CHAPTER XXII: SOMETHING WRONG
Sunday was not a busy day in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy were at the livery stable, taking care of their own horses, while the stable-keeper was looking after the rest of the stock. As he led a pair of horses past the stall where Hashknife kept his gray he said to Hashknife:
“I think you lost yore pocket-book last night. I picked one up near yore stall this mornin’. It’s back there on the grain box.”
“All right,” grunted Hashknife, wondering what the man meant. Hashknife never carried a pocket-book in his life.
He hung up his currycomb and walked back to the grain-box, where he found a leather billfold. Inside it were twenty dollars in currency, some personal cards of people he did not know—mostly San Francisco people—and two tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco.
There was no owner’s name, but Hashknife was satisfied that it belonged to Jack Pollock. He put it in his pocket, intending to turn it in at the Oasis. The stable-keeper was out watering horses, when he and Sleepy left the stable, so Hashknife did not get a chance to speak to him about the billfold.
As Hashknife and Sleepy walked up the street toward the hotel, Len Ayres rode in. He tied his horse at the Oasis, but came directly across the street to them.
“How are yuh this mornin’?” said Hashknife.
“I don’t know yet, Hartley. Take a look at this.”
Len handed Hashknife a sheet from a notebook, on which was pencilled in a rather delicate hand:
“Dear Mr. Ayres,—I have just received an urgent message to come at once to San Francisco, so I’m leaving now for Lobo Wells. You will hear from me later.
“Sincerely,
“Madge Singer.”
“What’s wrong about that?” asked Hashknife curiously.
“I don’t know,” confessed Len rather lamely. “It don’t look right to me, Hartley. She didn’t say anythin’ about⸺”
“Baggs went out after her, while you were here in town last night, eh?” Hashknife took it for granted that Baggs was the messenger.
“Whisperin’ found this note on the table this mornin’.”
“She’s probably got an urgent message, as she says in the note. I don’t see anythin’ wrong with it, Ayres.”
“Mebbe it’s all right. In the first place, she always calls me Len, and in the second place, I call her Nan. Why did she use ‘Mr. Ayres’ and ‘Madge Singer’?”
Hashknife was inclined to smile.
“You might ask Baggs about it,” he suggested.
“I’ll do just that.”
Len went on up the street to Baggs’s office, while Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the Oasis. Harry Cole was at the bar and invited them to have a drink. The place was nearly empty.
“How’s yore head this mornin’?” asked Cole, as he filled his glass.
“Head’s all right,” smiled Hashknife. “Have a big play last night?”
“Pretty good for the middle of the month.”
“Pollock around this mornin’?” Hashknife intended giving him the billfold.
“Pollock left on the eleven-thirty train for Frisco last night.”
“Thasso?”
“Yeah, he decided to pull out. Lobo Wells ain’t big enough for Pollock. He got smashed up in an accident in Frisco, so he came up here for a trip. I didn’t know you’d met him.”
“I hadn’t,” dryly. “Anybody else go west with him?”
“I don’t think so. What made yuh think they had?”
“Miss Singer went to Frisco on that same train.”
“Did she? I don’t think she knows Pollock.”
Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon and walked up to the depot. The depot agent happened to be a genial sort of person, with plenty of time on his hands.
“You don’t sell many tickets, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Not very many; why?”
“Remember sellin’ two one-way tickets to San Francisco lately?”
“Yesterday. A gambler from the Oasis, the one with the bum arm. Said he was goin’ out on the eleven-thirty.”
“Was you on duty when that train pulled out?”
“Sure. But I didn’t see who got on. Didn’t pay any attention.”
“What time did he buy the tickets?”
“In the mornin’.”
“Do you happen to know the name of the conductor on that train?”
“Sure—Tony Lawton. Train 63.”
“Gimme a telegraph blank, and you can send this where it’ll catch him as quick as yuh can.”
Hashknife wrote:
“Did you pick up two people at Lobo Wells last night who had lost tickets and paid cash. Wire at once.—Ben Dillon, Sheriff.”
The agent squinted at it curiously.
“It’s all right,” he smiled, “but you’re not the sheriff.”
“That’s all right; he’ll get the answer, pardner.”
“Sure—that’s right. I’ll catch Tony right away.”
And the agent was as good as his word. Within an hour he was at the sheriff’s office with a telegram, explaining to Ben Dillon that it was an answer to the one a tall cowboy had sent.
“What tall cowboy?” asked the sheriff.
“I don’t know what his name is. He signed your name to the one he sent.”
The sheriff opened it and read this message:
“No passengers from Lobo Wells last night.
“Tony Lawton.”
The sheriff’s face twisted thoughtfully.
“Tall cowboy with a bandage on his head?”
“That’s the one. I forgot the bandage.”
“All right; I’ll keep it for him.”
A few minutes later the sheriff left his office, and as he started up the street he saw Hashknife talking with Amos Baggs in front of a store. He walked up and held out the telegram to Hashknife.
“I reckon this is the answer to one you sent,” Dillon said. “It says there weren’t any passengers from Lobo Wells last night. What does it mean?”
Hashknife took the telegram, scanned it and put it in his pocket.
“Who’s Tony Lawton?” queried the sheriff.
“He’s the man who signed this telegram. Thanks, Dillon.”
Hashknife left them abruptly and started for the livery stable. Amos Baggs had a queer expression in his eyes as he watched the retreating back of the tall cowpuncher.
“He’s got me beat,” declared the sheriff. “Signin’ my name to a telegram, and not even explainin’ the answer. He’s shore got plenty nerve.”
“It’s funny he didn’t explain it,” said Baggs.
“That’s right. It said: ‘No passengers from Lobo Wells last night,’ and was signed by a man named Tony Lawton. Mebbe it was one of them code messages. They usually sound queer.”
“That’s probably what it was,” agreed Amos. “If you knew what was in the message he sent, you might understand this reply.”
“Oh, it don’t make any difference, anyway. Did somebody leave Lobo Wells on the train last night?”
“I don’t know,” replied Baggs. “I go to bed before the train arrives here.”
“I guess it was a code message,” decided the sheriff, “but what a danged cowpuncher would be sendin’ a code message for is more than I can make out. He’s gettin’ too darn fresh, usin’ my name on his telegrams; an’ when I see him, he’ll hear about it.”