
                            The Lovable Liar

                            By W. C. Tuttle


Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch
as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma
a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an
elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop
there on a flag.

There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock
cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma
back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma
was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon
and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the
privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot;
but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part
of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table,
playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it
interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved
back from the table.

“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh
can feed a horse.”

“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town,
pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all
I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”

“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the
restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in
Moolock.”

The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy”
Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad
shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue
eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the
slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles,
like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.

“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the
tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock
town?”

“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’
as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”

“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned
liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there--land that
was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this
Moolock?”

“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle
Cross, the biggest outfit.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They
cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon
keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.

As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He
had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at
now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its
coat was drying rough with lather.

He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his
own discovery.

“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact
that he had drawn a gray.

There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town.
Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the
substitution had changed saddles too.

“We’ve still got our saddles,” he declared. “Now what in ---- do yuh
know about that?”

Hashknife untied his pinto and led it into the light from the saloon
door, where he appraised the animal closely. It was sore-footed and
weary. Sleepy walked in beside him, leading the gray, and was about
to call to those inside the saloon to come out and help them wonder
over it all, when a voice yelled out from the darkness--

“Put up yore hands, doggone yuh!”

A revolver flashed and the bullet bit a splinter out of the
sidewalk. With an almost automatic movement, Hashknife drew and
fired at the flash; and at the same moment he darted out of the
light and flung himself flat on the ground. Sleepy went headlong out
of the illumination, rolled down the hill and came to rest behind a
big rock.

“Gosh dang yuh, what did yuh do that for, ‘Forty’?” wailed a voice from
the gloom. “Who in ---- told yuh to shoot, anyway?”

“Don’t walk into that light, ‘Swan River’!” cautioned another voice.
“They didn’t go far. I’ve got to fix that gun of mine. It’s too easy
on the pull. Don’t git in that light, you darned fool!”

The three men had come to the saloon door, wondering aloud what it was
all about. The saloon keeper carried a sawed-off shotgun, and at sight
of him, the one called Swan River spoke quickly--

“Hey, Pierson! This is the sheriff.”

“Hello, Swan River,” called the saloon keeper. “What’s all the ruction
about?”

“Don’t git in that light!” warned the deputy, “Forty Dollar” Dion, whose
gun was easy on the trigger. “I tell yuh they didn’t git far away.”

“Who yuh lookin’ for?” asked one of the men in the saloon doorway.

“The men who own them two horses,” replied Swan River Smith, the
sheriff. “They stuck up a train this afternoon, and we’ve been on their
trail ever since. That’s their gray and pinto.”

“Hey, sheriff!” called Hashknife.

“Listenin’.”

“Then listen close. Them ain’t our horses. I reckon the three men in
the doorway can tell yuh that we rode a roan and a bay into this place
late this afternoon, and that we’ve been in there ever since. We jist
found that somebody traded horses with us, and was admirin’ ’em in the
light.”

“That’s the truth,” said the saloon keeper. “They sure did ride a roan
and a bay, sheriff.”

“Well--” the sheriff seemed a bit dubious--“if yuh say so, Pierson, I’ll
take yore word. C’mon in, gents.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back into the light and looked at Swan
River Smith and his elongated deputy. Swan River was small, gray as a
rabbit, and with a pair of eyes as hard as granite. Forty Dollar Dion
was almost as tall as Hashknife, sad of face, and walked with a
loose-jointed shamble that would cause one to suspect that he might
fall apart at any time.

“I’m the sheriff of this county,” said Swan River, after a close
scrutiny of the two cowpunchers. “Name’s Smith.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and they adjourned to the bar.

“You danged near killed me,” declared Forty Dollar mournfully. “My gun
went off accidental. I had sense enough to sidestep; and yore bullet
poked a hole in the air just after I left. And it ain’t like me to think
fast, either.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh can’t blame me, pardner. One of yuh
yelled for us to put up our hands and the other one shot at us.”

“Excuse him, if yuh can,” said the sheriff, “I can’t. Here’s happy days
and a blanket at night.”

They drank and rattled their glasses on the bar.

“Didja take a good look at them horses, Forty?” asked the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I was right, Swan.”

The sheriff accepted Hashknife’s tobacco and cigaret papers, which were
also passed to Forty Dollar.

“The question is--where did they go from here?” observed the sheriff.

“I’ll betcha forty dollars they headed for Bearpaw,” said Forty Dollar.
“They’ve got fresh horses now.”

“And good horses,” added Sleepy mournfully.

“I never heard of a lost horse that wasn’t a good one,” grinned the
sheriff. “Nobody ever lost a bad one. Ha, ha, ha! Well, there ain’t
no use tryin’ to foller them two fellers now. Our horses are plumb
whipped; so we might as well go home, I reckon.”

“How much did they get?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They blew the safe on the express car and took what was in
it. Cut the train in two and made their getaway near where they had
the horses staked out. But the engineer got a look at the horses they
used, and as soon as the train got to Moolock he told me about it. Me
and Forty cut straight across the hills and are lucky enough to spot
’em.

“Since then we’ve sure burnt up horseflesh. Comes night and we kinda
loses track of ’em; so we heads for here and finds that pinto and gray,
standin’ plumb in the light. Yuh can’t blame us for the mistake, can
yuh?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head. It was all clear to him now, and
he did not blame the sheriff.

“I reckon we’ll go to Moolock with yuh,” he said. “Mebbe them two horses
are as fresh as yours, sheriff.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go. It’s a long ride back there; but there ain’t no
accommodations in Tecoma. You know anybody down there, Hartley?”

“Nope. Me and my pardner rode into Bearpaw from over the Grayling trail.
We kinda had an idea we’d like to do some gold minin’, and we was told
that there was plenty of good ground left up there; but there wasn’t an
inch. By golly, a moose bird has to keep in the trees to keep from bein’
a trespasser.”

“Pshaw, that’s all been located long ago. Well, let’s have one more
drink and pull our freight, gents.”

They told Tecoma good-bye, mounted the jaded horses and headed for
Moolock.

“Seems to me that I’ve heard of Moolock,” observed Hashknife, as they
jogged along over the dim road through the pines. “The name is kinda
familiar. You spoke of a feller named Allenby.”

“Frank Allenby,” said the sheriff. “He’s the biggest man in Moolock
county.”

“To hear him tell it,” amended Forty Dollar, “Allenby thinks that his
family is responsible for the risin’ and settin’ of the sun. ’S a fact.
He tells it when to come up and when to go down.”

“Didn’t Allenby send some young feller to the pen a while ago?”

“Yeah. A young feller by the name of ‘Bud’ Bell. Allenby didn’t exactly
send him to the penitentiary; but he was responsible for it. Bud’s out
now. I ain’t seen him yet. Mebbe he hates me for what I done, but I had
to do it. The Bell family are kinda strong on hate.

“Allenby bought the Half-Circle Cross from Henry Christman about three
years ago. Allenby is from Philadelphia. Never seen a cow ranch until
he hit this country. Hank Bell nested in on what Christman claimed as
his own ranch; but Christman didn’t own it.

“There was bad blood between Christman and old Hank. Christman tried in
every way to oust old Hank. Hank’s cows turned up missin’; some of ’em
had their throats cut. But old Hank stuck. One day him and Christman met
on the street in Moolock and shot it out. Christman got a bullet through
one lung and old Hank got his right arm crippled for life.

“It kinda put a crimp into old Hank, as a gunman; so he spent all his
time givin’ his son Bud a six-gun education. And Bud was a danged good
pupil. Then Christman sold out to Allenby, who tried to oust old Hank,
but the old boy had a title to his ranch. It’s a sore spot to Allenby,
’cause Hank’s place has the best spring in the Moolock range.”

“Did they quit killin’ off Hank’s cattle?” asked Hashknife.

Swan River Smith chuckled audibly.

“Yeah, yuh might say they did. The Bible says somethin’ about an eye
for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Anyway, Allenby got the deadwood
on Bud Bell and sent him up for five years; but the law let him out
in two years and a few days. Now I reckon Allenby is shakin’ in his
boots for fear Bud will make him pay for that two years.”

“Allenby is rich, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose he is pretty well fixed.”

“And I’ll tell yuh why,” said Forty Dollar. “Allenby is so stingy that
he wouldn’t pay two bits for a front seat at the Custer battle, if the
original actors would come back and play it. It’s an honest fact. To my
way of thinkin’, Allenby is a big jughead, with too much money and a
soul so danged thin that it squeaks in the wind like a fiddle string.
He wants everybody to know that he’s from Philly-del-fee.”

“That ain’t nothin’ agin’ him,” said the sheriff.

“Not that part,” agreed Forty Dollar. “I admire him for gettin’ out that
place. I’ve been there----”

“You mean you’ve heard about it,” corrected the sheriff.

Forty Dollar subsided.

“I’ve heard that men don’t value their lives very highly in Moolock,”
said Hashknife.

“Thasso?” The sheriff seemed surprised.

“Some as cheap as five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap?” blurted Forty Dollar. “My ----, I could point out a lot that
wouldn’t be worth that much per bale. Five thousand! Say, if I was
Saint Peter I wouldn’t even accept souls from Moolock, unless they
came prepaid.”

“Forty Dollar is a pessimist,” explained the sheriff quickly.

“Yeah and I’m a good democrat. M’ folks was Baptists. Tried to make me
one, but the water was too cold that winter; and by spring I was all out
of the notion.”

“I think we’ll like Moolock,” said Sleepy.

“Everybody does,” said Forty Dollar. “I know at least a hundred that
couldn’t even think of leavin’ there.”

“Love their little city, eh?”

“No--they’re stuck on the little cemetery,” chuckled the deputy. “Ha,
ha, ha, ha! I’ll drink with yuh in Moolock.”

They laughed and rode down the last of the steep grades into the valley
of the Moolock. The moon had lifted above the timbered slopes of the
mountains, bathing the hills and valleys in a blue haze. Far off to the
left a light twinkled from a window.

“That’s the 27A ranch,” said the sheriff. “Joe Bass owns it. Joe’s part
Nez Percé; quarter-breed, I reckon. Minds his own business. Been here a
long time. Ships quite a lot of stock.”

“Moolock is the shippin’ center, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Most of it goes from there. It’s kinda in the center of the valley; so
mostly everybody trades there. I was just wonderin’ what you meant about
human life bein’ cheap in Moolock.”

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Hashknife. “I heard that a man--a certain
man--only put that much value on his life.”

“Well, I dunno,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “I s’pose that some
folks feel thataway about money. I’d hate to sell mine for that.”

“And yet yuh take a chance every day for so much per month.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. You fellers aim to get jobs over here?”

“Mebbe. Feller’s got to eat.”

“They sure do. Yuh might see Allenby. Jim Merton might need a man. He
runs the Arrowhead brand, and his iron is on lots a cows. Them two are
the biggest outfits. You’d like Jim. He’s young and full of ambition.”

“Do yuh think we’d like Allenby?”

“Mm-m-m, well, yuh might. It takes all kinds of folks to make up a
world. What’s meat for one man is poison for another.”

It was about one o’clock in the morning when they rode into the town of
Moolock, stabled the horses and got a room at the one little hotel. They
were too tired to investigate the town, and even the hard mattress of
their bed felt like downy feathers.

“It’s funny how things work out,” observed Hashknife, as they stretched
out in bed. “We never had any idea of runnin’ into this place.”

“It’s the same Allenby, ain’t it?” asked Sleepy.

“Sure. Bob Freeman said in his letter that it was Allenby of Moolock;
so it must be the same feller. He spoke about the feller that Allenby
sent to the penitentiary; and about the old man.”

“They are the ones that are stealin’ Allenby’s cows, eh?” Thus Sleepy,
with interest.

“The ones he said he’d pay us five thousand for, if we could convict
’em. If we could.” Hashknife laughed. “Allenby wants his detective work
done on commission, Sleepy. He’s afraid of his life, that’s what’s the
matter with him. And he values it at five thousand.”

“Prob’ly all it’s worth,” laughed Sleepy.

In a different environment Hashknife Hartley might have been a famous
detective. His mind was quick to grasp the important points of a case,
and that, combined with what a gambler would call a “hunch,” had enabled
him to solve some of the mysteries of cowland, which had baffled even
the best operatives of the Cattle Associations.

Both he and Sleepy Stevens were top-hand cowboys; but fate had always
thrown them into troubled ranges where their detective ability was of
more demand than their ability to handle cattle. It was a hazardous
calling, and of little remuneration.

Their fame had spread from range to range; and the repeated telling
in cowtown, bunkhouse and around the camp-fires had exaggerated their
ability until they became a bugaboo to those outside the law on the
ranges. But there was nothing superhuman about either of them. There
was nothing marvelous about their gun-play; neither could they whip
their weight in wild-cats. Yet they had left behind them a trail of
righted wrongs, and a memory of two big-hearted cowpunchers, who
fought with a grin, asking no favors of anyone; riding away ahead of
thanks or remuneration, if possible.

There were homes on the ranges where these two men were mentioned in
the evening prayer, and there were places where their names brought
forth a curse and the hope that they would never come back. Still they
rode on with a grin on their lips, knowing that fate had marked them
for certain duties. And they were both confirmed fatalists--facing
death with a grin, because they felt that they would never die until
the moving finger on the big book wrote _Finis_ after their names.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was just breaking day the following morning, when “Chet” Hoban,
foreman of the Half-Circle Cross, and “Omaha” Olsen, one of the
Half-Circle Cross cowboys, rode through the main street of Moolock,
which was the only street in the town.

It was a crooked street as well as a narrow one, bordered with
false-fronted buildings, of which the livery stable was the most
pretentious. The next building in size was the Elk saloon and
gambling house, with its spacious hitch-rack crowding close to the
narrow sidewalk.

Next to the Elk saloon was the Blue Front Café, with only the name to
indicate that at some remote time it might have been painted. Adjoining
this building was the White Horse saloon. Across the street from the Elk
saloon was the sheriff’s office. On this side of the street were more
saloons, a general merchandise store, post-office, stage station and
other small business necessary to the comfort of rangeland humanity.

The Moolock hotel was neither of great size nor elegant in appointment,
but it served. Its sign read--

MOOLOCK HOTEL
FROSTY WELCOME PROP.

Which, as a cowboy had said, “If yuh don’t git treated well, you’ve been
warned ahead of time.”

But “Frosty” Welcome was only frosty by nickname and not by nature.

The two cowboys rode through town and cut across a flat toward the big
loading corrals near the depot. A string of cattle cars were being
shunted onto a spur track by a freight engine, as they rode up to the
corral fence and tied their horses.

Chet Hoban was a thin-faced, raw-boned man, whose hair was plentifully
dusted with gray, and whose humped shoulders and bowed legs gave him the
appearance of one who bears a mighty burden on his back. His boot heels
were run-over on the outer side, which caused him to walk jerkily lest
he sprain his ankles.

Omaha Olsen was taller than Hoban, and even leaner of frame. His eyes
were sad; in fact his whole mien bespoke a great sadness, and his long
nose, slightly twisted at the bridge, showed blue veins, as though it
might be perpetually damp and cold.

The engine uncoupled and went puffing back toward the depot, while
Hoban and Olsen crossed the track, circled the corral and stopped. For
a space of several moments they surveyed the empty corral and then, as
if by mutual consent, they climbed to the wide plank of the top and
gazed across the different pens, their faces filled with an expression
of wonderment.

Then Hoban circled to the main gate, where he sat down and looked at the
broken padlock, which dangled from a twisted staple. Omaha Olsen came up
and peered down at it. Then he produced his tobacco and papers and began
calmly rolling a cigaret, while Hoban turned and gazed off across the
rolling hills.

“They done busted the lock,” said Omaha. Hoban squinted at him, but did
not reply. The busted lock needed no explanation.

“Three hundred of ’em, too,” observed Omaha.

“You keep on and there won’t be nothin’ to tell about,” said Hoban a
trifle sarcastically.

“And Allenby will jist about bust a gizzard.” Thus Omaha, ignoring
Hoban. “I c’n see him commencin’ to git red and swell up like a
carbuncle. My ----, this’ll sure ache him all over.”

“You’d ache if somebody stole three hundred two-year-old Herefords from
yuh,” retorted Hoban.

“----, I’d ache if I ever had that many. Now what in ---- will we do
with these cars?”

Hoban got to his feet, shaking his head.

“Let Clayton worry about that. C’mon.”

They climbed down and went to their horses, which they mounted and rode
back into town. The sheriff was still asleep, but Hoban hammered on the
office door and woke him up.

“Last night we had three hundred two-year-old Herefords in the loadin’
corrals, sheriff. They were to be loaded this mornin’. Somebody smashed
the padlock on the main gate and swiped the whole herd.”

Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that was worth takin’. Smashed the padlock,
eh? That’s a penitentiary offense. Took three hundred Half-Circle Cross
Herefords, eh? Gosh! Somebody held up the train yesterday, too, Chet.
Danged country is goin’ to the dogs. Allenby know?”

“Not yet. We just found it out.”

“We better find Clayton,” said Omaha. “He’ll likely want to see about
them cars.”

“I’ll git on some clothes right away and see what I can find out,”
offered the sheriff, turning back into the office.

Hoban and Omaha walked up to the hotel, where they found Ed Clayton,
the cattle-buyer, just ready to leave for the loading pens. Clayton
was a big man, without an ounce of fat on his huge frame. He was not
unhandsome, dressed well, and was not over thirty-five years of age.
Clayton was an inveterate gambler, a plunger; and his eyes were still
heavy from a long session of poker at the Elk.

In a few short words Hoban told him what had happened.

“Sounds like a ---- fairy story,” said Clayton, but quickly corrected
himself with, “You know what I mean, Hoban; it don’t seem possible.”

Hoban relaxed and nodded shortly. He and Clayton had never been very
friendly.

“Mebbe it don’t sound possible,” said Hoban slowly, “but they’re gone.
What about your cars?”

“And nothing to put in ’em,” muttered Clayton. “Well, I’ll have to see
what can be done. Want to walk up to the depot?”

“All right. Allenby will be here pretty soon.”

The freight was still at the depot and Clayton immediately explained the
situation to the agent.

“I’ll tell yuh what we can do,” suggested the agent, “We can send ’em
up to Bluejoint. Old Sam Bass has been yelling for cars for three days.
He’s got some stock to ship. Shall I take that chance?”

“Go ahead,” urged Clayton. “I don’t want the darned things. If Bass can
use ’em, he’s sure welcome.”

Bluejoint was merely a siding and a loading corral about ten miles
from Moolock. It was sometimes used by the ranchers of that side of
the valley in making small shipments, and was located about two miles
from the 27A ranch.

The train crew grumbled audibly, but added the cattle cars to the train,
took their orders and steamed away across the valley, while Clayton,
Hoban and Omaha went back to wait for Allenby, who rode into town in a
buckboard drawn by a pair of cream-colored horses.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Frank Allenby was about fifty years of age, portly and important. When
Forty Dollar Dion had declared that Allenby thought the sun arose and
set because of the Allenby family, he was not so far wrong. Allenby
had a square, protruding jaw, which accentuated the flatness of his
cheek-bones, and beneath a slightly hooked nose he wore an aggressive,
brush-like, gray mustache.

His suit was of black broadcloth, his boots of finest leather, and his
hats were made to order. But he wore an old-fashioned, stiff bosomed
shirt, sans collar, but with a huge onyx button; while his cuffs were
fastened together with big cameo cuff-buttons. He wore no vest. From a
suspender stay dangled a solid gold watch chain, each link at least an
inch long.

Hoban met him at the hitch-rack and tied the team, while Allenby got
ponderously from the buckboard, the springs of which seemed to sigh
with relief. He looked questioningly at Hoban, as though wondering why
he was not busy at the loading pens. He could also see Omaha Olsen and
Ed Clayton, standing in front of the Elk saloon.

It did not take Hoban long to inform Allenby of his loss, and the big
man stiffened, as though to withstand a physical blow. His face paled
with anger and then he hunched forward, as if to grapple with his
foreman.

“Gone?” he muttered thickly. “You mean that some one stole them?”

“Yuh might say they have,” said Hoban slowly. “The padlock on the big
gate has been smashed. I told the sheriff about it.”

Allenby shook his head like a wounded bull. The pocket-book was Frank
Allenby’s vital spot, and it nauseated him to think of losing those
Herefords. Then he shut his teeth with an audible snap and surged
ahead toward the Elk saloon, where he stopped in front of Omaha and
the cattle buyer.

“I know about it,” said Clayton sympathetically.

“By ----, I know about it, too!” roared Allenby. He was almost crying
with anger. “I know who stole those Herefords. By ----, I know!
I’ll----”

“Go ahead and tell me who stole ’em.”

Swan River Smith had crossed the street unnoticed and had heard
Allenby’s statement. Allenby turned his head and glared at the
sheriff. But Allenby’s glare did not affect Swan River in the least.
The big cattle man’s dominating personality meant nothing to the
little sheriff.

“Go ahead,” urged Swan River. “I’d shore like to hear his name.”

“That’s my business!” snapped Allenby.

“And mine,” added the sheriff. “If you know who stole yore cows tell
me his name. If you don’t know, Allenby, if yore only makin’ a wild
guess--keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll do as I ---- please!”

“Yeah?” Swan River looked him over coldly. “All right. Free speech is
yore right, Allenby. But if you ain’t got evidence enough to back up
the name you mention--the law ain’t backin’ you.”

“I don’t need the law. I’ll be my own law, by ----!”

“Huh!” Thus the sheriff softly, as he turned and walked back toward his
office. Allenby glared after him. Omaha and Clayton smiled; but Hoban’s
face did not change a line.

“Little pup!” sneered Allenby, half under his breath; but the sheriff
was too far away to hear it.

“He isn’t much,” agreed Clayton. Hoban looked sharply at the
cattle-buyer. Hoban knew that Swan River Smith was a thoroughly capable
officer, with a fine record behind him.

“Do yuh know who stole ’em?” asked Omaha innocently.

“Do I know who stole ’em?” parroted Allenby. “I do know.”

“Well, let’s go and get ’em back.”

“Fool!” snorted Allenby. “Do you suppose they’d leave ’em where we could
find ’em?” He spat viciously and turned to Clayton.

“When will your man be here, Ed?”

“He’s due any time now. You just keep calm and let Jim Seeley work on
this case. He’ll put a stop to it.”

“That’s the detective?” asked Omaha.

“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t tell everybody about it.”

“I hope he can handle it,” said Allenby wearily. “I can’t stand losing
any more stock. Freeman, the secretary of the association, promised to
furnish me with a couple of men, who, he said, are the best in the world
on this kind of a case. But they refused to take it. I offered them five
thousand dollars for a conviction, but they refused.

“I know who is doing the dirty work, Clayton. I know it just as well
as if I had a confession from them; but I need evidence. Nobody else
is losing stock. It’s spite work, that’s all it is. For over two years
I’ve been losing cattle. I sent one man to the penitentiary, and next
time I’ll send two. If I don’t stop ’em, I’ll be broke. I’m going home
now.”

“You heard about the train robbery, didn’t you?” asked Clayton.

“Yes. The sheriff chased them to Tecoma, but they got away into the
Bearpaw country.”

“Suppose there’s any connection between the train robbery and the
rustlers?”

“No. Too far apart. Are you coming out to the ranch today?”

“I may be out later.”

Hoban untied the team and watched Allenby ride back toward the ranch,
before joining Omaha and Clayton at the Elk bar.

Hashknife and Sleepy had finished their breakfast in time to see Allenby
ride away. The sheriff was standing in the doorway of his office when
they arrived, and told them that the big man was Frank Allenby.

“Allenby ain’t no woolly little sheep when he’s contented,” explained
Swan River, “so right now he’s a ragin’ wolf with nothin’ in sight to
bite into. Somebody busted into the loadin’ pens last night and lifted
three hundred Hereford cows that were due to take a railroad ride this
mornin’.”

“Lifted ’em out of a loadin’ pen, eh?” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll tell a
man that’s the real handy way to get ’em. Sheriff, I’m of the opinion
that this county ain’t so law-abidin’ that it aches.”

“Naw, she ain’t,” agreed Forty Dollar, trying to get a number nine foot
into a number seven boot. “’F you was a deputy sheriff here for a while
you’d find out. This here ain’t no office--it’s a job, y’betcha.”

“Any clues left by the light-fingered gents?” asked Sleepy.

Swan River shook his head.

“Not a clue. There’s so darned many cow tracks in this country, and no
rain for two months, that yuh never could trail ’em.”

“Just have to trust to luck, eh?” Thus Hashknife, interested.

“Yeah--luck.”

“Have much rustlin’ to contend with?”

“Mm-m-m, not so much. It’s a queer thing about the rustlin’. Somebody
has been stealin’ cows from Allenby for over two years. I’ve tried every
scheme I could think of to nail the guilty party or parties; but they’re
too slick for me.”

“Only from Allenby?” queried Hashknife.

“He’s the only one that reports a loss.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Kinda looks like somebody
had a grudge against Mr. Allenby, don’t it?”

“Do yuh think so?”

“Well, what do you think, sheriff?”

Swan River Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew who Allenby
suspected. There was a dead weight of evidence against that party right
now; but Swan River wanted to be fair. He did not know who Hashknife
and Sleepy were, except their names, and he did not want to make any
mistakes.

“We don’t want to horn into yore business,” said Hashknife, reading
the sheriff’s hesitancy. “It ain’t nothin’ to us, yuh see. We’d kinda
like to get our broncs back though. Them was sure two goshawful good
horses.”

Swan River looked up grinning.

“I’ll betcha they were,” he said. “I’d just like to help yuh get ’em
back, to see how good they are. C’mon out to the stable.”

They went out through the rear door, with Forty Dollar bringing up
the rear, stamping his feet to try and stretch his boots. If facial
expression means anything he was accomplishing little.

“These are m’ dude boots,” he explained to Sleepy. “When I dress--I
dress to kill.”

“Yourself?” asked Sleepy innocently.

Forty Dollar grinned painfully and rested on his high-heels, bracing one
hand against the stable door, while the others went inside.

“I want yuh to take a look at the gray and the pinto,” said Swan River,
pointing out the two horses in adjoining stalls. Hashknife looked them
both over carefully and came back beside the sheriff.

“Notice the brands?” asked the sheriff.

“Both HB animals,” said Hashknife. “No other brands.”

The sheriff squinted at the rumps of the two horses, chewing
reflectively on a straw.

“I didn’t need to look at the brands,” he said slowly. “I knew the two
horses we were chasin’ yesterday. Yuh couldn’t mistake that pinto. That
black head shows it up a mile away. And there ain’t many gray horses
bein’ rode around here.”

“Kinda looks like Hank Bell’s goose was about cooked,” observed Forty
Dollar, limping in from the doorway.

“That’ll be about all from you,” said the sheriff. “Yo’re just
pessimistic from tight boots.”

They went back to the office, where Forty Dollar managed to take off the
offending, if gaudy, footwear and put on his old boots.

“Them that wants to be dudes can be dudes,” he declared. “’F I can
find the drummer what sold me that pair of boots, I’ll kick him seven
times with each one. I want food, by golly. You fellers had breakfast
yet? Yeah? Well, I reckon I can eat by my lonesome.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Forty Dollar grabbed his hat and crossed the street to the Blue Front
restaurant, while the other three men lounged in the doorway of the
office, smoking thoughtfully. A man rode in past them and dismounted at
the Elk saloon. He was not many years past his majority; a thin-faced
youth and rather frail of physique.

“That’s Allenby’s son,” said the sheriff. “Harry Allenby. The old
man thinks that Harry is the finest piece of man-flesh that ever was
whelped. I dunno what in ---- he’s ever goin’ to make out of the
kid. Allenby is so ----ed stingy that he wouldn’t let the kid go to
college; yet he expects him to be President of the United States, I
reckon.”

“Kinda figures to have him be a self-made man, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“Somethin’ like that. I like Mrs. Allenby. She’s sure a nice little
woman--too ----ed nice for Allenby. And June is a dinger. June is the
daughter. She’s about a year younger than Harry, and I reckon he’s
about twenty-four now.”

While they were discussing the Allenbys’ affairs two more riders came
into the far end of the street and rode toward them. Swan River squinted
thoughtfully, watching them ride to the Elk saloon rack.

“There’s Bud Bell and ‘Sticky’ Clay,” said Swan River. “Bud is the one
on this side--the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary. Clay
rides for the HB outfit, and he’s a gunman if there ever was one. Oh,
oh! C’mon.”

The two men had tied their horses and were going toward the saloon door.
Swan River stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the saloon. After
a moment of hesitation, Hashknife and Sleepy hurried after him.

“There’s three men from Allenby’s in there,” explained Swan River, as
they reached the sidewalk. “Mebbe it won’t mean anythin’, but yuh never
can tell.”

As they went inside Clayton was just buying some chips in a poker game,
while Omaha and Hoban were deep in the mysteries of trying to play pool
on an uneven table, on which the cushions were as “dead” as strips of
mattress. Harry Allenby was at the bar, with a bottle at his elbow,
squinting sidewise at Bud Bell and Sticky Clay, who were also at the
bar, being served by “Snowy” Barnette, the proprietor.

As far as outward appearances went there was no cause for the sheriff
to feel any uneasiness. Bud turned his head and looked at Swan River
Smith. It was their first meeting since Bud had come back from the
penitentiary. But if Bud felt any malice toward the sheriff, his gray
eyes did not show it.

“Hello, Bud,” said the sheriff softly. “Goin’ to shake hands with me?”

A slight smile flashed across the young man’s thin lips and he nodded
quickly, as he held out his hand.

“Why shouldn’t I, Swan River?” he asked. “You wasn’t to blame.”

They shook hands solemnly. Omaha and Hoban stopped playing long enough
to observe this meeting, and those in the poker game were silent until
it was over. Harry Allenby took a lonesome drink and braced his elbows
on the bar, hooked one heel over the bar-rail and studied the poker
players.

“Howdy, Clay,” said the sheriff.

Sticky Clay grinned, showing two rows of bad teeth, and motioned for
the sheriff to join them in their drink. Clay was wry-necked, sallow
complexioned and almost bald. He seemed to be in bad health, but
those who had had trouble with him declared that there was nothing
sickly about him.

“Invite yore friends,” said Sticky, noticing that Hashknife and Sleepy
were with Swan River.

“I’ll take a cigar,” said Hashknife. “Little too soon after breakfast to
drink.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Clay. “I don’t diagnose no man’s inside
workin’s. ’S everybody set? Here’s hopin’ yuh never get caught.”

“Here’s hopin’ I don’t have to catch yuh,” smiled the sheriff.

Harry Allenby laughed harshly. The saloon went silent. Swan River had
spoken loud enough for every one to hear.

“You won’t have to,” said Harry meaningly. “A sheriff can do as he ----
pleases.”

Swan River’s eyes narrowed, but he turned away, ignoring the implied
insult. He knew that Harry had been drinking more than was good for
him, and was willing to excuse him for his words. Bud was only a few
feet away from Harry, with no one between them.

“You’re drunk, Harry,” said Clayton, shoving back from the table.
“Better go out and get some fresh air.”

Hoban and Omaha carefully placed their billiard cues on the table and
moved slowly toward the bar. Harry looked at them and laughed.

“I don’t need any help,” he assured them, waving them away with a slight
gesture of his left hand. “I can take care of myself, y’betcha. Maybe
it’s none of my business, but when the sheriff comes in and tries to put
himself in right with a ---- jail-bird of a horse-thief, I’m ----ed if
I----”

His right hand jerked to his gun and he swayed from the bar, but his
defense was too slow. Before he had finished speaking, Bud Bell had
flung himself forward, and Harry Allenby went down from a smash full
in the face that flattened his nose and loosened his front teeth.

He fell at the feet of Omaha and Hoban, who made no move to assist him,
as they were looking at Sticky Clay, who had stepped into the center of
the room, six-shooter swinging at his thigh, a grin on his lips. Harry
got slowly to his feet, spitting gore; but the fight had all been taken
out of him. His gun was still in its holster, but he had enough for one
day.

“Yuh can put up yore gun, Clay,” said Hoban. “The kid’s been drinkin’
too much, thasall.”

Sticky Clay grinned and snapped the gun back into the holster. Bud
Bell’s face was still white with anger, but he turned his back on the
blubbering young cowboy, who was being led back to a bucket of water
by Omaha Olsen. Clayton looked up at Swan River and said:

“Overlook that, will you, sheriff? Harry is just a fool kid, and he had
too much liquor.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Swan River seriously. “I hope this will
be a lesson to him. Somebody’ll kill him for talkin’ too much one of
these days, Clayton.”

“I suppose they will,” agreed Clayton, and resumed playing.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Bud and Sticky left the place and crossed to a general merchandise
store. In a few minutes Swan River, Hashknife and Sleepy went outside,
where they met Forty Dollar. He wailed mightily when Swan River told
him what had happened.

“Jist my darned luck!” he exclaimed. “Seems like I’m always eatin’
when anythin’ good is pulled off. ’F I ever want to see anythin’ of
the world, I’ll have to starve, I reckon. Betcha forty dollars this
won’t be the end of it.”

“I hope you lose that forty dollars sometime,” grunted the sheriff.
“You’ve been offerin’ that bet ever since I’ve knowed yuh.”

“Nobody ever takes me up, Swan River. I’m game.”

“Oh, ----, you never had that much money. I reckon I better go up to the
depot and collect a lot of telegrams from the express company. They’ll
swamp me with ’em for a while, even if there wasn’t a two bit piece in
that safe.”

“How much did they lose?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They prob’ly don’t know yet. Anyway, there ain’t a ghost of a
chance to--” Swan River hesitated, cleared his throat harshly and headed
for the depot.

“I’d say that he was a square-shooter,” observed Hashknife.

“Swan River?” Forty Dollar grinned softly. “Yeah, he’s all right. He’d
play square with a horse-thief. That’s why our jail ain’t hardly ever
occupied. But don’tcha ever get the idea that the little feller ain’t
a fighter.”

“I wouldn’t choose him,” smiled Hashknife.

They sauntered across the street and met Bud, who was coming out of the
store, followed by Sticky Clay.

“Hyah, Bud,” greeted Forty Dollar, holding out his hand.

“Old Forty Dollar Dion, how are yuh?” said Bud softly. “Long time I no
see yuh.”

They studied each other for several moments.

“Yuh look all right, Bud,” said Dion.

“Yeah, I’m all right, Forty. It seems good to see yuh again.”

“Thank yuh, Bud. Say, I want you fellers to meet Hashknife Hartley and
Sleepy Stevens. Gents, this is Bud Bell and Sticky Clay.”

The four men shook hands. Bud Bell’s eyes never turned from his study
of Hashknife, even when he shook hands with Sleepy. It was evident to
both Hashknife and Sleepy that Bud Bell had recognized them by name.
Sticky’s eyes squinted reflectively, as he seemed to try and place
them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never traveled incognito, even when
knowingly going into an enemy country. Moolock was a long ways from
any place where they had operated, and it was not surprising that
more men did not recognize them by name.

There came an awkward pause, broken by Sticky Clay.

“We better be gettin’ back to the ranch with this stuff, Bud.”

“All right,” said Bud. “Pleased to have met yuh, gents.”

They walked across to their horses and rode out of town, while
Hashknife, Sleepy and Forty Dollar sauntered down to the office.

“Did you ever know that tall puncher?” asked Clay, as he and Bud rode
out of town. “Seems like I’ve heard that name.”

“I don’t know him,” said Bud slowly, thoughtfully, “but I’ve heard
about him, Sticky. There was a man in the penitentiary, servin’ time
for murder, who told me about him. This convict was part of the Moon
River gang. Hartley sent him to the pen.”

“Was he the only one of the gang in the pen?” asked Sticky.

“Yeah--the rest died with their boots on.”

“Oh, yeah,” muttered Sticky. “What do yuh reckon he’s doin’ around here,
Bud?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I dunno. Mebbe Allenby has hired him.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Sticky dubiously. “Yuh never can tell. Still, when
you knocked Harry Allenby down, and Hoban and Omaha were comin’ from
the pool table, I seen this tall puncher’s hand swing back toward his
gun, and he kinda humped a little. I seen all this out of the corner
of my eye. Mebbe he’s hired by Allenby, but I’m wonderin’ what would
’a’ happened if Allenby’s gang had started anythin’.”

Bud shook his head and examined his skinned knuckles, which had come in
contact with Harry Allenby’s teeth.

“I heard,” said Sticky Clay, “that Clayton, the cattle-buyer, is goin’
to marry June Allenby.”

Bud looked up quickly, but Sticky was looking straight ahead, his
sombrero pulled low over his eyes. For several moments they rode
silently. Bud’s thin lips twisted painfully, as he said--

“Well, she’d sure make him a good wife.”

“That side of it is all right,” observed Sticky. “She’d make any man a
good wife.”

“If he was lucky enough to get her,” said Bud softly.

Sticky squinted sidewise under the protection of his wide hat at Bud,
who was gazing unblinkingly at the bobbing ears of his horse.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Frank Allenby fairly boiled with indignation when Chet Hoban told him
what had happened in the Elk saloon. Harry had refused to come home
with Hoban and Omaha. Hoban told Allenby exactly what had transpired,
without excusing Harry in any way.

Allenby did not stop to consider that Harry had been a foolish young
man; he only saw the disgrace to the Allenby family in having an
ex-convict knock his son down in a saloon brawl.

“Why didn’t you and Omaha defend him?” he demanded hotly.

Hoban shook his head slowly.

“Harry was wrong; and Sticky Clay had every man in the room covered
before Harry went down. And Clay will shoot.”

“Well, perhaps,” grudgingly. “And Harry wouldn’t come home, eh?”

“No.”

“He must feel the disgrace keenly.” Allenby turned away and went into
the house. Hoban squinted after him and went back toward the bunkhouse,
where Omaha was stretched out on a bunk, reading a paper-backed novel.

“How’d he take it?” asked Omaha.

“Rearin’ straight up,” said Hoban humorously. “I told him that Harry
wouldn’t come home, and he said that Harry must feel the disgrace
keenly.”

“My ----!” grunted Omaha. “‘The disgrace keenly,’ eh? Didja tell him
everythin’ that Harry said?”

“Every word, cowboy.”

“He ought to be proud of his offspring.”

“That’s the ---- of it, Omaha--he is.”

June Allenby was in the living room of the ranch-house when her father
came in after his talk with Chet Hoban, and she could see that he was
greatly perturbed. June was a tall, slender girl, with an unruly crown
of soft brown hair above a face that the cowboys of the Moolock swore,
“has anythin’ beat that ever came over the hills.” But June was not of
the clinging-vine type, nor was she ever guilty of parading her own
beauty.

Allenby flung himself down in an easy chair that creaked a protest, and
stared moodily at the well-worn Navajo rug under his feet.

“What has gone wrong now, Dad?” asked June, closing the book she had
been reading.

He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Wrong? Everything is wrong. Bud Bell whipped your brother in the Elk
saloon today. Knocked him down like a dog!”

Allenby grasped the arms of the chair, as though trying to tear them
from their moorings.

June colored slightly and looked away.

“Why did he do it?” she asked calmly.

“Why?” snorted her father. “Possibly Bud Bell thought it would help to
pay me back for sending him to prison.”

“Don’t you know what started it?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Had Harry been drinking?”

“Drinking? He doesn’t----”

“Yes, he does, Dad. Omaha told me----”

“Oh, pshaw! They all drink a little. Harry isn’t a drinker.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t take much liquor to make him drunk.”

Allenby stared at June for several seconds. He chuckled angrily and got
to his feet.

“June, are you trying to defend Bud Bell?”

“No, I----”

“You met him at several dances before----”

June sprang to her feet and they looked squarely at each other. Then
Allenby laughed harshly, and June whirled on her heel and left the room.

“By ----, that would make the ---- laugh,” he told the empty room. “That
---- rustler!”

He turned to the front door as a vehicle rattled over the hard ground
outside, and he stepped out to see Clayton and a stranger getting out
of a buggy. The stranger was of medium size, dark-featured and with a
small, black mustache. He was dressed in dark clothes, soft shirt and
a stiff-brim Stetson hat.

“Mr. Allenby, meet Mr. Seeley--Jim Seeley.”

They shook hands jerkily. Clayton took a big suit-case from the buggy
and placed it on the porch.

“Kind of a pretty place yuh got here, Mr. Allenby,” said Seeley,
glancing around. “I never seen a cow-ranch with so much paint before.
You believe in dudin’ it up, don’tcha?”

“Just because it is a cattle ranch, there is no need of living like
savages,” replied Allenby.

“Mr. Allenby is several jumps ahead of the rest of the country,”
declared Clayton. “He’s progressive. His ranch-house is as fine as a
home in the city, and I’ll defy you to find a broken board, loose
post or a loose wire on the place.”

Seeley laughed.

“I’m not goin’ to look.”

“Well, you couldn’t find it,” declared Allenby proudly. “I’ve seen to it
all myself. Do you intend to stay right here?”

“Why not?” asked Seeley. “I’m workin’ for you now.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you,” said Allenby. “And when I hire a man I
want him where I can see that he is on the job all the time. Come on
in and meet the family.”

Seeley shot a side glance at Clayton, who was trying to suppress a
smile, and they followed Allenby into the house.

“Now who do yuh reckon that is?” queried Omaha, who was looking out of
the window and saw the three men going into the house.

Hoban joined him and took a look at the stranger.

“That must be the private investigator that Clayton sent for,” said
Hoban dryly. “Allenby has had the detective idea for quite a while, it
seems. He lost faith in the Cattle Association, and had some words with
the secretary, who promised to get him a first-class cow detective; but
it seems that Allenby didn’t ante high enough to get this man.”

“He wouldn’t,” agreed Omaha, turning away from the window. “I don’t
like to appear disloyal, but personally I think that Allenby is so
stingy that he takes out his false teeth at night to save the wear
and tear from his snores.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Omaha went back to his paper-backed novel, while Chet Hoban sat down
to play a game of solitaire. About fifteen minutes later Harry Allenby
came in. His nose was badly swollen, as was his upper lip; but he was
well loaded with liquor, and if he had been disgraced he did not show
it.

“Whoozup at th’ house?” he asked thickly, trying to point in the
direction of the ranch-house.

“Clayton and a stranger,” grunted Hoban.

“Whooza stranger?”

“I dunno,” Hoban was trying to concentrate on the layout.

“Zasso?” Harry sat down on the bunk and looked owlishly at Omaha, who
grinned behind his book.

“He’s a detective, sonny,” said Omaha patiently. “He’s come here to save
yore papa’s li’l cowlets.”

“Zasso?” Harry blinked thoughtfully. “Zee a goo’ one?”

“Shore is,” nodded Omaha. “He’s the jigger that found the ‘Lost Chord,’
if yuh know what that is.”

“Yezzir, I dunno. Ol’ man up at the house?”

“Yeah, he’s there. If I was you I’d doctor up that nose and lip, Harry.
Yo’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing, if yuh ask me.”

“You better crawl into bed and sleep it off,” said Hoban, without
looking up. “Don’t let yore dad see yuh drunk.”

“Zasso?” Harry stumbled over to a mirror and looked at himself with one
eye shut.

“I’m a sweet lookin’ lily, tha’s a cinch,” he concluded.

He came back to the center of the room, as though the sight of himself
had sobered him a little.

“I’m goin’ back to town,” he decided.

“You better stay right here,” advised Hoban. “Shuck off yore clothes and
go to bed.”

“Not ’f I can get away without the folks seein’ me.”

He opened the door cautiously, peered out for several moments before
going out after his horse. Omaha went to the window and watched Harry
make his sneak back toward town.

“Danged fool kid,” opined Hoban.

“Yeah,” nodded Omaha, “he’s a fool all right, I s’pose. Still he’s old
enough to know what he wants. I blame Allenby more than I do the kid.
He won’t even pay Harry a cowpuncher’s wages.”

Some one was talking just outside the door; so Omaha went to the window
and looked out at Swan River Smith and Forty Dollar Dion, who had just
ridden up to the bunkhouse.

“The law has found us out, Chet,” he said as he threw the door open.

“Howdy, officers,” he called. “Get down and appear amiable.”

“Hello, Omaha,” grinned Swan River. “Is Allenby at home? I mean ‘Mr.’
Allenby.”

Omaha grinned widely and pointed toward the house, where Allenby,
Clayton and Seeley had come out on the porch. Clayton got into the
buggy and drove away, and after a few moments of conversation Allenby
and Seeley came down to the bunkhouse.

Allenby did not introduce Seeley to any of them, but spoke directly to
the sheriff--

“Something you wanted, Mr. Smith?”

“Nothin’ I exactly wanted, Mr. Allenby,” said the sheriff. “It was
kinda in regard to yore loss of last night. In reply I can say that I
ain’t been able to find any clue--yet. In yore talk of this mornin’
you kinda intimated that you suspected somebody of purloinin’ yore
cows, and if you ain’t got nothin’ else to do right now, I’d kinda
like to have yuh explain yore suspicions to me. Sincerely yours, Swan
River Smith, sheriff of Moolock.”

Swan River had intoned the whole statement, as though dictating a
letter, and Allenby’s ears reddened quickly. Omaha smothered a grin;
but Forty Dollar Dion laughed outright. Allenby glared angrily at
Forty Dollar, but that worthy did not mind.

“Are you trying to be smart, or just funny?” Allenby asked the sheriff.

“It’s all in the point of view,” said Swan River evenly.

“All right,” Allenby spat viciously. “As far as my losses are concerned,
you may just forget them. I am not asking any assistance from the
sheriff’s office, and I don’t care to have you volunteer any. I hope you
understand what I mean.”

“----, you didn’t leave many loopholes for a mistake to crawl through,”
grinned Swan River. “But yore likes and dislikes don’t mean nothin’ to
me, Allenby. I’m the sheriff of this county, and I want to tell you----”

“Pardon me, but you can’t tell me anything.” Thus Allenby.

“That’s the whole trouble with you,” said Swan River slowly. “You think
that yore a tin god around here, Allenby. Another thing yuh might do
without any advice from me--and that is to look after that half-baked
kid of yours.

“He came danged near gettin’ what was comin’ to him today, when he
opened his mouth too wide. You’ve brought him up to think too ----ed
much of the name of Allenby. Now I’m tellin’ this to you for yore
own good. And yuh might preach it to him and practice a little of it
yoreself. When you’ve got some evidence that’ll hold good in court,
let me look at it. In the meantime, think what yuh please, but keep
yore mouth shut. I hate to conduct coroner’s inquests. _Adios._”

The two officers turned their horses and rode away, leaving Allenby
gasping with wrath. Omaha stepped back into the bunkhouse, where he
could laugh in safety, while Allenby spluttered and told the wide
world what he thought of Swan River Smith.

Finally he introduced Seeley to Chet Hoban, but did not tell Hoban what
Seeley’s business was. In fact Allenby was too mad to tell anything.

“We’re going to town, Chet,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll hitch up the team
myself.”

He and Seeley went toward the stable, and Hoban leaned against the
doorway until they drove away. Omaha, his face tear-streaked, came out
to watch them depart.

“Prob’ly goin’ down to tell his son that the fatted calf is almost ready
for the barbecue,” said Omaha hoarsely.

“More likely goin’ down to save his little lamb from the slaughter,”
said Hoban. “Me and you better fix a new lock on this bunkhouse, Omaha.
The next thing we know, somebody will steal us.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

For the next two days Moolock was devoid of excitement. Hashknife and
Sleepy spent their time loafing around the Elk saloon and the sheriff’s
office. They had made the acquaintance of several cowboys, but had not
tried to secure work. Hashknife suggested that they move on, but Sleepy
demurred.

“Somethin’ tells me that Moolock is a good place for to be, Hashknife,”
he stated. “The poker games ain’t too avaricious, they put up good food,
and I ain’t found a bug in that hotel. Yuh don’t find many places as
good as this, cowboy.”

Swan River and Forty Dollar had scoured the country, trying to see
what they could see; but there was no trace of Allenby’s three
hundred Herefords. The express company had flooded Swan River with
correspondence regarding the robbery but as yet they had offered no
reward.

“I marked them off my slate, as soon as they got into the Bearpaws,”
stated Swan River. “I’d like to see you fellers get yore broncs back.”

“Me, too,” said Sleepy. “They was the best pair of animals that ever
wore a saddle, y’betcha. Whooee, but that roan of mine was a bird.”

“I’ll betcha,” nodded Swan River. “It could run a mile in spite of----.”

“Just about that fast,” agreed Sleepy. “It was one of them famous A-rab
steeds, noted for endurance. It was the horse that the old emperor or
somethin’ or other meant when he yelled that he’d trade his kingdom for
a horse. Yessir, I’m sure pinin’ a lot for that hammer-headed,
ring-boned hunk of coyote bait.”

“Speakin’ of horses,” observed Hashknife, “I’d like to play somebody a
game of bottle-pool for the championship of Sweden.”

“I’ll poke yuh a game,” offered Forty Dollar quickly.

Swan River and Sleepy agreed to hold stakes and keep the score, but
before the quartet reached the Elk saloon, Jack Merton, owner of the
Arrowhead outfit, and Pete Sepulveda, one of his cowboys, came riding
down the street, leading two horses.

Hashknife and Sleepy looked quickly at each other, as they recognized
their horses. There was no mistaking Hashknife’s tall bay and Sleepy’s
hammer-headed roan. Merton waved to the sheriff, and he and Sepulveda
tied the four horses to the Elk saloon hitch-rack, and the four men
waited for the two riders.

“Seen anybody that lost two horses?” asked Merton, a tall well-built
cowboy, with a pleasant cast of countenance, indicating the horses.
“These two were camped at my stable this mornin’; so I brought ’em in,
sheriff. One’s branded with a JK and the other with a Triangle-6. They
don’t show in my register book.”

“They belong to us,” grinned Hashknife.

“F’r gosh sake!” exclaimed Swan River.

“Is them the two saddle-racks yuh been wailin’ about? Well, well, well!
Huh!”

“What about it?” asked Merton interestedly.

“Well,” Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully, “it ain’t ready for
explanation, Jack. You just take my word for it that the horses belongs
to these gents, will yuh?”

“Anythin’ you say, Swan River,” Merton grinned and hitched up his chaps.

“That’s fine of yuh,” admitted Swan River, and proceeded to introduce
Merton and Sepulveda to Hashknife and Sleepy.

They all adjourned into the saloon, and a few minutes later another
rider came into town.

It was not difficult to see that this rider’s veins carried a certain
percentage of Indian blood. He was nearly six feet tall, a trifle
gaudy in his spotted calf-skin vest and scarlet muffler, together with
a canary-yellow shirt. He was about forty-five years of age, with a
deeply lined face and prominent cheek-bones.

He looked over the horses at the rack, especially the two strange ones,
before dismounting. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection he tied his
sorrel horse at the rack, adjusted his belt and went into the saloon.

“Well, here’s Sam Bass comin’ to town!” exclaimed Swan River, as the
newcomer approached the bar. “How are yuh, Sam?”

“Pretty ---- good, you bet,” laughed Bass. “Hello, Forty Dollar. Hello,
Merton. How are you? By golly, here’s Pete Sepulveda!”

“Have a drink,” invited Swan River.

“Sure I drink whisky. Pretty ---- dry these days.”

They poured out their drinks and Swan River introduced Hashknife and
Sleepy to Sam Bass, who grunted and grinned widely.

“I see two strange horses at the rack,” he stated. “I don’t know the
brands; so I s’pose strangers here. You ride bareback, eh?”

“Well, here’s regards,” said Hashknife, ignoring Bass’ question. He
knew that Swan River did not want to explain about the lost horses.
Bass noticed the evasion, and elevated his brows slightly; but drank
his liquor and did not bring up the subject again.

“You don’t happen to know of somebody that wants to hire a couple of
good punchers, do yuh?” Thus Hashknife, speaking to Merton.

Merton shook his head and motioned to the bartender to get busy again.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve got a full crew. Maybe Sam needs some
help.”

“Not much,” replied Bass quickly. “I got too much help now. ‘Pinon’
Meade and Lem Elder set in the shade all the time.”

“Must take a lot of shade for all three of yuh,” observed Swan River.

Sam Bass laughed loudly, nodding excitedly.

“By golly, that’s right!” he exploded. “I’m lazy too. Swan River knows.
Some cattlemen work all the time. Look at Allenby. He make new fence,
paint it pretty; paint the house. He’s rich. Sam Bass let ranch go to
----; he’s poor.

“Allenby work all the time; worry, too, I guess. He’s ---- fool. Sam
Bass never work much, never worry no time. He’s ---- fool, too. Let’s
have another drink, eh? Drink to two fools.”

“Allenby wouldn’t appreciate that,” laughed Merton. “He sure thinks he’s
a wise man. Personally, I think that Sam Bass is right.”

“Danged right he is,” agreed Forty Dollar. “Any old time a man says that
Allenby is a fool, I’ll agree with him.”

“What about Allenby losin’ three hundred head of Herefords?” asked
Merton. “Was it a fact?”

“You ask Allenby,” laughed Forty Dollar. “It gave him plumbago.”

“Plumbago is lead,” stated Swan River. “You don’t mean plumbago; you
mean lumbago, Forty.”

“Thasso?” Forty Dollar emptied his glass and wiped off his chin. “If I
shoot a man, I give him plumbago, do I?”

“If yuh shot him with a lead-pencil, Forty.”

“My ----!” grunted Forty Dollar.

“That liquor shore does take a-holt of yuh, Swan River. Shoot him with a
lead-pencil!”

Forty Dollar stared around at the rest of the men, his eyes wide with
wonder.

“You fellers better exchange a few last words with Swan River Smith,
while he still has a little _sabe_ left,” he said softly. “It shore is
the turnin’ point in his glorious career. I’d rather see him dead than
to not know anythin’. ---- knows he’s always been bad enough, but this
is too much.”

Forty Dollar Dion buried his face in his elbows on the bar and began
crying.

“That danged fool always gets a cryin’ jag on, after about six drinks,”
said Swan River disgustedly. “Let him cry.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Someone passed a sack of tobacco and they were rolling cigarets, when a
tow-headed youngster, his eyes wide with wonder, tiptoed into the saloon
and looked at the group at the bar.

“What do yuh want, sonny?” asked the bartender.

“I--I want the sheriff,” faltered the youngster.

“Me?” asked Swan River. “What do yuh want, son?”

“You--you better come out here.” The lad turned and fairly ran out of
the place.

“Mebbe I better,” agreed Swan River quickly, and he was followed by
every one, except Forty Dollar and the bartender.

The boy was on the sidewalk, pointing excitedly toward the hitch-rack,
where a man sat drunkenly on a horse, reins dragging.

“That looks danged funny!” exclaimed the sheriff, as they all hurried
out to the man. He was roped to the saddle with a long lariat, and
tied to the rope, where it circled the man’s neck, was a fairly fresh
cowhide.

It was Seeley, Allenby’s detective. His face was gray as ashes,
except where it was caked with blood; and there was blood all over
his shirt. It appeared that the man had been shot in the head and in
the body. Hashknife took out his knife and cut the ropes, while the
others lowered the man to the sidewalk.

He groaned painfully and collapsed. Swan River sent one of the men
after a doctor. Hashknife spread out the cowhide. It had been taken
from a Hereford two-year-old, and the brand on the right shoulder was
a Half-Circle Cross.

“Does anybody know him?” asked Swan River. “Ain’t he the feller who was
stayin’ at Allenby’s place?”

“He was here with Allenby yesterday,” offered the bartender, who had
left Forty Dollar alone.

“It kinda looks like he’d collected the hide of one of Allenby’s missin’
Herefords,” said Hashknife. “He’s got creased along the head, and it
kinda looks like there might be a bullet in his right shoulder, which
made him lose quite some gore.”

The youngster came racing back with the information that the doctor
wanted them to bring the man down to his home. Some one got a blanket
from the hotel, and there were plenty of men to carry the wounded man
down to the doctor’s office. Swan River carried the cowhide over in
front of his office and draped it across the little hitch-rack.

“What do yuh make of it, Hartley?” he asked seriously. “Why would
anybody shoot this man, tie him to a saddle and send him back with
that cowhide?”

“You want my opinion, Swan River?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Well, I ain’t got one. It kinda looks to me like somebody was tryin’ to
take a slap at Mr. Allenby.”

Swan River sighed deeply. All this was only piling up misery for him.

“I suppose I’ve got to make an arrest pretty soon,” he said slowly. “I
ain’t got a bit of evidence to make it on; but the arrow points just one
way. Still--I dunno.”

He got up and walked to the door of the office. Hank and Bud Bell were
dismounting at the general store.

“There’s old Hank Bell,” he told Hashknife, pointing at the angular
little man, who carried his right arm sharply bent at the elbow. They
disappeared into the store, and Swan River turned to Hashknife.

“That pinto and gray belong to old Hank,” he said softly. “Bud rides the
pinto.”

“You still got ’em in yore stable?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure thing. When they start inquiring about lost horses, it’ll be
time enough for me to do my talkin’. Nobody, except the four of us,
know about ’em.”

Hashknife walked up to the store and went inside. He was curious to see
old Hank Bell. Bud was buying some cartridges from the proprietor, who
was telling him about the stranger who had been shot. Old Hank seemed
indifferent to the telling, but Hashknife could see that the old man was
not missing a word of it.

Old Hank was of the old school of cattlemen. He was small, wiry of
frame, thin faced; his white hair reaching to his collar. His eyes were
small and as hard as agate, but there were enough grin-wrinkles around
them to prove that old Hank Bell was not always serious. His right arm
was crippled in such a way that he was unable to reach below his waist;
and Hashknife noticed that the old man wore his holster on the left
side, tied down.

“Regular old he-wolf,” Hashknife told himself. “Taught himself to draw
and shoot left-handed.”

The proprietor finished telling his story, and a ghost of a smile
flitted across old Hank’s lips, when the proprietor spoke about the
Half-Circle Cross cowhide that was hanging from the man’s neck.

Bud turned and nodded to Hashknife. He spoke aside to his father, who
shot a quick glance at Hashknife. Pete Sepulveda came into the store
and spoke to Hashknife--

“That feller was shot twice, Hartley. The one creased his head and won’t
amount to much; but the other one went plumb through him. He was shot
from behind. The doctor dunno whether it’ll kill him or not. Do you know
who he is?”

“Nope. Somebody said he was stayin’ at Allenby’s place.”

“Allenby just drove in. I seen him comin’ as I came in here.”

Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. Allenby and his
daughter were in the buckboard, stopped in the middle of the street,
talking to one of the men who had just come from the doctor’s office.
As Hashknife watched them Allenby whipped up his team and went toward
the doctor’s place.

Bud completed his purchases and walked across to the Elk saloon,
followed by his father, who gave Hashknife a searching glance as he
went past.

“He’s a tough old pelican,” declared Sepulveda. “Don’t think he’s been
in a shootin’ scrape since he got his arm smashed; but I’m bettin’ that
he _sabes_ how to shoot left-handed. Them old jiggers shoot first and
talk afterward.

“Old Hank used to be awful fast with a gun. He had a funny way of
gettin’ his gun, Hartley. He’d kinda swing his hand behind the
holster--like a feller might swing his hand when he’s walkin’--and on
the back swing he pulled and shot all to once. I dunno how he done
it. I’ve tried to do it. They tell me that he learned Bud how to do
it; but I ain’t never seen Bud have to shoot--yet.”

They walked outside and joined Sleepy and Merton.

“Allenby is throwin’ a fit,” declared Sleepy. “He acts like he was
the one that got shot. I asked him who this feller was, and he told
me it was none of my business--which it wasn’t. I’ve heard a lot of
profanity, but Allenby’s got ’em all skinned.”

“Not in front of his daughter, did he?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she didn’t stay; she drove back to the post-office.”

Swan River Smith and Sam Bass were coming down the street toward the
store; but crossed the street and went to the White Horse saloon.

“I’ll buy a drink,” offered Sepulveda, and Sleepy accepted; but
Hashknife shook his head.

“Thank yuh just the same, Sepulveda. Mebbe I’ll join yuh later.”

Sleepy and Sepulveda went to the saloon, leaving Hashknife leaning
against the front of the store, cogitating over certain things.

Bud Bell came out of the saloon, as Sleepy and Sepulveda went in. He
declined their invitation to drink and came over to the store.

“How is everythin’ today, Hartley?” he asked, as he went past.

“Oh, kinda interestin’,” smiled Hashknife.

June Allenby was coming down the street, carrying some packages in
her hands. It was the first time that Hashknife had seen her, and he
was forced to agree with Forty Dollar Dion, that June Allenby was a
“dinger.”

It was not like Hashknife to stare at a lady, but he did. In fact he
was so interested in her that he did not hear Bud Bell come out of the
store. June lifted her eyes from the sidewalk and looked straight past
Hashknife, who turned his head and discovered Bud Bell.

They had both stopped and were staring at each other. Hashknife
wished that he was on the opposite side of the street instead of
almost directly between these two. Then Bud stepped to the edge of
the sidewalk, as though to start across the street; but the girl
halted him with a motion of her hand.

“Bud,” she said, “aren’t you going to even say hello?”

Bud’s hand went uncertainly to his sombrero, but his eyes shifted from
June and glanced quickly around.

“Yes’m, I reckon that wouldn’t hurt anybody--and I don’t want to hurt
you.”

He stepped off the sidewalk and headed swiftly across the street.
Hashknife watched June’s face, as she followed him with her eyes until
he went into the Elk saloon. Hashknife wanted to speak to her--to tell
her that he would help to straighten things out--but he was tongue-tied.
Perhaps she read his intentions in his eyes as she passed him and went
into the store.

“She loves Bud Bell!” he told himself wonderingly. “Can yuh beat that?
This is sure a queer old world. And in spite of all the trouble Frank
Allenby has caused Bud Bell, I’m bettin’ that Bud Bell loves Allenby’s
daughter. He said he didn’t want to hurt her. I wonder if he meant--oh,
well, let’s see.”

He hooked his thumb over the waistband of his overalls and considered
the situation for a space of time. His eyes shifted to their two horses
at the Elk saloon hitch-rack.

“By golly, I’ve got to fix a place for them broncs,” he told himself,
“and this is as good a time as any, I reckon.”

He turned on his heel and went slowly down the street.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife was barely out of sight when Allenby came from the doctor’s
home. His face was black with anger and his hands were clenched at his
sides as he strode along. Near the door of the Elk saloon he stopped
and studied the horses at the hitchracks. Over in front of the store
stood the two horses which Hank Bell and his son had ridden.

“Both here,” muttered Allenby, half-aloud. “By ----, I’ve stood enough!”
He turned, spat viciously, grimacing, as though he tasted wormwood and
gall, and went into the saloon.

Swan River Smith and Pete Sepulveda saw him cross in front of the White
Horse saloon, and they lost no time in crowding into the saloon behind
him. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Hank Bell,
who was standing at the bar with Sleepy and Sam Bass. He did not notice
that the sheriff was behind him.

Bud was sitting beside a card-table, looking at an old newspaper, but
now his eyes shifted to Allenby.

“I’ve stood about all I’m going to, Bell,” Allenby spoke to old Hank in
a shaking voice. Hank Bell turned slowly, his left hand swinging back of
him, as though to shove him away from the bar.

“Look out,” whispered Pete Sepulveda, who knew what that movement meant.

Allenby was not a gunman. It is doubtful if he could have hit Hank
Bell at that distance; but his anger had made him forget all caution.
He wanted to crush this little, crooked-armed old man. But Hank Bell
was not going to fight him. He stood there, poised easily, his left
hand splayed out behind him.

But before anything more could be said, Swan River Smith butted Allenby
with his left shoulder, while with his right hand he snatched Allenby’s
gun from its holster. The jolt turned the big man half-around and he
struck at the little sheriff; but Swan River easily dodged the blow and
stepped between Allenby and Hank Bell.

“And that’ll be about all of this show,” said Swan River calmly. “If you
fellers want to go gunnin’ for each other, you better go out on the flat
somewhere.”

“I wasn’t gunnin’ for anybody,” said old Hank slowly, “but I hate to
disappoint anybody when they ask me for trouble.”

“Thasall right, Hank.” Swan River turned to Allenby--“Some day,
Allenby, you’ll make a mistake. And it’ll probably be the kind of a
mistake that a man only makes once in a lifetime. I don’t blame yuh
for bein’ mad--but yuh ought to use judgment.”

“What was this to you?” demanded Allenby hotly. “You had no right to
interfere with my business. Give me back that gun!”

Swan River grinned and shoved the gun inside the waistband of his
overalls.

“When yuh get ready to go home, I’ll just do that,” he said. “I’m kinda
responsible for the wear and tear on Moolock, yuh know.”

“You’re responsible for a lot of things,” sneered Allenby. “I came to
town to get a little information from you, Smith. This morning I had
a little talk with a man named Pierson. He’s from Tecoma. He told me
a little story about you being at Tecoma the other night--the evening
of the day that the express robbery was pulled off.

“He told me about two men whose horses were stolen by the bandits--and
he told me about a pinto and a gray that were left at the hitch-rack.
The pinto had a coal black head. Pierson saw the brands, too. What about
it?”

Swan River squinted at Sleepy and his brows drew into a deep frown. He
realized that there was nothing more he could do to keep that evidence
under cover. Hank Bell and Bud were looking straight at each other, and
now Bud got to his feet.

“Take it easy,” advised Sleepy softly. Bud flashed a glance at him, as
though wondering why Sleepy had said that.

“Well, what about it?” asked Allenby triumphantly.

He felt that he was putting the screws to Swan River Smith, and he knew
that it was not welcome news to the Bell family.

“What about it?” queried Swan River vacantly. “Huh! Pierson told yuh
this, did he?”

“Yes, he did. Would he have any reason to lie?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he would, Allenby.”

“What about the pinto and gray?” asked Bell wonderingly.

Swan River pursed his lips, as he shook his head slowly.

“You’ve got those horses,” declared Allenby. “You’ve had them ever since
that night.”

Swan River did not deny it. Sepulveda turned to Sleepy.

“That’s how you lost your two horses, eh?”

Sleepy ignored the question.

“Are they in your stable or at the livery barn?” asked Allenby.

“Yuh might find out by lookin’,” said Swan River.

“All right!” snapped Allenby. “You know as well as I do that those two
horses belong to Hank Bell. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“Do about it?” parroted Swan River.

“Yes! Are you going to let them escape while we go to look at the
evidence?”

Swan River squinted at Hank and Bud.

“Are yuh?” he asked.

Old Hank shook his head and said--

“I’d rather fight than run, Swan River. Suppose we go with yuh.”

“That’s a ---- of a way to run your office!” exploded Allenby. “Some of
these days----”

“Suppose you stay here, Allenby,” suggested Swan River blandly.

“No, by ----! All I want is a square deal. Will we go to the livery-barn
first?”

“Suit yoreself.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They all trooped to the livery-stable, where it did not take them long
to find that the horses were not there. Back they went to the sheriff’s
stable, behind his office, where they found Hashknife, busily currying
the tall bay. In the next stall stood the JK roan, belonging to Sleepy,
and in the other two stalls stood Swan River’s sorrel and Forty Dollar’s
buckskin.

Hashknife looked curiously at the crowd, but did not cease grooming his
horse. Swan River leaned against the doorway and rubbed his chin, while
the rest of the crowd looked around blankly and came outside.

“I--I hope yore satisfied,” said Swan River chokingly.

“Satisfied, ----!” snorted Allenby. He was no longer the triumphant
person of a few minutes ago. Old Hank scratched his head foolishly,
and motioned to Bud.

“You don’t want us for anythin’ more do yuh?” Old Hank spoke to Swan
River.

“Shucks, no,” said Swan River. “I reckon everybody’s satisfied.”

“I hope so,” said old Hank. “C’mon, Bud.”

They walked back through the alley, leaving Allenby staring after them,
his lips working painfully. He turned on the sheriff.

“What crooked work is this?” he demanded hotly. “You just the same as
admitted that you had those horses.”

“I didn’t admit nothin’,” denied Swan River. “I was willin’ to prove
that I didn’t.”

Allenby went back toward the street without another word.

“I’d buy a drink,” stated Pete Sepulveda. “I’d buy a drink for
everybody.”

Sam Bass, Merton and several more of the crowd accepted on the spot; but
Sleepy had already gone to work grooming his roan.

Swan River sat down on the feed-box and watched the two cowboys work on
their horses, until the rest of the men had gone back.

“I thought they had yuh, Swan River,” said Sleepy, pausing to clean his
currycomb. “Yuh could ’a’ knocked me down with a straw.”

“Yeah, I felt the same about it.” Swan River squinted at Hashknife
questioningly, but the tall cowboy’s face was serious. For several
minutes there was nothing but the “swish” of the currycomb and brush
to break the silence. Finally Hashknife stepped back, looked the bay
over carefully and threw the comb and brush into a box against the
wall. He walked to the door and looked out, as he brushed off his
shirt.

“Hartley,” said Swan River softly. “Did you know that Pierson had talked
with Allenby?”

“Pierson?”

“Yeah. He’s the feller who runs the saloon at Tecoma. Didja know that
Pierson told Allenby about those two horses--the pinto and the gray?”

“No-o-o, I didn’t know it. We needed a place to put our broncs, and I
didn’t feel like payin’ a livery-stable to keep ’em.”

Swan River took a deep breath and looked at Sleepy, who had ceased work
while Hashknife was talking.

“And that’s about all you’ll ever get out of him,” said Sleepy
knowingly.

“Well,” Swan River sighed with satisfaction, “that’s enough to suit me.
Mebbe we’re all wrong, I dunno. Anyway, I thank yuh, Hashknife. It saved
me from a lot of explainin’.”

“Yo’re welcome, sheriff,” said Hashknife. He was thinking of a girl who
wanted a boy to say hello to her; a boy who was afraid that even a hello
from him might harm her.

“This is a ---- of a world,” he said thoughtfully.

“It sure is,” agreed Swan River. “We don’t ask to get in; get ---- while
we’re here, and get out because we can’t help ourselves. My old dad used
to say--

“‘Eat a lot of green vegetables, keep yore mouth shut and yore gun
cocked--and you’ll live a long time.’”

Sleepy laughed and put up his brush.

“How close do yuh foller that advice?” he asked.

“Well,” grinned Swan River, “I keep my gun cocked quite a lot of the
time. I figure that’s what they call a necessary of life--anyway around
here.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

A lapse of twenty-four hours had made little difference in Allenby’s
feelings toward the rest of the world. Seeley was still alive, but the
doctor held out little hope for his recovery. The soft-nose bullet had
just about wrecked one of his lungs, and the other had caused a slight
concussion of the brain.

Clayton has just brought in the latest report of Seeley’s condition, and
Allenby had called a meeting at the bunkhouse. Harry was sober but just
a bit shaky; Omaha amused; Hoban serious. It was then that Allenby told
them all about hiring Seeley to investigate for him.

“They shot him down like a dog,” Allenby told them angrily. “They have
probably added murder to their other crimes. There is no doubt in my
mind that either the sheriff, his deputy, or one of those two strange
cowboys turned that pinto and gray horse loose, to ruin the evidence.

“Just what interest those two cowboys have in this deal, I do not know.
I feel sure that Swan River Smith thought those two horses were in the
stable, and that he was as surprised as anyone else when we did not find
them. The sheriff is against us; so it is up to us to handle it in the
only way possible--go and settle it ourselves.”

“How do yuh mean?” asked Hoban.

“I mean that we’ll ride down to the HB ranch, force them to confess and
take them to jail ourselves.”

“Christmas daisies!” grunted Omaha. “You talk like we was goin’ out to
bring in a cow.”

Allenby glared at Omaha. He did not believe in anyone questioning an
order or a suggestion from him.

“Are you afraid to do this, Olsen?” he asked.

“No, I ain’t afraid,” said Omaha meaningly. “I just don’t think it can
be done, tha’sall. You might get a ---- of a lot of hot lead, but yuh
won’t get no confession.”

“Would you refuse to go?” asked Allenby.

Omaha squinted at the floor for several moments before he looked up at
Allenby and nodded slowly--

“Yeah, I reckon I would. If I caught a man stealin’ yore cows, I’d shoot
him as quick as you would; but I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to try and take
the law in my own hands and try to make a man confess. That’s up to the
officers--not to me.”

“All right,” said Allenby briskly. “Your wages up to date are ready for
you, Olsen. I want men who will do my bidding. How about you, Hoban?”

“I’ll ride with Omaha,” said Hoban calmly. “We came here together, yuh
know. I’ve handled yore cows, Allenby--you handle yore own killin’.”

Allenby snorted audibly and looked around. He had been sure of Hoban,
because Hoban was his foreman. It left only three of them to do the
job--and he wasn’t so sure of Clayton.

“Well, that makes things different,” he decided grudgingly.

“Decidedly,” agreed Clayton. “Perhaps the idea wasn’t as good as it
might have been. You see, Allenby, you haven’t enough evidence yet to
force a confession from either of the Bell family.”

“Well, how can I get it?” demanded Allenby. “I’d give five thousand
dollars for evidence enough to convict those two men.”

No one seemed to know--which was not surprising.

“Who are those two cowboys?” asked Allenby.

“One is named Hartley and the other one Stevens,” offered Harry. “I
heard that much about ’em. The tall one is nicknamed Hashknife.”

Allenby squinted closely at Harry.

“Are you sure of that, Harry?” he asked.

“Well, that’s what they’re called.”

“That’s funny,” muttered Allenby, turning to Clayton. “That is the names
of the two men that Freeman, the secretary of the Cattle Association,
spoke to me about. They refused my offer, but still they came here.”

“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” said Clayton wonderingly. “Who sent them in
here, I wonder?”

“I’ve done all the wondering I’m going to,” declared Allenby, turning to
the door. “I’m going to town and find these two men. My offer is still
open, and I think they’ll accept it, after I tell them what it means to
me.”

“How soon can I get my pay?” asked Omaha. Allenby halted half-way
outside and looked back.

“We will take that up later, Olsen. Are you going with me, Clayton?”

“Yes, I’ll go with you,” agreed Clayton.

They drove away in a cloud of dust, swinging out through the main gate
on two wheels. Omaha grinned and sat down on his bunk.

“I suppose that me and you are canned, Chet,” he said.

“Yo’re canned,” corrected Chet, “I quit.”

“Aw, ----!” blurted Harry. “The old man will forget all that in an hour.
You fellers got anythin’ drinkable around here?”

“You lay off the booze,” advised Hoban. “The first thing you know the
old man will cut you off his will.”

“Is that so?” Harry laughed sarcastically. “That’ll hurt me a ---- of
a lot. He never did give me a ---- cent; and he’ll live longer than I
will probably.”

“If you don’t keep your mouth shut,” agreed Hoban dryly.

Harry laughed and went up to the ranch-house, while Omaha and Hoban
began packing their war-sacks.

It did not take Allenby and Clayton long to make the drive to Moolock,
and they were greeted at Elk saloon with the information that Seeley had
died. The doctor wanted some information regarding this man, in order to
notify his relatives; and Swan River Smith wanted some information
regarding him, to use at the inquest.

Allenby knew nothing about him, except what Clayton had told him; and
Clayton’s information was almost as vague. He knew that Seeley was a
detective--a cattle detective--but he did not know where Seeley’s
relatives lived.

Swan River Smith went back to his office, where Forty Dollar, Hashknife
and Sleepy were playing seven-up at two bits a corner, and told them
what Clayton had told him regarding the dead man.

“Name is Seeley, and he was a cattle detective, eh?” mused Hashknife.
“It kinda looks to me like his profession reacted upon him. Mebbe he
wore a star, or somethin’ that advertised his callin’.”

“That’s why Allenby told me to keep out of it,” grinned Swan River. He
sobered in a moment, shutting one eye, as he considered the situation.

“I’ll tell yuh, it ain’t so much of a joke, at that,” he said. “Murder
is murder, by golly. That Seeley was shot from behind; and it ain’t
noways healthy nor conductive of pleasant thoughts to think that there
might be a killer behind the next bush.”

“Looks to me like it might be a warnin’,” observed Forty Dollar. “I
sure believe in them kinda signs. I’ve had my fortune told five times,
altogether. Had ’em told by a different person every time--and every
fortune was different. Doggone it, yuh never know who to believe.

“One of ’em told me to beware of a tall, dark man; another told me
that I was goin’ to have a lot of trouble with a light complected man,
and the rest of ’em dilated on trouble with three other kinds of men.
And they all was different. If I tried to run my existence accordin’
to their warnin’s, I’d have to hide out in the hills. Whooee! I sure
have got a lot of mixed sizes and colors tryin’ to make life hard for
me.”

“I never had my fortune told,” said Swan River. “I’d a lot rather get
along in my own dumb way. I don’t want to know what is jist around the
next turn; but I’d sure like to have just a little inside information
on who is doin’ this dirty work.

“We’ll have to hold this inquest tomorrow and shove that poor ----
under the sod without knowin’ anythin’ more about him. Clayton, the
cattle buyer, hired him for Allenby; but Clayton don’t know where
Seeley’s relatives live.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

While they were talking, Doctor Edwall, the coroner, came in. He was a
fussy little man, partly bald, and talked jerkily.

“Very little information to be had,” he declared. “Clayton knows very
little. No known relatives. Came here from Omaha, Nebraska. Pockets
yielded very little. Nothing worth while. Here--” he handed the sheriff
a soiled envelope--“that is a letter to Seeley, written, I presume, by
Mr. Clayton. I have read it.”

Swan River Smith took the letter out of the envelope and read it
carefully. Swan River did not read very fast. Finally he placed it on
his desk.

“Well, that don’t give us much information, doctor,” he decided. “We’ll
just have to go ahead and hold the inquest, bring in the usual verdict,
and bury the corpse, I reckon.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so, sheriff. Well, good-by, gentlemen.”

The doctor bustled away, as busy as a bee. Hashknife picked up the
letter and looked it over. It had been sent from Moolock, and was
directed to Jim Seeley, Omaha, Nebraska, care of general delivery.
The letter read:

    Dear Jim:

    Frank Allenby, the biggest cattleman in Moolock, is
    up against a very dangerous proposition and needs help.
    It looks like a plain case of spite work by somebody and
    you can make five thousand dollars for a few days work.

    This gang of rustlers are able to pull off big jobs
    and get away without the slightest chance of anyone
    detecting them. Your work must be done without anyone
    knowing who you are; _sabe_?

    I will explain everything to you when you get here.
    You will like Allenby. If you can’t take this job, Jim, it
    will disappoint me greatly. If you come, keep it dark, or it
    might make things very bad. Wire your decision.

                                                    Sincerely
                                                       Ed.

“Well, Allenby’s life is still worth the five thousand, I reckon,”
smiled Hashknife, as he handed the letter back to the sheriff. “Mebbe
he’ll raise the ante after awhile.”

“Speak about the ----,” muttered Forty Dollar.

Allenby was entering the office as Forty Dollar spoke, but he could
hardly have heard what Hashknife said. Allenby was trying his best to
be pleasant as he greeted all of them. He sat down and fanned himself
with his hat.

“Going to hold the inquest tomorrow?” he asked the sheriff.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” nodded the sheriff. “Probably want you to testify,
Allenby. It won’t amount to anythin’; but it’s accordin’ to law.”

“Certainly,” agreed Allenby warmly. “I wish I could give you more
information regarding this man Seeley; but I knew nothing about him.
There is no question but what he was murdered.”

“Well,” said Swan River slowly, “I never knowed a man to shoot
himself twice in the back with a rifle. I suppose there is some of
them con-tor-shunists that might shoot themselves once in the back;
but I’ll betcha that a thirty-thirty would sure take the kink out of
’em real quick. No, I reckon we’ve got to look the facts square in
the face and admit that Seeley was shot with malice aforethought and
a high-powered rifle.”

“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Allenby.

Swan River’s face was so serious that Allenby wasn’t quite sure whether
Swan River was joking or not. He decided to drop the subject; so he
turned to Hashknife and said--

“I was just wondering if you two cowboys were looking for work.”

Hashknife grinned widely.

“You might change that question to read, ‘lookin’ for jobs,’ and get us
to nod our heads.”

Allenby forced a laugh.

“I suppose it’s just as well to be honest about it,” he said. “There
will probably be two vacancies on my ranch, and you two can have the
jobs, if you care to take them.”

“Hoban and Omaha quittin’?” asked Forty Dollar.

“Well, it amounts to that. I shall make Harry foreman, I think. He needs
responsibility.”

“He sure as----needs somethin’,” grinned Swan River.

Allenby’s lips formed a hot retort, but he curbed his feelings. He knew
that there was nothing to gain in quarreling with the sheriff; so he
shut his lips and waited for Hashknife to decide.

“Forty a month?” asked Sleepy.

“Yes.”

The forty dollars per month did not appeal to Sleepy, but he was willing
to leave the decision to Hashknife, who was thinking deeply over the
offer.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we might take it. It ain’t none of
my business, but I’d like to know why yore foreman and the other man
are quittin’ yuh.”

Allenby’s expression indicated that it was none of Hashknife’s business,
but he replied evenly--

“They are leaving the Half-Circle Cross because they would not obey
orders.”

“Yeah? Well, mebbe we won’t obey ’em either, Allenby. But if you want to
take that chance--we’re willin’, eh, Sleepy?”

“We can always quit,” said Sleepy indifferently.

“Well, that is settled,” said Allenby, with a certain amount of
satisfaction, as he got up and started for the door. “You will be out
to the ranch today?”

“Before supper time,” said Hashknife.

A few minutes later Omaha and Hoban rode into town, with their war-sack,
containing their belongings, tied to the back of their saddles. Allenby
met them on the street and paid what was due on their salaries.

Clayton was not going back to the ranch; so Allenby left town alone.

“What did yuh take these jobs for?” asked Sleepy, as he and Hashknife
saddled their horses at the sheriff’s stable.

“Just a fool notion thasall,” said Hashknife seriously.

“All right,” Sleepy retorted grudgingly. “Forty a month, and take orders
from some kid.”

“We ain’t took no orders from him yet, Sleepy.”

“That’s true. I’d kinda like to know what kind of orders he passed out
to them other two hired men.”

“Wait and see,” advised Hashknife. “We’ll likely find out.”

About a mile out of town they overtook Allenby, who had driven off the
side of the road and was waiting for them.

“I didn’t want to say too much there in town,” he told them. “Freeman
told me your names at the time he spoke about me hiring you; so I
know you are the same men. I think I need your help now more than I
did before, and I just want to say that I’m still willing to pay you
the sum of five thousand dollars for evidence that will convict those
who have been stealing my stock.

“The men who have been stealing my stock are the same ones that killed
Seeley. A conviction for rustling will fasten the murder on them also.
For some reason or other, it appears that we have been working at cross
purposes. I think you know what I mean.”

“Don’t reckon I do,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“That matter concerning the pinto and gray horse.”

“Oh, yeah. I heard the sheriff sayin’ somethin’ about it. What was it
all about, Allenby?”

Allenby studied Hashknife and Sleepy for several moments. Sleepy’s
expression was as innocent as that of a child, while Hashknife’s was
merely indifferent, as he carefully shaped a cigaret and struck a
match with his thumb nail.

“Well,” said Allenby dubiously, “perhaps--but it doesn’t matter.”

He spoke sharply to the team, which surged back into the road, and the
two cowboys followed leisurely behind him.

“He’s still got that five thousand,” laughed Hashknife.

“Yeah, and he can keep it,” said Sleepy. “I don’t want no thirty-thirty
bullets between my shoulders, y’betcha.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to Moolock the next day. Allenby and his
son left early, as they were not sure what time the inquest was to be
held. They gave no orders to Hashknife and Sleepy. Allenby told them to
get used to the ranch, and to take it easy for their first day.

The two cowboys had instinctively liked Mrs. Allenby, a quiet little
woman. June had colored slightly during her introduction to Hashknife
as she recognized him, and wondered if he had remembered her meeting
with Bud Bell.

Sleepy did not like the Half-Circle Cross ranch buildings.

“Ain’t noways homelike,” he complained. “Makes yuh feel like yore
civilized. Even the bunkhouse door don’t squeak. By golly, I’d put some
sand into them hinges if I stayed here long. Carpet on the bunkhouse
floor and a re-cep-tickle for cigaret butts!”

“It sure is kinda dude-like,” admitted Hashknife. “But you have to
excuse Allenby; he’s from the city. If he runs cows long enough he’ll
develop squeaky hinges, bare floors and weather-beaten exteriors.”

About an hour after Harry and his father left the ranch, June asked
Hashknife if he would saddle her horse. She rode a racy-looking little
sorrel, a swell-fork saddle; and her riding clothes consisted of a
divided skirt, flannel shirt, cowboy boots and a floppy sombrero.

“_Mucho buena!_” exclaimed Sleepy softly, as she rode away.

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife.

They watched until she disappeared in the hills to the east. There was
nothing for them to do except to loaf around.

The inquest at Moolock caused a certain amount of interest, and there
was quite a crowd present. Allenby admitted that Seeley was a detective,
hired for him by Clayton, the cattle-buyer. Clayton said he had met
Seeley a number of times, and knew that Seeley was a man of ability. The
sheriff produced and read Clayton’s letter to Seeley, which had been
among Seeley’s effects; and the hastily picked coroner’s jury brought in
a verdict that Seeley had been shot in the back by a party or parties
unknown.

There was considerable discussion among the cattlemen, following the
inquest. They had ignored Allenby’s statements regarding the number
of cattle he had lost lately; but they were forced to admit that it
was serious enough to cause a man to get shot in the back.

Neither Hank nor Bud Bell were in town. It might have complicated
matters a little, as it was well known that there was bad blood
between them and Allenby. The inquest was held about two o’clock in
the afternoon, and at about three o’clock the stage from White Eagle,
thirty miles away, came into town, with the driver, “Shorty” Elkins,
sitting straight in the seat, hanging on with both hands, and with
the lines twisted around one foot and held between his knees.

The team went past the stage station, caught the right front wheel into
the post of a hitch-rack and jerked to a sudden stop; so sudden that
Shorty pitched off over the wheel and fell against the sidewalk, where
he stayed until some of the men picked him up.

They straightened him out on the sidewalk and some one poured a drink of
whisky between his white lips.

“My gosh!” exploded Larry Neil, an Arrowhead cowboy, “somebody has sure
riddled poor Shorty. Somebody get the doctor.”

Swan River Smith arrived, as did Allenby and Clayton. Another drink
of whisky, forced between Shorty’s lips, seemed to revive him enough
to open his eyes.

“How are yuh, Shorty?” asked Swan River. “Can yuh tell us what happened
to yuh?”

Shorty’s eyes were filming, but he was conscious. He tried to lift his
hand, but the effort was too much. Several times he twisted his lips,
trying to speak. Then--

“June--Allenby----”

He managed to speak her name, spacing it widely.

“What about her, Shorty?” asked Swan River anxiously. “Try it again,
son.”

“She--” He spoke the one word, tried to say more, but was unable to open
his mouth again.

“Shorty’s dead,” said Swan River softly, getting to his feet.

Fred Hartwell, owner of the stage line, forced his way to the center and
looked down at the dead man who had been his driver. Swan River told him
all they knew about it, and they watched Hartwell as he examined the
contents of the stage.

“The treasure box is gone,” he said. “We won’t know how much has been
stolen until we check up with the office at White Eagle.”

The doctor arrived, and after a short examination shook his head, as he
listened to a description of how the stage had arrived.

“I don’t see how he lived that long,” declared the doctor. “He must have
fought hard against it.”

“But what did he mean about my daughter?” asked Allenby anxiously. “What
could he have meant?”

“She wasn’t on the stage today, was she?” asked the sheriff.

“No. She was at home when I left there.” Allenby whirled and ran to his
buckboard.

“Some of us better ride to the Half-Circle Cross,” said the sheriff
quickly. “Shorty had that girl on his mind for some reason. Dang it,
why didn’t he live longer!”

Swan River bowlegged his way swiftly toward his stable, with Forty
Dollar right at his heels; while several of the cowboys mounted and
waited for the sheriff to ride with them. But far ahead of them went
the team of cream colored bronchos, running at top speed, while the
lurching buckboard threatened at any time to capsize and throw
Allenby and Clayton out into the sagebrush.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the bunkhouse when the cavalcade arrived.
The horsemen had almost overtaken the team, and when the two cowboys
came outside the yard was filled with riders. Allenby fairly fell out
of the buckboard and ran to Hashknife.

“Is June home?” he panted.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, she ain’t. About an hour after you left this mornin’, she had me
saddle her horse, and she rode away. I don’t reckon she’s come back
yet. What’s the matter?”

Allenby groaned aloud and turned to the sheriff.

“She went riding,” he said blankly.

“That’s all right,” said Swan River. “Which way did she go?

“Went east from here,” said Hashknife, pointing in that direction.

“Straight toward the White Eagle road,” said a cowboy softly.

“We’ll spread out and comb that country,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we
can find her.”

Allenby ran toward the house, where Mrs. Allenby had come out on the
porch, wondering at the crowd of riders, while the sheriff told
Hashknife about Shorty Elkins.

“He tried to tell us about her,” said Swan River sadly. “Somethin’ has
happened to her, that’s a cinch.”

“Shucks, this is a civilized country,” said Pete Sepulveda. “I dunno
what could happen to a girl around here.”

“Two men have been murdered this week,” reminded Swan River grimly, and
several of the men growled audibly.

Hashknife and Sleepy ran to the stable and saddled their horses, while
others helped Allenby and Clayton saddle suitable mounts.

It was not over fifteen minutes later that they rode out of the ranch
yard, spread out fan-wise and headed east. Hashknife and Sleepy were
the last ones to see her; so they headed for the spot where she had
disappeared.

About six miles from the ranch they struck the road to White Eagle,
which ran north and south. It was here that the riders drew together,
searching for the spot where the stage had been held up. The roadbed
was so hard that it was impossible to distinguish anything out of the
ordinary; so the searchers split into two parties, going in opposite
directions.

Hashknife and Sleepy joined Swan River Smith, going toward Moolock, and
they were the ones to find the spot. It was in a timbered swale, where a
small stream trickled down across the road. The signs were fairly plain
here. The stage had swerved half-off the road into softer ground.

To the west of the road a deep cattle trail wound down the swale, where
the timber would mask it from the road. Hashknife discovered the trail,
and in it were the fresh imprints of a shod horse.

“She came down that trail,” he told the sheriff, pointing out the
tracks. “They picked a dandy place for the job, too. It kinda looks
like she busted right into the holdup, without knowin’ it was takin’
place. She couldn’t see the road until she came out through them
bushes, and they likely seen her first.”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hartley,” agreed Swan River. “Mebbe they had
to do somethin’ to save themselves, don’tcha see? If it was somebody she
knew--well, it kinda put ’em up against it.”

Hashknife examined the tracks closely, squatting on his heels. Swan
River turned around to take another look at the trail, and Hashknife
suddenly reached down, picked up a tiny object and put it in his
pocket.

“Where’ll we go now?” he asked Swan River.

“The Lord only knows,” confessed the sheriff. “There’s no way to track
’em. I’ve heard about savages bein’ able to follow a trail where there
wasn’t any--but I’m no savage. Dang it all, that’s the worst of bein’ a
sheriff. Everybody expects him to be wise as ---- and with a nose like
a bloodhound.”

“Might as well wait for the rest of the gang to come,” said Hashknife.
“They’ll be bustin’ back this way soon. It was a cinch that Shorty
Elkins didn’t drive an awful long ways, shot up thataway.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They rolled cigarets and mused silently. There were no clues to work on.
They had found where the stage had been stopped; but it had done them no
good, as far as clues were concerned. It was possibly half-an-hour
before the other riders arrived, and Hashknife showed Allenby what had
happened at that spot.

Allenby listened dumbly, nodding his head; like a man who is too sick to
talk.

“You think then that she was merely captured to prevent her from
exposing the bandits?” queried Clayton.

“That’s about the only way to look at it,” said Hashknife. “Men don’t
steal girls these days. It just ain’t done. I don’t know this country
like some of yuh do,” Hashknife turned to the crowd, “If any of you
was goin’ to steal a girl, where would yuh hide her?”

No one replied. Allenby stared dumbly ahead of him, his jaw shut
tightly.

“I dunno where to look,” confessed Swan River. “It’s likely the same
gang that held up the train.”

Allenby turned quickly and stared at the sheriff.

“The same two?” he said wearily. “Why--sure.” He turned and mounted his
horse.

“Where are you goin’?” asked Swan River quickly.

Allenby picked up his reins, adjusted his belt.

“I’m going to kill the men who own a black headed pinto and a gray
horse,” he said coldly. “I’m going, if I have to go alone.”

“Hank Bell,” said Forty Dollar Dion softly.

“Let’s talk about it a little,” advised Swan River. “They----”

“They wasn’t in town today,” interrupted Larry Neil.

“Neither were we,” said Hashknife, indicating himself and Sleepy.

“They’ve been stealing from me for over two years,” said Allenby grimly.
“I helped to send Bud to the penitentiary. Hank Bell swore he’d get even
with me. Their last steal was when they took three hundred Herefords
from the Moolock loading pens.

“I hired a detective and they killed him--shot him in the back. The
sheriff can’t deny that he thinks they robbed that train. He chased them
to Tecoma, where they stole Hartley’s and Stevens’ horses, leaving the
pinto and gray in their stead. If they’d steal my cattle, rob trains--is
there any reason why they wouldn’t rob a stage--and steal my girl?”

“Why sit here and argue about it?” asked Harry Allenby. “Let’s go over
to the HB and have it out with them.”

“Allenby’s argument looks ---- plausible to me,” stated Merton. “It’s
worth workin’ on, ain’t it?”

“Worth workin’ on--but it ain’t worth killin’ on,” said Swan River.
“It’s awful easy to make mistakes.”

“Well, I’m going down there,” declared Allenby. “If I have to go alone,
I’ll go anyway. I’m going to find June.”

“That’s fine,” said Hashknife. “We’re all lookin’ for her, Allenby,
but we ain’t on no killin’ spree. If I’m any judge of humanity, Hank,
Bud and that Sticky Clay _sabe_ shootin’-irons. If we go down there,
huntin’ for trouble, I’ll bet we find it. What do you fellers think?”

“I don’t care what they think!” exclaimed Allenby. “I’m going!”

“Wait a minute,” begged Clayton. “Hartley is right, Allenby. Right now
you are in no frame of mind to go there. You know that those three men
are dangerous. You are not a gunman. You wouldn’t have one chance in a
thousand with them. No, you can’t get June back with a six-shooter.”

“You are all against me,” mourned Allenby pettishly. “Don’t you want me
to get my daughter back?”

“Don’t be a ---- baby!” snorted Hashknife. “This is no time for
hysterics.”

Harry shoved his horse close to Hashknife.

“You let up on that stuff,” he ordered. “You can’t come in here and tell
us what to do.”

Hashknife grinned at Harry and the boy’s face flushed hotly.

“Back up, you ---- fool!” snorted Forty Dollar. “If you don’t keep yore
mouth shut, Harry, somebody is goin’ to hit you so hard they’ll uncork
yuh.”

Harry turned in his saddle and glared at Forty Dollar.

“By ----, I don’t have to take things like that!” he blurted.

“No, yuh don’t have to,” said Forty Dollar quietly. “If you’ve got
any good ideas on how to handle this situation, yuh might step up and
disgorge ’em. If yuh ain’t--shut up.”

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” agreed Clayton.

“Oh, go to ----!” Harry was sufficiently squelched to draw his horse
back, but his face was black with rage.

The sun was just going down behind the hills, and they all knew that
there was little daylight left to work in.

“If Hartley is right in his surmise, I don’t think that June will be
injured in any way,” said Clayton. “I don’t think it is a situation
that can be handled by force of arms. If we were lucky enough to
blunder into them, it is hard to tell what they might do to keep her
from exposing them.”

“That sounds like sense,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “This thing is not
going to be easy to handle, nor is it a mob job.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Allenby. He seemed more at ease now.

“I’d suggest that we go home. Mebbe the girl wasn’t caught at all. We
kinda went off half-cocked, just because a dyin’ man spoke her name.
We don’t know for sure, don’tcha see?”

“That’s true,” agreed Allenby, willing to grasp at any straw.

“I wonder if that isn’t true?” Thus Clayton, visibly relieved.

“Let’s look at it thataway,” suggested Swan River. “Tomorrow is another
day.”

After a few minutes of conversation, Hashknife, Sleepy, Harry and his
father left the road and went back toward the ranch, while the rest
of the searchers went on toward Moolock. Hashknife and Sleepy lagged
back during that ride across the hills. “You ain’t hopin’ to see her
at home, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Hopin’, thasall,” said Hashknife. “We had to bust up that argument
someway, Sleepy. It’s a cinch that June got grabbed. Just who got her
is a mystery. Me and you are goin’ to Moolock after supper.”

But June was not at the ranch. Allenby’s spirits went down below zero.
He had evidently expected to find her there. Mrs. Allenby seemed very
patient. She was not the kind of woman to show great emotion. Harry came
down to the bunkhouse, where Hashknife and Sleepy were getting ready for
supper, and apologized for what he had said.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “That argument got on my nerves.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I’d ’a’ done the same thing.
Just forget it, Harry.”

“Well, I’m glad yuh feel that way about it,” said Harry. “Dad seems to
have great faith in you two.”

Hashknife smiled softly, as he hung up his towel.

“Faith is a great thing, Harry,” he said. “If folks ever have faith in
yuh--don’t ruin it. This whole world is built on faith. Yuh can go a
long ways, if yuh have faith in yoreself; but the minute yuh lose faith
in yoreself--yore done. And yore done, when others lose faith in yuh.”

“Are you a preacher?” asked Harry, a trifle sarcastically.

“A preacher?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “No-o-o, I’m not a
preacher, Harry. Mebbe I’m my brother’s keeper.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you ever read the Bible?”

“No. I’m not religious.”

Hashknife smiled.

“What is religion, Harry?”

“I dunno. Lot of ---- Bible-backs, I reckon.”

Harry turned away and went out of the bunkhouse. Sleepy grinned at
Hashknife and said--

“Shall we sing a hymn before supper, cowboy?”

Hashknife squinted seriously, as the cook hammered on the triangle at
the kitchen door, calling them to supper.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think we’ll sing, Sleepy. A little prayer
might be a lot better.”

“A prayer for who, Hashknife--us?”

“It all depends on what’s in the Big Book, pardner. Let’s eat.”

    “So it’s come all ye punchers,
    Put yore belly to the bar
    And drink a fare-ye-well,
    ’Cause I’m goin’ mighty far,
    With a whang de oodle addy aye.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Thus sang Lem Elder, a tall, weary-looking cowboy, who worked for Sam
Bass, of the 27A outfit, as he rested his elbows on the White Horse
saloon bar.

Pete Sepulveda was sitting on a card table, chin in hands, but now he
looked up reprovingly at Lem.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to sing, Lem,” he said. “Songs ain’t appreciated in
Moolock tonight. Yuh know, they ain’t found that girl yet.”

“That’s right,” nodded Lem. “Excuse me. That ---- whisky they sell here
makes yuh sing. Is anybody huntin’ for her, Pete?”

“Not now, I guess. Allenby and his bunch went home. Wasn’t much they
could do in the dark.”

“I seen Harry and them two strange punchers ride in a while ago.” Thus
Pinon Meade, another of Sam Bass’ men. Pinon was small of stature, but
wide of shoulder. He had been so nicknamed from his fondness for pinon
nuts.

“That’s Hartley and Stevens,” offered Pete. “They took the place of
Omaha and Chet Hoban at the Half-Circle Cross.”

“Hoban and Olsen get fired?” queried Lem.

“Yesterday. Had a run-in with Allenby. They’re still here in town.
They’re two danged good cow-hands.”

“Where did Hartley and Stevens come from?” asked Pinon.

“I dunno. Just drifted in, I suppose.”

“Good cow-hands?”

“I’ll betcha they are.”

Harry Allenby came in, his face flushed with drink, and set up the
drinks to the three cowboys.

“Any news?” queried Pete.

“Not a thing,” replied Harry, glancing toward the door. “Bud Bell is in
town.”

“Alone?” asked Pete.

“The old man and Sticky Clay are with him.”

“Put yore troubles in yore war-bag,” advised Pete meaningly.

“You think I’m afraid of them?” Harry drained his glass and flipped it
back on the bar. He was drunk enough to be reckless.

“I would be,” said Lem Elder seriously.

“----, you fellers make me tired! I’ll get ’em one at a time.”

Pinon Meade laughed and walked out of the place. Harry’s eyes snapped
angrily. The strong liquor was percolating through his veins, taking
away what little judgment he might have had. He rubbed the palm of
his right hand on the butt of his revolver, and his lips screwed into
a sneering grin. His nose and upper lip were still swollen a little,
and he did not look pretty.

He did not notice that Pete and Lem had stepped away from him, nor that
the bartender had moved quietly toward the other end of the bar. He was
facing the door, squinting at the floor, and now he looked up to see
Sticky Clay framed in the doorway.

Harry blinked, as though not believing his eyes. Clay did not move.
Then Harry swayed away from the bar, his right hand streaking for his
gun. Harry was fast with his draw, but not fast enough. The experienced
gunman in the doorway flipped his hand forward, fired almost from his
hip. Clay’s draw was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Harry took
a half-step backward, dropped his gun and fell forward on his face,
arms outspread. For several moments Clay leaned forward, watching him.
Then he straightened up, snapped his gun back in the holster and spoke
to Pete--

“You saw this, Pete?”

Pete nodded quickly.

“Yeah, we all seen it, Sticky.”

“Lookin’ for it, wasn’t he, Pete?”

“Yeah, he was.”

“Got it, didn’t he?”

Pete nodded.

“Everybody satisfied then,” Sticky Clay turned and disappeared. Pete and
Lem turned Harry over, expecting to find him dead; but he was far from
it. The heavy bullet had scored along his head from the left temple to
his left ear, where it had taken the top of his ear off cleanly. He was
bleeding freely, but recovering nicely from the shock. An inch farther
to the right, and Harry Allenby would have been a casualty.

They helped him into a chair and bound his head in a none-too-clean
handkerchief. The report of the gun had caused the curious to go
searching for its cause, with the result that Harry was soon surrounded,
and the White Horse saloon began doing a good business.

Swan River Smith investigated, and nodded over Pete Sepulveda’s story;
while Hashknife and Sleepy listened closely.

“He was lookin’ for trouble, Swan River,” said Pete. “I don’t blame Clay
a ---- bit. Harry started his draw first.”

“And that settles it,” said the sheriff. “As long as it was an even
break.”

Some one had gone after the doctor, who bandaged Harry, in spite of
Harry’s protests that he did not need any attention.

“You let him do it,” said Clayton. “If you don’t have it fixed up now,
you’ll be marked for life. You’re lucky.”

The shock had sobered Harry, and he had nothing to say. Hashknife and
Sleepy crossed the street to the general merchandise store, where they
found Hank and Bud Bell. Bud nodded to them. Several men were in the
store, talking about the missing girl and about the stage robbery.
Hashknife bought some tobacco and began rolling a cigaret, when he saw
Bud Bell signal him to come outside.

Bud sauntered out and in a few moments Hashknife followed him. Sleepy
had seen the signal to Hashknife, but did not go with him. Bud had
walked down the sidewalk out of the lights, and Hashknife joined him.

“Hartley,” he said, without any preliminaries, “I want you to tell me
all about this. I’ve heard several tales, but they are all different.”

“Mebbe mine is, too,” said Hashknife. “Anyway, here’s how it looked from
my knot-hole.”

He told Bud all he knew about the shooting of Shorty Elkins and the
disappearance of June Allenby. Bud did not interrupt. He told Bud his
conclusions regarding the reasons for June’s disappearance.

“Thank yuh, Hartley,” he said. “Do you remember ‘Slim’ Stout?”

“Slim Stout?” Hashknife took the cigaret out of his mouth and nodded
slowly. “Yeah, I do. I sent him to the pen.”

“That’s where I met him, Hartley. He told me about you.”

“Thasso?”

“Yes. He’s still got five years before he can look for a parole or a
pardon. He says you let him off easy.”

“Shell stuck in my gun,” said Hashknife. “Slim didn’t know it, I
reckon.”

Bud laughed shortly.

“Slim didn’t tell it that way.”

“Likely lied to yuh. Now listen, Bell; as friend to friend, I want to
warn yuh. Things are gettin’ hotter every minute. Allenby has piled up
evidence enough to hang a king--that is, outside the law. Sticky Clay
and Harry Allenby just tried to kill each other a while ago, as you
know. Allenby didn’t get hurt much.”

“As friend to friend?” said Bud wonderingly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Why? Was it you who turned those two horses loose?”

“I needed the stable space,” lied Hashknife.

“Yeah? And now yore workin’ for Allenby?”

“Externally.”

“Why are you takin’ an interest in me, Hartley?”

“I dunno. Why does the wind blow? Ask me somethin’ easy. Now you take
my advice and don’t go to sleep. I know that all three of you are able
to get along without crutches; but yuh can’t buck the whole county. I’m
doin’ all I can, Bell. If they hang yuh, that won’t help me much--nor
you either. I’m goin’ to sneak out to see yuh just as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Hartley.”

“Don’t thank me.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife turned and walked across the street to the Elk saloon,
leaving Bud alone to think it over. More men were coming in to town.
Bud walked back to the store, signaled to his father, and together
they got their horses. They knew that Sticky had gone home after the
shooting, to prevent complications which were bound to ensue, if he
stayed in town.

“Things look kinda cranky, Bud,” observed the old man.

“Yeah, and I’m afraid they’ll get worse, Dad. Stealin’ a girl is bad
business. There’s a lot of talk and a lot of whisky in Moolock tonight;
so we better keep out of sight. I wish Sticky had kept away from Harry
Allenby; but Harry was lookin’ for it, and Clay is always willin’ to
accommodate. They tell me that Harry started the draw first.”

“Young Allenby is a fool to draw with Clay,” observed the old man. “What
did that tall cowpuncher want, Bud?”

“Wanted to give me some advice.”

“He’s workin’ for Allenby, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we don’t need any advice from that ---- outfit.”

“This didn’t come from the outfit, Dad. If it ever comes to a showdown,
don’t hurt that tall puncher. And if he asks yuh to do somethin’--do
it.”

“Who in ---- is he, Bud?”

“He turned the pinto and gray out of Swan River’s stable.”

“But he’s workin’ for Allenby, Bud.”

“Yeah. I don’t _sabe_ it, but I’m willin’ to foller his advice.”

While the Bell family rode homeward, Hashknife went to the White
Horse saloon. Harry Allenby was still there, but fairly sober now.
His head was bandaged and he was unable to wear his hat. Swan River
took Hashknife aside and imparted the information that there was too
much talk, mixed with whisky, to suit him.

“This girl-stealin’ has worked everybody up to a pitch,” he declared.
“Dang it, they’ll ruin everythin’ if they start out on a rampage. I’ve
done a lot of talkin’, and I’ve kinda got some of ’em sore at me. Are
Bud and Hank still in town?”

“Just left a few minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “I think Clay left just
after the shootin’.”

More men came into the saloon. Hashknife and Swan River sat down at a
vacant card table near the rear of the room, where they could watch
the place. Harry Allenby was drinking again, and seemed to parade his
bandages, talking loudly.

“Swan River, have you still got that letter --the one that Seeley had in
his pocket?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff drew it out of an inside pocket and handed it to Hashknife,
who spread it out on the table. For several minutes he studied it
closely, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret. He was about to
fold it up, when something caused him to look at it again.

After concentrating on it for a space of time he looked up at Swan
River, a grin widening his mouth.

“What’s funny in that letter?” asked Swan River.

“Nothin’,” grinned Hashknife. “I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ else.
Mind if I keep this letter?”

Swan River shook his head, “It ain’t of no use to me.”

Forty Dollar came in and walked straight to their table. Forty was
serious as he sat down.

“Somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” he declared. “Over at the
Elk, they’re talkin’ too much to suit me. Some son-of-a-gun has told
about them two horses, and a few of the gang wants to know if the
sheriff’s office is standin’ in with the robbers.”

Swan River’s jaw clamped tightly and he got to his feet.

“I’ll answer their ---- questions,” he rasped, and started for the door.
Clayton was coming in, and they almost collided. Clayton’s sleeve was
torn and he had the general appearance of one who had been fighting.

He stepped away from the sheriff and went to the bar, where he drank
alone, turned with his back against the bar and looked around the room.

“Kinda looks like friend Clayton had been fightin’,” observed Forty
Dollar.

Forty’s observation was punctuated with a “_zz-zwhap!_”. Clayton’s
shoulders thudded back against the bar and Hashknife went sidewise out
of his chair, while from outside came the report of a shot.

Clayton ducked, putting the end of the bar between himself and the open
doorway, while the rest of the crowd scattered to get out of line. For
several moments Clayton clawed at his shirt front. The bullet had burned
across his chest, tearing a shallow furrow, but doing little damage;
after which it passed within a short distance of Hashknife’s head and
thudded into the rear wall.

“Hurt yuh much?” asked Hashknife.

Clayton shook his head, sprang to his feet and ran out through the
rear entrance. Disregarding a possible second shot, Hashknife and
Forty Dollar ran out through the front doorway and into the street.
It was too dark, beyond the front window illumination, for them to
see anyone.

Swan River came running from the Elk saloon, followed by several men,
who had heard the shot. But the shooter had made himself scarce.
Hashknife drew Swan River aside and together they made the rounds of
the saloons, checking up on the cowboys

As far as they were able to find out, no one was missing, except
Clayton.

“Do yuh reckon they was tryin’ to kill you or Clayton?” asked Sleepy,
who joined them at the Elk.

“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. We’ll figure it was Clayton. He’d had
trouble with somebody just before that shot was fired. If we can find
Clayton, mebbe he’ll tell who it was--if he knows.”

But they were unable to find Clayton; so Swan River opined that Clayton
was hiding out. The folks of Moolock town were getting plenty of food
for conversation. Hashknife was curious about the trouble between Harry
Allenby and Sticky Clay; so he found Pete Sepulveda and asked him about
it.

“Harry was lookin’ for it,” explained Pete, a trifle thickly. “Pinon
Meade, Lem Elder, me and Harry was there in the saloon, when Harry
got to makin’ his war-talk. Pinon pulled out and in a few seconds we
happens to see Sticky in the doorway.

“Harry don’t see him for a while, yuh see. Pretty soon he looks up
and sees Sticky. They look at each other about a second and Harry
breaks for his gun. Sticky makes his draw, shoots from his hip, and
Harry falls on his nose. Sticky thinks he’s killed Harry, I reckon;
but he ain’t excited. It was an even break, thassall.”

“Much obliged, Pete,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Has there ever been
any trouble between Harry and Pinon Meade?”

“I don’t reckon there has. Pinon ain’t quarrelsome.”

Hashknife drifted back to Swan River and Sleepy, where he found Frank
Allenby, listening to Swan River tell about the gunbattle between Harry
and Sticky Clay. Allenby said little. He seemed to have aged greatly in
the last few hours. Hashknife drew him aside.

“Has there ever been any trouble between you and Pinon Meade?” asked
Hashknife.

“Not at all,” replied Allenby. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wonderin’, thassall. You heard about somebody shootin’ at Clayton,
haven’t yuh?”

Allenby nodded quickly.

“Yes, but I do not understand it. I can’t find Clayton anywhere. He is
not at the hotel.”

“There’s a fly in the axle-grease somewhere,” mused Hashknife.

“I don’t know what to do,” admitted Allenby. “---- knows, I can’t stand
it much longer. My wife just sits and looks at the wall. I wish she
could cry. It helps a woman to cry, don’t you think so, Hartley?”

“Not as much as it does to laugh, Allenby. I want to ask you a personal
question: Is Clayton goin’ to marry yore daughter?”

“What has that to do----?”

“I’m askin’--not answerin’, Allenby.”

“Suppose he is--what about it?”

“Is there anyone else who might want her bad enough to kill Clayton over
her?”

Allenby took a deep breath and shut his jaw tightly for a moment. Then--

“Do you suppose that is why he tried to kill Clayton?”

“He? Who do you mean, Allenby?”

But Allenby refused to say. Harry went past them, his bandaged head
visible in the weak light, and went into the Elk saloon. He staggered
slightly, laughing loudly with the other men. Allenby left Hashknife
and went into the saloon.

                   *       *       *       *       *
Hashknife found Sleepy and together they went from place to place,
listening to the general talk. It was mostly whisky conversation, and
Hashknife did not feel that they were going to do anything rash. Later
on he found Swan River, visibly relieved.

“I think everythin’ will be all right,” he told them. “I’ve talked
with a few of them, includin’ Allenby, and they’ve all agreed to wait
until mornin’. I’ve promised to lead a posse out to the HB ranch after
daylight. If they--well, I dunno. Dang it, I’ve done the best I could,
Hartley.”

“Nobody can say that yuh ain’t been fair,” agreed Hashknife.

“Mebbe I’ve been too fair, Hartley. Still, I discount everythin’ that
happens, when there’s hate behind it. Christman hated old Hank Bell.
Mebbe Allenby bought that hate along with the ranch.”

“How did they happen to catch Bud Bell that time?” asked Hashknife.

“When they sent him to the penitentiary? That was a little over two
years ago. Allenby and Clayton--Clayton had only been here a few
months at that time--were ridin’ through the hills, lookin’ over the
stock.

“They were over near Two Men Cañon when they caught a glimpse of a
man, who kinda seemed to be misbrandin’ a couple of critters. Had ’em
roped and was heatin’ his iron, I reckon. Anyway, he seen ’em, too; so
he snaps out of the brush on his horse, and hits into the hills, with
Allenby and Clayton after him.

“He sure led ’em a merry chase, I guess. Allenby and Clayton got
separated, and after while they gives up the chase. Clayton circles back
to the two roped animals, and is lookin’ ’em over when Allenby gets
back. They’re both branded fresh with the HB iron, kinda rough-like, and
where the Half-Circle Cross ought to be, is a big spot burned over with
a hot dry-pan.

“The rustlers sure must ’a’ been nervous to burn over that much space in
ventin’ an ordinary brand. The HB ain’t very artistic, but there she is.
That was all the evidence against Bud Bell. Old Hank couldn’t ’a’ done
it, on account of bein’ crippled--and Sticky Clay was in a poker game at
the Elk all that afternoon, which was an alibi for him. So they sent Bud
up for stealin’ Half-Circle Cross stock.”

“Didn’t Bud have any defense at all?”

“How could he? Nobody would steal cattle for the HB. Yuh know, Bud
used to wear one of them five-gallon sombreros, with a wide band,
kinda studded with silver rosettes. Oh, yuh could see it a mile away,
glistenin’ in the sun. Anyway, both Allenby and Clayton testified
that this rustler wore no hat. Allenby says he was sure the man had a
hat when they seen him first, but that he was bareheaded when he made
his getaway.

“Allenby says he was too excited to remember just what kind of a hat
this man had on when they seen him first. But it kinda made things
worse for Bud. He’d naturally hide the hat, ’cause it was so well
known and easy to identify.”

“And they didn’t get close enough to identify him for sure?”

“Nope. But their evidence sure convinced the jury.”

“The Half-Circle Cross brands on the right shoulder, and the HB on the
right hip, don’t they?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Bud sure vented a lot of space on the right shoulder of them two
critters.”

“No argument about ’em bein’ Half-Circle Cross animals?”

“There might ’a’ been, Hartley; but yuh could look real close and find
the old scars of the original brand. They’d ’a’ never showed up after a
few days, when the new burn healed. No, there was no question about ’em
bein’ Allenby’s stock.”

“And the vented spot was bigger than the old brand, eh?”

“----, yes; four or five times as big.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grew thoughtful. “And yuh think there’s no danger of
anybody doin’ anythin’ rash tonight, Sheriff?”

“Nope. They’ll likely drink a lot of liquor and kinda gird up their
loins, but that’s about all. Will yuh ride out to the HB with us in
the mornin’?”

“Very likely. I reckon we’ll go back to the ranch and get a little sleep
now.”

Sleepy complained about leaving Moolock. It looked to Sleepy as though
there might be trouble, and he did not want to miss any of it. He
grumbled audibly, but rode out of town with Hashknife.

“I s’pose,” he said sarcastically, “that old folks like you have got to
have their sleep, Hashknife.”

“You betcha,” agreed Hashknife. “Do you know the way to the HB ranch?”

“I can find it, Hashknife. You--say, what’s the idea?”

“Goin’ visitin, Sleepy. Folks ought to be neighborly, hadn’t they?”

“The road runs kinda south-east; so we better swing to the left. What
are we goin’ to do out there? Didn’t Swan River say that he was----”

“Goin’ out there after daylight,” agreed Hashknife. “That’s the trouble
with the ordinary sheriff, Sleepy--they want to make a parade out of it.
They never find out anythin’.”

“What do you expect to find out, cowboy?”

“Parder, yuh never know what to expect. Anyway, we’re goin’ out thataway
and see what we’ll see. Probably won’t see anythin’--mebbe we will.”

“Uh-huh.” Dubiously. “What was the idea of all them questions about Bud
stealin’ cows and gettin’ sent to the pen?”

“Morbid curiosity, Sleepy. I just love to hear about grief and misery.”

“Oh, go to ----!” snorted Sleepy.

“Very likely--if there is such a place, Sleepy.”

It was about seven miles to the HB ranch from Moolock. The road wound
through the hills, with little regard for grades; a strange road to
the two cowboys, who only knew that somewhere along it was the HB
ranch-house. In fact, at the end of it was the ranch, as it did not
extend beyond.

There was no room yet, but the ribbon of road was easy to follow. The
last few miles they rode silently, only the muffled sound of the horses
in the dust to tell of their coming. The HB ranch buildings stood in
the wide flat at the mouth of a cañon, and their silhouette was plainly
visible from the road, which approached from a lower level.

No lights were visible, but Hashknife felt that somewhere around that
black bulk of buildings some one was watching. They dismounted and led
their horses away from the road into a clump of trees, which would
screen them from anyone passing on the way to or from the ranch.

“Got to get higher,” said Hashknife, as he led the way out of the trees,
keeping well away from the ranch, circling toward a rise of ground back
of the stable. They were forced to proceed at a slow pace for fear of
running into loose barb wire or other unknown difficulties.

At last they reached a point where they could look down on the group of
buildings, and here they sat down to wait. It was well after midnight
when they reached this point, and an hour later there was sufficient
moonlight to enable them to distinguish something of the buildings and
general contour of the surrounding country.

                   *       *       *       *       *

For a long time there was no sound, except the soft bawling of a cow
in the corral. Far out in the hills a coyote called mournfully, and
from the house came the short bark and growl of a dog. Then all was
still again. Hour after hour went past, while the two cowboys huddled
in the sage, unmoving, and worst of all, unsmoking.

The false dawn lighted the hills, and a chill wind swept down the
cañon, causing the two cowboys to sink lower into the protecting
brush. Suddenly Hashknife sat up. The dim figure of a man had crossed
the corral and faded into the shadows of the stable.

“Didja see him?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Yeah,” Sleepy shivered. “He went into the stable. Probably one of the
HB outfit doin’ his chores early. Of all the ---- fools on earth, we’re
the worst. Settin’ out here in the cold all night--there he goes back
again.”

The man crossed the corral again, going in the opposite direction. He
either went through a gate or crawled through the fence, and blended
with the shadows so well that they were unable to see him again. They
listened to see if they could hear him shut a door in the house, but
there was no sound.

After several moments the dog barked loudly, and from over on the side
of a hill came the snapping bark of a coyote. The dog, evidently under
leash, grew frantic with its barking; but the coyote did not respond.
Hashknife laughed softly.

“What’s so danged funny?” asked Sleepy.

“That coyote.”

“What in ---- is funny about a coyote?”

“Nothin’ in general, Sleepy; but that one prob’ly smokes cigarets and
packs a gun.”

“Yuh mean that it wasn’t a coyote, Hashknife?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Aw, ----! Why would any man imitate a coyote thataway?”

“To make the dog bark.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sarcastically. Sleepy was chilled to the bone and aching for
a cigaret. “Why in ---- would he want to make a dog bark, if I may ask
yuh?”

“So that anybody would think he was barkin’ at a coyote.”

“All right, all right. Some day I’m goin’ to ask you a question and get
an intelligent answer.”

“And what then, Sleepy?”

“The shock will kill me.”

Hashknife laughed softly and got to his feet.

“Let’s sneak down there and see what that jigger was doin’. He never
went into the house; so I don’t figure he’s part and parcel of the HB
outfit.”

Cautiously they made their way down the hill and came in behind the
stable. Daylight was coming swiftly now, but there was no sign of the
man who had crossed the corral. They slid through the corral fence,
circled the interior until opposite the door of the stable, where they
again passed through the fence.

Part of a long, low shed blocked their view of the house.

“Wait here and keep watch,” whispered Hashknife. “I’m goin’ inside.”

Sleepy crouched against the fence, while Hashknife opened the stable
door and went inside. He was in there so long that Sleepy became
nervous. It was daylight now, and Sleepy felt like a burglar. He
turned his head and looked toward the road. Only a few hundred yards
away, coming up the road, was a big group of horsemen.

“That ---- sheriff’s posse!” snorted Sleepy. He ran to the stable door
to notify Hashknife, and met him coming out.

“Swan River and his men are here!” he blurted. “Whatsa matter, didja go
to sleep in there?”

Hashknife ran to the corner of the stable and watched the horsemen swing
in toward the house.

“C’mon,” he whispered, running straight back toward the hill, keeping
the stable between him and the ranch-house. Sleepy was at his heels,
and together they tumbled into a shallow washout behind some wild rose
bushes.

“We can get back to the horses by goin’ down this washout,” said
Hashknife. “Keep yore head down and c’mon.”

Swiftly they went down the narrow ravine, where the flood waters had
gouged out the soft silt, coming out at the upper edge of a large brush
patch, just above the thicket of cottonwoods.

It did not take them long to get their horses, swing back into the road
and head for the ranch-house. The posse was grouped at the ranch-house
door, talking to old Hank, Bud and Sticky Clay. Swan River had
dismounted and was leaning against the porch, but the rest of the crowd
were still in their saddles.

They turned to look as Hashknife and Sleepy rode up to them.

“Missed yuh in town, Sheriff,” said Hashknife. The sheriff nodded and
turned to Hank Bell.

“I’m not chargin’ yuh with anythin’, Hank. I want yuh to understand
that right here. There’s been so ---- much talk that I had an idea
that we ought to come out here this mornin’ and find out how much of
it was worth arguin’ about.”

Old Hank squinted at the posse, which was composed of Merton, Sepulveda,
Allenby, Sam Bass, Larry Neil, Forty Dollar, Lem Elder, Omaha Olsen and
Chet Hoban.

“Well,” said old Hank slowly, “what do yuh want to do?” He seemed
curiously meek, weary.

“Just to satisfy everybody, suppose we search the place,” suggested Swan
River.

Old Hank squinted closely at Swan River, as though wondering what they
expected to find.

“Go ahead,” said Bud slowly. “I reckon we can stand for that.”

Old Hank nodded in agreement, and the posse dismounted.

“We’ll help yuh, if yuh need us,” grinned Sticky Clay.

Old Hank threw open the front door, and the posse filed inside, led
by Swan River Smith. Hashknife and Sleepy did not go with them, but
sat down on the little front porch. It did not take long to search
the house, and then the posse split into two parts, to search the
stable and other outhouses. Hashknife followed now, and helped them
go over every inch of the place. For about an hour they stayed at
the HB, leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to uncover some
evidence.

But their time was wasted and they came back to their horses.

“Satisfied?” asked Bud.

Swan River nodded, as he swung into his saddle.

“Yeah, I’m satisfied, Bud--and I hope the rest are.”

The rest of them did not express an opinion. Allenby slumped in his
saddle, paying little attention to anyone during the ride back to town.
He had hoped to find June at the HB ranch.

“You never find girl there,” declared Sam Bass. “Bell’s no fool. We find
nothing there.”

“That’s the way I felt about it,” said Swan River. “If Bell did rob
the stage and steal the girl, he wouldn’t put her in a showcase for
us to look at. This idea of goin’ out in a crowd is all foolishness,
I tell yuh. Like Hartley said yesterday, this is a one or two man
job.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sam.

Allenby, Hashknife and Sleepy did not stop in Moolock, but rode on to
the Half-Circle Cross, intending to get breakfast at the ranch.

“I wish I knew what to do,” said Allenby wearily. “There is no clue,
nothing to work on. The sheriff is right, when he says that those
who stole June will not keep her where we can find her. If they want
money----”

“I don’t reckon they do,” said Hashknife.

“I know how yuh feel, Allenby. I _sabe_ how yore wife must feel about
it; but it’s somethin’ that can’t be helped right now. Did you see
anythin’ of Clayton, after he got shot last night?”

“No, I didn’t see him, but Harry did. He told Harry he was going to the
ranch. I think some one tried to kill him and that he was frightened
into leaving town.”

“Harry had a close call,” observed Sleepy.

Allenby nodded sadly, but did not express an opinion. It seemed as
though his hatred of the HB outfit had burned out, or had burned him
out. Mrs. Allenby came from the house to meet them, hoping that they
brought news, but was doomed to disappointment. She did not speak.
Allenby turned his horse over to Hashknife to unsaddle, and walked
to the house with her.

Hashknife and Sleepy stabled the horses and walked back to the
bunkhouse. Clayton was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house, smoking.

“Well, we’re just as wise as we were before we went to the HB,” said
Sleepy, stretching himself out on a bunk. “Lost one whole night’s sleep
and didn’t gain a darned thing. That was probably one of the HB outfit
that crossed the corral this mornin’.”

“I don’t hardly think so,” said Hashknife, yawning wearily. “It wasn’t
none of the HB outfit that barked like a coyote.”

“Aw shucks!” Sleepy did not believe that a man had barked like a coyote.

“Well, the dog barked,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah, the dog barked. He was tied up.”

“And if the coyote hadn’t barked, some of the HB would ’a’ come out to
see why the dog barked, wouldn’t they?”

Sleepy sat up and scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I suppose so, Hashknife.”

“The coyote barked first, didn’t it? Then the man crossed the corral.
After he left the coyote barked closer, didn’t it? And the dog barked
again--at the coyote.”

“Well, what in ---- has the coyote got to do with it? What had the man
to do with it? You always make a lot out of nothin’, Hashknife. You
make me lose a whole night’s sleep, and then you make boogers out of a
man crossin’ a corral, or a coyote that sounds like a man. What good
did it do us, I’d ask yuh?”

Hashknife walked to the window and looked toward the house. Allenby was
sitting on the ranch-house porch, talking to Clayton, and there was no
one else in sight. Hashknife turned and came back to Sleepy’s bunk.

He reached inside his shirt and drew out two flat envelopes covered with
seals, which had been broken; two empty Manila envelopes, which had been
shipped as valuable packages by an express company. Sleepy took them in
his hands and looked them over.

“I had a awful time findin’ ’em in that barn,” said Hashknife, as he
took them back and slipped them back inside his shirt. “They were under
a currycomb and brush in a little box on the wall.”

“That’s some of the loot from the train robbery,” whispered Sleepy.

“They once held some of the loot,” corrected Hashknife.

“But the posse couldn’t find anythin’.”

“There wasn’t anythin’ left,” grinned Hashknife.

Sleepy squinted at the ceiling thoughtfully. Then--

“Hashknife, who searched that box on the wall?”

Hashknife grinned widely and shook his head.

“Swan River Smith did. These Moolock outlaws ain’t fools, cowboys. Now
will yuh believe that a man barked like a coyote, Sleepy?”

“----, I’d believe that they buzzed like a rattler, if you say so. Right
now I’m in the right frame of mind to believe anythin’. Have yuh got any
clue, Hashknife; anythin’ to work on? Oh, ----, you wouldn’t say so, if
yuh had a million clues.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a clue--but I can’t tell yuh what it is.”

“All right. Keep me in ignorance.”

“Don’t blame me for what nature done to yuh, Sleepy. Let’s snore a few
lines, whatcha say? Mebbe we’ll need it.”

“I can always do that, pardner. Sleep is m’ first name.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

While Hashknife and Sleepy slumbered in the bunkhouse, Allenby told
Clayton about their failure to secure any evidence against the HB
outfit. He told of the search and of Hank Bell’s willingness to have
them search the place.

“He’s no fool,” grumbled Clayton. “He’s been expecting trouble for a
long time, and he surely wouldn’t take a chance on having any
incriminating evidence in sight. If he and his outfit robbed that
stage and kidnapped June, they wouldn’t take her to the ranch.”

“No, I suppose not, Clayton. Have you any idea who shot at you?”

“Not in the least,” Clayton shook his head, as he felt of his bandaged
chest, where the bullet had scored his breastbone.

“You haven’t had any trouble with anyone, have you?”

Clayton shook his head again quickly.

“Not a bit of it. The only person who might have done it would be that
fellow Clay, who shot Harry.”

“Did you have any trouble with Clay?”

“Not a bit. I just thought perhaps he might be sore at all of us. I
have been out here so much that they seem to think that I am one of
the Half-Circle Cross outfit.”

“I suppose so,” said Allenby dubiously. “Still, it is hardly reasonable,
Clayton. Sticky Clay is a gunman, and I don’t think he would try to
murder you in cold blood.”

“Well, pick a more likely man to suspect,” Clayton was angered a little
over Allenby’s insistence. “I’ve thought about it until I can’t arrive
at any conclusion. Perhaps that bullet was intended for Hartley. It did
not miss him far.”

“That might be possible, too. Where is Harry?”

“He went back to town this morning after breakfast. Did Hartley and
Stevens ride with the posse?”

“They got there after we did. What time did they leave here this
morning?”

“They didn’t sleep here last night.”

“Didn’t they? That’s queer. Swan River Smith said they had gone back to
the ranch. They didn’t stay in Moolock.”

“Well, they didn’t stay here,” declared Clayton. “Harry and I slept in
the bunkhouse.” He turned his chair and looked at Allenby, as he lowered
his voice-- “Do you know much about those two men?”

Allenby nodded slowly.

“I know what Freeman told me. He said that Hartley was the shrewdest
cattle detective that ever wore a gun. I am not going to question what
they do, Clayton. If they wanted to tell the sheriff that they were
coming here to the ranch last night, and went elsewhere--that is their
business.”

“But you did not hire them as detectives?”

“I did not. But I told them both that my former offer of five thousand
dollars for a conviction still stands, and that they could do as they
pleased while on the job.”

“Well, that’s different,” nodded Clayton. “I just didn’t understand the
arrangement. I think I’ll go back to town and see if anything new has
turned up. Want to go along?”

“Not now, Ed.”

Allenby went into the house, while Clayton, deep in thought, went to the
stable, saddled his horse and rode toward Moolock.

The cook at the Half-Circle Cross did not believe in cooking and serving
meals in the middle of the afternoon, but he made an exception in the
case of Hashknife and Sleepy. “Wood-tick” Wylie was an old camp-cook,
sour of disposition, crippled in both knees with rheumatism, and filled
with indignation at the way the United States was run by those at
Washington.

“’F I was the Gover’nor of this danged state, I’d have troops in here,
by jin!” he told Hashknife confidentially. “C’n yuh imagine sich a
condition of affairs? C’n yuh? I can’t. Somebody steals a girl. M’ ----,
they ort to be torn limb from limb.”

Wood-tick shredded a helpless biscuit by way of illustration.

“Yeah, yore right,” admitted Hashknife. “You sure do mingle a wonderful
egg, old timer.”

“Don’t I? When it comes to aigs, I know more than the first hen what
laid one. I had a chance to cook f’r Teddy Rosenfeld once. Ain’t they
doin’ nothin’ to try and retrieve that girl? Best danged girl yuh ever
seen, too. Allenby don’t do nothin’ much. Helpless as ----.

“Her ma is in there--” he lowered his voice and came closer--“she’s in
there lookin’ at June’s pitcher. Jist lookin’ at it, mind yuh. Acts like
June was dead. Yes, sir, she ain’t et nothin’ since yest’day. Got a good
appetite, too--most of the time. ----’s hinges! Wish I was sheriff of
this ---- county. I’d shore run somebody a ragged race.”

“Kinda hard for the sheriff to get somethin’ to work on,” said
Hashknife, his mouth filled with egg.

“Work on! M’ ----, I’d make somethin’ to work on. Who shot at Clayton?
Nobody knows, eh? Sticky Clay smoked up Harry, did he? By the muddy
Missouri River, this here county is gittin’ as salty as Utah. Want more
aigs? Got a slew of ’em. No?”

“Seems kinda funny to me that none of the other women folks around this
county have come in to weep with Mrs. Allenby,” observed Sleepy.

“Ain’t nothin’ funny about it,” denied Wood-tick. “Allenby is to blame
for it all. He’s been so danged uppity, thassall. He ain’t never fit
in with reg’lar folks. Thinks he’s worth more than they are. ----, yuh
can’t do that.”

“Don’t make friends, eh?” Thus Hashknife.

“Don’t make nothin’ but money.”

“And somebody steals the profits, eh?”

“They shore do. I kinda think that some folks don’t believe that Allenby
lost as much stock as he says he has; but he’s lost it all right. It’s
killin’ him by inches. Allenby don’t think no more of a dollar than he
does of his family--or not much more, anyway.”

Hashknife pushed away from the table and began rolling a cigaret.

“They tell me that he don’t give his family much to spend.”

“Much, ----! Nothin’.”

They thanked Wood-tick for the meal and went outside. Mrs. Allenby was
standing on the front porch, looking off across the hills, shading her
eyes. Hashknife studied her for a moment, before going around to the
porch. She lowered her hand away from her eyes and looked at Hashknife.

“I--I was just looking,” she said simply.

“Yes’m,” he nodded. “The hills are kinda pretty this time of day.”

“Pretty?” She shook her head slowly. “I didn’t notice--much.”

“Where is Mr. Allenby?” he asked.

“I think he went to town.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose he did.”

“I wish Harry would come home. He stays away most of the time these
days. Where do you suppose June is?”

“I dunno, ma’am. It’s all kinda mixed up. Clayton was goin’ to marry
June, wasn’t he?”

Mrs. Allenby stared at Hashknife, and a little color came back to her
white cheeks.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

“I don’t remember. It wasn’t a secret, was it, Mrs. Allenby?”

“No, I--I don’t know.” She shook her head slowly. “Mr. Allenby
wouldn’t----”

“He didn’t want Clayton for a son-in-law, eh?”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, he didn’t, Mrs. Allenby. Would you want him?”

“Mr. Clayton?”

“Yeah.”

“Why--I--what right have you to ask me a question of that kind?”

“Mrs. Allenby, I don’t want to pry into your secrets; but I’ve got to
know a few things. If you want your daughter back----”

“Oh, but I do!” Mrs. Allenby gripped the porch-post and stared at
Hashknife. “I would sacrifice anything to get June home again.”

“Sure yuh would. You’ll get her, ma’am; but you’ve got to have a lot of
patience. Now, I want you to answer me this: Does June want to marry
Clayton?”

She turned away, shaking her head.

“All right. But you’ve done quite a lot to convince her that she ought
to marry him, ain’t yuh?”

Mrs. Allenby turned quickly and stared at him.

“What makes you say that?” she asked hoarsely.

“Because it is true,” Hashknife knew that his guess had been correct.
“Now you are goin’ to tell me why you wanted June to marry Clayton.”

“How did you find out these things?” Mrs. Allenby’s face was white, but
her voice did not tremble now. “Who told you?”

“Nobody, ma’am. Mebbe I read it in the clouds. I just want yuh to tell
me why yuh promoted Clayton.”

“Promoted him?”

“Well, somethin’ like that. Go ahead and talk about it.”

For several moments Hashknife was afraid that she was going to rebel.
Finally she sat down in a rocking-chair near him, and he knew that the
point was won.

“It was the wrong thing to do,” she began slowly. “But you do not know
my husband. His one ambition is money. All his life he has been a slave
to money. No, I am not complaining, nor excusing myself. I did wrong,
and I will admit everything I have done.

“Ed Clayton has wanted to marry June ever since he first came here to
buy cattle. June did not seem to care for him. Mr. Allenby liked him
as a cattle-buyer, but he did not want him to marry June.

“I did not dislike Ed Clayton. He was a gentleman, until----”

Mrs. Allenby shook her head sadly.

“At any rate he asked Mr. Allenby for June’s hand, and was refused. It
did not seem to make any difference to Clayton. He told me about it
all, and asked me to intercede for him. I knew it was useless. When Mr.
Allenby makes up his mind to a thing, nothing can change him.

“I told Mr. Clayton that it would not help his case in any way. He and
Harry were great friends; so Harry came and asked me to help Clayton
out. Harry liked Clayton, who always had money. You know, Harry never
has any money. His father does not believe in giving children money--and
he does not realize that Harry and June have grown up.

“Later I began to hear stories about Harry. They said that he was
drinking and gambling. I know that his father heard the same stories,
but he merely laughed and proved to me that it was all lies, because
Harry had no money to drink and gamble with.

“Ed Clayton knew that I idolized my children. He knew that I would go to
any length to help them. So one day he came to me and asked me to see if
I couldn’t help him win June. I gave him the same answer. He did not get
angry, nor did he threaten; but he did show me receipts for borrowed
money, a total of five thousand dollars, signed with Harry’s name.

“Clayton had loaned Harry all that money. Clayton knew what Mr. Allenby
would do, if he knew that Harry had done such a thing. But Clayton did
not threaten me. He just pointed out the fact that some one must pay
that money. He had loaned it in good faith.

“He said to me--

“‘Mrs. Allenby, I love June more than anything in the world, and I will
try to make her happy. I feel sure that a little urging will win for me.
And, in that event, I will give you these receipts, and everything will
be forgotten.’

“That is why I tried to--oh, I know it was all wrong, but----”

“Yeah, it was all wrong, Mrs. Allenby,” agreed Hashknife.

“But my urging did not help--” Mrs. Allenby was crying now--“and I am
glad. It would have been like selling my June. I realized it afterward,
but at that time I could only see what might happen to Harry, don’t you
see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Hashknife got to his feet. “I’m sure obliged to yuh,
ma’am. This here is a secret between us.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said wearily. “I don’t know why I told it to you.”

“Thasall right, ma’am,” smiled Hashknife, as he walked back to the
bunkhouse, where he joined Sleepy.

“What was you and the lady chawin’ about, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“Arguin’ about raisin’ chickens. She favored Plymouth Rocks and I held
out for Rhode Island Reds.”

“And she cried for her side, eh? Yeah, I seen her wipe her eyes. You can
lie faster than I can, Hashknife.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife grinned and headed for the stable, where they saddled their
horses and started for town. They found Forty Dollar at the sheriff’s
office, bewailing everything.

“Swan River has led out another posse,” he told them. “He’s got Allenby,
Sepulveda, Merton, Omaha and Hoban with him, and they’re headin’ toward
Tecoma. Dunno where in ---- they’re goin’, but they’re goin’, thassall.
Swan River made me stay here, dang his old hide. Said somebody had to
protect the office.”

He did not get much sympathy from Hashknife and Sleepy; so he paraded
the rest of his woes, thusly:

“Ed Clayton is drunk and wants to fight somebody, the big brute. Harry
Allenby is drunk enough to brag again, and he wants to help Clayton
whip somebody, and there ain’t nobody around here to accommodate ’em.
Pinon Meade might fight the two of ’em, if he got drunk enough; but
Clayton, alone, is twice as big as Pinon. So there yuh are. On account
of my official position I can’t fight ’em. Any news of the lost girl?”

Hashknife grinned at Forty Dollar’s woes and shook his head.

“No news, Forty. You heard anythin’?”

“How the ---- could I, settin’ here all the time?”

Forty Dollar borrowed Hashknife’s Durham and rolled a cigaret.

“It ain’t none of my business,” he said pointedly, “but I was just
wonderin’ where you two fellers were when we rode up to the HB this
mornin’.”

Hashknife lifted his brows slightly, but his expression remained the
same. Then a smile wreathed his lips.

“What makes yuh ask that question, Forty?”

“Curiosity. We was late gettin’ started, and we sure did whang ---- out
of our horses all the way. We never passed yuh on the road, and when yuh
came up to us, yore horses wasn’t even breathin’ hard.”

“Forty Dollar,” grinned Hashknife, “yore a born detective.”

“Yeah? Well, I do notice some things. I kinda had a hunch that you
fellers was pokin’ around. Swan River wondered why yuh wasn’t there
to join the posse, and I told him that you wasn’t the kind to run in
packs.”

“I reckon that’s true,” laughed Hashknife. “Swan River didn’t say when
he’d be back, did he?”

“He didn’t know. Everybody expects him to be headin’ a searchin’ party;
so he’s doin’ it. He was just ready to start when Allenby rode in; so
they took him along. I reckon Clayton didn’t know they were goin’.
Anyway, he didn’t go along.”

They invited Forty Dollar to go over to the Elk saloon with them, but he
declined. Swan River had told Forty Dollar to stay at the office, which
meant in town, but Forty Dollar translated it literally, and gloried in
his martyrdom.

Harry Allenby was at the Elk, still wearing his bandage, which was
slightly disarranged, and he was more than partly drunk. Hashknife
took him aside and advised him to go home, but Harry would have none
of Hashknife’s advice.

“You ain’t runnin’ my business,” he told Hashknife angrily. “I do as I
---- please.”

“That’s yore whole trouble,” said Hashknife. “Yo’re just a fool kid,
without brains enough to pound sand into a rathole. You go on home and
quit spendin’ money that don’t belong to you.”

The shot went home. Harry’s eyes blinked for a moment and he had
difficulty in swallowing; but he tried to bluff.

“What in ---- do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“You know what I mean, Harry. If you want me to tell it, I’ll tell it
loud enough for every one to hear.”

“Who told you that?” Harry’s voice was hoarse with anxiety.

“Who told me what?” asked Hashknife.

“That--that--” Harry hesitated, trying to clear his thoughts. “That I
was spending money that didn’t belong to me,” he finished lamely. “It’s
a lie, anyway.”

“It’s the truth, kid,” Hashknife spoke softly and with conviction. “Yore
mother wants yuh to come home.”

“Aw, ----!” Harry turned away and walked outside.

For several minutes he stood on the porch of the saloon, thinking it
over, but decided that he didn’t want to go home; so he walked up to
the White Horse saloon and went inside.

There were few men in the Elk. Three cowpunchers were playing a game of
freeze-out at one of the tables, while “Snowy” Garnette and a railroad
contractor were playing two-handed stud. Hashknife and Sleepy drifted to
the pool-table and began playing bottle pool.

Their game was about half finished when Harry came back, and with him
was Ed Clayton. Clayton had been drinking, but he was not drunk. He
and Harry had a drink together, and were at the bar when Hashknife and
Sleepy put up their cues.

Hashknife noticed that both of them were serious, and as Hashknife
approached the bar Clayton stepped in front of him. In spite of
Hashknife’s height, Clayton was half-a-head taller, and weighed at
least fifty pounds more.

“Who in ---- told you that I loaned Harry money?” asked Clayton angrily.

Hashknife squinted coldly at Clayton and said--

“I didn’t say yuh did, Clayton.”

“You didn’t?” Clayton whirled on Harry. “Didn’t you say he told you
that, Harry?”

“Why, I--I--that’s what he meant, Ed. He didn’t----”

“----!” Clayton turned back to Hashknife. “Where did you get this
misinformation, Hartley?”

“I don’t reckon I was misinformed,” smiled Hashknife easily. “It kinda
looks like Harry had proved it. I didn’t say who he got the money
from--but _he_ did.”

“Is that so?” Clayton sneered openly. “Well, I just want to tell you
that it’s none of your ---- business, Hartley. You are taking too much
for granted, and I want you to keep your face out of my business, or
I’ll bust it wide open.”

“Yore business?” asked Hashknife innocently. “That won’t take much,
because it’s already beginnin’ to crack.”

Clayton was rather a sudden sort of person, and believed in the theory
that the first punch wins. This tall, skinny puncher was only three feet
away, slouched easily, when Clayton’s left fist snapped straight for his
jaw. But that easy slouch was misleading, and allowed Hashknife to sway
aside while the blow merely swished into empty air.

Hashknife did not lift his hands, but he did step back with a grin on
his lips. Clayton blinked and recovered his balance. It was the first
time he had missed with the snappy left, which was his stock in trade,
and usually put him in a good position to finish the fight without
much opposition. The card games ceased immediately. Harry started
forward, only to have Sleepy kick his feet from under him and drop him
in a sitting position half under a table.

“Git a front seat!” grunted Sleepy.

Clayton forced a smile to cover his chagrin. He did not expect this
cowpuncher to put up a fight.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to telegraph yore punch,” grinned Hashknife. “A
one-punch fighter like you ought to figure out a system, Clayton. Yuh
tried to sneak one on me, but yore eyes and the whole left side of yuh
told me what yuh was goin’ to do.”

“Did, eh?” Clayton smiled grimly as he fell into a crouch.

“Stop this one!” He darted at Hashknife, smashing with both hands. It
was a disastrous attack. His right fist snapped against the top of
Hashknife’s head, the left missed entirely, and Clayton went backward,
half doubled up from a punishing smash in the stomach.

He backed out of range, his mouth wide open, as he tried to pump air
into his lungs. Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Go in and get him, cowboy,” advised Sleepy. “He’s whipped right now.”

“Like ---- he is!” snorted Clayton, shutting his teeth, and trying to
strain the kinks out of his midriff.

“Well, come on and finish it,” invited Hashknife. “If I wanted to whip
yuh, I’d ’a’ stopped the fight before this; but it ain’t no fight of my
makin’, Clayton.”

Clayton was game, but wary. He had tasted one of Hashknife’s punches,
and did not care for another of the same kind; so he elected to try
the long-range game. He felt that this cowpuncher knew nothing about
boxing. Some one shoved a table away, to give them more room, and
Harry Allenby crawled on his hands and knees to the bar-rail, where
he sat down, closely watched by Sleepy.

Clayton went in slowly, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, his
guard high. Hashknife watched him calmly, guard down. It seemed to anger
Clayton to think that this lanky person did not take the fight seriously
enough to put up his hands.

Clayton stepped in range, snapping his left at Hashknife’s head. It was
rather a weak attempt and Hashknife avoided it easily as he stepped
inside the blow, blocked Clayton’s right, and drove another punch to
Clayton’s middle.

It was enough to cause Clayton to drop his guard and step back; but this
time the lanky cowboy stepped with him, and before Clayton could lift a
hand to stop it, Hashknife uppercut him to the point of his jaw, with a
full sweeping blow--and the fight ended.

Clayton collapsed heavily, rolled over on his back and stared at the
ceiling.

                   *       *       *       *       *

“The most complete thing I ever seen,” declared Snowy Garnette, leaving
the table and walking to the fallen man. “I knew that Clayton would get
whipped some day; but I thought it would take a bigger man than he is.”

The bartender threw a little water into Clayton’s face, and he sat up,
gasping. It was a full minute before he realized what had happened. He
got painfully to his feet, leaned on the bar for a while, trying to
regain his balance, and walked outside, without a word. Harry Allenby
followed him, rather disconsolately. His idol had fallen--and fallen
hard.

No one asked Hashknife what started the fight. Snowy invited every one
to have a drink, and waited on them personally. There had been no loud
talking, no swearing. A man could have stood out in front of the saloon
and not been aware of trouble within.

“I’ve paid twenty dollars to see a fight that wasn’t half as good,”
declared the contractor. “Here’s to one cowpuncher that don’t need to
shoot his man to win.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon as soon as possible after the
toast. Hashknife disliked adulation--and he did not want to drink
any more; so they excused themselves and went back to the sheriff’s
office, where Sleepy proceeded to tell Forty Dollar about the fight.

“Jist my darned luck!” wailed Forty Dollar. “Here I been layin’ on my
miserable back, readin’ ‘Deserted at the Altar,’ while there’s a fight
jist across the street. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. And yuh
knocked Ed Clayton out! Can’t git it through m’ head, thassall. Bigger’n
you are, every way.”

“Don’t know the first thing about fightin’,” declared Sleepy. “Clumsy as
a cub bear. Hashknife slapped him in the stummick and took all the fight
out of him. Yaller as a dandelion.”

“Um-m-m,” Forty Dollar was not convinced. “I’ve seen him put up a good
fight. Well, I’ve allus said that he’d meet his match some of these
days. I used to be a fighter m’self, and I know.”

“Did you meet yore match?” asked Sleepy.

“Did I? Say, I met a whole danged box of ’em. What did Harry think of
the fight?”

“I kicked him into a front seat,” grinned Sleepy. “I reckon he wanted to
referee; but we didn’t need none. When they tackle old Hashknife, there
ain’t but one decision to give. He just pets ’em on the chin, thassall.”

“Braggin’ is bad; but lyin’ and braggin’ at the same time is worse,”
declared Hashknife. “Yore loop is draggin’.”

“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh don’t believe me, Forty Dollar--ask
Ed Clayton.”

“I’ll take yore word for it.”

“Are you familiar with the 27A brand?” asked Hashknife.

“Me?” Forty seemed amazed. “Say, I’ve been in this country ever since
the big trade between the Injuns and the soldiers.”

“What big trade was that?” asked Sleepy innocently.

“Lead f’r lead. What do yuh want to know about the 27A?”

“Where do they brand?”

“Right shoulder. The 7 and the A are connected.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife nodded solemnly, and walked to the door. He could
see Ed Clayton and Harry Allenby in front of the White Horse saloon,
and as he watched them, Clayton drew back his right hand and knocked
Harry into the street.

It was not a knockout punch, but it sent Harry rolling into the dust.
He clawed his way to his feet and went staggering across the street.
Hashknife called Sleepy and Forty Dollar to the door and told them
about it. Clayton went back in to the saloon, while Harry sat down on
the sidewalk in front of the general store.

“Harry seems to get it from all sides,” observed Forty Dollar. “His luck
is runnin’ kinda muddy, this week.”

Harry leaned against a post and seemed content to stay where he was. In
a few minutes Pinon Meade came out of the White Horse, got his horse at
the hitch-rack and rode out of town toward the 27A. The three men at the
sheriff’s office went inside and sat down again. It was hot out there in
the street.

Hashknife tilted back against the wall in his chair and made pencil
notes on the back of an envelope, while Sleepy and Forty Dollar started
an argument as to who won the Boer war.

It was a perfectly good argument, because neither of them knew just what
countries had fought the war. Sleepy contended that the Swedes were the
winners, and managed to prove it to Forty Dollar’s satisfaction. Several
points were proved by Hashknife, who was so engrossed in his own notes
that he “yessed” every question.

Just before dark Swan River rode into Moolock, leading a thoroughly
tired posse of men. Their long ride had netted them nothing. They
had come back past the 27A ranch, where Sam Bass had left the posse.
Allenby was discouraged. He asked for Harry and found that Harry had
gone home.

Clayton, showing no ill effects from his fight, talked with Allenby,
after which he got his horse and rode away with him toward the ranch.
Swan River stretched his tired body and swore witheringly at his luck.

“We went plumb to Tecoma,” he said. “It’s like huntin’ for a needle in
a strawstack. Didn’t find out a danged thing. I reckon Allenby is all
broke up over it; but I can’t help it, if he is.”

“Let’s eat,” suggested Forty Dollar. “There ain’t been much happened
around here since yuh left, except that Hashknife had a fight with
Clayton, knocked Clayton plumb out; and Clayton hit Harry Allenby
later on. Otherwise it’s been Sunday all day.”

Swan River gawped foolishly at this information, but thought it was a
joke and refused to question Forty Dollar. But he soon discovered that
it was no joke. They went to the Blue Front for supper and heard the
bartender of the Elk giving a vivid description of the battle.

“I didn’t know that there was trouble between you and Clayton,” said
Swan River, as they sat down.

“There wasn’t,” smiled Hashknife. “He just wanted to fight.”

“Uh-huh,” Swan River was a bit dubious over this.

He knew that something must have been of sufficient import to cause
such a battle; but he was willing to outwardly accept Hashknife’s
explanation.

They ate their supper and drifted to the Elk saloon, where they ran
into Sticky Clay. He was perfectly sober. A big poker game was in
progress, which interested Sleepy and Forty Dollar. Swan River got
into conversation with Snowy Garnette, and Sticky Clay drew Hashknife
aside.

“You ain’t seen Bud Bell, have yuh?” asked Sticky.

“Nope--not since we were out to the ranch.”

“Un-hah. He ain’t been here today, eh?”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I haven’t seen him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. Bud rode away just after that gang was out there,
and he ain’t come back. Me and the old man was kinda worried. ----
it, I dunno why we are either, except that there’s so much ---- bein’
raised around here.”

“Bud can take care of himself,” said Hashknife consolingly.

“Ordinarily,” conceded Sticky. “I suppose he’s all right. Yuh see,
Hartley, I think a lot of Bud.”

“Sure,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I wanted to ask yuh somethin’,
Clay.”

“Ask me somethin’? All right, what is it?”

“About that mixup between you and Harry Allenby. Did you know that Harry
was gunnin’ for you?”

“Well--yeah, yuh might say I did. He was just drunk enough to be lookin’
for trouble. Somebody mentioned it to me earlier in the evenin’, and
then Pinon Meade led me to look out for Harry. He said that Harry was in
the White Horse, makin’ a war-talk.”

“I see.” Thoughtfully. “Is Pinon Meade a friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Sticky squinted narrowly. “No-o-o, I reckon not. Yuh see, a
feller like me don’t have friends, Hartley.”

“Why not, Clay?”

“I dunno. Mebbe it’s cause I work for Hank Bell; mebbe it’s ’cause I
look like I do. I’m kind of a mongrel, Hartley. Folks call me a
gun-fighter--meanin’ that I’m dangerous. It’s jist like somebody
sayin’ to yuh, ‘That dog will bite.’”

“From that time on, that dog will be a dangerous animal to you. You
won’t never stop to figure out that the dog is good for anythin’,
except to bite folks. That’s me. I’ve been branded a gun-fighter;
and folks never figure that I eat food like other folks, snore in m’
sleep and wear the seats out of my pants.”

Hashknife did not laugh. There was nothing humorous in Sticky Clay’s
simile. It was rather pathetic.

“I reckon I know how yuh feel,” said Hashknife.

“That’s fine,” nodded Sticky seriously. “I reckon I’ll be goin’,
Hartley. Moolock ain’t none too safe for one of the HB outfit to be
found in. There ain’t no news from that girl, is there?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Kinda tough luck,” said Sticky. “I’d like to feel sorry for Allenby.”

He turned to leave the room when Larry Neil ran in and yelled at the
sheriff--

“Hey, Swan River! Clayton and old man Allenby just got here. They found
Harry half-way between here and the Half-Circle Cross, and brought him
in. He’s all shot to ----!”

The sheriff and Forty Dollar ran for the door, while there was a
general exodus in that direction. Hashknife caught Sticky by the arm
and whispered in his ear--

“Don’t tell anybody that Bud is missin’.”

“----!” blurted Sticky. “I’d been inquirin’ for him before I met you.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Sticky hurried away, while Hashknife joined the crowd that were on their
way to the doctor’s office to see how badly Harry had been hurt. Swan
River tried to keep every one out of the house, but allowed Hashknife to
slip inside.

Clayton and Allenby were at the bedside, watching the doctor make his
examination, and nodded at Hashknife. Harry had been shot three times
and was unconscious. One bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of
his left shoulder, another bored through his left shoulder, just
beneath the collar-bone, while the third struck lower on the left side
and seemed to have skidded off a rib.

“Shot from in front, eh?” observed Hashknife.

“Yes,” said Allenby shakily. “Harry fired two shots at whoever dropped
him. When he regains consciousness we will know who shot him.”

“And that killer was a good shot,” said Hashknife softly. “He was sure
shootin’ at the kid’s heart. Notice that all three of ’em are on the
left side.”

“Sticky Clay is a good shot,” said Clayton meaningly.

Hashknife squinted at Clayton closely, but Clayton did not meet his
eyes. The doctor was busily engaged in cleansing the wounds, and
Allenby began pacing the small room. Outside, they could hear the
crowd questioning the sheriff. Forty Dollar came in to get a report
from the doctor, and went back to report to the crowd.

“How soon will he be able to tell us about it?” asked Allenby.

“I don’t know.” The doctor shook his head. “He has lost considerable
blood, but the wounds are not necessarily dangerous.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Allenby.

Clayton got to his feet and moved over to the door.

“I’m going to grab a bite to eat, and then I’ll be in shape to sit up
here tonight,” he said.

Allenby nodded quickly and took Clayton’s seat beside the bed.

Hashknife walked outside and headed for the Elk saloon. The crowd
had dispersed, feeling that Harry had better than a fighting chance;
and many of them were back at the saloons, having a drink after the
excitement.

Clayton had gone straight to the Elk bar, and Hashknife saw him drinking
with Lem Elder. Frosty Welcome, the hotel proprietor, was at the bar,
drinking with Joe Egan, his clerk. Frosty grinned at Hashknife and
invited him to have a drink.

“I’m celebratin’,” he explained a trifle thickly.

“Birthday?” asked Hashknife.

“Nawshir--not birthday. I’m goin’ out of the ---- hotel business. Tired
of it. Yesshir, I’m sick of the business. Joe’s goin’ to run the hotel
f’r me, ain’t yuh, Joe?”

“And that’s whatever,” nodded Joe. “I shore can run her, too.”

“What are you goin’ to do?” queried Hashknife.

“Cattle. By golly, I’m a cattleman, I am. Jus’ bought me a ranch, and
I’m goin’ to run it. Pay f’r it tonight. Have ’nother drink?”

“I’ll buy this one,” said Hashknife grinning. “Goin’ to give me a good
job on this ranch, ain’t yuh?”

“Tha’s a good idea, by golly,” agreed Frosty. “Need a good man. Shay,
all jokin’ aside, will yuh take a job? I can’t hire yuh until I own it;
but I’ll own it, y’betcha. Here’s a go.”

They drank and placed their glasses on the bar. Hashknife noticed that
Lem Elder had left the bar, but Clayton was still there.

“You must ’a’ made money in that hotel,” observed Hashknife.

“Sure, I made money,” agreed Frosty. “But I never made enough to buy a
cattle outfit. I had money in the bank, I did. I sold out a cattle ranch
over in Ross Basin three years ago, and bought this danged hotel; but I
banked most of the money. I’m sick of the hotel, and I’m celebratin’ my
recovery, I am.”

“You goin’ to have a big outfit?” asked Hashknife.

“Big enough. I’m goin’ to blot all them ---- 27A cattle, and register m’
old Circle W agin’, I am. Have ’nother drink?”

Hashknife managed to decline another drink, and went away, leaving
Frosty and Joe in an argument as to the proper way to run a hotel.
Sleepy was watching a poker game when Hashknife nudged him, and they
left the place together.

Hashknife led the way to their horses and they rode out of town, heading
northeast. Sleepy did not question him now. He knew that Hashknife had
discovered something and that he would tell about it at the right time.

“Goin’ to rain,” observed Sleepy, as they traveled over the road which
led to Tecoma. “Wish we had our slickers. I hate to get wet.”

“Worse things than gettin’ wet,” grunted Hashknife. Rain clouds blotted
out the light from the sky, and they were forced to let the horses make
their own way over the road. A wind was blowing in from the northeast,
filling their faces with dust from the road.

But this discomfort did not last long. A dazzling flash of lightning,
a crash of thunder--and the rain drifted into them in a solid wall of
water, which quickly turned the deep dust in a muck of mud. They bowed
their heads to the downpour and went on.

“Let up pretty soon!” yelled Hashknife consolingly.

But the storm had no intention of letting up. The lightning and thunder
went rumbling away down the valley, but the rain elected to stay. It
was nearly two hours after their departure from Moolock. Both cowboys
were soaked to the skin, and Sleepy was beginning to grow profanely
sarcastic; but Hashknife said nothing in return.

Hashknife was riding on the right side of the road, peering at the
fence, which bordered the road. He had been riding thus for several
miles, and now he grunted thankfully, as the outlines of a gate
caught his eye, and a road turned through it at almost right angles
to the one they had been following.

“C’mon,” he said. “Here’s where we turn, cowboy.”

“Thank ---- for anythin’!” exploded Sleepy. “The water is runnin’ out of
my boot-tops right now.”

Half a mile off the main road, as they were passing through a brushy
spot, Hashknife swung his horse into Sleepy’s animal, forcing both
animals into the brush and off the road. A few moments later a rider
loomed up in the rain, and went past them, heading toward the main
road.

It was impossible to distinguish the identity of the rider. They were
about to move back into the road, when another rider, this one traveling
at a gallop, went past their hiding-place, fairly splashing them with
mud. It was evident that this later rider was anxious to overtake the
other.

“Now that the mud-hen parade has gone past--” said Sleepy suggestively.

“We go on,” said Hashknife quickly. “It can’t be far to the ranch. Mebbe
I’ve made a mistake, but I don’t think so.”

About two hundred yards farther on they came to the blacker bulk of
corrals and outbuildings. From there they could see an open doorway,
where the light from an oil lamp illuminated part of a buckboard and
team, which was standing close to the porch.

They rode up and dismounted. No one was in sight, but as they entered
the house a voice called from the kitchen--

“What in ---- is the matter now?”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy, but did not reply. A moment later the
speaker stepped into the room, a look of surprise on his face. He was
a medium-sized individual, with a hooked nose and a scraggly beard.
His clothes consisted of a badly worn blue suit, a moth-eaten fedora
hat and yellow boots. Also worthy of mention was a batwing celluloid
collar, of about sixteen-size, while the neck it encircled would have
had plenty of freedom in a fourteen.

Circling his waist, mostly hidden by his coat, was a heavy cartridge
belt, studded with ammunition, and below the edge of the coat
protruded the end of a revolver holster. In his left hand he carried
an old, yellow valise, bulging full.

“Huh!” he exclaimed explosively. “Where’d you fellers come from?”

Hashknife did not reply, as he squinted around the room. His gaze came
back to the man with the valise, and he said--

“Yo’re the cook, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m the cook.”

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, slapping his wet thighs. “We are
hungry as ----, pardner.”

“Thasso?” The cook leaned against the wall negligently. “Well, yore
about half out of luck, gents. Right now I ain’t got no time to do any
cookin’. I’m the only one at the ranch, and I’m goin’ to town right
away. Sorry, but it’s got to be done.”

“We’ll pay yuh for the food,” said Hashknife, ignoring the cook’s
statement.

“Will yuh?” The cook scowled impatiently. “Like I said before, I’m goin’
to town, and I’m lockin’ up everythin’; _sabe_?”

“I heard yuh,” Hashknife’s tone changed entirely. “We’ll cook our own
meal, and lock up for yuh. How do yuh like that?”

“Not a chance. I’d be a ---- of a feller to leave you two here alone,
wouldn’t I? ----, I don’t even know yore names.”

“Mine’s Hashknife Hartley.”

The cook stiffened slightly at the sound of the name and his eyes
shifted, as he moistened his lips. Then he shook his head.

“Don’t remember hearin’ it before,” he said, trying to make his voice
behave.

“No?” Hashknife grinned widely. The cook shifted his feet, as he placed
the valise on the floor, and his right elbow seemed to accidentally
catch in his coat and throw it away from his holster.

And as he straightened up his right hand flipped to his gun. It was
a swift draw, which proved that the cook’s experience with pots and
pans had not caused him to forget how to draw a gun; but it availed
him nothing.

His gun came to his waist level, but there was a nervless finger on
the trigger; nervless because Hashknife’s bullet had hit the cook dead
center before the latter’s gun hardly had left its holster. The cook’s
gun spun over on his finger, fell to the floor, while the cook slid
sidewise, almost blocking the door to the kitchen.

                   *       *       *       *       *
Sleepy coughed from the powder fumes and snapped his own gun back into
the holster.

“Neat, but not gaudy,” he commented dryly. “He never knowed what hit
him--if that was any satisfaction, Hashknife. Just why did he go after
his gun?”

“Scared,” said Hashknife seriously, as he stepped over and looked at the
victim. “My name got him, Sleepy. If he was an honest man, it wouldn’t
’a’ made him try to kill me.”

“All right,” nodded Sleepy nervously. “I dunno what it’s all about; but
I’m for yuh, tall feller. What do we shoot at next?”

Hashknife stepped over the cook’s body and Sleepy followed him into the
kitchen, where an oil lamp gave fair illumination. It was a typical
ranch-house kitchen, which had been presided over by a male cook; none
too clean and not at all tidy.

Hashknife looked around, and suddenly had an inspiration. He went back,
got the yellow valise and opened it on the kitchen table. In it was a
couple of shirts, a miscellany of underwear, socks, red neckties; and
underneath all this was eighteen hundred dollars in currency, mostly in
ten and twenty dollar bills.

“Cookin’ pays well in this country,” observed Hashknife dryly. “Either
that, or he has saved about three years salary intact.”

“Seems like a reg’lar diagnosis,” agreed Sleepy. Hashknife sat down,
replaced the things into the valise and rolled a cigaret, while Sleepy
mechanically rolled one also and wondered just what it was all about.

Hashknife smoked slowly, as he stared at the floor, deep in thought.
Suddenly he shot forward out of his chair, landed on his hands and
knees on the none-too-clean floor, looking at it closely. Sleepy ducked
sidewise, the instinct of self-preservation causing him to also land on
his hands and knees.

“What is it?” he demanded quickly.

“Get an ax!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Look outside--at the woodpile,
Sleepy. Take the lamp!”

It did not take Sleepy long to acquire the desired article. The woodpile
was handy to the kitchen door, as was usual for the convenience of the
cook. He handed the ax to Hashknife.

“What’s the idea, Hashknife?” he panted.

“Take a look,” grinned Hashknife. “They’ve got their root-house under
the kitchen, and they’ve nailed the door tight. Look at the fresh
bruises on the boards, cowboy; and look where they took the hinges off
to make it look like it wasn’t a cellar. Get back.”

At the risk of knocking down everything in the room, Hashknife swung the
heavy ax into the joint between the boards and tore the nails loose.
Straight across one end of the former trap-door he pried up the boards,
while Sleepy ripped them loose at the other end.

An odor of ancient vegetable and dry rot drifted up to them, and a
rickety stairway showed that Hashknife was right. Throwing the ax aside,
Hashknife picked up the lamp and went down the stairs, with Sleepy close
behind him, peering into the cellar.

Crash! Something whizzed out of the gloom and knocked the lamp out of
Hashknife’s hand, showering them with glass from the smashed chimney,
but fortunately extinguishing the light before it could ignite the
kerosene.

Then, out of the darkness came something, crashing into them, striking,
kicking; taking them so unawares that they went down in a heap, trying
to protect themselves in that narrow space. Hashknife ripped out a curse
that would have been a credit to a mule-skinner, flung himself forward,
and they all crashed to the bottom.

“Sleepy, can yuh light a match?” Hashknife’s voice was muffled,
strained.

Sleepy managed to extricate himself from the twisting mass, bumped his
head severely on something, but managed to scratch a match, which he
held above his head. The air was hazy with dust, but he was able to see
that Hashknife was lying across the body of a man, whose face was a mass
of dirt and blood. Sleepy squinted beyond, where a girl crouched against
the wall, her white face and staring eyes turned toward the lighted
match. It was June Allenby.

Hashknife lifted his face and looked at her. Then he slowly lifted
himself from the prostrate body, which turned quickly. It was Bud Bell.
He peered at Hashknife, his mouth wide open, as he tried to spit out the
dirt he had accumulated.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “we’re all here, it seems.”

“Hartley?” Bud’s voice was a whisper. He spat out more dirt and wiped
his lips with the back of his hand. Sleepy scratched more matches,
handed them to Hashknife, and ran upstairs to the living room, where
he got the lamp.

“June, we’re all right,” panted Bud. “These men are friends.”

The girl nodded slowly, helplessly.

“They’ve had her here quite a long time, don’tcha know?” Bud felt of
his head tenderly. “I--I went huntin’ for her, Hartley. I don’t know
what day that was. The last thing I remembered was when I was eatin’
in the 27A kitchen.

“There wasn’t nobody but me and Lew Meeker, the cook, there. I heard a
funny noise. It sounded like somebody calling. I asked Lew what it was,
I think. Then somethin’ hit me, I reckon. Anyway, I woke up down here.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” suggested Hashknife. “I don’t like the smell of old
vegetables. Can yuh walk, Miss Allenby?”

She nodded and made a brave attempt, but failed. Hashknife caught her in
his arms and carried her up the stairs, while Sleepy and Bud followed
them to the living room, where Hashknife placed her on a rickety old
couch.

“They had me all tied up,” she said wearily. “I got the gag loose, and
cried for help. In a few minutes they brought Bud down here. I didn’t
know it was Bud for quite a while. They hurt him so badly that he did
not move for a long time. It was only a little while ago that he--that
we found out who each other was. Bud had a few matches.”

Bud nodded in confirmation and looked at the body of the cook.

“We heard the shot,” he said.

“When did they take the ropes off you, Miss Allenby?” asked Hashknife.

“When they brought Bud down. Then I heard them driving nails. It was
awful to be down there in the dark.” She shuddered and the tears came
to her eyes.

“Yo’re a danged brave girl,” applauded Hashknife. “You ran into a
holdup, didn’t yuh?”

She stared at Hashknife for several moments before she nodded.

“You knew the robbers; so they had to kidnap yuh, eh?”

She shut her lips tightly and shook her head.

“Then why did they take yuh with ’em?”

“She won’t talk about it,” said Bud. “I asked her a dozen times. I dunno
why, but she won’t tell me.”

“Thasall right,” nodded Hashknife.

“Well, if it’s all right,” nodded Bud, “how did you fellers happen to
come out here?”

“Lookin’,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his feet. “Can you drive a
team?”

“I sure can.” Bud’s last effort to force a way out of the cellar had not
exhausted his remaining strength.

“I hit yore lamp with an old potato,” he grinned. “It was all I could
find. There wasn’t a rock nor a club down there.”

“Thanks for all small favors,” said Sleepy. “That spud hit me in the
neck and I’ve still got glass in my hair.”

Hashknife put the yellow valise in the buckboard, helped June into the
seat and turned the equipage over to Bud. The rain had ceased, but it
left miles of soggy road for them to travel back to Moolock.

“We’ll spin along ahead,” Hashknife told Bud. “Make as good time as yuh
can and tie in front of the hotel. Let’s hit the grit.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted, spurred into a gallop and began throwing
mud, while behind them came the 27A buckboard team, rain-soaked and
eager to get warm.

                   *       *       *       *       *
Harry Allenby was showing no signs of returning consciousness. He had
lost much blood, but the doctor was optimistic over the outcome. Swan
River Smith was as anxious as anyone for Harry to talk. He felt sure
that Harry knew who had shot him.

“Probably an even break,” was the decision of Forty Dollar, at the Elk
saloon. “Harry was due to get it sooner or later. If Sticky Clay hadn’t
misjudged his shot, Harry would now be under the little grasslets. Yuh
gotta be a dinger to hunt for trouble in this here county, and come out
on top.”

“Tha’s whatever, says I,” declared Frosty Welcome, who was due to pass
out of the picture very soon. Frosty had gazed too intently at the juice
of the corn to remain perpendicular much longer.

“Shush ri’,” agreed Joe Egan vacantly, which proved that he had also
run aground on the shoals of John Barleycorn. “Lezhava drink. Whazza
matter ’ith ’vrybody? Stop twis’in’ ’round.”

And thus passed Joe Egan, who was to become the proprietor of the
Moolock hotel. Some one propped him up in a chair, and in a few minutes
they placed Frosty Welcome on his lap.

All of which was a disgraceful proceeding, especially as Frosty Welcome
had agreed to consummate a deal with Joe Bass for the purchase of the
27A that night--and Frosty was in no condition to consummate anything.

It seemed that Moolock county was fairly well represented in Moolock
town that night, and the drink emporiums were doing a good business.
It might also be mentioned that the games of chance were running full
blast.

About ten o’clock, which was probably the time agreed upon between
Sam Bass and Frosty Welcome to complete their deal, Sam Bass entered
the Elk saloon, and found to his chagrin that one-half of the deal
was slumbering audibly on the lap of his hired man.

Sam Bass was mad. He shook Frosty viciously, and was rewarded with a
louder snore from Frosty and a groan from Joe. The crowd objected to
having Sam annoy Frosty. Forty Dollar told Sam to “git to ---- away
from there, and let sleepin’ dogs lay.”

Sam went away, swearing to himself, while Frosty cuddled down on the
half-dead Joe Egan and continued to sleep deeply. Sam went back to
the White Horse, where he found Lem Elder and Pinon Meade. Ed Clayton
had just come from the doctor’s office and reported that there was no
change in Harry’s condition. He accepted a drink invitation from Sam
Bass, who proceeded to tell them about Frosty Welcome.

“And he say he pay me cash for ranch,” said Sam cautiously. “He give me
five thousand day before yesterday, and he say he give me rest tonight,
ten o’clock. ---- fool too drunk now, can’t wake up.”

“How much time is there left?” Thus Lem anxiously.

Sam looked at his watch.

“Still got an hour and forty minutes. But that ain’t enough, I tell yuh.
That ---- fool can’t sober up that quick.”

“It’s about time for Lew to show up, ain’t it?” asked Pinon. “He’s
supposed to----”

“Aw, to ---- with him!” Sam Bass did not care to discuss small details.

“What became of Hartley and Stevens?” Thus Lem Elder. “They went away
right after the doctor made his examination.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Clayton.

“---- sure. I’ve been up and down both sides of the street. Their horses
ain’t at the racks and they ain’t in none of the buildings.”

Clayton and the three men from the 27A left the White Horse and went
back to the Elk. Frosty Welcome had slipped from the lap of Joe Egan
and was now reclining on the floor, with Joe’s feet on his head. Sam
Bass snorted an oath, as they turned to the bar and ordered their
drinks.

Sticky Clay came in and sat down near the door. He looked more sinister
than ever tonight. He knew that some one had suggested that he had met
Harry Allenby and they had finished their battle; but Sticky was not
going to be frightened out of town by their talk.

A few minutes later Hank Bell came in. He looked around the place, saw
Sticky and sat down beside him. The four men at the bar noticed these
two. Lem Elder drank only half of his liquor, wiped his lips with the
back of his hand and declared himself out of tobacco.

“Be back in a minute,” he said, and went out. At the doorway he almost
bumped into Frank Allenby, who was coming in. The three men at the bar
turned to look at Allenby, and those at the games hesitated in their
play long enough to listen.

“Harry is conscious,” stated Allenby wearily. “But he refuses to tell us
who shot him.”

The crowd murmured their wonderment, and none of them saw Hashknife
and Sleepy, muddy from their long trip, come in through the rear of
the room. They came down behind a roulette layout, where half a dozen
players were grouped, and stopped.

“Does he know who shot him?” asked Forty Dollar.

Swan River entered as Forty Dollar spoke.

“I’ll bet he does,” said Swan River. “He’s protectin’ somebody. If it
was an even break gun-fight, he don’t need to be afraid to tell who got
him.”

“Are yuh sure he’s conscious?” asked Pinon Meade.

“Yeah, he’s conscious,” nodded Swan River. “It’s the queerest deal I’ve
ever been up against.”

“Most deals look queer,” said Hashknife, coming toward the bar. His
face was splashed with mud and his clothes were sticky with the same
substance. The crowd centered their attention on him now.

“Where you been, Hashknife?” asked Forty Dollar.

“Ridin’ in the mud,” grinned Hashknife. He turned to Sam Bass-- “There’s
some low places on yore road that yuh ought to bridge. A little rain
makes a swamp out of ’em. My bronc turned over in one of ’em.”

“In my road?” queried Sam Bass.

“Yeah--out thataway. I don’t blame yuh for wantin’ to sell out. If I had
that kind of a road----”

“Who wants to sell out?” Thus Sam Bass.

“You. Frosty told me he was buyin’ yuh out tonight.”

“Frosty?” Sam was both surprised and indignant.

“That’s why he wanted to wake Frosty up,” declared Forty Dollar. “I’ll
betcha forty dollars that’s the reason.”

Sam Bass shut his lips. He did not want every one to know that he was
selling out. Clayton adjusted his necktie and started to walk away from
the bar.

“Better stay where yuh are, Clayton,” advised Hashknife. “You ain’t
goin’ no place, yuh know.”

“What do you mean?” Clayton turned and stared at Hashknife, as though
wondering what had been meant by that remark. But he stepped back
against the bar.

“I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ that might interest yuh,” smiled
Hashknife. “It happened over two years ago.”

“Two years ago?” questioned Clayton. “What do you know about anything
that happened here two years ago, Hartley?”

Hashknife laughed and shifted his feet.

“Some folks might call it fortune tellin’, Clayton. Didn’t you know that
I could see into the past?”

“What kind of bunk is he talkin’ anyway?” asked Sam Bass.

“Do yuh want me to demonstrate what I mean?” asked Hashknife.

“Hop to it,” laughed Forty Dollar. “We’ll all listen.”

“All right. Now I’m goin’ into a trance. Watch me closely.”

The games had all ceased and every one was interested. Hashknife’s
expression did not change, except that he looked more serious. Then
he began:

“I can see two men ridin’ through the hills. Down in a swale a man
is squattin’ beside a little fire. He has two cows hog-tied near
him. There’s a runnin’-iron and an old fry-pan on the fire. He takes
the hot fry-pan and vents the brands on the right shoulders of the
animals. He comes back to the fire, takes the runnin’-iron and draws
a brand on each animal, just above where he has vented the original
brands.

“Then I see the two men again. They see this man at the fire and he
sees them. He jumps up, runs to his horse and mounts. He has lost his
hat, but don’t stop to get it. The men circle the hill, tryin’ to head
him off.

“These two men chase him through the hills, but he is too smart for
them. The two men get separated. One of them circles back to the fire,
while the other keeps on after the rustler. The one that circled back,
dismounts at the fire. He looks at the animals, and then he looks all
around. The fire is almost out.

“He puts the pan and iron into the fire again and puts on more fuel.
Then he finds the rustler’s hat. I can tell by his face that he knows
who owns that hat. I can’t see what he did with the hat, but it
disappears from the picture.

“When the pan is hot again he vents the brand that the rustler put on.
It is a big vent now, almost coverin’ the shoulder of both cows. Then
he takes the runnin’-iron and draws a brand on each cow’s right hip.
Now I can see him scatter the fire, look all around, and begin to look
the cows all over again.

“Then I see the other man ride back there, and they are both talking.
Now they ride away. I think they are talkin’ about leavin’ the cows
there for evidence.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly and grinned.

“How do yuh all like that picture?”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Sticky and Hank Bell had got to their feet, staring at Hashknife,
wondering what he meant, where he had secured this information.
Clayton’s mouth was half-open and he was breathing like a man suffering
from a bad cold.

“What does he mean?” whispered Allenby. “I was one of those men--the one
who kept on after the----”

“What kind of foolishness is this?” demanded Clayton. “I was the other
man, and there wasn’t anything like----”

Hank Bell was coming forward, staring at Clayton, who drew away from
him.

“Hold everythin’, Hank,” advised Hashknife. “I’d advise everybody to
hold quiet. This is ----”

Lem Elder came in through the open doorway and was half-way to the bar
before he realized that the room was as quiet as a grave. He stopped
suddenly, looking quickly around. His lips were twisted into a snarl
and the skin seemed drawn tightly across his cheeks.

He looked at Hashknife, who was grinning at him, and his right hand
opened and closed spasmodically.

“And that wasn’t all of the picture,” said Hashknife slowly. “I might
ask Lem Elder to stand perfectly still. Yuh see it was like this.
Allenby wanted to hire a detective. Clayton knew this; so he talked
Allenby into lettin’ him get one.

“Clayton wrote a letter to a feller by the name of Seeley. Seeley didn’t
last long. That was a mistake, I reckon. He wasn’t supposed to be shot,
but the party who shot him thought it was the right thing to do. I’ve
got the letter that Clayton wrote to Seeley.”

“What has that letter got to do with it?” asked Clayton. “I don’t care
who reads that letter.”

“You should ’a’ asked Seeley to destroy it,” replied Hashknife. “That
letter plumb ruined things for you, Clayton.”

“Ruined things?” Clayton’s voice was hoarse. He was afraid, but was
trying to bluff. “Where--how did it ruin things?”

“Some folks don’t read between the lines, Clayton--I did.”

“Between the lines?” Clayton’s voice faltered.

“Yeah. Bud Bell went to the penitentiary, as innocent as I was of that
charge. You knew it, Clayton. You was the man who came back to that
fire and put on the HB brand. You knew who the rustler was. It gave you
a hold over him and it put you in a position to steal Allenby’s cattle.

“With the help of these men you stole, shipped and sold all those
Half-Circle Cross cows. The men who held up that train stole those two
HB horses to make their getaway on, because the horses were so marked
that there could be no mistake.

“You shared in that holdup. I don’t know why Elkins, the stage driver,
was killed, but he probably tried for his gun when June Allenby
accidentally rode in on the holdup. I forgot to ask her about it.”

“Ask her about it?” parroted Allenby wonderingly.

“She’s over at the hotel by this time,” said Hashknife. “I found her
at----”

“Look out!” snapped Lem Elder. “By ----, they’re both over there, Sam!
We’re stuck!”

It took Lem Elder’s statement to electrify Clayton and the 27A outfit.
Clayton threw himself away from the bar, drawing a gun from a shoulder
holster, while Sam Bass, Pinon Meade and Lem Elder shifted separately,
each one streaking for his gun.

But they were caught between two fires. At the door was Hank Bell and
Sticky Clay, blocking their exit in that direction, while Hashknife and
Sleepy prevented them from going out the rear.

Clayton was dead on his feet before his gun was out of the holster. From
beside the roulette layout, Sleepy was shooting slow and carefully,
while Hashknife flung himself against the end of the bar and shifted his
gun from man to man, as he emptied it.

Sam Bass went down, and across him fell Lem Elder, flinging his arms
wide and knocking Pinon Meade back against the bar, where he sagged
for a moment before going down in a crumpled heap.

The room was filled with powder smoke until faces and forms were mere
indistinct things. The crowd had had no chance for a getaway, but now
they vaulted the bodies and ran outside, while those from the other
saloons and business places met them with a volley of questions.

Sticky Clay had been hit twice, but not badly enough to make him want a
doctor. Hashknife’s right cheek was bleeding from a splinter which had
been thrown from the bar, but Sleepy had escaped without a scratch.

The crowd, realizing that the fight was over, came crowding back in,
questioning, coughing, wondering what it was all about. Swan River and
Forty Dollar did not stampede with the crowd, and it was Swan River who
first examined the four victims. Sam Bass was the only one alive, still
conscious, but fading fast.

“Shut up!” roared Swan River. “Sam’s tryin’ to whisper and I can’t hear
him.”

Sam Bass was making a valiant effort to say something, but the words
were slow in coming. The crowd grew silent, as Sam’s tongue began to
function.

“Money--all--in--valises,” he whispered. “Goin’--away--tonight. Sorry--”
He swallowed thickly. “Sorry--shot--Elkins. He--went--for--gun. Pinon
killed Seeley. I--guess--that’s--all.”

“I guess that’s enough,” said Swan River slowly, as he got to his feet
and turned to Hashknife. “I take off my hat to you, Hartley. I dunno how
in ---- you figured all this out, but you did.”

“It wasn’t so hard,” said Hashknife wearily, looking at the empty gun in
his hand. “That letter was the key to it all.”

He drew out the letter and spread it on the bar.

“Skip the first line and read every other one,” he said.

Swan River leaned closer and read--

    Dear Jim:

    Frank Allenby, the biggest cattleman in Moolock, is
    _up against a very dangerous proposition and needs help._
    It looks like a plain case of spite work by somebody and
    _you can make five thousand dollars for a few days work._

    This gang of rustlers are able to pull off big jobs
    _and get away without the slightest chance of anyone_
    detecting them. Your work must be done without anyone
    _knowing who you are; sabe?_

    I will explain everything to you when you get here.
    _You will like Allenby. If you can’t take this job, Jim, it_
    will disappoint me greatly. If you come, keep it dark, or it
    _might make things very bad. Wire your decision._

                                                    Sincerely
                                                       Ed.

“And that’s what Clayton meant for Seeley to read, eh?” asked Forty
Dollar.

Hashknife nodded. “Yeah, it seems that it was, Forty. If yuh notice, he
had all the lines pretty even, and left plenty of room at the margins. I
kinda wondered about it all bein’ so kinda regular; so I got to skippin’
around for the answer. I’ve heard of things like this bein’ done before.

“I got to findin’ out a few things about Bud Bell’s case, and I heard
about the rustler ventin’ the whole shoulder of them two cows. That
wasn’t accordin’ to Hoyle, and there must ’a’ been a reason. The 27A
Outfit brand on the right shoulder.

“There was the rustler without a hat, if yuh remember. If Clayton found
that hat belonged to some one he wanted to protect or put the deadwood
on to, what could be easier. But he first had to blot out that other
brand on the shoulder and put one on the hip. The HB brands on the hip,
and the HB was already in bad with the Half-Circle Cross. Does it look
easier now?”

“----, it sounds good,” agreed Swan River, scratching his head. “But
that was kinda flimsy evidence.”

“Worse evidence than that sent Bud Bell to prison. Somebody stole
three hundred head of stock out of a loadin’ pen the night we came
to Moolock. The stock cars came too late to load the night before;
so they had to leave the cattle in the pens. Sam Bass got them cars,
didn’t he? I started guessin’ from there.

“They wasn’t makin’ money enough off Allenby’s stock; so they started
holdin’ up trains and stages. They had to steal June Allenby to save
themselves. Down in the east of that road I found a red bead. It was
just a ordinary bead--like them that ornament the pockets on Sam
Bass’s vest. It wasn’t much, but it pointed the way.

“Me and Sleepy found June in the cellar at the 27A ranch tonight. Bud
Bell went lookin’ for her and got knocked on the head.

“They put him into the cellar with her, and nailed the door tight. I
killed their cook. He knew that his cake was all dough; so he went
for his gun. He had eighteen hundred dollars in his valise. I reckon
that about closes the chapter.”

“June is across the street?” asked Allenby. He had been in sort of a
trance.

“Yeah, she’s over there,” said Sleepy. “They didn’t hurt her.”

Allenby whirled and ran out. Bud came in. He was dirty and bloody, but
he knew that now he could look every man in the face. His convict brand
had been wiped away.

“They told me about it, Hartley,” he said, as he looked at the four men
on the floor. “I dunno how it was all done, but I’m glad. I’m not much
on thankin’ anybody.”

“You don’t need to thank me, Bud, ’cause yore welcome.”

The doctor arrived on the scene and Hashknife walked outside with Sleepy
and Forty Dollar.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Over at the hotel, June Allenby was holding an impromptu reception,
assisted by her father. As soon as Allenby saw Hashknife he left the
crowd and came straight to him.

“Hartley, I haven’t even thanked you yet. I have had so many shocks
lately that I’m not responsible for what I am doing. June has told me
something of how you found her. My ----, man, you don’t know what you
have done for me. I’ve got my girl back, and Harry is going to live.
I tell you, I could shout for joy.”

“Go ahead,” Hashknife smiled wearily.

June was coming to them, holding out her hand to Hashknife.

“I can thank you now,” she said simply.

“Yo’re welcome, Miss Allenby.” He smiled at her and turned to her
father, “If you want to thank me real hard, Allenby, go over and make
yore peace with Hank Bell. You’ve done him an awful wrong-- and this
is the time to right it.”

“Yes, I’ll do that,” said Allenby slowly. “I owe him a lot of apologies,
Hartley. Perhaps I should apologize to the whole world. Before I go, I
would like to ask you a question. Who was the man who was branding the
cattle--the man whose crime was placed on Bud Bell?”

Hashknife squinted painfully for a moment. It seemed that he was
trying to remember. He looked at June, who was staring at him, her
eyes pleading.

“That man,” he hesitated. “That man was Pinon Meade, I reckon.”

“I see,” Allenby nodded quickly. “I’m going over to ask Bud Bell and his
father to forgive me, and then I’m going to write you each a check.”

Allenby fairly ran across toward the Elk saloon and June came to
Hashknife, placing a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Hartley,” she said softly, “I want to thank you for that. I guess
you know why I couldn’t answer your question out at the 27A ranch-house.
Sam Bass told me the whole thing. Blood is thicker than justice, at a
time like this. Perhaps I was thinking more of mother than of dad.”

“Mebbe I was too,” said Hashknife, smiling at her. “I reckon it will be
all right from now on, ma’am. I was sure scared of how it might end; but
it’s all right now.”

“Yes, it’s all right now, thanks to you--you lovable liar.”

Hashknife laughed softly and turned as Bud Bell came running from the
saloon. He grasped Hashknife by the arm, as he said--

“Hartley, they’re havin’ a drink together--her dad and mine! And her dad
told me to come over and take care of her, while they talked about the
future. Can yuh beat that?”

“No, yuh can’t,” Hashknife agreed warmly. “I’m sure glad, folks. And
you take care of her, Bud. She’s a game little girl, and by golly,
she’s worth takin’ care of. C’mon, Sleepy.”

They turned away and walked over to the hitch-rack. It was about the
only place where they would be safe from questioning tongues, and
neither of them had smoked a cigaret since Hashknife had discovered
the nails in the trap door at the 27A.

Neither of them spoke until their cigarets were nearly gone. The crowd
at the Elk were helping to clean up the place. Frosty and Joe were on
the sidewalk in front of the saloon, trying to get some one to explain
what it was all about. Outside of Hashknife and Sleepy, they were the
only people in Moolock who were not excited; they had slept through it
all.

“Lovable liar,” said Sleepy seriously, “it comes to me that there must
’a’ been sort of an agreement between Sam Bass and Harry Allenby before
Harry tried to misbrand them two cows.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” said Hashknife softly. “Allenby stinginess drove the
kid to steal. Clayton saved him from the pen. Clayton could use the kid
to put him in with the 27A, and together they robbed Allenby blind.

“But it seems like they kinda fell out all around. Clayton hired Seeley,
without tellin’ Sam Bass and Harry. Seeley was the victim of a mistake.
Probably Harry told Bass that Seeley was a detective, not knowin’ that
Clayton had hired him. Mebbe Clayton and Seeley had somethin’ framed up
for themselves. Clayton had trouble with ’em, probably over June’s part
of the deal, and one of ’em tried to kill Clayton.

“I reckon that Harry was dangerous to their game. He drank and talked
too much. Very likely he knew where June was, and threatened to talk
if they didn’t let her loose. That was why they tried to kill him. It
kinda looks like they all knew that this three-handed game was a
losin’ proposition.

“When I heard that Sam Bass was sellin’ out to Frosty Welcome tonight,
I knew that my cards were all aces. It was just another case of too
many cooks, Sleepy. The 27A outfit had it all fixed to skip out of the
country tonight. I reckon they were all goin’ to pull out on that
midnight train. I had to guess at quite a lot of things, but I had
enough straight dope to tie up the weak spots.”

Hashknife threw away his cigaret and leaned against the hitch-rack.

“Sleepy, do yuh know the only way to be half-way successful as a crook?”

“Yeah,” nodded Sleepy. “I know two ways.”

“No, yuh don’t, cowboy; there’s only one way.”

“There’s two, Hashknife. One way is to play a lone hand.”

“All right,” agreed Hashknife. “What’s the other one?”

“To kill you when you first show up in the country.”

Hashknife laughed softly and began rolling another cigaret.

“That’s appreciation, pardner. I think more of that than I do of
Allenby’s check. It ain’t my policy to shift guilt onto a dead man;
but I reckon it won’t hurt Pinon Meade’s soul to have an extra cattle
rustlin’ charge on the books against him. It won’t hurt him, but it
will save a lot of heart-aches down here; so I’ll let ’em chalk one
more lie against my record. June knows the truth, and mebbe that’ll
keep Harry goin’ straight. It kinda levels things out for Hank and
Bud; so I reckon we come out just about even.”

They left the hitch-rack, going back toward the store, and ran into Swan
River Smith.

“Been lookin’ all over for yuh,” he said. “Allenby wants yuh. Him and
Hank Bell had six drinks apiece and Allenby is goin’ to buy out the
HB outfit, make Bud foreman and--here’s a couple of checks to give
yuh--and yore goin’ to be best man at a weddin’, and ---- only knows
what they ain’t figured out.

“Them two jiggers shore do work fast. You’d think they was long
separated brothers; honest, yuh would. Somebody told Harry how it all
came out, and he wants yuh to come down right away, and--say, you
fellers can have Moolock, if yuh want it.”

Hashknife took the checks and handed one to Sleepy.

“We’ll be over there as soon as we put up our horses, Swan River.”

“Well, all right. Make it as soon as yuh can.”

Hashknife and Sleepy hurried to the rack, mounted their horses, and
Hashknife led the way out of town, heading south, passing the
livery-stable.

“Where are we goin’ to put up our horses?” asked Sleepy.

“Probably in the next town we come to,” grinned Hashknife. “Best man
at a weddin’, eh? Not me, cowboy. I’m huntin’ for a place where I can
settle down in peace. Moolock don’t need us at a weddin’.”

And so they faded out of the Moolock country, heading into unknown
ranges, leaving behind them a lot of grateful people, who waited for
them in vain.

They had brought happiness to those who deserved it, and to one, who,
in the eyes of society, possibly did not deserve it. But the eyes of
society were of little consequence to Hashknife and Sleepy--the Lovable
Liar and his innocent-eyed partner. The checks were for twenty-five
hundred dollars each. All of which, as Hashknife remarked, proved that
Allenby did not get financially overjoyed.

“Thasall right,” stated Sleepy, as they drifted along under the stars.
“We’re lucky to get anything, Hashknife.”

“How’s that, Sleepy?”

“He offered the money for a conviction.”

Which he did not get, and which also proves that Allenby was just a
little excited. He might have made it a point to argue over.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 20, 1925 issue
of Adventure magazine.]
