Chapter XII · —BUZZARDS

It was three days after the voluntary surrender of Paul Lane and his son that Hashknife, Rex and Lem Sheeley rode to Mesa City from the Lane ranch.

Spike Cahill had come to the ranch the day after the attempt to capture Paul Lane and recovered the guns. If Spike bore any malice toward Hashknife, Sleepy or Rex he failed to show it, but at that time he did not know that Paul Lane had surrendered to the sheriff.

Both men had sworn that they were innocent of the charge, and they both denied shooting Noah Evans, who was slowly recovering. Long Lane swore he had not seen Ben Leach after Leach left the Oasis Saloon and that he did not take Ben’s horse and gun.

Of course, no one believed the father and son, and every one knew that they had surrendered to the law rather than take a chance of being lynched. Their guilt was so firmly fixed in the eyes of the cattlemen that any twelve men in the county would have convicted them without leaving the jury box.

Sleepy urged Hashknife to forget the case. As far as he could see there was nothing to keep them in the Black Horse range any longer, and Sleepy was anxious to get settled to a job for the winter.

But Hashknife was not satisfied. The shooting of Noah Evans was one thing unexplained. After talking with Paul Lane, he was satisfied that neither the old man nor his son were bitter enough against the 6X6 to bushwhack one of that outfit, especially when the light was so bad that they could not identify their target.

And there was Rex Morgan, whom Sleepy had dubbed the Orejano. Who in Mesa City had sent money to Rex’s mother, wondered Hashknife? And that was the reason why Hashknife, Rex and the sheriff had ridden to Mesa City. Hashknife had talked it over with Lem Sheeley and decided to seek information at the Mesa City Bank.

John Harper, the Mesa City banker, a small, wiry man, with heavy glasses, welcomed Lem and Hashknife cordially. Harper had known the sheriff for years.

“Well, what’s on your mind, Lem?” he asked, after Lem had introduced the others.

“Peter Morgan banked with you, didn’t he, John?”

The banker smiled slowly.

“What banking he did—yes.”

“What do you mean by that, John?”

“He didn’t do much banking, Lem. Peter Morgan was rather a queer person and preferred having his money nearer than a bank vault.”

“You mean he kept it at the ranch?”

“I suspect he did, Lem.”

“Well, here’s somethin’ we want to find out, John,” and Lem explained about Rex’s mother’s receiving the seventy-five-dollar check.

The banker listened closely, and when Lem finished he shook his head thoughtfully.

“Was that the only check from here that you have seen?” he asked Rex.

“That was the only one, Mr. Harper. But I feel sure that my mother received money from someone.”

“The name of Morgan kinda had us guessin’,” said Lem.

The banker smiled slowly, thoughtfully.

“I don’t suppose I’d be violating any confidence, now that Peter Morgan is dead,” he said, “but the fact of the matter is this—Peter Morgan could not write.”

“Couldn’t write?” pondered Lem.

“He had no education whatever. In fact, when he wished to draw a check, I signed his name for him. So that answers your question regarding that particular check.”

“Could it have been Dave Morgan?” asked Hashknife.

The banker shook his head quickly.

“No. Dave Morgan closed his account with us several months ago. I think I was the only one in this country who knew that Peter Morgan could not write. He was very sensitive about it. I don’t believe Dave Morgan knew it. When there were any papers to be signed, Peter always brought them to me.”

“You never heard him mention a will, did you?” asked Hashknife.

“No, I never did. I’m sure I would have known about it, if there had been one. I understand you have Paul Lane in jail for murdering Peter.”

“Yeah, he’s down there,” sighed Lem.

“Any question about his guilt, Lem?”

“I hope so, John. I dunno what defense the old man will put up. If he wasn’t a nester he might get off. You see, he warned Peter to keep away from his place. There ain’t no direct evidence that Morgan was killed on the Lane ranch, but the jury will probably think he was.”

“How is Noah Evans getting along?”

“Kinda slow. The doctor seems to think he’s out of danger. I reckon he is; he cusses all the time.”

They thanked the banker for his information. Lem had other business to transact, so Hashknife and Rex left him in Mesa City and rode back to the ranch.

Hashknife was disappointed. He had expected some information from the banker that might be of some value to him, but as far as he could see, they were up against a blank wall.

Rex had nothing to offer. He couldn’t remember what the signature on that check looked like.

“I don’t know what to do,” he told Hashknife. “I can’t stay here all my life. I haven’t any money, and no place to go. Rather a puzzling situation, isn’t it?”

“Well, we’re in the same boat,” smiled Hashknife. “But our case is a little different, except that we can’t all pull out and leave that girl here alone. The Lanes haven’t any money, either. It looks to me as though we’ve all got to stay here and see what works out. Me and Sleepy have enough for a grubstake for all of us, I reckon.”

“Well, I suppose we’ll have to do something like that.”

“Sure. But the limb of the law waves so slow in a country like this that we’ll wear the seats out of our pants, waitin’ for them to try the Lane family for murder. I reckon we’ll just stick around and see what happens.”

They talked it over with Nan and Sleepy at the ranch. Nan wanted to go to Cañonville and look for a job.

“I might get work in a restaurant,” she said. “That would relieve you boys of my presence. I didn’t realize the situation until now.”

“You are not going to work in any restaurant,” declared Rex warmly. “We can get along out here. I’ve still got my five dollars.”

“You bloated financier!” exploded Sleepy. “If you knew anythin’ about poker, I’d take that five away from you.”

“I don’t know anything about poker,” said Rex quickly, “but if you want the five, I’ll give it to you, Sleepy.”

“Thank you,” grunted Sleepy, rather taken aback by Rex’s generosity. “I reckon you’re all right, kid; we’ll get along. Can you imagine that?” he asked Hashknife, a little later on.

“Rex is all right, Sleepy.”

“Shore, he’s all right. Pretty heavy on education, but he’ll get that knocked out of him in a short time. Do you know, I’ve got a hunch that Nan thinks quite a lot of him.”

“She’s sorry for him.”

“Yeah, and he’s sorry for her. He looks at her like a dyin’ calf in the spring thaw.”

They took care of their horses and wandered back to the house, where they found Nan and Rex on the porch, talking confidentially. Nan seemed very determined about something, and Rex seemed troubled. Hashknife sprawled on the steps and rolled a cigaret.

“I want to tell you something, Hashknife,” said Nan. “Rex don’t think I should, but—”

“I wouldn’t,” said Rex firmly.

“But I think you boys understand,” said Nan. “Oh, it won’t hurt anything, Rex—not now. We haven’t told anybody, except my father.”

“Go ahead,” urged Hashknife. “I suppose it’s about findin’ Peter Morgan’s body, ain’t it? And sendin’ it home on the horse?”

Nan gasped, staring at Hashknife.

“What—why, how did you know?”

“Guessed it, Nan. Lem found you and Rex in the corral. Rex had fainted. And then Lem found Peter Morgan’s six-gun in the corral. It wasn’t more than an hour or so later that the body of Morgan came to the 6X6.”

“And you just guessed it?” asked Nan wonderingly.

“Somethin’ like that, Nan. I figured that you and Rex had a secret between you. Would you mind takin’ me down to the corral and showin’ me just how the body laid, and all that?”

“And—and you don’t blame us for what we done?” asked Nan.

“Certainly not; I’d have done the same. C’mon.”

They all went down to the corral, where Nan explained all about the position of the body and how they had secured the horse from the willows across the stream and had managed to rope the body to the saddle.

Hashknife listened closely, questioning both of them as to small details, and even examined the dust closely, where Peter Morgan’s body had lain. Nan pointed out the place where the horse had been tied, and Rex took Hashknife over to the spot where he had secured the horse.

The ground was fairly soft along the creek, and Hashknife was able to distinguish the tracks of the shod horse.

“Mr. Morgan must have left his horse here while he went over to the corner of the stable,” said Rex.

Hashknife grunted, as he studied the tracks closely. From where they stood the horse would have been invisible to any one at the ranch-house. The presumption would have been that Morgan rode up to the willows from that side of the creek, not taking any chances of being seen, but the tracks showed that the horse had crossed the stream twice; one set of tracks, of course, was made when Rex took the animal over to the corral. It proved that the rider had come in past the corral, crossed the creek and tied the horse over there.

They came back to the bank of the little creek, where Hashknife stopped again to examine the tracks. The stream was about four feet wide and two feet deep at this point. Rex sprang across and went back to the corral fence, while Hashknife squatted on his heels on the creek bank.

Suddenly he got to his feet and looked down the stream, where the water swung around an undercut bank, practically undermining a heavy growth of willows. Something had attracted his attention, and he shoved down through the brush to this spot, where he sprawled along the bank, reaching down in the water.

After some little effort he was able to drag out the object, which he lugged back to a clear space. It was a Navaho rug, about four feet wide and five feet long, which had been rolled tightly and tied at both ends with whang leather strings.

Hashknife cut the strings and unrolled the rug. It was rather difficult to tell how long the rug had been in the water. It was rather discolored, but the pattern was clear enough. The two ends of the rug were of red and gray design, while the center was dead black, with a jagged strip of white, representing the Navaho idea of lightning.

Hashknife carried the rug over to the corral, where he spread it out on the ground. It was a very distinctive pattern, and Nan was sure she had never seen it before. Just why it was in the creek, none of them was able to say. It was not a rug that any one would discard.

Hashknife hung it over the top pole of the corral to dry out, and left it there, dripping down across the poles.

“That must have been a beautiful rug,” sighed Nan. “I have always admired Navaho rugs, but we have always been too poor to buy one.”

“You can have that one,” smiled Hashknife. “Probably take a lot of washin’ to clean it up. Lot of that silt has soaked up in it, and it’ll take time to get it out. Might be better to let it dry, and then beat it out.”

“What would they do to us, if they knew what we had done?” asked Rex anxiously.

“I dunno,” smiled Hashknife. “Better not tell anybody else. It would be a point for the prosecution, you know. It would prove just where Peter Morgan was killed. It’s too bad you didn’t think to get that gun.”

“We were too excited to think of anything, except to get the body away from here,” said Nan.

“I’ll betcha. That was shore some job for you two. Now, we’ll just forget all that.”

An hour later, Lem Sheely rode in at the ranch. Nan was busy in the kitchen, but the three men were on the porch to meet him.

“I’ve got a little information for you,” said the sheriff, declining to dismount. “After you boys left town, John Harper called me back to the bank. You see, bankers are kinda close when it comes to talkin’ about things, and he didn’t know you very well.

“Here’s what he told me, boys. Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs is the one who has been sendin’ money to a Mary Morgan. He has been sendin’ it for years. John said he never asked Nap about it, ’cause he figured it wasn’t his business.

“He said he wondered where Briggs got the money, until one day Peter Morgan told him that Briggs had an interest in the 6X6. Now, mebbe you can find out from Briggs what it’s all about, Hashknife. Harper don’t know a thing about it, except that Briggs kept a balance in the bank, and mostly every month he sent a check away. Harper says he don’t know any Mary Morgan.”

“Old Man Briggs is the cook at the 6X6, ain’t he, Lem?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah, a queer old pelican. Been with the 6X6 since these hills were holes in the ground. Don’t start any argument, ’cause it won’t get you anywhere with him. I wish you luck in findin’ out anythin’. Just thought mebbe you’d like to know, so I dropped in. Got to get back before dark.”

Hashknife thanked him for the information, and the sheriff rode on toward Cañonville.

“It shore is worse tangled than ever now,” said Hashknife. “I reckon the name Morgan is just a coincidence in this case, Rex. But just where does Briggs come in on it?”

“Oh, I suppose we’ll never find out,” sighed Rex. “But after all, what difference does it make? It can’t affect my future in any way. Still, I’d like to know. Don’t you see the position I am in? Suppose—” Rex hesitated for a moment—“suppose I wanted to marry a girl, and she asked me about my father?”

“Tell her he died before you was born,” advised Hashknife.

“But that would be a lie.”

“How do you know?”

“But I couldn’t prove it, Hashknife.”

“Any girl who likes you well enough to marry you won’t make you prove when your father died, kid.”

“But I don’t even know I had a father.”

“Well, you won’t have to prove that. Just forget that you went through life kinda one sided on parents. And don’t argue with me. I want to set down and think about Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs and a dirty Navaho rug.”

Sleepy went into the house, where he flopped on the old couch, burying his nose in an old magazine, while Rex sat down on a corner of the porch, watching the changing lights on the hills, as the sun sank lower in the west.

It was as if a painter, unsatisfied with an effect, would swiftly blot out a streak of gold and draw in a full brush of violet, only to change it to a deep mauve, and then to an opaque cobalt, striking new highlights with glowing gold.

Farther to the north a great flock of birds, like a lot of black sheets of paper caught in a whirlwind, spiraled up from among the hills, always traveling in circles. Rex watched them, fascinated. They did not seem to flap their wings, but mounted higher and higher. Some of them circled back to earth, but seemed to come back, flapping their wings, as if in haste to gain altitude.

“What kind of birds are those, Hashknife?” asked Rex.

Hashknife glanced quickly at Rex, turned and scanned the hills.

“Buzzards,” he said indifferently.

“I tried to count them, but they weave back and forth so swiftly, and each one looks like the other.”

Hashknife relaxed and reached for his cigaret papers.

“Scavengers, Rex; a big bird who smells death, they say. But I don’t believe it, because I’ve fooled ’em. I’ve stretched out on the desert, played dead, and had them down so close I pulled feathers out of their tails.”

“Is there something dead over there, Hashknife?”

“Undoubtedly. They’ve been having a feast and are pulling out before dark. Mebbe a coyote or two came along and started an argument.”

“Dead cow, do you suppose?”

Hashknife squinted quizzically at the gyrating flock, slowly mounting higher. They were not splitting up, as a flock usually does, when the feast is over; but rather they were acting as if something had interrupted them. Hashknife grinned and turned to Rex.

“Let’s take a rifle and go over there, kid. It’s in a little swale off the road, and we might knock over a coyote.”

Rex was willing. Hashknife called to Sleepy, asking him to go along.

“Goin’ to ride over?” asked Sleepy.

“It’s only a little ways,” replied Hashknife.

“Count me out. I wouldn’t walk a mile for all the coyotes in Arizona.”

Hashknife took Paul Lane’s .30-30, and they walked up the road, while the buzzards still circled. It was a little over a mile to where they left the road and about a quarter of a mile from where Ben Leach had been killed.

From the road they went cautiously through the brushy swale, circling the thickets of mesquite. Suddenly a coyote went streaking across the swale, almost invisible in the waning light. Hashknife stepped back, swinging up the Winchester, and as the animal started up the slope of the hill on the opposite side of the swale, the rifle cracked sharply and the coyote gave a convulsive sidewise leap, landed in a Spanish dagger, from whence it went yipping along through the brush, telling the world in coyote language what it thought of a man who would drive a .30-30 bullet in front of the nose of any well-meaning coyote.

“Led him too much,” laughed Hashknife. “Didja see him set down in that dagger? Talk about anythin’ bein’ full of pins and needles! I had a hunch that some coyotes had chased them buzzards from their supper.”

They circled another clump of mesquite and found what had attracted the scavengers. It was what was left of a sorrel horse, which was still wearing a saddle and bridle. The buzzards and coyotes had made a sorry mess of it, but the saddle and bridle were still intact.

With his pocket knife, Hashknife cut the latigo, and drew the saddle away from the carcass. It was a good grade of stock saddle, with stamped seat and fenders. The skin of the animal had been literally torn to shreds, obliterating the brand, but leaving enough to identify its color.

Hashknife examined the head of the animal for possible bullet holes, but found none. Upon closer examination he found that the horse’s shoulder had been broken. The bridle reins were tangled about the other leg, drawing the head of the animal sharply downward.

No doubt the coyotes had pulled the body about to some extent, but Hashknife was able to read the signs fairly well.

“I reckon this was Ben Leach’s horse,” he told Rex. “It busted its shoulder in some way, leavin’ it to hobble on three legs, until the reins got tangled in the other front leg and threw it. Mebbe the fall broke its neck, and mebbe it just couldn’t get up, and the coyotes finished it.”

“Does it mean anything?” asked Rex.

“Well, it means that Walter Lane didn’t steal the horse, which is one point in his favor.”

Hashknife hung the saddle in a mesquite thicket, and they went back home, leaving the way clear for the coyotes to continue their interrupted meal. The buzzards had disappeared by this time.

“If it hadn’t been for those buzzards, we would never have found that horse,” said Rex.

“That’s true,” thoughtfully. “Sometimes it’s a good plan to foller the buzzards, kid. You never can tell what you might find.”