CHAPTER XV: AN UNKNOWN BUSHWHACKER
The inquest frightened little Larry. He didn’t know what it was all about, but he managed to tell the same story he had told Hashknife and Breezy. Minnie’s story was the same. There was no evidence to show who had fired the fatal shots; so the jury brought in the usual verdict.
Amos Baggs came to see the sheriff following the inquest, and complained against Len Ayres for knocking him down the previous afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy were with the sheriff when Baggs called.
“It seems to me that yo’re a grown man, Baggs,” said the fat sheriff. “If anythin’, yo’re bigger than Ayres.”
“Do you think I’m going to fight him?” demanded Baggs.
“Well, yuh didn’t; so what can yuh do about it?”
“Do you think I’m going to let him batter me around?”
“Say, what do yuh think this is—a guessin’ contest, Baggs? What do I know about what you’ll do and what yuh won’t do? Yuh wasn’t aimin’ to have Len arrested for slappin’ yuh, was yuh?”
“It was plain assault.”
“Yea-a-a-ah, I s’pose it was; very plain. But it ain’t up to me, Baggs. Get the judge to swear out a warrant and I’ll serve it.”
Baggs was mad. He even glared at Hashknife, who grinned at him openly. He walked to the door, but turned to fire a parting shot:
“I suppose you don’t know who killed Charley Prentice.”
“Well,” said the sheriff wearily, “I didn’t do it, because I’m the sheriff; and you didn’t because you ain’t got the nerve.”
“That’s supposed to be a smart answer, isn’t it, Dillon?”
“It’s the right answer to a foolish question, Baggs.”
After Baggs had left the office, the sheriff declared: “I don’t like that feller.”
“I guess he knows it,” grinned Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the prosecutor who sent Ayres to the pen?”
“Yeah, and he shore piled it on a-plenty. I thought Len would kill him when he came back, but I guess the pen takes all the killin’ ideas out of a man. Nobody ever wants to go back.”
“Do you think Ayres really cached a lot of that money he stole?”
The sheriff laughed shortly.
“I suppose every man in this county has asked himself that same question, Hartley. Nobody but Len could prove it. They say he was the one who pulled the jobs, and he must have done somethin’ with the money. I think some folks had a sneakin’ suspicion that his wife knew where it was. But I don’t think she did.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Yeah, y’betcha. Prettiest woman around here.”
“How soon did she marry Prentice after Len was convicted?”
“Well, she got her divorce right away, and they was married inside of six months.”
“She must have known him before Len was sent up.”
“Oh, shore. They’d been friends a long time.”
“Len and Prentice?”
“Prentice and the woman. Oh, I suppose him and Len was good enough friends.”
“You wasn’t sheriff at that time, was yuh?”
“Nope. Harry Cole was the sheriff. Afterward he bought out the Oasis Saloon. He’s made good money over there.”
“What’ll become of the kid now?”
“Larry? I dunno, Hartley; never thought about him. Say, that is somethin’ to think about. Mebbe Len wants him. I’ll have to find out about that right away, because I don’t suppose Prentice left anythin’. Anyway, it probably can’t be touched until the estate is settled up. I’ll talk with Grant, at the bank, and see what he knows about Prentice’s finances.”
The next day they buried Charley Prentice in the little cemetery on the slope behind the town. The countryside came to pay homage to a man they had known as a good citizen. His sudden fall from grace meant nothing against a good record. Hashknife and Sleepy did not intend to go to the funeral, although the sheriff asked them to go with him.
They were sitting in front of a store, as the funeral came down a short side street and wended its way out of town. It was not over a quarter of a mile to the cemetery. The wagons, buckboards and riders were still turning the corner on to the main street, when Len Ayres rode in. He drew up in front of the Oasis and watched the procession.
And as the last vehicle turned the corner, he spurred his horse and fell in behind.
“Can yuh imagine that?” snorted Sleepy. “He’s goin’ to the funeral!”
Hashknife looked seriously at Sleepy and got to his feet.
“I reckon we’ll go along, pardner. C’mon.”
The cortege moved slowly, so they had no difficulty in reaching the graveyard in time. Len tied his horse to a fence and mixed in with the crowd around the grave. Hashknife and Sleepy managed to get to a vantage point where they could watch everything. Little Larry was the sole mourner, but he was too interested in the crowd to be much of a success.
They saw Len push his way in close to the grave, where he stood all during the ceremony, paying no attention to any one. In fact, he was the centre of interest, although he seemed unconscious of it. Amos Baggs stood across the grave from him, and if his expression was any criterion of his feelings, he was sorry that it wasn’t Len’s funeral.
Len stayed in the one spot until the crowd began to disperse, when he went slowly back to his horse and rode away. Breezy met Hashknife and Sleepy at the fence, bursting for a chance to talk.
“Can yuh ee-magine that?” the deputy demanded. “Stood right there and watched ’em plant Charley! That’s cold nerve, Hartley.”
“Do yuh suppose he was merely tryin’ to show his nerve?” asked Hashknife. “Yuh know it don’t take nerve to attend the funeral of a man you’ve never hurt in any way.”
Breezy tipped his hat over one eye as he scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Yeah, there’s somethin’ in that, too. Lordy, it shore gave the folks a shock. Amos Baggs almost fell in the hole—and I reached for a shovel. It ain’t right to say it, but I’ve always hankered for a chance to pat him in the face with a shovel. He makes me mad, jist to look at him. Wait till I git my horse, and I’ll walk back with yuh.”
They found Larry at the sheriff’s office, talking with Dillon, when they came back. The sheriff was trying to find out whether any one had made plans for the boy. He seemed just a little bewildered, but grinned at Hashknife.
“I’m still waitin’ for the wind to come along,” he said.
“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife. “When she comes, we’ll shore fly that kite, Larry.”
“Y’betcha.”
“I had a talk with Grant,” said the sheriff, “and as far as he knows, Prentice didn’t leave a dollar. Gambled quite a lot, and the luck usually went against him. I dunno what about this boy.”
“I’ll betcha I know,” grinned Breezy. “Larry would like to go out to the Box S and live with his dad.”
Larry looked earnestly at Breezy for several moments, but finally shook his head.
“Yuh don’t?” Breezy was astonished.
“No, I don’t want to go out there,” he said.
“I guess I better go home to Minnie.”
He walked out of the office and Breezy whistled softly.
“Ain’t that funny? Why, the other day he was shore strong for Len. I don’t savvy what changed him so quick.”
“Was he very fond of Prentice?” asked Hashknife.
“I don’t believe he was,” answered the sheriff. “I don’t believe Prentice cared much for him. Yuh don’t suppose the kid thinks that Len killed Prentice, do yuh? That might make him afraid of Len. Somebody might have told him that Len was the one who done the shootin’.”
“That would be a dirty trick,” said Hashknife quickly.
“Dirty tricks have been done,” smiled Breezy. “I wouldn’t put it past Amos Baggs.”
Nobody reproved Breezy for that statement. But Hashknife wasn’t satisfied. He left the office and made his way up to the Prentice home, where he found Larry in the yard. “No wind yet,” said the boy. “I reckon we won’t get any to-day.”
“Not much chance,” smiled Hashknife, leaning on the fence. “I wanted to ask yuh a question, Larry.”
“To ask me a question, Mr. Hartley?”
“Man to man, Larry.”
“What is it?”
“Did somebody tell you that Len Ayres killed Prentice?”
The boy blinked quickly and turned his head away.
“Just man to man, Larry,” urged Hashknife softly.
Larry shook his head.
“Nobody told me,” he said. “Not a soul, Mr. Hartley.”
“You didn’t even hear anybody hint it?”
“Do they think he killed Mr. Prentice?”
“Who do you think killed him, Larry?” countered Hashknife.
“I don’t know who killed him.”
“And you never even heard anybody hint that your father might have killed Prentice?”
After a moment of sober thought the boy shook his head.
“I didn’t know they thought he did,” said Larry.
“Thank yuh for answerin’ my question, Larry.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Hartley. I hope we get some wind.”
“Yeah, I shore hope so. So long, Larry.”
“So long, Mr. Hartley.”
Hashknife went away unsatisfied. There was some reason why Larry did not want to go to Len; and Hashknife would never be comfortable until he had discovered who shot Charley Prentice—and why. He felt that Len Ayres was perfectly capable of killing a man, but he did not think that Ayres would ever commit murder.
He talked it over that night with Sleepy, but his grin-faced partner had no ideas on the subject, except the local thought that Len had killed him.
“Some folks think he done the right thing,” said Sleepy.
“Yuh can’t justify murder, Sleepy.”
“I ain’t tryin’ to. Anyway, it wasn’t my funeral.”
“Did Len strike you as a man who would call a man to his door and kill him?”
“I dunno, Hashknife. Readin’ human bein’s is like dopin’ out a race horse from a form-chart. They never run the way they should. I’d hate to think he would, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. What’s yore opinion?”
“The key to the whole thing is this, Sleepy: find the man who wanted to kill Prentice.”
“Yeah, I know that. But Prentice was well liked by most everybody. He never hurt nobody—except Len Ayres. Ask anybody and they’ll tell yuh the same thing. I’ve talked with a lot of ’em.”
“That’s what made it easy for somebody else to kill him, and get away with it, Sleepy.”
Sleepy laughed softly.
“Hashknife, yo’re funny. If you seen a man shoot another man, you’d prove that somebody else done it.”
“And get a confession from ’em, Sleepy.”
“And they’d be guilty. Go ahead, but don’t ask me to think. All I’m good for is to burn powder, anyway.”
“There ain’t much to think about—yet.”
“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “yo’re young yet.”
The next day Whispering made out a grub list, and Nan rode to town with him in a lumber-wagon. She had talked things over with Len and he had advised her to get some cheques at the bank to pay for the grocery list.
“Even before the will is probated, they’ve got to allow enough money to keep the ranch goin’,” he told her. “It may not be exactly accordin’ to law, but that won’t matter.”
Nan didn’t want to meet Amos Baggs. She hadn’t seen him since she refused to sign the thousand-dollar cheque for him. The Arizona sun had changed her complexion to an olive tan, and she might easily be mistaken for a native of the range.
They were obliged to cross the railroad tracks near the little sun-baked depot, and as a train was approaching, Whispering drew up the team some distance away. The train did not tarry long at Lobo Wells, and as it drew away Whispering whipped up the team.
They jolted across the tracks and headed down the main street. A man dressed in black, one arm in a sling, was going down the wooden sidewalk from the depot, carrying a valise in his free hand, and as they came abreast of him, he turned his head sufficiently for Nan to see his face.
For a moment she grasped the side of the seat to steady herself, turning her head away quickly. Her heart seemed to come up in her throat.
It was Jack Pollock, the San Francisco gambler! Madge’s friend! He was the last man she had ever expected to see again, and the last one she wished to see. Her mind was in a whirl, as the team drew up in front of the store. Whispering looked at her and put his hand on her arm.
“What’s the matter—too much sun?” he asked.
“I—I’m all right,” she said jerkily.
“Yo’re mighty white, ma’am. I’ll help yuh down and git yuh in the shade. A derned old wagon is the hottest place on earth, anyway. We’ll git some water for yuh.”
She walked shakily into the store, where Whispering secured a cup of cold water for her. The proprietor of the store was solicitous, but helpless.
“Oh, I’m all right now,” she said weakly.
“You set right here,” advised Whispering. “I’ll go up to the bank and git them cheques, and I’ll tell Grant about it. I know him well. You jist take it easy. Give Jim Albers here yore grub list, and he’ll fix it up while I’m away.”
Nan was more than thankful to Whispering. She didn’t want to go out on the street. It was cool in that dark corner of the store, and she wanted time to think. What was Jack Pollock doing in Lobo Wells, she wondered? Baggs had spoken about him, and Nan realised that Pollock was the one who was going to send Madge Allan to Lobo Wells to take over the Box S property.
Had some one suspected that she was an impostor and sent for Jack Pollock to prove the suspicion? She was at the end of her rope, and she knew it. A word from Pollock would prove who she was.
Whispering was coming back, grinning widely.
“Feel better? Got everythin’ fixed up. Grant said he’d take a chance on yore cheque. Got some pen and ink, Jim? How much does that total?”
Nan’s hand shook as she made out the cheque, but the men did not notice it. They loaded the stuff in the wagon and drove away. Nan did not draw a full breath until they were out of town. The colour came back to her cheeks and Whispering nodded approvingly.
“Oh, yuh look a lot better,” he told her. “Gosh, yuh shore looked like you’d seen a ghost, when we pulled up at the store. This sun does fry yuh plenty.”
Whispering didn’t know how near he had come to the truth when he said she had seen a ghost. He told Len about it when they got back to the ranch, but Nan assured them that she was entirely recovered.
Hashknife and Sleepy were in the Oasis Saloon when Pollock came in. He shook hands with Cole and with several other men, drank with them, and then went back with Cole to his private office.
Hashknife was tilted back against the wall, with his hat over his eyes, and after the two men had entered the back room, he tilted forward, got to his feet, and walked outside with Sleepy.
“Recognise the black-coated gent who just came in, Sleepy?” he asked.
“Didn’t pay much attention to him. Who is he?”
“I dunno who he is now,” thoughtfully. “About three or four years ago a gambler by the name of Jack Evans shot a feller in the Golden Arrow Saloon in Redfields. They quarrelled over a poker game, and Evans shot him with a derringer. The man didn’t die, but he was badly crippled, and there was a warrant for Evans, who got away. Remember that, Sleepy?”
“Yeah, I remember the shootin’. Is this Jack Evans?”
“If it ain’t, it’s his ghost. I don’t forget faces. Yuh see, I’ve played poker with him. He’s got a scar on the back of his left hand; sort of a white half-moon, where a Mexican pinned his hand to a poker table in Laredo. Wore a big cameo ring on the same hand. The ring may be gone, but the scar will show.”
“Do yuh reckon he’s still wanted in Redfields?”
“That’s not our business. Let Redfields capture their own criminals. What interests me is the fact that he’s here in a small town with one arm in a sling. Harry Cole and the bunch seem to know him very well; so this may be where he hangs out when the police need him pretty bad.”
“Do yuh think he’ll recognise you, Hashknife?”
“Not a chance in a thousand. We never locked horns in any way, and he prob’ly dealt cards to a lot of suckers since he dealt to me.”
They mentioned Pollock to Breezy.
“Jack Pollock? Shore I know him. He used to work for Harry Cole. Oh, he was here a long time. Yuh say he’s back? He’s all right, jist a little slick, thasall. Mebbe Harry sent for him.”
“I don’t know him,” said Hashknife. “Heard them call him Pollock. He’s got his left arm in a sling.”
“Yeah? Well, he prob’ly got clumsy on the deal. Some folks demand an honest deal, it seems. Oh, I don’t say he’s a crooked dealer, Hashknife. Lotsa other ways for him to git hurt. Might have fallen out of a balloon, f’r instance. I’d be the last one to ever say anythin’ against him.”
Hashknife dropped the subject, as far as the conversation was concerned, but did not dismiss it from his mind. It might be the natural thing for Pollock to visit the place where he had formerly lived and worked, but Hashknife did not figure that a man of Pollock’s reputation would do the natural thing. He took it for granted that Pollock was there for some other reason than a visit.
Hashknife drifted back to the Oasis a little later, giving Pollock plenty of chances to recognise him, but the gambler merely glanced at him and went on talking with Cole. Hashknife noticed that his left hand was bandaged to the knuckles, precluding any chance of an identifying glimpse of any scar on the back of that hand.
Pollock did not take a room at the hotel, but occupied one of Cole’s rooms over the saloon, where Cole’s other two dealers slept. Cole’s own bed was in his private office.
That evening about eight o’clock Amos Baggs came in to the sheriff’s office, where Ben Dillon was seated at his desk, writing a letter.
Baggs did not sit down, but stood beside the desk and came to the point immediately.
“I want to talk with you about Len Ayres, Dillon,” he said.
“What’s he done now, Baggs?”
“This has nothing to do with what he has already done; it’s what he might do. You probably know that he hates me for what happened during his trial five years ago. Well,” Amos sighed deeply, “he came to me with all kinds of threats. I tried to smooth things over, but it was no use. You wonder how he got the job of foreman on the Box S? I’ll tell you why he got it, Dillon; it was because he said he’d cut off my ears if I didn’t give it to him.”
“Bein’ your ears,” said the sheriff thoughtfully, “you wanted to save ’em.”
“Naturally. I asked Miss Singer to give him the job. I was retained by Harmony Singer during the last few months of his life, and as I drew his will and located the heir, it would naturally follow that I have charge of the business, at least until after the will is probated and the owner established.”
“Looks thataway,” agreed Ben, who knew little law.
“Well, I haven’t!” snapped Baggs. “Ayres has blocked me in every way. He hates me. I’ve been ordered off the ranch, and threatened with bodily injury if I return. Miss Singer does not confer with me in anything. If you were in my place, would you allow such a condition to remain?”
Ben rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He looked up at Baggs, a quizzical expression in his eyes.
“Just how much do you value yore ears, Amos?”
Baggs adjusted his collar, shrugged his shoulders wearily.
“We’ll drop that matter,” he said flatly, and then as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose any effort is being made to discover Prentice’s murderer.”
“Any effort? Jist what kind of an effort do yuh mean? We ain’t made no house-to-house canvass, if that’s what yuh mean.”
Baggs put his lean hands on the desk and leaned forward.
“If I was the prosecuting attorney of this county, I’d⸺”
“But you ain’t,” interrupted the sheriff. “If yuh don’t mind, we’ll leave⸺”
Ben didn’t finish his advice. Came the crash of a window pane behind the sheriff, showering him with glass; a sharp cry from Baggs, the thud of a bullet smashing into the wall, and from somewhere outside came the whiplike report of a rifle, the echoes clattering back from the buildings.
Ben’s presence of mind caused him to fall over backward against the wall, clawing for his six-shooter. Baggs staggered sidewise, almost fell, recovered and stood there trembling like a leaf.
“Git away from the window, yuh damn’ ignorant fool!” roared the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t understand. His hands were clawing at his chest.
Some one shouted from across the street, men were running on the sidewalk. Ben slid low beneath the window sill, came up against the wall. He wasn’t going to get in line with that window again.
“They hit me,” said Baggs dumbly. “They hit me.”
“Stay right where yuh are, and they’ll hit yuh again,” said the sheriff sarcastically.
But the shooting was over. A man sprang on the sidewalk in front of the office and threw the door open. It was Breezy.
“Where was that shot?” he began, but stopped. Sleepy joined him in the doorway.
“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.
“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”
They crowded around him. Sleepy picked up an object against the opposite wall, a small tangle of metal and smashed wheels.
“Here’s yore watch,” he said, holding it out.
An examination showed that the bullet had cut through Baggs’s left coat sleeve near the shoulder, ripped across his chest, barely scoring the skin, picking up his watch and fountain pen, and had torn his right coat sleeve, but did not tear his shirt.
Baggs’s face was white and he shook weakly. An inch or two to the right, and Amos Baggs’s career would have been closed. He sat down in a chair and covered his face with his hands, while more men crowded in. Harry Cole, one of his dealers, and several cattlemen came over from the Oasis.
Everybody wanted to know what it was all about. Baggs was unable to talk about it. The sheriff told them what had happened, they examined the evidence and departed, taking Baggs with them. He had a keen desire to stay with a crowd.
Breezy and Sleepy stayed with the sheriff, who hung a blanket over the smashed window and sat down to smoke it over.
“The question is: who wants to kill Baggs?” mused Breezy.
“Hang the whole town,” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, he almost grabbed a harp that time.”
“Are yuh sure they didn’t shoot at you, Ben?” asked Breezy.
“Not a chance. No sir, they wanted Amos.”
“A worthy want,” grinned Breezy. “Me and Sleepy was playin’ pool in the Oasis, and that shot sure sounded loud.”
Sleepy grinned over his cigarette, but suddenly sobered.
“Did any of yuh see Hashknife lately?” he asked.
“Not since supper,” replied the sheriff. “I seen both of yuh over at the restaurant.”
“That’s funny to me.”
Sleepy got to his feet and walked quickly out of the office. It was unlike Hashknife not to be in evidence when there was shooting going on. Sleepy went up one side of the street and down the other, as far as the depot, but did not find Hashknife in any of the buildings.
He came back to the Oasis, where he met Breezy, who had also been looking for Hashknife, but without results. Together they went to the livery stable, only to find that Hashknife’s gray horse was in its stall, contentedly munching hay.
“That’s shore got me beat,” confessed Sleepy.
“Well, he can take care of himself,” said Breezy.
“Prob’ly better than you think, Breezy. I suppose I might as well sit tight and wait for him to show up.”
They went back and finished their game of pool, but Sleepy’s mind was not on his shots. The attempt to murder Baggs made Sleepy nervous. As soon as they finished their game, Sleepy left Breezy, who was interested in a poker game, and went over to the hotel, never dreaming that Hashknife might be there.
He found his tall partner slumped down in an old rocker, reading a paper by the light of an oil lamp. The room was foggy with cigarette smoke, which eddied in the gust of wind from the open door. Sleepy noticed that the shade had been drawn over their one window.
“I’ve been huntin’ all over town for you,” he told Hashknife. “Didn’t yuh hear that shot?”
“Yeah, I heard it.”
“Yuh did? And you stayed here? Whatsa matter, cowboy?”
“Wasn’t anybody killed, was there?”
“Somebody dang near killed Amos Baggs, the lawyer.”
“No!”
“They shore did.”
Sleepy described how the bullet came through the sheriff’s window and within an inch or so of killing Baggs. Hashknife grinned through the recital. It was amusing to him.
“And you sat here, readin’ an old paper, and never looked to see what it was all about, eh?” said Sleepy. “Well, that ain’t a bit like you. Kinda losin’ interest, or was the paper so danged interestin’?”
Hashknife yawned widely and laid the paper aside.
“I was readin’ how to stay beautiful after yo’re over forty,” he grinned. “It’s worth readin’.”
“I’ll betcha,” laughed Sleepy. He leaned forward and looked closely at Hashknife. “Whatcha been doin’—cuttin’ yore ear with a razor?”
Hashknife reached up, fingered his ear and looked at the smear of blood on his fingers.
“Piece of that glass must have flew back,” he said.
“Piece of what glass?”
“From the sheriff’s window, Sleepy. I reckon my head was about on a level with Baggs’s vest pockets.”
“You mean that somebody tried to kill you instead of Baggs?”
“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “I don’t want to steal any glory from Mr. Baggs; but I’m afraid that’s about what happened.”
“And you didn’t do anythin’ about it?”
“Oh, shore. I ducked down the alley, sneaked in the backway and read the newspaper. Don’t tell anybody, Sleepy.”
“It’ll probably scare Baggs out of the country, Hashknife.”
“Be a great thing for the country.”
“But why would anybody try to kill you? Don’t set there and grin like a danged fool! Do you know what it’s all about?”
“Nope; that’s why it’s amusin’, Sleepy. Somebody is scared.”
“Scared?”
“Scared enough to shoot at me. I wish I knew why.”
“So do I,” seriously. Suddenly Sleepy grinned widely. “By golly, we won’t sprout, Hashknife. I believe Lobo Wells is human, after all.”
“Most places are, if yuh scratch ’em deep enough. Let’s go to bed and get a good sleep.”