Chapter XX · —INDIRECT INHERITANCE

Came the sound of running horses, the thump of footsteps on the rickety porch, and Sleepy came stamping through the living room, while behind him came Lem Sheeley. At sight of Nan, Sleepy let out a joyful yelp and grabbed Hashknife by the shoulders.

“Where didja find ’em?” he yelled. “My, this is great, ain’t it? Where you been? Look at the kid’s feet, will you? Why don’t somebody say somethin’? All dumb, are you?”

“Are you run down?” queried Hashknife mildly.

“Well—yeah!” snorted Sleepy. “Talk a little.”

Both Sleepy and Lem crowded into the kitchen and humped on their heels against the wall, while Hashknife told what he knew and what Nan and Rex had told him. The coffee pot boiled over before the tale was told, but no one noticed such a small detail.

“But what’s it all about?” complained Lem. “There ain’t head nor tail to it. All this crazy man in the cañon, and a man with a mask stuff. Sounds kinda looney to me.”

“It does sound crazy,” smiled Hashknife.

“Like a sheepherder’s dream,” grunted Sleepy. “After we left you we spent about three hours tryin’ to find a way down into that cañon, but had to give up. It’s one awful place, Hashknife. I don’t sabe how you ever found a place to get in. Me and Lem had an idea of tryin’ to get down at the lower end, but gave it up until we heard from you.”

“Where are the other boys?” asked Hashknife.

“Mesa City, gettin’ their bills wet,” grunted Sleepy. “Spike Cahill dang near broke his neck in that cañon. He thought he could slide a hundred feet down a thirty foot rope, but found it was too short on one end.”

Nan poured the coffee and refilled the pot. She and Rex split the half pie, while Rex bathed his feet in warm water. He was too tired even to tell them whether the water was too hot, and Sleepy almost cooked him with it.

“Well, what next?” asked Lem, finishing his coffee.

Hashknife shoved his cup aside and got to his feet.

“I reckon we’ll go back to Mesa City,” he said.

Sleepy eyed him closely, knowing that something real had caused him to make that decision. It was not merely to go to town. Hashknife’s feet were too sore for a pleasure trip.

“We’re with you, cowboy,” declared Sleepy. “My, your feet must be tender.”

“Not a bit; can’t feel anythin’.”

He turned to Nan.

“Better go to bed pretty quick, and don’t worry any more. Fix up the kid’s feet the best you can, and they’ll be all right. C’mon, boys.”

He limped from the house to his horse, with the two men close behind him. Ghost nickered softly and rubbed his muzzle against Hashknife’s vest.

“Can’t travel very fast,” said Hashknife. “That cañon is shore hard on a horse. There’s places where Ghost had to almost crawl on his knees. You shore need sky hooks and a lot of faith in the Almighty to make that trip.”

It was rather a big night at the Oasis, as far as the bar was concerned. Morgan was helping the overworked bartender, while Mesa City discussed what had become of Nan and Rex. Hashknife, too, had not been accounted for, but Spike Cahill declared that Hashknife could take care of himself.

“But he never got into that cañon,” said Cal Dickenson, of Dave Morgan’s outfit. “I tell you, it can’t be done.”

“The devil it can’t!” snorted Spike. “I was jist one inch of goin’ into it myself today. A hondo on that rope was all that saved me. A inch ain’t far, Cal.”

The boys laughed with Spike. They knew just how close he had come to smashing his bones on the rocks.

Joe Cave came in from the Flying M and joined the gang. Joe was cold sober now, but willing to be otherwise.

“It’s too lonesome out there,” he told Morgan. “You didn’t tell me that all the rest of the gang had left.”

“I did, too,” said Morgan. “Mebbe you was too drunk to pay any attention.”

“Mebbe,” grinned Joe sourly. “Gimme whisky.”

“Whatsa matter?” asked Spike, watching Joe gulp down a glass of liquor. “Is your swallerin’ apparatus busted? I’ll leave it to anybody around her, if Joe’s Adam’s apple didn’t jump sideways to let that drink jump past.”

“His Adam’s apple ain’t so dumb,” said Bert Roddy solemnly. “It knows what it means to git in front of a runaway drink of Oasis liquor. Sleepy Stevens says the only safe way is to drink quick and shut your mouth. He says that kinda whisky bounces.”

“Where’s Sleepy?” asked a cowboy.

“Him and Lem pulled out about an hour ago.”

“What was Lem doin’ here?” asked Joe Cave.

“Prob’ly lookin’ for you,” grinned Spike. “He shore did look sad. Mebbe he mourns his loss.”

“I s’pose he does,” grinned Joe. “That’s an awful job—packin’ food to a prisoner. I’m glad I quit.”

“Yea-a-ah, you quit!” flared Bert Roddy. “You got drunk, and he fired you, Joe.”

Joe grimaced and reached for the bottle.

“I suppose that’s what Lem said.”

“Yeah, and he don’t lie,” declared Spike.

Joe glared at Spike, but dropped the argument. He had no desire to tangle with that ex-6X6 gang.

“How about a little poker,” suggested Dave Morgan.

“Very little for me,” replied Dell Bowen. “I’m almost broke enough to take a job with you, Dave.”

“That’s fine with me; I can use you.”

Morgan left the bar and began arranging a check rack on one of the tables, when Hashknife limped in, followed by Sleepy and Lem.

“There’s the old cañon crawler now!” whooped Spike.

Hashknife smiled thinly and looked around, nodding to the men. Morgan halted with a stack of chips in his hand.

“Just in time, Hartley,” he said. “Grab a seat.”

“Didja get down into the cañon?” asked Spike.

“I shore did,” smiled Hashknife.

“F’r gosh sake, where? Did Sleepy tell you the trouble we had? Where’d you get down?”

“Morgan showed me the place.”

All eyes were turned to Dave Morgan. He placed his chips on the table and looked at Hashknife.

“Did you foller me down?” he asked easily.

“I did.”

“Well, I’ll be darned. After you boys left here, I got an idea that there might be a place to get down; so I rode down and tried it. I never knew anybody was follerin’ me. Sure, I got down. But I couldn’t get anywhere; so I went north agin’, and finally gave it up.”

Hashknife’s eyes narrowed slightly. He knew that the falling stone in the cañon had warned Morgan.

“I see,” he said thoughtfully. “That’s how I missed your trail down there. But I found a way through.”

“The devil you did!” exploded Spike. “What’d you find?”

Hashknife’s eyes traveled slowly over the crowd.

“I found a blue roan 6X6 horse, with a saddle on it. The buzzards found it first, but there was enough left.”

“Blue roan?” queried Bert Roddy. “Was it Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs’ blue roan?”

“I think so, Bert.”

“Where’s old Briggs?” demanded Morgan. “I want to get my hands on that old thief. He opened that safe—”

“Briggs is dead,” interrupted Hashknife. “He had been all battered up, and I think a bullet had scored his head. I found him down there in a cave, with a tight rope around his neck—jist buzzard bait.”

For several moments there was silence, broken by Spike’s—

“My God!”

Sleepy moved back slightly, his right hand brushing over his gun butt.

“He was drunk when he left here,” said Bert Roddy. “He must ’a’ rode off the grade. Poor old Briggs.”

“Do you think he shot himself and then choked himself to death with the rope?” asked Hashknife slowly.

“Oh, I forgot that,” said Bert. “He couldn’t have done all that, Hartley.”

“Sounds foolish,” said Dave Morgan.

“The body is down there in a cave to prove it.”

“Oh, I’m not disputin’ your word, Hartley.”

“And last night,” said Hashknife slowly, “somebody shot Rex Morgan’s horse on the Coyote Cañon grade, while him and Nan Lane was ridin’ to Cañonville. They kept shootin’, and drove the kid and the girl over the edge, where they slid all the way to the bottom. God only knows how they lived. I reckon they had a hell of a time. Briggs was down there, crazy as a loon. He stuck ’em up with a gun and took the girl to a cave; but the kid follered and whipped Briggs, knockin’ him out cold. I reckon it bumped Briggs’ head pretty hard, ’cause he didn’t wake up the last they saw of him. But they never roped him.”

Hashknife paused to let this soak in.

“You mean there was somebody else down there?” asked Lem hoarsely.

“A masked man,” said Hashknife. “He choked Briggs to death with the rope and then brought them two kids out to the south mesa, where he left ’em. I found ’em down there, all fagged out, and brought ’em home.”

“What masked man?” demanded Dave Morgan. “Talk sense.”

“The man who shot Rex Morgan’s horse last night. The same man who shot Noah Evans on the porch of the Lane ranch-house, Morgan—shot him, thinkin’ it was the tenderfoot kid. The same man who fired a shot through the window at the Lane ranch-house last night and almost killed Sleepy Stevens.”

“There’s been quite a lot goin’ on around here, it seems to me,” said Joe Cave, laughing shortly.

“But your explanation don’t tell us anythin’,” said Dave Morgan, stepping away from the table.

“It told me quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “But there’s more to it than that, folks. Did any of you examine the spot where Peter Morgan was killed? Well, you might ’a’ been surprised. There wasn’t any blood spilled. Peter Morgan was dead long before he came to that place. And the man or men who brought him there killed him in the 6X6 ranch-house on a Navaho rug, which has a lightenin’ mark on it. To remove the blood, they took rug and all with ’em. And when they was gettin’ away, that tenderfoot kid rode in on ’em, and they popped him over the head. They thought they had killed him, and took him along to the Lane ranch. They sunk the rug in the creek. And when they knew we had found the rug—they stole it.”

The men were all staring at Hashknife, whose face was drawn, lips almost white.

“Cave!” he snapped. “You made a mistake this mornin’. You should have been just as drunk outside of town as you was in it.”

Joe Cave flinched, as if someone had seared him with a hot iron.

“You’ve got mask marks on your face, Cave!” Hashknife’s voice snapped like a whip.

With a jerk of his hand, Cave started to reach for his face, but sagged back against the bar.

“And you made a mistake, Morgan,” whispered Hashknife. “Why didn’t you kill Briggs on flat ground, so you could search him, instead of shooting him off the grade into the cañon, where you couldn’t get at him? He had somethin’ in his pocket that you needed bad.”

Joe Cave was the first to act. As he sagged back against the bar, his right hand flashed down to his gun. He was trapped. Morgan’s gun was coming out like a flash, but his bullet ripped into the floor, echoing the crash of Sleepy’s .45.

Cave sprang away from the bar, screaming a curse, with Spike Cahill clinging like grim death to his gun hand. Lem shot across the space, knocking the table aside, and threw one arm around Cave’s neck, shutting off his wind, while Spike tore away the gun.

Morgan went to his knees, blindly groping for the gun which had fallen from his nerveless hand, but Hashknife kicked it aside, and Morgan sprawled on his face. They flung Cave in a chair, and Lem handcuffed him, while Cave cursed them bitterly.

One of the men ran for the doctor, but Lem turned Morgan over to discover that a doctor was not needed. Hashknife patted Sleepy on the back and leaned against the bar.

“Dead, is he?” gritted Joe Cave.

“You’re lucky not to be with him,” said Spike nervously.

“Like hell I am! Why didn’t he live long enough to tell the truth? Nobody will believe me. Dave killed Pete. I was out there with him. He didn’t go to kill him; he went to borrow money. I wasn’t even in the house. He wouldn’t lend Dave money; so Dave killed him. I don’t know how Hartley knows so much about it. Dave wanted to lay the blame on Lane; so we took the body there. We didn’t know who that kid was, but Dave said to take him along. I shot Noah Evans by mistake. Dave promised to give me this saloon for helpin’ him. He wanted to git rid of that tenderfoot, and yesterday we had a quarrel about it. I was afraid he’d kill me as soon as I done his dirty work. I shot the kid’s horse on the grade, and I swiped the rug, jist before I shot through the winder. And that’s all the truth.”

“And Dave Morgan robbed Pete’s safe, didn’t he?” asked Spike.

“Sure did. He was worried about a will. He thought old Briggs knowed too much; so he waylaid Briggs on the Coyote Cañon grade. But Briggs went into the cañon.”

“What did you go down there for today?” asked Hashknife.

“To see what happened. I know that cañon like a book.”

“And you choked Briggs?”

“You found him, didn’t you? No use of me lyin’.”

“Well, for God’s sake!” blurted Lem.

“Old Man Lane ain’t guilty a-tall.”

“But who tied Pete on the horse?” asked Lem. “That part of it ain’t explained.”

“Nan and Rex,” said Hashknife. “They found the body in the corral and wanted to get rid of it. That’s what made me sure Paul Lane never killed him, Lem. If he had, he’d have hid the body—not left it there to cinch him for murder. If there hadn’t been any more shootin’, I might have believed Old Man Lane guilty; but there was too much shootin’ goin’ on. The fact that Dave Morgan would inherit the 6X6 made me suspect him; but he couldn’t do it all alone. He had to have help, but I didn’t know who to suspect. I never thought of Joe Cave, until Lem fired him for bein’ drunk.”

“Wasn’t anythin’ about that, was there?” asked Lem.

“A puncher,” said Hashknife slowly, “don’t usually get drunk that early in the mornin’, and they don’t usually take a chance on losin’ a good job. It kinda looked to me as though Joe wanted to lose that job; so I rode out of town to see how he acted after he got away from town. He sobered up too quick. He had to be fired in order to make it look right. You see, he was due to take over this saloon.”

“Morgan said you ought to be killed,” said Joe wearily.

“What did you and Morgan quarrel about down in the sheriff’s office, Joe?”

“Did you hear that, too? He wanted me to go out to the ranch and kill Rex Morgan. I was gettin’ scared. But I wanted this saloon. I heard them comin’ on the grade; so I let ’em past before I shot. I never missed so bad before, but the light was awful bad.

“Just one thing more, Cave,” said Hashknife. “When you had a chance down there, why didn’t you kill the tenderfoot?”

Joe sighed and looked at the handcuffs.

“I was a fool,” he said slowly. “I don’t sabe women. This ’n said she wanted the tenderfoot so bad that she’d rather stay with him than git out alone. And if you’ve ever been down there, where nothing much but a buzzard or a lion can git, you can sabe how bad she wanted him.”

“And that’s why you brought ’em out, Joe?”

“Wasn’t that enough?”

The doctor came and made an examination of Dave Morgan’s body. He did not even open his black bag.

The crowd wanted more explanation. Hashknife drew a folded paper from his inside vest pocket and handed it to Lem, who read it, while the crowd leaned in over his wide shoulders to see what it was all about. It read:

This is mi last will—when im ded.

To Mary Morgan, mi legil wife i hearby give the 6X6 ranch and everything on it. i dont give nuthing to Dave Morgan cause he dont deserve it.

If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs i hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon keeps open. This is mi onely will.

Yrs Respy —Peter Morgan his X mark

P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because Pete Morgan cant wright.

Lem read it aloud to the men. Spike Cahill examined it closely, handing it back to Lem.

“That’s old Briggs’ writin’,”, he declared. “I’d know it among a million.”

The other boys agreed with Spike.

“That’s it,” said Bert Roddy. “I know how he writes his name. But where is Pete’s wife? Nobody around here knows he ever had a wife.”

“The tenderfoot is her son,” said Hashknife. “We can prove it, can’t we, Lem?”

The big sheriff nodded quickly.

“Somebody wired him when his wife died. We got a copy of the telegram.”

“Pete never got it,” said Joe Cave. “It came to the post office, and Dave claimed it. He knowed that the kid was Pete’s son.”

“Well, it’s all perfectly clear now,” said Lem. “Ready to take a ride, Joe?”

“It ain’t because I’m ready, Lem. Better get me a fresh horse. I had to circle and go across the river to get back from that mesa.”

“Let’s all go down and congratulate the tenderfoot,” suggested Spike, and when Lem took his prisoner to Cañonville, there were nine other riders, who accompanied them to the forks of the road.

They rode up to the ranch-house and trooped inside, where they found Rex humped down in a rocking chair, his feet bandaged. Nan was in her room, but the uproar awoke her and she peered out at the crowd.

Spike was hammering Rex on the back and trying to shake hands with him at the same time, while the bewildered Rex was trying to puzzle out what it was all about.

“Put on a blanket and come out, Nan,” advised Hashknife. “This gang won’t take no for an answer.”

Nan wrapped herself in a gaudy blanket and came out timidly. She looked like a very little and very tired Indian.

“You tell ’em, Hashknife,” said Spike.

“It’s too long a tale to tell now,” said Hashknife, “but it amounts to this, Nan. Your father will be turned loose tomorrow. Dave Morgan killed Pete Morgan, who was the father of Rex. We’ve cleared that all up. Dave Morgan is dead, and I found the will that gives Rex the 6X6.”

“You mean—my dad is free?” asked Nan.

“Jist as soon as they can unlock the jail, Nan.”

She stood there in front of them, the blanket tucked up around her chin, crying. There was no effort to hide the tears. The cowboys turned away.

“Oh!” snorted Spike.

“What are you kickin’ about?” growled Bert.

“Somebody stepped on my foot.”

“Ain’t been anybody within six feet of you.”

“And I—I own the 6X6?” asked Rex foolishly.

“You shore do!” exclaimed Spike. “It’s your ranch, kid.”

Rex blinked at them foolishly.

“And Peter Morgan was my father? It was he who sent that check to my mother?”

“I reckon it was Briggs,” said Hashknife. “Peter Morgan didn’t want anybody to know; so he had Briggs send the checks.”

“Was he ashamed of my mother?”

“I dunno. We’ll never know, Rex; they’re both gone. You be content with what he left you.”

Rex nodded dumbly. He could hardly understand his great fortune. The boys came and shook hands with him. They all wanted to shake hands with Nan, but she had slipped away to her room. The boys filed out of the house, mounted their horses and headed back to Mesa City. Hashknife yawned wearily and started for the door.

“Hashknife,” said Rex slowly, “I don’t understand anything. I know you are the one responsible for all this good fortune, but I can’t think of just what to say. If, as you say, the 6X6 belongs to me, will you take charge of it? I don’t know anything about it. I’d like to hire all those boys.”

“Well, I dunno. Might work out that way, Rex. We’ve got to put up our horses now.”

He and Sleepy stabled their mounts and gave them a meal of oats. As they closed the stable door, Sleepy said—

“How much of that will is true, Hashknife?”

“How much?” Hashknife hesitated for several moments.

“Your fingers are all stained with ink, cowboy.”

Hashknife chuckled softly.

“Some day, you’ll be a detective, Sleepy. C’mere.”

They backed against the stable, where Hashknife took a crumpled piece of paper from his hip pocket. He scratched a match and held the paper for Sleepy to read. The writing was identical with that of the other will, but read:

This is mi last will—when im ded.

To Mary Morgan, legal wife of Dave Morgan i hearby give the 6X6 ranch to own. i dont give nothing to Dave Morgan he dont deserve it.

If Mary dyes it goes to her nearist kin. To Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs I hearby give the Oasis saloon he aint got no branes so he will have to give Jack Farewether a job as long as the saloon keeps open. This is mi onely will.

Yrs Respy —Peter Morgan his X mark

P. S. wrote bi Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs oct 18 1904 because Pete Morgan cant wright.

Hashknife was obliged to light a second match before Sleepy could finish reading the document, and as Sleepy straightened up with a soft whistle of astonishment, Hashknife touched the match to a corner of the paper and they watched it burn to crinkly ashes.

“I wrote that other will, Sleepy,” said Hashknife slowly. “It works out the same way, as far as the property is concerned. But when a young man is slated to marry a danged sweet young lady, and don’t know anythin’ about his paternal ancestor, why not start him off right, as far as his father is concerned?”

“That’s right,” said Sleepy softly. “It don’t hurt nobody. Look at that, will you?”

Silhouetted against the ranch-house window were two figures, about a foot apart. One figure greatly resembled a blanketed Indian, the other a scarecrow, with rags dangling from its arms, making queer motions.

Sleepy laughed softly.

“Look at him, will you? He’s probably tellin’ her in good English what he’s goin’ to do with the 6X6. Betcha he ain’t even kissed her. Hashknife, that feller is almost dumb enough to make a good cowpuncher.”

Suddenly the figures blended, and Hashknife turned his back, as he fumbled for his cigaret papers.

“Not so dumb,” he said slowly.

“Well, that one is over,” chuckled Sleepy.

“Good. Now, I can heat some water and soak my blisters.”

They pulled their hats low over their eyes and headed for the kitchen door.