They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they already knew about the shooting.
Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the sheriff remarked:
“You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow morning--that bein’ today.”
“The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what else we said?”
“No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?”
“I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important as what he told yuh.”
The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like that require study.”
“What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff.
“Nothin’, Nick.”
“Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore interestin’.”
“We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know things.”
“Yuh mean--findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy.
“Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.”
“Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up with Sam Hack--he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’ with--I dunno.”
They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street and into the stable:
The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.”
Jim Bailey swung off his saddle and came over close to the sheriff. He said, “Nick, I got here as quick as I could. Somebody shot and killed Chiquita Morales last night!”
The big sheriff stared at Jim Bailey, while Frenchy Arnett said, “Aw, Gawd, they didn’t do that, Jim!”
Bailey nodded grimly. “She musta been in town, Frenchy--in a buggy. They tied the horse about a mile out of town and shot her.”
Hashknife did not ask any questions as the sheriff said wearily, “We’re headin’ home right now, Jim. Doc Miles left about three o’clock with the body of Oren Blakely.”
“It’s shore gettin’ to be a awful tough country,” sighed Jim Bailey. “She was settin’ there in the buggy--”
“Shut up!” snapped Frenchy sharply. He dropped his reins and walked over to the big, sliding doors, where he stood, staring out at the street. Jim Bailey shook his head.
“Chiquita was Frenchy’s sweetheart,” whispered the sheriff.
“That’s what he thought--mebbe,” said Bailey.
Bailey and Frenchy rode ahead, leaving the sheriff to ride with Hashknife and Sleepy.
“We heard that the bank went busted in Tomahawk Flats,” remarked Hashknife.
“Robbed,” corrected the sheriff. “Three men.”
“Cleaned it out, eh?”
“Nothin’ left--and it busted a lot of folks. Yuh see, Thomas Colton owned the bank--the Cattleman’s Independent Bank. Old Ed Weed was the cashier. It was a good bank, too, with plenty cash. Tom Colton is a fine feller--everybody liked him. He played square with everybody--never hounded ’em on mortgages and all that.
“Well, a short time ago, three men got into Ed Weed’s house, made him give ’em the combination of the safe, took his keys, tied Old Ed up so tight that he ain’t rid of the kinks yet, and took their sweet time in bustin’ the bank. They emptied the vault. As far as we can find out, there wasn’t a thin dime left. It broke a lot of folks, I’ll tell yuh that. I lost seven hundred dollars myself.”
“Where,” asked Hashknife, “does this Chiquita Morales figure in the deal, Sheriff?”
“She don’t. Her father, Pete Morales, owns a little rancho. Chiquita is about eighteen. I reckon, and as pretty as a bug’s ear. I’m past forty and I’m married, but every time she looked at me and grinned--I lost at least fifteen years of age. They’re poor, them Morales are. Poor old Pete, this’ll hit him hard.”
“No idea who busted the bank, eh?” queried Sleepy.
The sheriff sat disgustedly. “We’ve got a prisoner,” he said.
“Oh, yuh caught one of ’em, eh?” remarked Hashknife.
“Quien sabe? Yuh see, it’s thisaway. Andy Davidson--we call him Uncle Andy, and his wife, Aunt Judy--the finest folks yuh ever knowed--have a son, Johnny. Johnny’s fine. Hell, yuh can’t have a pa and ma like them, and not be fine. Johnny’s engaged to marry Nell Frawley on Christmas Eve. Well, Johnny’s in jail.”
“It don’t seem to work out,” said Hashknife.
* * * * *
“That’s right--but there he is. Yuh see, Johnny wears a ring. That is, he did. Navajo, I reckon. Big ring, silver and with a turquoise cross. Anybody’d know that ring. Tom Weed says that one of the men who robbed the bank wore that ring. Johnny didn’t have it on his finger when we arrested him, and he can’t tell us where it is. He just sets there in his cell, staring at the bars. It’s a tough situation, Hartley.”
“Well, can’t he prove where he was that night?” asked Sleepy.
“If he can--he won’t. Yuh can’t get a word out of him.”
“What does his girl think of the deal?” asked Sleepy.
“Nell Frawley. Lord, I dunno what she thinks. Nell is one of the finest yuh ever seen, and yuh can’t beat her folks. They got hit awful hard in that bank bust, but I don’t reckon they got hit as hard as Uncle Andy Davidson. He’s flat--but he ain’t kickin’. If Johnny was out of jail--well, I don’t think Uncle Andy is givin’ a thought to losin’ the money.”
“I can imagine,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “A fine Christmas for folks like that.”
“That’s right, Hartley--I’d plumb forgot about Christmas. Peace on earth--don’t fit so good in Dancin’ Devil Valley this season.”
After a full minute of silent riding the sheriff commented, “I plumb forgot to ask you fellers how come yo’re headin’ for Dancin’ Devil Valley?”
Hashknife studied the bobbing ears of his horse for several moments, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he looked at the sheriff and said, “Sheriff you know what a wild goose is, don’t yuh?”
“Of course, I do.”
“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.
The sheriff scratched his stubbled chin, looked sideways at Hashknife, but rode on, thinking it over. These two rather puzzled the law officer. They looked like a pair of drifting cowpokes, but why would a drifting cowpoke be looking for wild geese in the Dancing Devil country, he wondered. Funny thing, too--when that Hartley person looked at you and said something--you believed him. Even such a fantastic thing as chasing a wild goose.
It was afternoon, when they arrived in Tomahawk Flats, and the sheriff and coroner left immediately to get the body of the murdered Mexican girl. Men had guarded it since the discovery. Hashknife and Sleepy registered at the hotel, where folks talked about the crime wave.
The murder of Oren Blakely was secondary in importance. A man might get killed at any time, but for somebody to deliberately murder a girl--that needed attention.
“I seen Pete Morales and his old woman a while ago,” one man said. “Gawd, you’d think the roof fell on both of ’em.”
“It shore did,” nodded a grizzled cowman. “I lost one--once--but she wasn’t shot to death. That’s worse--if it can be.”
“Yeah, I knew. Mrs. Morales just sat there, countin’ her beads, movin’ her lips, never looked up at all. She wasn’t cryin’--jist countin’ ’em, I reckon.”
“I kinda figured that her and Frenchy would get hitched,” said another of the men. “They used to go down into Mexico to dances, and all that. Frenchy can talk Mexican pretty good.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went up to their room to leave their war-bags. Sleepy flung his bag into a corner and stood there, his hands on his hips, looking at Hashknife, who sat down to roll a cigarette.
“Go ahead, pardner--say it,” he remarked.
“Yeah! Just a couple real-estate men on horseback!” snorted Sleepy.
“Bob Marsh didn’t know things like this would happen, Sleepy; he’s no fortune teller. It just happened, that’s all.”
“Yea-a-ah? All right--be stubborn. We’re here, ain’t we? Pitch-forked into it by Bob Marsh. He knowed the bank was busted. Mebbe he knew Johnny Davidson was in jail. We came straight from his dog-gone office. Real-estate, yore eye!”
Hashknife lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It’s a terrible thing--murderin’ a girl, Sleepy.”
“That’s right--terrible! Terrible thing to murder a man, too.”
“Even if Bob Marsh knew--”
“Losin’ faith in him, eh? That’s fine. Now we can start even.”
“And there’s a job to be done, Sleepy,” after a long pause, “we’ve got a good alibi for bein’ down here--real-estate men on horseback.”