Andrew Jackson Polk was a very self-satisfied sort of an attorney at law. He was so broad-minded that right or wrong was all a matter of precedent. Like Abraham Lincoln, he was gaunt of frame and rather coarse of feature, but the resemblance stopped right there. He was prominent in two places—his nose and his Adam’s apple.
It was a common practice for Andrew Jackson Polk to leave his little office on the main street of Medicine River about nine o’clock in the morning—he slept in the rear of the office—and cross the street to the War Paint saloon, where he imbibed a large glass of “cawn-juice” and exchanged pleasantries with the bartender.
It might be well to mention that Andrew Jackson Polk was from the South—or rather his paternal ancestors had moved from somewhere in that locality while Andrew was still in swaddling clothes, but in some way he had adhered to the Southern drawl, affected by stage colonels, Uncle Toms, etc.
At any rate, he was a leading attorney of the Medicine River country, so his ancestry and dialect was neither a help nor a hindrance in a land where nobody cared who your grandfather was nor how you talked.
And it so happened that he fared forth to the War Paint saloon to absorb his morning’s morning and met therein Hashknife and Sleepy, who had ridden early from the Diamond H. They had left Ma and Uncle Billy telling each other across the breakfast table what they would do to make amends for the things they had done before.
“Have somethin’ to shake the sleep out of yuh,” invited Hashknife.
“Thank yuh, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, nodding to the bartender. “I’ll take the usual, Jeff.”
Thereupon Jeff Long, the bartender, filled a large high-ball glass with corn liquor and shoved it across the bar.
“To you, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, and the two cowboys watched in amazement as the Adam’s apple vibrated convulsively and the glass was empty.
“My ——!” snorted Sleepy. “You shore don’t gnaw at yore liquor.”
“Ahem-m-m!” Andrew Jackson Polk shuddered, grimaced—smiled.
“I don’t like to get personal, but I’d like to know what yore business is,” said Hashknife.
“I am,” said Andrew J. Polk, “an attorney at law. My name is Andrew Jackson Polk, at your service, suh.”
“Uh-huh—a lawyer.”
“Commonly called,” nodded Polk. The huge drink had begun to percolate and he expanded visibly. “I have been mentioned as a possibility for county attorney, although I have never been an office seeker.”
“Kinda hide yore light under a bushel, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“I do not seek the flare of publicity. Shall we drink again?”
“I’d like to,” said Sleepy innocently. “I’ve been havin’ a little trouble with my eyes, and I wasn’t sure whether I seen right or not.”
They drank again, still amazed at the swallowing ability of Andrew Jackson Polk. It was not often that the attorney imbibed the second drink, but common courtesy forced him to return the compliment—and he had eaten no breakfast as yet.
The two cowboys rolled their cigarets, while Andrew Jackson Polk leaned on the bar, examining his empty glass. He had not cleared his throat, following the last drink, but finally was able to accomplish it. He upset his glass on the bar, knocked it aside, as though it was something he never expected to use again, and unbuttoned his collar.
“Feel cramped around the neck?” asked Sleepy innocently.
“I feel nothing, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “I am about to sing.” He braced his legs and tried several times to hum a tune, but the effort was wasted.
“Let’s not sing,” suggested Hashknife.
“I bow to shuperior wishdom,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “Let’s go and eat shomething.”
“We had breakfast at the ranch,” said Hashknife.
“What ranch—if I may ask a question, suh?”
“The Diamond H.”
“Oh!” Andrew Jackson Polk squinted with one eye at Hashknife. “Diamond H, eh? It appears, suh, that you are the strangers who have taken charge of that ranch. I am pleased to meet yo’, gentlemen. And now I must tea’ myself away. Until we meet again, gentlemen.”
He struck his shoulder against the side of the door, turned completely around on the sidewalk and only saved himself from a fall by grasping a porch-post with both hands.
“Whoa!” he snorted.
It took him some time to get his bearings, and he went up the street, heading in the direction of the nearest restaurant, and giving a good imitation of a man who realizes his condition, but defies the world to prove it by his walk.
“Drunken dignity,” laughed Hashknife. “I never was able to figure out why a lawyer should try to be dignified, unless they had so much to conceal that they was afraid to relax.”
“Polk is a queer jigger,” said the bartender. “I’ve been here quite a while, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him take two drinks in succession.”
“If he took three he’d have to wear a divin’ suit,” laughed Sleepy.
A man came from a room at the rear of the saloon, carrying a suitcase, and stopped at the bar. He was a plainly dressed, rather pale-faced sort of a person. He nodded to Hashknife and shook hands with the bartender.
“Goin’ to take the stage, Charley?” asked the bartender.
“Yes. Be good to yourself, Jeff. I’ll probably be back in a month or so. Don’t take any bad money and keep away from the girls.”
“You leave that to me, Charley. So-long.”
He picked up his suitcase, nodded to the two cowboys and walked across the street.
“Best faro dealer in the country,” said the bartender. “He’s been goin’ to take a vacation for a long time.”
“What’s his name?” asked Sleepy.
“Charley Deal. Name kinda fits his occupation, eh?”
“He don’t look like a gambler,” observed Hashknife.
“Well, he sure is.” The bartender polished a glass carefully. “Charley never raises his voice, never seems to get mad. Mebbe it’s because he’s educated. But lemme tell yuh somethin’, gents: Don’t never start nothin’ with him.”
“Not us,” said Hashknife. “We never start trouble with anybody. If everybody was like me and Sleepy, they could turn West Point into a hospital for crippled doves.”
“I suppose they could,” nodded the bartender innocently. It was doubtful if he knew what West Point was, and he was willing to take the crippled doves for granted.
Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they purchased some tobacco. There was little of interest around Medicine River at that time in the day, and they wanted to kill time until the bank opened.
Andrew Jackson Polk was coming from the restaurant. A big breakfast had killed the effects of the liquor, and he was fairly sober. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him into his office, but he was none too cordial.
“You got any free advice this mornin’?” asked Hashknife.
“Personal or legal, suh?” asked Polk.
“Personal don’t cost anythin’, so we’ll call this personal. I’m lookin’ for an opinion, Polk. Suppose a bank takes a mortgage on a piece of property. This property depreciates badly, but the bank is forced to take it over. The bank knows danged well that this property ain’t worth nowhere near the amount of the mortgage, but they sells it for that amount, naturally leading the buyer to suppose that it is worth as much as when they gave the mortgage. What can the buyer do?”
Andrew Jackson Polk squinted at Hashknife, rubbed his own right ear industriously and shook his head.
“It looks to me like the buyer was stuck, suh.”
“If the seller misrepresented the value?”
“He didn’t do that, did he?”
“I dunno. Suppose he did?”
“Mm-m-m. That’s different, suh. Offhand, I would say that the buyer seems to have grounds foh legal action.”
“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. They started to leave the room.
“In case of legal action, I am always at my office, suh.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Hashknife seriously.
It was a few minutes later that the bank was opened by Parker Miller, and the two cowboys lost no time in entering therein. He called a cheery “hello” to them, gave some orders to the cashier and came back to see what they wanted.
“Well, what’s new?” he asked.
“Nothin’ much,” admitted Hashknife. “We figured that you was through with our services; so we rode in early.”
“Through with your services?” Miller did not seem to understand. “Just what do you mean, boys?”
“Well, since the bank sold the Diamond H—” began Hashknife.
“Sold the Diamond H?” Miller’s serious expression was replaced by a smile. “What’s the joke, Hartley?”
Hashknife squinted at Miller for a moment and nodded toward Miller’s private office.
“Mebbe we better talk back there, Miller.”
Miller closed the door behind them and waited for Hashknife to speak. It did not take him long to explain about Ma Holton. In fact Hashknife grew rather bitter in his narrative.
“But we haven’t sold the ranch,” protested Miller. “There is a mistake somewhere, Hartley. Wait a moment.”
He stepped outside and called to Frank Laskey, who left his desk and came in the private office.
“What negotiations have ever been made toward selling the Diamond H?” asked Miller.
Laskey squinted thoughtfully. “None, except that letter from Mrs. Holton. I showed you that.”
“Yes, I remember the letter. She wrote us, asking what had been done about the mortgage, I believe.”
“I have her letter on file,” said Laskey. “I wrote an answer, in which I told her that the legal time had elapsed and that the bank owned the Diamond H. I remember the incident very well. Shall I get her letter and a copy of my reply?”
“I wish yuh would,” said Hashknife. Laskey looked at Miller, who nodded. They looked over her letter and the carbon copy of Laskey’s reply, but there was nothing to gain from the letters.
“She said she paid ten thousand dollars for the ranch?” asked Miller.
“And interest,” nodded Hashknife
“Did she say she had the mortgage?”
“That’s what she said.”
Frank Laskey brought in the original mortgage and Hashknife looked it over. There was no question that this was the genuine document. Laskey took it back to the vault. Hashknife squinted away from the smoke of his cigaret and looked at Miller. There was little question in his mind of Miller’s honesty.
“This is goin’ to be ——, Miller,” said Hashknife sadly. “She thinks she’s saved Uncle Billy from the poor-house, and all she’s done is to buy a ticket there herself.”
“It looks that way,” said Miller gloomily. “Is she in her right mind, Hartley? You know what I mean, don’t you? Perhaps she has worried about the old place so much that—well, it could happen.”
Hashknife shook his head quickly. “Not that, Miller. She’s as sane as we are. I tell yuh, she’s been hooked out of her money.”
“Well, I’d like to see that mortgage, Hartley—if there is one.”
Hashknife got to his feet and leaned against the table.
“Miller, I dunno how yuh feel about this matter. To tell her that she’s been beat out of her money will just about kill both of ’em. They’re gettin’ old, Miller. My ——, they just set there and plan what they’re goin’ to do. Try to imagine what it means, can’t yuh?”
“Yes, I think I can see your angle, Hartley.”
“Then help me out. Ride out with us and see that mortgage. Don’t let them know that it’s phoney. Yo’re payin’ me and Sleepy fifty apiece per month. You keep that money, Miller. All we need is food. Let the old folks stay, will yuh? They tell me that a bank ain’t got no feelin’s, but you can feel, Miller.”
“I don’t know,” faltered Miller. “They’d find out—”
“Mebby. Let’s take a chance. It won’t cost the bank anythin’ to experiment.”
“All right.” Miller got to his feet. “I’ll drive out there and see things for myself, Hartley. You could talk a Scotchman out of his religion. Come on.”
“I’ll take back what I came to say,” grinned Hashknife.
Hashknife and Sleepy arrived at the ranch ahead of Miller, who came with a horse and buggy. Ma Holton was cleaning house again, and Uncle Billy was helping her. The old ranch-house was beginning to look like a different place.
“I’m going to have roses again,” she told Hashknife. “I used to have a lot of them in the front yard. Uncle Billy and I had a long talk about you two boys.
“We’ll have to have help, you see. Until we get started it will be a little hard for us to pay you regular, but we’ll make it somehow, if you’ll stay. Of course, you may have other plans.”
“Not a plan, Ma,” assured Hashknife. Miller was driving up to the house.
“He said he was comin’ up to see how yo’re gettin’ along,” said Hashknife, as they went out to the front porch.
Miller shook hands with Ma and Uncle Billy and assured Ma that he was glad to see her back at the old ranch.
“You don’t know what it means to us, Mr. Miller. Life has just started for us again.”
“I—I see,” he faltered. “Mrs. Holton, I’d like to see that mortgage again, if I may. I just want to be sure that it is all made out right.”
“Why, certainly. I’m sure we all want to be sure that it is all right.”
She went in the house, where Uncle Billy had gone after some chairs, and the two cowboys thanked Miller in whispers.
“Forget it,” smiled Miller. “I only hope it will all come out right in the end.”
Uncle Billy carried out some chairs and placed them on the porch.
“Set down, folks,” he urged. “Ma’s cleanin’ house, and yuh know what that means.”
Uncle Billy’s eye was still discolored and there was a slight swelling on his temple. Hashknife had not told Miller about the queer incident of the night before, but Miller paid no attention to the black eye. He took it for granted that the old man had been drunk and injured himself.
“You like the old ranch, don’t you?” queried Miller.
“Like it?” Uncle Billy took a deep breath. “Yeah—I don’t know jist what to say. I’ve jist been wonderin’ if I don’t feel like a bear does, when he comes out of his cave in the Spring and gets a whiff of fresh air and sees the sunshine. It shore is great to be alive—out here.”
Ma Holton came to the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face.
“I can’t find that mortgage,” she said wonderingly. “It was in my bag—that and the bill-of-sale—and they’re both gone. The bag was under the bed, and I left it in the bureau drawer. I saw the handle of it sticking out from under the bed.”
She held the bag out for their inspection—empty. Miller and the two cowboys looked quickly at each other.
“That’s what them fellers came to steal!” exploded Uncle Billy. “They stole yore papers, Ma!”
“What fellows?” asked Miller.
Hashknife examined the bag, gave it back to Ma and sat down to tell Miller what had happened the night before.
“But the bank knows that I bought it and paid the money,” said Ma, appealing to Miller, who nodded slowly.
“And they can give yuh another bill-of-sale, Ma.” Uncle Billy patted her on the shoulder. “Them darned burglars stole worthless papers.”
“Mrs. Holton, do you remember just who signed that bill-of-sale?” asked Miller.
“Besides you?” asked Ma.
“Well—yes—besides me.”
“I think it was Mr. Green. He signed his name under your signature.”
“I see, my signature was already on the bill-of-sale, was it?”
“Oh, yes. He said it was impossible for you to attend it, so you signed it before he left the bank. I don’t see what anybody would do with it, because it wasn’t worth anything to any one, except me.”
“Not in the least,” said Miller slowly. “Well, I will have to be getting back to the bank.”
He shook hands with the old folks and walked out to his buggy, followed by Hashknife and Sleepy, while the old folks went back to their cleaning.
“I don’t know what to make of it,” declared Miller.
“You don’t think she imagines all this, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Not a bit of it. Her story is too straight for that, Hartley. If we had that mortgage and bill-of-sale we might have a chance to pin the crime on the guilty parties. But they were smart enough to steal the evidence.”
“That’s right.”
“And we’ll never be able to continue this deception,” declared Miller.
“It won’t cost yuh much to try it,” said Hashknife. “You’d have to pay me and Sleepy a hundred per month, and it’s a cinch that it won’t take that much grub to keep the four of us. Send out a preacher or a justice of the peace and have ’em bring a blank marriage certificate. You can fix it, Miller. If they go to Medicine River, somebody might ruin the party.”
Miller laughed and picked up his lines. “All right, Hartley. I’ll see if it can be done.”
“And if things break wrong, they can go to the poor-house together.”
“That might not happen, if what the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association said about you was the truth, Hartley.”
“Don’t believe everythin’ that whippoorwill tells yuh,” laughed Hashknife, “He never told the truth about me yet.”
And Parker Miller was as good as his word. Supper was just over at the Diamond H, when they came trooping in: Parker Miller, Steve Morris, the justice of the peace, Allen Hogue, the county clerk, and “Cherokee” Lee, the tall, gaunt sheriff, who thought twice before speaking once.
They were all old timers in the Medicine River range. Miller had merely told them that Ma Holton had bought the Diamond H, and that Uncle Billy was not going to the poor-farm. There was so much to talk about that the oil was low in the lamps when the marriage license had been filled out and Steve Morris had stumbled through his first marriage service.
It was a queer ceremony, in the half-light of the old living-room; the old couple standing very straight and serious beside the center-table, while Morris, who was a bit near-sighted, held his book beneath the shade of the oil-lamp, as he spelled out the words that gave these old folks another chance to love, honor and obey each other again.
Hashknife listened, his mouth shut tight, his eyes suspiciously moist, while Sleepy closely examined a belt-buckle he had worn for seven years. As Steve Morris finished, Uncle Billy looked at Ma and said, his voice choking slightly—
“Yesterday I was goin’ to the poor-farm—tomorrow I’m on my honeymoon.”
And while the hand-shaking was in progress, Hashknife drew Parker Miller aside.
“I want to thank yuh, Miller,” he said. “Yo’re a white man.”
“Don’t thank me,” said Miller. “I’m only accessory to a —— foolish game. I didn’t know what it meant until just now—this idea of happiness.”
“It is fun, kinda,” smiled Hashknife. “Yuh won’t never show a money profit, Miller.”
Cherokee Lee came to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“I ain’t never met yuh, Hartley,” he said slowly. “Howdy.”
“Howdy, Sheriff.”
“Best weddin’ I ever seen—’cept m’ own. Got buck fever. Had the ring in m’ mouth and swallered the —— thing, and then I got shot twice in the laigs with bird-shot durin’ the shivaree. They said it was accidental, but I dunno. My girl shore was craved by quite a few fellers. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”
“It sure was providential for Uncle Billy,” said Morris, as the four men rode back to Medicine River. “We waited the stage for half an hour this morning, but nobody knew where he had gone. And I’m glad, gentlemen; glad that it all happened this way. And it gave me a chance to get over the buck fever of marrying some one. That part of my job has always worried me.”
“Do yuh reckon they’ll get along all right?” asked Cherokee Lee. “Yuh know, Park, that ranch ain’t noways self-supportin’.”
“Let’s not worry about that,” said Miller. He did not want to answer questions, and he had a feeling that as soon as every one heard what Ma Holton had paid for the ranch he would be censured severely. But he was willing to play the game to an end.
The following morning Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses and rode away from the Diamond H. Hashknife was curious to find out approximately how many head of Diamond H cattle were left in the hills, and he also wanted to get away where he would have plenty of room to think about things.
“I feel like a danged thief and a liar every time I look at them old folks,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t like this deal.”
“If yuh think I do, yo’re crazy,” said Hashknife. “I never seen two people as happy as they are. Act like a pair of kids. Oh, well, it’s just another case of what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”
“But it sure is hard on the innocent bystander, Hashknife.”
“We’re not innocent, Sleepy. We’re as guilty as ——. Parker Miller is guilty along with us. There’s a reg’lar man—Miller. He’ll prob’ly have to account to the stockholders as soon as this report gets circulated, but he’s game to play with us.”
“Yeah, that’s right, Hashknife. This is just another deal where we’ll pull out with less than we had when we went in. When we get old, I hope to gosh we’ll be surrounded by a lot of —— fools like us. I like half-witted cowpunchers.”
“Don’t get vain,” advised Hashknife. “Next thing I know you’ll be puttin’ corn starch on yore face after shavin’, and knock out a front tooth so yuh can lisp.”
They grinned together and headed for the tops of the ridges, looking for cattle wearing the Diamond H mark, but there were few. In three hours search they counted twenty head. Their ride had brought them to the west of Medicine River, so they decided to ride down and see what they might hear in town.
Parker Miller’s first duty that morning was to take Frank Laskey, the cashier, into his confidence. He knew that Laskey would hear of the sale and probably deny it. Laskey was an undersized, pale-faced person, slightly round-shouldered from leaning over a desk-top.
Miller explained the deal to Laskey, who seemed surprized that Miller would enter any such agreement, but agreed to do his part.
“I won’t deny it,” said Laskey. “I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong about that mortgage. But you won’t be able to keep this secret very long, Mr. Miller. The stockholders—”
“The stockholders be ——!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Frank, did you ever hear of Hashknife Hartley?”
Laskey squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.
“No, sir. That tall cowboy is named Hartley, but I have never heard his given name.”
“Well, that’s Hashknife Hartley, Frank. Did you ever read ‘Sherlock Holmes’?”
“Detective stories? Oh, yes, I’ve read a few. Do you mean that Hartley is a detective?”
“They tell me—” Miller smiled and leaned back in his chair—“they tell me that Hartley started in where Holmes left off.”
Laskey smiled and adjusted his tie.
“Possibly.”
“Probably,” corrected Miller. “Anyway, Frank, we’ll wait and see.”
Laskey went back to his work which amounts to considerable in a cow-town bank where the cashier does the work of paying teller, receiving teller and the other things which are handled by departments in the big banking institutions.
Hashknife and Sleepy rode in and tied their horses to the War Paint hitch-rack. Several other horses were nodding at the rack, indolently switching their tails at the flies and trying to get their heads in the meager shade afforded by the top-pole of the rack.
There were several cowboys in the saloon, where a fair-sized poker game was in progress, but none of them paid any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who sat down against the wall to have a smoke.
“I hear that ol’ lady Holton done bought the Diamond H,” said one of the players.
“Yeah,” drawled the dealer, “and that ain’t all. Last night Steve Morris went out and married her to the old man agin. It kinda looks like the old ranch was comin’ back onto the map.”
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard. They were both drunk. Yakima was boisterous, but Chuck seemed rather unnerved from his potations.
“Yah-hoo-o-o!” screamed Yakima. “We are the people and we must be respected! Gimme a drink, before I wreck the place.”
“Aw, don’t yell,” advised Chuck.
“C’mere!” Yakima grasped Chuck by the arm and nearly tore his sleeve off. “Don’t tell me what t’ do, you—you—aw, I can’t think of what yuh are right now. Have a drink.”
Yakima invited those at the poker game to have a drink with him and, while they advanced to the bar, Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the street and crossed toward the bank. Andrew Jackson Polk was coming out of the bank and nodded to them.
“How’s law and order?” asked Hashknife, grinning.
“All right, suh. I hear you-all had a marriage at yo’ ranch last evenin’.”
“Yeah, we did. You should ’a’ been there.”
Polk laughed and nodded.
“It would have been interesting. But no one told me.”
As Polk started toward his office, which was the next building from the bank, Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard came from the saloon and started toward them. Polk merely glanced at them and walked on, but Yakima yelled at him—
“Hey! Polk! I’ll buy yuh a drink!”
“No, I thank yo’, suh.”
Yakima laughed and they came on across the street, while Polk went into his office.
“He won’t drink with us, Chuck,” complained Yakima. “Lawyers are too dignified to drink with a cow-hand. F’r a plugged dime, I’d go and make him drink with me.”
“Aw, let him alone.” Chuck did not seem to be looking for trouble. “Let’s go and get somethin’ to eat.”
“Aw-w-w right. How do-o-o.” Yakima nodded to Hashknife and almost lost his balance.
“How are yuh?” grinned Hashknife. Yakima was a cadaverous specimen of the genus cowboy, loose-jointed, unkempt. A lock of tow-colored hair hung below the band of his sombrero and interfered with his vision.
“I’m jus’ right,” declared Yakima belligerently. “’F I was any better I’d have to be held.”
Hashknife turned away, realizing that Yakima was just in the proper condition to start trouble, and he had no desire to fight with the drunken cowpuncher. As Hashknife turned away, Parker Miller came out of the bank and called him aside.
“Go down to the store,” said Miller. “I’ve given Jim Leeds orders to fill your wants, and he’s put up a bunch of staples. Might hire a livery-rig to take them out with. Find out from Mrs. Holton just what she wants, and tell her that the Diamond H credit is good at the grocery store. I suppose they’ll need credit.”
“That’s sure good of yuh,” nodded Hashknife. Yakima and Chuck had gone to the front of Polk’s office and were arguing between themselves.
“Miller,” said Hashknife, “have yuh any idea who Green might be—the feller who signed that bill-of-sale?”
“No. I was afraid to ask too many questions last night. Maybe you can get a description. Have you got anything to work on?”
“Not much. It kinda hinges on Green. I’ll see if I can find out what he looked like and let yuh know.”
“All right, Hartley, good luck.”
He went back in the bank and the two cowboys sauntered down to the store, which was on the same side of the street. Jim Leeds, the storekeeper, nodded pleasantly and indicated several boxes of stuff.
“Miller said to fix up a lot of staple stuff,” he said. “If yuh can think of anythin’ I’ve overlooked, just say so.”
Hashknife examined the articles. Miller had not been stingy in his order.
“Looks like enough to feed an army,” grinned Hashknife. “I know we’re short of food out there and this will fix us up in fine shape. Thank yuh very much.”
“Let’s buy a can of salmon, some crackers and a can of peaches,” suggested Sleepy. “I don’t want no restaurant cookin’.”
“Suits me,” nodded Hashknife.
They opened the cans and ate off the counter, while Jim Leeds talked to them of the Medicine River range. There had never been any serious trouble in that part of the country, it seemed.
“Didja ever know a feller by the name of Green?” asked Hashknife. “Used to work in the bank here, I think.”
“Green? Nope. Never worked in the Medicine River bank. I’ve been here since the town started twenty-five years ago and there ain’t been no Green workin’ in that bank.”
“Mebbe I’m mistaken in the name.”
“Must be. Parker Miller was cashier for about twelve years. Old Ase Wheeler died and they made Park the president. That was three years ago. They hired Frank Laskey for cashier.”
“Miller is a nice feller,” said Sleepy, spearing in the can for the last peach.
“Best there is,” nodded Leeds. “Clean as a hound’s tooth. Want more crackers?”
“Nope,” said Sleepy, waving them aside. “Loaded to the gills.”
“Yuh ought to be,” said Hashknife, “yuh ate most all them peaches. Well, I reckon we better hire a rig to haul all that plunder out to the ranch, Sleepy.”
“I s’pose. I’d rather set in the shade now and dream of a time when I’ll have money enough to eat canned peaches three times a day. I’d sure make a peach-eatin’ millionaire.”
Sleepy slid off the counter and stooped to dust the cracker crumbs off his clothes when he suddenly straightened at the sound of a muffled shot, or what seemed to be the report of a gun.
“What was that?” he asked.
“I dunno.” Leeds squinted thoughtfully. “Might have been a shot. Shucks, some cowpuncher is always drillin’ a hole in the floor at the War Paint. Makes a good vent for scrub-water.”
Hashknife walked to the doorway and looked across the street at the War Paint. Everything looked peaceable. As he turned back they heard some one shouting in the street.
It was Frank Laskey and he was halfway across the street to the War Paint, when the three men reached the door, running and looking back toward the bank.
“Somethin’ wrong at the bank!” snapped Hashknife. “C’mon.”
They ran up the sidewalk and were almost to the bank when several men came running from the saloon, headed by Laskey, who was yelling something about a hold-up.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Leeds halted, while from Polk’s office came Polk and the two drunken cowboys. The men all crowded in through the bank door. Hashknife managed to squeeze in behind Laskey.
There was an odor of powder smoke in the air. Parker Miller was seated at his desk, sprawled forward, his head buried in his arms. Hashknife vaulted the railing and went to him. The room was in an uproar, as the crowd questioned Laskey.
Parker Miller was dead. It did not take Hashknife long to determine this, and he held up his hand to stop the crowd from coming inside the railed-off space.
“Miller is dead,” he told the crowd. “Stay where you are until the sheriff comes. C’mere, Laskey.”
Laskey was all out of breath, trembling with excitement, but he came willingly.
“Everybody keep still and let him tell his story,” said Hashknife. “You’ll never get it straight this way.”
“They came in the back door, I guess,” panted Laskey. “No one was here, except Miller and myself. There was two men. I think there was three, but the other stayed with the horses. They were masked.
“I didn’t see them until one stuck a gun in my face. The other had a gun pointed at Miller. They told me to hand over all the money I had. Just a few minutes before that Miller had told me to fix up a package of currency which was to be expressed to Cheyenne. They got it all.
“I tried to hide it, but it wasn’t any use. I don’t know how much they got, but it was quite a lot. I couldn’t see what Miller did, but I heard one of them tell him to keep his hands on the table, and then I heard the shot.
“I thought they were going to shoot me, too, so I dropped on the floor as they ran out the rear door. Then I ran across the street and gave the alarm.”
Laskey was panting and clinging to the railing as he finished his breathless tale.
“What makes yuh think there was three of ’em?” asked Hashknife.
“There was some silver,” said Laskey. “One of them said that it was too heavy, but the other said, ‘Aw, ——, the three of us can take care of it.’”
At this juncture Cherokee Lee came in and shoved his way through the crowd. He went straight to Miller and lifted his head. The blue hole in the middle of the forehead told its own story. The sheriff turned to Laskey.
“Talk a little, Frank,” he said softly.
As swiftly as possible the nervous cashier repeated his story.
“Aw, what the ——!” snorted a cowboy. “While all this story-tellin’ is goin’ on them three —— are headin’ into the hills.”
Hashknife squinted at the crowd. The two drunken cowboys seemed to have sobered, and Cherokee Lee had no trouble in gathering a sufficient posse for his needs. He did not swear nor lift his voice above his usual soft drawl as he told the boys to get their horses and go with him.
Hashknife and Sleepy did not offer to go, and the sheriff did not ask them. Every one seemed shocked at the murder of Parker Miller and the people of the town thronged the sidewalk in front of the bank while the doctor made his examination.
Andrew Jackson Polk was so excited that he legged his way across to the War Paint and bought himself a drink: Which was an unusual thing for him to do in the middle of the day.
“I heard the shot,” he told Hashknife and Sleepy. “I was havin’ an argument with those two drunken cowboys. They insisted on me having a drink with them. It sounded as though some one had struck the side of my office.”
“Do yuh think the sheriff will catch ’em?” queried the bartender.
“I hope so,” said Hashknife. “They evidently had their getaway all planned out, and they sure had plenty of time to slide out of sight. Was Miller a married man?”
“No suh.” The drink had calmed Polk. “It is a fortunate thing that he had no dependents.”
“Well, it sure is a terrible thing,” said the bartender. “Miller was awful well liked by everybody.”
“Not everybody,” said Hashknife. “They shot him down without giving him a chance, shot him at his desk, when his hands were in sight. I tell yuh, they’ll pay for that piece of work. They may dodge the sheriff and all that, but they’ll make a slip.”
“The perfect criminal doesn’t live,” said Polk wisely. “They make a mistake some where. Those men secured a lot of money, it seems. It is unlikely that they are men who can stand to have a fortune and not spend it unwisely. My theory would be to watch for three men, or, possibly one or two men, who are exhibiting too much money.”
“No, they can’t stand prosperity,” agreed Hashknife. “Are there plenty of hidin’ places back in the hills around here?”
“There must be, if yuh know the country,” said the bartender. “It’s all hills and brush.”
“And they wasn’t takin’ many chances by comin’ in the back door,” mused Hashknife. “They could look out the big windows and see any one comin’. Prob’ly some one who has planned it a long time.”
Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street with Polk and stopped in front of his office. The doctor and three other men were removing Miller’s body from the bank, while a curious crowd looked on.
Hashknife walked down between Polk’s office and the bank. It was an alley, about ten feet wide. The rear door of the bank was almost in the center of the rear wall. To the right was a high tight-board fence which enclosed the rear of the general store.
To the left was the rear of Polk’s office, and beyond that was the rear of the stage-office, a small corral and a stable. Almost in a direct line with the alley, and about two hundred yards away, was the rear of a large stable, a corral, and beyond that was a small cottage.
There was plenty of room for the bandits to have made their getaway. Not a fence barred their way to the hills beyond the town, where numerous, brushy cañons would give them a cover. But there was nothing out there to give any idea of which way the men had gone, so Hashknife went back to the street where he found Sleepy listening to Andrew Jackson Polk reciting the murder to a newcomer. The drink had caused Andrew to become eloquent, and he pictured the tragedy with appropriate gestures. In fact, he even attempted to imitate the sound of the gun.
Laskey had accompanied the body to the doctor’s office, but now he came back and unlocked the bank. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him inside. Laskey was completely unnerved and did not seem to know what he was doing.
“You better lock up and go home,” advised Hashknife. “Yo’re shakin’ like a leaf, Laskey.”
“I know it. Do you think they’ll catch those men?”
“Mebby. Do yuh remember enough about ’em to give me any kind of a description?”
“No, I don’t think so. They were masked you know.”
“Yeah. Why do yuh reckon they shot Miller?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he tried to get a gun. The man told him to keep his hands on the desk.”
“Uh-huh. Did Miller have any enemies, Laskey?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Do yuh usually keep the back door open?”
“Not always. It was awful hot in here today; so I opened it to let the breeze blow through. I meant to close it, but I was busy.”
“Uh-huh. Did Miller tell yuh about the Diamond H ranch?”
“Yes—this morning. I promised to keep still about it.”
“Makes it look kinda bad now, eh?”
“I don’t know what will happen now. I’m so nervous I can’t even think straight. Maybe I better lock up and go home.”
“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.
They left Laskey and went to the livery-stable, where they secured a rig. Leeds helped them load the stuff in the wagon and they went back to the ranch, leading their saddle-horses behind the wagon.
“This sure is ——,” complained Sleepy. “Kinda puts our scheme in the hole, cowboy.”
“It sure looks thataway, Sleepy. With Miller alive we had a chance to keep goin’ for a while, but I’m kinda scared that our cake is all dough right now. But don’t let the old folks know.”