Front matter (continued 2)

“He was shot from behind,” reminded Sleepy.

“Which’ll make it go hard with Ben Lanpher,” nodded Buck over his drink. “It’s a fine start for a kid like him, and I feel a lot more sorry for his folks than I do for him. Yuh goin’ to wire ’em, ain’tcha, Trainor?”

“Just as soon as I get to town, Buck. Let’s go.”

Poco Saunders had saddled his horse and was waiting for them. Hashknife studied Poco, while Trainor and Buck Avery were saddling, and decided that Poco was a very sinister-looking young man; and might well be marked with a danger signal.

Whereas Smoky Cole was a talkative gunman, prone to boast of his prowess and more or less audible threatening, Poco would probably shoot first and talk about it later, if at all.

Trainor and Avery rode out from the corral, joined them, and the five of them headed for Wolf Wells at a gallop. Hashknife showed them where Smoky’s body had been discovered, and where Ben Lanpher’s gun and hat had been picked up, but Poco showed no interest in this.

Trainor looked curiously at Poco, who went on without them.

“Hit him kinda hard, I reckon,” he observed. “Him and Smoky were bunkies for a long time. Poco’s a good puncher, but he ain’t got much sense.”

“Part Mexican?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s got some Mexican blood in him, I reckon,” replied Buck. “Used to talk it a little once in a while. That’s where he got his nickname.”

They rode into town and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where they found several men talking with the sheriff. He had brought Ben Lanpher back with him and had locked him in a cell.

“He was still drunk,” said the sheriff, “and he sure was a meek jasper. Didn’t object to bein’ locked up, except to tell me he never done it. Mebbe he was so drunk that he didn’t know when he shot Cole. I dunno.”

“Man never gets so drunk that he don’t remember bushwhackin’ and killin’ a man,” declared Hashknife.

“Dang right he don’t,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “That ain’t no alibi,” and added sadly, “I wish I’d let their guns alone t’ day. One or both of ’em would ’a’ got killed, but it would ’a’ been legal. I s’pose I’ve got to spend most of my time feedin’ and takin’ care of prisoners now. Thank gosh, we’ve only got two cells. If we get any more prisoners we’ll have to pasture ’em out some’ers.”

A man came across the street and joined the group. He was a sallow-faced man, with tobacco-stained teeth and ink-stained fingers.

“I was just comin’ down to send a telegram to Lanpher,” said Trainor, addressing the newcomer. “You heard what happened, didn’t yuh, Whitey?”

“Yeah, I heard about it. Looks kinda bad for the kid.”

Trainor walked away with Whitey, going to the depot, and Hashknife and Sleepy put their horses into a corral. At the depot, Trainor sent a long message to William Lanpher, giving him the details of the trouble.

“There’s a telegram here for yuh, Trainor,” said the depot agent, as he checked off the words on Trainor’s message.

“I was goin’ to send it out to yuh, if somebody was goin’ out your way. This’ll cost yuh a dollar and sixty cents.”

Trainor paid for the message and walked out. At the edge of the platform he tore open the envelope and read the message, a serious frown on his face. Then he grinned softly and went back up the street.

When Ben Lanpher sobered up he failed to become the least bit repentant over what had happened to him. Trainor had consulted with George Mitchell, the lawyer from San Francisco, and had hired him to defend Ben, but Ben would have none of him.

Hashknife and Sleepy talked with the sheriff about Lanpher.

“He’s loco,” declared the sheriff. “Tells a tale that no jury would believe.”

“What about?” queried Hashknife.

“Aw, he says he never bushwhacked Cole a-tall.”

“I’d like to talk with him a while,” observed Hashknife, “and see if he tells the same thing twice.”

“Might be a good idea,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “Me and Fat’ll listen and see what it sounds like.”

“Prob’ly won’t talk to yuh. Mitchell comes down here to have a talk with him, but he cussed Mitchell plumb out of the jail. Mitchell told him that Trainor hired him to defend him, and it made Lanpher sore as ——. I’ll see if Ben’ll talk to yuh.”

The sheriff came back in a few minutes with the information that Ben was willing to talk to anybody who wasn’t connected with the Circle Cross outfit. They went through the office and into the rear, where two cells were built in at the back of the room.

Old Pinto Cassidy scowled at them through the bars, but noticed that they were strangers and became more friendly. Ben came to the barred door and squinted at Hashknife.

“I know you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re the jasper that winked over my shoulder. By —— that seems a long time ago. What did yuh want to see me for?”

“Ye don’t have to talk with ’em, if ye don’t want to, remimber that, Ben,” warned Cassidy. “Ye have to be careful who ye talk wid in here. Sure, it’s a —— of a place to be in, so it is.”

“That’s all right, Cassidy,” grunted Ben. “I’ve nothin’ to conceal.”

“Then tell us about it,” urged Hashknife. “What did you do after you left town yesterday?”

Ben forced a laugh and tried to peer around the corner of his door.

“I remember that Lonesome Hobbs played a dirty trick on me. After that I got on my horse and started home. I was pretty drunk—too drunk to ride fast, and I had a bad horse.

“I loaded my gun on the way, I remember that because I dropped some shells and got off to pick ’em up. I had a hard time getting back on my bronc, but finally made it.

“Then I seen Smoky Cole coming. He was quite a ways behind me, but he was foggin’ right along as though he was tryin’ to catch me. I didn’t want him to catch me, because I was just sober enough to know that a killing out there might look like murder.

“I rode on, but had a lot of trouble with that —— horse of mine. He almost threw me a couple of times, and I guess we wasted a lot of time along that brushy road. All to once, I thought that Smoky was shootin’ at me.”

Ben grinned wearily and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t see Smoky at all, but I sure heard him shoot. I drew my gun and waited for him to swing around the curve, but I guess I was just drunk enough to cause me to accidently pull the trigger. Anyway, I felt the gun kick out of my hand, and then that fool bronc started to buck again. That was the first time I ever shot off that horse, and I guess it was scared stiff.

“Anyway, we must have gone real fast, because I remember we were close to the Tomahawk when I got my reins back again. And that’s all, except that the sheriff woke me up later on and told me I had killed Smoky Cole.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigaret.

“That’s the whole story,” sighed Ben.

“And, by golly, it’s a good one, too,” added Cassidy. “You stick to that story, me lad. I stuck to mine—and look where I am.”

Hashknife laughed at Cassidy. Squawman he might be; a bitter old cattleman he surely was, but he still retained his sense of humor.

“If Cole had been killed several days ago, you might be a free man now, Cassidy,” said Hashknife.

“Ah, that’s true, me lad; but I’d suffer a long time in jail, if the poor misguided lad could be brought back to life. He was but goin’ accordin’ to his own lights, so he was.”

“Then he had a —— poor light!” snapped Ben.

“A lot of us have,” sighed Cassidy. “Mine has flickered badly at times. ’Tis hard to sit here the long days and know that me old ranch has no keeper, except Lorna and Jimmy. Sure, that’s no job for a bit of a lass and a well-meanin’, but poor managin’ lad. They’ll hold me and Bennie for the nixt term of court, which will be a long, long time away.”

“Don’t worry about that,” assured Sleepy. “We’ll do what we can to help yuh out.”

“Well, now that’s nice of ye,” said Cassidy, scratching his head as if wondering why these strangers would promise to help him in any way.

“What do you think of my story?” asked Ben anxiously.

“I dunno,” Hashknife shook his head. “It sounds reasonable, Lanpher—to me. But they’ll likely hold you for the next term of court. You’ve got an even break, thasall.”

“That’s all I want.”

As they started away, Cassidy called to them:

“Come again, lads. Ye’r the first folks I ever known in Wolf Wells that showed common sense. Ye’ll probably not find us out when ye come again.”

“All right,” laughed Hashknife as they passed out and shut the door behind them.

The sheriff and Lonesome had heard every word, and nodded to the two cowpunchers.

“Same story,” said Lonesome, leading the way outside. “Ben sure has got it rehearsed well, or he’s tellin’ the truth.”

“Sounds reasonable, at that,” commented Hashknife. “He shot the gun accidental, got his hat bucked off. But who in thunder killed Smoky Cole, if Ben Lanpher didn’t?”

The sheriff scowled and shook his head.

“I dunno of anybody that would bushwhack him, Hartley.”

“It’s kinda gettin’ to be a habit around here, ain’t it? Trainor has lost two other men in the same way.”

“Yeah,” breathed the sheriff, “—— it! It makes me nervous to think about it. Feller never knows who’s next.”

The sheriff looked so lugubrious that Hashknife laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

“I reckon yo’re safe, as long as yuh don’t antagonize the bushwhackers,” said Hashknife.

“Huh! Well, I dunno.”

Poco Saunders came into the upper end of town, dismounted at the Lily of the Valley hitch-rack, and walked down to them. Poco had a queer, stiff-legged walk, and held his elbows close to his sides.

“Trainor said he wanted to see yuh,” he told Hashknife.

“What’s he got on his mind?” queried Hashknife.

“I dunno. Bronc stepped on his foot this mornin’, and he can’t walk. Mebbe he wants to hire yuh? I dunno.”

“Did he ask for both of us?” queried Sleepy.

Poco shook his head, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon.

“He’s a queer jigger,” observed Lonesome; “dangdest feller to run out of words thataway.”

“He don’t talk much, that’s a cinch,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his feet. “I reckon we’ll get a bit to eat, Sleepy.”

They walked up to a restaurant and ordered a meal. It was not like Hashknife to accept a job alone, but the circumstances were different this time.

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Sleepy.

“I been wonderin’ a lot m’self, Sleepy. Suppose you go out to the Tomahawk and help ’em out a little, cowboy. Keep yore eyes open and yore mouth shut; sabe? I’ll take this Circle Cross job, if that’s what Trainor wants.

“But—” Hashknife put his hand on Sleepy’s arm and spoke softly—“for gosh sake, look out. I’ve got a feelin’ that we’re marked right now. This is goin’ to be our hardest job, Sleepy. Yuh can’t dodge a bullet that’s fired at yore back—and that’s their game. There’s a dirty bunch of murderers in these hills, and they’ll hand us a harp if they get a chance.”

“But there ain’t nothin’ to work on,” complained Sleepy. “They won’t come out into the open and everybody’s afraid to say what they think. I’ll find out what I can without askin’ questions, and if I do stumble on to anythin’ worth talkin’ about, I’ll see yuh real quick.”

They finished their meal and went to the corral after their horses. Poco Saunders saw them ride past the saloon, but made no move to join them. About half-way to where the road forked to the Circle Cross, they met Jimmy, the half-breed, from the Tomahawk.

He grinned widely and drew up his broncho.

“You go Tomahawk?” he asked.

“I’m goin’ out there,” said Sleepy. “Maybe I stay and help for a while.”

“That —— good! Both go?”

“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I’m goin’ to work for the Circle Cross, Jimmy.”

“Not good,” Jimmy shook his head.

“You don’t like the Circle Cross?”

“No, by ——!”

And then to Sleepy—

“I be back soon.”

He spurred his horse ahead and faded out in a cloud of dust.

“The Tomahawk sure does love the Circle Cross,” laughed Hashknife. “No wonder they drew a dead-line. Find out what it was all about, Sleepy. Prob’ly just a personal affair, but we’ve got to consider everything around here. But don’t come bustin’ over with the first thing yuh find out. Let it soak into yore mind, cowboy.”

They shook hands at the forks of the road and went on their different ways. They had fought their range-battles together for so long that they both felt a trifle helpless apart.

“Some day they’ll get us both,” mused Hashknife, as he rode slowly along the dusty road. “Yuh can dodge bullets just so long, but they’ll get yuh in the end. Dang Sleepy! If he’ll only keep his darned eyes open. He needs a keeper, that’s what he needs. Mebbe I won’t like this Circle Cross job—mebbe.”

He found Jim Trainor sitting in an easy chair on the ranch-house porch, a bottle beside him and his right foot swathed in bandages.

“Put up your bronc, Hartley,” he called. “You’ve got a job. Buck will show yuh where to put him.”

Buck Avery called from the bunk-house and joined Hashknife at the barn, where they stabled the horse.

“Bronc stepped on Jim’s foot,” explained Buck. “Dang fool won’t send for a doctor, so he can suffer for all of me. Yuh seen Poco, did yuh?”

“Yeah, he sent me out.”

They sauntered up to the ranch-house and Trainor yelled for Quong to bring two more glasses. Trainor was already half-drunk, but in a good humor.

“I was wonderin’ if Poco would find yuh before yuh got another job,” he explained. “You’re a top-hand, I can see that, Hartley. Losin’ Smoky Cole kinda puts me short-handed, and now I go and get walked on. —— horse was sharp-shod, too. Pour your own drinks, gents.

“I ought to be gettin’ an answer from Lanpher pretty soon. I found Mitchell, that lawyer, and told him to take the kid’s case, but the kid cussed —— out of him. That sure is appreciation. I suppose things will have to ride about like they are until Lanpher shows up from Frisco and looks things over. What do you think of the case, Hartley?”

“Well, it kinda looks like the kid was guilty,” observed Hashknife. “Mebbe the law will consider that they were both drunk at the time; but that’s a poor defense. A feller ain’t so awful drunk when he’ll bushwhack a man and kill him the first shot.”

“Ben Lanpher is a good shot, too,” said Buck Avery. “He never did do nothin’ but drink whisky and practise shootin’.”

“Two bad things to mix,” declared Trainor thoughtfully, and then—

“Where’s your partner, Hartley?”

Hashknife looked up quickly.

“Did yuh want to hire him, too?”

“Want to—yes; but I haven’t work enough.”

“He went out to the Tomahawk ranch. Sleepy’s always doin’ somethin’ for folks, and he kinda thought mebbe they’d need a little help. This deal makes it kinda tough for the Tomahawk.”

“That’s a fact,” Trainor scowled at his glass, shaking his head sadly. “Yuh know, I should ’a’ sent one of the boys over there to help ’em out.”

“They’d be welcome,” laughed Buck. “Welcome, like the smallpox.”

“Me and Sleepy came past there a while back,” volunteered Hashknife. “Wasn’t sure just what ranch it was, but we was kinda dry; so we stopped for a drink. They treated us fine.”

“You were lucky,” said Trainor, pouring himself another drink. “You work for me and you won’t dare go over there.”

“They didn’t look dangerous. Nobody there, except the old lady, the girl and the half-breed puncher.”

“Uh-huh,” Trainor’s voice was mildly sarcastic. “Don’t underrate that half-breed, Hartley. He’s one of the best rifle-shots you ever seen.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife leaned back against a porch-post and hugged his knees.

“Yuh know, I’ve never seen such a country for crack-shots as this is. Mostly everybody I’ve heard spoken about has that reputation. If trouble ever starts there won’t be more’n one box of shells needed to kill off the whole danged population.”

Trainor laughed boisterously and handed the bottle to Buck.

“We sure can shoot, can’t we, Buck? I betcha Hartley can shoot a few, too, eh, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Trainor. Me and Sleepy never put ourselves up to be good shots, but we’re willin’ shooters. Lotsa folks can out-shoot us, but,” Hashknife grinned softly, “we’re still alive.”

“And some of them ain’t, eh?” grinned Buck suggestively.

“Every dog has its day,” said Hashknife slowly. “None of us can live forever. I always worked on the theory that bein’ right gives yuh the edge on folks that do wrong. That’s why a horse-thief goes to the end of his rope in a short time. A gunman cuts a short swath. If yuh notice, they don’t last long, and it’s because they’re all wrong. Look at Smoky Cole. Look at Ben Lanpher.”

“Your theory don’t work out right, Hartley,” laughed Trainor. “It wasn’t a case of right winnin’ out there. Ben Lanpher wasn’t any more right than Smoky.”

“All right—where’s Ben Lanpher? The law got him, and the law is right.”

“Oh, to —— with such arguments!” blurted Trainor. “Fill up your glass, Hartley. Here comes Poco. Didja tell him to get the mail, Buck?”

“Yeah, I told him,” said Buck.

Poco rode down to the stable, put up his horse and came slowly up to the house. He nodded to Hashknife and handed Trainor a telegram. Buck offered Poco a glass and the bottle, but the flinty-faced cowpuncher refused with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

“Telegram from William Lanpher,” explained Trainor. “He’ll arrive at Wolf Wells tomorrow night. Don’t say whether he’s alone or not. —— it, I told him he ought to take Ben home months ago, but he wouldn’t do it.”

“Ben is of age,” grunted Buck. “He had a birthday about a month ago and celebrated it by gettin’ drunk and shootin’ at himself in the Antelope mirror. There was busted glass all over the place. Somebody said he’d have bad luck for seven years.”

“Mrs. Lanpher’ll probably come,” said Trainor thickly. “She thinks Ben’s a little tin god.”

“He’s her son.” Thus Poco Saunders, speaking for the first time since he arrived.

“He ain’t worth worryin’ about, that’s a cinch,” laughed Trainor.

“Good or bad, their mother worries,” said Poco flatly, and got to his feet.

He started to say something more, but changed his mind and went down to the bunk-house.

Hashknife looked after him and squinted thoughtfully. He had disliked Poco Saunders—until that remark. It showed that somewhere inside that sinister-looking cowpuncher was a big spark of human nature.

“Good or bad, their mother worries,” repeated Hashknife to himself. “She thinks that Ben is a tin-god—but he’s her son.”

“Queer sort of a jigger,” said Buck, noticing that Hashknife was looking toward the bunk-house.

“Poco don’t drink like other folks. He won’t take a drink until he is ready to get drunk. Then he hides his gun, and proceeds to get goshawful drunk. He won’t talk much, but he’s no fool, Poco ain’t.”

“No, I betcha he ain’t,” agreed Hashknife. “If I was goin’ to pick an enemy, I sure wouldn’t pick Poco Saunders.”

“The killin’ of Smoky Cole kinda hit him hard,” said Buck. “He used to grin once in a while, but now he goes around with the same hard-faced expression all the time. I’ll bet he’d make a scrap-heap out of Ben Lanpher, if he had the chance.”

“Aw, to —— with ’em all!” snorted Trainor. “Hey! Quong! Bring us another bottle. I’m celebratin’ a busted foot and I need a lot of liquor.”

“Ex-cuse me then,” laughed Hashknife apologetically, “my stummick ain’t in good shape, and I never did need much liquor. I’ll go down and get used to the bunk-house.”

Trainor frowned slightly, but gave a drunken shrug of his shoulders.

“You know your own insides, Hartley. If me and Buck get plumb paralyzed, you and Poco run the ranch, will yuh?”

“We’ll do our best,” laughed Hashknife, and went down to the bunk-house, where he found Poco Saunders playing solitaire.

Poco nodded, but kept on with his game.

“Which bunk do I take?” asked Hashknife.

Poco pointed out two unoccupied bunks and began rolling a cigaret. His tobacco sack was almost empty, so Hashknife tossed a full sack in front of him. He nodded his thanks and finished his cigaret. Suddenly he turned and looked straight at Hashknife.

“Do you think that Ben Lanpher killed Smoky Cole?”

Hashknife’s face did not change a line, but his eyes squinted a trifle, as he replied—

“What makes yuh think he didn’t, Saunders?”

Poco turned back to the table and gathered up the cards.

“I was just wonderin’,” he said slowly. “Lanpher was pretty drunk.”

“If Ben didn’t kill him, who did?” asked Hashknife.

He had asked the same question several times, but no one had given him the slightest clue to show who might have done the murder. And he was doomed to disappointment this time. Poco inhaled deeply and shuffled the cards.

“There was several of that jury that was sore at him,” reminded Hashknife.

“Not sore enough to murder him.”

“Lotsa folks seem to think that Smoky Cole got what was comin’ to him.”

“Thasso?” Poco scowled thoughtfully at his cards, and turned slowly, facing Hashknife.

“They say that Smoky wasn’t any good, Hartley. He drank and raised —— in general every time he got money enough. Smoky was a gunman, and mebbe, accordin’ to law, he wasn’t just the sweetest little citizen yuh could imagine; but he was my bunkie.

“Me and Smoky shared the same blanket for a long time. We split fifty-fifty on everythin’—me and Smoky did. He might ’a’ been an enemy of society, as the judge said at Cassidy’s trial, speakin’ about criminals, but he was a good friend of mine.”

Poco shifted his eyes and looked out through the dusty window, where the last rays of the sunset back-lighted the old cottonwoods beyond the creek, and the lines of his face softened until he was no longer the sinister-looking cowboy.

“He was my bunkie—my pal,” he said softly.

“I reckon I understand,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve got a bunkie, too, Saunders.”

Poco turned and looked at him, as he got slowly to his feet and walked over to the door.

“I know yuh have,” said Poco softly, “and—and yuh might tell him to look out.”

Hashknife squinted wonderingly, as Poco shut the door behind him.

“What does he know?” wondered Hashknife, half-aloud. “And why does he tell me to warn Sleepy?”

There was no question that Poco Saunders knew something; that he did not believe Ben Lanpher guilty of murder. Hashknife wondered if Poco knew something about the Fantom Riders, who were making inroads on the cattlemen of the Ghost Hills Range; and was afraid to name them.

“It’s too foggy for me to see through,” he decided, “so I reckon we’ll have to let nature take her course.”

Came the musical clanging of the cook’s triangle, which announced that supper was ready at the Circle Cross. As Hashknife stepped outside, Poco Saunders was crossing from the barn.

“We’ll feed alone t’night,” he observed, motioning toward the front porch of the ranch-house.

“Trainor and Buck are both paralyzed drunk.”

“Do they make a practise of drinkin’ each other to sleep?” asked Hashknife.

“No. Trainor don’t drink much, and Buck only cuts loose once a month. Help yourself to a wash-pan.”

The next day, neither Trainor nor Buck Avery was in any shape for active duties. Hashknife asked Trainor what he wanted done, and Trainor was so muddled in the head that he had no coherent ideas. He finally told Hashknife to do what he pleased; so Hashknife saddled his gray bronco and headed into the hills, cutting across toward the Tomahawk.

He wanted to find Sleepy and tell him what Poco Saunders had said; but most of all he wanted to see if Sleepy was all right.

Circle Cross, Tomahawk and Flying M cattle dotted the hills, but the Circle Cross predominated. The feed was fairly good and there seemed plenty of water. It was an ideal range as far as nature was concerned.

As he swung higher into the hills he could see the town of Wolf Wells, a blur of buildings in the swale-like little valley, and beyond that drifted the smoke of a train. There was little color in the hills. Even the foliage of the few trees was of a gray tint that blended into the gray of the forbidding-looking hills.

“Ghost Hills is the right name for ’em,” he told his horse, as he swung along a hog-back, which led to the little valley of the Tomahawk ranch.

He found Sleepy humped up in the doorway of the ranch-house, trying to coax a tune out of a one-string mandolin, while Lorna leaned against the wall and smiled at his serious efforts.

“Hyah, cowboy!” yelled Sleepy. “By gosh, I’m glad for to see yuh. Git down and listen to the ‘Cowboy’s Lament,’ done to a turn on one string.”

Hashknife dismounted and came up to the doorway. Lorna nodded to him, but it was plainly evident that he was not exactly welcome, and he blamed it to the fact that he was working for the Circle Cross. Mrs. Cassidy came to the door, bobbed her head and went back to her work.

“Here, you play it, Lorna,” Sleepy handed her the mandolin, and grinned at Hashknife. “She can play it, too.”

But Lorna did not seem disposed to exhibit her musical ability. She took the instrument and went into the house.

“Callin’ her by her first name already, eh?” chided Hashknife seriously.

Sleepy blushed and rubbed his stubbled chin.

“Well, there ain’t no harm in that, is there?”

“No-o-o, I s’pose not. Lemme tell yuh somethin’, cowboy.”

And in a few words, Hashknife repeated what Poco Saunders had said.

“What do yuh reckon he meant?” asked Sleepy. “Look out for what?”

“Just that, and no more, Sleepy. I tell yuh, they’re on to us and Poco knows it.”

“Yeah, and Poco’s probably one of the gang.”

“If he is, why should he warn us?”

Sleepy shook his head violently.

“That’s what I hate about this —— country, Hashknife. They’re all too scared to talk. But I found out that the Tomahawk has lost a lot of stock. And old Cassidy never killed that detective, no more than I did. There’s a bad, bad gang back in these hills, cowboy; and they swoop out and strike hard at anybody that horns into their business.”

“Want to pick up and drift out?” queried Hashknife.

Sleepy glanced back at the doorway and shook his head.

“No more than you do, Hashknife. We’ll strike a lead pretty soon. I tried to pump the half-breed puncher, but he’s close-mouthed like all Injuns. Mebbe he don’t know any more than we do, but he’s scared to talk.”

“Suppose we take a ride into the hills,” suggested Hashknife. “We’ll kinda look around and see what we can see.”

“That’s a pious idea,” agreed Sleepy. “I’ll get my horse.”

Lorna stood in the doorway and watched them ride away. Sleepy waved at her, but she made no move to show that she had seen him.

“Yo’re free, white and twenty-one,” said Hashknife, “but you ain’t above takin’ friendly advice, are yuh, Sleepy?”

“Well, I ain’t makin’ love to her—if that’s what yuh mean.”

“Yuh don’t have to make love, cowboy. It’s already made. Do yuh know what I mean?”

“Yore advice is accepted,” grinned Sleepy. “Let’s forget the female end of this proposition.”

They rode straight back to the main divide of the Ghost Hills, and swung in a wide circle. It was a wild range, where an army might be able to hide without fear of detection. They found two deserted old cabins, windowless and doorless, where the range horses sought shelter from the flies; but there were no other signs of human habitation.

It was nearly sundown when they came back to the Tomahawk. Jimmy, the half-breed, was there and greeted them with a grin. Hashknife did not dismount, but rode back to the Circle Cross, where he found supper on the table, Buck half-drunk again and Trainor swearing at his sore foot. Poco was eating supper.

Buck was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome, and insisted that he was going down to meet the Lanpher family, or as many of them as were coming that night.

Trainor was just as emphatic in telling Buck that he was seven kinds of a fool to even think he was. Trainor appealed to Hashknife.

“He’d be a fine lookin’ thing to meet the owner of this ranch, wouldn’t he? Wouldn’t Mrs. Lanpher and Helen appreciate havin’ him meet ’em, Hartley?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I dunno them folks, but I reckon yo’re right.”

Buck exploded with protestations that he was as sober as a judge, and called upon Poco to look upon him and see if he—Buck—wasn’t fit to meet a king and queen.

But Poco refused to be drawn into the argument and Buck subsided in a chair, where he began to snore.

“I don’t like to ask it of yuh, Hartley,” said Trainor, “but would yuh mind meetin’ them folks and bringin’ ’em out here? They’ll be in about nine o’clock tonight,” if the train is on time, which it probably won’t be.

“You can get a two-seated hack at the livery-stable and lead your horse back. Yuh won’t be able to miss ’em, ’cause we don’t have many strangers come into Wolf Wells.”

“Sure, I’ll go after ’em, Trainor. As soon as I get through eatin’ a bit of supper, I’ll go right down-town.”

“Take yore time, Hartley. I’m goin’ to bed right now. This danged foot is givin’ me thunder tonight, and I drank too much last night. Feller’s a fool to drink whisky.”

Hashknife sat down across from Poco and accepted of Quong’s culinary art. He had not eaten since breakfast, and the fat Celestial grinned with delight as Hashknife stowed away great quantities of food.

“Belly good,” observed Quong, “Cook plenty—nobody eat. Too much whisky, yo’ sabe? Yo’ eat good, I’m ve’y glad.”

“Then I’ll make yuh glad a lot of times,” laughed Hashknife.

Hashknife took his time, and it was growing dark when he mounted his gray bronco and headed for Wolf Wells. Just before he reached the forks of the road he saw a rider pass, going toward town.

It was a little too far for identification, but he noted that the man was riding a gray or a grayish-roan horse. The rider had disappeared when Hashknife reached the main road, and he made no effort to overtake him.

The air was cool and Hashknife had plenty of time to go to town and arrange for the livery-rig before train-time. He was riding slowly, scanning the road, near the spot where Ben Lanpher’s gun had been found, when the whip-like report of a rifle sounded from the left.

Hashknife’s horse swerved quickly, and for a moment Hashknife thought the shot had been fired at him, but there had been no sound from a bullet. He dropped off his horse, drew his six-shooter and led the horse down the road.

There were no more shots. The fringe of timber and brush along the road masked him from the hillside, but also precluded any chance of his seeing the shooter.

He led his horse around the first turn and stopped short. Almost at the same spot where Smoky Cole had been killed stood a man and a horse. The man appeared to be leaning against the horse, as if bracing himself, but when he saw Hashknife he threw up a six-shooter and fired.

Hashknife instinctively ducked, but the bullet hummed off through the brush ten feet away, and the man mounted swiftly although awkwardly and raced down the road.

Hashknife threw up his gun, but snapped it back into its holster, as he mounted swiftly and spurred after the rider.

He knew the speed of his gray horse, and felt sure that he could run his quarry down, if they kept to the road.

“Left handed son-of-a-gun!” snorted Hashknife. “Can’t shoot straight, that’s a cinch. C’mon, bronc!”

They whirled out into the more open country and Hashknife grinned to see that the rider was still traveling down the road. But the horse ahead, even with its long handicap start, was no match for the long-legged gray, which cut down its lead at every stride.

The rider looked wildly back and even turned in his saddle and tried to get into position for another shot, but, as the running gray horse drew closer, he jerked up on his reins and threw up his hands in token of surrender.

“Don’t shoot!” he called, and Hashknife squinted through a cloud of dust at the face of Jimmy, the half-breed.

Hashknife moved in closer and noticed that Jimmy’s right arm was bleeding badly.

“That’s why yuh shot left-handed, eh?” panted Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded quickly. “Other arm no good.”

“Who shot yuh?”

Jimmy squinted at Hashknife and licked his lips.

“You don’t shoot me?” he asked.

“No. I heard the shot. Then you shot at me?”

Jimmy nodded and felt of his arm tenderly.

“I thought you shoot me, but I guess not. You can’t be two place same time. Who shoot me, you s’pose?”

“Hard to tell, Jimmy. Is your arm hurt bad?”

“Pretty bad. Almost knock me off horse.”

He rolled up his sleeve and they examined the wound. The bullet had struck near the wrist and had cut a furrow almost to the elbow. It was a painful, but not a serious wound; and Hashknife bound it up with a big handkerchief.

“How in thunder did yuh get hit in that arm?” queried Hashknife. “The shot came from the left-side of the road.”

“I dunno,” said Jimmy blankly. “I reach up to rub my nose, I think.”

“By gosh, that was close!” exploded Hashknife, “that bullet must ’a’ passed close to yore chin, hooked into yore wrist and kicked loose at your elbow. Now, who in —— wants to kill you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s eyes were troubled as he thought deeply, but his answer was not at all evasive:

“I dunno. I never hurt nobody.”

“All right, Jimmy; let’s be driftin’.”

“I go after coffee,” explained Jimmy. “Lorna want coffee for Sleepy.”

Hashknife grinned widely, as they rode on, but deep in his heart he was afraid that Sleepy might fall in love with this half-breed girl. But he forgot that as he studied Jimmy and his grayish-roan horse.

It would have been easy to mistake them in that light for himself and the gray horse, he reflected. Were the Fantom Riders aware that he and Sleepy were trying to smoke them out, and were trying to ambush them?

If that were the case, they would get them sooner or later. Hashknife shuddered slightly. He was convinced that they had mistaken their man and had injured Jimmy. There was no way to guard against an ambush. They would likely try another place next time. He turned to Jimmy.

“You better see a doctor about that arm, Jimmy. I’ll pay the bill.”

“No,” Jimmy shook his head quickly. “I go back and let Minnie fix it. She know how.”

“Minnie is Mrs. Cassidy, ain’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you and Lorna related?”

“—— no! My mother and Minnie sisters, thasall.”

Hashknife grinned, but did not try to explain that Jimmy and Lorna were cousins. Anyway, it would mean nothing to Jimmy.

Hashknife left Jimmy at the general store and went to arrange for the livery-rig. He knew that Jimmy would not discuss the shooting with any one. Coming back from the livery-stable he found the sheriff at his office.

“Lanpher’s comin’, eh?” said the sheriff, after Hashknife had spoken of meeting him at the depot.

“The rest of the family comin’?”

“I dunno. The telegram didn’t say, but Trainor talks like they was all comin’.”

“I kinda feel sorry for them folks,” mused the sheriff. “I like Lanpher. Never did get acquainted with his wife and daughter. I reckon I’ll go over with yuh and meet ’em.”

Contrary to predictions the train was on time. Lanpher, his wife and daughter were all there, with innumerable bags and suitcases. Hashknife was lucky enough to reach Lanpher first, and gave him the whispered warning—

“Remember, you don’t know me.”

Then came the sheriff, hand outstretched.

“Glad to meetcha ag’in, Lanpher; but not under these circumstances.”

Lanpher shook hands with him, and asked—

“Can we see Ben?”

“Sure thing, yuh can. He don’t know yo’re comin’, but I’ll bet he’ll be glad to see yuh all. Hartley’ll take care of yore things.”

Hashknife was glad to get them out of his way, while he loaded the baggage. He drove the team down to the sheriff’s office and waited for them to finish their visit. They were in there quite a while, and had nothing to say when they climbed into the two-seater and headed for the ranch.

Lanpher rode with Hashknife on the front seat, and after they were out of the town he asked—

“Well, what have you found out, Hartley?”

“We’ve found out that a man’s life ain’t worth a plugged dime, Lanpher. As far as the rustlers are concerned, they’re as safe as ever. We can’t find out a thing. I’m with the Circle Cross and Sleepy is with the Tomahawk; but we’ll both be cowboy angels pretty soon, I reckon.”

“But they do not know what you are doing here,” protested Lanpher.

“Don’t they? That’s fine,” Hashknife laughed softly. “There’s been a leak somewhere, Lanpher. They sure do know us. You didn’t wire anybody, did yuh?”

“No, I did not. I was willing to let you two run this to suit yourselves, Hartley. I wired Trainor that we were coming, but that is the only wire I have sent him since you were at my home.”

“It’s sure got me fightin’ my head,” admitted Hashknife.

“What do you make of the case against Ben?”

“Well, it looks to me like another Fantom Rider deal, and Ben accidently happens along and gets the blame for it. He didn’t kill Smoky Cole.”

“I want to thank you for that,” said Mrs. Lanpher brokenly. “It is good to think that someone besides us believes him innocent.”

“Cassidy is very bitter,” said Lanpher, after a long pause. “He cursed me in the jail a while ago. He seems to blame me for what has happened to him, but I had nothing to do with it. The sheriff told me that Trainor was crippled.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell yuh that. A horse stepped on him.”

“Too bad. What do you think of the Circle Cross?”

“Dunno yet. Looks like a rich ranch.”

“Rich! Say, you’d be surprized to know what that ranch has already cost me, Hartley. I’d sell out in a minute, if I could get back what I’ve spent on it.”

“I’ll betcha. Hills are pretty tonight, ain’t they?”

They drove up to the ranch-house and Trainor hobbled out to meet them, with the aid of a cane. Hashknife unloaded the baggage and placed it on the porch, while they went into the house.

Then he drove to the barn, unhitched the horses, stabled them and went to the bunk-house where he found Buck and Poco snoring a duet. Buck had a half-empty whisky-bottle on a chair beside his bunk, and one of his boots had been placed upside down over a bunk-post.

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and sat down on the edge of his bunk to remove his boots. Poco stirred, sat up, his eyes filled with sleep. He squinted at Hashknife, grunted a hoarse greeting and slumped back on to his pillow. One of Poco’s hands was exposed and Hashknife noticed that there was a circle of whang-leather around his wrist. He looked closer, when he saw that a leather thong ran from the wrist under the blanket, and was drawn taut.

Poco’s cartridge belt was hanging from the bunk-post, and over this was hung a coat, but when Hashknife crossed to the table to light his cigaret from over the chimney of the oil-lamp, he was able to see that the holster was empty.

Hashknife went back, undressed and blew out the lamp. He sat on the edge of the bunk for a long time, but finally crawled between the blankets and placed his six-shooter under the blanket beside him.

“Poco is scared of somethin’,” mused Hashknife. “He’s got his six-gun linked to him—and a feller don’t anchor himself to a thing like that to keep from fallin’ out of bed. Dang him, I’d like to trade talk with him. But I reckon he’s scared like everybody else—and me included.”

“Buck is goin’ over to the Flyin’ M to see old man Shappee for me, and Poco is goin’ to drive an extra team to town; so we can get rid of this livery-outfit. You can go with Buck, if yuh want to, or yuh can stay here and see what yuh can do about fixin’ up the fence of the brandin’ corral.”

Trainor had hobbled down to the barn, with the aid of a cane; and was talking with Hashknife while Poco and Buck harnessed the teams.

“Well, yo’re the boss,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll go with Buck if yuh say so; but it don’t take two men to pack a message. Mebbe I better fix up that fence.”

“Whatever yuh want to do, Hartley. Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher want to go down and see Ben; so I’ll go with ’em. Miss Lanpher has a bad headache and will stay home.”

“All right, I’ll stay here and help Quong run the ranch.”

Poco drove away with the ranch-wagon, while Buck drove up to the house with the livery-rig, picked up the Lanphers and Trainor and drove away.

Hashknife secured a hammer and nails and worked on the corral for a time; but Hashknife was no carpenter and the work palled. Anyway, it was too hot to work. He went back and sat down in the shade of the bunk-house. Somehow, he felt much safer with a solid wall at his back.

Miss Lanpher came out on the ranch-house porch and sat down with a magazine. She glanced idly through it for a while, but put it aside and looked around.

Hashknife got up and walked to the porch.

“Mornin’, Miss Lanpher. How’s the headache?”

She looked at him closely, frowned slightly and said—

“I do not believe I have ever met you.”

“Yes’m, yuh have,” he smiled. “Me and Sleepy was at your house in Frisco not long ago. Yore pa introduced us.”

“Perhaps,” she nodded coldly, “but I do not remember you. Are you one of the cowboys?”

“Well,” Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully, “yuh might brand me as such. I brought yuh in from Wolf Wells last night, if yuh remember.”

“Oh, you were the driver.”

She picked up the magazine and opened it before she looked at him and said—

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Hashknife’s smile faded and he studied her for a moment.

“Yes’m, I was just kinda wonderin’, don’tcha know it?”

“Well?” Icily.

“Just kinda wonderin’ if it’s the fogs that make Frisco folks so chilly.”

She looked questioningly at him, as if at a loss to know what he meant; but he merely turned, put on his hat and walked back toward the bunk-house.

“That was a —— mean thing to say,” he chuckled to himself. “But she’s prob’ly so high-toned that she’d have to have it explained to her.”

He went back to the corral and spent the rest of the morning hammering lustily. The ringing of the triangle, as Quong announced the mid-day meal, caused him to hang up his hammer and admire the collection of bruises he had acquired.

Quong was standing just outside the kitchen, fanning himself with a towel as Hashknife came striding across the yard, heading for the wash-bench.

Suddenly he jolted hard in his stride and jerked sidewise. An angry bee had buzzed past his head, or what had seemed to be a whizzer of some sort; but the buzz was punctuated by a loud—

Whap!

Quong dropped his towel and jerked away, staring wildly at the door-casing behind him, where a bullet had drilled a neat hole.

Zee-e-e-e—blam!

Then came the thin, far-away crack of a rifle. Quong fairly fell into the kitchen, and Hashknife was right on his heels.

The second bullet had gone in through the doorway and had torn a gaping hole in Quong’s big copper kettle on the stove, and the soup was spewing out all over the hot griddles.

The room was filled with steam and odors of burning grease, plentifully mixed with Celestial chatter that might be oaths or prayers.

Hashknife grasped a cloth and managed to fling the kettle outside. Miss Lanpher came to the door from the dining-room, wondering at the turmoil. She stared around, and Quong caught sight of her. He immediately began bombarding her with pidgin-English, but Hashknife stopped him.

“Wait a minute, Quong,” and then to Miss Lanpher—

“Miss Lanpher, this is Quong, the cook. Quong, this is Miss Lanpher.”

Hashknife stepped gracefully back and motioned for Quong to continue, but Quong had forgotten what to say, and turned back to his stove.

Miss Lanpher looked coldly at Hashknife and her eyebrows lifted a trifle, as she said:

“That was very thoughtful of you, I am sure. But I have known Quong a long time. I was here several weeks about a year ago.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, it was my mistake, ma’am.”

“Now, what happened in here, Mr. Hartley?”

“Well, Miss Lanpher, somebody took two shots at the cook and ventilated the soup-pot. Nothin’ serious.”

“Took a shot at the cook?” she gasped. “Why—why how ridiculous!”

“Yes’m, I s’pose it was. Missed him both times, too.”

She called to Quong and he stopped wiping the stove long enough to turn his head.

“Quong, did somebody shoot at you?”

He looked fearfully toward the door and nodded violently.

“Yessash, two time. I go way bimeby. Too —— much shoot fo’ me. Soup all gone; kittle busted. ——’s bells!”

“Quong!”

Hashknife laughed and went to the door, where he managed to retrieve the punctured kettle with a broom-handle. He dumped out the soup-bone, and with it came a battered piece of lead—the badly mushroomed bullet that had busted up Quong’s soup.

Hashknife examined it closely and showed it to Quong.

“Looks like a thirty-thirty, Quong.”

Calibers meant nothing in Quong’s life, but he realized what that bullet would have done to him. Hashknife showed it to Miss Lanpher, but it failed to excite her in the least.

“Who would shoot at Quong?” she asked, as if she did not believe it at all.

Quong turned quickly, a grin on his fat face.

“Mebbyso acclident. Somebody shoot clyote—bullet come heah. What you t’ink?”

“Now that’s fine,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that’s it, Quong. Too bad it busted the kettle.”

“You mean that they were shooting at something else and the bullet accidently came down here?” Thus Miss Lanpher, incredulously.

“There’s a lot of coyotes in the hills,” said Hashknife, evading the direct question.

“There’s some wolves and a lot of pole-cats, too, ma’am. I wish—say, Quong; has Trainor got a rifle here in the house?”

“Yessah. One rifle in room. I show you.”

Quong trotted out and came back in a minute with a Winchester 45-70, which he handed to Hashknife, but Hashknife told him to take it back.

He had thought of going out into the hills and try to find the man who had fired the two shots, but decided that it would be a hopeless search.

Hashknife also knew that those shots were fired at him and not at the Chinese cook. He had been in line with Quong, who was in the shade and probably not visible to the man behind the rifle. From the reports of the gun, the man was shooting at extreme long range—and shooting only too well to suit Hashknife.

“They’ll be dynamitin’ the bunk-house next,” mused Hashknife to himself, as Quong prepared the meal. “I’ve been lucky so far—but can it last?”

Miss Lanpher had retired to the front of the house, so Hashknife ate alone.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when Trainor, Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher and Poco Saunders came back from town. Hashknife did not go up to the house, but helped Poco unhitch the team. Poco was as uncommunicative as ever.

As they came out of the stable, Trainor was hobbling toward them, but stopped and called to Hashknife—

“What’s this I hear about somebody shootin’ at Quong?”

“Oh, that,” Hashknife laughed and looked back toward the hills, “I reckon somebody was shootin’ at coyotes. They came darn near hittin’ the Chinaman, though. Lotsa folks are careless thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” Trainor grunted his unbelief. “Shootin’ kinda high, wasn’t they, Hartley?”

“Kinda.”

“Say, do you really think they were shootin’ at coyotes?”

“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “that’s all a matter of opinion. Mebbe the shooter felt thataway about it.”

“Uh-huh, I see what yuh mean.”

Trainor turned and went back to the house. Poco Saunders had heard the conversation, and now he turned and went into the bunk-house ahead of Hashknife, who shut the door and faced him.

Poco’s eyes narrowed, but he feigned not to notice Hashknife’s steady gaze. Finally Hashknife said—

“Poco, I’ll trade talk with yuh.”

“Trade talk?” Poco did not seem to understand.

“Yeah. I was shot at twice this afternoon.”

“I had nothin’ to do with that, Hartley.”

“Why do yuh tie yore gun to yuh at night, Poco?”

Poco started slightly, but his face did not betray that he was caught off his guard.

“Yore bunkie was shot from ambush, Poco,” continued Hashknife. “Are you afraid of the same thing?”

Poco studied the question thoughtfully.

“Why should I be afraid?” he asked.

“I asked to trade talk—not to answer questions.”

“Why should I trade talk? I know nothin’.”

“All right.”

Hashknife turned to his bunk, but stopped.

“Why did Pinto Cassidy draw a dead-line between his place and the Circle Cross?”

“I don’t know,” replied Poco; and Hashknife felt that he was telling the truth.

“Are yuh afraid to talk about the rustlers who have been stealing stock on this range, Poco?”

“Why talk about ’em?”

“Well, for one reason is this—they’ve killed three men from ambush already.”

“Three? You don’t think that Ben Lanpher killed——”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Last night Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot in the arm, at the same spot where Smoky Cole was killed.”

“He was?” Poco squinted thoughtfully, and Hashknife noticed that Poco’s knuckles were white from their grip on his belt.

“Now, will yuh trade talk with me, Poco?”

But Poco shook his head slowly, his teeth shut tight.

“No, I can’t trade a talk, because I know nothin’.”

As Hashknife turned away, Buck Avery came in. He was half-drunk and was carrying a bottle in his hand, which he put under his pillow.

“Hyah, cowboys!” he greeted them. “Help yourself to the liquor. Reg’lar old poultry cocktail, that is. Six drinks and yuh lay. Hartley, yuh old son-of-a-gun, don’t yuh never drink anythin’?”

But before Hashknife could reply, Trainor came to the door.

“Did you see old man Shappee, Buck?” he asked.

“Yeah; be right with yuh, Jim.”

Buck kicked off his chaps, joined Trainor and they went toward the house together.

“Buck’s drinkin’ too much,” observed Poco. “He can’t let it alone when he starts once. Trainor knows that, and he was a —— fool to start Buck off the other night.”

“Trainor ain’t picked another foreman yet, has he?” asked Hashknife casually.

“Nope. Prob’ly pick Buck, though. Buck has been with him ever since he took over the Circle Cross. Smoky and Buck came here together.”

“How long you been here, Poco?”

“ ’Bout a year. Me and Smoky worked together before.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to stay a year,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s too much promiscuous shootin’ goin’ on around here to suit me. Everybody’s scared to talk for fear they’re talkin’ to the person who is doin’ all the dirty work. It’s a —— of a country, thasall.”

“Yeah,” nodded Poco solemnly. “I reckon that about describes it, Hartley.”

Hashknife went outside and sat down on a bench beside the door. Buck was near the kitchen door, busy at the wash-bench and talking to Quong who was standing in the doorway. Miss Lanpher was out in the front yard, looking at a stunted rosebush, and Trainor was walking out to her.

She looked up, as he drew closer and seemed to be talking to her. For a few moments she listened to him; and then walked past him and into the house.

“He got froze up, too,” chuckled Hashknife aloud.

“He sure did,” agreed Poco, who had come to the door and noticed it.

“He’s stuck on her pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, he was kinda hard hit when she turned him down. I don’t see nothin’ to her m’self. Too danged high-toned. Trainor’s a lot older than she is, and he ain’t so —— handsome either.”

“If she wants beauty I might stand a chance,” laughed Hashknife.

“Yuh can’t any more than get turned down.”

“I’ve had mine, Poco.”

Trainor walked around to the kitchen door and began talking to Buck, who threw his wash-pan of dirty water out on to the ground and slammed the pan viciously onto the bench.

They both seemed angry, but talked in low tones. Finally Buck whirled and came toward the bunk-house, swearing to himself. As he came up to the door he looked back toward the house, where Trainor was standing, looking toward them.

“I’ll drink when and where I —— please!” snarled Buck, and went into the bunk-house, where he piled up on his bed and went to sleep.

That Buck had no respect for Trainor’s authority was attested by the fact that Buck drank at intervals all night, and dug a fresh quart of liquor from beneath his straw tick the next morning.

He was incoherent in everything, except profanity, and refused to answer the breakfast call. Trainor’s foot was much better, and he was jovial at breakfast.

“Hartley, you will go with Lanpher and me today. We’re goin’ to look over the range. Poco will drive the ladies to town.”

“Somebody ought to stay with Buck,” said Hashknife. “He’s in bad shape.”

“Let him sleep it off!” grated Trainor. “The fool won’t let whisky alone; so he’s the one to suffer.”

They saddled their horses after breakfast and rode into the hills. Lanpher was unused to the saddle and knew little about riding, which handicapped them as far as speed was concerned.

They rode northeast almost to the main divide and swung around through the breaks, giving Lanpher some idea of what he owned. He had little to say, except in an undertone to Trainor. In fact, most of their conversation was handled in such a way that Hashknife was excluded.

Hashknife kept his eyes open and studied the country. On this side of the range there were few cattle of any brand, although there was plenty of water and feed. Hashknife remarked about it, but Trainor merely nodded and did not reply.

Lanpher looked queerly at Hashknife, as much as to say—

“You know the reason well enough.”

Trainor had tied a lunch to the back of his saddle, and they ate at a spring far back in the hills. During the course of the lunch, Lanpher remarked—

“Carsten was in to see me not long ago, Jim.”

“That so?”

“Yes. Just a friendly call, he said; but wanted to know what we had that was for sale.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him I didn’t know. He said that beef was due to take a raise pretty soon. I’m not kicking on prices.”

“No.” Trainor shook his head. “We have no kick on the price of beef and hides.”

They finished their lunch and mounted again. Hashknife grinned as Lanpher settled himself tenderly in the saddle and braced his feet solidly in the stirrups.

It was almost dark when they arrived at the ranch-house. Lanpher was thoroughly tired so Hashknife took care of the horse for him. Poco had just fed the wagon-team and told Hashknife that they had just arrived a short time before.

“What’s new in Wolf Wells?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ much. I seen your pardner and the half-breed girl down there about noon. He’s workin’ at the Tomahawk, ain’t he?”

“Well, I dunno about the work part of it,” laughed Hashknife, as they entered the bunk-house.

Buck was still stretched out on the bunk and an empty bottle attested to the fact that Buck was “full as a tick.” Poco tried to rouse him, but Buck refused to give more than a grunt.

Trainor ate supper with Hashknife and Poco, after the Lanpher family had eaten, and during the meal the sheriff and Lonesome Hobbs rode in. Hashknife saw them from the window, but said nothing. They dismounted and went to the front of the house.

“What’s comin’ off around here?” wondered Hashknife, as he saw three more riders ride down past the house and tie their horses to a corral fence.

He recognized one of them as being Ability Edwards. Trainor saw them, too, and hurriedly finished the rest of his meal. After he went out, Hashknife said to Poco:

“The sheriff and deputy came a few minutes ago, and just now, three more men rode in. What do yuh make of it?”

Poco halted with a cup at his lips, slowly placed it back in the saucer and got to his feet. He went to the door and looked out. Hashknife got up and went over to him.

The men had grouped a short distance from the porch and were talking as they looked down the road toward town. In a few moments three more riders appeared.

“That’s Jud Carey, Bert Elhoff and Honey Simpson, all from the 66 outfit,” said Poco. “Them first three are old man Shappee, Bility Edwards and Baldy Shannon, from the Flyin’ M. I wonder what it means.”

“Let’s horn in and find out,” grinned Hashknife.

The three riders dismounted and joined the group.

“Well, I reckon we’re all here,” observed Trainor, “so we might as well go into the house.”

He led the way into the living-room and the men sat down on the chairs, or squatted on their heels against the wall. Lanpher had joined them at the door. Trainor glanced around at the group, but said nothing to Poco and Hashknife, who had invited themselves.

“Gentlemen,” said Trainor seriously, “I reckon you all know why yo’re here this evenin’. We’ve all suffered alike in this matter, and I think the time has come when we will have to step out into the open.

“Mr. Lanpher—” Trainor indicated him—“I reckon most of yuh met him when he was here before, and yuh know he is half-owner of the Circle Cross. He advised me to have yuh meet here and try to figure out some way to handle this proposition.

“I know how yuh feel about it. We’ve all been afraid to talk about it—or to do much. But I’ll tell yuh it’s comin’ to a showdown. I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that the two men of mine that were killed were detectives; sent here by the association.

“Whether or not Smoky Cole was killed by the same gang, we don’t know. I hope it can be proved on ’em. Yesterday two shots were fired from back there in the hills. One of ’em hit the casing of the kitchen door, while the other went into the kitchen and smashed into a kettle. Hartley, over there, was going toward the door at the time, and my cook was beside the doorway. I don’t know which they were trying to kill.”

The cattlemen considered this, as they looked at Hashknife and at each other. Old man Shappee, a typical old cattleman, cleared his throat raspingly.

“What did you ever do to ’em, Hartley?” he asked.

“It was kinda hard to tell—at that distance,” grinned Hashknife, and the men smiled with him.

“Now, who has an idea to work on?” asked Trainor.

The men stirred uneasily. None of them seemed to want to commit themselves. Finally Jud Carey, a lanky, middle-aged man stood up.

“I dunno how anybody could figure out an idea,” he drawled slowly. “It ain’t like buckin’ somethin’ that yuh can see, Jim. The 66 has lost a lot of stock, but none of us has been shot at—yet.”

He sat down slowly and lighted a cigaret.

“Aw, ——!” exploded Trainor. “Is everybody afraid to talk? Are we goin’ to set here and shiver in our boots while a gang of bushwackin’ rustlers shoot our men from ambush and run off our stock?”

“All right—tell us what to do,” suggested Shappee.

“Well,” Trainor hesitated, “I’m ——ed if I know what to do. Lanpher and I have done what we think is the best thing; but we can’t ask the association to send more men to the slaughter.”

“How did this gang find out that they were detectives?” asked Bility Edwards.

“Nobody knows.”

“They’re sure a slick outfit,” observed the sheriff. “I didn’t know that these men were detectives. Nobody ever told me about ’em. One was killed near town and the other one on the Tomahawk ranch. It’s almost a cinch that old Cassidy didn’t kill both of ’em.”

“Cassidy’s a salty old son-of-a-gun, but I’ll bet he never killed that feller,” said Shappee, but qualified his statement with—

“Unless he’s one of the gang himself.”

“And that’s what we don’t know,” said Trainor.

“Would it do you any good to make up a big posse and hunt every inch of the hills?” asked the sheriff.

“How would we know but what the men we’re lookin’ for would be ridin’ along with us?” asked Carey.

“I dunno,” said the sheriff foolishly.

“Well, anythin’ is better than settin’ around and bein’ shot at, I should think,” observed Shappee. “I’m ready to ride or do anythin’ the majority wants to do.”

“I wish I knew what to suggest.” Thus William Lanpher, who had been a good listener.

“I have spent money for investigators, who have been killed. This is very unfortunate. I do not know how much stock you men have lost, but I do know that we have suffered severely. And, gentlemen, it is not going to stop, unless we are able to stop it.”

“Yuh can’t expect ’em to draw out of a cinch game, can yuh?” queried Bility Edwards.

“Why would they kill Smoky Cole?” demanded Lonesome, who had hardly spoken since he arrived. “Smoky wasn’t no detective.”

“We don’t know that they did,” said Trainor, “but we hope it can be laid to their door so as to clear Ben Lanpher of the charge.”

“——, he was too drunk to bushwhack anybody that day,” declared Lonesome. “I reckon they done it.”

“They’re promiscuous all right,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “Night before last they shot Jimmy Droop-drawers, the Tomahawk half-breed, while he was ridin’ along the same place that Smoky Cole was killed.”

“For gosh sake!” exploded Shappee, while the rest of them grunted or cursed in astonishment.

“You didn’t tell me about this,” said Trainor seriously.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, I thought yuh had troubles enough, Trainor.”

“Nobody told me,” complained the sheriff. “Was he hurt much?”

Hashknife explained the extent of his injuries.

“And why did they try to kill the breed?” queried Lonesome dismally.

“My ——, why don’tcha do somethin’, except ask questions?” snorted the sheriff.

“Show me anybody that’s doin’ better than that,” replied Lonesome. “I’m askin’ —— pointed ones, y’betcha.”

Lonesome’s reply brought a grin, but it was short-lived.

Came the sound of a hurried footstep, the door was flung open and Lorna Cassidy almost fell inside the room. She shut the door behind her and stood with her back against it.

She was hatless, one sleeve of her dress was torn badly. Her hair was wind-blown and one of her long braids was wrapped once around her neck; as though she had ridden fast and far through the wind.

She looked from face to face in that smoke-fogged room, her lips shut tight, her eyes blazing, until she caught sight of Hashknife, and spoke directly to him.

“Your pardner was shot—hour—or—so—ago!” she panted.

Hashknife sprang to his feet, as did the rest of the men.

“My pardner—Sleepy. Shot? Not dead?”

She shook her head, her eyes still searching the room.

“No, not dead; hurt bad.”

Hashknife went to her and took her by the arm.

“Don’t hurry,” he advised her hoarsely. “Take yore time and tell us all about it.”

She nodded, leaning against the door, as she looked from face to face. She appeared to be looking for some one.

“We were out riding,” she said slowly. “We had been to town and when we were coming back we decided to take a ride into the hills.

“We saw a man riding alone, but paid no attention to him. As we were riding down to our ranch, a shot was fired and my horse fell. I hurt my head a little, and before I could get up another shot was fired and Sleepy fell off his horse.

“I got him to the house and—” she shook her head wearily— “My mother helped me. She heard the shots, too.”

“But how bad is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t know. The bullet struck him under the left arm and knocked him off the horse. He didn’t know anything for a while, but he woke up all right.”

“How long ago did this happen?” asked Trainor.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while before dark.”

“And he hasn’t had a doctor?” queried Hashknife.

Lorna shook her head.

“My mother is better than a doctor. She knows what to do. He knew I came over to tell you, and he said to tell you that he’s all right.”

“And you didn’t see the man that fired the shots?” said the sheriff.

Lorna looked around the circle again and back at the sheriff.

“Yes, I seen him.”

“Yuh did? My gosh! Who was he?”

“I got up, after my horse fell with me. I was dizzy for a minute, but I looked back toward the hill and I seen the man riding away. It was the same man we saw a while before.”

“But who was he?” urged half-a-dozen voices, as the cattlemen crowded around her.

“Give us his name,” demanded the sheriff.

But Lorna shook her head.

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I told Sleepy about it and he said for me to not tell anybody.”

“Well, that’s a —— of a note!” wailed Lonesome.

Hashknife smiled grimly. He knew that Sleepy, even though badly hurt, knew that this information would be for them alone.

“You want to be party to a crime?” queried the sheriff. “If yuh don’t tell, yo’re as guilty as the shooter.”

Lorna backed against the door and looked defiantly at him.

“All right, arrest me.”

“Oh ——!”

The sheriff turned appealingly to the men.

“What can yuh do in a case like that?”

Hashknife turned and went out through the kitchen, heading for the barn. He saddled and led his horse outside, where he found the cattlemen waiting for him. Poco brushed past him, saying that he and Trainor were going along.

Lorna was already in the saddle; so he rode in beside her and they led the way. There was little conversation. Every man felt that they would soon know the name of the man who had been terrorizing the Ghost Hills Range, and they also knew that he would never live to be tried by a court of law.

Hashknife did not question Lorna, and he felt that these men would have their ride in vain. If Sleepy did not want her to tell the name of the killer, it was because this information might serve them to uncover the whole band.

Near the forks of the road he asked if it might not be well to send one man after the doctor at Wolf Wells, but she said:

“My mother good doctor. She knows what to do.”

Hashknife knew that many of the Indians were adept at treating gunshot wounds, and a rangeland doctor is not usually a surgeon; so he agreed that her idea was probably the best.

It was a silent group of riders that dismounted at the open door of the Tomahawk ranch-house and filed inside. Sleepy was stretched out on a cot and beside him sat the Indian woman, Mrs. Cassidy.

Sleepy was very white, but he grinned at Hashknife and looked around at the crowd.

“Pardner, how do yuh feel?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Fine.” Sleepy’s voice was weak. “They come danged near handin’ me a harp, Hashknife.”

“Where did it hit yuh?”

“Kinda under the pit of m’ arm and come out over m’ chest. It sure ripped —— out of me. I must have cast-iron ribs, ’cause she didn’t go inside.”

“Then yuh ain’t hurt bad.” There was a note of relief in Hashknife’s voice.

“F’r a minute I thought yuh was dead, cowboy.”

“You didn’t have nothin’ on me. I seen seven flocks of angels flyin’ in a V-shape over me. I says to myself, ‘Sleepy, yo’re goin’ to be a migratory bird, instead of a harpist.’”

The sheriff shoved his way to the front and looked down at Sleepy.

“The girl says that yuh know who shot yuh.”

Sleepy squinted up at the sheriff in amazement. He turned his head slowly and looked at the ring of faces around him.

“Well, I know that somebody did,” he said softly, “but a feller with his face in the dust can’t hardly see behind him and up a hill.”

“But you seen the same feller before today,” persisted the sheriff. “By ——, we want to know who it was!”

“So do I,” said Sleepy. “I want to be sure.”

“You give us his name and we’ll find out for yuh,” stated old man Shappee.

Sleepy shook his head and looked appealingly at Hashknife, who turned to the crowd.

“Gents, yuh can’t bother him no more now. He’s been bad hurt, and he don’t want to talk.”

The crowd moved back to the doorway and the Indian woman sat down beside Sleepy, giving him a drink of something that had a most peculiar odor.

There was no question but what the cattlemen were not in the best of humor. They had come a long way after information and had not received it.

“I don’t understand why they won’t talk,” said Trainor. “This ain’t a thing to keep secret. If the guilty one finds out that they are known, they’ll fog out of the country and we’ll never see ’em again.”

“Well,” Lonesome shook his head sadly, “that sure wouldn’t hurt my feelin’s, none whatever. They can’t fog too soon nor too far to suit old man Hobbs’ little son.”

“—— it!” wailed the sheriff dismally. “What’s the good of havin’ a sheriff.”

“I’ve argued the same question many times,” smiled Hashknife, “but yuh never can make folks listen to reason. I never seen one yet that was good for anythin’, except pitchin’ horseshoes.”

“What I want to know is this.” Jud Carey spat dryly and looked around. “When do we git informed as to who the shooter was?”

“Don’t look at me!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ve asked questions until m’ tonsils are all raw. I don’t see why they’re keepin’ this to themselves, danged if I do.”

“I reckon there’s nothin’ to be learned here,” said Shappee wearily, “and it’s a long ride back to the old Flyin’ M. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

“Come over and stay with us tonight,” offered Trainor.

“Yeah, and have ma pawin’ holes in the carpet, ’cause I don’t come home. She’s scared stiff, jist thinkin’ that I might git shot in the back. I told her that at my age it didn’t make a —— bit of difference whether they shot me in the back or the front. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the same, Trainor.”

“You’re sure welcome to come,” laughed Trainor, and turned to Hashknife.

“You goin’ back with us, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, I reckon I’ll stay here tonight. Mebbe I’ll have to go after a doctor, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll be over early in the mornin’.”

They went back to their horses and rode away down the moonlit highway, which wound in and out of the brushy cañons. Hashknife watched them until they faded out in the distance, and turned back, closing the door behind him.

He crossed the room and drew the blanket curtain across the window near the cot. Lorna had sat down near the fireplace, and a moment later Jimmy, the half-breed, slipped in the front door and closed it quickly.

Jimmy was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned against the wall. The squaw spoke to him in the Sioux tongue and he shook his head.

“Lorna go way, Jimmy watch,” volunteered the squaw in explanation.

“See nothin’,” grunted Jimmy, coming closer to the cot and grinning at Sleepy.

“You feel good, eh? Minnie —— good doctor.”

Hashknife walked over and squatted down on his heels beside the cot.

“Yuh want to talk about it, Sleepy?” he asked.

“Ask Lorna.”

Lorna came closer and spoke softly.

“It was Buck Avery.”

“Buck Avery?”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. Buck had been drunk for two days. He was still drinking that morning, and was dead drunk just before supper.

“I’m sorry, but I reckon yuh made a mistake, Lorna,” he said slowly, and told them of Buck’s drinking.

“I told her not to tell anybody, and I’m glad she didn’t,” said Sleepy weakly. “It don’t pay to be too quick in a thing like that.”

Lorna shook her head slowly and stared at the blank wall.

“No talk much,” grunted the squaw. “—— good thing.”

“I seen that man,” persisted Lorna, as if visualizing him now. “He rode like Buck Avery and he looked like Buck Avery. But this man was not drunk.”

“Got me the second shot,” grinned Sleepy. “His first one must ’a’ just grazed me and hit Lorna’s horse in the head. No drunken man fired them two shots.”

“Which lets Buck out,” declared Hashknife. “He’s been drunk ever since I went to the Circle Cross. But this sure puts us in one fine fix. The guilty party will think that we know ’em, and they’ll either pull out of the country or try harder to wipe us out.”

“Don’t worry sick man,” advised the squaw. “Go to bed.”

“That’s good advice,” admitted Hashknife, and to Sleepy—

“If that bullet tore yuh up bad, suppose I go after a doctor and have him sew yuh up.”

“I fixum,” grunted the squaw. “No need doctor.”

“That’s a cinch,” grinned Sleepy. “Mother fixed me up fine. I couldn’t be sewed tighter if they used a sewing-machine on me. Don’tcha bother about me, Hashknife; you keep yore own skin together.”

Hashknife accepted a blanket from Lorna, kicked off his boots and rolled up in a corner. He was dog-tired, but his mind refused to rest. He wondered who rode and looked like Buck Avery.

Mentally he compared every Ghost Hills cowpuncher that he knew, but none of them looked like Buck. Still, at a distance, there was a similarity between Buck and Honey Simpson, the silent puncher from the 66. Even Bility Edwards might be mistaken for Buck.

But his mind always jerked back to Buck Avery, snoring on the bunk, with the empty bottle beside him and the bunk-house smelling strongly of liquor. Buck was drunk the night that Jimmy, the half-breed, had been shot, and Buck had gone to the Flying M ranch at the time that Quong had nearly been hit.

The Flying M was west of the Circle Cross, while the shots had been fired from the east. Buck had been to Wolf Wells that day, and had also carried the message to the Flying M for Trainor.

And last, but not least, there was not a .30-30 rifle on the Circle Cross. The bullet that wrecked Quong’s kettle was a .30-30. Hashknife had seen Smoky Cole’s wound, but it was hard to tell what kind of a bullet had killed him. He wished now that he had examined it more closely.

He resolved to examine the dead horse in the morning and see if he could find the bullet. Lorna was sitting by the fireplace, her chin cupped in her hands and Hashknife studied her profile.

Just beyond her, and to the right, sat her mother, a short, squat, typical Indian woman. He thought of Pinto Cassidy, with his wizened, wrinkled, Irish countenance, and wondered what freak of nature had given these two an offspring like Lorna. She was as unlike either of them as a child could be.

And then he went to sleep to dream of miles of mesquite clumps with a bushwhacker behind each one, and him with a .45-70 rifle and nothing to shoot in it, except .30-30 caliber cartridges.

Just after midnight a severe thunderstorm swept the Ghost Hills, and the downpour of rain thudded hollowly on the roof of the Tomahawk ranch-house; but Hashknife slept the sleep of the just, in spite of it all.

It was barely past daylight when Hashknife awoke and rolled out of his blanket. The old squaw was already preparing breakfast and Sleepy was snoring soundly. Jimmy, the half-breed, put in a yawning appearance, and peered cautiously out of a window.

“Whatcha see?” queried Hashknife.

“I just look,” replied Jimmy.

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and turned to the squaw.

“Mother, how’s the patient gettin’ along?”

She smiled widely and nodded toward the cot.

“He get well now—pretty quick.”

“He sure didn’t git hit in his snorer,” grinned Hashknife, and nodded to Lorna who had just come in.

She walked over, looked at Sleepy, who awoke and grinned up at her.

“How are yuh feelin’, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Gimme a cigaret.”

They sat down and discussed the happenings of the evening before, but Lorna still persisted that the man looked exactly like Buck Avery.

“But,” argued Hashknife, “Buck has been drunk for several days. He was drunk when we found him yesterday.”

“Lorna know Buck pretty good,” said Jimmy.

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If it was Buck, he’s headin’ out of this country right now. He’d hear that Lorna seen him, and he’d sure fade away fast. But where would Buck fit into the scheme of things?”

No one seemed to have an answer for that question. They ate breakfast and Hashknife announced his intentions of going back to the Circle Cross ranch.

“No —— good,” declared Jimmy.

“Yuh think they’d bushwhack me, Jimmy?”

“Think plenty now,” advised Jimmy.

Hashknife grinned and puffed on his cigaret.

“Mebbe yo’re right, Jimmy,” he finally agreed. “They’d hate to have me pack information back with me, I reckon. None of ’em know the name that Lorna had in mind, but they’d know danged well that I’d have it now. Mebbe we better try somethin’ easy at first.”

Hashknife selected an old pair of overalls, an old shirt and a pair of boots. Three blankets sufficed for the stuffing of them. He tied a rope around the dummy under the arms and left a length of rope extending from each side. Then he surmounted the thing with his own hat, fitting it to the roll of blanket which extended up through the neck of the shirt.

“Grab hold of a rope, Jimmy,” he ordered, and the half-breed obeyed with a grin.

“Looks more like me than I do,” laughed Hashknife as he dragged the dummy over to the door.

“Now, Jimmy, you stand on one side and hold yore rope high and tight enough to make the darned things stand up like a man. Don’t expose yourself, young feller. All set?”

Jimmy nodded and drew the rope tight. Hashknife looked back in the room to see that nothing was in line. Then he shoved the door wide open. The dummy looked like a cowboy. Perhaps it was a trifle limp-looking at close range.

It stood there for perhaps five seconds motionless. Then it jerked convulsively and fell sidewise. From the rear of the room came the splat of a bullet striking wood, and from the hills came the thin pop of a high-power cartridge.

Hashknife reached out and drew the door shut. Jimmy stood there, looking foolishly at a piece of rope in his hand, which had been cleanly severed. It was a rope made from Maguey fiber, about the size of a clothes-line, but very hard and brittle.

“Well,” said Hashknife, shoving the dummy aside, “I’ll say that it worked to the queen’s taste.”

The two women were staring wonderingly at him, but Sleepy was laughing joyously. Jimmy crossed the room and poked his finger at the spot where the bullet had bored into the seasoned wall.

“We’re sure hived up for keeps,” said Sleepy, as if rather pleased at the prospect. Sleepy loved a fight, and nothing pleased him more than to give odds.

“You ain’t in it, you doggone cripple,” reminded Hashknife. “Yuh don’t need to start cheerin’ about it.”

Jimmy had moved the curtain an inch and was staring out through the window.

“See anythin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’. They think you dead—mebbe.”

“Very likely. But they won’t stop at one killin’. They will naturally think that we all know the guilty man, and they’ll try to stop all of us. You got a rifle, Jimmy?”

“You —— right!”

Jimmy went into another room and came back with an old .50-90 Sharps, which he handled lovingly before giving it to Hashknife.

“That good gun, you bet.”

Hashknife grinned and examined it. He knew the killing power of the old Sharps, even though they did not compare with the high-power rifle. He accepted a handful of cartridges from the half-breed.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

“I’m goin’ into the hills,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m goin’ to have a perfectly good little fight, and yo’re goin’ to lay here in yore nice little beddie and wish you was along; sabe?”

“Aw ——! You’ll go out there and get yore danged hide all filled up with soft-nose bullets that’s what you’ll do. Ain’tcha got no sense, Hashknife?”

“Sour grapes,” retorted Hashknife, and to Jimmy—

“Gimme more shells.”

Jimmy gave him several more, which Hashknife pocketed. He rescued his hat from the dummy and drew it tightly on his head.

“Now, you folks just set tight, will yuh? I’ve got to teach them bushwhackers that they ain’t got the only rifle in the Ghost Hills. Adios. That means good-by in Spanish.”

“Thirty-thirty,” retorted Sleepy. “That means good-by in any darned language.”

Hashknife went to the rear of the house, opened a window as wide as possible, stood up on a chair and fairly dived outside. He landed on his feet, ducked low and ran swiftly toward the upper corral, running in a zigzag angle to confuse any one who might be trying to use him for a target.

He had almost reached the angle of the corral fence when—

Whim-m-m-m!

A bullet tore up the ground almost under his feet and zee-e-e-e’d its way up the slope of the hills. It was too close for comfort, and Hashknife was thankful for the protection of a patch of brush behind the corral fence.

“Good shootin’,” he panted aloud, as he crawled like a snake fifty feet from where he had dropped behind the brush.

The shooter was evidently unable to determine just where Hashknife had gone; so he tore a few splinters off the pole-corral, just taking a chance on scoring a hit.

Hashknife worked his way the length of the corral and into a bunch of brush on the side of the hill, where he snuggled into a depression and prayed for a chance to do a little shooting. He studied the hills beyond the ranch-house, but could see nothing.

He knew that the man had not seen him take cover on the hill, because no more shots had been fired. He had watched closely for about five minutes, when his vigilance was rewarded.

Something moved in a jumble of brush and rocks, but the distance was a good four hundred yards. It moved again, and this time Hashknife could see that it was a man.

He appeared to be moving very slowly, and was evidently trying to work his way higher in order to get a better view beyond the corral fence.

Hashknife estimated the distance and set his sights. It was a long shot and a small target, as the man did not expose much of his anatomy at a time.

The old gun kicked viciously and emitted a cloud of smoke; while its report clattered like artillery, as it echoed from the surrounding hills.

Hashknife ducked low under the smoke and saw the bullet strike. It threw up a cloud of dust about a foot below where the target had been.

“Next time, brother,” promised Hashknife, as he shoved in another cartridge.

But the next moment a bullet splattered into the bank behind him, causing him to hug the ground tightly. Another struck to his left, another to his right. The man was trying to find out his location.

Another bullet ricocheted off a rock behind him, while the next one threw sand in his face.

Hashknife snorted loudly, kicked himself loose from that location and rolled back down the hill, where he scuttled up the draw a little and got behind a big rock.

“That danged old smoke-wagon sure advertised my location,” he panted aloud. “Anyway, I scared him so that he wasn’t exactly sure just where I was.”

He stayed flat on the ground and recovered his breath, while an occasional bullet searched along the corral fence, but did no damage. He knew that the man had not seen him take cover so he felt reasonably safe.

But inaction soon palled upon him and he looked around for a good place to try for again. Just to the left of the corral was a jumble of broken rock and a clump of greasewood, which would make a fine breastworks. It was about a hundred feet away, but Hashknife took the chance and ran for it. He fell in behind the greasewood, without a shot being fired.

“That’s danged funny,” he told himself. “What’s happened to m’ friend with the .30-30?”

There was no question but what the man could have seen him make the run. He studied the spot where the man had been, but there was nothing there as far as he could see.

“Gotta make him start somethin’,” he told a lone magpie, which had stopped on a tall post and was chattering angrily over something.

Hashknife drew his feet under him, gripped the rifle tightly and ran for the corner of the barn like a rabbit hunting a hole. But there was no response from the man on the hill. He crawled in through a broken window and secured a saddle-blanket, which he hung on a pitchfork and tried to draw a shot by extending it slightly past the corner of the barn.

Then he walked deliberately into the open and headed for the house. But no shots were fired at him.

“Somethin’ chased him away, I reckon,” he decided, as he went back into the house.

Lorna and Jimmy met him at the door while Sleepy yelled weakly for details of the slaughter.

“I shot at him once and scared him away,” laughed Hashknife.

“Don’t lie to a cripple,” wailed Sleepy.

“Well, he just quit shootin’ then,” grinned Hashknife. “Somethin’ scared him away, and I’m going to see if I can find out what it was. I’ll be back this evenin’.”

“I’m goin’ to get up tomorrow,” declared Sleepy hopefully, looking at the old squaw.

“I ain’t sick, am I, mother?”

“You pretty good. Get up bimeby.”

“Yuh betcha. I can ride and shoot as good as ever and I’m danged if I’m goin’ to let you have all the fun.”

Hashknife laughed teasingly.

“Sleepy, I sure had fun. That son-of-a-gun seen the smoke from this old rifle and he sure salivated everythin’ in range. Powee-e-e! Bullets everywhere, and me down in a little swale, with m’ stummick wrapped around my vertebray. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Sleepy swore softly at anybody lucky enough to have fun like that, and Hashknife went swiftly down to the barn and saddled his horse. Jimmy, the half-breed, had put up the horse the night before. Hashknife still kept the Sharps rifle, and rode away with it across the fork of his saddle.

He pointed straight into the hills to the spot where the man had been hiding. The downpour of rain the night before had softened the ground a little, and Hashknife was able to find where the man’s heels had dug into the dirt.

He trailed the man to the top of the hogback, but there he was forced to give up the scent. Greasewood and tall sage grew in profusion on this hog-back, and the man had evidently taken advantage of it, as the last tracks that Hashknife had found were pointing up the slope.

He mounted again and followed the ridge, watching closely. He rode around the heads of several brushy coulees and was about to head back toward the road, when he spied a rider crossing the coulee below him. Hashknife dropped off his horse and watched closely. The rider went slowly up the side of the hill, going cautiously and scanning the country carefully.

“Poco Saunders,” muttered Hashknife, as he adjusted his sights carefully. “Poco, yo’re coyote bait right now.”

But something in Poco’s actions caused him to hold his fire. He was leaning down from his saddle, as if searching for something on the ground. He rode ahead a short distance and from his actions it seemed that he was following a trail.

Hashknife squatted low in the brush and watched him reach the ridge and disappear over the other side.

“Now that’s a queer actin’ jasper,” Hashknife told his horse. “Mebbe we better see what’s ailin’ him.”

He circled the head of the coulee and picked up Poco’s horse-tracks. He waited a while and finally he saw Poco far down the next coulee, heading along the side of it, still looking down.

Hashknife looked closely down at the horse-tracks and discovered that two horses had passed that way.

“Poco’s trailin’ somebody, and I’m trailin’ him,” he laughed. “Kinda like button, button, who’s got the button.”

He gave Poco plenty of time to get out of sight before he took up the trail again, which kept bearing toward the road. Finally he reached the top of the hill, where he could look down at the road, but the trail did not lead directly down.

He could see where Poco had started down, lost the trail and had come back to the top again. The trail led along the top for possibly an eighth of a mile, as if the rider had been looking over the country below, and headed down a heavily wooded coulee, which opened into a little swale down near the road.

At the lower end of the open swale was a clump of old cottonwoods, and it was near these that the trail practically ended. Here were the marks of footprints, as if the horse had stood there several minutes.

“Heard somebody comin’ along the road,” decided Hashknife, as he went on down to the road, where all the footprints jumbled into those of the regular country traffic.

Hashknife noted that he had struck the road just below where the road forked to the Circle Cross ranch; so he swung to the east and rode slowly through the hills to the ranch.

He wondered what Poco was doing in the hills and who he was trailing.

“Was Poco doin’ the shootin’?” he wondered. “Did somebody scare him and was he trailin’ this other party to see what they were up to? Or did Poco happen in, hear the shots and start trailin’ the shooter?”

As far as he could see, Poco carried no rifle; but at that distance it would not be possible to see whether there might be one in a scabbard on the saddle.

“Anyway,” he decided as he rode in at the ranch, “the shooter got scared and pulled out. They may be goshawful bad, but they can be scared, that’s a cinch.”

He put up his horse and went up to the house, where he found Buck Avery eating breakfast. Buck looked unkempt and appeared to be still shaky from drink.

“’Lo, Hartley,” he grunted, helping himself to more black coffee. “They tell me yore friend got shot yesterday. How’s he gittin’ along?”

“Fine, Buck. Didn’t hurt him much, and he’ll be out right away.”

“Tha’s good,” mumbled Buck. “Had yore breakfast?”

“Yeah, long time ago.”

“Time f’r another. Hey! Quong! Fry the gent some aigs.”

“Yessah, lite away.”

Hashknife did not object. He was always in the mood for ham and eggs, and it had been two hours or more since he had eaten.

“Where’s Trainor?” asked Hashknife.

“Gone t’ town with Lanpher. Poco went over to the Tomahawk t’ see how yore friend is. Didn’t yuh meet him?”

Hashknife shook his head and attacked his eggs.

“No. I came across the hills.”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck gulped his coffee and began rolling a cigaret.

“I’m off the hooch,” he declared. “I’ve seen a whole danged mee-nag-i-ree pee-radin’ around here the last two days. Caught me two vi’let colored elephants las’ evenin’, but they gnawed their way out of the corral.”

He got up rather unsteadily and headed for the bunk-house. Hashknife laid aside his knife and fork. Something caused him to distrust Buck, although he could not see how Buck could have done all the deviltry. He sauntered out and went down to the barn, where he examined Buck’s horse, but there was nothing to show that the animal had been ridden that day. It was true that Buck could have removed all traces of travel; but the animal’s spirits did not fit in with a fifteen-mile trip.