HIDDEN BLOOD

BY

W. C. TUTTLE

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers

New York

By arrangement with Houghton Mifflin Company

COPYRIGHT, 1925, BY WILBUR C. TUTTLE

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE
THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM

PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.

CONTENTS

HIDDEN BLOOD
CHAPTER I
HASHKNIFE HAS RHEUMATISM IN HIS LEG

“If I had rheumatism like you’ve got, I’d sure head for the hot springs. Yuh can boil it out easier’n any other way.”

The owner of Piute leaned back, braced his bony elbows on the bar, spat wisely, and squinted at the two cowboys, who were draped against the bar beside him.

“Hashknife” Hartley, a tall, thin, serious-faced cowboy, was standing on one leg, much in the attitude of a stork, except that his knee naturally bent the other way.

“Sleepy” Stevens, Hashknife’s partner, was of medium height, with a grin-wrinkled face and serious eyes. There was nothing colorful nor romantic about their raiment or physical appearance. They were clad in well-worn overalls, nondescript shirts, high-heeled boots, and sombreros.

Their cartridge belts were scarred, weathered, as were their holsters, from which protruded the plain wood butts of single-action Colt sixshooters. They wore no coats. Hashknife’s vest was little more than a wrinkled piece of cloth, suspended stringlike from his shoulders, affording him pocket room for his tobacco and cigarette papers.

“Which way do yuh head for hot springs, pardner?” asked Sleepy, making cabalistic marks on the scarred bar top with the bottom of his wet glass. “I’m goin’ to put this lean pardner of mine on to boil.”

“Aw, I’ll be all right,” protested Hashknife, flexing his aching leg.

“You won’t be until yuh are,” flared Sleepy. “Yuh can’t ride a horse thataway. I’ve done used up a bottle of horse liniment on yuh, and all it’s done is to make yuh smell.”

“Rheumatism ain’t no fun.” Thus the proprietor. “I sure had it ache hell out of me a few years ago.”

“Didja go to a hot spring?” asked Sleepy.

“Shore did. I went up into Hawk Hole and b’iled out up there. That sulphur water smells like all the bad aigs of the world had been busted; but it knocked my rheumatism.”

“Where’s this here Hawk Hole?” asked Hashknife, interested.

“South of here, about thirty mile. I dunno whether yuh can use the springs now or not. Belongs to ‘Big Medicine’ Hawkworth, and he ain’t so friendly as he might be.”

“We’d take a chance on him, if Hashknife was able to ride that far,” said Sleepy.

“Yuh might go by stage. She comes through here about midnight and changes horses here. On ’count of the heat they make the drive from Caliente at night. They go to Pinnacle; but in yore case they might swing around by Hawkworth’s place and let yuh off. If they don’t, it’s only two miles from Pinnacle.”

“That sounds good t’ me,” declared Sleepy. “How does she listen to you, pardner?”

“Well, all right, Sleepy. I’d go any place to get rid of this ache that’s twistin’ my muscles. I ain’t slept for three nights and days hand-runnin’. If this Hawkworth person tries to deny me a chance to boil the pain out of my carcass, I’ll try and make him see the error of his ways.”

“He prob’ly will deny yuh,” said the proprietor. “C’mon and let’s see if supper is ready.”

Piute consisted of one building, a long, low adobe structure, separated into three parts: a saloon, a dining-room and kitchen combined, and a place to sleep. Behind this long building were a shedlike stable, corrals, and a well.

Its only excuse for existence was to act as a stage station, or a night haven for those who traveled the road from Caliente to Pinnacle. Piute was always hot, except at night. To the north the road disappeared through mesquite-covered flats, while to the south it twisted higher into the hills; rocky hills, where grew stunted pine, piñon, and juniper; down into a land where the law held little sway, where only a range of hills separated them from the land of mañana.

Hashknife managed to limp into the dining-room assisted by Sleepy, flopped into a chair, and did justice to a feed of tortillas, frijoles, and coffee.

“You ain’t natives down in this here country, are yuh?” asked the proprietor.

“What makes yuh think that?” grinned Sleepy.

“Jist seen yuh blowin’ on yore frijoles. Yuh can’t cool no chili pepper by blowin’ on it, pardner.”

“My mistake,” grinned Sleepy. “The danged things are hot.”

“Need ’em inside yuh down here. Hot food is the stuff in this climate. Eskimo would explode on it. Never been over in Hawk Hole, have yuh?”

“Never heard of it,” said Hashknife.

“Town of Pinnacle’s over there. Ain’t much of a town. Lot of mines back in the Greenhorn country and they all outfits down in Pinnacle. Old Big Medicine Hawkworth owns most of Hawk Hole. Stage line does quite a business, haulin’ supplies, miners, and the kind of folks that clutter up a minin’ town. Pinnacle ain’t exactly in the Hole—kinda on the rim of it. Them hot springs are shore good for rheumatism, y’betcha. There’s cold springs there, too. Big Medicine has been there twenty-five year, and he shore hooked on to most of the place.”

“Does he run any cattle?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah. He has the Tumblin’ H iron. The Hole is a dandy place for to run cows, except that she’s almost too close to the border.”

“We might get a job,” smiled Sleepy. “I’d punch cows while you boil out, Hashknife.”

“Yeah, yuh might,” agreed the proprietor. “But I’m bettin’ yuh won’t. Big Medicine will prob’ly tell yuh that yuh can’t take a soak in his hot springs, and tell yuh to get to hell off his place. He’s a old squaw-man—meaner than hell.

“Some folks say that Big Medicine is English, English from the old country. We don’t see much of him. He’s been out this far jist once since I’ve been here at Piute. I’ve heard folks say that he’s crazy. I dunno whether he is or not. Anyway, I do know that he wants folks to leave him alone—and they mostly always do the second time.”

Hashknife grimaced with pain as he shoved back from the table and tried to cross his knees.

“Does this Big Medicine person mind his own business?” he asked.

“Hm-m-m—well, I s’pose so. Down in this country yuh can hear all kinds of talk. It mostly goes into one of my ears and out the other, bein’ as I ain’t noways situated where I can talk a lot about my fellermen and keep my scalp where she belongs. He ain’t never bothered me; so I say he’s all right.”

Hashknife and Sleepy did not ask for any further information. They were in a strange country, whither they had drifted; wanderers into the cattle country of the Southwest. They had found things but little different from those in Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, except for the desert stretches, style of architecture, and lack of streams.

All had been well until Hashknife had contracted rheumatism, which had crippled him so badly that he suffered keenly in riding. Sleepy had doctored him to the best of his limited ability, but the pain had grown steadily worse, and they both knew that it was a case of seeking medical assistance at once.

The arrival of the midnight stage interrupted their three-handed game of seven-up. It required four horses to haul the heavy stage over the grades ahead, and the proprietor assisted in changing teams.

The driver was a big, gruff Norwegian, with a big beard and a heavy head of hair, which stood up on his head like the roach of a grizzly bear.

The only passenger was a young man, well dressed, black-haired, and with a thin, dark face. He was hardly past twenty years of age, but his mouth and eyes already showed lines of dissipation. He drank whiskey at the bar and climbed back into the stage while Hashknife and Sleepy were tying their horses at the boot.

“You got de rheu-maticks?” asked the driver, when he noticed that Hashknife had difficulty getting aboard.

“That’s what she feels like,” grunted Hashknife. “I never had it before, but they say she acts like this.”

“Yah, she does. You go to Pinnacle, eh?”

“The hot springs.”

“So? To de hot springs, eh? All right.”

His long whip snapped in the moonlight, the four horses sprang into life, and the stage to Pinnacle went lurching and grinding up the grades, swinging wide on the narrow turns, where a driver is only allowed one mistake.

Over the top of the hill they swung back into another valley, a fairyland in the blue of the moonlight. The road was rough, badly engineered as to grades, but the driver swore in his own tongue, plied his long whip without stint or threw his weight on a protesting brake on the steep pitches.

The young man had nothing to say. He smoked innumerable cigarettes and huddled down in his seat. Hashknife suffered in silence, while Sleepy whistled unmusically between his teeth and cursed the driver.

“He’s hit every rock so far,” he told Hashknife. “I’ll bet yuh even money that this damned equipage don’t hold together to reach Pinnacle.”

Sleepy turned to the young man. “Have you ever been over this road, pardner?”

The young man removed his cigarette. “No,” he said.

“Think you’ll ever go agin’?”

“Maybe.”

Sleepy laughed and stretched out his legs. “You won’t never get hung for talkin’ too much.”

“What do you mean?” asked the stranger coldly.

“Oh, hell!”

Sleepy shifted his seat and rolled a cigarette. Hashknife forgot his pains long enough to laugh. Thereafter all conversation ceased, except from the driver. Stretches of smooth road lulled the passengers to sleep, only to shock them back with lurching bumps that even drew profanity from the lips of the driver.

About twenty-five miles of the journey had been completed. The road wound down the side of a mountain, twisting around the heads of deep, heavily timbered draws and out onto moonlit points, where far below stretched the haze of Hawk Hole. Here the roadbed was more smooth and the passengers dozed.

Suddenly the driver swore viciously, shoved on the brake until the rear wheels almost skidded off the grade. Sleepy was flung off his seat, and he fell across Hashknife’s lap, colliding with the stranger.

For several moments they were confused, dazed; and when they turned to the open windows of the stage, they looked into the muzzles of two shotguns, which were plainly defined in the moonlight.

“Stay jist like yuh are,” ordered a clear voice. “We can see yuh plenty plain, gents.”

The holdup men had their backs to the moon, which flung its rays into the stage, and Sleepy knew that a motion toward his holster would invite one or both of those shotguns to send a wicked shower of lead into them.

“Lift up yore hands,” ordered the voice again, and all three men complied. “Now git out of there, one at a time.”

Sleepy came out first and lined up against the side of the stage, while behind him came the stranger. Sleepy’s holster had twisted behind him. It was difficult for Hashknife to get out, and the men swore at him for his slowness.

“He’s got rheumatism, dang yuh!” snorted Sleepy.

“Excuse me,” laughed one of the men. “Now line up.”

One other man was helping himself to the strongbox, while the driver sat stolidly in his seat, arms reaching toward the sky. He yanked the strongbox out across the front wheel and let it fall into the dirt.

The man who had handled the box was carrying a revolver in one hand, and now he came back to those who were watching the passengers. The men were all masked. The man with the revolver looked at the passengers closely.

Suddenly, and with apparently no reason, he threw up his revolver and fired point-blank at the stranger. The action was so sudden, so uncalled for, that Hashknife and Sleepy instinctively ducked.

“Stand still, damn yuh!” roared one of the shotgun men.

The stranger went to his knees, groped blindly for a moment, and sprawled on his face.

For several moments not a sound was heard. Then the man who fired the shot shoved his gun back into his holster.

“The damn fool reached for a gun,” he said slowly. “Shove the rest of ’em back into the stage.”

Hashknife turned and climbed back inside, while one man picked up the strongbox and walked around the team. Sleepy got inside, menaced by those two guns, and sat down. The two men turned and started around the team, while Sleepy swore softly, swung his belt around, and jerked out his gun.

“Take it easy, pardner,” cautioned Hashknife. “They never hurt us.”

“They killed that poor devil,” replied Sleepy angrily. “He never tried to pull a gun, Hashknife.”

Sleepy stepped outside, gun in hand, but the men had disappeared. The driver was starting to get down.

“Held up, I’m a son of a gun!” he snorted, as he almost fell off the hub.

Sleepy knelt down and examined the stranger. He was breathing heavily, painfully, and was unconscious.

“Well, he ain’t dead,” declared Sleepy. “How far is it to town, driver?”

“’Bout five-six mile. I’m never held up before, I’m a son of a gun!”

“Put him in here,” ordered Hashknife.

Sleepy and the driver lifted the wounded man inside and eased him into a seat. He was as limp as a rag, so Sleepy sat beside him, holding him upright.

“Drive as fast as yuh can,” ordered Hashknife. “This man needs a doctor right now.”

“You bet you,” agreed the driver. “I’ll go like hell.”

He was as good as his word. Hashknife and Sleepy were not at all faint-hearted, but that driver brought prayers to their lips before the running team reached the bottom of Hawk Hole. In fact he had caused Hashknife to forget his rheumatism.

“How are yuh standin’ it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“He either scared or bumped it all out of me,” replied Hashknife.

“I’ll betcha. There’s some things that even rheumatism won’t stand for, I reckon. We ought to be close to town. That driver said five or six miles, and we fell that far.”

In a few minutes they drove into the sleeping town of Pinnacle and stopped in front of a stage station. Daylight was flooding the hill now. A sleepy-eyed individual opened the door of the stage office and came out to them. Across the street glowed the dim light of an oil lamp over a poker game.

Somewhere a cheap phonograph screeched a tune, following a squeaky announcement that it was being sung by So-and-So, for the So-and-So “Phonograph Cuc-cuc-company of New Yar-r-r-k and Par-Par-Paris.”

It did not take the excited driver long to blurt out the fact that he had been held up, robbed of the strongbox, and that he had a dying man inside the stage. The sleepy-eyed one snapped into life. He turned around twice, evidently undecided just what to do—and did nothing.

“Yore best bet is to take this feller to a doctor,” declared Hashknife.

“That’s right,” agreed the sleepy-eyed one. “Doc Henry lives jist outside town, Pete. He ain’t such a damn good doctor, I don’t suppose, but he’s all we’ve got. Say, the sheriff is here, I think. Anyway, he was here last night, and mebbe he’s over there in that poker game right now. Lemme look.”

He ran across the street into a saloon, and was back in a minute, followed by a short, heavy man, who questioned the driver regarding the affair.

“Is the man still alive?” he asked.

“He won’t be, if yuh don’t quit yappin’ and get him to a doctor,” declared Sleepy.

The sheriff came closer and peered into the stage. He was a serious-looking person, round eyed and with a heavy mustache. After a short inspection he nodded and turned to the driver.

“Take him to the doctor, Pete.”

“You go along, Sheriff?” asked the driver.

“No, I can’t. I’m right in a big pot. See yuh later.”

He turned and hurried back across the street, while the stage went on down to the doctor’s home.

Doctor Henry answered their knock, arrayed in a nightgown and a blanket, and told them to bring the man into the house.

An examination showed that the young man had been shot through the left shoulder, and that the bullet was still in him. He had lost considerable blood, but the doctor assured them that the wound was not necessarily fatal.

“I don’t know him,” replied the driver, in answer to the doctor’s questions. “He ride from Caliente. He say somet’ing ’bout San Francisco. He don’t talk much. Maybe somebody know him here.”

They left the doctor and went back. Pinnacle was beginning to wake up now. The driver let Hashknife and Sleepy have space in the stable for their horses, and offered them a bed at the rear of the stage office.

“That damned hotel no good,” he told them. “Too much bug. You have good bed in my place—cost not’ing.”

They thanked him kindly and accepted his offer. Hashknife’s rheumatism was less painful now; and while Pinnacle awoke to the fact that the stage had been robbed and a man shot, Hashknife and Sleepy burrowed down in a fairly good bed and forgot that such things as wounded men and stage robbers ever existed.

CHAPTER II
BIG MEDICINE HAWKWORTH

And at about the same time a cowboy had brought a message to Big Medicine Hawkworth. He was one of Hawkworth’s men, a thin, wry-necked cowboy, with badly bowed legs and bat ears.

The living-room of Hawkworth’s home was almost a hovel. The ceilings sagged badly and every board in the bare floor creaked in a different key. One or two faded pictures hung askew on the walls, and in the center of the ceiling hung an old oil-burning chandelier with a cracked chimney and a badly bent reflector.

Near the center of the room, huddled in a striped blanket, sat Big Medicine Hawkworth, a veritable giant in stature, but as lean as a wolf. His big, bony head was covered with a huge mop of yellowish-white hair, which flared out from his ears, reaching to his cheekbones, and giving him the appearance of wearing crumpled horns.

His forehead was broad and high, his eyes set far apart and hidden beneath heavy brows. The nostrils of his finely chiseled nose flared out above a wide, heavy mouth, which sagged just enough to show a glimpse of heavy teeth. The lower jaw was firm, and perhaps a trifle belligerent.

Just now he humped in his chair, as if asleep, his huge hands gripping slightly at the blanket at his knees. The cowboy who had brought the message squatted on his heels beside the door, slowly rolling a cigarette.

A big black cat, its eyes glistening in the rays from the lamp, came in past the squatting cowboy, shrank quickly away from his reaching hand, darted across the room, and sprang onto the table near Big Medicine.

The stairs creaked noisily as another cowboy came down into the hall, carrying his boots. He was a stolid-faced, pudgy-looking person. His socks were not mates, and one of them was minus the whole toe. He peered into the sitting-room, nodded at the squatting cowboy.

Against the wall, beyond Big Medicine, was a cheap phonograph. The bootless cowboy deposited his boots in the hall, crossed the room over the protesting boards, and squatted down to put on a record.

Big Medicine did not look up. He knew that “Musical” Matthews had come down the stairs, and was going to play something on the phonograph before breakfast. He had been doing the same thing before breakfast for five years.

From the kitchen came breakfast odors, the rattle of dishes, the unmistakable rattle of stove lids. From somewhere outside the house came the sound of a man’s voice raised in song:

I’ll saddle my pony and feed him some ha-a-a-ay;
And I’ll buy me a bottle to drink on the wa-a-ay.

Big Medicine lifted his head slightly, as the phonograph scratched and spluttered the opening of “The Holy City.” He had heard it every morning for five years—or one just like it. It was Musical Matthews’ favorite.

In fact it was the only one Musical Matthews played. He sat entranced until the last notes of the singer faded out in a splutter, like someone frying eggs in a hot pan. Then he got up, crossed the creaking floor to his boots, which he drew on slowly, and went out to the wash bench, where the other singer was washing his face and hands.

Big Medicine lifted his head and looked at the cowboy squatting at the door.

“The stage was held up, was it? And a man shot?”

“That’s what I heard,” replied the cowboy. “The sheriff came back to the poker game and told us. He didn’t know how much they got, nor he didn’t know how bad hurt this man was.”

Big Medicine nodded slowly and shifted his hands.

“And these two strange men, Ike. What did they look like?”

“I didn’t see ’em close, boss. One was tall and kinda limped; the other wasn’t so tall.”

“All right, Ike.”

The cowboy uncoiled and clumped outside. Big Medicine took a crumpled letter from inside his blanket and looked at it. The cowboy had brought it from Pinnacle. He seemed interested in a few lines, which read:

I am sending you the $20,000 by express, in a plain package. The valuation is just enough to have it carried in their safe, but not enough to tempt anyone to steal it.

Big Medicine put the paper back into his shirt and closed his eyes again. The black cat seemed to ooze off the table onto his lap, and one of his big hands caressed its head. A door creaked open and an Indian woman came softly down the hall to the living-room door.

She was a big woman, past middle age, with the stolid features of her race. Her calico dress was ill-fitting, but clean. Big Medicine lifted his head and looked at her for a long time before he said:

“Somebody held up stage last night, Lucy.” The squaw merely stared at him unmoved.

“My money was on that stage,” he told her. “It was much money—all we had. I was goin’ to buy half of the Yellow King Mine with that money.”

“From Jim Reed?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“No good. Jim Reed bad. You lose just same. Come and eat.”

Big Medicine squinted at her for several moments before getting to his feet. He was so tall that he had to stoop under the hanging lamp.

“Lucy,” he said, “there are times when I thank the good God that I have you instead of a white woman. You never complain, never nag; trust me implicitly, believe in your dumb way that what I do is best. By the gods, there are times when I thoroughly appreciate you, Lucy.”

“Sometime—not so much,” she said slowly.

Big Medicine reached up and turned down the big lamp, before following her out into the hall and down to the dining-room, which was a kitchen and dining-room combined.

A girl was standing at the stove, baking hot cakes, while Ike Marsh, Musical Matthews, and Cleve Davis, the singing cowpuncher, sat at the table, eating.

Big Medicine sat down at the head of the table, still wearing his blanket, and the girl came to him, carrying a platter heaped with steaming cakes. She was unmistakably a half-breed girl, but almost as white as Big Medicine; a tall, lithe, big-eyed girl, of about eighteen, with a long braid of raven hair thrown carelessly across one shoulder.

She was the daughter of Big Medicine and Lucy; half-English, half Nez Percé. Big Medicine had brought his squaw from the Northwest, and they had named the girl Kwann, which, in the trade language of the Northwest, means Glad. But she was known to everyone of Hawk Hole as Wanna.

Big Medicine did not realize that Wanna had suddenly grown from a gangling little girl to a handsome young lady; but Lucy knew it. She could tell it in the admiring glances of the cowboys when she and Wanna went to Pinnacle to trade; she could read it in the sidewise glances of Big Medicine’s own cowboys, and from the fact that they were always ready to bring wood or water for the kitchen.

“I seen Torres in Pinnacle last night,” offered Ike Marsh, his mouth filled with food. “Him and Luis Garcia comes into the Greenback Saloon.”

Big Medicine’s brows lifted slightly, but he did not comment on the appearance of two men he had ordered out of the country. Pedro Torres, or “Pete,” as he was better known, was an unprincipled rascal, flashy dresser, handsome in a way, and too clever ever to make an honest living.

Luis Garcia was Pete’s shadow; a low-caste, half-Mexican, half-Apache.

“I seen Jim Reed, too.” Ike was willing to pass out all the information he had, regardless of its interest. “Jim had a drink with Torres.”

“And how much did you lose?” asked Musical.

“Not a dern cent. I was in seventeen dollars and I cashed in seventy-three dollars and four bits.”

“‘Faro’ Lannin’ must be gittin’ easy,” grinned Cleve. “He never let me win that much.”

“Faro wasn’t playin’. ‘Arkansas’ Jones was runnin’ the game.”

Big Medicine looked up from eating, his deep-set eyes speculative.

“One of you boys go to Pinnacle and see how bad that feller was hurt,” he ordered. “The other two of yuh take a swing back toward the Devil’s Corral and look around.”

The Devil’s Corral was Big Medicine’s appellation for the wire fence which indicated the boundary line between Mexico and the United States. Big Medicine had no use for a Mexican, and the brown men on the opposite side of the line reciprocated, as far as Big Medicine was concerned.

“I’ll go to town,” said Ike, shoving back from the table.

“Sure yuh would,” grinned Musical. “That seventy-three dollars is burnin’ a hole in yore pocket.”

“Nawsir!” Ike shook his head violently. “Lot of that is goin’ into a new saddle—mebbe all of it. If I play a-tall, it’ll be jist to see if I can’t win enough to add a new pair of chaps, thassall.”

“Kiss yore money good-bye,” laughed Cleve. “It’s fellers like you that buy diamonds for fellers like Faro Lannin’. C’mon, Musical.”

They went outside, rattling their spurred heels on the rough boards. Lucy sat down at the table.

“Me and Wanna go to town bimeby,” she said. “Grocery most all gone. You want somethin’?”

Big Medicine shook his head and got up from the table. Wanna came from the stove and gave her mother a cup of coffee. Then she left the room. Big Medicine looked after her, a quizzical expression in his eyes. He turned to see Lucy looking after Wanna.

“Wanna is gettin’ to be a big girl,” he said slowly.

Lucy looked up at him.

“Yeah—woman now.”

“Eighteen,” said Big Medicine softly. “Eighteen years old. She’s pretty.”

“She’s half-breed, Big Medicine.”

The big man turned his head slowly and looked toward the door where Wanna had made her exit.

“Half-breed,” he muttered.

The squaw made a sucking noise as she drank coffee from her saucer.

“She marry greaser, Mexican, bad hombre some kind,” said the squaw slowly.

There was no bitterness in her voice, but Big Medicine knew what was in her heart.

“Mebbe not, Lucy,” he said. “Wanna is good girl.”

“Mebbe not?” Lucy lowered her saucer and stared up at him. “You say that? Will a crow try to mate with an eagle, Big Medicine?”

He shifted his eyes from her face and looked away. She was but quoting his own words, words which had been spoken years before. But the squaw had not forgotten them.

“If the crow thinks he is an eagle,” he said softly.

“Wanna knows.”

Lucy got up from the table and began clearing away the dishes. Big Medicine watched her, leaning one big hand on the table. His blanket had fallen from his massive shoulders, exposing a torso that would have been a credit to any professional athlete. Perhaps age had slowed those rope-like muscles, but it had sapped little of their strength.

After a few moments he replaced his blanket and turned to the doorway.

“Wanna knows,” repeated Lucy, as if to herself. “But she is only a squaw. Squaw don’t count.”

She did not look at Big Medicine, but busied herself at the stove. For several moments he looked at her, and seemed about to speak, but changed his mind. His blanketed shoulders shrugged slightly, as he turned, ducked his head and went back into the living-room, where the loose boards creaked under his heavy tread, and the rocking chair squeaked a protest when he sat down.

CHAPTER III
TORRES TAKES A BATH

It was about noon when Hashknife and Sleepy awoke. Hashknife had slept well for the first time in several nights, but was still crippled. They dressed and went into the street. The stagedriver, Olsen, had slept in the same room with them, but had managed to dress without awakening them.

There was nothing pretentious about Pinnacle. In fact there was little excuse for its existence, except as an outfitting point for the Greenhorn Mines. The buildings were mostly of adobe, and none of them more than one story.

On the west side of the street were a blacksmith shop, stage station, post-office, two saloons, and a restaurant, while on the opposite side were two saloons, two stores, a hotel, and an assay office.

One of these saloons was the Greenback, which boasted a full assortment of gambling paraphernalia, a small dance-hall, and enough “girls” to make things interesting for the lonely miners or cowpunchers.

There were no sidewalks in Pinnacle. The more pretentious of the buildings had porches or wooden awnings, supported by rough posts, and practically every building had a long hitch-rack in front, making almost a continual railing on each side of the street.

Hashknife and Sleepy found the sheriff, Lon Pelley, in the one café, and he made room for them at his table, after introducing himself. Their names meant nothing to the sheriff, who asked them for an account of the holdup and shooting. He had already had a talk with the stagedriver.

“Got any idea who this young feller is?” asked Hashknife, after he had told what they knew about it.

The sheriff shook his head quickly.

“I dunno who he is. The doctor says he’s goin’ to live. He’s conscious now.”

“How much of a haul did they make, Sheriff?”

“Dunno that either. The way bills of the express company were in the treasure box, so they got the whole works. I don’t reckon anybody’ll know until the express company checks up on it.”

“What gits me,” observed Sleepy, “is why they shot that young feller. He didn’t reach for no gun.”

“Didn’t, eh?”

“Hell, no! His hands were still in the air when he fell. It was a dirty deal, I tell yuh.”

“Don’t tell,” cautioned the sheriff. “Pinnacle is a place where folks with soft voices live longer than yelpers. No offense, my friend—just be cautious; sabe?”

“Thanks,” grunted Sleepy, and attacked his ham and eggs.

“This ain’t the county seat, is it?” asked Hashknife.

“This place?” The sheriff grinned. “Caliente is the county seat. Me and my deputy been back in the Greenhorn country on a case. Don’t get in here very often. Pinnacle ain’t favorable to sheriffs.”

A man came in and looked owlishly around. He was as tall as Hashknife, with a long, thin face, wispy mustache, which grew heavier on one side than the other, faded blond hair, and a nose that had been, at some time, knocked slightly out of plumb with the rest of his features.

He goggled at the sheriff, grinned widely, and pointed at him with a shaking finger.

“There y’are, li’l angel,” he gurgled. “Hol’ still, now.”

He came slowly across the room and almost fell over the table in seating himself. The sheriff grunted disgustedly, and it irritated the tall one.

“Ain’t I good enough t’ set here?” he asked indignantly. “Whazza matter ’ith me, I’d crave t’ know. Yesshir, I’d crave a li’l information, tha’s what I’d crave.”

“Yo’re goin’ to crave a punch in the nose, if yuh don’t sober up,” declared the sheriff.

“Thasso?”

The tall one looked drunkenly at Hashknife and Sleepy. Satisfied with his inspection he turned back to the sheriff.

“My God, Lonnie, yuh wouldn’t jump on to me, wouldja?” he asked tearfully. “I’m one of yore mos’ val’able friends. I’d do anythin’ for you, Lonnie—you sawed-off, bat-eared, bug-headed cross between a—Lonnie, I like you, and yore cruel words cuts me to the quick, that’s what they do.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha.”

The sheriff turned and introduced his deputy, “Cloudy” Day, to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“He ain’t worth a damn to me,” declared the sheriff. “I dunno how I stand for him. He keeps sober in Caliente, ’cause he’s got a wife that whales hell out of him for drinkin’; but when he gits up here he forgets her.”

“Noshir.” Cloudy shook his head. “Ain’t true. I defy myshelf to get that drunk, and I ain’t curshed with a big mem’ry. My wife is a shister of our estimable sheriff, and”—Cloudy grinned widely—“if he didn’t give me a job, he’d have to board both of us; so he makes me earn m’ keep.”

“Lot of truth in that, too,” agreed the sheriff.

They left Cloudy trying to decide what to eat, and went to the Greenback Saloon. A few miners had come in from the camp at Greenhorn and were trying to beat one of the roulette wheels, but outside of that there was little going on there.

Ike Marsh was at the bar, talking to Faro Lanning, the owner of the Greenback. Lanning was a typical gambler, even to the waxed black mustache and the diamond horseshoe in his shirt bosom. He nodded to the sheriff, gave Hashknife and Sleepy a sharp glance, and turned back to the bar.

After the trio passed, he turned again and looked quizzically at Hashknife’s limping gait. Further back in the room, Torres and Garcia sat at a little table, Garcia asleep, while Torres perused a Mexican newspaper. At sight of Hashknife and Sleepy, Torres tapped Garcia on the ankle with the toe of his polished boot, and the half-breed looked quickly around.

The sheriff wandered over to the roulette wheel, while Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at a table. A man came in from the rear, and passed them on his way to the bar; a portly, well-dressed Chinaman. He gave them a keen glance, as he passed, and went to the bar.

“No pokah today, Faro?” he asked, smiling broadly.

“Hello, Lee.”

Faro removed his cigar and motioned the Chinaman to have a drink with him.

“No poker,” he replied. “Nobody wants to play, I guess.”

Torres and Garcia left their table and came past the bar, heading for the front door.

“Want to play pokah, Torres?” asked the Chinaman.

“Not today,” said the Mexican with hardly an accent. “Little too early, anyway. Later, perhaps.”

They went on outside, and Faro and the Chinaman turned back to their drinks.

“What do yuh think of this place?” asked Sleepy.

“Kinda peculiar,” smiled Hashknife softly. “Them two at the bar are wonderin’ who we are, and that flashy-lookin’ Mexican woke his pardner up to take a look at us.

“I’ve got a hunch that a Sunday School wouldn’t do very much business in Pinnacle, Sleepy; but that ain’t none of our business. I reckon we’ll saddle up and hunt for them hot springs pretty soon. That stagedriver scared a lot of rheumatism out of me last night, but most of it’s comin’ back.”

The sheriff left the roulette game and came back to them.

“Do you know where the hot springs are?” asked Sleepy.

“Hot springs? You mean the ones out at the Hawkworth ranch?”

“That’s the ones.”

“Yeah, I can tell yuh how to get there. It’s only two miles. Do you know Big Medicine Hawkworth?”

“Never heard of him until last night,” replied Hashknife. “They tell us the water is good for rheumatism.”

“Yeah? Well, I suppose it is. Big Medicine is a queer sort of a jigger. He don’t hardly leave the ranch. Ain’t been out of Hawk Hole for twenty-five years, they tell me. Mebbe he’ll let yuh bathe in his hot water, and mebbe he won’t.

“He owns most of Hawk Hole, yuh see. Owns about all the water, and nobody can range cattle here, except him. Had kind of a little kingdom of his own, until the Greenhorn Mines opened up and made an excuse for this town.

“Some of the boys say that the Hawkworth ranch is haunted. The old house creaks all over, and there’s black cats by the dozen, so they tell me. I dunno anythin’ about it. I do know that he’s got three cowpunchers that’ll fight anythin’. That was one of ’em at the bar when we come in. Name’s Ike Marsh.”

“Ain’t there any other cattle ranches in here?” asked Hashknife.

“Not in the Hole. East of here is the K-10 outfit. They’re runnin’ cattle in the hills. ‘Baldy’ Kern owns it. Baldy has six punchers with his outfit, and they ain’t shrinkin’ vi’lets, but he keeps his stock out of the Hole. Hawkworth don’t seem to be tryin’ to get rich. Ever’ so often he runs a few head of stock out to Caliente, sells ’em to a buyer there, and that’s all.

“I reckon he’s satisfied to set at home and kinda let the world alone. ’Tsall right, if yuh like it thataway. Ho hum-m-m-m”—he yawned widely—“I reckon I’ll find Cloudy and start for home. Long ways to Caliente. If yuh want to go to Hawkworth’s ranch, ride out the same way yuh came in last night. About a quarter of a mile out of town, take the road to the left.”

The sheriff drifted away, and Hashknife and Sleepy went outside. An old, dilapidated buckboard, drawn by two gray horses, came into the street and drew up in front of a store. In it were Lucy and Wanna. Torres and Garcia were just coming out of the store as they drove up to the hitch-rack, and Torres hurried out to tie the horses for them.

Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered down the street, passing the hitch-rack and getting their first glance at the feminine members of the Hawkworth household. Hashknife looked sharply at the older woman. He was familiar with the tribes of the Northwest, and it seemed homelike to see a familiar face again.

Torres was talking to Wanna, who turned away from him and looked at Hashknife. He had seen many half-breed girls, but none so pretty as Wanna Hawkworth. Lucy spoke sharply to the girl and started for the store; but Torres laughed and tried to detain Wanna.

“Let her go,” said Torres not unpleasantly. “It’s been a long time since I had a chance to talk to you, Wanna.”

“You no talk now,” said Lucy flatly. “Come, Wanna.” The girl started to walk around Torres, but the Mexican again blocked her. He seemed so persistent in forcing his attentions upon her that Hashknife stopped and walked toward them. The girl looked at Hashknife, who limped up within a few feet of Torres.

Garcia had halted near the end of the hitch-rack, rolling a cigarette, and evidently enjoying the scene—until Sleepy moved in beside him, resting one arm on the top pole of the rack and squinting into the half-breed Apache’s face.

Torres turned his head and looked at Hashknife, and as he did so, Wanna stepped past him and hurried to join her mother. Torres’ face flushed slightly, and his eyes narrowed.

“I just wondered,” said Hashknife slowly, half-apologetically, “if you had a match, pardner.”

Torres’ hand went to his pocket, but came away empty. He realized that Hashknife did not want a match. He turned his head and looked at Garcia, who was scowling at Sleepy.

“You want a match, eh?” said Torres slowly. “My friend, I am very sorry, but I have none.”

“Thassall right,” said Hashknife. “Much obliged just the same.”

He walked past Torres and went into the store, followed by Sleepy, who was grinning widely. Torres scowled heavily and looked at Garcia.

“Who are these men?” demanded Torres in Spanish.

“How should I know?” replied Garcia heavily. “I did not speak to the pig who grins only with his mouth.”

“They are strangers here,” mused Torres. “Last night they came on the stage.”

“This morning,” corrected Garcia. “They were talking with the sheriff, who is also a fool.”

“A fool is one who thinks that others do not have brains,” rebuked Torres. “A wise man overrates his opponent.”

This was a trifle beyond the mentality of Garcia, but he nodded violently, being of an agreeable disposition.

Hashknife and Sleepy went into the general store, where Lucy and Wanna were at a counter buying groceries. The girl glanced sharply at them, but the old squaw gazed upon them frankly. She realized that they had saved Wanna from an embarrassing situation, and she was grateful.

“Klahowya,” said Hashknife, smiling.

The old squaw opened her mouth twice before she replied with the same word. It was the universal greeting used by both whites and Indians where she had been raised, and it had been many years since she had heard it spoken.

For several moments she seemed deep in thought Then—

“Mah-sie,” she said softly.

It had been difficult for her to remember “Thank you” in that language.

Hashknife smiled and shook his head. Wanna was staring at him now. She did not understand the language. Hashknife and Sleepy purchased some tobacco and left the store, going over to the stage stable, where their horses had been put up.

“You made a hit with the old squaw,” grinned Sleepy. “By golly, she sure grinned a heap. But, honest to grandma, didja ever see a prettier half-breed girl, Hashknife?”

“For once in my life, I’ve got to agree with yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “She’s pretty. It seems kinda funny to see a klooch from the Northwest down in this country. She’s as far away from home as we are, and she’s been away a long time, too. It took her a long time to remember the jargon. I reckon she’s a Nez Percé or a Nespelem. Mebbe Flathead.”

“Somethin’ like that,” agreed Sleepy as they saddled. “Anyway, that tenas kloochman shore is pretty. A reg’lar Minnehaha Laughin’ Water.”

Hashknife turned from fastening a latigo and squinted at his partner.

“Aw, I know my loop’s draggin’,” grinned Sleepy. “Yuh don’t need to chide me, tall feller. Dang yuh, can’t I admire beauty if I want to? I’ve got eyes and a heart.”

“Yeah,” drawled Hashknife. “When they passed around eyes and hearts yuh robbed the platter, but when the brains came you was all filled up. Git yore thoughts off beauty and kinda concentrate on my rheumatism. That’s what we came here for.”

“That’s right, Hashknife. We’ve got to get you cured up, even if the pretty girls do show up to take my mind off yore aches.”

They led their horses back to the street through the alley between the stage station and the post-office. Torres was standing between them and the door of the post-office, looking intently at the door. He did not hear the two men and horses come out of the alley.

Three riders were coming in from the east, their horses drifting along slowly. Then the post-office door opened and Wanna came out, followed closely by Lucy. With an exaggerated bow, Torres swept off his sombrero. Lucy grasped Wanna by the arm, as if to turn her in the opposite direction, but Torres stepped in quickly and spoke to them.

His attitude was entirely apologetic, but his words were probably not, judging from the expression on the old squaw’s face. Hashknife dropped his reins, and in three long strides had reached Torres. His right hand caught the slack seat of Torres’ trousers, while his left twisted into the gorgeous silk muffler.

Torres ripped out an expressive Spanish oath, as his hands tried to draw a weapon, but Hashknife swung him aloft, whirled on his heels and fairly ran to the blacksmith shop, a short distance away, where the worthy smith was fitting shoes on a bad horse, and dumped the luckless Mexican headfirst into a very dirty slack tub.

This tub was made from a half-barrel, and was nearly full of inky water. The three riders whirled their horses up to the front of the shop and fairly fell out of their saddles. Sleepy had dropped the two sets of reins and was at the door of the shop ahead of the three men, as if to stop them from any interference.

The immersion of Torres seemed of great satisfaction to the blacksmith, whose buffalo-horn-like mustaches jiggled convulsively in a paroxysm of silent mirth. Hashknife knew just about how long a human being might safely be immersed; so he kept Torres under for the full limit, while the three riders, blocked from an entrance by Sleepy, who was willing to forego the pleasure of watching the ducking to prevent interference, grinned widely.

Torres was far from being gaudy when Hashknife drew him out, half-drowned, and sat him against the forge to recover. Several other men, attracted by those at the entrance, came to see what was going on. Faro Lanning was one of these.

Torres’ chin, which dripped dirty water and iron particles, was buried in the bosom of a once-ornate silk shirt, but now a dirty brown, as he wheezed audibly to draw air into his lungs. He was far from dead, but too watersoaked to care what went on around him.

Hashknife walked back to the door. The three riders looked him over critically, but said nothing.