CHAPTER XXIII: BAGGS TAKES CHARGE
Hashknife picked up Sleepy at the livery stable, and they rode out to the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know what it was all about, but he went willingly. They found Len and Larry on the front porch.
“Do you think there’s enough wind to sail that kite to-day, Mr. Hartley?” called the boy anxiously.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while, Larry. Take a look at this, Len.”
He handed Len the answer to the telegram, explaining that he had wired the conductor on the train.
“I’d have bet on my hunch!” snapped Len. “That proves it. But where is she, Hartley? Nobody saw her leave. All we’ve got to go on is the note she left.”
“Do you know her writin’, Len?”
“Never saw it in my life.”
“Maybe she didn’t write it. Maybe she didn’t go away with Baggs. But there’s one cinch bet: she didn’t board that train last night in Lobo Wells. Jack Pollock, the gambler, is missin’, and Harry Cole says he left on that eleven-thirty train for Frisco. But this mornin’ the stable-keeper found a billfold, which looks as though it belonged to Pollock, and in it is two one-way tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco. Pollock bought the two tickets yesterday mornin’.”
“For gosh sakes!” blurted Len. “I’ll say you’ve found out a lot.”
“Don’t do us much good. What we want to know is this: did Pollock intend takin’ the girl with him last night; and what became of them? Do yuh know if she was acquainted with Pollock?”
“I never heard her say.”
“Did you talk with Amos Baggs about her goin’ away?”
“I couldn’t find him, Hartley; his office was locked.”
“Well, he’s still in town. That damn fool sheriff read the answer to that telegram right in front of him. Some folks never will have any brains, and it seems as though about the time they get elected sheriff they lose all their natural sense.”
“Do you think Baggs knows somethin’?”
“He knows that we know the girl didn’t go away last night, and that we know Pollock didn’t take that train. It may not be of any interest to him to know this—but he knows it, if it is.”
“Have you any idea why this was done, Hartley?”
“Nope; have you?”
Len shook his head wearily, but Hashknife had a feeling that Len knew more than he was telling. Whispering and Sailor came to them, seeking information—Len had told them that he didn’t believe Nan wrote the note—and now he told them that Nan did not leave on that eleven-thirty train from Lobo Wells.
“Yuh don’t mean to say that somebody kidnapped her, do yuh?” asked Whispering. “Wouldn’t nobody do that?”
“There’s always somebody that’ll do anythin’,” declared Sailor. “We ain’t had a first-class hangin’ for a long time.”
“Catch a rabbit before yuh skin him,” grunted Whispering. “The worst of it is, this must have happened while I’m down at the bunk-house last night.”
“We left yuh here to guard her,” said Sailor.
“You left me here ’cause I had rheumatism, yuh mean. Nobody told me to ride herd on her.”
“Well, boys, it couldn’t be helped,” sighed Len. “There’s no blame comin’ to anybody. Mebby everythin’ is all right. I guess I’ll go to town and have a talk with Baggs,” and then savagely: “And he’ll talk to me, or I’ll saw off his damn ears.”
“That would be my idea of a holiday,” grinned Whispering as Len hurried down to the stable to get his horse.
“Why does everybody hate Baggs?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno,” confessed Whispering. “I hate him for the things he said about Len at the trial. Old Harmony Singer hated him a-plenty. I had to talk pretty strong to keep Harmony from killin’ him. He shore was a tough old feller.”
“Singer was dragged to death, wasn’t he?”
Whispering nodded sadly.
“They didn’t make ’em better,” said Sailor.
“You knew Len’s wife?” Hashknife queried.
“Shore,” nodded Whispering quickly. “She didn’t shoot square.”
“Before he was sent up?”
Whispering and Sailor exchanged quick glances, and Whispering cleared his throat harshly.
“Afterward,” he said huskily.
Len was riding up from the stable, and the three of them went back to Lobo Wells. Len was plainly worried.
“I don’t know what to say to Baggs,” he confessed, as they neared the town.
“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “Just tell him that she went away without leavin’ any orders, and see what he has to say about it. No use rubbin’ him the wrong way. Don’t let him know that yuh suspect anythin’ wrong.”
“That might be best; I’ll do it.”
But Len got the surprise of his life when he went to see Baggs in his office. The lawyer was inclined to be dictatorial.
“No, I don’t know where Miss Singer went,” he said. “She left a note under my door sayin’ she was leavin’ for San Francisco and might not be back.”
He produced the note, written in the same hand and on the same kind of paper as the one she had left for Len.
“She didn’t tell me she might not be back,” said Len.
“Well, she told me. And, another thing, Ayres: I have power of attorney to run the Box S until she returns. Miss Singer signed the paper several days ago. If you want to see it⸺”
“Gave you power of attorney to run the Box S?”
“Exactly. And I’m going to run it, Ayres. You are through as foreman, and you can notify Taylor and Jones that they are also through.”
Len stared at him blankly.
“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh?” he asked softly.
“Not at all. You and your men move out, and I’ll hire a new crew. It has been done before, so I’m not setting any precedent. I have explained to the sheriff just what I intend to do; so the less you say or do about it the better it will be for you, Ayres.”
Len was mad. He wanted to take that skinny neck between his two hands and squeeze real hard. But he was forced to admit that Baggs had the whip hand.
“I suppose you’ll sign and cash that thousand dollar cheque now?” said Len slowly.
“If it suits me—yes. I have the right.”
Len studied the situation for a while. Then he said slowly:
“She’ll have to come back to have that will probated.”
“I don’t think so. She has been established here, and if it is impossible for her to be present—well, it is merely a matter of legal procedure. I don’t think the court will even raise a question.”
“Another friend of yours pulled out on the same train last night, didn’t he?”
“Who was that?”
“Pollock.”
“Did he? I didn’t know it. Why do you say he’s a friend of mine, Ayres?”
“I heard he was.”
“Don’t you believe everything you hear, Ayres.”
“Who brought Miss Singer to town last night?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t, Baggs?”
“I think that will be about all. If you will make out the pay-roll for yourself and the other two men I’ll give you a cheque for it. Be off the Box S by to-morrow evening.”
Len stifled an impulse to manhandle Baggs and left the office. Hashknife, Sleepy and Breezy were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, and Len went down to them. He drew Hashknife aside and told him what Baggs had done, while Hashknife whistled unmusically between his teeth.
“Showed you the note she left under his door, eh?” mused Hashknife. “She shore sneaked fast, Len. But where did she go from there? Who brought her to town? I felt sure that Baggs went out after her, but I just asked the man at the stable, and he said that Pollock was the only man who hired a rig from him last night.”
“Who is this Pollock person, anyway?” asked Len. “He came here after I went away.”
“Flash gambler, from Frisco. Unless I’m mistaken, his name used to be Evans, and he’s wanted for killin’. Looks to me like a slick-fingered killer. They tell me he used to work for Harry Cole of the Oasis. Cole told me that Pollock got busted up in a wreck in Frisco and was out here visitin’ while his arm healed up.”
“Hartley, do you think Nan ran away with Pollock?”
Hashknife studied Len’s face for a few moments.
“Len,” he said softly, “is this anxiety merely for the boss of the Box S, or is it⸺”
“I’m just a plain damn fool!” said Len savagely. “I’ve been a fool ever since I came back here. I suppose,” he added bitterly, “I’ll keep on bein’ a fool all my life.”
“And they are legion,” sighed Hashknife.
“What did you say, Hartley?”
“I just said that we’re in the majority.”
“Uh-huh—I suppose. Well, I hate to go out and break the news to Whispering and Sailor. They’ve lived there for years; sorta pensioned by Harmony. They’ll want to come in and kill Baggs. And, Hartley, I’m afraid it will require the sheriff to shake ’em loose from the Box S. I can land another job, but they can’t.”
“Well, he gave yuh until to-morrow night, didn’t he? Kingdoms have changed hands in shorter time than that. I’m goin’ up to my room and do a lot of thinkin’. And I’ve got a hunch that Nan didn’t run away with Pollock.”
“I hope yo’re right, Hartley. I’ll see what I can think about before I see yuh again.”
Hashknife went up to his room and sprawled on the bed.
“Of all the snake trails I ever follered, this is the worst,” he told himself. “What’s it all about, anyway? There’s one cinch bet, and that is that somebody around here is scared of me, and I don’t know what for.”
He reviewed the killing of Charley Prentice, who had been sober and industrious until Len Ayres came back. What was Prentice afraid of, he wondered? Was it because he had married Len’s ex-wife? Did he fear Len’s wrath so much that he drank himself to a physical wreck?
The evidence of little Larry would indicate that the man or men who killed Prentice wanted to throw the blame on Len. And would they commit murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable, Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might talk.
For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he forgotten that it was past supper time.
Hashknife got up and washed his face in the cracked porcelain bowl. He placed his sombrero atop his bandages and did a few clumsy dance steps on the creaking floor, after which he sang softly:
“When my engine roars down through the cut,
I’ll tell yuh what to do:
If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;
If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”
Sleepy looked at him curiously. It was not often that Hashknife sang a song—for which Sleepy was duly thankful, because Hashknife was not exactly a vocalist. But Sleepy knew that when Hashknife sang, even a short part of a verse, it was because he had solved something.
“What do yuh know?” asked Sleepy curiously.
Hashknife grinned softly and looked at himself in the old mirror.
“I know it’s time to eat, cowboy. Glad yuh reminded me.”
They found Ben Dillon and Breezy eating their supper; so they sat down at the same table. The sheriff masticated rapidly for several moments, his eyes on Hashknife. Then:
“Hartley, I’d like to have yuh tell me what that telegram meant. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ folks use my name on telegrams, the same of which I don’t know anythin’ about. The darn thing don’t make sense. You ain’t never showed me jist who yuh are, and—well, what about it?”
Hashknife smiled across the table at the sheriff, who grunted audibly, but waited for Hashknife to speak.
“I’ll pay for the telegram,” said Hashknife.
“That part don’t interest me none; I want to know what it was all about.”
Hashknife did not smile now. He looked at the sheriff with his level gray eyes, as he said softly: “I can’t tell yuh now, sheriff. Too many cooks always spoil the broth.”
“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Well, you got a nerve, Hartley. Oh, it’s O.K. with me if all this is on the square.”
“It’s all right, I give you my word.”
Baggs had talked to the sheriff, telling him that he was firing the crew at the Box S, and saying that he might have some trouble over it.
“Kinda tough,” agreed Breezy, digging away at a tough steak with a dull knife. “Len’s got the kid to look after, too. Mebby he’ll rent the Prentice house and start housekeepin’. Be funny if he did, wouldn’t it?”
“Did Prentice own the house?” asked Hashknife.
“Belongs to Harry Cole,” said the sheriff. “Prentice rented from him.”
“Mebby Baggs will give us a job on the Box S,” grinned Sleepy.
“Stranger things than that have happened,” grunted Breezy.
“Shore,” grinned Hashknife. “I remember readin’ about the sea openin’ up and lettin’ the Hebrews go through dry-shod.”
“I never swallered that,” choked Breezy. “Must ’a’ been plenty mud. I don’t believe in mi-rackles, but the jigger that served this steak shore does. Hey, Charley! Take this steak back and try it on the next customer. I know when I’m whipped.”
“Don’t like taste?” inquired the Chinaman.
“Boy, I never got that far. Gimme some aigs.”
“Yessa.”
Hashknife turned to the sheriff, who was grinning.
“Pollock went away last night, didn’t he?”
“Yeah, he went away on the⸺” The sheriff hesitated as he remembered the wording of that telegram. “I heard he did,” he finished rather lamely. “What about him?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
“Do you know Pollock, Hartley?”
“Never met the gent in my life.”
“Then why are you so interested in him?”
“It ain’t so much the man as it is the things he does.”
“What’s he done?”
Hashknife paused with a forkful of food short of his lips. “Quién sabe?” he said softly.