“Skelton did not wipe out your graveyard. He had nothin’ to do with it. Accusin’ him of that was a —— good scheme to git rid of him. It’s a wonder that folks didn’t lynch him for it. It was a good joke to plant them tombstones in his front-yard. Sure it was. It gave a —— good reason for him to go out and wipe out the graveyard and to stop any more buryin’ there.”
Hashknife stopped for a moment. Jake Blue had gone gray as ashes, but his eyes flashed wickedly. Doc Clevis hunched in his saddle, his face set in lines of wonderment and fear.
“Skelton told me he didn’t do it,” continued Hashknife softly, “and I believed him. I knew that somebody wanted to force him away from this country. Them white tombstones”—Hashknife pointed at the yard—“were only an effect.
“The last man to be buried in that graveyard up the road was Faro, a gambler. Jake Blue, Doc Clevis and Spot Easton buried him, ’cause the other folks didn’t want him buried there.
“They dug his grave near the little creek. Right after that burial this graveyard joke was pulled off. Do you know why?”
Hashknife leaned closer to the crowd and his eyes flashed wickedly.
“No? You don’t? Well, I do! Two feet deep, where that gambler was buried, is the cropping of a ledge of quartz that is so danged rich in gold that it scared me. Jake Blue, Easton and Doc Clevis moved your graveyard for fear they might never own that gold. They killed Quinin Quinn, either because he knew too much, or to try and scare Skelton into sellin’ ’em the ranch!”
As Hashknife was finishing Skelton and Sleepy stepped out onto the porch beside him. Behind them came Lonesome Lee.
For a moment there was absolute silence, broken only by the slap of Jake Blue’s palm against the butt of his gun.