A dance in Medicine River was something to date time from. From miles around came the ranchers, bringing their families, even unto the dogs. The dance-hall was located above the general store, and the upper floor of the adjoining building was utilized as a dining-room, where the ladies of the town served a chicken dinner at midnight.
Steve Morris, the rotund justice of the peace, was floor manager, and did the “calling” for the square dances, while two fiddles, a banjo, an accordion and a bass viol rendered their own version of popular dance music.
There were few really good dancers in Medicine River. Frank Laskey, by virtue of having danced somewhere in the East, was possibly the most graceful male dancer, according to the female idea. Andrew Jackson Polk was also fairly good, except that his movements were a trifle too staid and dignified.
The rest of them just danced, perspired, limped and drank hard liquor. It seemed that there was a steady procession of males from the dance-hall entrance to the War Paint saloon, and the air of the dance-hall was redolent of a breath-killer called “Sen-sen,” which, when mixed with the fumes of bad whisky, made a combination that was almost anesthetic to the innocent bystander.
And bad whisky played a big part in the Medicine River dances, giving Steve Morris plenty of chance to exert his authority. Too much attention to another man’s girl meant immediate trouble, and there was also a great danger of two couples claiming the same position in a quadrille.
Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers divided their time between the dance-hall and the War Paint, promoting peace as much as possible. No man had ever been jailed in Medicine River for merely fighting, and there was no such a charge as disturbing the peace.
As usual the War Paint’s gambling games were doing a big business. A dance meant that every cattle-man would advance his men some money, if they needed it, and they always did. And the War Paint was in business to see that none of it ever went back to the ranch.
Cherokee Lee’s posse had ridden back late that evening, tired, but thoroughly satisfied that they could find nothing. To the boys from O’Leary’s ranch it meant a long ride out to the ranch for their dance clothes, so they compromised by buying shirts, collars, neckties and some perfume at the store and making their changes in the rear of the War Paint.
To Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard the dance meant nothing. They were not going to dance, anyway. There was considerable discussion over the missing cowboys among the men who lived farther away from Medicine River and had not heard about it.
“Well, we didn’t find anythin’,” declared Yakima. “I thought that —— sheriff was goin’ to keep us out all night. Gimme a drink, bartender.”
Charley Deal was off shift and was drinking. But he was one of those cold-blooded individuals whom liquor does not thaw. Always a good dresser, just now he was immaculate—a direct contrast to Yakima and Chuck, who told him of their fruitless quest.
“Cherokee thinks they’re dead,” said Chuck squinting at his empty glass. “He was always lookin’ for buzzards.”
“Looking for buzzards?”
“Yeah. Let’s have another drink. He thinks that the buzzards will locate the bodies, Charley. You goin’ to dance tonight?”
“Maybe.”
“They’re dancin’ now,” stated a perspiring cowboy, who pushed in beside them to get a drink. “Gosh, that shore was a swift ol’ quadrille. The old floor is as slickery as grease. Gimme some sody for a chaser. All right, ginger ale will do. Here’s go.”
He gulped his drink and hurried back. Bill Stivers came in with Andrew Jackson Polk, who was also dressed for the occasion, and Deal invited them to drink.
“Not tonight, thanks,” grinned Stivers.
“Why not tonight?” queried Deal coldly.
“Just a li’l idea of mine,” laughed Stivers. Deal watched him walk back to a crowd around the roulette wheel and turned to Polk.
“You haven’t any idea, have you?” he asked.
“I have an idea that a drink might do me good.”
They drank together, along with Yakima and Chuck, who seemed to be trying to get as many drinks as possible in a short length of time.
“You fellows better go easy,” advised Deal. “No use being a pair of fools.”
“All right,” choked Yakima. He and Chuck left the bar.
“Not a brain in the pair,” said Deal disgustedly, although he had drank more than both of them.
Above the noise of the saloon they could hear the shrieking of the orchestra and the deep-toned voice of Steve Morris, calling the changes.
“Going to dance?” asked Polk.
“Later—maybe.”
The music stopped, and a few moments later the panting dancers came to the saloon, crowding, laughing, indulging in rough horseplay, as they mopped at their foreheads, tugged at tight collars and demanded service.
Two men came from the darkness near the hitch-rack and halted at the corner of the saloon. One of them was small, slender, wearing ill-fitting clothes and a sombrero pulled low over his eyes. The other was unmistakably Hashknife Hartley.
For several minutes they stood there. Another dance was on, and not until it ended and the men were filing into the saloon that Hashknife patted his companion on the shoulder and gently urged him forward.
There was no word spoken between them. The little cowboy went timidly in, was almost knocked out of the doorway, when another cowboy came out and went singing across the street.
Once inside the saloon the little cowboy moved to a point of vantage and seemed to be intently watching the faces from beneath his sombrero brim. No one noticed him. As the dancers left the bar the little cowboy joined them, came outside and walked to Hashknife, who had drawn back into the shadow.
“Well?” questioned Hashknife anxiously. In reply the little cowboy drew him to the window, where they could get a partial view of the bar.
“Third from the end,” said the little cowboy.
Hashknife laughed softly, drew his companion aside, and they went down the street, keeping in the shadow.
A few minutes later Cherokee Lee came down from the dance-hall and stepped out on the sidewalk to run face to face with Hashknife. Cherokee grunted with surprise, but Hashknife drew him down the street before any one else could see him in the lighted entrance.
“Well, what kind of a lie do yuh want me to tell now?” grinned Cherokee.
“A whopper, Sheriff. Will yuh do it?”
“Hm-m-m, I dunno. Prob’ly. My soul is about as black as I can make it now, Hartley. What do yuh want done?”
Hashknife laughed. “I want yuh to put a man in jail.”
“Who?”
“Frank Laskey.”
“For gosh sake, what for, Hartley?”
“Just for fun. I want yuh to go up in the dance-hall and make the arrest. I don’t care how many folks hear it.”
“Uh-huh?” Cherokee cleared his throat raspingly. “Well, that’s all right—but what’ll I arrest him for?”
“Listen, Cherokee,” Hashknife’s voice had lost its joking tone. “You can wink at Laskey if yuh want to when yuh arrest him. Yuh don’t need to announce what he’s arrested for, but kinda let folks know that he’s under arrest.”
“Is it a joke?” queried Cherokee. “Yuh know he can make a lot of trouble out of a thing like that, Hartley.”
“Laskey won’t—not when he finds out why it was done.”
“Uh-huh. Well, all right, Hartley. Want me to do it now?”
“Just as soon as yuh can. I’m dependin’ on yuh, ’cause I can’t be there to see yuh do it.”
“Oh, I’ll do it,” laughed Cherokee. “Shall I put him in jail?”
“Oh, sure. Make the thing look good, Sheriff.”
Cherokee went back to the doorway, wondering if he was doing the right thing, and swearing at Hashknife under his breath for asking him to make a scene in the dance-hall.
Hashknife crossed the street and met Sleepy near the hitch-rack.
“All set?” asked Sleepy anxiously.
“Yeah. Didja see Stivers?”
“He’s in the War Paint. I just told him to keep his eyes open, thasall.”
“That’s enough. C’mon.”
The music had stopped, and they could hear sounds of commotion, as several men came down the creaking stairway from the dance-hall. Men were coming out into the street as Hashknife and Sleepy walked around to the rear of the War Paint and went in through the open door.
Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard were drunkenly engrossed in a game of bottlepool; so engrossed, or so drunk, that they did not pay any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who moved in between the pool-table and the end of the bar.
Charley Deal was standing with his back against the bar, his elbows braced on the top, a cigaret dangling from his lower lip. A big poker game was in progress. Hashknife could see Andrew Jackson Polk standing behind Jim O’Leary, intently watching the play.
Bill Stivers was watching the roulette game and had not seen the entrance of Hashknife and Sleepy. In fact, no one had noticed them. Yakima Reed swore at a missed shot and dropped his cue, which clattered to the floor. He stooped to pick it up and when he lifted his head he looked straight at Hashknife and Sleepy.
An expression of bewilderment flashed across his face and he turned his head to see if Chuck Allard had seen the same thing. But Chuck was hunched down, squinting at the pool-balls. Yakima turned and looked at them again, blinking foolishly.
“Well, look who’s here!” he blurted.
His exclamation was loud enough for every one in the room to hear. Deal turned his head and looked at them coldly. Stivers began walking slowly toward them. But before any one fully realized that the missing cowboys were here in the flesh, a man came in from the front and halted midway of the room.
“Say!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Cherokee Lee has arrested Frank Laskey and took him to jail!”
The announcement disrupted the games. Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved, but their eyes took in the occupants of the room.
“Frank Laskey!” exploded one of the poker players. “What has he done?”
“I dunno.” The cowboy shook his head. “The sheriff won’t tell. Arrested him while he was dancin’ and put him in jail.”
“He talked too much,” said Hashknife.
Every one in the room turned at the sound of his voice, which carried conviction. Deal squinted narrowly, but did not move.
“Talked too much?” queried Jim O’Leary, starting to get to his feet.
“Stay where yuh are, O’Leary,” said Hashknife. “Laskey turned state’s evidence tonight.”
“Turned what?” blurted another man.
“Evidence on what?”
“What do yuh mean?”
The questions came in a volley.
“He said—” Hashknife hesitated for a moment—“he said that Green framed it all and he told who Green is.”
For a moment there was complete silence, broken by Charley Deal’s sudden shift of position. His right hand flashed inside his coat and came out holding a revolver.
But as it flashed in the yellow lamplight, the room shook from the concussion of Hashknife’s six-shooter, and Deal’s gun clattered to the floor. It had all been done so quickly that the crowd had not moved.
Yakima Reed, still holding his billiard cue, was staring at Hashknife. In fact he was still staring when Sleepy’s right uppercut caught him and knocked him flat.
As Yakima crashed to the floor, Chuck flung his cue at Sleepy and drew his gun. Dodging the cue probably saved Sleepy’s life, because Chuck’s first bullet ripped his collar.
Backing toward the rear door, Chuck tried to shoot again, but Sleepy’s gun was powder-burning the pool-table top, as he sent shot after shot at the retreating Allard, who crumpled just inside the doorway.
Still the crowd did not scatter. Deal still leaned against the bar, his cold nerve still fighting to keep him upright. Andrew Jackson Polk had not moved. He seemed a disinterested spectator until he heard Hashknife’s voice—
“Polk, yo’re next. Pick yore medicine.”
The lawyer’s eyes slowly turned to the menacing gun muzzle. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Charley Deal swayed sidewise and fell full length. The room was hazy with powder smoke, when Cherokee Lee came in.
“My ——, what’s been goin’ on?” he gasped.
“Put yore handcuffs on Polk,” said Hashknife coldly.
“On—on Polk?” faltered Cherokee.
“As quick as yuh can.”
Cherokee went slowly forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. Polk made no attempt to escape. He seemed old, dazed, shaking his head as though trying to remember what it was all about.
“I heard the shooting,” said Cherokee.
“Yuh better put some cuffs on this jigger, too,” said Sleepy, indicating Yakima, who was showing signs of returning consciousness.
“But what’s it all about?” Cherokee asked.
“Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard murdered Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “Allard has paid for his part in it, but yuh better put a rope on Yakima, Sheriff.”
It did not take the crowd long to find a rope, and Yakima awoke to find himself well trussed, and a crowd willing to tie another around his neck. But Cherokee talked them out of a lynching and took his prisoners to jail.
Yakima refused to talk and Polk seemed unable. They stumbled into the jail, where Frank Laskey’s pale face looked at them through the bars.
“I’ll have to put you fellers together in a cell,” said Cherokee to Polk, as he unlocked the other cell.
“Laskey didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, did he?” asked Cherokee, after locking the cell-door. “I don’t sabe what the joke was all about, Hartley.”
“Yeah, Laskey had plenty to do with it,” said Hashknife. “It was Laskey who furnished the original mortgage of the Diamond H to make the forgery from. Deal sold the ranch to Ma Holton. He was the only man in the town who was a stranger to her.
“Deal, Yakima and Allard stole the Diamond H cattle, took ’em to Silver Lake, where they shipped ’em. Polk was the smart man of the crowd. He made out the legal papers for the ranch sale. He had a theory that most robbers give themselves away by spendin’ the money right away, so he made ’em put the money all in his safe.
“The day that Ma Holton came back to the Diamond H, Charley Deal pulled out of the country. He couldn’t afford to have her recognize him. I reckon the gang thought that as soon as she found out that she had lost all her money, she’d vamoose and Charley could come back.
“Anyway, just to play safe, they raided the ranch and stole the papers. It kinda had me guessin’ for a while. Then came the murder of Parker Miller and the bank robbery. Laskey said that those robbers were masked. I figured that Miller was killed because he recognized them. And then I figured that he recognized ’em because they wasn’t masked.
“They came in the back door. It ain’t a usual thing for a back door in a bank to be open thataway. Laskey said he opened it on account of the heat. He did, like ——. He opened it so that Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard could come in, take the money he had already sacked up for ’em, shoot Miller, and sneak back into Polk’s office, where the money was put in Polk’s safe.”
The jail was crowded with interested listeners; the dance forgotten.
“How do yuh know it was in Polk’s safe?” asked Cherokee.
“Because,” Hashknife laughed, “I hit Polk over the head, unlocked his old keylock safe with his own key, and took the money out to the Diamond H ranch.”
“My ——!” Stivers began to see a light. “That was the night we told Polk that he had been dreamin’.”
“How much money was there?” asked Cherokee weakly. Disclosures were coming almost too fast for him to keep track of them.
“Eighteen thousand dollars.”
“Eighteen thousand!”
“And that’s what they came out to the ranch after the other night,” laughed Hashknife. “It was under the doorstep of the bunk-house, wrapped up in a piece of canvas—except for the twenty-five hundred dollars I spent for the Diamond H.”
“I told ’em!” crowed O’Leary. “Didn’t I tell Polk and Laskey that—”
The jar of a pistol shot stopped O’Leary from repeating what he had told Laskey and Polk. Cherokee sprang to the cell bars and peered inside. He turned back to Hashknife.
“Dang it, I thought his arrest was a joke, Hartley, so I didn’t search him for a weapon. The law won’t try Frank Laskey.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife. “I wanted at least one prisoner, and I wanted his arrest to shock Charley Deal into admittin’ that he was Green. Why, I even had Ma Holton identify Deal. She thought he was the same man.”
“But she couldn’t be sure—not sure enough. And I knew that they could stand pat and ruin all my schemes. I had the money, but that was all. I knew that the theft of it would bring Green back. And Charley Deal was the only man that came back, so I called him Green and worked everythin’ from that.”
“By golly, don’t you feel sorry?” said Cherokee. “Mebbe it’s a lot better for Laskey. Anyway, two out of five is a pretty good average.”
Anderson shoved his way to the front. He was trembling with excitement, hardly able to talk. Some one near the door had told him that Laskey had shot himself.
“This is terrible!” he exclaimed. “Three men dead. And what good has it done?”
“It pays for the murder of Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “And I’ve got about seventy-five hundred dollars that belongs to yore bank, Anderson.”
“Seventy-five hundred? Why, that’s what was stolen. This is really wonderful!”
“Aw, ——!” blurted Hashknife, and shoved his way out through the crowd.
Yakima Reed came to the bars of his cell and stared out at the crowd which moved in closer to look at him.
“I’d like to say somethin’,” he said.
“You better keep still until yuh get a lawyer,” advised Cherokee.
Yakima spat painfully, “The —— I had! Say, if I hadn’t listened to a —— lawyer I wouldn’t be where I am now. I jist want to say that I’d like to know who in —— told all this to Hartley.”
“He was right, wasn’t he?” asked Cherokee.
“——, yes! I wanted to kill the both of ’em the other night at the Diamond H but Polk thought we’d never find that money if we did, so we dumped ’em in the log shack.”
“Yo’re tellin’ quite a lot,” warned Cherokee.
“Aw, what’s the difference? We were awful suckers to not fade out of the country when we heard that they’d got out of that shack. Me and Chuck wanted to pull out, but Polk—say, if any of you fellers ever figure on pullin’ off a crooked deal, don’t take the advice of any —— lawyer.”
“Which one of you fellers killed Miller?” asked Cherokee.
“Neither one of us. Laskey done it himself.”
“Tryin’ to save yore neck?” asked O’Leary.
“It’s the only neck I’ve got, Jim.”
“Well, we’ll leave it to the law,” said Cherokee.
“Then I lose. You better take this lawshark out of my cell, before I plumb ruin him, sheriff. He’s settin’ there, thasall.”
Over at the War Paint hitch-rack four people grouped together beside an old buckboard.
Hashknife leaned back against a front wheel of the buckboard and puffed on his cigaret.
“Yuh can take eight thousand dollars and buy enough stock to kinda build up the old brand again,” said Sleepy, grinning at the little cowboy who had removed his sombrero, exposing the white hair of Ma Holton.
“I—I can’t stand many more shocks,” she said wearily.
Uncle Billy began chuckling, “I never thought I’d live to see my wife wearin’ boots and overalls and goin’ into saloons.”
“And I wanted a dance with ma this evenin’,” complained Hashknife. “Been lookin’ forward to it quite a while.”
“Blame Uncle Billy,” said ma.
“I’ll take it,” said the old man. “After what’s happened I’ll take blame for most anythin’.
“Well, let’s go home,” suggested Hashknife. “A lot of these Medicine River cowpunchers heard me say that the money was under the bunk-house doorstep—and I want to put my head on a piller tonight and feel sure that somebody ain’t goin’ to start another mystery here.”
A few minutes later, while the dance orchestra rattled into the “Irish Washerwoman” and the stentorian voice of Steve Morris ordered, “Right hands to your partners—grand right and left,” a decrepit buckboard, drawn by a mismated pair of horses, rattled out of town. And behind it rode two cowpunchers, who, for the first time since they became range tramps—were heading home.