Part 4
“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” stated Clevis. “What happened to you, Jake? Was you afraid to produce that rifle?”
Blue cursed solemnly and told the doctor what he had told Spot Easton. Doc Clevis removed his hat and polished his bald head with his palm.
“Somebody,” declared the doctor, “stole them guns.”
“Didja think they walked away?” Blue said sarcastically, and added--
“Where’d Skelton and them two longhorns go to?”
Doc Clevis did not know. He was dry, and he offered to buy a drink, but Jake Blue refused.
“You better let me look you over,” said the doctor. “Any time you refuses a drink, you’re sick.”
Jake Blue turned wearily away from the doctor and went toward the office. Spot Easton went to the livery-stable and in a few minutes he came out driving a tall, bay horse hitched to a top-buggy. He drove to the sheriff’s doorway, where Blue leaned dejectedly.
“I’m goin’ to Gunsight,” said Easton.
“You’ve got my consent,” grunted Blue, and as Easton drove out of town he added, “I hope t’ ---- you run off a grade and never hit bottom.”
* * * * *
Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton had left town immediately following the inquest. Hashknife was standing in the ranch-house doorway when Easton drove past, headed for Gunsight--the terminus of a branch railroad.
Easton did not look toward the house, but Hashknife recognized him.
“There goes the foreman of the 88, Skelton,” he said.
“Th’ son-of-a-rooster!” grunted Skelton. “He’s done read that letter and he’s goin’ to meet her in Gunsight.”
Easton disappeared around a curve in a cloud of dust, and Hashknife rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“How far’s it to Gunsight?”
“Thirty miles--about.”
“Huh!” Hashknife cogitated deeply. “If she comes in tonight, he’ll likely make the return trip with her.”
“Danged lonesome ride at night,” observed Skelton.
Sleepy came up from the corral and sat down on the steps.
“What’s the matter, long feller?” he asked as he noticed Hashknife’s thoughtful expression.
“That’s what Easton likely wants,” mused Hashknife, ignoring Sleepy’s question. “A feller don’t lie in a letter without havin’ some kind of an ax to grind.”
“Lemme in on it, will you?” asked Sleepy.
“Spot Easton just went past in a top-buggy, and he’s headin’ for Gunsight.”
“That’s good. I reckon we can get along without him.”
“But,” said Hashknife slowly, “you gotta figure that the girl’s only eighteen years old. She won’t _sabe_ Spot Easton.”
“I dunno much about human nature,” said Sleepy, “but I do know danged well that I’m hungry. Don’t we ever eat on this new job, Bliz?”
“Y’betcha,” grinned Skelton. “I’m goin’ t’ rustle some bull-beef and bakin’-powder biscuits right now. I was just wonderin’ why that rifle never showed up at the inquest.”
“Did your rifle have any mark on it, Skelton?”
“I dunno. I sure as ---- couldn’t identify it.”
“Thassall right then,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy examined ’em all before we sunk ’em in the crick--they all looked alike to us.”
Skelton scratched his head violently and squinted at Hashknife.
“You--uh--oh ----, yes! I know what you mean now. Top-hands, y’betcha--yes sir.”
Skelton went into the house and in a few moments he was busy with biscuit-dough, while Sleepy and Hashknife humped up on the steps and manufactured cigarets.
“Thirty miles to Gunsight,” observed Hashknife. “Right pretty little ride.”
“Yeah, it is,” admitted Sleepy.
“She sure is, Sleepy; nice li’l ride. We’ll saddle up as soon as we folds the stummick around a little provender.”
“Saddle up?” queried Sleepy. “You ain’t----”
“We are,” corrected Hashknife.
“Aw-w!” Sleepy protested softly. “You’re the dangdest person t’ hop into----”
“What’d you do, Sleepy?”
“Well, it ain’t our business noways, Hashknife.”
“Supposin’ Spot Easton was goin’ to meet your sister?”
“But she ain’t my sister.”
“’F you was Lonesome Lee’s son, she would be. Suppose you was, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t--not even supposin’, Hashknife.”
“Gosh a’mighty! Thirty miles! I suppose you’d go if it was sixty. Sixty miles ain’t much.”
“I never been able to figure you out, Hashknife.” Sleepy shook his head disconsolately. “You do the dangdest things I ever seen. Some day you’re goin’ to horn into things what don’t concern you, and you’ll meet a hunk of lead--face to face.
“You always kind of go out of your way to bother into other folks’ troubles. Every danged place we go you gets into some dang kind of a mixup, and she’s always because you feel sorry fer somebody. If it was only you I’d say for you to go to it and grab a tombstone but, blast it all, you always drags me into it.”
Sleepy stopped for lack of breath and glared at Hashknife.
“Yes sir,” nodded Hashknife slowly, “just suppose you was a brother to that girl. It’s thirty miles; which is some ride in the dark.”
“Hey!” yelled Skelton from the kitchen. “You jaspers like gravy with your spuds?”
“You spoke my daily prayer,” yelled Hashknife.
Sleepy got to his feet and stretched his arms.
“I hope that train don’t get in so early that we’ll have to hold up Spot Easton on the road. I had a sister, Hashknife, and I know what you mean.”
* * * * *
It was nine o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Gunsight, and the night was as dusky as the proverbial black cat. Gunsight was quite a bit larger than Caldwell and a trifle more modern, owing to the railroad which made it a shipping point for the surrounding country.
They dismounted at a hitch-rack and tied their horses.
“Mister Easton will likely put his horse in a stable,” stated Hashknife. “Especially if he aims to drive back tonight. We better kinda examine the livery-stable.”
They jingled their spurs down the sidewalk to where a lantern swung over a wide doorway, from within which came the unmistakable odor of a stable. Two more lighted lanterns were hung at the sides of the room to light up the rows of stalls.
A stable-man came out of the grain-room carrying another lantern which he placed on a backless chair near the door, and squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Evenin’,” he grunted. Cowboys usually made the stable their headquarters.
“Evenin’,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s business?”
“’S’all right, I reckon. The day man got drunk and I’m doin’ two shifts. Got any Durham?”
Hashknife passed him part of a sack and he rolled a cigaret.
“Ain’t much night business, is there?” asked Hashknife.
“Naw--not much; but just enough to make me miss a date with m’ girl. Figured to close up early, but a feller drove in a while ago, and he’s goin’ out agin’ tonight. Naturally I’ve got to linger around here ’till he starts travelin’ agin’. I ain’t no drinkin’ person, but whisky sure does cause me a lot of misery.”
“Can’t he hitch his own horse?” asked Hashknife.
“Well, I reckon he could; but it ain’t hardly good business to ask a feller to pay fer service and not git it.”
“That’s a fact,” agreed Hashknife solemnly. “We was just wonderin’ if we could bunk in the hay t’night. I don’t admire to pay a hotel four-bits for a chance to read my shirt the next mornin’.”
“Sure, sure. The loft’s got plenty of room, or you can sleep in the grain-room. They’s a bunk in there and some blankets.”
“That’s right kind of you,” said Hashknife. “If we can help you-- Say, if it ain’t too late to keep that date with your girl----”
“Whatcha mean?”
“Well, is there any reason why I can’t tend to that feller’s horse? Ain’t no trouble to cinch a hull on a bronc. Course I wouldn’t take his money----”
“Thassall right, I got his money in advance. It ain’t no saddle-horse, though. If you don’t mind hitchin’ a horse to a buggy ----”
“Cinch,” grunted Hashknife. “Show me the horse and buggy, pardner.”
It took the man about a minute to point out the horse, harness and buggy. It was the tall, bay horse which Easton had driven from Caldwell. The stable-man was voluble in his thanks, and hurried away to keep his date. Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other as they sat down to wait for Easton’s return.
* * * * *
Blondy Hagen, following his run-in with Hashknife and Sleepy, had come to Gunsight. His head was still sore from its crash against the War-Bonnet bar, and he proceeded to embalm his wounded feelings in very bad whisky.
And when Blondy got drunk, he got bad. Like an Indian warrior he sang his own praises--until he saw Spot Easton drive in and stable his horse. Blondy was not afraid of Spot--not in the least, but he knew that Spot would have something to say about what happened in the War-Bonnet.
Blondy was one of those peculiar characters whose gun was always ready for hire, and he could still feel the weight of Spot Easton’s cash. He really wanted to see Spot and, if possible, get more money; but he felt that he really should do something to earn what he had already been paid.
He weaved out of the Ten-Spot saloon and balanced himself against a porch-post. Just to his left was a hitch-rack, partly lighted from the Ten-Spot window. He clung to the post and puzzled over the two horses, which looked familiar. Suddenly he remembered; and the memory caused him to straighten up and grunt softly to himself--
“Tha’s their broncs! Whatcha know?”
Blondy gawped foolishly and grew inspired. It might be worth his while to find Spot Easton and tell him that those two gall-laden punchers were in Gunsight. He lurched away from the post and proceeded to cut himself a wide trail down the sidewalk. He hadn’t the slightest idea where Spot Easton might be found; but Blondy hadn’t the slightest idea where he was going; so it made no difference.
He almost fell into the doorway of a restaurant as a man was coming out--and the man was Easton. He grabbed Blondy by the shoulder to keep him from falling, and shut the door behind him. Blondy got a glimpse of a very pretty girl sitting at a table; and then Spot Easton shoved him past the restaurant and into the darkness of an alley.
“What are you doin’ here, Hagen?” demanded Easton.
“Me? Leggo that arm! Whatcha think you are?”
“You know who I am,” growled Easton meaningly. “When did you come to Gunsight?”
“Thassall right,” said Blondy drunkenly.
“Don’t paw me ’round, Spot. I was looking fer you. Mebbe you’d like to know that them two Tombstone punchers are here.”
“Who?”
“You know; them two that kinda jiggered our play.”
“Oh!” Easton grunted softly. “What are they doin’ here?”
“I never seen ’em,” admitted Blondy, “but their broncs are tied to the rack at the Ten-Spot, y’betcha.”
“Are you sure, Hagen?”
“Betcha I am. I know that tall roan and the blue-gray.”
Spot Easton thought rapidly. If Hashknife and Sleepy were in Gunsight, they had a reason for coming--and he might be the reason. He suddenly realized that they had opened and read that letter, and he swore softly for not having thought of that before.
“Are they in the Ten-Spot?” he asked.
“Wasn’t,” Hagen replied. “I come out of there and found the horses.”
“The Ten-Spot is almost straight across the street from the livery-stable,” mused Easton aloud. “I wonder if they--Hagen, is there another livery-stable here?”
“Uh-huh. ‘Soapy’ Evans owns kind of a stable.”
“You want to earn your money, Hagen?”
“Tha’s me.”
“Go up to the livery-stable and find out if them two snake-hunters are there. Don’t let ’em see you; do you understand?”
“Prob’ly git killed, if I don’t,” grunted Hagen. “Where’ll I find you?”
“I’ll be right here waitin’ for you.”
It was about two blocks to the stable, and the average was about six saloons to a block. Hagen knew that he had won back the good graces of his employer; so he went in and partook of good cheer. Easton fretted in the dark and waited for a report, while Hagen weaved in and out of the saloons; getting closer to the stable at each entrance and exit, but also getting more cocksure of himself.
The last saloon took away every vestige of cowardice in Blondy Hagen’s make-up. He came out, balanced on the edge of the sidewalk, while he filled his lungs to capacity and then emitted a war-whoop that would have shamed any Indian on earth.
He stumbled off the sidewalk, gripped his six-shooter tightly, took his bearings from the lantern over the doorway of the stable and set sail.
He stumbled up the plank drive-way and into the dim light of the stable, telling himself hoarsely how very great he was and how Spot Easton depended upon him for everything. As he halted to inhale enough breath for another declaration, a rope seemed to descend from nowhere, tightened around his arms and body, and something threw him upside down with a great crash.
Strong hands picked him up and carried him away, and a moment later he felt himself hurled into space. He landed on something fairly soft, while above him came the crash of a closing door and the rasp of a padlock-hasp.
Hagen staggered to his feet and his head came in violent contact with the roof, and he sat down again. After much painful effort he secured a match and inspected his position. He peered all around, felt of his empty holster, and cursed wickedly when the match burnt his finger.
“I’m in the oat-bin,” he told himself, “an’ I ain’t got no gun. Tha’s pe-culiar, but ’s a fac’.”
And Blondy Hagen settled down in the oats and went to sleep, while Spot Easton cursed savagely and wondered if Hagen had run foul of those two unmentionable cowboys.
* * * * *
He had told Jane Lee that he was going to the livery-stable to get the horse and buggy. Peeking into the restaurant window he saw that she was nervously waiting his return. He prided himself on the fact that he had made an impression on her already and he knew that--well, he owned Lonesome Lee, and the girl did not know any one in Lodge-Pole county.
Hagen had had time to make several trips to the stable by this time. Easton began to worry. Finally he decided to take a chance. He hurried back into the restaurant.
“Just run into a feller who talked business, and it delayed me,” he explained. “I reckon you might as well come along with me as to stay here.”
He picked up her valise and led the way out to the street.
“It’s only a little ways,” he assured her, as he switched the valise to his left hand and slid his gun loose. “She’s a nice night.”
A cowboy came out of a saloon, braced his legs wide apart, whooped loudly and emptied his gun in the air. The girl drew back in affright, but Easton laughed and assured her that the shots meant nothing.
“You’re goin’ to like this country after you get used to it, Jane.”
“I--I suppose so,” she faltered. “It is all so new to me, and the houses seem so small.”
Easton said nothing. They walked up the sloping sidewalk to the door of the stable and stopped. There was not a sound from the interior, except horses munching hay.
Easton looked up and down the street. He could see the hitch-rack in front of the Ten-Spot, but was unable to distinguish the color of the horses.
“Hey!” he called. There was no response. “I suppose I’ll have to harness my own horse,” he said to the girl.
He placed the valise on the floor and walked slowly inside. The door of the grain room was partly open, and he peered in.
Came the dull _chuck!_ of a muffled blow and Easton disappeared inside. The girl was watching him, and wondered how he had managed to get inside by dragging both feet.
From inside the room came a creaking noise and a crash, as if a bin-cover had been slammed down. Then the door opened and Hashknife and Sleepy stepped out.
“Howdy, ma’am,” said Hashknife politely. “Are you Miss Lee?”
“Why, yes. I--I--where is Mr. Easton?”
“Easton? O-o-o-oh, yeah. He’s in the oat-bin, ma’am.”
“I do not understand you.” The girl seemed puzzled.
“Harness the horse, Sleep,” commanded Hashknife. “This lady’s got to find a place to sleep.”
Sleepy gleefully brought out the horse and backed it into the buggy-shafts. Jane Lee stared at the tall cowboy beside her, and wondered at the mystery of it all.
“You drive the rig, Sleep,” ordered Hashknife. “I’ll bring your bronc along with me.”
“But,” objected the girl, “I--I--Mr. Easton is going to take me to my father’s ranch.”
“Was,” corrected Hashknife. “He’s goin’ to sleep with one of his hired men tonight, so we made him let us take you home.”
Hashknife shoved the valise into the rear of the buggy and helped her into the seat. She started to protest, but Sleepy chirped to the tall, bay horse and they rolled hollowly out of the doorway and headed homeward.
As Hashknife crossed to the horses, the stable-man came from down the street and went into the stable. He had seen the top-buggy going up the street, and he surmized that its owner had returned.
As he turned to go toward the rear he heard a muffled voice calling. He listened closely and decided that it came from the grain-room. He sneaked in and lighted a match. Some one was hammering on the inside of the oat-bin. The stable-man was taking no chances. He went outside, got a lantern, which he hung over the top of the bin, took an old shot-gun from behind the door and flipped the fastener loose from the lid of the bin.
A moment later the lid lifted and Spot Easton, very much disheveled, stood up and blinked foolishly.
“Wh-whatcha doin’ in my oats?” grunted the stable-man hoarsely.
“Aw! ---- you and your oats!” groaned Spot, as he crawled painfully over the edge and rubbed his sore head.
He looked back inside and motioned to the stable-man to look. Cautiously the man looked down at the sleeping form of Blondy Hagen.
“This,” said the stable-man seriously, “this here is my-steer-i-us, by----”
“Where did they go?” asked Easton, rubbing his head, on which appeared to be a bump about the size and shape of an egg. “Did you see the lady?”
“Was there a lady?”
“You ---- fool!” exploded Easton. “I brought a lady here with me; _sabe_? I came to get that horse and buggy I left here.”
The stable-man stepped outside and glanced across at the empty stall.
“The horse and buggy is gone,” he announced. “If you know where you left the lady, you might look and see if she’s still there or not.”
But Easton exploded a number of vile epithets and staggered away down the street. The stable-man went back, looked at Blondy Hagen, blew out the lantern and went outside and shoved the sliding-doors together.
“Too ---- much hocus-pocus to suit me!” he grunted, and went home.
* * * * *
It was in the small hours of the morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow awoke from a troubled sleep--wherein she had fired Swede Sam in three languages--and sat up in bed. Frosty was on a cattle-buying trip, and Mrs. Snow was all alone in the ranch-house.
Some one was knocking urgently on the front door. She crawled out of bed, picked up a heavy Colt six-shooter, and padded her way to the front door.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
“This is Hashknife Hartley, Mrs. Snow.”
“Kinda early, ain’t you?”
“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife, “it is early. Can I talk to you?”
“If you don’t mind strainin’ your voice through the door.”
“I don’t mind,” Hashknife laughed softly. “But this has got to be confidential, Mrs. Snow. It’s about a girl.”
“Thasso?” Mrs. Snow’s voice was a trifle sarcastic. “I ain’t in the habit of bein’ woke up at four o’clock to pass out advice to the love-lorn, Mr. Hartley.”
“Listen, ma’am,” begged Hashknife. “This ain’t nothin’ matrimonial--honest to gosh. You know Spot Easton?”
“By sight and smell,” she replied. Spot Easton’s perfumery was not at all popular with the range folk.
“He lied to a girl,” stated Hashknife softly. “I done stole the girl from him, and I’ve gotta have somebody to take care of her for a while.”
“Well, why didn’t you say so?” demanded Mrs. Snow, opening the door about four inches. “Where is she? Tell me about her.”
Hashknife swiftly recounted what he knew about the girl, and about the situation at the 88 ranch.
“Bring her in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “I’ll sure take care of her and nobody’s goin’ to know where she is. Prob’ly end up in a killin’, but that ain’t my affair. Say you’re livin’ at the Tombstone ranch? Yeah, that danged Swede came back.”
Hashknife went back to the dim outlines of a horse and buggy and returned in a moment with Jane Lee and Sleepy. After thirty miles in a top-buggy, with a companion who only talked in monosyllables, Jane Lee was more than willing to stay any place. She did not have the slightest idea of what it was all about. It was not like the reception she had expected. In fact, it was like a nightmare.
“Just edge to one side, while she comes in,” ordered Mrs. Snow. “Frosty Snow’s old woman is kind of in the rough at this time o’ day.”
Jane Lee walked in and Mrs. Snow closed the door to a few inches.
“Come agin, cowboys.”
“Yes’m, y’betcha,” laughed Hashknife, and the two men clumped down the steps and back to their horses and buggy, while Mrs. Snow put her arms around Jane Lee.
“Whatcha cryin’ for?” demanded Mrs. Snow. “My gosh, you’re all right, honey.”
“I--I don’t know what it is all about,” sobbed Jane. “I don’t know what became of Mr. Easton, and----”
“Don’tcha worry about that sidewinder,” Mrs. Snow said soothingly. “You brace up and quit worryin’. Mebbe it was danged lucky them two punchers kidnaped you, honey.”
“But why did they?” demanded Jane with some heat.
“Didn’t you ask ’em?”
“Dozens of times. The one who drove the horse wouldn’t tell me anything. He kept singing something about being buried on the lone prairie.”
Mrs. Snow laughed and patted Jane on the shoulder.
“You brace up, honey. You’re danged lucky to ride all the way from Gunsight with a mournful cowpuncher, if you only knowed it. You snap into a nightgown and pile into my bed, and I’ll bet you’ll feel better. We’re common folks here at the Half-Moon, and, outside of havin’ an imported cook, we don’t put on much dog.”
“I suppose,” said Jane softly, “I should be thankful that I am here with you.”
“Yes, and you don’t know half of it, little lady.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy took the horse and buggy back to Caldwell, and tied the horse to the rack beside the livery-stable. No one saw them come, and no one saw them leave, except one or two dogs, which barked sleepily.
They rode back to the Tombstone ranch, and stabled their horses just as the first light of dawn showed over the eastern hills.
They stopped in the porch of the ranchhouse as the sound of galloping horses came to their ears, and saw two riders swing around the bend, riding swiftly toward Caldwell. One rider was a little in the rear, and in the dim light he seemed to be a trifle unsteady in his saddle.
“Somebody unlocked the oat-bin,” laughed Hashknife softly, “and the bloodhounds are on the trail of a top-buggy.”