Part 4

“You’d be surprised, Nick.”

Leaving the sheriff to think this over, Hashknife and Sleepy walked back toward the hotel.

“He’d be surprised, eh?” remarked Sleepy.

“That’s what I told him, Sleepy.”

“What’d he be surprised about?”

“The few things I know, pardner. Listen, will yuh? Our only chance to find out somethin’ is to scare the guilty into doin’ somethin’. It works, when brains fail--and I don’t mind admittin’ that mine have failed.”

“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy quietly. “We paint black circles around our heads, with a bull’s-eye in the middle.”

“That’s right. Nick’s human. He’ll pass the word.”

“Well, all I can say is that we better find a quiet, remote spot, where we can practice dodgin’ bullets,” said Sleepy. “Yuh know, I think I like it better than settin’ around, pardner. This ain’t our idea of a good time, anyway.”

“But just remember, Sleepy; we ain’t dealin’ with dumb rustlers in this game--but I figure that even the smartest men will get scared and make a break--when they’re scared, enough.”

* * * * *

Tomorrow night would be Christmas Eve. They brought m a big fir tree for the little church, but it seemed that the Christmas spirit was lacking. Someone told Hashknife that Thomas Colton was going to be the Santa Claus for the church celebration. The Davidsons and the Frawleys were in town, and Uncle Andy told Hashknife that Colton had asked him to make a price on the AD.

“He wanted it in a hurry, too,” declared Uncle Andy. “I told him it wasn’t anythin’ I could hurry with.”

“Did he suggest any price?” asked Hashknife.

“Well,” replied Uncle Andy grimly, “he said I’d be lucky to get much more than the cost of the mortgage.”

“What about Frawley?”

“He’s goin’ to talk to Colton this afternoon, he said.”

“Tell him to hold off makin’ any deal, Uncle Andy.”

The little cowman looked quizzically at the tall cowboy.

“What’s time got to do with it, Hashknife?” he asked.

“Well, maybe a better price. Anyway, you’ve got plenty time, after the notice of foreclosure to redeem the property.”

“Not with the mortgages from Colton. It specifies that when the bank shuts down on the mortgage--yo’re through.”

“I see. Mortgage expires--ranch gone, eh?”

“That’s the only way he’ll loan money, Hashknife.”

A few minutes later he met Ed Frawley, who drew him aside.

“What’s goin’ on?” asked Frawley quietly. “A man over in the Pasatiempo told me that--well, he said somethin’ was goin’ to happen before Christmas--somethin’ you said. At least, that’s the rumor.”

“I hope it’s right, Frawley. Funny how things like that get in the wind.”

“You mean--there’s ain’t anythin’ to it, Hashknife?”

“_Quien sabe?_” replied Hashknife soberly. “A lot can be done in an hour--and Christmas ain’t until day after tomorrow.”

He found Sleepy in front of the hotel, and told him, “I reckon Nick McGarvin spread the word.”

“I heard it,” nodded Sleepy. “Frenchy Arnett cornered me, and wanted to know. He said, ‘If yuh know who shot Chiquita--don’t arrest him; just let me know who he is.’ I said we would. Aw, I didn’t mean it--but what else could I tell him? He ain’t no deputy sheriff now--he’s a wolf with the rabies, pardner.”

The Davidsons and Frawleys stayed in town for supper. Hashknife and Sleepy stayed together, ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they could sit against the wall. The Mexican who operated the restaurant, usually very voluble, was quiet, serving the enchiladas and frijoles hurriedly, one eye on the door.

“I wonder what he’s thinkin’,” remarked Sleepy.

“I wonder what he _knows_,” said Hashknife. “They tell me he was Chiquita’s uncle. Maybe he don’t want his place messed up with us.”

It was dark outside, as they paid their bill. With a hand on the knob, Hashknife drew back, turned and came back to the little counter, where the Mexican was at his cash-box.

“_Amigo_, is there a back door to this place?” he asked*

“Sure,” nodded the Mexican. “Go t’rough the keetchen.”

They went swiftly through the kitchen, redolent with spices and other odors, out through an old door and into the alley. There was a short, narrow alley, leading to the main street, and they could see the silhouette of a man, leaning against the right-hand wall, evidently watching for somebody. Hashknife kicked a wooden box aside, making a clatter, and the man moved quickly, stepping up on the wooden sidewalk.

Hashknife didn’t hesitate, but led the way up the alley. The man had passed the little restaurant and was standing at the edge of the sidewalk just beyond. It was too dark for them to see what he looked like, except that he was tall. Finally he went on up the street toward the hotel.

“Do yuh think he was tryin’ to dry gulch us?” asked Sleepy.

“Who knows? He was waitin’ for somebody, but we scared him away from the alley. He could look through the window and see that we’re gone.”

They went slowly up the sidewalk, watching closely, until they were at the front of the hotel. Hashknife peered through the window, as he heard Frank Olds, the hotel man, speak sharply to someone. Olds was over near the foot of the stairs, looking up toward the hallway, when he suddenly lifted his arms, shaking his head and protesting, but began walking up the stairs, both hands up.

Hashknife jerked away from the window, whispered sharply:

“Stay here! Trouble in there,” and ran down the alley toward the rear stairs of the hotel.

Sleepy moved over to the open doorway of the hotel. The sheriff was crossing the street, and Sleepy said, as he came up:

“Hold it, Nick--until we hear from Hashknife.”

“What’s wrong?” asked the big sheriff.

“I don’t know, Nick. Hashknife saw somethin’ through the window, and he ran around to the back stairs. He told me to--”

Sleepy stopped, when two, closely spaced shots rattled the windows beside them. Both men sprang through the doorway, into the hotel, as a figure staggered into view, sagged at the top of the steps and came pin-wheeling down into the lobby. Hashknife ran to the top of the stairs, gun in hand, stopped for a moment, but came on down. Behind him came the disheveled, excited hotel man, waving his arms.

The stranger was sprawled at the foot of the stairs, tall, gaunt, unkempt. Hashknife was looking down at him, as Sleepy and the sheriff came over. The excited hotel man was jabbering:

“He stuck me up, I tell yuh! Made me come up there, or he’d kill me. Hartley, how on earth did you ever beat him? He heard you comin’ up the stairs. How did you beat him?”

“I didn’t beat him--he missed me,” said Hashknife coldly.

“That’s Cass Trent!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Why he’s-- Hartley, there’s a half-dozen rewards for this hombre. He’s livin’ across the border for over a year. He’s a killer.”

“Was,” corrected Sleepy, and looked around at the crowd, swiftly gathering. The sheriff said:

“What was Cass Trent doin’ here--stickin’ up a hotel?”

“He wasn’t stickin’ me up,” denied the hotel keeper. “He was goin’ to bush somebody in that hallway. I came and peeked down the stairs and I seen him. I told him to git out of here, and I was goin’ up and run him out--but I didn’t. Man, the bore in his gun looked like a tunnel in a hill!”

“Goin’ to bush somebody?” queried the sheriff. “Who?”

No one seemed to know. Nick McGarvin looked at Hashknife and found the tall, lean cowboy smiling a little. The sheriff said, “Oh,” and waited for Doctor Talbert to arrive.

A search of Trent’s pockets revealed five hundred dollars in currency, all in a packet, and the usual impediments carried by cowboys. They took the body to the doctor’s place. Nick McGarvin said, “He got what was comin’ to him. Hashknife--yore cleared--and congratulations. They say Cass Trent never missed.”

“They all miss sometimes, Nick,” said Hashknife soberly.

“But why would he try to bush you?” asked the sheriff. “You didn’t even know him.”

Hashknife shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and I never heard of him, until now. He was hired to kill me, Nick.”

“Hired? Good gosh! Who hired him, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh--’cause I’m not sure.”

* * * * *

The excitement was mostly over, as soon as the body was removed, but there was still a lot of discussion going on. Trent’s name was well-known down there. Hashknife and Sleepy went over to the Pasatiempo Saloon, listening to the gossip. Harry Colton was at the bar, already more than half-drunk. Hashknife shoved in beside him, and Colton resented it. However, he looked at Hashknife, and decided to give him room.

Hashknife was only at the bar a few moments when the sheriff came in. Men were asking him questions about the affair at the hotel, when Hashknife drew him aside, whispered a few words. The sheriff looked at him in amazement, but finally nodded. About a minute later the sheriff arrested Harry Colton, who tried to shove the law officer away, swearing indignantly. The incident brought a lot of attention, but the sheriff was firm.

“Harry, yuh better go peacefully,” he said.

“You’re crazy!” snarled the young man. “Why arrest me? What’s the charge?”

“Murder,” said the sheriff coldly. “You killed Chiquita Morales.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s the truth, Harry. You’ve still got that turquoise ring. It’s in yore pocket. Take it out--and deny it!”

The arrest had sobered Harry Colton. Swearing his innocence, he felt in his pocket and took out the turquoise ring. He took one good look at it and flung it at the back-bar. The next moment the big sheriff had crashed Colton against the bar and deftly handcuffed him. Harry Colton was not swearing nor protesting now, he seemed too stunned to even notice the crowd, as the sheriff led him outside. The bartender recovered the ring, and gave it to a man to give to the sheriff.

Word that Harry Colton had been arrested for the murder of Chiquita Morales spread swiftly. The sheriff was in a quandary as to what to do about Frenchy Arnett. Hashknife got Frenchy aside and explained to him that arrest didn’t mean that Harry Colton was guilty. Frenchy laughed shortly, but promised to keep his trigger-finger under control.

“I think yo’re wrong, Hashknife,” confided the sheriff.

“Maybe I am,” admitted Hashknife, “but it’ll stir things up.”

“It shore will, if a mob decides to lynch Colton.”

Sleepy showed up, having been on a mission, and reported quietly, “Sam Hack went to tell Thomas Colton, but he’s back at the Pasatiempo. I heard Colton tell him he’d be right up to the jail.”

“You stay here and keep yore eyes open, pardner,” ordered Hashknife, and went swiftly up the street.

Hashknife wasn’t sure of anything. When he had dropped that turquoise ring into Harry Colton’s pocket, he was acting on a vague sort of hunch; a hunch that this was the time to force the issue. There was a light in the living-room of the Colton home. Colton hadn’t been to the jail. Hashknife came straight to the house, so it was evident that Thomas Colton was taking his own sweet time in reacting to the arrest of his son. Hashknife circled to the rear of the house, working along a low fence, when he heard a door close quiet. A moment later someone came toward the fence, climbed over it and headed south. The man was evidently carrying something, which he lifted over the fence.

* * * * *

Hashknife trailed him as close as he dared. The man crossed the street, far from any lights and walked swiftly down the road, which led south from Tomahawk Flats. But he only went a short distance and stopped off the road. A minute later he was coming back. Hashknife dropped flat, as the man went past him, panting a little. He saw him turn into the main street.

Hashknife saw the man was not carrying anything when he returned; so he went on in the darkness, just off the road, searching as well as he could in the darkness, and almost fell over a valise, which had been left behind a small clump of brush, only a dozen feet off the road. The heavy valise was locked, and Hashknife didn’t bother to try and open it. He picked it up and went back to Colton’s house, where he left the valise against the low fence.

There was a light in the house, but the blinds were down.

Hashknife tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked. Quietly he opened the door, and listened, but there was not a sound. He closed the door, moved ahead to the partly opened doorway, which opened into the living-room, stepped aside against the wall and waited for something to happen.

He had been there about ten minutes, when he faintly heard footsteps on the plank walk, which led from the street. There was a sharp knock at the front door, and then the door opened. He was unable to see who had come, but heard more than one come in. A voice called:

“Colton!”

* * * * *

When there was no reply, he heard a man swear bitterly, damning the Colton family back several generations.

“Where the devil did he go? He never came to the jail. Yuh don’t suppose--?” a voice began.

“Suppose what?” asked another man.

“Never mind. Where did Hartley go? I seen Stevens there, but I didn’t see that long-legged bloodhound. That damned Trent! He made a mess of the deal. Five hundred dollars, all shot!”

“Never mind the five hundred dollars,” said the other nervously. “We’ve got to find Colton. Don’t yuh realize that Harry will talk? He ain’t got the guts of a cottontail. Let’s head south.”

“No, we won’t head no place--not till we find Colton. Damn it, we’ve got to find Colton! Where did that ring come from?”

“That beats me. I threw it away, I tell yuh. I heard it hit the buggy--maybe that fool Harry found it. He’s half-crazy, anyway. He should have been dumped into the canyon with Regan. We’d have been safe, that’s a cinch.”

“Regan got what was comin’ to him. Askin’ the Association to send a man down here to buy ranches! Said it’d look legitimate. Legitimate--hell! They sent Hashknife Hartley. He found it out, and lost his nerve. Scared to write or wire us--came down himself, and wanted to get out of the deal.”

“Never mind what happened to Regan--what’ll happen to us?”

“Nothin’!” snapped the man. “Maybe we’re through here, but we can live like kings in Mexico. Yuh see--”

The man stopped short. Hashknife heard the door click shut, and Colton’s voice saying, “Keep your hands where they are--both of you.”

“What’s eatin’ you, Colton?” asked one of the men anxiously.

“What did you two do with that valise?”

“Are you crazy? What valise?”

“Don’t lie to me--you got it. I cached it beside the road, got Harry’s horse and saddle, and when I got back there--it was gone. I’ll give you ten seconds to tell me where--”

There was the sound of a scuffle, the thud of a falling body, and a voice drawled:

“Jist set right there, my fine-feathered friend! Pick up his gun, before he gits any bright ideas. Standin’ on a loose rug ain’t safe, Mister Colton--not when I’ve got m’ toe through a hole in one end of it. All right, all right! This gun’s easy on the trigger, my friend. Start tellin’ us where yuh put the money.”

“Money!” panted Colton, his voice husky. “You fools, I want to know where _you_ put it. Put that gun away. Listen; I couldn’t leave the money here; so I cached it. along the road--in a valise--but it’s gone, I tell you!”

“Ain’t he a cute thing?” queried a voice sarcastically. “Why, you lyin’ pup! Scared somebody’d find it! You was goin’ to pull out with the money, and leave us to face the music. I’ve got a damn good notion to blow yore head off, Colton. Maybe I will. If you don’t--”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” hissed a voice. “Somebody comin’!”

“Git in that chair, Colton! Guns out of sight!”

Someone knocked on the door, and one of the men said, “Come in!”

Hashknife heard the door open, and a voice said, “Come in, Sheriff. Oh, Mr. Stevens, too!”

Hashknife stepped into the doorway, shoving the door wider. He could see Colton, white-faced, sitting in a chair, looking toward the doorway. He could also see part of one of the other men, and he held a gun behind him, and cocked.

“Colton, you didn’t show up,” Nick McGarvin said, “and--and we’ve got to tell yuh. Harry had a gun hidden on him some’ers--and he shot himself. No, he ain’t dead, but--he-e-ey! What’s this all about?”

“Set down!” rasped one of the men. “Keep yore hands in sight. All right, Colton--where’s that money? Our money? Our only chance is to get out of here now--and we don’t go without that money.”

“I told you,” husked Colton, “that somebody got it. If you two didn’t----”

“You ain’t lyin’, Colton?”

“Would I lie--now? I’ll hold these two. Get your horses, and we head for Mexico.”

“Broke? Colton, I don’t trust you--not a bit. Tell us where that money is, or I’ll shoot yuh flat. If we can’t get the money, why should we bother with you, you sneakin’ coyote. Either you get that money--and we all go south--or you die here and we pull out together.”

“He ain’t givin’ yuh much choice, Colton,” said Sleepy. “Yuh might as well play square with ’em.”

“Keep yore nose out of this, Stevens!” snapped one of the men. “One cinch, when we leave here--_you_ won’t be on our trail.”

“Hashknife will,” reminded Sleepy calmly. “And if yuh ask me, I don’t believe yo’re goin’ any place. Yuh see, yuh don’t know where he is.”

“Hartley!” whispered Colton. “Maybe he followed me an’--”

“I’m gettin’ out!” declared a man.

“Money be damned--my hide’s worth more’n any money.”

The man wasn’t taking any chances with his partners. With his forty-five tensed at his hip, he began backing toward the doorway to the kitchen. The door was open just wide enough to let him through--but he didn’t make it. A dull thud sounded, just as he was almost out of their sight, and he went right back, head down, shoulders sagging, buckled at the knees and sprawled flat onto his face, almost into the sheriff.

* * * * *

For a moment it seemed that everyone except Sleepy was off guard. Sleepy shot out of his chair and dived into one of the men, blocking his gun-hand, and the force of his dive crashed over the table, knocking the lamp off, and plunging the room into darkness. A gun flashed twice, but the spurts of flame went straight toward the ceiling. Hashknife flung the door wide open, as a man came at top speed, but the tall cowpoke dropped to his knees and the man tripped, going into the air and coming down with a crash against the old kitchen stove.

Hashknife was on him like a flash, gathering in the man’s two arms.

“Light somethin’, will yuh?” Sleepy was yelling. “I think this hombre is petterfied, but I’d like to be sure.”

The amazed and excited McGarvin managed to light matches. Sleepy was astride Sam Hack’s back, his hands locked behind him, and Sam Hack was having trouble getting enough air. McGarvin quickly handcuffed him.

“When yuh get a little time on yore hands,” Hashknife called, “I could use some rope or somethin’. Better find a lamp, Nick; you’ll burn yore fingers with all them matches.”

Sleepy came out with a rush, lighting matches, while the sheriff found and lighted a lamp. Thomas Colton had struck his head against his own stove and was in no shape to try a getaway. They dragged him into the living-room, and stood back, panting a little. Gus Staley groaned and sat up, trying to caress his aching head. He peered at the three men, who were looking at him, groaned dismally and lay down again.

Someone had heard the two shots, which knocked shingles off the roof, and in a few moments plenty of folks were running forward. Sleepy tried to keep them back, but it was no use. Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley were there, Buck Nolan, Frenchy Arnett, and most everybody else, who could get in. The sheriff was at a loss as to what to do next; so Hashknife took charge.

“Folks, will yuh give us room, please? Gus Staley! Gus, do yuh know what I’m sayin’?”

“To hell with you!” groaned Staley. “I don’t talk.”

“If you don’t, one of the others will. And the man who talks first gets off easiest. Shall I wait for the others?”

Gus Staley, his eyes just a bit off center, looked at the faces around him and decided to talk. He said, “I didn’t do it.”

“All right,” said Hashknife, “we’ll start from the first, Gus. You and Hack and Harry held up the bank and took all the money.”

“It wasn’t stealin’,” whined Staley. “Colton planned it. His idea was to break the county--and buy it back, cheap.”

“And Harry wore that turquoise ring, eh?”

“He bought it from Chiquita--and forgot he had it on.”

“You shot Oren Blakely, Gus.”

“That’s a lie!” husked Staley. “Hack killed him. He refused to go in on the deal, got scared and pulled out. Hack was afraid he’d talk. I liked Oren. Hell, I wouldn’t have done it--myself.”

“Why did you kill Chiquita Morales?”

“Hack got scared,” whispered Staley. “Harry was a fool to wear that ring. Chiquita could have told who had it. Harry wanted to make Chiquita swear that he never had the ring, but Hack said the safest thing was to shut her mouth. I wasn’t there--it was Hack and Harry. Yuh can’t kill women and have yore luck last.”

“Who hired Trent to shoot me tonight, Staley?”

“Colton. He paid him five hundred dollars.”

“Gus, we know why and how you fellers killed Regan. Wasn’t he usin’ the name of James Morrison?”

“Yeah--he was the syndicate--the yaller pup.”

“Folks,” said Hashknife wearily, “you’ve heard the story. I can’t tell yuh any more. In fact, if Gus hadn’t been scared, I couldn’t have told yuh half that much.”

Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley shoved their way over to the sheriff, and Uncle Andy said, “It all came too fast, Nick. Does this mean that Johnny’s free?”

“Why, shore he’s free. Don’t paw me around--go and paw Hashknife.”

But Hashknife wasn’t in sight. He and Sleepy had gone through the crowd and were outside, heading for the main street. Uncle Andy went galloping past them, intent only on finding Aunt Judy and Nell Frawley. They paid their bill at the hotel. The old hotel keeper said, “Some excitement, eh? I heard there was more trouble down at Tom Colton’s home. What happened down there--or don’t yuh know?”

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife and they walked out, smack into Aunt Judy, Nell Frawley and Uncle Andy. Uncle Andy grabbed Hashknife by the sleeve and turned him around, while Aunt Judy planted a kiss on his cheek. Not a word had been said, until Hashknife said, “Aw, gee!” He turned Aunt Judy around, facing the lights of the hotel, and she was crying.

“I thought that kiss kinda ran a little,” he said. “When yuh see Nick, Uncle Andy, you tell him that valise-full of money is jist outside Colton’s south fence.”