“Bring ’em down here,” ordered Hashknife. “All three of ’em.”
They came—Henry Miller, Jud Hardy, Ted Ames—brought down bodily by cowboys who longed for a chance to handle them roughly. Hashknife looked them over. Miller and Hardy shut their lips tightly. Hashknife stepped up to Ted Ames.
“You’ll talk,” he said. “I’ve got the goods on all of you; but a talk will help you out, Ames—State’s evidence, you know.”
“Squealer, eh?” defiantly.
“Not now. It’s a hangin’ matter—unless you talk.”
Ames looked around at the faces of the men.
“I’ll talk,” he said. “Cutter and Ryker schemed it, just like you said. Cutter shot Conley; Jimmy Moran almost got Cutter that night. Me and Cutter killed them Big 4 steers. Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in the country, until Cutter sent away for one. Usin’ a twenty-two would cinch it on to Conley. Cutter wanted Mose Conley out of the way, so he could buy the ranch. Dawn Conley admitted to Ryker that she and her mother would be willin’ to sell.”
“Who shot Sleepy, my pardner, and tried to kill me?”
“Me and Jud Hardy. I missed you, Cutter said we’d have to kill you both, and they’d blame English Ed and his gang.”
“All right,” nodded Hashknife. “Cutter knew I found that mine, didn’t he?”