

                   Hashknife and Sleepy return to try
                         THE LUCK OF SAN MIGUEL

                    A Novelette of the Arizona Range

                            by W. C. Tuttle


It was the last day of the fall roundup, and the sun was only an hour
high above the Oregon hills. Cowboys were unsaddling at the corral,
laughing, joking, looking forward to the evening in town, when with
pockets full of money they might woo the goddess of the green cloth and
drink enough to cut the alkali from their dry throats.

Over in front of the bunkhouse squatted Dell Stewart, foreman and part
owner of the Double Circle, a huge bundle of currency in his gnarled
hands, ready to pay off the boys in cash. Dell smiled a trifle wistfully
as he looked at the money. He knew where it would go. Those wild-riding
punchers would not keep it long.

Dell thought they should, because winter was coming on; but he knew they
would not. They would spend it on wine, women and cards, caring little
for tomorrow. Now they were heading toward him, and he began paying them
off. It was a simple operation. No payroll, no signatures. Each man
accepted his wages, bobbed his head in acknowledgment, grinned and
headed for the bunkhouse.

The last man from the corral was Blue Snow. In garb he was little
different from the rest of the punchers, except that he wore leather
batwing chaps, instead of the woolskins. Perhaps his hat was a bit
higher in the crown, his boots shorter.

In height he was about five feet eleven inches, rather slender,
narrow-waisted, but with good shoulders. He stopped between the corral
and the foreman, removed his hat and wiped his forehead with his sleeve,
disclosing a well-shaped head and a mop of curling brown hair, badly in
need of trimming. His eyes were a frosty blue, his nose well shaped;
thin lips and a stubborn chin. He was only twenty-four, but looked
older.

A string of wild geese were honking high overhead, and he stopped to
watch their flight southward. Finally he came on, dangling his big
Stetson in his right hand.

“Geese startin’ early,” he remarked. “Looks like an early winter, Dell.”

“Pretty good sign, Blue,” replied the foreman, as he handed the cowboy a
number of bills and a letter.

“Got it in town this afternoon,” he said, indicating the envelope.

Blue stuffed the money in his pocket and opened the letter. For several
moments after reading it he stared rather blankly, a queer, tight
expression at the corners of his mouth.

“A letter from the Old Man,” he said slowly.

“Your father?”

“Yeah. Read it.”

The foreman took the letter, noted that it was from Sunset, Arizona. The
letter read:

    Come home, son. Seymour showed me your letter. I hope you get
    this one, because I need you down here. They’ve about busted me.
    Come home.—Your Dad.

The foreman handed the letter back, but stopped to glance at the
address.

“Your name’s Blucher, eh? That’s why they call you Blue?”

“That’s the reason, Dell.”

“Goin’ home?”

Blue sat down on the steps, rested his elbows on his knees, as he idly
shaped and reshaped his big hat. One of the punchers yelled at him:

“Hurry up, Blue. We’re pullin’ out pretty quick.”

But Blue did not answer him. He turned to the foreman.

“I reckon I will,” thoughtfully. “I ain’t heard from the Old Man for six
years. Couldn’t hear, ’cause I never wrote, and he didn’t know where I
was. About a month ago I got to thinkin’ about him; so I wrote to the
banker in Sunset, askin’ him how the Old Man was gettin’ along.

“This is the answer—askin’ me to come home. You know, Dell—” Blue took a
deep breath— “I never expected the Old Man to ask me home. Me and him
had a quarrel six years ago. I was eighteen—knowed it all. There was a
girl—daughter of a man Dad didn’t like.

“Lookin’ back, I can see a stringy sort of a kid, with a stub nose and
red hair—lotta red hair. She was sixteen. I dunno what I was thinkin’
about, when I went and asked her dad to let me marry her. I didn’t drink
at that time; so I reckon I was plain loco.

“Well—” Blue grinned shyly—“he kicked me off the porch, and I lit on my
head in a rose bush. When I got out of there, her dad was gone back in
the house, but the girl was on the porch. She asked me if I was hurt. I
was all scratched up and I hit my head on a rock, but the hurt wasn’t in
scratches and bumps. She said to me:

“‘I don’t think pa likes you—but I do. Let’s run away and get married.’

“Well, that looked like the only thing to do. I went back home, and Dad
cornered me. He wanted to know about the scratches and bumps; so I told
him how I got ’em, and I also told him we were goin’ to elope.

“Then he sat me down in a chair and told me plenty—and I told him
plenty. I told him he was a damned old fool, Dell. He got kinda white
and walked away from me. That night I packed my warbag, saddled my own
cayuse and pulled out. Oh, I’ve been plenty sorry over what I called
him. Many and many a time I’ve wished t’ God I hadn’t said that.

“He’d kill a man for sayin’ that to him. If it hurt him, it hurt me jist
as much—mebbe more. I worked my way up to Portland and got me a job in a
wholesale house, where I stuck for a year. But you can’t make a stock
clerk out of a puncher. I went over to eastern Montana and Dakota,
worked back into southern Idaho, always punchin’ cows. Went down in
Colorado for a spell, but finally came up here. Every cent I own is what
you jist gave me; but it’s enough for me to get home on. I’d like to
stay and work for you, Dell, but I realize that your regular hands are
plenty to handle the work for the winter.”

“That’s right,” admitted Dell. “I like you, Blue. You’re a top hand and
you won’t have no trouble landin’ plenty jobs. But if I didn’t have a
darn man, and you was askin’ for a job, I’d—well, I’d rather see you
pull out for Arizona. You’re the only son?”

“Yeah. Mother died when I was twelve. There’s jist the Old Man and me.”

“You ought to be together, Blue. When are you pullin’ out?”

“Right now.”

“Sandy is goin’ in with the buckboard pretty quick.”

“Fine. I’ll bale up my saddle and throw it in the back.”

“And wake up in the mornin’ broke?” asked the foreman.

Blue shook his head quickly.

“There’s a train to the Coast at eight o’clock—and I’ll be on it.”

The foreman held out his hand and they shook solemnly, gripping tightly.

“Good luck to you, Blue Snow.”

“Same to you, Dell Stewart—all th’ time.”

“There’s one of them big seamless sacks under my bunk, and there’s a
sack needle stickin’ in the wall near the winder.”

“Thank you, Dell.”

“Write?”

“Shore.”

“Huh! Mebbe so. I’ll have heart disease, if you do.”

“I’ll kill you inside six months.”

“So long, pardner.”

“_Hasta luego, compadre._”

It was a simple leave-taking. Dell went back to the ranch-house, while
Blue found the sack, baled his saddle inside it, and threw the bale into
the back of the buckboard which Sandy McKeown was taking to town. The
other cowboys pulled out ahead of them, whooping their way to town, six
miles away.

“Leavin’ the country?” asked Sandy, eyeing the baled saddle.

“On the eight o’clock train for the Coast.”

“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “I’ve started six times m’self, Snow—and I ain’t
never got as far as the depot yet. Allus wanted t’ go back to Iowa. Born
there.”

“Been back since you was born?”

“Left there when I was six, and I’m fifty. Gawd, ain’t it funny how the
call of home comes to you at times? Git in. You won’t git past the first
saloon, but I admire your resolutions.”

But Blue Snow fooled them. He went straight to the depot, bought a
ticket through to San Francisco, and sat in the little depot until the
eight o’clock train came along. He did not even tell the boys goodby—he
did not dare. It was the first time in six years that he had not led the
hilarity of pay night.

Blue Snow was drifting home.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was several days later, and Jerry Falconer was also heading home;
coming back from a trip to Phoenix, where she had been to purchase her
trousseau. Jerry had been properly christened Geraldine, but no one in
Sunset City, except the minister, ever called her Miss Geraldine.

Jerry was rather tall, slender, with a wealth of copper-red hair. Her
eyes were as blue as the Arizona skies, a straight nose, tilted a
little, and a laughing mouth that almost drove the cowboys to
distraction. A vote would have proved her the most beautiful girl in San
Miguel Valley, by long odds.

Jerry was twenty-two, rode like a cowpuncher, swore like one, when the
occasion demanded it, and did not admire her own reflection in a mirror.
In other words, Jerry was not vain, detested adulation and wished she
had been born a boy.

Her father objected to her going alone to Phoenix, but she went. The
town of Sunset City did not cater to prospective brides. William
Falconer, owner of almost everything worth while in San Miguel Valley,
swore by all the Arizona gods that no daughter of his could ever make a
trip alone to Phoenix to buy wedding clothes. It is presumed that all
the gods of Arizona threw him down in favor of Jerry. Now she was on her
way back, bringing a trunkful of clothes.

It had been a wonderful experience for the girl, except that once in
awhile she would think calmly about the coming wedding. And when she did
think of it, her eyes clouded a little and she wondered. She had known
Ed Reed three years, two of which he had been foreman of her father’s
Double Diamond outfit. And for three years he had made love to her.

Reed was thirty, a big, handsome man in a swarthy way, and capable.
Jerry was forced to admit that Reed was capable, that he was good
looking. There were other good looking men in the valley, but none dared
cut in, as they said, on Ed Reed. Perhaps Jerry did not realize this.
She was not egotistical. Perhaps the lack of suitors had given her
rather an inferiority complex. Ed Reed or nothing—and Jerry did not want
to be an old maid.

She arrived at the town of San Miguel late in the evening, without
sending word to her father at Sunset City, which was eighteen miles away
on a stage line. She would take the Sunset stage the next morning and
have her father send in a conveyance to Sunset City after her arrival
there.

She stayed all night at the San Miguel hotel, and was at the stage
station at nine o’clock, where old Chub Needham was loading the
old-fashioned vehicle. Chub had known Jerry since she was a little girl.
Chub was sixty, bow-legged, bald-headed, with a long nose and little
gimlet eyes above an enormous gray mustache.

The wind was blowing a gale and the old man’s eyes were so full of sand
that he rubbed them tearfully before recognizing her.

“Dag-gone!” he grunted. “Hello, Jerry. Got back safe, eh? Purty hat you
got on. Gawd, every time I look at you, I cuss m’ age. Goin’ up with me?
Yea-a-ah? Windy, eh? That was your trunk I jist packed on, wasn’t it?
Uh-huh. Wind’s goin’ to be hell up along them Rattlesnake grades. Ol’
dust is pretty deep, and this wind will shore fog plenty. As much as I’d
like to have you ridin’ with me, I s’pect you better ride inside this
trip.”

Jerry nodded, realizing the wisdom of Chub’s prophecy regarding the dust
and sand along the grades. A man came from the office and handed Chub a
sawed-off Winchester shotgun, which Chub proceeded to load, while the
man talked to him in low tones. The old driver nodded and tossed the gun
up on the high seat, before opening the door for Jerry.

“If the wind dies down, I’ll ask you up on the seat,” he told her.

“Thanks, Chub.”

“Got a lotta sense,” mused the old man to himself, as he climbed up on
the seat, kicked off the brake and spoke sharply to his four horses.
“Lotta damn’ women would insist on settin’ here outside. Jerry’s got
plenty o’ sense, y’betcha. Almost as much sense as a man.”

It was none too comfortable inside the old stage. Dust filtered through
the creaking doors, and the old springs were worse than none on the
rough road. The windows were too dirty for Jerry to see through, but she
did not mind that.

They struck the grades and began climbing. It was really a one-way road,
with an occasional turn-out here and there. Off to the right was
Rattlesnake Cañon, and at times there was a perpendicular drop from the
narrow grade to the bottom, hundreds of feet below.

The Hairpin turn was the bad one, circling one arm of the cañon.
Rounding a cliff, the road doubled back for nearly a half mile, made a
sharp turn to the left and ran back, paralleling itself for about half a
mile, where it again turned to the right. From the cliffs, where it made
the right-hand turn, across to the point where it again turned to the
right, it was not over four hundred yards on an air line. In other
words, the road made a loop of over a mile to progress four hundred
yards.

                   *       *       *       *       *

While the stage was yet a quarter of a mile from the cliff turn, a man
climbed off the road on the upper side, crouched down in the rocks and
remained there until the stage had gone past and disappeared. Then he
climbed down again and continued walking up the hill.

It was Blue Snow, a bit disheveled, badly in need of a shave, limping a
little in his high-heeled boots. Blue had arrived early that morning on
a freight train—broke. He had underestimated the amount of money
necessary to bring him home from the North, and a poker game in Frisco
town had reduced him to the necessity of beating his way for the last
few divisions.

But Blue did not mind that part of it. He was still too proud to ask any
favors. He had been away from the valley for six years, and it was
against his nature to let anyone know he had come back broke. He did not
know that Chub Needham was still driving the Sunset stage, until he saw
that familiar face. He was almost at the point of yelling to Chub to
give him a ride, but thought better of it. No use advertising the fact
that he had started walking.

Blue was in no hurry. It was eighteen miles to Sunset City, and three
miles more to his father’s Bar S Bar ranch. He would circle Sunset City.

“I’ll have a fine pair of feet by the time I get home,” he decided
painfully, as he reached the cliff turn and stopped in the shade.

He could see the dust from the stage across the cañon. In fact, the
stage had left a dust screen behind it all the way around the Hairpin.
Blue sat down on a rock and rolled a smoke. Tobacco was running low, so
he made a skimpy cigaret. The wind was still blowing, but he was out of
the dust. He could not see the stage; he decided it had made the turn
over there. Off came his boots, and he sighed with relief as he removed
his socks.

“Ain’t been barefoot for years.” He grinned to himself. “Mebbe I’ll bust
a few toes, but anything is better than blisters on your heel.”

He leaned back, smoking thoughtfully, working his toes in the cooling
breeze. Suddenly he sat up straight. From far across the cañon came the
echoing report of a shot. Blue squinted thoughtfully. No hunting around
there. Farther back in the hills, perhaps—

Then came two more reports, their echoes blending, banging back and
forth from the sides of the cañon.

“That’s danged queer,” muttered Blue. Nothing to be seen, except some
buzzards circling high over the cañon. “Nobody on the stage, except old
Chub. What would he be shootin’ at, I wonder?”

Blue got to his feet and tucked his boots under his arm. He had only
taken a few steps, when two more shots echoed across the gorge.

“Sounds like Fourth of July,” he told himself. “Mebbe some of the
natives got their calendar mixed up a little. Anyway, I don’t suppose it
means much. Mebbe old Chub met a bear on the road and it wouldn’t give
him the right-of-way.”

But it was not a bear that met the Sunset stage that morning. As old
Chub swung his four horses around the curve at the finish of the
Hairpin, a masked man was on the edge of the grade, covering the driver
with a six-shooter. With a grunted oath the old man threw on the brake,
swung back hard on the lines, stopping the team short, caught the tight
lines between his knees and lifted his hands.

“Git down,” ordered the masked man hoarsely.

Old Chub dismounted slowly, wondering if it was worth while for him to
resist. He was debating the advisability of this, when the man stepped
over and took Chub’s revolver from his holster.

“Open the door,” growled the man, and Chub obeyed.

Jerry, knowing nothing of what had taken place, and thinking that Chub
was inviting her to ride outside with him, stepped out of the doorway
and down on the step. Seeing the masked man she stopped short and took a
deep breath.

“Git down,” said the man harshly.

“You better, Jerry,” advised Chub a little shakily, and Jerry obeyed.

The man seemed to study her closely through the eye holes of his mask.
She was evidently a problem he had not taken into consideration. Finally
he said—

“Turn around and walk back the way you came, miss.”

Jerry glanced back along the grade.

“You mean I—”

“That’s right—walk. Jist keep on walkin’.”

“You better, Jerry,” said old Chub softly.

Jerry shut her lips tightly and looked at the masked man, who swung the
muzzle of his gun to cover her.

“Git goin’,” he said roughly. “It’s the safe thing for you to do.”

And Jerry obeyed. A few yards took her out of sight, but she kept going.
It was possibly five minutes later that the first shot was fired, and
Jerry stopped, turned around and went back. A foolish thing to do,
perhaps. Then came the two shots, and she stopped. Her eyes were full of
dust, and she was wearing pumps which were already full of sand.

She sat down on a rock beside the road and emptied the pumps, after
which she wiped the dust out of her eyes. Then came the second shots.
Jerry did not know how many shots had been fired; the echoes confused
her. There might have been a dozen shots, as far as she was able to
determine, because the echoes seemed to come from every direction.

She sat there for quite awhile, but finally decided there was no sense
in her walking back toward San Miguel; so she headed in the direction of
Sunset City. The stage was not where she had left it; but farther around
the turn, on a straight piece of grade, she found it.

The stage had been left, blocking the road, with the horses headed into
the rocky wall at one of the few turn-outs.

Slumped sidewise on the seat, his head and one arm flung over the side,
was old Chub Needham, his sightless eyes staring down at the dusty road,
a round blue hole through his left temple, his face smeared with blood.
The old driver of the Sunset stage had taken his last ride.

Jerry spoke to him, but she knew he would never answer. She did not know
what to do, standing there on the edge of the narrow grade, her clothes
whipping in the wind. The four horses seemed contented, the lines
wrapped around the brake. Jerry went around to look at them from the
right-hand side. Her intention was to drive the stage to Sunset City.
She had never driven four horses, but she felt capable of doing it.

But the dead driver was sprawled on the seat, one foot over the side.
She was afraid to touch him for fear he might topple off, and she did
not feel able to take him off the seat and put him inside the stage.
Anyway, she remembered that the sheriff and coroner should see him
first.

She was in the angle between the team and the cliff when Blue Snow came
into sight. Jerry saw him as he came around the curve. She did not
recognize him, and she was unable to say just why she did what she did;
but before he saw her, she stepped inside the stage and softly closed
the door. The window on the left hand side was nearly opaque with dirt,
but she saw and recognized him, as he came up and stared at old Chub
Needham. Blue was still carrying his boots.

                   *       *       *       *       *

After a long look at the dead driver he sat down near the edge of the
grade and slowly replaced his boots. Jerry watched him through the dirty
window. Blue seemed at a loss what to do. He scanned the road, the
surrounding hills, studied the depths of the cañon and finally rolled
another cigaret. He seemed to take it for granted that the inside of the
stage was empty.

Jerry Falconer was the “stringy sort of a kid, with a stub nose and red
hair” that Blue had told Dell Stewart about in the Northwest. She had
told Blue she would wait for him until the end of time, and here she was
with her wedding clothes, getting ready to marry another man within a
week.

“Why didn’t you write to me?” she whispered, her nose against the pane.

Blue spat reflectively, hitched up his overalls and climbed up over the
right front wheel. Jerry could tell by the jerking of the stage that
Blue was doing something with the body, and she was afraid he might
intend putting it inside the stage.

But Blue had no intentions of that kind. He swung the body around on the
seat, found a length of rope, which he looped around the body and tied
to the back of the seat. Then he carefully swung the team away from the
wall, kicked off the brake and headed for Sunset City.

Fifty feet farther along the grade the leaders shied to the left, and
Blue jammed on the brake. It was the mouth of a little side cañon,
cutting back from the grade. It was almost overhung by a giant manzanita
bush, to a limb of which had been tied a sorrel horse, saddled and
bridled.

And lying at the base of the manzanita, one booted foot almost in the
wagon rut, was the body of a man, face down, arms outstretched, the
right hand half clutching at a heavy Colt revolver.

Swinging the leaders farther in against the wall, Blue set the brake
solidly, fastened the lines and climbed down, his heart pounding wildly.
Even with the man’s face obscured, Blue knew who it was. The man’s hat
was off, and there was a huge mop of gray hair, which Blue remembered so
well.

He leaned against the wheel, sick at heart. Finally, with a choking sob,
he went ahead and knelt beside the body, turning it over tenderly. He
had not been mistaken—it was his father. Blue got to his feet,
staggering a little. He did not hear Jerry Falconer leave the stage, did
not know she was within miles, until she said—

“Blue, what happened?”

He turned and looked at her, but she was staring at the body. There was
no greeting of any kind. It was as though they had never been apart.

“That’s Dad,” he said chokingly.

“Yes, I know,” she replied. “What happened?”

“The horses shied,” he said, “and I saw him there.”

“He—he’s dead, Blue?”

“Yes. He’s been shot.”

Blue rubbed his eyes and stepped over by the rocky wall, looking at his
father, his lips twisted strangely. The sorrel horse moved nervously,
jerking back on the tie-rope. Finally Blue turned to Jerry.

“Old Chub is dead,” he told her.

“I know.”

He looked closely at her for several moments, at the stage, back to her.

“Where did you come from, Jerry?”

“I was on the stage all the way from San Miguel. The holdup man made me
get out and walk back. Where did you come from?”

“I—I was walkin’ home from San Miguel. Jist got back, you see.”

“Did we pass you on the road?”

“I hid, when the stage came along.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve changed, Jerry.”

“But you recognized me.”

He nodded slowly.

“I guess I would—any time. Well,” he continued, turning back to the
body, “I guess there’s nothin’ to do, except take him back. If you’ll
open the stage door—”

Picking up the body of his father, he carried it over and placed it
inside the stage. He took the gun and dropped it beside the body. Old
Chub was a more difficult proposition, but he managed to lower him to
the ground, then place the body inside the stage.

For several moments he leaned against the wheel, his face buried in his
arms, breathing heavily. Then he helped Jerry to the seat, climbed up
beside her, gathered up the reins and drove slowly along the narrow
grade.

“I’m glad you came back,” said Jerry simply.

“I’m glad I did,” he replied. “Dad said he needed me.”

“I saw him about two months ago and he said he had never heard a word
from you, Blue.”

“He hadn’t—at that time. I came as soon as I heard from him. I’ve been
all over the Northwest country, Jerry. Never stayed long in one place.
Do you remember a song old Graveyard Jones used to sing about ‘a
rambling wreck of poverty and a son-of-a-gun to boot’? That’s me. Broke
flat. I came to San Miguel on the deck of a box car, without enough
money to pay my stage fare to Sunset City. Walked and dodged—dodged so
folks wouldn’t know I was too danged poor to ride. It’s funny I’m
tellin’ you this. You see, I never intended tellin’ it to anybody,
except Dad. You don’t look like my old Jerry. I’ve thought of you a lot,
but it wasn’t about a beautiful young lady. No, sir, it was about a lean
lookin’, red-headed kid. I can see you yet, Jerry; the day your dad
booted me off into the briars. Remember it? I said I’d come back some
day and get you. But you can discount all that—now. I couldn’t even take
myself away, unless I walked.”

“I remember it,” said Jerry. “We had wonderful ideas, Blue.”

“Kids do,” sighed Blue. “I reckon your dad did the right thing.”

Blue’s voice was strained, unnatural, but he wanted to talk; wanted to
forget as much as possible. Later on he would be able to think calmly,
but not now. Suddenly he remembered he had left the horse tied to the
manzanita bush, but it was too late to go back. He would ask someone to
go after it.

“Things haven’t changed much around here since you left,” said Jerry.

“You’ve changed.”

“I don’t feel any different.”

And then they struck the downgrade to Sunset City, where it required
considerable concentration on the part of the driver to swing the four
horses around the narrow turns and keep the rear end of the stage from
parting company with the team.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Sunset City had been in existence about thirty years, and as some cowboy
wag had said, “The only paint they ever had in the town was when a war
party of Apaches came in and swiped the postmaster’s hair.”

There was one main street, bordered closely by false-front buildings,
which in turn were bordered with wooden sidewalks, undulating to conform
with the doorways of the buildings, none of which were on the same
level.

The total vote of Sunset City was less than two hundred, but it was the
county seat and of great importance in San Miguel Valley. William
Falconer was the big man of the valley, financially and politically,
somewhat of an egotist, hard-headed and inclined to domineer.

He owned the Double Diamond cattle outfit and was a director of the
Sunset City Cattlemen’s Bank. Falconer made an effort to control the
politics of the valley and probably did to some extent. He boasted
openly of his own honesty and was somewhat flattered when anyone
referred to him as “Honest Bill” Falconer.

But, big as he was in his own estimation, he hated two men—Jim Snow,
father of Blue Snow, and Jeff Blondell. The trouble with Jim Snow dated
back to the time when Snow swore out a warrant for the arrest of
Falconer, charging that the Double Diamond had stolen three horses from
him, alleging that the brands had been altered. Reed swore they were
part of a shipment received from Texas. Snow swore to shape, color and
markings, and said that the brand had been altered so as to be
unreadable; but the judge declared the evidence insufficient for a
conviction.

Freed by the court of any and all blame in the matter, Falconer still
hated Jim Snow for even hinting that the Double Diamond would do such a
thing.

His hate against Jeff Blondell was of a different nature. No one knew
much about Blondell. He drifted into Sunset City on a horse about a year
previous to the homecoming of Blue Snow. Blondell was of medium height,
swarthy of skin, with a broken nose, a cruel mouth and habitually
bloodshot eyes. He was typically a tough cowpuncher, a mighty drinker
and an inveterate gambler.

Sunset City looked upon him with a certain suspicion at first. He put up
at the livery stable, apparently too short of cash to afford a hotel
room. He did not get a job, but graduated from the stable to the hotel,
wore better clothes and seemed to acquire a little money. He was not a
good poker player, but a consistent one, and drank steadily, paying in
cash. Gradually he became one of the men about town.

But Blondell did not like William Falconer. He heard Falconer reciting
his own virtues one day, after a few drinks, and Blondell remarked
openly that he would not trust any man who bragged of his honesty.
Falconer was indignant, but he did not awe the broken-nosed gentleman
from nowhere.

“Crooks speak for themselves,” said Blondell recklessly. “Honest men let
their deeds do the speakin’.”

And these words, spoken in the presence of possibly a dozen men, galled
the soul of William Falconer. He went to Singer Sanderson, the sheriff,
and told him to keep an eye on Blondell. Singer found out why, and was
amused.

It did not take much to amuse Singer Sanderson. Neither did it take much
to amuse Smoky Woods, Singer’s deputy. There was little reason to watch
Blondell. No crime had been committed.

In fact, it had been a long time since the sheriff’s office had done
more than tack up reward notices and serve notices in civil suits. There
had not been a prisoner in the jail for over a year.

Old Graveyard Jones did not like Falconer; neither did he like
Blondell—but he did like Jim Snow. Graveyard was nearly seventy, looked
sixty and acted twenty—a tough, wiry old rascal, who handled his own
little outfit alone and feared neither man nor devil.

“That there Blondell is a danged parachute,” he declared.

“What’s a parachute?” queried Singer Sanderson.

“Don’tcha know what a parachute is? It’s a feller that lives off’n his
feller men.”

“You mean a parasite,” corrected one of the gamblers in the Sunset
Saloon.

“I mean a parachute,” snorted Graveyard. “A parasite is only a small
form of the animile.”

It just happened this day that Graveyard Jones and Smoky Woods sat on
the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, lying to each other, as
usual. Graveyard claimed to have been a member of the Royal Northwest
Mounted Police at some remote time, while Smoky claimed the Texas
Rangers as his alma mater. Both of them lied, and they both knew it, but
it made for conversation.

“I ’member one mornin’,” said Graveyard reminiscently, “when the general
calls me into his office. This was in Vancouver. He says to me—

“‘Graveyard, I’m askin’ you to do somethin’ that I wouldn’t even do
m’self, but she’s got to be done for the honor of the force.’

“Well, I knowed it was somethin’ terribly particular, but I didn’t
quail.”

“You didn’t what?” asked Smoky gloomily.

“Quail.”

“Oh, quail. Didn’t you mean duck?”

“I said quail and I meant quail, Smoky.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, he says to me, ‘Graveyard—’”

“Jist a minute. Did they call you Graveyard at that time?”

“Shore. He says, ‘Graveyard, there’s a dirty murderer hidin’ out on the
bank of Athabasca. Go git him or die in the attempt.’ Jist like that he
said it.”

“And you died.”

“I got m’ man, that’s what I done. I allus got m’ man. I borrowed me a
couple dogs and I—”

“Bird dogs?”

“Man hunters.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah. You mentioned quail, so I thought—— Go ahead, Graveyard.”

“It was about nine o’clock in the mornin’ when I started, and I was up
at the lake about sundown; so I—”

“Athabasca Lake?”

“Shore. It was about sundown—”

“Let’s make it some other lake. I heard you tell this one before, and I
been lookin’ at a map of Canada. She’s pretty close to a thousand miles
from Vancouver to Athabasca Lake, on a air line.”

“Smoky, I didn’t travel no air line,” said Graveyard sadly, “and as far
as you lookin’ up that lake on a map—how old was that there map?”

“Not over a couple years, anyway.”

“There you are,” triumphantly. “Couple years, eh? You go find a map
that’s about fifteen, twenty years old. That there country changed a
hell of a lot in that len’th of time.”

“Oh, shore, I realize that. I ’member one time when I was down on the
Pecos River, trailin’ some Mexican hoss-thieves—”

“Here comes the stage,” interrupted Graveyard. “Mebbe it’s a lucky thing
for them Mexican hoss-thieves.”

Smoky got up and yawned heavily.

“Did you get your man on Athabasca Lake?”

“Nope,” grinned Graveyard. “I caught him next day at the upper end of
Hudson’s Bay.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They walked across the street, as the stage drew up in front of the
postoffice. Several others had come up to meet it, but no one seemed
aware that old Chub was not driving until the horses stopped and Blue
Snow climbed down among them. Jerry remained on the seat.

Graveyard was the first to recognize Blue.

“Hyah, kid?” he grunted. “Where did you come from, anyway?”

“Hello, Graveyard,” softly; and then to the crowd, “Where’s the
sheriff?”

“What’s wrong?” asked Smoky, shoving forward.

“Plenty. You’re Smoky Woods, ain’t you? I’m Blue Snow.”

“That’s right,” said Smoky. “Blue Snow. You’ve changed a lot. But what’s
gone wrong? How come you’re drivin’ the—”

Blue opened the door of the stage, and the crowd surged forward to see
the two dead men inside. A cowboy ran across the street to get the
sheriff, who came running over, questioning the cowboy. The sheriff paid
no attention to Blue Snow until he discovered that one of the dead men
was old Chub. Someone told him Blue Snow brought in the stage.

By that time a goodly portion of Sunset City was there, and among them
was Charles Seymour, the tall old banker. Someone helped Jerry down, and
she went into the postoffice to escape the crowd.

They took the bodies out and a doctor examined them carefully. Blue had
nothing to say until the sheriff asked for an explanation.

“Better talk at your office,” suggested Blue, and the sheriff nodded.

“How much does Miss Falconer know?” asked Smoky.

“Better bring her along,” replied Blue.

Smoky brought Jerry to the office, and the sheriff shut the door against
the crowd. Blue detailed everything he knew, and Jerry told her part of
it, which corroborated what Blue had told them. Their story was already
told, when the doctor and the banker came over to the office. The doctor
was carrying a package in his hand. Smoky let them in, and the doctor
placed the sealed package on the table.

“This package was inside the shirt of Jim Snow,” he said. “I found it in
making my examination.”

The sheriff looked at it, examined the unbroken seals and the address.

“This is yours, ain’t it?” he asked the banker, who nodded gravely.

“Unless I’m badly mistaken that package contains twenty thousand
dollars’ worth of negotiable bonds,” he said.

“You found that inside my father’s shirt?” asked Blue.

“Yes,” nodded the doctor.

The banker cleared his throat harshly.

“We found the receipt book in old Chub’s pocket. There were two packages
receipted for at San Miguel. The other one contained ten thousand in
currency.”

“Jim Snow didn’t have it, eh?” queried the sheriff.

The banker shook his head.

“Didja examine the strong box?”

“Hardly a strong box,” said the banker. “It never was locked. In case of
a holdup, they would take box and all. No, it was empty.”

Smoky Woods turned from the window.

“Here comes Falconer,” he said.

“Let him in,” grunted the sheriff, and in a moment William Falconer, the
big man of San Miguel Valley, came in.

He was a big man, physically, slightly gray, hard-featured, with
greenish gray eyes deeply set under heavy brows. He nodded shortly to
the men and turned to Jerry.

“Why didn’t you send word of your arrival? A nice mixup, this seems to
be.”

Jerry merely smiled at him, and he grunted angrily. Turning around, he
looked at Blue Snow quizzically.

“Came back, eh?”

“Yeah,” replied Blue softly.

“Uh-huh.” Turning back to the sheriff, “Well, what’s happened, outside
of two men dead?”

“Ten thousand dollars missin’, it seems.”

“Missing, eh? Bank money?”

“Bank money,” echoed the banker. “We found the twenty thousand worth of
bonds inside Jim Snow’s shirt, but the money is gone.”

Falconer was puzzled. The sheriff told him what Blue Snow had explained,
and Jerry recited what she knew about it. Falconer drew the sheriff
aside and they talked confidentially for several moments, after which
the sheriff came back to Blue Snow.

“You won’t mind us searchin’ you, will you, Snow?” he asked.

Blue flushed hotly and was about to argue, but finally shook his head.
The search was fruitless.

“I reckon that’s all for you, Snow,” said the sheriff. “You’ll be around
here for awhile?”

“I expect to,” replied Blue coldly, and walked outside.

Falconer turned to Jerry and questioned her closely.

“Jerry, how much time elapsed after the stage stopped, until you got out
and saw Blue Snow with the body of his father?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was a full minute.”

“What was he doing, when you saw him?”

“He was standing there, looking down at the body.”

“Did he have anything in his hand?”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Did he leave you and walk around the other side of the stage, out near
the edge of the grade?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see any package on the seat, after you got up there with
him?”

“No, I did not see any package.”

“Are you figurin’ he might have pitched the package over the grade?”
asked the sheriff.

“It is missing,” replied Falconer. “Money hasn’t wings.”

“All right,” growled the sheriff. “We’ll search every place he might
have throwed it away.”

“You don’t think Blue Snow had anything to do with that missing money,
do you?” asked Jerry.

“You bet he did!” snapped her father angrily.

“Wait a minute,” drawled the tall sheriff. “You don’t know any more than
the rest of us, Falconer. It ain’t square to accuse a man thataway.”

“Don’t be a fool, Sanderson. Jim Snow held up the stage. He and old Chub
fought it out, both of them dying. Blue Snow found his father, and it’s
a hundred to one shot that he found that currency. Blue is nobody’s
fool. Even if he wasn’t crook enough to want that money, he’d get rid of
it to protect the old man’s name. Of course, he never found the package
inside the old man’s shirt, or that would have disappeared too.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Jerry firmly.

Falconer laughed harshly, but made no reply.

“We’ll make that search right away,” said the sheriff. “I don’t reckon
there’s any more talking to be done.”

“As far as I’m concerned, no,” replied Falconer.

“We will take the two bodies down to my place,” said the doctor.

One of the boys brought in the two guns from the stage, and an
examination showed that Jim Snow’s gun had been fired three times,
Chub’s twice. They were both single-action Colt weapons, Snow’s being
a .45, while Chub’s was a .38.

The sheriff turned to Jerry.

“How many shots did you hear, Miss Jerry?”

“I can’t say how many. The echoes—”

“I know. Maybe Blue counted ’em. Could you swear that the robber who
made you walk back from the stage, was Jim Snow?”

“He was masked,” said Jerry.

“I know that, but the size of him, the clothes—”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” smiled Jerry. “It was the first time
anyone ever pointed a gun at my head.”

Sanderson grinned.

“I don’t blame you; I know how it feels.”

As he and Smoky went to the office they passed Blue Snow, who was
standing at the edge of the sidewalk. Sanderson stepped up to him.

“How many shots did you hear?” he asked.

“I think there were five.”

“That’s right. Your father shot three times and old Chub fired twice.”

“I didn’t have any gun,” said Blue bitterly. “I pawned mine in Frisco;
so you can’t hang me for doin’ any shootin’.”

“Nobody wantin’ to hang you, Snow.”

“That’s great. Didja expect me to have that money in my pocket?”

“I didn’t.”

Blue smiled grimly.

“I reckon Falconer did.”

“Well, I wouldn’t let that git me down, if I was you.”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ to get me down, Sanderson.”

“That’s the stuff.”

“The Old Man wrote me that he was gettin’ a bad deal down here—so I came
down to help him. I reckon I came too damn’ late.”

The tall sheriff squinted thoughtfully.

“Said he was gettin’ a bad deal?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Who was givin’ him a bad deal?”

“That’s what I came to find out.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I dunno anythin’ about it. Your dad was close mouthed,
you know.”

“He was a square shooter.”

“I know it, and I’m sorry as hell about this deal. I liked him and I
liked old Chub.”

“And they’ve always been friends,” added Blue.

“Shore have. Well, I’ll see you later, Blue.”

“Goin’ to see if you can find where I threw that money?”

The sheriff turned his head and looked back at Blue, but did not reply.

“He’s no damn’ fool,” chuckled Smoky Woods.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was late in the evening in the town of Gates Ajar, forty miles east
and across the San Miguel range from Sunset City. Gates Ajar consisted
of a little depot, a saloon, with possibly six rooms on the second floor
for transients, a combination store and postoffice, and a section house.

It was too small to show on the map, and passenger trains only stopped
on a flag. The only light in the town at this time in the evening was in
the saloon, where a smoky old lamp hung a few feet above the faded green
cover of a poker table. There were four men at the table, two dressed in
range clothes; the bartender in shirt sleeves, bareheaded; the fourth
was a thin-featured man, with a closely cropped gray mustache, wearing a
gray business suit.

He was drinking steadily, and seemed peevish over a run of bad luck.
Several times he had torn his cards across and demanded a new deck. The
stakes were fairly high, and an observer might have noted that the other
men were, in the parlance of the initiated, whipsawing him at every
turn.

The man was not a clever player or he would have realized that it was
three men against one, but the one man was getting more intoxicated all
the time, playing recklessly. It was also apparent that a small town
bartender and two cowboys were in no financial condition to be playing
for such stakes.

It was about the time when the gray-suited man emptied his billfold to
purchase more chips that two cowboys rode into Gates Ajar, and guided
their horses to a hitch rack across the street from the saloon.

One man was tall and thin, astride a tall gray horse, and the other was
stocky, broad of shoulder, riding a chunky sorrel. They dismounted and
stood on the short length of wooden sidewalk in front of the postoffice
and store.

“This must be Gates Ajar,” remarked the short one. “What a name for a
town!”

The tall one laughed softly, throatily.

“Probably named by a psalm singer, Sleepy. One light in the place, and
that’s over a poker table, unless my eyes deceive me; and unless I’m
badly mistaken, Jack Wilson will be under that lamp.”

“Beyond the shadder of a doubt, as the lawyers say. Anyway, they’ll know
if this is Gates Ajar, and where we can stable these broncs.”

As they stepped off the sidewalk and started for the saloon, both men
stopped short—the sound of a revolver shot thudded within the saloon.
There was a sudden commotion in the place, a sharp exclamation, a
confusion of voices. Came the sound of another shot, the tinkle of
shattered glass, and the bar was in darkness.

The two cowboys stood rooted to the spot, staring toward the dark
saloon. It was possibly twenty seconds later that a match flared, as
someone tried to light a lamp. The two cowboys went toward the doorway
and, as they stepped up on the wooden sidewalk, they heard the drumming
crescendo of running horses, heading away from town.

They stepped inside; the lamp flared up. The fat bartender, his forehead
beaded with perspiration, placed the lamp on the poker table and looked
at them shakily. The gray-suited man was sprawled near the table, a
chair lying across his legs.

“What happened?” asked the tall cowboy calmly, his level gray eyes
fastened on the frightened face of the bartender.

The bartender licked his dry lips, rubbed the palms of his hands on his
hips and looked down at the figure on the floor.

“God!” he said softly. “Must ’a’ got him dead center.”

The tall cowboy stepped over and swung the man on the floor around to
where the light would fall on his face.

“Jack Wilson,” he said.

“That his name?” asked the bartender, and the tall one nodded.

“Didn’t you know him?” queried the short cowboy.

The bartender shook his head quickly.

The tall one had been making a swift examination, and now he stood up.

“Who shot him?” he asked sharply.

“I didn’t know ’em,” replied the bartender. “Couple punchers. Came in
this evenin’. Poker game and plenty whisky. Accused one of ’em of
stealin’ a card.”

The bartender cut his sentences short, taking a deep breath between.

“Is he dead, Hashknife?” asked the short one.

“Not yet. Is there a doctor around here?”

“Up at San Miguel. That’s thirty-five miles up the line. No doctor
around here.”

Two more men came in. One was only partly dressed. He was the postmaster
and storekeeper, and the other worked in the store for him. They had
heard the shots. The bartender explained what had happened, but they
made no comment.

“Did you know this man?” asked the storekeeper, addressing the tall
cowboy.

“Yeah. His name is Jack Wilson, and he’s a buyer for Kinnear & Company,
Kansas City. We came here to meet him tonight. We saw him day before
yesterday at Clinton, and he told us to meet him here, because he was
shippin’ a bunch of cattle, and we were to go East with him.”

“Shippin’ a bunch of cattle from here?” queried the storekeeper. “Kinda
funny.”

“What’s funny about it?”

“Whose cattle?”

The bartender laughed shortly.

“I guess he drank so much he imagined he was shippin’ from here. There
ain’t a shipment of beef around here.”

From far down the line came the shrill whistle of an engine. The tall
one turned to the storekeeper.

“We’ve got to get this man to a doctor, and if that train stops here—”

“Freight,” said the other man, looking at his watch. “It’ll stop for
water.”

The bartender secured a blanket, and with it as an improvised stretcher,
they carried the wounded man up to the little depot, where the conductor
let them place him in the caboose. As they placed him carefully on a
wide seat, some papers slid from a pocket of his coat, and the tall
cowboy picked them up. One was a telegraph blank, folded, and was
apparently a telegram which he had written but not sent.

    KINNEAR & CO, KANSAS CITY.

    SHIPPING ONE HUNDRED CROSS EIGHTY-FOUR AND WILL SHIP AGAIN NEXT
    WEEK FROM SAN MIGUEL IF POSSIBLE.

                                                             —WILSON

“I dunno whether he wanted that one sent or not,” said the tall cowboy,
as he borrowed a pencil from the conductor. He wrote another telegram on
the back of an envelope.

    AL KINNEAR, KINNEAR & CO, KANSAS CITY.

    JACK WILSON PROBABLY FATALLY SHOT STOP RUSHING HIM TO DOCTOR AT
    SAN MIGUEL SO ADVISE ME THERE AT ONCE.

                                                  —HASHKNIFE HARTLEY

                   *       *       *       *       *

He handed this telegram to the conductor and asked him to send it from
San Miguel as soon as they arrived. “We’ll be there some time tomorrow,”
he told the conductor, and a few moments later the train clanked away
from Gates Ajar.

Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens, his stocky companion, went back to
the saloon, where they found the bartender mopping up the floor.

“I shore hate for a thing like that to happen,” he puffed. “Kinda ruins
trade. Gives a place a bad reputation.”

“Keep thousands away,” smiled Hashknife. “You didn’t know those two
cowboys, eh?”

“Never seen ’em before. Couple of drifters.”

The bartender did not look at Hashknife, as he denied knowing the
killers. He had encountered the steady gaze of those level gray eyes
just after the shooting, and they made him feel uncomfortable. Hashknife
leaned back against the bar, a tall, lanky figure, lean of face,
generous of nose and with a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His big sombrero
was tilted back on his head; his long fingers deftly rolled a cigaret.

Both men were clad in well-worn batwing chaps, worn boots and battered
hats. Their belts were handmade, fitting perfectly to the sag of their
holstered guns. Sleepy Stevens’ features were blocky—jaw square, blue
eyes encased in grin wrinkles. He seemed to be smiling with the world—or
at it.

“Kinda funny about this Wilson goin’ to ship from here,” said the
bartender, as he took his pail and mop behind the bar.

“Uh-huh,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully. “Did he ever ship from here
before?”

“I never did see him around here.”

The bartender turned to the back bar and replaced some glasses.

“Who owns the Cross 84?” asked Hashknife.

“The what?” asked the bartender, turning quickly.

“The Cross 84.”

“Oh, I dunno much about brands around here. Don’t remember seein’ any.”

“Uh-huh. The man who was shot had a telegram he was goin’ to send East,
and it said he was shippin’ a hundred head of Cross 84. I thought mebbe
he was shippin’ from here.”

“Couldn’t have been here.”

“Prob’ly not. How about a room for the night?”

“I can fix you up.”

“Stable for a couple broncs?”

“Back of here’s a little stable you can use.”

They put up their horses and went back into the saloon. The bartender
took them to an outside entrance, where they mounted some rickety stairs
and went down a narrow hall to a small room. The bartender lighted a
lamp. It was an end room, the one window looking out toward the little
depot.

“Ain’t much,” said the bartender, “but you can’t expect much here.”

“This is all right,” smiled Hashknife.

“Can do,” grunted Sleepy, pulling off his boots.

The bartender left them, and they heard him go down the creaking stairs.
Hashknife sat down on the foot of the bed, thinking deeply. Sleepy
looked at him curiously.

“Funny deal, eh?” he said.

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife. “I’ll bet anythin’ the bartender knows
who shot Wilson. He might have been packin’ a lot of money. One of the
men shot him, and they had plenty time to rob him before one of ’em was
wise enough to shoot out the light. Shot it out before anybody had a
chance to see who they were. The bartender was prob’ly in on the deal.”

“He’s got snaky eyes,” mused Sleepy. “He’d never identify ’em. Unless
Wilson lives, we’ll never know who shot him.”

“Yeah, and it’s a hundred to one shot that Wilson don’t live. That
bullet hit him just above the heart. I doubt if he’s alive now.”

Sleepy finished undressing and crawled into bed. Hashknife fumbled in
his vest pocket and took out an empty tobacco sack.

“You got any Durham?” he asked.

“That’s the sack I let you have, Hashknife; I’m all out.”

Hashknife sighed and got off the bed.

“I’ll go down and see if the bartender’s got any. Be back in a minute.”

He went down the hall in the dark and picked his way down the stairs to
the outside door, which was slightly open. There were voices out front,
and he stopped at the doorway. Two men seemed to be in low-toned
argument on the sidewalk, and he recognized the bartender’s voice.

“I tell you I don’t know who shot him. They was a couple—”

“You said that before, and I don’t believe it even this time.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jeff.”

“You’d lie to your own father. Why didn’t you stop ’em?”

“It was all so danged quick. They shot out the light, and—well, come in
and see that lamp, if you don’t believe me.”

“What about them two waddies that showed up right away and sent the man
to San Miguel?”

Ensued a fairly complete description of Hashknife and Sleepy.

“They said they was to meet Wilson here and help him take a shipment of
cattle East,” said the bartender.

“You don’t know their names?”

“Nope. I heard the short one call the tall one Hashknife.”

“What?”

“Don’t yell. I tell you they’ve just—”

“What was that name again?”

“Sounded to me like Hashknife.”

“The hell you say!”

There was a period of silence, broken only by the soft scruffing of
soles on the wooden sidewalk. Then the bartender said softly—

“What about ’em?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you. This is a hell of a mixup, if you
ask me.”

“You stayin’ all night?”

“I shore ain’t—if you’ve got a fresh horse to let me have.”

“There’s my brown mare back in the stable. There’s a couple broncs in
there that belong to them two strangers, but my mare is in the rear
stall.”

“All right. I’ll swap back with you in a few days. S’long.”

Hashknife heard the man go around the building, while the bartender went
into the saloon. Hashknife slipped out and followed around the building.
He hoped to get a good look at this party, but the man brought out the
brown mare, switched his saddle from the back of another animal, stabled
the one he had been riding, and left town, traveling west. In the dark
Hashknife was unable even to get an idea of the man’s size.

He went back around the building and entered the saloon, just as the
bartender was ready to put out the light and close the place. He was a
bit startled at sight of Hashknife, but the tall cowboy’s alibi for
being down there seemed to satisfy him. He sold Hashknife a quantity of
tobacco, closed the saloon and followed him up the stairs.

“I live in the bridal suite,” he grinned, as he stopped at a door,
holding a lighted match in his fingers. Then, apparently as an
afterthought, “I plumb forgot to have you boys register for your room.
It’s the law, you know.”

“Put us down as the Smith brothers,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Oh, all right—thanks.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife told Sleepy what he had heard, and the next morning they took
a look at the bay horse in the rear stall. It was wearing a Cross 84
brand.

“Kinda makes me figure that the bartender is a liar in the first
degree,” grinned Hashknife. “I dunno what it’s all about, but there’s
somethin’ danged crooked about it. I wish I knew who the stranger was.
He shore knowed me by name.”

“Nothin’ strange about that,” laughed Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded gloomily, as he leaned against the stable door. He did
not desire notoriety. In fact, he desired nothing more than to be unsung
and uncursed. Just to be known as a cowboy, trying to get along. But,
looking down their twisting back trail, which led up and down the West,
from Alberta to Mexico, he realized the truth of Sleepy’s remark.

Hashknife, christened Henry, son of an itinerant minister of the Gospel
in northeastern Montana, started early in life as a cowboy, drifted from
his home range and eventually worked his way down to the cattle outfit
after which he received his nickname. Born with a keen mind, a love of
adventure, and an overwhelming desire to see what was on the other side
of a hill, he met Dave—Sleepy—Stevens, another drifting cowboy, and they
rode away together one spring morning, following the trail of Fate.

At times they would handle a case for the cattle associations, clear up
the case and ride on, refusing further assignments. They did not care to
be under orders from anyone. Again, they would work a few weeks on some
cattle ranch, draw enough money to replenish their outfit, and ride on.
Always the other side of the hills called to them.

Both of them had known Jack Wilson for years, and when they met him in
Clinton it was not difficult for him to talk them into going East with
his shipment of cattle. They needed a change. But that deal was all off
now, and Sleepy realized that fate had dumped them into trouble again.
With the tenacity of a bulldog, Hashknife would dig up and cling to
every shred of evidence, until he proved who shot Jack Wilson. Sleepy
did not analyze anything, but he had a dogged faith in Hashknife’s
ability, a ready gun and the nerve to use it.

The bartender was still in bed when they saddled their horses and headed
up the road which led to San Miguel. They had heard of the San Miguel
Valley, but neither of them had ever seen it.

There was not a town between Gates Ajar and San Miguel, and at times the
road was little better than a trail. It was nearly three o’clock in the
afternoon when they arrived at San Miguel. Hashknife inquired at the
depot regarding the telegram to Kinnear & Company, and found a reply
waiting for him.

    VERY SORRY ABOUT WILSON STOP ADVISE FURTHER AS HIS FAMILY LIVES
    HERE STOP WILL YOU HANDLE DEAL FOR US AND BUY ONE HUNDRED FIFTY
    HEAD BEEF IN SAN MIGUEL VALLEY STOP AM WIRING SAN MIGUEL BANK TO
    COVER PRICE STOP ADVISE AT ONCE STOP WOULD SURE BE GLAD TO SEE
    YOU AGAIN

                                                         —AL KINNEAR

The depot agent directed them to the doctor’s house, where they had
taken Wilson, but told them he feared Wilson was dead when he arrived.
The doctor confirmed this, and Hashknife wired Kinnear again to wire the
doctor a disposition of the body, and also accepted the order to
purchase the one hundred and fifty head of beef animals in San Miguel
Valley.

Hashknife also wrote out what he knew about the shooting and gave it to
the doctor to forward to the sheriff, as Gates Ajar was not in the same
county as San Miguel. The old doctor seemed to be an active source of
information, and he gave Hashknife and Sleepy a résumé of what had
happened to the stage between San Miguel and Sunset City, two days
previous.

He had his information from Sanderson, the Sunset City sheriff, who had
been in San Miguel, and who had searched every likely spot for that
package of money between Sunset City and the point where the stage had
been stopped.

Hashknife and Sleepy spent the night in San Miguel, and Hashknife made
discreet inquiries regarding the Cross 84, but no one seemed to know
anything about the brand.

The next morning they headed for Sunset City. Hashknife remembered what
the doctor had told them, and was able to find the spot where the holdup
and double killing had taken place.

“Not much mystery about this deal,” said Sleepy. “Holdup man kills the
stage driver and is killed himself.”

“And,” added Hashknife solemnly, “the holdup man, just before he died,
swallered the ten thousand dollars worth of currency, and the coroner
forgot to perform an autopsy.”

“Yeah, I forgot about that,” said Sleepy. “But wasn’t the son of this
here deceased bandit mixed up in it?”

“Shore. He came all the way from Oregon to take the money and throw it
over the grade.”

“Aw, hell!” snorted Sleepy. “You never believe anythin’ you hear.”

“And only half that I see, pardner. Mistakes are the easiest things in
the world to make.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad we’re only down here to buy cows.”

“I’d almost forgot the cows.”

“I’ll remind you of it every little while.”

About a mile north of Sunset City, along the main road, was the old
cemetery, surrounded by a broken-down fence, grown up with weeds, many
of the wooden headstones sagging drunkenly. As Hashknife and Sleepy came
in sight of the cemetery they noticed four men standing close together
at a new grave, while a short distance away from them was a woman on
horseback.

“If that’s a funeral, it shore ain’t well attended,” said Hashknife, and
by mutual consent they swung off the road and came up along the old
fence.

The four men were Blue Snow, Graveyard Jones, Smoky Woods and the
Reverend Mr. Oscar Sundborg. The lady on the horse was Jerry Falconer.
As they rode up, the minister closed his Bible and motioned for
Graveyard and Smoky to fill the grave.

                   *       *       *       *       *

He turned from the grave, replacing his hat, but Blue Snow spoke to him
and he stopped. Blue took a bill from his pocket and handed it to the
minister, who apparently started to refuse, thought better of it, and
pocketed the money. He was a sallow blond, with a weak chin and a
certain air of sanctimony. The two cowboys had seen Blue give him the
money, and as he went past them, Sleepy said seriously—

“What’s salvation worth around here, Parson?”

The minister stopped and looked sharply at them, a trifle belligerently,
perhaps, but turned away and walked slowly down to the road. The girl
had heard Sleepy’s remark and was looking at the two cowboys when Blue
Snow came up to her.

“Jerry, I want to thank you for comin’ here,” he said. “It was mighty
kind of you.”

“He was always nice to me,” she said simply. “I don’t see why folks act
as they do.”

“I guess you can’t blame ’em,” he replied slowly. “I hope your dad won’t
be mad about you comin’ out here.”

“I don’t see what difference that could make to him.”

“I shore hope it won’t, Jerry.”

“Don’t worry about that part of it. I’ll be going now.”

“Goodby, Jerry, and thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

She rode past the two cowboys at the break in the fence, and they
watched her ride down to the main road, turning toward town.

“Gosh!” exploded Sleepy softly. “Beautiful red hair.”

Blue had gone back to the grave, where he talked with Graveyard and
Smoky. Blue’s horse was tied at the far side of the cemetery, and as
soon as the grave was filled he shook hands with the other two and went
to his horse. Hashknife dismounted and walked over to the grave. Smoky
leaned on his shovel, perspiring copiously, while old Graveyard tried to
arrange a crude headboard. A deputy sheriff’s badge attracted
Hashknife’s attention when he looked at Smoky.

“You’re the first Arizona deputy I ever seen actin’ as a sexton,” he
said.

“Somebody had to do it,” replied Smoky. “You’d think the old man had
cholera, instead of bullets, the way folks act. There ain’t a damn one
of us so good we can’t shovel dirt in on top of a bandit. I like that
girl’s nerve. Her old man and the old man we jist planted have been
enemies for a long time. He’ll prob’ly give her hell for comin’ to the
funeral.”

Hashknife smiled at Smoky.

“I dunno the details, pardner. You see, we just got here.”

“There ain’t much details,” said Graveyard, wiping his hands on his
overall-clad knees. “Jim Snow held up the stage, pulled a gun fight with
the driver, and they both got killed. They buried the driver this
mornin’ and this place was filled with folks. This afternoon we buries
old Jim—and you saw the crowd. That was his son who jist rode away.”

“Who was the lady?” asked Hashknife.

Smoky grinned widely.

“She’s Jerry Falconer. Her dad owns most of this country, and he shore
hated hell out of poor old Jim Snow. Mebbe Jim hated him plenty, too.
You see, that money was for the bank, and Falconer jist about owns the
bank. He owns the Double Diamond outfit. Lots o’ folks think Jim Snow
stuck up the stage to git some of Falconer’s money.”

“I heard about that in San Miguel. Do you know anythin’ about a Cross 84
outfit around here?”

“Ain’t none,” replied Graveyard, spitting at a lizard. The deputy shook
his head.

“How much of an outfit does young Snow own?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“The reason I asked you was because I’m buyin’ cattle for Kinnear and
Company of Kansas City and I need a hundred and fifty head of good
beef.”

“Where’s Wilson?” asked Graveyard slowly.

“Somebody killed him over at Gates Ajar day before yesterday.”

“The hell you say!” snorted Smoky. “Who killed him?”

“Nobody seems to know. His body is at San Miguel now.”

“Well, I’ll be terror-stricken!” exclaimed Graveyard. He shoved his
hands deeply in his overall pockets and squinted at Hashknife.

“And you’re takin’ his place, eh? Hundred and fifty head of beef.” He
turned his head and looked closely at Smoky. “I’ll betcha Blue Snow can
jist fit you out with them there beef critters.”

Smoky grinned widely, started to say something, but changed his mind.

“Did Wilson ask you to do this here buyin’ for him?” asked Graveyard.

“He didn’t live long enough. I wired his boss, who happened to be a man
I knew several years ago, and he wired me to do this buyin’ in place of
Wilson. You boys knew Wilson pretty well, eh?”

“Pretty well,” agreed Graveyard solemnly.

“Anythin’ against him?” queried Hashknife.

“No-o-o,” drawling.

“No-o-o-o-o,” echoed Smoky, scratching his chin violently. “Graveyard,
you better get hold of Blue and let these gents talk beef with him. My
name’s Woods—Smoky Woods, deputy sheriff. This here gent is Graveyard
Jones.”

“Mine is Hashknife Hartley,” grinning, as they shook hands. “The gent on
the horse is Sleepy Stevens. C’mon over, Sleepy, and meet Smoky Woods
and Graveyard Jones.”

In the meantime Jerry rode back to town. Ed Reed and Falconer were
standing together in front of a store, and Reed tied Jerry’s horse. She
knew her father was angry and that Reed was not at all pleased.

“Kinda funny—you goin’ out to the graveyard,” said her father coldly.

“It was anything but funny,” said Jerry.

“Folks will probably have plenty to say about it.”

“It wasn’t hardly the thing to do,” added Reed. “Not under the
circumstances, Jerry.”

“Circumstances have nothing to do with it,” replied Jerry coldly.

“Buryin’ a murderer and a thief,” said Reed.

Jerry flared quickly. Stripping off her glove, she took off a ring and
handed it to Ed Reed.

“That will end any right you might think you had to criticize my morals,
Ed.”

And with that parting shot, Jerry walked past them and entered the
store. Reed glowered at the ring, his lips shut tightly, while William
Falconer almost exploded.

“Damn women! Her mother was thataway, Ed. You let me handle it, will
you? I’ll make her take back that ring. My Gawd, everythin’ is ready for
the weddin’—and this had to happen!”

Reed smiled sourly.

“Young Snow is behind this. I happen to know she saw him here yesterday,
and they talked quite awhile.”

“The hell she did! I’ll stop that, too. I’ll—”

“She’s of age.”

“She’s my daughter. Don’t you want her?”

“I was goin’ to marry her, wasn’t I?”

“Well—” angrily— “I wouldn’t let no son of a murderin’ thief beat me out
of my girl, I’ll tell you that.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Falconer turned and walked into the store, leaving Reed alone, looking
at the tiny gold circlet and small diamond in his big hand. He shut his
fist tightly and walked across the street to the Sunset Saloon, where he
drank several glasses of raw whisky. He was there when Hashknife,
Sleepy, Graveyard and Smoky came in. Smoky nodded to Reed, but old
Graveyard did not even look at him. Graveyard and Smoky were carrying
their pick and shovel.

“Got him planted, eh?” queried Reed sarcastically.

“We buried him,” said Smoky slowly.

Graveyard turned his head and shot a venomous glance at Reed.

“Blue paid the preacher,” said Smoky, “so there wasn’t any charity mixed
up in the deal.”

Jeff Blondell came in, and Smoky introduced him to Hashknife and Sleepy.
He accepted a drink, inquiring casually about the funeral. Hashknife
looked Blondell over, taking note of the broken nose, cruel mouth and
mean eyes, and filed him mentally as a bad actor. Blondell wore his gun
low on his thigh, the bottom of the holster tied down to a rosette of
his chaps.

A little later Hashknife walked down to the office with Smoky and met
Singer Sanderson, the tall sheriff. Hashknife told him about the
shooting of Wilson, the cattle buyer. Sanderson knew Wilson. Smoky told
Hashknife who Reed was, and that Reed was engaged to marry the girl who
had been out at the cemetery.

Hashknife asked about Blondell.

“_Quien sabe?_” replied the sheriff. “Been here quite awhile, acted like
he was broke when he came, but got money from somewhere. Don’t work,
pays his bills and plays poker most of the time. As far as we know, he’s
on the square, and he minds his own business.”

A little later Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses and secured a
room at the Sunset City hotel. Old Graveyard was still at the saloon,
getting more intoxicated all the time. Finally he flourished his pick
dangerously near the polished top of the bar and announced—

“Gentlem’n, I’m goin’ and shell shome cows.”

“Whose cows?” asked the bartender.

“Bar S Bar cows, ’f it’s any of your business.”

Ed Reed pricked up his ears.

“Yesshir,” nodded Graveyard owlishly, “I’m goin’ shell cows to Kinnear,
an’ ’f I ain’t, I’m a liar. Goin’ shell hunner’n fif’y head. Gimme
’nother drink, and then I’m goin’ shellin’ cows.”

“There ain’t even a buyer in the Valley,” said the bartender.

“Zazzo? Huh! Hell of a lot you know. He was in here with me. Wilshon got
killed in Gates Ajar, and thish is new buyer. Well, here’s m’ regards,
an’ may you all die from a fishbone in your windpipes.”

Graveyard swallowed his drink, took a tight grip on his pick and
staggered out to his horse. Ed Reed scowled thoughtfully, went outside
and saw Hashknife and Sleepy entering the hotel. He sauntered over, and
met them outside a little later.

“Are you the new buyer for Kinnear?” he asked Hashknife, who nodded.

“My name’s Reed—foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.”

“Yeah. Glad to meetcha, Reed. What’s on your mind?”

“You need a hundred and fifty head of beef?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“All right, we can fix you out.”

“That’s fine—but I’ve kinda halfway made a deal.”

“With Graveyard Jones?”

“Well, it ain’t his beef, but—name’s Snow, I think.”

Reed laughed harshly.

“Never mind him. I doubt if Snow could sell you that many head right
now, and even if he could— Lemme tell you somethin’. The Double Diamond
has always furnished Kinnear with beef. In fact, we had an agreement
with Wilson to buy nothin’ but Double Diamond in the Valley.”

“And if he bought from anybody else?” suggested Hashknife.

“We’d find another market—and we’re the biggest cattle raisers in this
part of the State.”

“In other words, you hogged the show,” said Hashknife coldly.

“We delivered the goods.”

“What other buyers come in here, Reed?”

“None. It wasn’t worth their while.”

“Nice little game of freeze-out, eh?”

Reed shrugged his shoulders.

“Call it that, if you want to; but if you’re so dead set on buyin’ some
Bar S Bar stock, I’d advise you to wire Kinnear and tell ’em the
situation out here.”

“They probably don’t know it,” agreed Hashknife.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Al Kinnear is a mighty square shooter.”

“Square shooter or not, he wouldn’t cut off his own nose. Think it
over.”

Reed turned and walked back across the street. Hashknife grinned softly
and looked at Sleepy, who was looking at Reed’s broad back.

“Well, what do you think of that?” grunted Sleepy.

“I think I’ll look over some of them Bar S Bar beeves.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Old Graveyard was not too drunk to remember what he was to do, and early
the following morning Blue Snow came in to see Hashknife. Smoky Woods
introduced them. Blue explained that he had no way of knowing much about
the Bar S Bar cattle, but he did want to make a sale.

“Things have been pretty rotten around here,” he said. “The Double
Diamond have hogged everything, kept buyers away from us, until the
Circle J and our outfit are just about broke.”

“I heard somethin’ about that,” smiled Hashknife. “How about Jones’
cattle? If you can’t furnish all the hundred and fifty, why can’t he run
in some of his?”

“He could,” said Blue eagerly. “He’s goin’ to help me round up mine, and
if you can wait a couple of days—”

“Shore—we’ll wait.”

Hashknife was willing to wait, because he wanted to know more about
things in San Miguel Valley. Smoky was a good source of information, and
in one day Hashknife had a fairly complete history of the valley. Smoky
showed Hashknife the two revolvers used at the holdup, still containing
the empty cartridges. Jim Snow’s gun, a .45, contained three empty
shells, while Chub’s was a .38 and contained two empty shells.

Blue Snow had told of hearing the five shots fired. Old Chub had been
hit once, and Jim Snow twice. Hashknife examined the guns closely, a
queer expression in his gray eyes.

“You never found that package of currency, eh?” he asked.

“Nope. Me and Singer hunted every place along the grades, too. Pshaw, I
reckon every puncher in the country has sneaked down there and looked.
Old Falconer kinda wants to arrest Blue Snow, but he’s scared he’ll
never get that money back if he does. If Blue hid it, he’ll never tell.
Queer kid, that Blue Snow. He wanted us to give him the old man’s gun. I
dunno—mebbe we ought to do it.”

“You keep that gun,” said Hashknife quickly. “Keep ’em both.”

“What for? The case is—”

“Lock ’em up in the safe, Smoky.”

“Huh?” Smoky eyed Hashknife quizzically. “In the safe? F’r gosh sake,
what good are they now?”

“You keep ’em where nobody can get at ’em.”

“Well, I’ll tell Singer what you said, but—what do you know, Hashknife?”

“This case ain’t closed, Smoky.”

Smoky told the sheriff what Hashknife had said, and the sheriff took the
two guns out and looked them over carefully.

“Funny idea,” he commented. “Ain’t a thing about them two guns. What’s
the tall feller got under his hat, anyway?”

“He says the case ain’t closed, and for us to keep them guns hid.”

“He’s a queer sort of a jigger—” thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll foller his
hunch; lock ’em in the safe. I just saw Falconer and Reed ride in, and
Falconer had blood in his eye. Mebbe he’s sore about Snow gettin’ a
chance to sell some stock.”

“I shore hope Snow sells ’em.”

Falconer did have blood in his eye, and he went straight to the little
law office of Henry Van Dorn, who handled the affairs of the Double
Diamond. Henry was five feet six inches tall, and weighed two hundred
and thirty pounds, stripped. He was about forty years of age, nearly
bald, very florid and always short of breath.

When Falconer came from the office he joined Reed at the store, and they
talked together for awhile. Hashknife and Smoky came across the street
from the Sunset Saloon, and Reed spoke to Hashknife.

“Hartley is your name, ain’t it? I want you to meet Mr. Falconer.”

Falconer merely nodded, not offering to shake hands, and came quickly to
the point.

“I understand you are thinking of buying some cattle from Snow.”

Hashknife nodded shortly, wondering what Falconer might have to say.

“Before I went too far with that deal, Hartley, I’d look at it from a
legal point of view. Those cattle belong to the estate of Jim Snow, and
until that estate is settled Blue Snow can’t touch a single head.”

“I forgot about that,” smiled Hashknife. “However, I think Graveyard
Jones will be able to fill my order with his brand.”

Falconer laughed heartily.

“Graveyard Jones! He hasn’t that many.”

“Kinda stuck, ain’t I?” grinned Hashknife. “Well, how about your brand?”

“Come out and talk it over at the ranch.”

“All right—tomorrow.”

“Suits me. Are you goin’ to buy for Kinnear all the time?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, you come out tomorrow and we’ll talk beef.”

Hashknife realized that Falconer had the best of the argument, and that
Blue Snow had no legal right to sell the Bar S Bar cattle. It would be a
bitter dose for Blue Snow, but he would have to swallow it.

That afternoon Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to Snow’s ranch, and found
old Skipper Franklyn, the cook and housekeeper of the Bar S Bar. Skipper
was seventy, skinny as a rail, with one single lock of hair on his
scalp. He was a little man, hawk-faced, with huge gnarled hands, a
pessimistic view of life and a wonderful flow of profanity.

“Knowed you the minute I clapped eyes on you,” he told Hashknife. “Blue
described you perfect. You’re the buyer, ain’tcha? Git down, both of
you. Blue is out, runnin’ down some dogies—him and that ancient mummy of
a Graveyard Jones. C’mon in and rest up.”

They followed him into the little ranch-house and sat down on an old
horsehair sofa, from which the hair was protruding in spots.

“We’ve had a lotta damn’ grief around here,” offered Skipper. “Suppose
you heard ’bout Jim Snow gittin’ killed. Yea-a-a-ah, Jim got leaded
plumb t’ heaven. Lotta folks think he went the other way, but I knowed
him better than they did.”

Skipper wiped away a rheumy tear and picked up his old cob pipe.

“You don’t think he robbed the stage?” asked Hashknife.

“Robbed hell! No! Jim Snow was headin’ for San Miguel. Not that he ain’t
justified, if he did stick it up. That there damn’ Falconer outfit have
jist about ruint everythin’ for anybody else around here. They broke
Jim, and they broke Graveyard Jones. We’re hangin’ by the skin of our
teeth. ’Course I’m sorry old Chub got killed. The Lord giveth and the
Lord taketh away. If you don’t believe it, look at m’ teeth. I started
out in life with a perfectly good set, now look at the damn’ things.
Only three in m’ head, and they never touch. For the last ten year I’ve
been jist punchin’ holes in m’ grub.”

“You look healthy,” grinned Hashknife.

“Healthy? Say, I can flop half the smart punchers in this country, even
if I was a old bull skinner when they was still wearin’ three-cornered
pants.”

“You’ve been around here a long time, eh?”

“Long? My Gawd! They built them San Miguel hills since I come here. This
wasn’t no valley in them days. Fact of the matter is, the lowest part of
this valley was a hill in them days. Yessir, I’ve been here a long
time.”

“You’ve seen a lot of changes,” sighed Sleepy.

“Changes? Well, I’ve seen all there is.”

“You knowed the cliff dwellers, eh?” said Sleepy innocently.

“Know ’em? Huh! I showed ’em where to build their mud shacks.”

Sleepy subsided, while Skipper filled his pipe.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find Snow here,” said Hashknife. “I just discovered
that it wouldn’t be legal for Blue Snow to sell me any Bar S Bar.”

“Mind repeatin’ that ag’in?”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife explained the legal difficulty, and Skipper exploded with
wrath. “That’s Falconer! Darn his sneakin’ skin!”

“I’m sorry, but he’s right. I shore wanted to buy Snow’s cattle.”

“And now you can’t do it. Gawd, that’ll be hard on the kid.”

“Did Jim Snow leave any will?”

“’Course not. He never knowed he was goin’ to git killed.”

They sat around for an hour or more, listening to Skipper’s opinion of
things in general, and Blue Snow rode in alone. His horse was played
out, and Blue was minus his smile, as he shook hands with Hashknife and
Sleepy.

“Graveyard went home,” he told Skipper.

Skipper nodded and indicated Hashknife.

“He brought some damn’ bad news.”

“Falconer dug up a legal snubbin’ rope on you,” said Hashknife. “Until
this estate is settled, you can’t even sell a horn off one of your
cows.”

Blue scowled for a moment, but nodded slowly.

“That’s right. Anybody ought to know that much. But it don’t matter,
Hartley. Me and Graveyard have shore covered a lot of territory, and we
dug out less than a hundred Bar S Bar. And none of ’em fat enough for
beef. There must be a lot more in the hills, but they’ve probably
drifted on to the north range.”

“And Graveyard ain’t got enough for a shipment?”

“Not as many as we have. I reckon we’re stuck; but I want to tell you
I’m shore obliged to you for offerin’ to take our beef. It was a lot
more than this man Wilson ever done, as far as I can learn.”

“Falconer owned him,” growled Skipper.

“Did Falconer ever try to buy you out?” asked Hashknife.

Skipper shook his head violently.

“Not him! He’d freeze us out first. Jim Snow has been hangin’ on by the
skin of his teeth. What can you do? Kinnear gits the cream of this
country. We could herd out to San Miguel and give the things away, I
suppose, or kill ’em here, feed ’em to the coyotes and sell the hides.
Either way, we’d lose our shirt on the deal.”

Hashknife understood the situation. It was not the first time that a big
outfit had declared a boycott on small stock raisers.

“Mind tellin’ me what you know about that holdup, Snow?” asked
Hashknife.

“There’s nothin’ to tell,” said Blue gloomily.

“You heard the shots fired, didn’t you?”

Blue nodded and explained how he happened to be on the grades, and his
reasons for not wanting to be seen.

“There was one shot fired,” he said. “Pretty quick after that there were
two shots fired fairly close together. I suppose it was more than a
minute before the other two sounded.”

“You found the driver on the seat, dead?”

“Yeah, sprawled on the seat.”

“After you got up on the stage, could you see the other body—the body of
your father?”

Blue shut his lips tightly for a moment.

“No, I didn’t see it until the horses shied a little. He—he was lying at
the mouth of that little gully, and his horse was tied to a bush just
beyond him. You couldn’t see him from where I first got on the stage.”

“Did you have a gun with you at the time?”

Blue reached in his pocket and handed Hashknife a pawn ticket on a San
Francisco loan office.

“I needed the money worse than I did a shootin’ iron,” he said.

“What the hell are you—a detective?” asked Skipper suddenly.

Hashknife grinned slowly.

“I’m buyin’ cows for Kinnear.”

“You shore ask a lot of questions,” growled Skipper.

They rode back to Sunset City and stabled their horses. Sleepy did not
ask Hashknife any questions, but he knew his tall partner was doing much
heavy thinking. They found Smoky Woods at the sheriff’s office and sat
down with him to discuss the cattle situation. Smoky was mad over the
deal, as he wanted, so he said, to have the trust broken.

A commotion had started over in front of the Ace-High Saloon, on the
east side of the street, and the three men went out quickly. Several men
were in front of the saloon, and among them were Ed Reed and Jeff
Blondell. Blondell was mopping his face with a handkerchief and Reed was
removing his coat.

“Oh, oh!” grunted Smoky. “Somethin’ has gone wrong.”

Blondell threw the handkerchief aside and stripped off his coat. Both
men had removed their belts and guns. More men were hurrying up the
street toward the saloon. There was no preliminary action. Reed, the
larger of the two, lunged straight at Blondell, swinging both fists. No
boxer was Reed—just a slugger. For a moment it seemed that he had
Blondell pinned against the wall of the saloon, but he got away,
snapping Reed’s head back with a short left to the jaw. Perhaps the blow
had more effect than it seemed, because Reed turned awkwardly, dropping
his guard, and Blondell lashed out with a straight right punch, which
seemed to catch Reed square on the point of the chin. Reed’s shoulders
thumped against the wall, and he slithered down to the sidewalk, knocked
cold.

Blondell put on his coat, picked up his handkerchief and came past the
sheriff’s office, heading toward the Sunset Saloon. His nose was
bleeding a little.

Gradually Reed regained consciousness, but even after he got back on his
feet he staggered weakly. One of the men put on his belt, while another
held his coat and, after a short conversation, Reed went to his horse
and rode back past the sheriff’s office, heading toward the Double
Diamond.

One of the men came over to the office, grinning widely. He did not know
what the fight was about. Reed and Blondell had been drinking together,
he said. Neither of them was drunk. Suddenly Reed smashed Blondell on
the nose, knocking him down. The men got them outside, where they
decided to fight it out with their hands.

“I reckon Blondell got revenge,” grinned Smoky.

“That was a sweet punch,” laughed the man.

“Have they been enemies long?” asked Hashknife.

“Hell, they’ve been good friends all th’ time. This shore was a quick
turn.”

Ed Reed went straight to the Double Diamond, feeling a bit sick. It was
the first time he had ever been knocked out, and the dose tasted bitter.
And to be knocked out by a smaller man! The Double Diamond ranch-house
was a rambling old building, nestled away in a grove of ancient live
oaks—a picturesque old place, with flagged walks and thick walls.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The bunkhouse, built within the patio, was of adobe, but the rest of the
buildings were of frame construction, weathered to a neutral tone. The
Double Diamond hired six cowboys, exclusive of Reed the foreman. An old
Chinese cook had been at the ranch since Falconer had acquired it. He
and Marie, an old Yaqui squaw, ran the house and kitchen. There was no
servant problem at the Double Diamond.

Reed stabled his horse, went to the well beside the stable and washed
his face. His jaw was swollen a little, but he had no marks, for which
he was thankful. Marks might require explanation.

Jerry was out in the patio, playing with a pair of black kittens, when
her father came out to her. He had been in a vile humor ever since she
had given Ed Reed back his ring. He watched her for awhile, his hands
shoved deep into his pockets, lower lip protruding thoughtfully. Then—

“When are you and Ed goin’ to get married?”

Jerry placed one of the kittens on a bench and turned to her father.

“Am I supposed to answer that question, Dad?”

“You bet.”

“Never.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish. Just because he didn’t like to see you—”

“Let’s not discuss Ed Reed.”

“Well, we’re goin’ to, just the same. Everybody knows by this time that
you turned him down, and he’s sick about it. He never did anythin’
wrong.”

Jerry stroked the kitten thoughtfully.

“The matter is settled as far as I am concerned, Dad.”

“Yea-a-ah? I suppose the return of Blue Snow settled your mind, eh?”

“Blue Snow had nothing to do with it.”

“And after you went and bought a lot of weddin’ clothes and—”

“I can make them over.”

“I’m not kickin’ about the money you spent.”

Jerry laughed shortly.

“Well, I’m glad that is settled.”

“It is not settled. You’re not givin’ Ed a square deal. Folks are
talkin’. They know you was—that you got stuck on Blue Snow years ago.
They know I kicked him off the ranch. Now, he’s back, and you bust up
with Ed. You know what they’re sayin’, don’tcha? They say you’re still
stuck on Blue Snow.”

“You can’t shoot folks for thinking,” said Jerry slowly.

“You ought to—for thinkin’ that way. Son of a murderin’ thief.”

Jerry shut her lips tightly and her hair seemed to flame up from the
roots.

“That is what Ed Reed called him,” she said. “You are parroting Ed Reed.
Why don’t Ed go and say that to Blue Snow? I’ll tell you this much—I’m
not in love with Blue Snow—but I detest Ed Reed.”

Jerry picked up the kitten and went into the house, her father looking
after her, a scowl on his brow. Slowly he turned his head and saw Reed
in the patio gate. Reed had heard what Jerry said. He came in and the
two men looked at each other.

“I reckon I talked too much,” said Reed glumly, “and as far as that
goes, you talked too much just now. Let her alone. You can’t drive
Jerry.”

“Damn it, you can’t even lead her,” growled Falconer. “What happened to
your jaw, Ed?”

Reed felt of his swollen jaw. No use lying about it.

“I smashed Blondell in the nose today. He mentioned the fact that I
wasn’t goin’ to get married. He wanted to fight it out, so we went out
on the sidewalk. I guess I slipped—” lamely. “Anyway, he—aw—it didn’t
amount to much. It’s a little sore.”

“Kinda swelled. Did you see anythin’ of the buyer?”

“They rode in just before the fight, and I think they went out to tell
Snow that the deal was off.”

“Did they see the fight?”

“I dunno.”

Reed sighed deeply and felt of his chin.

“This deal has got me all unhooked,” he said miserably. “I know what
they are sayin’. I don’t want to start any trouble around here, and
today I got to thinkin’ I’d go away for awhile—until it’s forgotten.”

Falconer nodded grimly.

“I know how you feel, Ed. It might be a good thing.”

“I think it is the only thing I can do to keep out of trouble. If you
don’t mind givin’ me a layoff, I’ll pull out tomorrow mornin’. Mebbe
I’ll be back in a couple weeks—mebbe a month. It all depends.”

“Sure, that’s all right. Where’ll you go?”

“I dunno. Mebbe I’ll pull west, cross the Divide and—”

“Why not go down to Phoenix or over on the Coast to some big town?”

“No, I don’t want big towns. I dunno where I’ll go. But I’ll let you
know where I stop.”

“All right, Ed; I’ll give you a check tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Falconer watched the hunched shoulders of his foreman go out through the
patio. He felt genuinely sorry for Reed. A vacation would do him good.
Falconer decided that he would personally help select the hundred and
fifty head of beef for Kinnear & Company. He felt better, until he
thought of Blue Snow.

“If she wants to love him, she better love him at a distance,” he told
himself. “I kicked him off this ranch once, and I’ll do it again if he
ever sticks his nose inside the place.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Jeff Blondell had nothing to say about the fight. His nose, already
misshapen, showed little signs of having been hit by Ed Reed. That
evening Hashknife had a chance to see the six cowboys from the Double
Diamond. Smoky pointed them out—Harry Bond, Dick Lasher, Molly Malone,
Terry McQueen, Bun Parker and Matt Sullivan.

McQueen was a wild-eyed sort of puncher, and Hashknife felt that he had
seen McQueen before. Malone was small, scrawny, hatchet-faced, with mean
eyes and bad teeth. The rest of the crew were ordinary looking fellows,
out for a few drinks and a whirl at the games. Smoky introduced McQueen
and Malone to Hashknife, but they did not linger long with him. Malone
asked Smoky about the fight between Reed and Blondell. He said he had
only heard Reed’s version and wanted the straight dope on it.

“Where’s Reed tonight?” asked Smoky.

“Too sore to come in,” grinned Malone. “I think he’s goin’ away tomorrow
for a trip.”

“Business?”

“Naw,” grinned Malone. “You know his girl throwed him down, didn’t you?
Well, he’s kinda sour on the world, sore at everybody in it, and he’s
goin’ to go away for awhile.”

“I heard she ditched him,” said Smoky. “Wonder what was the trouble.”

“Another man, I reckon—owner of the Bar S Bar.”

“Whatcha know about that?” grunted Smoky, as Malone walked away.

“He seems like a good kid,” replied Hashknife.

“Yeah, he’s all right; but Falconer never would let Jerry marry him.”

“How old is this lady?”

“Well, I s’pose about twenty.”

“And she’s got red hair.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Want to make a little bet with me, Smoky?”

Smoky shook his head.

“I never thought about her age, and I done forgot about that red hair.
I’ll jist keep my money, pardner.”

“I thought you was goin’ to try and find out who shot Wilson,” said
Sleepy that night as they were going to bed. “You ain’t done a thing.”

“I’m not worryin’ myself about the man who killed Wilson,” said
Hashknife. “Do you remember on jist what part of that horse’s anatomy we
saw the Cross 84 brand?”

“You mean over at Gates Ajar? Right shoulder.”

“Good! I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure.”

Hashknife still had Wilson’s telegram, which was to notify Kinnear &
Company that he was shipping one hundred Cross 84. Where was he going to
ship those cattle, wondered Hashknife? The telegram stated that he would
try and ship again next week from San Miguel. The mysterious man who had
ridden in late at Gates Ajar was riding a Cross 84 horse, and Hashknife
wondered if this was merely a coincidence.

“What’s the Cross 84 got to do with this deal?” asked Sleepy.

“Because,” replied Hashknife, “there ain’t a Cross 84 in this State. I
looked at the brand register at the sheriff’s office. Wilson was going
to ship Cross 84 beef, according to this telegram, and next week he
expected to ship from San Miguel. We were goin’ to meet him in Gates
Ajar and help nurse a train of cows to Kansas City. Either Wilson was
crooked, or he had a touch of sun, ’cause nobody knows of that Cross 84
outfit.”

They went out to the Double Diamond the next morning and had a talk with
Falconer. The big cattleman was inclined to be domineering, possibly
because he thought he had an advantage, and wanted more than the market
price. Hashknife knew prices and he knew cattle, which Falconer soon
found out.

“Kinnear asked me to buy this beef,” said Hashknife. “There wasn’t any
prices mentioned, but they wouldn’t expect me to offer you a bonus. As
far as I’m personally concerned, it don’t make any difference whether I
buy your cows or not, Falconer.”

“I don’t have to sell to Kinnear,” retorted Falconer warmly.

“That leaves us deadlocked. I’ll wire Kinnear in a few days and tell him
what happened. If he wants to pay you more than he does anybody else—”

“Well, I wouldn’t quarrel over a few dollars, Hartley. I’ve always sold
to Kinnear; so I reckon we can get together. How soon do you want ’em?”

They settled the details of delivery at San Miguel, and went back to
Sunset City, where Hashknife wrote a wire to Kinnear and gave it to the
clerk at the stage station to send from San Miguel. Later in the day
some of the Double Diamond cowboys were in town, and one of them told
Smoky that Ed Reed had started on a vacation.

Blue Snow and old Graveyard came in that afternoon. Both men looked
tired, as they dismounted at the sheriff’s office. Singer Sanderson was
at the office, and Blue sat down with him. Blue had his father’s papers,
showing the roundup reports for two years, which he spread out on the
sheriff’s desk. The fall count showed five hundred and eighty-seven head
of Bar S Bar cattle, sixty head of horses. The spring count only showed
three hundred and ten head of cattle and forty horses.

“What’s the answer?” queried the sheriff.

“Shrinkage,” said Blue bitterly. “Right now I’ll bet there ain’t over a
hundred head of Bar S Bar cows in these hills, and—well, I won’t swear
to the horses, but there ain’t no forty head left.”

“Looks kinda funny,” nodded the sheriff.

“Dad knew it, Sanderson. He wrote me that he was gettin’ a bad deal.”

“Who from?”

Blue shrugged his shoulders and looked up at Hashknife, who was in the
doorway.

“Do you think your cows have been stolen?” asked the sheriff.

“They’re gone. Cattle usually stay around their own range, unless
somebody takes ’em away. Hello, Hartley—” nodding to Hashknife.

“Well, what’s to be done about it?” queried the sheriff.

“I dunno. I thought I’d let you know what it looks like. I’ve got to see
a lawyer about the ranch. You knew the Double Diamond stopped me from
sellin’ beef to Hartley, didn’t you?”

“I heard they did. What lawyer are you goin’ to get?”

“Van Dorn, I reckon.”

“He’s attorney for Falconer.”

“Yeah, I know he is; but he’s a square shooter.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, he better shoot square with me,” said Blue coldly, as he picked
up his papers. “I didn’t know how things were goin’ down here with Dad,
or I’d have been here sooner. The Bar S Bar is goin’ to belong to me
now, and I’ll stop losin’ stock, if I have to feed a few rustlers to the
buzzards.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Blue left the office and went to find Van Dorn. The sheriff was going to
San Miguel on a matter of business, and Hashknife wrote out a telegram
to Al Kinnear and gave it to the sheriff to send.

    HAVE YOU BOUGHT MANY CROSS EIGHTY-FOUR BRAND AND WHERE WERE THEY
    SHIPPED FROM STOP ANSWER AT ONCE AS IT IS IMPORTANT.

                                                            —HARTLEY

The sheriff brought the reply back with him the following morning, and
it read:

    PLACE NAMED GATES AJAR STOP HAVE BOUGHT TWO HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE
    HEAD.

It was signed by Al Kinnear. Hashknife smiled grimly and pocketed the
telegram. This was evidence that the Cross 84, whatever it consisted of,
was near enough Gates Ajar to use that station as a shipping point.

“This is how it looks to me,” he told Sleepy. “Wilson was as crooked as
the rest of the bunch. He bought stolen cattle cheap, probably payin’
cash, instead of a check, and kept the difference. The man who rode that
Cross 84 bronc was the man who was to make the sale—but he was late.
Wilson got into a poker game with a couple punchers, prob’ly two of the
gang, while he was waitin’ for the main jasper to show up; and they
framed to kill him for the cash in his pocket.”

“And the bartender was in on the deal, eh?”

“To the extent of trade, prob’ly—mebbe hush money. He knew who done the
killin’, but he wouldn’t tell. He couldn’t afford to tell.”

“Don’tcha think Wilson was one awful fool to want to hire me and you?”

“Mebbe Wilson wasn’t such a fool, at that. Lookin’ at it from a
cold-blooded angle, mebbe me and you wasn’t supposed to ever leave Gates
Ajar.”

“Oh!” grunted Sleepy softly. “I never thought of that.”

“We’ve stopped quite a lot of rustlin’, Sleepy.”

Blue Snow came in that afternoon; he was at the lawyer’s office when
Jerry Falconer came in, driving a spanking gray team and a newly painted
buckboard. Hashknife saw Blue Snow come from the office of Van Dorn and
meet Jerry in front of the stage station, where they stood and talked
for possibly fifteen minutes.

A little later Hashknife met Jerry in a store.

“Dad said if I saw you to invite you and your friend out to supper,” she
said. “You see,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “Dad wasn’t so
sure about your credentials; so he sent a wire to Kinnear the other
day.”

“Yeah?” curiously.

“I guess he is satisfied now. Anyway, he wants to talk with you.”

“All right, Miss Falconer,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll be out.”

“Come out tonight. Dad likes to talk.”

“Well, we can do that—and thanks.”

“Supper about six o’clock, but come before that, won’t you?”

“Sure. We’re always ahead of the supper bell, ma’am.”

He and Sleepy rode out about five o’clock, and Falconer welcomed them
warmly. He did not evade mentioning the wire to Kinnear, but showed them
the reply.

    HASHKNIFE HARTLEY BUYER FOR US STOP IF YOU’VE GOT ANY
    HORSETHIEVES RUSTLERS OR GUNMEN IN YOUR COUNTRY THEY WILL
    STAMPEDE STOP BEST REGARDS TO HIM AND SLEEPY STOP YOU CAN BANK
    ON HIS INTEGRITY

                                                         —AL KINNEAR

Hashknife grinned widely.

“That sounds like Al. We worked together, before he got into the meat
business.”

“That telegram interested me,” said Falconer, as they sat down in the
big living room of the ranch-house.

“In what way?” queried Hashknife.

“About the horsethieves and rustlers. The sheriff was out here today,
and we had quite a talk. Now, I don’t want you to misunderstand me,
Hartley. There has always been bad blood between me and Jim Snow. He’s
dead now, and his son will probably take his place. I’ve no use for the
boy. Jim Snow accused me of stealin’ his horses. That wasn’t true. It
hit me hard, bein’ called a thief; so I blocked him from sellin’ his
beef. I wanted to break him, and I think I just about put him on the
rocks. You’ve heard about it, I reckon.”

“Yeah, I heard quite a lot about it.”

“All right. Blue Snow has been makin’ a rough count, since you tried to
buy his cattle. He showed the sheriff a roundup tally for last fall and
this spring. And—” Falconer shut his jaw tightly for a moment—“that
count shows a big shortage. It revives that old gossip, I tell you! Blue
Snow might just as well accuse me of stealin’ his damn’ cows!”

Hashknife eyed him closely.

“What has this to do with me, Falconer?”

“Would a man in my position steal cows?”

“Well,” Hashknife half closed his eyes thoughtfully, “you might as well
steal ’em as to keep him from realizin’ on ’em. Accordin’ to my views, a
boycott is the same as a steal.”

“You’re pretty damn’ frank with your views, Hartley.”

“You asked my opinion.”

“But I never stole his cows.”

“I never said you did. What have you got against Blue Snow?”

“Against him!” exploded Falconer. “He’s like the old man. I—I had a lot
of trouble with him,” he finished weakly.

Hashknife grinned widely.

“He thinks a lot of your daughter.”

“Yeah? What do you know about that part of it?”

“What I’ve heard.”

Falconer leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I dunno,” wearily. “Jerry was to have married Ed Reed, my
foreman, this week. Everythin’ was fixed. Why, Jerry even went to
Phoenix and bought her weddin’ clothes. She was on her way back—on that
stage, when it was held up. Now she won’t marry Ed. It busted him all
up, and he’s gone away for awhile. Couldn’t stand it. You see, everybody
knew about it, and he thought they was laughin’ at him. He’s a serious
sort of a feller.”

“Do you think Blue Snow had anythin’ to do with that?”

“I don’t know. Jerry refuses to give any reason. I sent Blue Snow a note
today, warnin’ him to keep away from here.”

“Do you think that was the right thing to do, Falconer?”

“That was _my_ business.”

“Oh, shore. But put yourself in his place; what would you do?”

Falconer scowled at Hashknife for several moments.

“If you thought a lot of the girl, and you knew she thought a lot of
you—” suggested Hashknife.

“We won’t discuss that part of it.”

“It’s worth discussin’. If I was you, I’d ask Snow to come up here and
have a talk about it. Let your daughter in on the discussion.”

“Not a damn’ bit of it! His father murdered a man, robbed the stage.
Why, that currency belonged to me, I tell you! Either Blue or his old
man got that money. And you ask me to let—— You’re crazy, Hartley.”

“Suppose his father hadn’t killed that stage driver, hadn’t stolen that
money—”

“No supposin’ about it—he did.”

“Outside of that, the boy is all right, eh? You merely disliked him
because he loved your daughter.”

“Well?”

“That closes the incident. Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”

“I’m willin’. Every time I talk about it, I get sore.”

The conversation switched to shop talk of the cow country. The cowboys
finished their supper, and went out. Hashknife heard Malone tell
Falconer that he and Terry McQueen were going to town, and wanted to
know if he wanted them to get anything at the store.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The old Chinese was a good cook, and the visiting cowboys thoroughly
enjoyed the supper. Jerry seemed in good spirits, laughing and talking
with Hashknife. Falconer eyed her closely. For the last few days she had
been rather quiet, and this was a decided change.

After supper she went with them to the living room and played a few
pieces on the organ. Falconer wanted to talk; wanted to tell how he had
made a success of his business, and Jerry left the three men together to
smoke and talk. Hashknife was sitting near a window opening on the
patio, and he saw Jerry pass the window.

From the bunkhouse came the tinkling of a mandolin, the deeper strumming
of a guitar. Falconer talked on and on, occasionally stopping to fill
his pipe. Neither Hashknife nor Sleepy were interested, but were obliged
to listen patiently.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Falconer finished.

“I reckon we’ll be driftin’ back,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.

Falconer protested, got their promise to come back again, and called to
Jerry.

“She’d want to tell you good night,” he said, as they walked out to the
patio.

Jerry stepped up on the porch as they came out.

“I thought you was up in your room,” said her father.

“It was too warm, Dad.”

“It is warm tonight. Hartley, I’ll call one of the boys to bring your
horses.”

“Never mind that, Mr. Falconer,” replied Hashknife.

He turned to thank Jerry for their evening at the ranch, when something
seared across his cheek, thudded into the wall behind them, and from
somewhere close at hand came the report of a gun. None of them saw it
flash.

Hashknife flung Jerry away from the light of the doorway, sprang out at
right angles from the steps, drawing his gun. The shot had come from
somewhere in the patio. The cowboys were running from the bunkhouse,
questioning.

Hashknife was hunched low, heading for the angle of the patio, where a
big oak tree threw a heavy shadow. A man was trying to get over the
wall. Hashknife heard the scrape of his clothes, the thump of a boot.

“Stop where you are,” ordered Hashknife, and the noise ceased.

“Got him?” asked a cowboy hoarsely.

“Got somebody,” replied Hashknife, as the man stepped away from the
shadow, his hands half raised.

It was Blue Snow. They led him over to the house and took him inside.
Jerry’s face was white, her eyes wide with fright. Falconer’s eyes
narrowed and his voice was vibrant with anger, as he faced the young
cowboy.

“Murderin’ folks must kinda run in your family, Snow,” he said.

“I never fired that shot,” replied Blue evenly.

“Where’s your gun?” asked Hashknife.

“Didn’t bring one.”

“Probably threw it away,” said a cowboy. “We’ll take a lantern and see
if we can find it.”

They ran to get the lantern. Hashknife’s right cheek was bleeding a
little and he mopped away the blood with a handkerchief.

“I guess we’ll take you to town, Snow,” said Falconer. “I suppose that
bullet was meant for me.”

“I never fired that shot,” repeated Blue. “I never had a gun with me.”

“Right now is the time to settle this proposition,” said Hashknife. He
turned to Jerry. “This is like gettin’ a tooth pulled; it’ll hurt for a
minute. Today you met Blue Snow in town and you asked him to come out to
see you tonight. Mebbe he asked to come. Anyway, that doesn’t matter.
You knew your father would be busy talkin’ to us; so that fixed the deal
up fine. Blue crawled over the patio wall near that tree, and you met
him out there in the dark. That’s your business—not mine, but I want to
get it all straight. How about it, Snow?”

Blue looked at Jerry, his lips shut tightly.

“That is all true,” said Jerry softly.

“Damn’ fine business!” snorted Falconer.

“Now,” continued Hashknife, speaking to Blue, “after Jerry left you—she
could see me through that window, and she knew her father would be busy
until I got up—what happened?”

“I watched her go to the house and meet you. Then I started to climb
over the wall, and that shot was fired from just outside the gate. It
wasn’t over thirty feet from me. I saw a little of the flash. Well, it
kinda stunned me. I didn’t know what was wrong. But I decided that my
best bet was to get out of there; so I—well, you stopped me, Hartley.”

“That’s a pretty good story to make up in a short time,” said Falconer.

“And I’ll bet big odds that it’s true,” said Hashknife.

“Why would I shoot at Hartley?” asked Blue.

“Maybe you didn’t,” said Falconer.

“Why would I shoot at you?”

“I warned you to keep away from here, Snow.”

“Yeah, I got your note. I suppose it was from you. You see, you forgot
to sign it—or was you afraid to sign it?”

“I reckon you knew who it was from.” Falconer turned to Jerry. “You’ve
made a nice mess of things, haven’t you?”

“You can drop that,” said Blue coldly. “I insisted on comin’.”

“She didn’t have to let you.”

The cowboys came back in, carrying a lantern.

“We can’t find any gun,” said Matt Sullivan. “There’s none in the patio,
and he couldn’t throw it very far over the wall.”

“That part of it’s all settled,” said Hashknife. “Snow never had any gun
and he never fired the shot.”

“If he didn’t, who did?” demanded Falconer. “You’re too danged quick to
exonerate him, Hartley.”

“Well, I was the only one who got marked.” Hashknife laughed.

Terry McQueen and Molly Malone came back from town, and the cowboys met
them outside the house, telling them what had happened. McQueen gave
Falconer the mail.

“You boys didn’t meet anybody between here and town, didja?” asked
Hashknife.

“Not a soul,” replied McQueen. “We rode slow all the way back, but we
never seen nor heard anybody.”

“Where’s your horse, Snow?” asked Hashknife, and Blue grinned.

“I’ve got him staked out in the brush.”

“You may as well ride back with us.”

Falconer swore under his breath, but did not protest. He turned away,
when Blue shook hands with Jerry.

“Thank you, Mr. Hartley,” she said, as she shook hands with him. “You
saved the day.”

“The day ain’t all saved—yet; but we’ve made a start.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Blue had little to say as they rode back toward town, but when they
parted he shook hands with both of them.

“I was a fool to go out there,” he said. “But I shore was lucky to have
you there to square the deal for me, and I appreciate what you did. If
you can ever use me for anythin’, yell my name. I’ll have a gun with me
next time.”

“I may need you, Snow. _Hasta luego_.”

“_Buenas noches, caballeros._”

“Who do you reckon fired that shot?” asked Sleepy, as they went on.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“He’s a good shot.”

“How do you figure that out?”

“Takin’ a chance on pickin’ you out of that group at that distance, and
in a bad light.”

“It shore was too close for comfort. Well, they’ve showed their hand,
whoever they are, Sleepy. Too danged much publicity. We’ll either have
to change our names or get out where nobody ever heard of us. Scared,
cowboy?”

“Tremblin’ all over.”

They went to the Sunset Saloon, and Hashknife tried to find out what
time Malone and McQueen left town, but no one seemed to have paid any
attention to the hour they left. The sheriff listened to what happened
at the Double Diamond, but did not seem to have any theory to offer,
except that Falconer had lots of enemies, and that the shot might have
been intended for him.

Blondell heard Sleepy telling Smoky about the shooting, and came over to
Hashknife, questioning him about it. Hashknife told him what he knew of
the affair. Blondell had no comments to make, and Hashknife wondered
what Blondell’s interest might be. He did not trust Blondell, but he
found that Blondell had been around the saloon all evening, which was
enough alibi to clear him of any hand in the matter.

Blondell was somewhat of a mystery to every one, but Sunset City had
become used to him. To Hashknife he was a sinister figure, getting a
living from somewhere—but where? What kept him in Sunset City? According
to all Hashknife could learn about him, he seldom left town. It seemed
that Blondell drank plenty of liquor, but kept a silent tongue in his
head.

“If Blondell ain’t wanted some place, I’m a Chinaman’s uncle,” Hashknife
decided. “And, if I’m wise, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Blondell.”

Hashknife found that Blondell was in Sunset City at the time of the
stage robbery; so that excused him. In fact, as far as Hashknife could
discover, Blondell’s only fault lay in the fact that he came there
broke, got money in some mysterious way, and continued to get it. He
minded his own business. His fight with Ed Reed was the first time he
had been in any trouble in Sunset City. He never mentioned what it was
about, but the general opinion was that Blondell had joked Reed over
losing his girl.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to the Bar S Bar ranch the next morning,
and found Graveyard Jones there with Blue and Skipper.

“Well, they haven’t killed you off yet,” smiled Blue.

“Give ’em time,” grinned Hashknife.

There were a couple of Bar S Bar horses in the corral, and Hashknife
took a look at the brand. The brand itself consisted of a short bar, a
large S and another short bar. Hashknife called Blue over to him and
they stopped beside a light sorrel, on which the brand showed plainly.

“What didja want?” asked Blue curiously.

“Watch this.”

Hashknife drew his forefinger through the first bar, continued the S to
an 8, and drew two lines on the last bar. Blue scowled thoughtfully.

“Do that again, will you, Hartley?”

Hashknife did it over again.

“Makes it a Cross 84, don’t it?” queried Blue. “Why—”

“Somebody,” said Hashknife softly, “has been sellin’ Cross 84 beef to
Kinnear, and shippin’ ’em from Gates Ajar.”

“Yea-a-h?” Blue hooked his thumbs over his belt, as he studied the lean
face of Hashknife. “Are you sure of that?”

Hashknife showed him the wire from Kinnear.

“That was an answer to my wire, askin’ him about buyin’ Cross 84.”

“So that’s where the Bar S Bar has been robbed, eh? They took ’em over
the range, altered the brands and shipped ’em as Cross 84. Well, I’m
goin’ to Gates Ajar, Hartley.”

“Wait a little while, pardner. I—I don’t think the time is ripe. There’s
a lot of Cross 84 beef over there right now, but they can’t ship ’em.
It’ll take quite a while to dig up another buyer. Let things drift for
awhile, and we’ll go with you.”

“Does the sheriff know about this?”

“Nope.”

Old Graveyard was all excited. He wanted to go right over to Gates Ajar
and hang somebody. Skipper insisted that he would go along and tie the
knot.

“We’ll go when Hartley gives the word,” stated Blue. “I’m backin’ his
play from now on. Has this deal got anythin’ to do with somebody takin’
a shot at you last night, Hartley?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Do you think somebody in San Miguel Valley rustled our cattle?”

“Somebody in San Miguel Valley took a shot at me. I don’t reckon any of
them Gates Ajar rustlers would ride plumb here to shoot me. How easy is
it to get across that range?”

“Easy as shootin’ fish,” replied Graveyard. “All open country to
Antelope Pass, and a good trail through to the other side. Why, you
could almost drive a wagon over there, without no road. The railroad
aimed to come through and take in this valley, but they finally went
straight north and swung around to San Miguel.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Blue decided to go back to town with them, and they went to talk with
the sheriff. Hashknife took a pencil and outlined the Bar S Bar, showing
the sheriff how simple it would be to alter it to a Cross 84.

“But we’ve got to keep this quiet,” said Hashknife. “If there’s any
slip, we’ll never get ’em for the job. They could dig out, leave the
cattle and we’d be holdin’ the sack.”

“That’s true,” replied the sheriff. “But what’s our best move?”

“Do you know the sheriff of the county over there?”

“I do. His name is Dick Redman, and I’m not surprised that they were
able to ship stolen cattle in his county.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“I wondered what kind of a person he was. You see, he should have served
me and Sleepy with a subpena to appear at the inquest over the body of
Wilson. Mebbe he passed it up cold.”

“Knowin’ who killed him,” nodded Sanderson, “he prob’ly would.”

Old Graveyard came in later and he went to supper with Hashknife, Sleepy
and Blue. The old man was wearing his gun. Blondell came in to supper,
nodded to them and sat down at the back of the room. Hashknife noticed
that Blondell watched the front windows fairly close, and wondered if he
was looking for somebody.

Before they finished eating Terry McQueen, Molly Malone and Matt
Sullivan came in to eat. From their conversation it developed that that
was payday at the Double Diamond, and they were out to celebrate. As
Hashknife and his party went outside, they met Harry Bond, Dick Lasher
and Bun Parker, the other three punchers from the Double Diamond.

“Ain’t nobody killed you yet, I see,” remarked Harry Bond laughingly.

“Not yet,” replied Hashknife. “How’s everythin’, boys?”

“Finer’n frawg hair,” said Bun Parker. “Falconer’s comin’ in tonight.”

“He allus comes in to pack us home,” laughed Lasher, as they entered the
restaurant.

Smoky had eaten earlier in the evening and he met them at the Sunset
Saloon. Sleepy and Blue started a pool game, and the others sat down to
watch the play.

Blondell came back from the restaurant, watched the play for awhile, and
sat down against the wall. At times he eyed Hashknife speculatively, his
sombrero low over his sullen eyes; again he would watch the front of the
building.

“Nervous,” decided Hashknife.

The boys came back from the restaurant, and soon a sizable poker game
was in progress, but Blondell made no move to get into it. A little
later Falconer came in. He seldom drank, but tonight he asked Hashknife
to join him at the bar. He nodded coldly to Blue Snow.

“You asked somebody about the Cross 84 brand, didn’t you, Hartley?” he
asked.

Hashknife nodded, wondering what this would lead to.

“Today I ran across a horse with that brand, out near my place.”

“Well?” queried Hashknife.

“It was the first time I ever saw that brand, and I knew you inquired
about it.”

“Oh, yeah. When Wilson was shot he had a telegram written out. It hadn’t
been sent, I reckon. He mentioned the Cross 84, and I was curious to
know where that brand was located. It didn’t matter.”

Falconer laughed.

“I thought I was bringin’ you some news. The boys made another search
this mornin’, but they couldn’t find any gun. It begins to look as
though Blue Snow had nothin’ to do with that shot in the dark.”

“I knew he didn’t.”

Falconer sighed deeply over his drink and shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ women,” he confessed. “I had a run-in with Jerry after
you left.”

“She’s got plenty red hair,” said Hashknife.

“Her mother had it, too. I wish Jerry would marry Ed Reed. He’s been
like a son to me. I could trust him with everything.”

“She will marry Blue Snow,” said Hashknife.

“Over my dead body!”

“Yeah? Well, it ain’t no killin’ matter.”

“I can’t see what there is about that damn’ kid. Reed was worth a
million like him.”

“That might all be true—and when you married Jerry’s mother, there was
probably a lot of men worth a million of you.”

Falconer shoved his empty glass across the bar, and studied himself in
the mirror of the back bar for several moments.

“I never looked at it that way, Hartley. Mebbe there was. But damn it,
all I want is for Jerry to get a good man, and I don’t like Snow’s
reputation. He’s a drifter. His father murdered a man I liked and stole
a lot of money.”

“That’s a queer way to look at it, Falconer. There’s nothin’ in
heredity—not that kind. If your father had been a horsethief, would you
give yourself up to the sheriff? You let the girl pick her man. She’s
got to live with him.”

“He’s got nothin’.”

“What did you have before you got married?”

“Things are different now,” _evasively_.

“I’ll bet you couldn’t pay the preacher.”

Falconer’s eyes widened a little, as he stared at Hashknife.

“Who told you that?”

“A good guess, wasn’t it?”

Falconer laughed shortly.

“I was afraid for a minute that you was a mind-reader. I was thinkin’
the same thing.”

They both smiled, and Hashknife ordered the drinks.

“I like you, Hartley,” said Falconer slowly. “I don’t believe we’d hitch
very long, because you speak right out; but—mebbe I need it. I want you
to come out tomorrow and look at the beef I’ve got for you.”

“All right.”

“It’ll take all one long day to drive to San Miguel.”

“Kinnear didn’t say anythin’ about bein’ in a hurry; it’s all right.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Blondell got up from his chair, stopped and looked at the poker game for
a few moments, and sauntered past them, going to the door. Hashknife was
standing with his back to the bar, leaning back on his elbows. He saw
Blondell stop in the doorway, looking at the lights across the street.
Then he stepped down the few inches to the sidewalk—stopped short.

From the right-hand side of the doorway came the report of a revolver
shot. Blondell did not move for several moments. He seemed to hunch his
shoulders a little, took one slow backward step, then fell half into the
saloon.

Hashknife was the first man to reach the doorway. He stepped over
Blondell and ran to the corner. The alley was dark. Men were picking
Blondell up, carrying him back into the saloon. Men were running from
the restaurant, from the stores. A cowboy went running from the saloon,
heading for the doctor.

They stretched Blondell out on the floor. Hashknife quickly cut away his
coat and shirt. The bullet had struck him on the right side just below
the armpit, and apparently had ranged straight through.

“Bad?” queried Falconer nervously.

“I think he was killed instantly,” replied Hashknife. “Probably went on
through his heart. The doctor can easily tell.”

The old doctor’s examination was brief. He shook his head, closed his
case and dusted off the knees of his trousers.

“The man is dead,” he said crisply. “He never knew what hit him.”

Hashknife sighed and looked down at the battered features of their
mystery man, wondering if he would ever know what the mystery was.
Someone got a blanket, and four of the cowboys carried the body into a
back room, where they placed it on a table.

The cowboys took a drink and stood around thoughtfully. It had ruined
their payday. The sheriff and Smoky came just before the body was taken
out.

“What can I do?” Smoky asked helplessly. “No use runnin’ around in the
dark.”

“Not a bit,” replied Falconer. “You wouldn’t know which way to go.”

“Damn’ queer thing,” muttered Terry McQueen. “Who would kill Blondell?”

“Shoot a man in the back,” growled Malone. “Gawd, he never had a
chance!”

“Don’t anybody know anythin’ about Blondell?” asked Hashknife. “He must
have some relations somewhere—somebody who would like to know.”

“He never told anybody,” said the bartender. “I’ve known him ever since
he came here, but he never talked. Drunk or sober, he kept still. Allus
wore a gun. Never smiled much.”

“Did he ever go away for any length of time?”

“Kept a horse in the livery stable, but he didn’t ride much.”

“What brand was on that horse?”

McQueen and Malone looked quickly at Hashknife.

“I dunno the brand,” said the bartender.

“It was a Double Diamond,” said McQueen. “Reed sold it to him.”

“I remember that,” said Falconer. “It belonged to Reed. He told me he
had sold it to Blondell. He also sold Blondell a saddle.”

McQueen nodded, and the boys returned to the poker table, trying to
force their interest back to cards.

Falconer went across the street to the biggest store, and Hashknife
wandered up the street a way, where he sat down on the edge of the
sidewalk. He wanted to think, to try to puzzle out why anyone would try
to kill him, and why someone had killed Blondell. Who was Blondell and
what had he done, he wondered? Did Blondell know someone was looking for
him? He had acted nervous.

Why did Malone and McQueen look at him so quickly when he asked what
brand Blondell’s horse wore? All the Double Diamond cowboys were in the
saloon; so none of them could have fired the shot. It would be difficult
to connect Blondell with rustling operations over around Gates Ajar.

Every one agreed that Blondell had had no trouble with anybody, with the
exception of his fight with Reed. Reed was gone from the Valley. Anyway,
their fight was nearly even. Both men had been knocked down. In fact,
Reed probably hurt Blondell worse. It was not a matter to commit murder
over; so Hashknife discarded any thought of that incident.

As he sat there in the dark he saw two men go diagonally across the
unlighted street above him. They reached the sidewalk and went on to the
front of Van Dorn’s little law office. Hashknife heard them unlock the
door and go in, closing the door behind them. The shade was nearly down,
but he saw the sudden glow of light, as they lighted a lamp.

There had been nothing furtive about their movements; merely a couple of
men going into a law office. But something urged Hashknife to go and see
what it was all about.

“That’s a funny hunch,” he told himself, as he got to his feet. “I must
be gettin’ jumpy.”

He pulled his hat tighter—there was a little wind—and went slowly down
the sidewalk. For several moments he stood listening, but could hear no
sound from within the office. As he stepped in closer, the lamp was
extinguished, and a moment later a man came out so suddenly that he was
almost against Hashknife before the cowboy could move.

There was a startled curse, and a revolver was fired so close to
Hashknife’s face that the powder burned him. Instinctively he ducked low
and flung himself forward, clawing at the man with both hands. He
collided with him and they crashed back against the building; but before
Hashknife could get his balance, the man swung at his head with the gun;
overswung a little, and his hand and gun butt came down squarely on
Hashknife’s head.

The blow was sufficient to knock the puncher to his knees, and in a daze
he heard the man running. Someone was yelling over near the saloon,
probably unable to tell where the shot had been fired. Hashknife sat
there long enough to get back his scattered senses, swore at himself for
getting knocked down, and finally got back to his feet. He balanced
himself against the door frame and lighted a match, before opening the
door.

On the sidewalk were several papers and a letter in a legal size
envelope, and Hashknife picked them up. Stepping into the office, he
lighted the lamp.

Someone had seen him light the match, and several men came running over
from the saloon. Hashknife unconsciously shoved the papers into his
pocket and looked down at Van Dorn, the fat attorney, who had been
struck over the head, and was just beginning to recover. The men crowded
in. Van Dorn’s small safe in the corner of the room was wide open, and
several papers were scattered about the floor.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The sheriff came striding in, and Hashknife turned to grin at him.

“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded the sheriff. “Who hit Van Dorn?”

Hashknife rubbed his sore head and tried to remember just what had
happened. Van Dorn gaped vacantly at the crowd, a trickle of blood
running down his nose. He rubbed it off with a pudgy forefinger and
looked at it.

“Mebbe the fat feller knows,” suggested Hashknife.

“Somebody socked you?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Sat me down real quick,” grinned Hashknife. “Powder burned me a little,
too, when his gun went off in my face.”

“What happened to you, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer nervously.

Two of the cowboys helped Van Dorn to a chair, and one of them mopped
his head with a handkerchief.

“He—he hit me on the head,” said Van Dorn foolishly.

“Who hit you on the head?” asked the sheriff.

“A man.”

“Who hit you, Hartley?”

“Same party,” grinned Hashknife.

Van Dorn looked at the open safe, his brows knitted thoughtfully.

“That is funny,” he muttered.

“Remember what happened?” asked Falconer.

“Why, yes, I remember now.”

He rubbed his head for several moments.

“Someone knocked on the door of my house. I went to the door, and there
was a masked man. He threatened me with his gun, warned me not to talk,
and made me go with him. I—I didn’t know what to do. He brought me down
here and told me to open my safe. I tried to explain that there wasn’t
any money in the safe, but he made me open it. And then—I guess he hit
me.”

“What do you know, Hartley?” queried the sheriff.

“Well, I saw ’em go into the office,” replied Hashknife. “I dunno why I
came over here. It was just a hunch. I was tryin’ to hear what was bein’
said in there, when the light went out and a man stepped out so quickly
he almost bumped into me. He fired his gun in my face, and when I
grabbed him, he socked me over the head.”

“What was in your safe, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer.

“Only private papers,” painfully. “Not a cent of money.”

“It looks as though he had taken all of ’em, except these,” picking up a
few and placing them on the desk.

Van Dorn was not attentive. His head was his chief concern, and he did
not seem interested in any investigation.

“You better see a doctor,” advised Falconer. “Want to go to his office,
or have him come up to your place?”

“I think I’ll go home; I’m sick.”

“How’s your head, Hashknife?” asked the sheriff.

“Oh, I didn’t get hit so hard,” grinned the tall cowboy.

Most of the crowd went back to the Sunset Saloon, where they crowded
around the bar and asked one another foolish questions. A murder and a
robbery gave them food for conversation. But Hashknife was not
interested in their arguments. His hunch was working again, and that
hunch told him to keep out of the light.

He went past the hotel entrance and stopped at the corner. From there he
could hear the voices over in the Sunset Saloon. Several men were in the
hotel office, talking things over. Hashknife knew there was a rear
entrance to the upper floor of the hotel; so he went cautiously around
to the rear, halting at the corner.

Someone was back there. He could hear him crossing the yard. It was too
dark to distinguish objects very well, but he was sure he saw a shadowy
figure going up the outside stairs. Of course, it might be someone
connected with the hotel.

Moving cautiously, he reached the bottom of the stairs and climbed up to
the open door. Peering down the dark hallway he could see a faint glow
of light from the front stairway, and could hear the dull buzz of
conversation from the office.

Slowly he went down the hall to his door, halting against the wall. He
knew the door was partly open, because he could feel the draught. It was
evident that the window was also open. It had been shut when he left,
and the door had been locked. But the door would be a simple matter for
anyone with a pass key or a piece of bent wire. Still, the fact remained
that the door was partly open and also the window.

“Queer,” said Hashknife to himself. “If somebody wanted to bushwhack me
in my room—why leave the door and window open?”

These thoughts flashed through his mind, as he flattened against the
wall near the door, and the answer came in the smashing report of a
revolver shot.

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_ Three more shots, the flashes lighting the hall. A
space of two or three seconds, followed by another shot—another. Six
shots in the space of ten seconds.

Another shot, a choking grunt, and a man stumbled out of the room,
backing erratically in the dark. Hashknife dived into him, like a
halfback making a flying tackle, and they went crashing down along the
wall. Quickly Hashknife caught his arms, but the man made no effort to
free himself.

Men were running up the stairs, and one came crowding from the rear,
carrying a lamp. Hashknife called for them to hurry. Sleepy, the sheriff
and Blue Snow were there. They had been looking for Hashknife. He let go
of his captive and got to his feet.

The man was of medium height, swarthy, black haired. He blinked at the
light, his lips shut tightly. More men came down the hall, and among
them was Falconer. They were all trying to question Hashknife, who knew
little more than they did. He went into his room, which was acrid with
burned powder, found a match and lighted the lamp.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Lying against the wall, his head almost against the window sill, was Ed
Reed. He was still alive, but hit hard. Hashknife picked up his gun, as
Falconer shoved forward, his jaw sagging.

“Ed!” he almost shouted. “Ed, what happened? My God, are you hurt bad?”

“Bring the other feller in here,” ordered Hashknife, and they carried
him in, placing him near Reed. The two wounded men stared at each other,
blinking in the light.

“What’s it all about, Hartley?” asked Falconer. “Can’t you talk, man?”

Hashknife laughed harshly.

“They got their wires crossed, I reckon. Both of ’em layin’ for me, and
they got each other.”

No one made any comment. Hashknife swung out the cylinder of Reed’s gun
and removed an empty shell. Glancing at it quickly, he turned to the
sheriff.

“Go and get the gun Jim Snow used.”

“I’ll get it,” said Smoky quickly. “You stay here, Singer.”

“You’re pretty damn’ smart, Hartley,” said Reed painfully.

“Not very. Why did you kill Jeff Blondell and rob Van Dorn’s safe?”

“You don’t know, eh?”

“Not yet.”

Reed laughed hoarsely.

“You’ll never know from me.”

“You stole Bar S Bar cattle and altered the brand to Cross 84.”

“Did we? Prove it, damn you!”

Hashknife smiled queerly and turned to the other man.

“You’re the man who killed Wilson, eh?”

The man said nothing. Perhaps he was too sick to deny anything.

“Didn’t Wilson play the game accordin’ to your rules?”

“Tell him nothin’,” groaned Reed. “He don’t know a damn’ thing.”

“Let’s see if I don’t. One of you was delegated to kill me tonight. It
wasn’t settled jist where the killin’ was to be done; so this friend of
yours decided to pull it off here in my room, but didn’t tell you, Reed.
Evidently he wanted to keep under cover. You killed Blondell, and you
recognized me when we tangled in front of Van Dorn’s office. Mebbe you
thought I recognized you. Anyway, you made a guess that your friend had
missed out on his end of the deal; so you came huntin’ me.”

At that moment Smoky came in, bringing Jim Snow’s six-shooter. Hashknife
opened the gun and examined the empty cartridges, comparing them with
the one from Reed’s gun.

“That cinches you, Reed,” he said. “Your gun is loaded with the same
brand of cartridges that you used to kill Chub Needham and Jim Snow. For
fear that somebody might hear those shots and wonder who fired all of
’em, you put two empty shells in Snow’s gun, makin’ three, with the one
he shot at you.

“Blue Snow thought he heard five shots. I figure there was six, and that
two were fired so close together that it sounded like one. Chub never
fired a shot, but you shot his gun in the air twice. Your first shot
killed Chub instantly. A moment later Jim Snow came in sight, headin’
for San Miguel. You swapped shots together, and you hit him. Then you
shot again real quick, and he went down.

“But you made a mistake when you put them other shells in Snow’s gun.
The firin’ pin on his gun hits dead center, while the pin on your gun
hits low on the cap. You stuffed that package of bonds inside Snow’s
shirt and kept the money for yourself.”

“That’s what Blondell said,” mumbled the other man. “He said Reed done
that job and never split with—”

“Shut your damn’ mouth,” groaned Reed. “You yaller dog!”

“What’s the good of it? We’re cinched. Get a doctor, will you?”

“Who tried to kill me the other night at the Double Diamond?” asked
Hashknife.

“Reed,” replied the other man. “Rotten shot. I told him—”

“Wait a minute. Who stole the Bar S Bar cattle?”

The man laughed shakily. He was getting weak from loss of blood.

“Hundred head at the old Ox-Bow ranch near Gates Ajar. Me and Reed
and—Blondell.... Find the rest if you can.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He got ’em for half what they was worth.”

“And you didn’t sell the last time, eh? You killed him and took all his
cash.”

“Have it your own way.”

“You dirty quitter!” grated Reed, but the other man did not hear him—he
had fainted.

Falconer’s face was white, his lips set in a grim line. He would have
staked his life on Reed’s honesty.

“Somebody better get the doctor,” said Hashknife. “I don’t think he’ll
be of much use to either of ’em, but we better get him. Now, Reed, tell
us why you cracked that safe?”

“I’ll see you in hell, first, you dirty snooper!”

Hashknife had shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, and now his
right hand came out, holding the few crumpled papers he had picked up in
front of Van Dorn’s office. He looked at them curiously. One was a large
envelope, apparently containing a single sheet of paper, and on the
outside was written in ink, JEFF BLONDELL—PRIVATE.

Some of the men moved in closer, wondering what was coming next. Reed
saw the envelope and his face twisted curiously as Hashknife tore it
open, taking out the single sheet, folded once. Swiftly he read it. Reed
tried to move, groaned hollowly and sank back.

“Will you quit now?” asked Hashknife, but Reed refused to answer.

Hashknife turned to the crowd.

“Listen to this letter, folks:

    “To be opened and read only in case I disappear or am killed in
    a mysterious way. This is my agreement with Van Dorn, who knows
    nothing about the contents of this letter.

    “My name is Henry Blondell Jeffries. Two years ago I was
    released from the Montana State Penitentiary, where I served a
    full term of five years for train robbery. While in the
    penitentiary I met a convict named Reed Haskell, who was serving
    twenty years for robbery and manslaughter.

    “Reed Haskell is Ed Reed, foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.
    He and another convict named Tony Blackburn slugged a guard and
    escaped. They both know of this letter, which I use as a
    safeguard. Either one of them would kill me like a snake, if
    they wasn’t afraid this letter would be read.

    “Reed Haskell, or Ed Reed, as he is known here, is paying well
    for what I know, and if you doubt my word, they can easily
    identify him at the pen.—HENRY BLONDELL JEFFRIES, OR JEFF
    BLONDELL.”

“And there you are,” finished Hashknife.

The crowd was silent. Reed was staring at the floor, eyes nearly shut.

“I suppose your friend is Tony Blackburn, eh?” queried Hashknife.

Reed nodded shortly, as the doctor came in, carrying his valise.

“One thing more,” said Hashknife. “The night Wilson was killed, wasn’t
it Blondell who came over there, ridin’ a Cross 84 horse?”

Reed nodded again.

“He wanted all the money, I suppose?”

“The dirty rat,” whispered Reed. “He had me cinched.”

The crowd moved out to give the doctor more room. Falconer took Blue
Snow by the arm and they moved down to the hotel office with Hashknife.

“I’ll make good on them stolen cattle, Blue,” he said. “I reckon your
father was right. I’m sorry as hell—and that’s all I can say.”

“That’s enough,” said Blue slowly. “I’d like to ride out and tell Jerry
what happened.”

“Fine. She’ll understand. You see, she’s got a lot more sense than her
dad.”

Blue turned to Hashknife and they shook hands silently. Falconer watched
Blue go striding out through the door, his chin in the air for the first
time since he came back to Sunset City.

“He’ll do well,” said Falconer softly. “Blue knows cows.”

“Knows girls, too,” said Hashknife seriously. “It’s a danged lucky thing
he came back to this country—lucky for both of you.”

Falconer nodded slowly.

“Yea-a-ah, a mighty lucky thing for me and mine, Hartley. But the
luckiest thing in the world that ever happened for all of us was when a
long legged puncher came down over the Rattlesnake Cañon grades, lookin’
for a shipment of cows.”

“And tried to bust the trust.”

“It’s busted, Hartley.”

Smoky came in from the street, still excited.

“Terry McQueen and Molly Malone pulled out south, just after all the
shootin’ took place,” he panted. “The bartender saw ’em go.”

“I wouldn’t chase ’em,” said Hashknife slowly. “They’ll be dodgin’ all
their life, anyway.”

Falconer put a hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.

“Hartley, I need a foreman, and I need two more men. You’re not a
regular buyer. Hang your hats at the Double Diamond—you and Sleepy. One
of these days I’ll want to step out, and I want a good man to run the
business.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully over his cigaret.

“Well, I’ll think it over, Falconer. Will you see that Kinnear gets a
good break on them beeves? You know what I mean.”

“I shore will. But—”

“Thank you kindly; and I’ll let you know about the other.”

Some of the men were coming down the stairs, talking, arguing. Hashknife
stepped outside, where Sleepy was standing beside one of the porch
posts, holding the reins of their two horses. Without a word they
mounted and rode down the street, passing out of Sunset City in the
darkness.

“I dang’ near accepted a job,” said Hashknife.

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“I seen Falconer talkin’ with you. This deal kinda knocks his horns off,
don’t it?”

“Complete.”

“Which way, cowboy?”

“Lemme see. North is San Miguel, east is Gates Ajar. What’s south?”

“A lot of tall hills.”

“Good—we’ll go south.”

And they went down through the darkness of San Miguel Valley, chap knee
rubbing chap knee, while the distant stars seemed to tumble down over
the tops of the southern hills, which beckoned them on to see what was
on the other side. What had just happened was all in a day’s
work—tomorrow was merely another day.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine,
November 1, 1929. It is believed to be in the public domain in the
United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]
