Chapter XVII · —A DRUNKEN DEPUTY

It was well after midnight when Hashknife and the sheriff reached Mesa City. The town was in darkness, except the Oasis Saloon, where they found only Dave Morgan and Jack Fairweather, discussing business, while the bartender rested his elbows on the bar, as he perused a dog-eared book.

Morgan welcomed the newcomers heartily.

“C’mon and have a drink. You fellers ridin’ kinda late, ain’t you?”

“Kinda,” admitted Lem, as they lined up at the bar. “What’s new, Dave?”

“Nothin’ much. I’m takin’ over this saloon, Lem.”

“Yea-a-ah? Oh, shore. You goin’ to stay here, Jack?”

Fairweather shook his head slowly.

“You goin’ to run this place yourself, Dave?”

“I don’t hardly think so, Lem. May sell it after while.”

“Where’s the boys from the 6X6?” asked Hashknife.

“Gone to bed, I reckon. Got pretty well loaded, all of ’em.”

“You boys just rode in from Cañonville?” asked Fairweather.

Lem nodded, lifting his glass.

“Here’s how, gents.”

They drank together.

“You goin’ to the ranch with me, Lem?” asked Hashknife.

“I think I’ll stay here, Hashknife. I’ll get a room at the hotel and be out to your place early.”

“All right.”

Hashknife went back to his horse, mounted and headed for the ranch, while the three men at the bar had another drink.

“You ain’t takin’ an after-midnight ride just for your health, are you, Lem?” queried Morgan.

The sheriff rolled a cigaret, shaping it carefully, before replying:

“Nan Lane and that young tenderfoot started for Cañonville late this afternoon, and they never arrived.”

“Never arrived? What do you mean, Lem?”

“Never arrived, thasall. Her horse came back to Lane’s ranch, and Hashknife killed it.”

“Killed what—the horse?”

“Shore.”

“What for?”

“Thought there was a man on it—the man who had just shot through the window at them.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!” exploded Dave. “What’s this all about?”

“Search me,” replied Lem wearily, as he lighted his cigaret.

“Did either of ’em get hit, Lem?”

“No-o-o, not exactly. The bullet hit their can of milk, and the can hit Stevens between the eyes.”

“Can you imagine that? And you say that Miss Lane and the tenderfoot never got to Cañonville?”

“So far as we know, they never did.”

“But where are they?”

“Dave,” said Lem seriously, “I’m no mind reader. I dunno a thing about it. I’m follerin’ Hartley, thasall. He says he’s got a hunch—and that’s more’n I’ve got. Let’s have one more drink.”

The bartender served them and they drank silently.

“Dave, did you ever hear Pete say anythin’ about havin’ a woman?” asked Lem.

“About havin’ a woman?”

“Yeah—a wife.”

“Where didja ever get that idea, Lem?”

“Oh, I jist wondered.”

“Funny ideas you get, Lem. Did you ever hear of him havin’ a wife?”

“Nope.”

“I never did,” said Fairweather. “I don’t think he ever did, unless he was married before he came to this country.”

“What ever put that idea in your mind?” persisted Dave.

“Oh, I dunno. Mebbe it was that tenderfoot. His name’s Morgan, and he came here, tryin’ to find out who sent a check to his mother. It came from Mesa City, he says.”

“He’s crazy,” laughed Dave. “Anyway, he’d have a hard time provin’ anythin’. His mother’s dead and Pete’s dead, and how in hell could he prove anythin’? Let’s have another drink.”

“I guess you’re right, Dave. No, thanks, I’ve had enough. Better grab a little sleep.”

“What does Hartley think about it, Lem?”

“Well, he don’t say much, except when I get an idea, and then he shows me where I’m all wrong. If I had his brains, I wouldn’t be sheriff of no county, I’ll tell you that much.”

Lem left the saloon and took his horse to the livery stable.

Hashknife rode straight back to the ranch and stabled his horse. Sleepy was still awake and anxious to know what Hashknife had discovered, so he came down to the stable.

“But where can they be?” wondered Sleepy.

“I’m shore stuck,” said Hashknife gloomily. “This is the worst danged case I ever worked on. I can’t seem to get goin’. But, by golly, I’m—” Hashknife hesitated.

The moon was high up over the hills, illuminating the old buildings and corrals.

Hashknife walked away from Sleepy and stopped beside the corral fence, only a few feet away.

The Navaho rug was not on the fence.

“It was there when we came in this evenin’,” said Sleepy. “I remember seein’ it, Hashknife.”

“I remember it, too, Sleepy. Let’s go to bed.”

“I used some raw meat on my eyes,” offered Sleepy. “I can see clearer than I could.”

“I can see better now, too,” said Hashknife meaningly.

But Sleepy did not question him.

Joe Cave, deputy sheriff, was very drunk. He leaned on a saloon bar in Cañonville and gazed gloomily about the place, where a lone bartender polished glassware and busied himself with mop and water bucket.

It was too early in the morning for much activity. In fact, it was rather out of the ordinary for any one to be drunk that early in the morning. Joe’s tow-colored hair had not been brushed, and he looked as if he had slept in his clothes. His thin lips parted over his prominent front teeth, known as “buck teeth,” as he indulged in a foolish grin.

“Whazzametter round here?” he demanded.

The bartender studied him gravely. He hated to see a man drunk so early in the morning.

“I don’t see anything the matter,” he replied shortly.

“Zasso?” Joe yawned foolishly.

He was wearing a once yellow shirt, a nearly red muffler around his scrawny neck, and his overalls were so tight that one knee had split over a too prominent knee cap. Joe’s boots were run over on the outside of the heels, causing him to be knock-kneed. He wore a holstered gun, and the loops of his belt were full of cartridges.

Failing to strike up a conversation, Joe left that saloon and went down the street to another place, where he found conditions much the same.

“Where’s the sheriff?” asked the bartender.

“Dunno. Went away last night.”

“And so you went and got drunk, eh? Lem will jist about kick you off the job when he comes back.”

“Zasso? Huh! Let ’m kick. I don’t like thish job. Nawthin’ to do but feed pris’ners. T’ the devil with it. Gimme a drink.”

Joe got his drink and went to the next saloon. It seemed that he was making the rounds and still going strong when Hashknife, Sleepy and the sheriff rode in and went to the office. The office and jail were in the same building, and in fact the sheriff’s office was the main entrance to the jail.

Sleepy’s eyes were still of a decidedly mauve hue, but the swelling was gone and he was able to see. Lem had come to the ranch at daylight, and the three of them had headed for Cañonville. They had tried to read the signs along the Coyote Cañon road, but the ground was so hard that they were unable to distinguish one track from another.

The three men entered the office, which was unlocked, and Lem swore roundly when he did not find Joe Cave there. It was against the rules to leave the place unlocked. Lem opened the barred door at the rear of the office and went down the narrow corridor between the cells.

Old Paul Lane called a cheery good morning to him. Young Lane wanted to know how soon he was to be turned loose.

“I hope to get you out today, son. How’s everything?”

“All right, if we had some breakfast.”

“Ain’t you had no breakfast yet? Where’s Joe?”

“He ain’t been in here this mornin’. I think he came to the office, but he didn’t come in here.”

“Well, that’s a fine deal, folks. I’ll get your grub right away.”

Lem told Hashknife and Sleepy to hold down the office while he went to the restaurant.

“Go in and talk to ’em,” he said. “They been askin’ about you. But don’t mention anythin’ about Nan bein’ missin’.”

Old Paul Lane shook hands with them through the bars, and the son thanked Hashknife for what he had done to secure evidence that he had not shot Ben Leach.

“We been wonderin’ why Nan didn’t come to see us,” said the old man wistfully.

“She’s been awful busy,” said Hashknife quickly. “Keeps her busy cookin’ for three of us.”

“I imagine that’s right, Hartley.”

“Well, I’ll soon be out,” said Long Lane thankfully. “You ain’t been bothered with any of the 6X6 outfit, have you?”

“They’ve quit the 6X6. Dave Morgan has taken charge of the ranch.”

“The devil he has!”

“And of the Oasis Saloon, too.”

“I’ve been worryin’ about Nan,” confessed the old man. “But Lem says she’s safe as long as you boys are with her. I’m shore much obliged to both of you. How about the tenderfoot?”

“Oh, he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife, wondering down in his heart whether this was the truth.

“He’s lucky,” smiled Lane. “He done me a good turn—two of ’em. It’s funny what a green kid will do thataway.”

“I was just wonderin’ why Joe Cave didn’t bring you any breakfast,” said Hashknife.

“I dunno. Usually brings it about eight o’clock. He was kinda snappy last night, when he brought our supper. Somebody rubbed him the wrong way yesterday.”

“Yeah?”

“I think so. We didn’t hear much of it, because the door was almost shut, but there was some kind of an argument.”

“Who was he arguin’ with?” asked Hashknife.

“We dunno, but we heard Joe say, ‘Well, don’t blame me. That was your fault,’ and after a few moments he said, ‘By God, that was the agreement, and you better stick to it.’ Then there was quite a while that we can’t hear anythin’, except a word once in a while, but before they quit talkin’, we heard Joe say, ‘That’s the way I’m goin’ to work it, and you better stick to your word.’ Afterwards, when Joe brought in our supper, he was mad about somethin’, and wouldn’t talk to us.”

“Was he arguin’ with Lem?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno who the other person was.”

A few minutes later Lem brought in their breakfast and, while they were eating, Joe Cave came to the office. He leaned against the side of the doorway and leered at the men in the corridor.

Lem walked out to him, looked him over carefully, his face registering disgust.

“Drunk as a boiled owl, eh?”

“Whazzamatter with you?” grunted Joe.

“What’s the matter with me? I’ll tell you what’s the matter with me. I’m through with you, Joe.”

Lem reached over and unpinned the star from Joe’s vest, while Joe looked at him owlishly.

“Go and sober up,” said Lem coldly, “and then come back here and I’ll give you an order on the county for your salary.”

“Fired, eh?” queried Joe.

“You’re right! I don’t want a drunken deputy around here, forgettin’ to feed the prisoners and leavin’ the jail unlocked. Get away from here, before I flatten your nose.”

“A-a-a-aw right!”

Joe surged away from the doorway and went to the edge of the sidewalk, where he balanced drunkenly for several moments, and then headed his erratic way toward the livery stable.

Lem snorted with disgust and turned from the doorway, but Hashknife watched him disappear through the wide door of the stable.

“Gone after his horse?” asked Hashknife.

“He’ll probably head for Mesa City, the drunken bum,” said Lem.

Hashknife stepped outside, but turned to Lem and Sleepy.

“Wait here for me,” he said quickly, and hurried out to his horse.

Lem and Sleepy came to the door and watched Hashknife ride out of town, going north.

“What struck him so sudden?” wondered Lem.

“I dunno,” grinned Sleepy. “He’s thataway, Lem.”

About five minutes later Joe Cave came from the stable, riding a chunky bay gelding. He swayed drunkenly in his saddle, as he rode up the main street of the town, also heading north.

Lem was carrying the breakfast dishes back to the restaurant when Hashknife rode back to the front of the office. He did not explain where he had been or why he had gone, but as he waited for Lem to come back from the restaurant, Sleepy heard Hashknife singing softly:

Sleepy knew the symptoms. It was not often that Hashknife sang. He was not at all musical. Just now he was deadly serious, and it is doubtful whether he realized that he was singing.

“Feelin’ good, cowboy?” asked Sleepy. Hashknife looked at him quickly.

“Yeah, I feel pretty good, Sleepy.”

Lem came back from the restaurant. He didn’t ask Hashknife where he had been.

“Get on your horse,” said Hashknife. “We’re goin’ to Mesa City.”

They mounted and rode away, after Lem had locked the office door. At the upper end of the street they met Bunty Smith, and Lem drew up his horse.

“Goin’ to be here all day, Bunty?” he asked.

“Shore am, Lem.”

“Here’s the key to my office. If I ain’t back by five o’clock, I wish you’d feed my prisoners, Bunty.”

“Glad to do it, Lem. What do you know?”

“I don’t know a thing, Bunty. See you later.”

They rode back along the mesa to the Coyote Cañon grades, riding swiftly until they started climbing. It was a long, slow climb to where the grades flattened out around the cañon. They met the stage coming from Mesa City. The driver was a man from south of Cañonville. He nodded pleasantly, as they crowded their horses against the inner bank to let the stage pass.

“Joe Cave used to drive stage, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“For a long time,” replied Lem. “Been here a long time. Used to work for the 6X6. Worked for the Flying M, too. I thought he’d make a good deputy, but I was wrong. Good shot, Joe is. I’ve seen him shoot. Fast with a gun.”

Lem spoke jerkily. He was too fat to ride fast. Suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse and looked down into the cañon. A flock of perhaps fifty buzzards were circling below them; floating without apparent effort. They could look down on their backs from the grade. They were apparently keeping to a certain level.

“Quite a flock of buzzards,” observed Lem. “Probably a lion killed a deer down there, and they want their share. Lots of lions down there, Hashknife. Rocks full of ’em. Notice the way them buzzards act? Probably the lion chased ’em away.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Hashknife. “It’s a wonder that deer would go down in that cañon, Lem.”

“Water. They probably come from out on the mesa. Not very much water for ’em out there. Hard trip, I reckon. I never been in the cañon. Probably a way in, if you know where to look.”

“Probably.”

They rode on toward Mesa City.