Part 6

Hashknife’s right hand flicked down and up, and Blackwood flung himself forward to be out of line with the bullet that hissed past him and thudded into the big-nosed one. The latter’s pistol discharged and broke a window. He jerked back, swayed sidewise and fell out of his saddle, while his horse whirled, kicked at the falling man, and trotted toward the gate.

“Oh, the ---- fool!” complained Blackwood bitterly. “If he didn’t know Hashknife Hartley--Gawd!”

The shooting had unnerved Blackwood.

“You seen how it was done, didn’t you Blue?” asked Hashknife softly. “He went for his gun.”

“By ----!” swore Blue savagely. “Can’t ten of us take two men?”

“Hop to it,” said Hashknife. “Ain’t no reason why you can’t try it.”

“Count me out,” said Blackwood quickly. “I sure as ---- ain’t lost neither of ’em.”

He turned his horse and rode straight toward the gate and the rest of the horsemen followed him.

“Come back here and get Holy Smoke!” snapped Hashknife.

Blackwood and two of the men dismounted, and one of them put the wounded man on his saddle and rode away with him.

Blue chewed savagely on his tobacco and stared at Doc Clevis, who seemed indifferent to it all.

“Arrestin’ folks ain’t in my line,” stated Doc, as if in self-defense. “I’m here to take charge of the body of Lonesome Lee.”

“What’s your line, Blue?” asked Hashknife, and the Lodge-Pole sheriff swore feelingly.

“If cussin’ showed ability, you’d be Secretary of War,” said Hashknife. “What’s all this about Lonesome Lee bein’ dead?”

“We-well!” snorted Doc Clevis wonderingly.

“He’s in there,” said Blue pointing into the house. “By ----, I’m goin’ t’ find out about things.”

He brushed past Skelton, who stepped aside at a nod from Hashknife, and they all went inside. Blue and the doctor looked around. The blood-stained blanket on the bed caught Blue’s eye, and he pounced on it quickly.

“Whose blood is that?” he asked triumphantly.

“You can have it, if you want it,” said Hashknife.

“What’sa idea of hidin’ the body?” demanded the doctor.

“Looks ---- queer t’ me,” swore Blue meaningly. “Man gets shot and his body hid. You fellers think you can do things like that? Huh!”

“Mebbe he’s already buried,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we dug a hole and buried him.”

Blue snorted in disgust and turned toward the door, as if to go outside, but whirled like a flash, gun in hand. Skelton, who was a trifle to one side, idly swinging the shot-gun in one hand, had seen Blue’s move toward his gun, and as Blue whirled, Skelton threw the heavy riot-gun straight at his head.

It was over in a second. The breech of the shot-gun crashed into Blue’s face, knocking him off his feet and tossing his pistol toward the ceiling, while the shotgun slammed into the wall and sent a handful of buckshot into the floor.

“Kerzowie!” whooped Hashknife.

Doc Clevis helped Blue to his feet and led him outside to his horse. Blue did not seem to have the slightest idea of what had happened to him, although his nose had shifted from its original mooring, giving him a peculiar lopsided, cock-eyed appearance. His right eye was also beginning to draw a dark mantle across his vision, but in spite of it all, Blue whistled through his teeth and obeyed Doc Clevis to the letter.

As they rode away Bliz Skelton shook his head and looked at Hashknife.

“It’s all right so far, but this is the finish, I reckon. I don’t like Blue and his gang, but they stand for the law. Everybody around here hates me, and it ain’t goin’ to stretch your imagination to see that Blue will have the whole country behind him. If I was you fellers I’d saddle up and pull m’ freight, _muy pronto_.”

“Not yet, Bliz. Shucks,” Hashknife looked solemnly at several heifers, which had drifted up past the barn and were grazing among the tombstones. “I’ve got business to attend to, don’tcha know it. There’s----”

Hashknife stopped and squinted at a spotted yearling, which had turned broadside to him, about fifty feet away.

“You brand on the right hip, Bliz?”

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife stepped inside the house and took a coiled rope from a peg in the wall. Quickly fashioning a hondo and running out a loop, he roped the yearling, which bucked and bawled, kicking over a number of tombstones in its gyrations, while Sleepy and Hashknife dug their heels into the hard ground and held it firm.

“Mebbe I’m wrong,” panted Hashknife, “but I wish you’d take a squint at that brand, Bliz.”

Skelton approached the half-choked calf and squinted at the 88 on its hip.

“Nothin’ but an 88 calf,” he replied.

“Look closer,” urged Hashknife. “See if the front halves of the 88 ain’t newer burn than the other.”

“By ----, it is!” exploded Skelton foolishly. “Whatcha know about that? Who in ---- done that?”

“Come on and let’s put the critter into the corral,” ordered Hashknife.

They led it into a gate and removed the rope while the rest of the calves scattered out through the main gate and into the hills.

“That’s where your calves have gone to,” said Hashknife seriously. “It’s a cinch to use a runnin’-iron and make 88 out of 33. Some danged cow-men ain’t got sense enough to make their brand fool-proof. How long has that outfit been knowed as the 88?”

Skelton masticated rapidly for a moment.

“Since Easton’s been in control, I betcha. I’ve hear the place spoke of as the old Cross-L outfit. That was likely Lonesome Lee’s brand. We’ll ask him.”

Lonesome Lee came painfully and cautiously out of his hiding-place and considered Skelton’s question.

“Easton bought that brand from a feller over near Ross Mountains. He drove in a hundred head of feeders which was wearin’ the 88, and he--aw, I’m danged if I know what he wanted to do it for, but he rebranded all of the Cross-L stock, and cancelled my registry.”

“And the 88 brand made it a cinch to steal all of Skelton’s stock,” said Hashknife. “All they had to do was to burn on the other half of the 88.”

He took a pencil and illustrated it to Lonesome.

“I--I didn’t have nothin’ to do with that,” wailed Lonesome. “My ----, I ain’t no thief!”

“No, I don’t reckon you are, Lonesome.”

“I’ll make it all up, Skelton,” blurted Lonesome. “I sure will. I’ll give him half of my own stock.”

“Have you got any stock?” asked Hashknife.

Lonesome stared at the three men and turned away.

“I dunno,” he said dully. “I ain’t got no idea how I stand. Mebbe I’ve got a thousand head of cows, and if I have, I’d give ’em all for just one drink of liquor.”

Skelton dug under his bunk and drew out a jug and handed it to Lonesome.

“I reckon you need a shot, Lonesome. If you’re goin’ to do a good job of quittin’, you’ve got to--what’sa matter?”

Lonesome turned and walked wearily to the door.

“I ain’t drinkin’ nothin’, Skelton--not today. I’ve had my share.”

Skelton shook his head wonderingly and replaced the jug, while Hashknife went to Lonesome and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder.

“Everybody in Caldwell thinks you’re dead, Lonesome. Mind keepin’ out of sight for a while, and let ’em go on thinkin’ that?”

“What’s the idea?”

“It’s like this,” Hashknife wrinkled his nose away from the smoke of his cigaret. “In an honest court we could make Easton and his gang hard to catch, for rustlin’, but under the present conditions it’s only an excuse to kill somebody. If you can keep out of sight I’m bettin’ my hunch that we can wallop ---- out of that gang. I ain’t no Sherlock Holmes, but I sure as ---- have an idea.

“If you got an effect, you sure must ’a’ had a cause. Know what I mean?”

Hashknife pointed at the tombstones.

“There’s an effect, Lonesome.”

Lonesome nodded as if only half-understanding and looked at Hashknife.

“Where’s my daughter?”

“Never mind her, Lonesome. What you don’t know won’t hurt you, and dead men tell no tales. You’re supposed to be dead, you know.”

“All right. I ain’t goin’ to worry about her; but there’s a danged lot of things I don’t understand.”

“We’re all thataway, old-timer,” said Hashknife.

* * * * *

Nothing further happened that day at the Tombstone ranch. Everyone kept under cover for fear of another shot from the hills. Lonesome Lee asked no more questions. He seemed to be willing to let Hashknife engineer the whole thing.

It was about eleven o’clock the next morning when Mrs. Frosty Snow drove through the big gate and uprooted several of the tombstones in her mad haste.

Hashknife met her at the door, and she fairly exploded in her eagerness to tell the latest news.

“You fellers better hit the hills!” she panted. “You’re accused of kidnapin’ Lonesome Lee’s daughter and killin’ the old man, ’cause he tried to make you give her up!”

“Whatcha know about that?” Hashknife asked with a grunt.

“Shall I bring that girl up here?” asked Mrs. Snow. “It won’t take me----”

“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “Leave her stay where she is, Mrs. Snow. I kinda reckoned that somethin’ like this was due to happen, but it sort of makes me work faster. How soon do you reckon they’ll show up here?”

“Pretty soon. Jake Blue is organizin’ the whole thing, and he says he ain’t takin’ no chances on you gettin’ away. Goin’ to surround the place.”

“Jake’s got a lotta good ideas,” said Hashknife. “If he only turned his mind to honest endeavors he’d do well and last longer.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Snow dubiously, as she brushed the tumbled hair from her forehead and took a deep breath, “well, I’ve done my darndest. If you won’t run--don’t mind me. Maybe you don’t realize what they mean to do to you.”

“Ma’am, I sure thank you a lot. If you want to bring that girl up here in about an hour, it might be kinda opportune.”

“I’ll bring her.”

Mrs. Snow went back to her team and climbed up on the wagon-seat.

“You fellers hang onto your necks until I get back.”

As she whirled her team around and drove swiftly back down the road, Hashknife turned and grinned at Sleepy and Skelton.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” blurted Skelton. “Produce the old man and the girl?”

“They’re comin’ in a bunch this time,” observed Sleepy, “and we can’t out-smart the whole danged country.”

Hashknife squinted out at the tombstones and turned quickly to Skelton.

“You got any wire, Skelton?”

“Wire? Yeah, I got a big spool of small wire--smaller than bailin’-wire, if that’s what you mean.”

“That’s the stuff, Skelton. Sleepy, you find a pick and shovel.”

When the desired articles were produced, Hashknife dug four small holes; spading up the top soil on each for a space of about three feet square. He got four stakes, which he drove into the ground, and fastened a wire to each; piling the dirt to cover the stakes.

These spaded places were in a semi-circle in front of the porch, and about ten feet apart. Hashknife worked swiftly, whistling unmusically between his teeth, while Skelton and Sleepy watched him curiously. When the work was all finished, Hashknife took the wires back into the house and fastened them to a chair.

“Looney as a shepherd!” exploded Sleepy. “Can you beat that? Whatcha think you are--a medicine man?”

“Now, come on--fast!” grunted Hashknife. “Skelton, you stay here with Lonesome, and we’ll try and be back ahead of the procession.”

He turned and raced for the corral, still carrying the pick and shovel, while Sleepy, protesting at the top of his voice, followed. Swiftly they saddled. Hashknife mounted, holding the pick and shovel across the fork of his saddle in front of him.

“Headin’ for the graveyard, Sleepy!” he yelped.

“Y’betcha,” grunted Sleepy meaningly as he spurred after him.

Skelton stared open-mouthed as they galloped past the house and headed toward town. It was beyond him. He studied the four wires, shook his head, and going inside he squirted some oil into the old riot-gun. That done he sat down to wait.

At the entrance to the obliterated graveyard Hashknife drew up and vaulted off his horse.

“Go to the point above that first curve, Sleepy,” he ordered. “Glue your eye to the road, and when you see ’em comin’--yell like ---- and come runnin’.”

“Aw-w-w!” protested Sleepy disgustedly, but Hashknife, with a shovel in one hand and the pick in the other, was already through the wire fence and running toward the creek.

Sleepy yanked his horse around and rode swiftly away. Hashknife’s actions left little doubt in Sleepy Stevens’ mind but that he was crazy. Still, Hashknife had never failed in an emergency--yet.

Hashknife stopped near the bank of the little creek and studied the ground. The graveyard had been most thoroughly obliterated, but luckily the destroyers had only harrowed the ground where the graves had been. Hashknife was able to find the spot where the gambler, “Faro,” had been buried. Barney Stout had said that Faro was buried between the other graves and the creek.

Hashknife took off his coat and began digging. It was hot work, hard work. The ground was rocky and progress was slow, and Hashknife had a horror of digging into a grave. The old pick was dull and the spring was missing in the shovel. A rocky reef impeded his progress and he was forced to dig around it.

Suddenly he dropped to his knees and began an examination which made his eyes sparkle. Every few moments his head would pop up like a prairie-dog, listening for Sleepy’s yell of warning.

Then it came--the long-drawn “Yee-hoo-o-o!” cowboy yell, and he saw Sleepy riding swiftly down the side of the hill toward the road.

Hashknife sprang to his feet and ran toward the fence, drawing on his coat as he ran. He was in his saddle when Sleepy galloped up.

“Everybody in the county comin’!” panted Sleepy. “And they’re sure comin’ in a hurry.”

“Quite an honor,” laughed Hashknife, as they spurred down the road. “First time we ever had ’em all callin’ on us, cowboy.”

“If you can see a joke in it, ---- knows I can’t,” grumbled Sleepy. “A big audience ain’t goin’ to bring no joy to my soul when I’m standin’ on nothin’, and lookin’ up a rope.”

They stabled their horses and raced for the house. Skelton met them with an unspoken question, but Hashknife only laughed and shut the door softly on the four wires.

“Lemme do the talkin’,” he said, “and don’t start no gun-play until I bust loose.”

“Here they come!” exclaimed Sleepy, peering out of a rear window. “By cripes! They’re surroundin’ the place this time!”

“Wish ’em joy, Sleepy,” chuckled Hashknife, licking the edge of a fresh cigaret.

“Skelton, you keep that danged riot-gun under control, will you. There’s a lot of decent folks in that mob, and that thing scatters.”

* * * * *

Beyond a doubt this time Jake Blue was prepared to make good. He had at least fifty men in his posse, fifty hard-bitten cattlemen, who were determined to help him uphold the law. Easton’s tale of the kidnaping had been substantiated by the stable-man, at Gunsight.

The reported murder of Lonesome Lee did not stir them up, as did the kidnaping, but showed a clear incentive for the murder. Spot Easton had felt perfectly safe in elaborating his story considerably. He had spoken at length on the graveyard question, which was still warm in the minds of those who had friends or relatives buried there, and it appeared that Skelton was in danger of sharing punishment with Hashknife and Sleepy.

In fact, Easton and Blue had dwelt long upon the graveyard question, and there were some in the posse in whose minds this was of more interest than kidnaping and murder. Considerable liquor had also added to the general ill-feeling.

The Tombstone ranch-house door was closed, and there was no sign of life about the place. Blue detailed twelve men to circle the place and stop any chance of escape, while the rest of them, confident in their might, rode straight to the porch. Nearly every man held a rifle in his hands, ready for action, while Jake Blue swung onto the porch and approached the door.

Doc Clevis, Spot Easton and Blondy Hagen were in the main body of the mob, as were also Dell Blackwood and two of the boys from the 88. Blackwood’s horse was at the extreme outer edge of the crowd, and Blackwood’s eyes shifted around as he considered the safest way out. He knew Hashknife Hartley.

“Inside there!” yelled Blue, knocking on the door with the barrel of his rifle.

“Well, if it ain’t Mr. Blue!” exclaimed Hashknife’s voice. “Ain’tcha never goin’ to have any sense, sheriff?”

“What do you mean?” roared Blue nervously. He did not trust Hashknife.

“Look at them four wires which runs across the porch, will you?”

Blue glanced down at the small copper wires and his eyes traveled their length. The rest of the crowd took them into consideration. A horse was standing with both front feet on one of the mounds, and its rider yanked back on the reins, half-swinging the horse around.

“We was expectin’ you,” stated Hashknife, “and we got all set. Now, everybody hold quiet or my pardner will slam on the battery. You came down here to kill us and, if we’ve got to pass out, we’ll take a lot of company.”

He opened the door and came out on the porch. The assembled company relaxed. They felt they were sitting over a volcano; and men do not argue in a case of that kind.

Jake Blue backed away from Hashknife, masticating rapidly, and his eyes flashed from the wires to the interior of the house, as if trying to see if it was only a bluff.

“Well,” said Hashknife grimly, “we’re all together, it seems.”

“Do you think you can git away with this?”

Blue’s voice was thin as a high violin note. Some one in the crowd laughed. Blue’s nose resembled a beet, and one eye was almost swollen shut.

“I kinda thought I would,” said Hashknife as he looked around at the crowd.

“Well, well! There’s Mister Easton and Mister Hagen. And there’s my old friend, Doc Clevis. I was afraid they’d disappoint me. If there ain’t Dell Blackwood! My, my! The devil must be gittin’ a laugh out of this.”

Those indicated shifted nervously. They had no idea of what was to come next, but they were afraid to force the issue. Hashknife singled out a respectable-looking cowman and spoke directly to him:

“Pardner, you look honest to me. Talk a little, will you?”

“Sure will.”

The man cleared his throat.

“Mebbe you can explain this here kidnapin’ and murder charge. Lonesome Lee’s daughter was stolen and old Lonesome was murdered. Anyway, that’s how she’s been told to me.”

“You’re ---- right!” snapped Blue.

Hashknife looked at Blue, steadily and closely. Blue shifted nervously. He liked to be the center of interest, but not at a time like this.

Hashknife backed against the wall near the door, where he could include Jake Blue in his sweep of the crowd.

“Folks, this is kind of a long tale I’m goin’ to tell you, and I ask you to set tight. One crooked move and my pardner, who is just inside the door, will jam down the little handle and we’ll migrate together.”

“We’re listenin’,” said one of the men.

“Why listen to him!” exploded Easton angrily. “We didn’t come down here to listen to a lot of ---- lies, did we?”

“Stuff your fingers in your ears then!” retorted the cowboy who had pulled his horse off the spaded spot. “I sure as ---- am willin’ to listen. I know dinnymite, y’betcha.”

“’Pears to me that the whole thing started over the graveyard,” observed Hashknife slowly. “Somebody played a joke on Skelton, and he returned the compliment.”

One of the men swore feelingly, and a growl came from several more. They agreed on this point, at least.

“It was a ---- of a joke,” continued Hashknife, “but was it a joke?”

“Whatcha mean?” snapped Blue.

“Mebbe I’ll tell you.” Hashknife was quite at his ease. “Old Lonesome Lee owned the Cross-L outfit--and a big thirst--a very big thirst. Bein’ drunk most of the time made it plumb easy for another man to hoodle him out of the brand, which was changed to the 88--for a reason.”

“That’s a ---- lie!” snorted Easton. “Everybody knows that I----”

“About that time,” interrupted Hashknife, “this old 33 outfit begins to dwindle. Their cows don’t bring in no calves. Everybody hates Skelton, and he knows ---- well that nobody is goin’ to help him find out where they went to. Somebody tries to buy him out. I reckon there was quite a few tryin’ to buy him out. About that time he gets shot at a few times. ’Pears to me that it’s a ---- bad shot, or shootin’ to scare him.”

“Now, wait a minute!” interposed Blue. “If Skelton was losin’ cows and gettin’ shot at, why didn’t he come to me about it?”

“You?” Hashknife squinted at Blue and shook his head. “Mebbe you was busy at that time, sheriff.”

The inference was plain, and it drew a mild laugh. The crowd was interested in Hashknife’s story, and did not relish an interruption.

“Lonesome Lee has a daughter,” said Hashknife. “She’s a danged nice-lookin’ girl, too. Lonesome was too drunk to _sabe_ things much, and this girl writes him letters, which somebody else reads--and answers. There was a photygraph, too, I reckon. Pretty girls ain’t any too plentiful.

“Then somebody killed Quinin Quinn, and a poor, drunken Swede cook was jailed for it.”

“Yes, and if them guns hadn’t been stolen--” wailed Blue meaningly.

“Outside of that you feel good, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously. “I dunno who killed Quinn, but I’ve sure got a hunch. Anyway, this girl was sent for and came to Gunsight, where she kinda dropped out of sight, leavin’ a certain party very peevish.”

Hashknife glanced at Easton, who was sitting very straight in his saddle.

“Then Lonesome Lee sobered up,” Hashknife continued, “and realized what a ---- fool he had been. He comes down here to find out a few things, and somebody pot-shoots him at long range.”

“That’s your story,” interrupted Doc Clevis. “You never let us see the body, so how do we know how he got killed?”

“The man that shot him didn’t want him to find out anythin’.” Hashknife ignored Doc’s peevish statement.

“What’sa idea?” queried one of the cattlemen. “Who didn’t want him to?”

“I’m leadin’ up to that, pardner. The man who shot him was the man who was interested in this girl. He knew that Lonesome Lee was sober. He was the same man who bought the 88 outfit and changed Lonesome Lee’s brand to the 88. Didja ever figure that a 33 is easy to change to an 88 with a runnin’ iron?”

“You’re a ---- liar!” yelped Easton trying to draw his gun. But the man next to him, fearful of the buried dynamite, stopped him.

“Now,” Hashknife swayed away from the wall and hooked a thumb over the top of his belt above his holster, “now, I’ll tell you where it all started. Hold still, Blue! You’re as close to your gun as you’ll ever get. Listen, you ---- coyotes are to blame for this Lodge-Pole trouble!