arnett, Nell?”

“No, I don’t, Hashknife. Frenchy was too slow for her. She went to that Mexican dance with Oren Blakely, and Frenchy didn’t know it. If Chiquita wanted to go some place she’d ask most any man to take her--she didn’t have any favorites, it seemed.”

“The Morales’ are pretty poor, eh?” remarked Hashknife.

“Yes, they are. I never could understand where Chiquita got money to buy fancy clothes, but she wore plenty.”

“Maybe some cowpoke bought ’em,” suggested Hashknife.

“At forty dollars a month?”

“No, that don’t go far,” admitted Hashknife. “Did you ever know her to go to dances with Harry Colton?”

“With the banker’s son? You amaze me, Hashknife.”

Hashknife smiled slowly. “I even amaze myself, at times, Nell.”

“No, I never have seen them together,” she said. “No reason why not. After all, Harry Colton isn’t too good, in spite of his money. Now that his father is broke, I don’t know what he will do.”

Aunt Judy came out on the porch to cool off.

“Who are you folks plottin’ against?” she asked.

“The forces of evil, Aunt Judy,” replied Nell.

“Well, it must have been pleasant plotting--the way you’ve been smiling. Isn’t she a sweet girl, Hashknife?”

“Aunt Judy!” protested Nell.

“I’ve been thinkin’ that all along,” grinned Hashknife.

“How come you never got married?” asked Aunt Judy.

“Well,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully, “I don’t reckon I’ve ever had time. My old Dad was a range-ridin’ sky-pilot up on the Milk River in Montana. He had a houseful of kids, and mighty little money to take care of ’em. When I was still a sprout, I got a horse and a riding rig. I had itchin’ feet. Dad said, ‘Son, I’ve been watchin’ yuh a long time--lookin’ at them hills. You want to see what’s on the other side. When you was born the good Lord put a wanderin’ brand on yuh. I’ve seen that brand growin’. You’ll never call any place home, never be held by any ties. I’ve tried to teach yuh to shoot square--it’s the best I can do.’”

“And you started wandering,” said Aunt Judy.

“All my life, Aunt Judy-- Dad’s prophecy was right. Sleepy is of the same breed--we can’t stay put.”

“Helping people,” said Nell quietly.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“Eddie Connors. I think it is wonderful. We need help, Hashknife.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully across the hills. After a long pause he said, “Yeah, I reckon yuh do, Nell.”

“Johnny and me were going to get married Christmas Eve.”

“That ain’t far away, Nell, and there ain’t much to work on, but we’ll hope that it’s all written our way in the Big Book.”

“Big Book?” queried Aunt Judy quickly.

“There is a big book, yuh know, Aunt Judy,” said Hashknife.

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“I’ve never seen it,” smiled Hashknife. “No mortal’s eyes have ever seen it--but the finger of Fate writes in that book. It shows what we do, how we live, how we die--and when.”

“That’s fatalism!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “You don’t believe in that, do you, Hashknife?”

“I believe,” replied Hashknife, “that you’ll never die until your number is up on the board, Aunt Judy. Bein’ careful is a human trait, but it won’t save yuh. Men have gone through hell and high water all their lives, only to trip over a chair in the dark and break their neck. What’s yore argument against it, Aunt Judy?”

“Well, I--when you started, I had several--but I guess I’ve forgotten what they were.”

“School is dismissed,” grinned Hashknife.

* * * * *

It was a wonderful supper. Aunt Judy was a fine cook, and Sleepy almost ate himself under the table. They got back to Tomahawk Flats about nine o’clock, and were standing in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon, when a horse and buggy drove up. A man had just come out of the saloon, and the driver called to him, asking directions for finding Thomas Colton’s home. Then the buggy turned and went back up the street. The man had leaned out of the buggy, his face full in the lights of the saloon. Hashknife said quietly, “Did you see that feller, Sleepy?”

“No, I didn’t pay any attention. Sort of a fat man, wasn’t he?”

“Sort of--yeah. I’ve seen that face before, but I can’t quite place him. C’mon.”

“Are yuh goin’ to try and run him down?” asked Sleepy.

“I hadn’t thought of that--but I’m curious.”

Thomas Colton’s home was only two blocks off the main street, but there were no lights on the street, and the night was dark. They found the horse and buggy at Colton’s front gate. There were lights in the house, but the windows were shaded. Sleepy wanted to know why they ever came down there, in the first place. Didn’t Mr. Colton have any right to have a visitor.

Hashknife laughed. “That visitor,” he said, “is a man we both knew in Wyomin’, Sleepy. His name was Slim Regan. What it is now, who knows?”

“Slim Regan?” queried Sleepy. “I ’member him. He was a gambler and a promoter, wasn’t he?”

“That’s the person--I’m dead sure. Maybe he didn’t recognize me--my back bein’ to the light, and we ain’t seen him for at least five years. Maybe he’s livin’ straight now--who knows?”

They started back, when they heard footsteps on the wooden sidewalk, coming from the opposite direction. The walker was wearing spurs. It was too dark for them to see him, but he turned in at Colton’s gate and went to the house. There were no lights, when the door was opened, but they heard it close behind him.

“Maybe the Coltons are havin’ a party,” suggested Sleepy.

Hashknife didn’t offer any suggestions, but started down the road, heading in the direction from which the spur-wearing person came. After a short distance they cut over to the sidewalk, and went on, until they found the horse, tied to a tree almost at the outskirts of town. It was a tall roan animal, and with the aid of a match they were able to decipher the Bar N brand on the animal. Sleepy said, “That’s Buck Nolan’s mark, Hashknife.”

They sat down in the darkness and waited possibly fifteen minutes, but no one came along.

“Even if he did come for the horse, it’s too dark to recognize him. Anyway, there ain’t no law,” said Sleepy.

“I reckon yo’re right,” agreed Hashknife.

“No use settin’ here.”

They were almost back at Colton’s house, when they heard the rasp of buggy-wheels, as the vehicle was turned around. A few moments later the horse and buggy came past them, traveling fast, heading back toward where the horse was tied. The Colton house was dark.

“Well,” remarked Sleepy, “what’s funny about that?”

“I didn’t say it was funny,” replied Hashknife.

They went up to their room at the hotel and went to bed. Sleepy said, “Ain’t we even goin’ to try and get prices on ranches?”

“We’ll let Colton see what he can do first. After all, he knows values better than we do.”

* * * * *

They met Thomas Colton next morning, and he asked them if they had discussed prices with any of the ranchers.

“We’re leavin’ that to you, Mr. Colton,” said Hashknife.

“Well, that is right, Mr. Hartley. No use of both of us working on the same idea. Are you leaving here soon?”

“I’ll tell yuh,” replied Hashknife soberly, “if we can buy at a good price, we might take over a spread ourselves.”

This seemed to confuse Colton. He said, “Well, I--yes, of course. I had no idea you--well, why not?”

“If we got it cheap enough,” said Hashknife. “We like this range. After all, a feller ought to settle down.”

“Yes, I believe--we will talk about it again, Mr. Hartley.”

Mr. Colton went on. Sleepy braced against a porch-post, looked inquiringly at Hashknife.

“Settlin’ down, eh?” he remarked. “That’s wonderful. Goin’ to buy a ranch. Total assets about twenty-five dollars.”

“If we could get it cheap enough--” said Hashknife.

* * * * *

Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy came to town before noon, and were talking with Hashknife and Sleepy in front of the sheriff’s office, when Buck Nolan came riding up to the office. He nodded to them, started for the office doorway, when the sheriff came out.

“Nick, there’s a buggy wrecked in Horseshoe Canyon,” said Nolan. “I saw where it went over the rip-rap, and it’s down there about a hundred feet below the grade. I was comin’ down from Northgate and--”

“Yuh mean--a buggy and team went off the grade, Buck?”

“It sure looks like it, Nick. Yuh can see some of the buggy, all smashed up on the rocks down there.”

“I’ll get Frenchy. You take us back there, Buck. Maybe Hartley and Stevens will go with us; we’ll need plenty help. I wonder who went off the grade.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Buck Nolan, big, raw-boned, just a bit gray. Buck was riding a sorrel, bearing his own brand. Then Hashknife and Sleepy hurried to the stable to get their horses. Sleepy said, “I’m wonderin’ a little, too, Gardner.”

“We don’t know the man--if its Regan,” said Hashknife.

“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy.

It was several miles out to Horseshoe Canyon. Frenchy went along, but showed little interest. He was sober, but his brown eyes were bloodshot from too much whiskey.

The coroner went in a spring-wagon, taking plenty ropes along. The wheelmarks on the edge of the grade were very plain, and they could see part of the smashed buggy. There was a trail into the canyon just above the wreck, and they went down on foot.

Slim Regan had been thrown clear of the buggy, but straight into a jumble of jagged rocks. The scent of whiskey still lingered on the dead man’s clothes, and there was a smashed bottle in the bottom of the buggy. They took the body to open ground, where the coroner examined the pockets of his clothes, but all they found was a pocket-knife and a few dollars in silver coin. There was not a scrap of paper to identify him.

It was quite a task, getting the body back to the grade. The coroner said that there was no question of its being an accident. Hashknife made no comments. The coroner could be right, except that the wheel marks on the edge of the grade showed the buggy traveling south, instead of north. Sleepy had noticed that detail, too.

As they rode together off the grade, the latter said, “If Slim Regan wanted to pile his carcass into the canyon, why did he turn the buggy around and make the dive? It’s just as fatal, goin’ north as it is south.”

Hashknife nodded grimly. He said, “Keep yore eyes open, pardner--there’s brains workin’ down here. They didn’t want anybody to know that Regan was in Tomahawk Flats last night. Regan rode up in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon and asked a man where Tom Colton lived. Who was the man he asked, Sleepy?”

Sleepy scowled thoughtfully, and finally said, “Hashknife, I ain’t exactly sure. Yuh see, I wasn’t payin’ much attention, but I kinda seem to remember that it was Gus Staley. I can’t be sure--but I think it was. He works for that feller Hack.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Regan went to see Tom Colton, stayed there maybe half an hour, and then pulled out. Regan is a gambler.”

“Was,” corrected Sleepy, “until he hit bedrock. What do yuh make out of it?”

Hashknife didn’t say. He thought it over and finally remarked, “Sleepy, I wish we knew who the man was who walked in the dark and wore spurs.”

“And rode a Bar N roan,” added Sleepy. “But what does it add up to?”

“I dunno. Doc Talbert said he’d make a complete examination of the body. That might help our case.”

But Doctor Talbert’s examination didn’t help them any. Any evidence of foul play, except by gun-shot, would have been wiped out by the man’s fall onto the rocks. Nick McGarvin asked that everybody take a look at the body, hoping that someone would identify him, but to no avail. The keeper of the livery-stable at Northgate had rented him the horse and buggy, but had no idea where the man was going. He gave the name of Jim Hendricks, paid in advance for the rig, and said he would be gone overnight. Asked about Hendrick’s having any baggage, the stableman said he wasn’t sure, but believed the man had a small valise.

Hashknife met Sam Hack and Gus Staley on the street and stopped to talk with them.

“Did you look at the dead man, Staley?” he asked.

“Yeah--sure, I seen him, Hartley. I don’t--”

“Think back,” said Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the same man who drove up in front of the Pasatiempo that night and asked you how to find Thomas Colton’s house?”

Gus Staley looked blankly at Hashknife. “I dunno what yuh mean,” he replied. “I never seen the man before. You must mean somebody else. I never seen him in a buggy in my life.”

“I see,” murmured Hashknife. “Well, it don’t matter.”

“Didn’t the man run off the grade _comin’_ here?” asked Hack.

“Yeah, it looks thataway,” replied Hashknife. “A couple hundred yards further along the grade is a place where he could turn his outfit around. Maybe he was comin’ back--I dunno.”

“You ain’t sure he _ever_ was down here, are yuh?” asked Hack.

“Him or his ghost.”

“Ghost?” Staley spat viciously into the dusty street. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do yuh, Hartley?”

“I know what I have seen,” replied Hashknife seriously, “but I never try to impose my ideas on other people.”

“That’s all damn foolishment!” snorted Staley. “When yo’re dead--yo’re dead, and that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s the best way to look at it,” remarked Hashknife.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the funeral of Chiquita Morales, but they heard that Frenchy Arnett paid most of the expenses. Thomas Colton had approached Uncle Andy regarding selling the AD, but Uncle Andy avoided making any definite price. He knew he would have to sell eventually, but held off. Hashknife talked with Johnny at the jail, but Johnny was little help. He stuck to his story that he’d traded the ring to Chiquita for a pinto horse, and that she didn’t wear the ring to that dance in Mexico. Hashknife didn’t tell Johnny that he’d found the ring in the Morale’s buggy. Johnny said, “I’m stuck, Hashknife. If Chiquita had lived, she could have testified that I didn’t own the ring.”

“That,” said Hashknife, “is why she died. Johnny, do yuh know of any man around here she liked well enough to give that ring?”

Johnny shook his head. “Chiquita, I believe, was a good girl. She liked a good time, and she didn’t have to want for men to take her places. She wanted money, fine clothes and all that. Yuh see, a cowpoke’s wages don’t cover that, Hashknife.”

“Where did she get her finery, Johnny. Pete Morales couldn’t afford to buy things for her.”

“Yeah, that’s right--I never thought of that. Well, she never tried to get money from anybody--as far as I know.”

“Johnny, did Harry Colton ever go out with her?”

Johnny leaned against the bars of his cell and thought it over. Finally he said quietly, “I’m just wonderin’.”

Johnny might have said more, but Frenchy Arnett came in. He was sober, but grim-faced. Hashknife said, “Frenchy, wouldn’t you like to know who shot Chiquita?”

Frenchy shut his eyes tightly for a moment and his jaw tightened. “Sure would,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I know she went to a dance with Oren Blakely. That was right; Oren didn’t do it. Damn right, I’d like to know, Hartley.”

“Maybe you can help us find him, Frenchy. Did you ever give her money to buy clothes?”

“Give Chiquita money? No! Why do you ask that?”

“They say she wore nice clothes.”

“Chiquita always looks nice--silk skirt, pretty shoes.”

“Pete Morales didn’t have money to buy them with, Frenchy.”

Frenchy thought it over. Suddenly he faced Hashknife, his eyes hot. “You mean to say somebody gave her money--Chiquita?”

“Keep cool,” advised Johnny. “Hashknife wants to help.”

“She was my girl,” said Frenchy huskily. “If she wanted money, I’d give it to her. Who gave her money? Oren Blakely didn’t have money to give to women. Who gave her money?”

“You knew about Johnny tradin’ her that ring for a pinto?”

“Sure--I heard that. That is all right--the pinto belonged to her.”

“Frenchy, Chiquita loaned or sold that ring to the man who killed her. Johnny is in jail for a robbery, and the evidence is that ring he traded Chiquita. She could have told who had that ring. She didn’t tell, because she didn’t want that man in jail--but he didn’t take a chance.”

Frenchy shrugged his shoulders. “Chiquita go out with other men. Sometimes I warn not here--sometimes I have no money to spend. I am not her husband--I can’t say no. Maybe she don’t tell me. That is her business.”

“Frenchy, did she ever go out with Harry Colton?” asked Hashknife.

Frenchy’s lips shut to a thin line and he walked over to a barred window, but came back.

“I think she did,” he said quietly. “I accuse her of it, but she just laughed at me. How did you know this, Hartley?”

“I didn’t--I just wanted to find out what men she went out with. Chiquita is gone now, Frenchy. Nothing can change that. Our job is to find the man who did it.”

“Sure, she’s gone--now,” breathed Frenchy and walked away, his eyes filled with tears. Hashknife looked at Johnny and shook his head. “I’ll see yuh later,” he told Johnny.

* * * * *

Hashknife met the sheriff and Sleepy in the office. Hashknife said, “Nick, I’ve had a talk with Johnny and Frenchy.”

“Yeah? Did yuh find out anythin’ yuh already didn’t know?”

“If anybody asks yuh, Nick,” replied Hashknife soberly, “you can tell ’em that Dancin’ Devil is in for some surprisin’ things--very soon. In fact, before Christmas.”

Nick McGarvin’s jaw sagged a trifle. “Yuh mean--yuh know somethin’, Hashknife?”