Front matter

Author of “Blind Trails,” “The Loom of Lies,” etc.

A cold drizzle of fog and rain was sweeping in from the ocean, almost obliterating the guttering arc-lights along the street. Far away sounded the clanking rattle of a cable-car, screeching around the sharp turns. An iron-tired vehicle rattled over the cobble-stones, and from far down the harbor sounded the harsh notes of a fog-horn.

At the front door of an old-fashioned residence, which had been a magnificent edifice in its time, stood two men, hump-shouldered in the dripping rain. It was impossible, in that light, to describe their appearance, except that one was tall and the other very profane.

The tall one, ignoring the call-button, hammered on the door with his knuckles. They listened for a few moments, and then the smaller one cleared his throat harshly.

“Aw, to —— with this country!”

“Raise yuh a stack of blues,” said the tall one dryly.

“’F I ever get out of here—say, ‘Hashknife,’ are yuh sure this is the place?”

The tall one hammered on the door again, before he said— “I betcha it is, Sleepy; but the house is so danged big they can’t hear m’ knock.”

As he started to knock again the door opened softly and a butler, of very dignified appearance, squinted closely at them.

“Is this him?” queried the smaller of the two men, but the tall one ignored the question and spoke directly to the butler.

“I been hammerin’ on the door for ten minutes.”

“Pardon me, but you should have rung, sir.”

“Yeah?” The tall man grinned widely. “Well, I might ’a’ whistled, but I’ll be danged if I ever carried a bell. Is Mr. William Lanpher to home?”

“Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Hartley?”

“M’ name’s Hartley, yessir.”

“Mr. Lanpher is expecting you, sir. He will see you in the library.”

“My gosh!” exploded the smaller man, “I hope he don’t ask me to read. You go ahead, Hashknife, and I’ll guard the rear.”

Together they followed the butler into the richly furnished home, where their soggy, high-heeled boots made no sound in the heavy carpets, and into a high-ceiled, homey-looking room, where a log fire crackled in the big fireplace.

“May I take your hats?” asked the butler.

“No, never mind,” grinned Hashknife Hartley. “If we stay long, I reckon we can hang ’em up ourselves. Did yuh say he was lookin’ for us?”

“Mr. Lanpher will be down in a moment,” assured the butler, as he silently withdrew.

The tall man rubbed his big hands together and went to the fireplace, the water still dripping from his wide sombrero. The other man looked around the room, taking in all the details before joining the tall man at the fire, where they stood with their backs to the grateful heat and took stock of the place.

“What do yuh reckon he wants, Hashknife?” asked the smaller man softly.

“I dunno, ‘Sleepy.’ You seen the letter he sent to us at Phoenix. The secretary of the Cattle Association said that he knowed Lanpher and that he was all right. Danged if I’d ’a’ ever come to Frisco if I knowed it was so cold here. Rather face a Dakota blizzard than that danged fog.”

“Lanpher must have money,” observed Sleepy Stevens. “’F I had money I’d live in the sunshine, y’betcha. I’m wet plumb through. Listen to this—”

Sleepy extended a soggy boot and worked his toes.

“Hear her squirsh?”

Hashknife grinned softly, which almost concealed his eyes in a mass of wrinkles. His face was thin and bony—almost sad in repose, and bronzed to the texture of leather from facing the weather of the wide places.

His arms were long and ended in a pair of muscular hands, which seemed to be always in his way. Sleepy Stevens was shorter, heavier built, with a deeply-lined face, a calculating pair of blue eyes, and hair which might be designated as a roan color.

Their garb and actions showed plainly that they were from the cattle country, although they were wearing “store” clothes, except for their boots and hats.

“Yeah, I’ll admit that yore feet are wet,” smiled Hashknife, “but you ain’t got nothin’ on me, cowboy. I’ll bet yuh even money that I’ve got more water in my boots than you have, and settle it right here.”

“Feller, you’ve done made a bet!” snorted Sleepy, and sat down on the floor, tugging at his boot.

Hashknife leaned against the mantel, hooked the heel of one boot over the toe of the other and began to remove his boot, when William Lanpher came into the room.

So engrossed were the two cowboys that they did not see him until he said—

“Perhaps I can find some dry foot-gear for you.”

“Huh!” Hashknife stopped and stared at him. “Howdy. Say, you can referee this bet.”

“Bet?” Lanpher stared at them. “I do not understand.”

William Lanpher was a medium-sized man, of about fifty years of age, rather fleshy, round-faced and well-dressed. The cities are full of William Lanphers.

“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly and looked at his partner, “I reckon we was a little hasty. I bet Sleepy that my feet were wetter than his, but I plumb forgot to state the size of m’ bet.”

“Write yore bet, cowboy!” snorted Sleepy. “I’ve got half of it up to m’ hip right now, but I’ll almost give yuh odds on what’s left in m’ boot.”

Hashknife worked his foot back into his boot, and Sleepy, seeing that the bet was all off, swore softly and scuffed his foot on an expensive Oriental rug, trying to force the boot back on to his foot.

“You are Mr. Hartley,” said William Lanpher, “and I have been expecting you.”

“I betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “But yore front door is so thick that m’ knock never got through it.”

“I wrote to the Cattlemen’s Association,” said Lanpher slowly. “I wanted the best man they could recommend.”

“You got both of ’em, mister,” Sleepy grinned and felt of his toes.

“I only asked for one,” smiled Lanpher.

“The good ones comes in sets of twos,” said Sleepy seriously.

“The letter was sent to us at Phoenix,” said Hashknife. “I know Bill Wheaton, the secretary, real well, and he said he knowed you. We had a —— of a time findin’ this house.

“Me and Sleepy got on one of them danged street-cars that goes ——ity-blippin’ along, and we hit a curve and Sleepy fell off and——”

“Fell off!” snorted Sleepy. “I got bucked off, yuh mean. The conductor yelped, ‘Look out fer the curve!’ But he yelped after I was reachin’ for the saddle-horn.”

“And I got off to pick up the remains, and the danged car went away without us. Sleepy said he’d be darned if he’d ride another one; so we walked.”

“We waded,” corrected Sleepy.

Lanpher laughed and drew some chairs up to the fire, after which he offered them cigars, but they declined in favor of their own home-rolled cigarets. Lanpher, once he got settled in his chair, lost no time in coming down to his reasons for sending for them.

“I own a half-interest in the Circle Cross cattle outfit in the Ghost Hills Range. Know where it is?”

“I know where it’s located,” nodded Hashknife, “but we ain’t never been there. I’ve heard of the Circle Cross outfit.”

“I wish I never had,” said Lanpher bitterly. “It has already cost me a fortune in money, and,” he hesitated, “has cost me more than mere money could replace.”

“Cow ranches are expensive sometimes,” agreed Sleepy interestedly.

“What seemed to be the real trouble with the Circle Cross?” queried Hashknife, stretching his long legs out to the fire and rolling another cigaret.

Lanpher tossed his cigar into the flames and leaned back in his chair.

“Three years ago,” he began, “Jim Trainor and I bought the Circle Cross. Trainor knew the cattle business—I had the money. It was sort of a case of him putting his experience against my cash.

“We bought stock from all over Wyoming, and I will assure you that the outlay of gold was considerable. I knew nothing about the business, but I knew that Jim did. In fact, I know nothing about it now, except that—well, my experience was not exactly pleasant.

“One year ago, or about that length of time, the Circle Cross cattle began to disappear. Perhaps it was longer ago than that, but no matter. A roundup proved that we had lost a small fortune in cattle.

“Jim started an investigation, but was unable to arrive at any conclusion. But it served to increase his vigilance and he found that stock was disappearing with startling regularity.”

“Some smart rustlers cleanin’ yuh out, eh?” smiled Sleepy. “They will do things like that, Mr. Lanpher.”

“So we discovered,” said Lanpher dryly. “After our own investigations failed, we called upon the Cattlemen’s Association, and they sent an operative. He worked as a cowboy upon the Circle Cross, but was unable to solve the mystery.

“He was taken off the job and another man put on. This man was shot and killed a week after he went into the Ghost Hills country. He was found, riddled with bullets, lying in a corral just outside the town of Wolf Wells.

“There was no clew to his death. Another detective was sent in to take his place.”

Lanpher paused to light a cigar and Hashknife snuggled deeper into his big chair.

“Does it interest you?” asked Lanpher.

“We ain’t made no move to walk out,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep her spinnin’, pardner.”

Lanpher nodded slowly and squinted into the fire.

“I’m no story teller, Hartley. This might be embellished quite a lot, but I haven’t the ability to use words. That detective was there ten days when he was killed—shot.”

“One detective was taken off the job and the next two were killed, eh?” mused Hashknife thoughtfully. “Two out of three is a pretty good average. Was you there, Lanpher?”

“No. This last killing was done a month ago. It seemed a foolish thing to ask the association to send in another man; so I corresponded with Mr. Wheaton. He advised me to get in touch with you.”

“Did the sheriff arrest anybody?” queried Sleepy. “They mostly always does arrest somebody.”

Lanpher threw his cigar into the fire and leaned forward, elbows on knees, squinting thoughtfully, as if trying to frame a reply. Then he nodded slowly, seriously.

“Yes, they arrested old ‘Pinto’ Cassidy.”

Lanpher shut his jaws tightly and got to his feet. He seemed to be laboring under a strain, as he paced half the length of the room before turning back to them. Hashknife and Sleepy waited for him to resume.

“And that is the part of the whole thing that hurts,” he said slowly. “Cassidy is a squawman. His wife is a Sioux squaw. He owns the Tomahawk outfit. —— knows, he had enough Indian about his place, without using a tomahawk for a brand.”

“You know him very well?” asked Hashknife.

Lanpher ignored the question.

“Cassidy had forbidden any of the Circle Cross outfit to come on to the Tomahawk ranch. This detective was working on the Circle Cross, and he was found dead within quarter of a mile of the Tomahawk ranch-house. He was on Cassidy’s ranch.

“But it is doubtful whether they can convict him, and if they do, it will not bring our cattle back. I do not think that Cassidy is the rustler. It is not a one-man job, Hartley, and requires more brains than any squawman has. In fact, we haven’t the slightest idea where the stock has gone. That will be your job—to find out.”

“And duck bullets,” added Hashknife, grinning. “You ask quite a lot, mister man. But you ain’t told us everythin’. What is yore big interest in Cassidy?”

“Interest!” Lanpher fairly spat the word, as he reached into a pocket and drew out an envelope.

For a moment he hesitated, but drew out the letter and handed it to Hashknife.

“I think that will explain it to you,” he said evenly.

The letter was postmarked at Wolf Wells, and read:

Dad, you might as well save your breath and make the best of things. Regardless of what you say or do, I am going to stick with Cassidy. And what is more, I am going to marry Lorna one of these days. I haven’t seen any of the boys of the Circle Cross for quite a while.

I suppose I am to be classed with Cassidy’s alleged bunch of rustlers, as you intimated in your letter. Well, all right, I don’t mind. This is a wide, wide world and I am twenty-one.

Your affectionate son, BEN.

Hashknife folded up the letter and handed it back to Lanpher.

“Do you understand what it means?” queried Lanpher hoarsely.

“Who’s Lorna?”

“Cassidy’s daughter—a half-breed.”

“Well,” Hashknife frowned for a moment and looked up at Lanpher with a quizzical smile.

“She ain’t never scalped anybody, has she?”

“Scalped?” Lanpher stared at Hashknife. “Why—uh—does this appear as something—er—funny?”

Lanpher’s face was red with indignation.

“Not exactly funny,” agreed Hashknife, serious again. “But I don’t see where you ought to chaw up yore own shirt over it, Lanpher.”

“You don’t? Do you think I want my son to marry an Indian?”

“She’s only half-Indian.”

“All right, half-Indian! I don’t want her!”

“Well! You ain’t gettin’ her, are yuh?” blurted Sleepy. “He said it was a wide, wide world and——”

“Wide world, fiddlesticks! He talks big, because he thinks he’s a man. Bennie wants to pose. A martyred son, and all that kind of rubbish. Marry that —— Indian? I guess not.”

“Pardner, yo’re doin’ a lot of guessin’,” smiled Hashknife. “This here love thing is a funny old bug. Ain’t nobody ever found a cure for it. And as far as the Injun girl is concerned, she’s half-American.”

“Her father is Irish as Paddy’s pig!”

“Her mother is American,” reminded Hashknife softly.

Lanpher scowled into the fire and nodded slowly.

“That’s true.”

Hashknife yawned and got to his feet.

“Well, Sleepy, I reckon we better be goin’.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sleepy sourly, “we’ll be wadin’ back down the hill.”

“But we haven’t come to any agreement,” protested Lanpher. “You’ll take the job, won’t you?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“I don’t think so. It ain’t noways a healthy place to horn into, and if three cattle detectives have failed, I don’t see where two ordinary punchers stand a chance.”

“Afraid?” Lanpher’s voice was slightly contemptuous.

“Very likely,” agreed Hashknife dryly.

“And Wheaton said you had the nerve of the ——. I’ll show you his letter.”

“But he neglected to say that we also placed quite a value on our own heads,” grinned Hashknife. “Still, it might not be as bad as it looks, Sleepy. Yo’re always honin’ for action, cowboy; suppose we take this job.”

“Then don’t blame me if we both get killed, Hashknife.”

“That’s fine!” applauded Lanpher. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars apiece to tackle the job. If you show me where our cattle have gone, I’ll double it. I don’t know you, but Wheaton said you were the only one——”

“I’m goin’ to whip Bill Wheaton for lyin’ about me,” interrupted Hashknife. “There’s two liars in Arizona, and Bill Wheaton is both of them.”

Lanpher laughed as he crossed to a table and wrote two checks.

“That will be the best money I ever spent, I think,” he remarked, as he handed them to the two cowboys.

“We’ll use the word ‘most,’” grinned Sleepy, squinting at the check. It was the biggest check he had ever seen.

“Pay to the order of Sleepy Stevens, one thousand dollars. Holy henhawks! I betcha I won’t sleep a wink.”

“Now, don’t go and spend it foolishly,” laughed Lanpher.

“Nossir.” Sleepy folded it and shoved it deep in his pocket. “That stays right in the old poke until I can find a place where they sell rubber-boots.”

They were laughing when the butler came in, apologetic for the intrusion, and spoke a man’s name to Lanpher.

“Tell him I’ll be out in a moment, Parker.”

“Well, we’ll be movin’,” said Hashknife, picking up his hat. “T’morrow we’ll head for the Ghost Hills, Lanpher.”

“Fine. I’ll wire Trainor tonight and tell him to——”

“Nope.” Hashknife stopped him. “You lay off that stuff. Me and you and Sleepy are the only ones that need to know. There’s a danged smooth gang in there, Lanpher. Remember, they spotted them detectives.”

“Well, that’s true, Hartley.”

Lanpher shrugged his shoulders.

“Go ahead and do it in your own way.”

He led the way out of the room, and as they neared the front door, a man stepped over and spoke to Lanpher. He was a well-dressed, thin-featured man, slightly gray at the temples and with a trifle of a limp in his right leg.

“Good evening, Mr. Lanpher,” he said, and nodded to the two cowboys.

“Hello, Carsten,” Lanpher held out his hand cordially, and then introduced Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Mr. Carsten is a cattle-buyer,” he explained.

Hashknife nodded and held out his hand to Lanpher, just as the front door opened and in came two richly dressed women. One of them was a slender, imperious-looking young lady, and the other a middle-aged woman, rather fleshily built.

Carsten spoke cordially to both of them, and Lanpher smilingly said—

“Mrs. and Miss Lanpher, I want you to meet Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens.”

“And we’re sure pleased t’ meetcha,” grinned Hashknife, shaking hands with both of them, although it was obvious that neither of the ladies cared for the hand-shaking.

“We’re just makin’ a short call,” explained Hashknife. “Thought we’d kinda wade out to see Lanpher before leavin’ town.”

No one seemed inclined to pick up the conversation; so Hashknife said—

“We’re sure pleased t’ meetcha, and if yuh ever drift over into our country, drop in and see us.”

The ladies murmured something conventional, but Carsten elevated his eyebrows a trifle, as he said—

“Just where is your country, Hartley?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh might say it was anywhere in the Western side of the U. S. A.”

“Sort of drifters, eh?”

“Nope.”

Hashknife shook his head.

“We travel under our own power, Carsten. Good night, folks.”

They went out of the front door and into the fog and rain. The fog-horns were sending out their eerie wailings down on the harbor, and the street lights gleamed dully at close quarters or faded to mere halo-like spots at a few yards distant.

The two cowboys halted on the sidewalk and turned their backs to the drifting elements.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, his teeth chattering in spite of himself.

“I dunno what to make of it, Sleepy; but we’ve already made two thousand dollars out of it. Here comes one of them rattlety-bump cars, goin’ downtown. Do yuh think yuh can ride her on the curves?”

“I’ll ride inside and lock m’ heels,” declared Sleepy. “My gosh, ain’t Miss Lanpher a dinger. Whooee! The queen of Sheber never had anythin’ on her—except a snake.”

It was very hot in the town of Wolf Wells, a huddle of unpainted buildings, strung more or less along a crooked, dusty street. Wolf Wells was strictly a cattle town, where no one seemed inflicted with too much morals, and its temperature was very hot in Summer and below zero in Winter, which probably accounted for the weather-beaten appearance of the whole place.

A branch railroad wound its crooked way through the Ghost Hills to Wolf Wells, but the train service seemed in the hands of the train crews, rather than in any semblance of a schedule. Wolf Wells was the county-seat.

Just now the town was fairly well-filled with people. It was Saturday, which accounted for some of the activity, but the majority of the people were interested in the outcome of Pinto Cassidy’s trial for murder.

The jury, a bunch of hard-bitten cattlemen, were still deliberating, after thirty hours of being locked up in a hot jury-room. Near one of the hitch-racks stood Jim Trainor, half-owner of the Circle Cross outfit, talking to “Fat” Fleager, the sheriff.

Trainor was a big man, broad of shoulder and with a face that was as inflexible as a piece of granite. His eyes were gray, like the gray of tempered steel, and his jaw jutted belligerently, as he bit reflectively at his lower lip.

The sheriff was built after the manner of a bed-slat, and from the sadness of his thin face, the bloodhound-like eyes, with their heavy pouches, one might well expect him to be the proprietor of a non-paying undertaking establishment. Both men were dressed in range clothes, and Fat Fleager seemed to be continually in danger of losing his belt, which hung draped around his narrow hips. The waistband of his overalls seemed to cause him much concern also, and the arm-holes of his vest continually crawled out over the points of his narrow shoulders.

They were both looking at a young man, dressed in cowboy garb, who crossed the street past them and went into a saloon. He was a slender young man, unshaven, unhandsome, but there was a devil-may-care slouch to his walk and to the angle of his sombrero. He did not look at Trainor and the sheriff.

“There’s a —— fool that’s breedin’ a scab for himself,” said Trainor, as the young man passed into the saloon.

“Yeah.” The sheriff nodded wearily. “I s’pose.”

“No brains. Old man’s got lots of money. —— kid could pick out a society girl for a wife, but he ain’t got no brains.”

“Lanpher got lots of money?” Indifferently.

“Ought to have.”

“Rich kid come to cowland and learned papa’s business, eh?” The sheriff actually smiled at his own humor.

“Lanpher ought to come out here and kick the kid back to Frisco,” growled Trainor.

“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “Mebbe it wouldn’t be safe. The kid got drunk last night in the Lily of the Valley saloon, and he backed ag’in’ the bar, with a gun in his hand, and recited some startlin’ pedigrees. But nobody called him.”

“Felt sorry for him, I suppose.”

“Thasso?”

The sheriff squinted at Trainor.

“That kid took seven dollars away from Lonesome Hobbs day before yesterday, shootin’ with a six-gun. I throwed the tin-cans for ’em m’self. Hobbs ain’t so danged amachoor, y’betcha.”

“Well, let him go ahead.” Trainor shrugged his shoulders, as if to dismiss the subject.

“Oh, he’ll go too far, that’s a cinch,” said the sheriff. “Kids always does. I wish that danged jury would make up their minds pretty soon. There’s Cassidy’s girl over in front of the hardware store now. I betcha she’s lookin’ for Ben Lanpher.”

Trainor turned and squinted closely at her. She was about average height, with a thin oval face, as brown as her maternal ancestors, but showing little of the aboriginal blood. Her hair was dark and worn in two heavy braids, but her eyes were blue. Her calico dress was well-made, even though a trifle gaudy in color, and she walked with the easy grace of a jungle-bred animal.

“Irish and Injun,” muttered Trainor. “——, what a combination! A blue-eyed Injun. If she wanted a weapon and you showed her a brick-bat and a scalpin’ knife, which would she take?”

“That’s a question,” grinned the sheriff. “But she’s a —— pretty girl, jist the same, Trainor.”

“Yes, she’s —— pretty.”

“And she’ll make a good wife for some man.”

“Hm-m-m,” mused Trainor. “I reckon she will.”

Two cowboys were crossing the street and Trainor turned from looking at Lorna Cassidy to give them a sharp glance.

“Who are those fellers, Fleager?” he asked.

“One feller—the tall one—is named Hartley. I talked with him this mornin’ at the feed corral. They rode in last night from the Encinas country.”

“Goin’ to stay here?”

“Lookin’ for jobs, I reckon. The tall feller is a nice spoken sort of a jigger, but he made me feel like he was laughin’ at me all the time. There ain’t nothin’ soft and tender about either of ’em.”

“What did he say that made yuh feel he was laughin’ at yuh?”

“Oh-h-h, well—nothin’ much. He was tellin’ about a feller that he knew who was so durned thin that his clothes wouldn’t stay on him, and so he wore his union-suit on the outside. He said it sure looked awful, but gave him the full use of his two hands.”

The sheriff hitched up his pants and belt and spat reflectively, while a grin flashed across Trainor’s thin lips.

“Anyway,” declared the sheriff, “I ain’t goin’ to try it. Mebbe we better go over and see if there’s any news from the jury.”

As they started across the street, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the saloon and caught up with them. Hashknife spoke to the sheriff.

“You ain’t puttin’ on this kind of weather for our benefit, are yuh, pardner?”

“This ain’t so hot,” said the sheriff.

“No, it ain’t exactly hot. I knowed a man once that was so danged thin that——”

“Your name’s Hartley, ain’t it?” interrupted the sheriff. “Shake hands with Mr. Trainor, of the Circle Cross.”

Hashknife shook hands with Trainor and introduced Sleepy to both men.

“You two fellers just driftin’ through?” queried Trainor casually.

Hashknife grinned and shook his head.

“Feller asked the same thing about a week ago. No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that we’re exactly driftin’, Mr. Trainor.”

“We’re kinda lookin’ for jobs,” declared Sleepy. “We ain’t askin’ for work—for jobs.”

Trainor laughed.

“I’m full-handed right now, or will be, as soon as that jury finds out what they’re goin’ to do. My foreman is on the jury, yuh see.”

“Seems like they was havin’ trouble decidin’ the case, accordin’ to what I can hear,” observed Hashknife. “Old man Cassidy ain’t very pop’lar, is he?”

“Not very,” admitted Trainor. “I reckon they’ll cinch him.”

The sheriff shook his head and shifted his chew.

“Nossir, I don’t think so. ’F they was goin’ to cinch him they’d ’a’ done it hours ago. Cow-juries don’t work that-away.”

“They sure don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “They’re just as liable to bring in a verdict of arson ag’in’ the judge as to settle the guilt or innocence of old man Cassidy.”

“And still they’re twelve men, good and true,” grunted Trainor.

“Good and true don’t mean that they’ve got any brains.”

“Here comes ‘Lonesome’ Hobbs,” said the sheriff, pointing down the street toward a short, fat, bow-legged individual, who was coming toward them as fast as his feet would carry him. As he drew near he removed his hat, exposing an almost totally bald head, which made him look like a very fat and very much overheated baby.

“Juj-jury’s made up their dud-danged minds,” he panted hoarsely. “Do yuh know where the juj-judge is, Fat?”

“He’s over in the Lily of the Valley, I reckon. Better go over and roust him out, Lonesome.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll git ’m.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street, fanning himself with his hat, while Hashknife and Sleepy followed Trainor and the sheriff down to the dance-hall, which was used as a courtroom.

Lonesome’s search for the judge had spread the news that the jury had reached a decision, and the court filled rapidly. Hashknife and Sleepy secured seats near the front of the room.

Seated just beyond them was Lorna Cassidy, and in a few minutes she was joined by a stout, white-haired man, carrying a mass of legal-looking papers.

“That’s Mitchell, the Frisco lawyer,” whispered a man near Hashknife. “I heard that young Lanpher hired him to defend old man Cassidy. I betcha it cost him some money.”

A few minutes later the sheriff came in from the rear of the hall, and with him was Pinto Cassidy, a little, old, wizened character. Cassidy was typically Irish of face, and his steady glance at the audience seemed to carry a fighting challenge to any or all of them.

But his seamed old face softened as he looked at his daughter, and he smiled softly, patting her on the shoulder. They talked together for a moment and then Ben Lanpher came swaggering up the aisle to sit down beside her. He was flushed with drink, arrogant with the feeling that every one was against him, and looked defiantly at every one in the room.

The judge came in and stood beside his desk. He was an old man, white of hair, very dignified. For a moment he looked about the room and rapped sharply on his desk. The buzz of conversation ceased.

“Just to say to you,” said the judge clearly, “that the court will brook no demonstration whatever. You will curb your feelings while within these walls.”

He turned and sat down as the jury filed in. They were a tired-looking crew of men, stolid, some of them seemingly half-angry. They sat down in the jury-box and looked expectantly at the judge, who said—

“Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?”

A big, raw-boned cowman, the foreman of the jury, got to his feet slowly and faced the judge.

“We have not,” he replied evenly, “and we can’t. There’s a —— fool among us that——” He looked meaningly at a hard-faced, squint-eyed cowboy on the end of the row—“that ain’t got enough brains to grease a needle with. He’s held us up for—well, all the time we’ve been in there, and we ask that you dismiss us.”

The squint-eyed cowboy continued to study the opposite wall, paying no attention to the foreman’s words. The judge cleared his throat raspingly.

“Then you find it impossible to reach a verdict?”

“Yeah, unless we want to foller that half-witted gopher’s ideas and hang old man Cassidy, judge. If it wasn’t murder to kill a feller like him, he’d ’a’ been dead eleven times right now.”

“And that’s no —— lie,” echoed a disgruntled member.

The judge sighed. He had been many years in cow-land and knew there would be no use to reprimand these men for such language in the court-room. They were all on the ragged edge, and the only thing he could do would be to dismiss them, which he did; thanking them for their efforts.

Ben Lanpher got to his feet and spoke directly to the judge:

“What about Cassidy? Does he get off now?”

The judge shook his head.

“No, I am sorry to say that he will have to stand trial before another jury.”

“There’s a —— of a lot of justice in that!” roared Ben angrily. “Eleven of ’em wanted to turn him loose, and just because one man——”

“Hang on to yourself, Lanpher!” snapped the sheriff, taking him by the arm. “You’re in a courtroom—not a saloon.”

“That’s right,” gritted the boy. “We might get justice in a saloon, but we can’t get it here.”

The sheriff turned and looked at the judge questioningly, but the judge shook his head sadly and turned back toward the rear door. The jury had got to their feet, and the sheriff crossed quickly to them and moved in close to the squint-eyed cause of their disgust.

“I’ll walk out with yuh,” said the sheriff.

“You better walk with him,” grunted one of the jury meaningly.

“Yes, and you better stay with him,” added Ben Lanpher.

The squint-eyed one glanced at Lanpher and the lines around his mouth twitched sharply, but he did not reply. Hashknife and Sleepy left the courtroom and went back to the street, where men were discussing the trial.

A cowboy, somewhat the worse for liquor, came up to them.

“Kinda looks like they was goin’ to have a hard time convictin’ old Cassidy,” he observed. “I’ll betcha that jury had a —— of a time. But you mark my word, this ain’t all settled yet.”

“No?” queried Hashknife. “How’s that, pardner?”

“Huh! Lemme tell yuh somethin’. That squint-eyed ‘Smoky’ Cole’ll make ’em pay for what they said about him, y’betcha. He’s plumb salty, he is. I sabe that jasper. Any time yuh think yo’re runnin’ a blazer on that son-of-a-gun, yo’re foolin’ yourself, thasall.”

“Bad, is he?” queried Hashknife.

“I’ll nod when yuh ask me that,” grinned the cowboy.

“You knowed him a long time—before he came here?”

The cowboy sobered a trifle and hitched up his belt.

“Tell yuh what I’ll do, I’ll buy a drink.”

“Who does Smoky Cole work for?” asked Sleepy.

“He’s foreman of the Circle Cross. Works for Trainor. I’m named Edwards, but folks calls me ‘Bility.’”

“Is that yore real name, or is it short for Ability?”

“——, I dunno. Yuh see—”

He grinned and spilled half a sack of tobacco past his cigaret paper.

“Yuh see, I been with the Flyin’ M f’r a long time, and one time some fellers was thinkin’ about buyin’ old man Shappee out. They was arguin’ about things, when I comes up to see the old man, and one of ’em says—

“‘Is this one of yore assets?’

“And old man Shappee says:

“‘——, no! That feller is a liability.’ ”

The cowboy laughed and spilled the rest of his tobacco.

“Do yuh know what it means?” asked Hashknife.

“——, no! And I don’t care. Let’s go. It got me a name.”

They went into the Lily of the Valley, which was the biggest saloon in the town, and found Trainor at the bar, talking with Lonesome Hobbs. The place was fairly well-filled and the games of chance were being well-patronized.

They accepted of Bility’s hospitality and while they were drinking, Ben Lanpher came in. He drank two big drinks of raw liquor before he paid any attention to those at the bar. His eyes were red from liquor and his jaw sagged listlessly.

Hashknife studied him closely and decided that Bennie Lanpher had the makings of a bad-man. He had evidently practised with a six-gun until he had an exalted idea of his own ability, and plenty of liquor had made him careless.

Ben turned and looked at Hashknife, who smiled softly. Bennie was in no mood to have any one smile at him, and his weak jaw immediately assumed a belligerent angle.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he grunted.

Hashknife ignored the question and turned back facing the bar. But Ben was not to be denied. Something seemed to tell him that this tall cowpuncher had smiled at him—possibly laughed at him.

He shoved away from the bar and stepped in behind Hashknife.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he asked.

Hashknife turned lazily and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, I see a lot of funny things about yuh, young feller. If they wasn’t also awful sad, I’d laugh like ——”

“Is—that—so?” Lanpher spaced his words widely and his right hand eased back toward his holster.

“In the first place,” continued Hashknife, “yo’re too young to drink so much liquor. First thing yuh know you’ll quit growin’ and always look like a half-baked kid. You ain’t got brain enough to see that yo’re headin’ plumb into trouble—mebbe a rope. Them is some of the reasons why I ain’t laughin’ at yuh.”

Lanpher laughed mockingly, loudly and then his teeth fairly snapped. The room had gone quiet and every one had heard what Hashknife had said, although he had spoken quietly.

“Take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “I’m a stranger to you and we ain’t got no quarrel.”

“Backin’ up, eh?” snarled Lanpher. “Next time you laugh at a man, you’ll find out who he is first.”

Lanpher’s hand was on the butt of his gun and his body tensed forward, expecting that Hashknife would accept his challenge. But Hashknife’s eyes squinted just past Lanpher’s head and his left eyelid drew down quickly in a deliberate wink.

Lanpher’s head twisted as quick as a flash; thinking that there was danger right behind him, and before he could turn back Hashknife’s left hand had caught him by the right wrist, while Hashknife’s open right hand splatted against the side of his jaw, throwing him off his balance and placing him powerless to do anything, except swear.

And Lanpher did plenty of the latter. Hashknife held him helpless, while the crowd moved in close to enjoy the sight.

“Yuh got a lot of things to learn before yuh can be a honest-to-gosh bad-man,” explained Hashknife. “And one of ’em is to never turn yore head.”

“Lemme go!” wailed Lanpher.

“All right, I’ll let yuh go,” agreed Hashknife, “but you’ve got to agree to one thing.”

“All right, —— yuh. What is it?”

“As soon as yuh get yore balance, we’ll both start shootin’.”

The crowd behind Lanpher parted with great alacrity.

But Lanpher did not care for the conditions. Hashknife flung him away and Lanpher staggered into a card-table before he regained his balance. Then he went straight out of the door, without looking back.

“That’s tamin’ ’em,” declared Trainor, who had been an interested observer. “It was just what he needed, Hartley. I’ll buy a drink.”

The crowd went back to their games, but the incident was not forgotten. Hashknife was a stranger, which was worthy of notice in Wolf Wells, where few strangers ever came, and he had demonstrated that he was able to take care of himself in a way that appealed to the range folk.

“I wish I had a job for you fellers,” said Trainor, as they leaned on the bar, “but I’m plumb filled up right now.”

“We ain’t exactly dependent on a job right now,” explained Hashknife, “but a feller don’t like to go broke before he lands a job. Who’d be a good rancher to see about a job?”

“I dunno. Yuh might see old man Shappee. He owns the Flyin’ M, but I suppose he’s got a full crew.”

“How much of a crew do you have, Trainor?”

“I’m only hirin’ three men now. Nothin’ much to do this time of the year, except to kinda watch the waterholes. We’re breakin’ a few horses, too. Usually I have five or six men. I had kinda bad luck lately. Mebbe yuh heard about two of my men gettin’ shot.”

“Got shot?” Hashknife shook his head. “We ain’t been here long enough to hear much gossip. Was it for the killin’ of one of them that Cassidy is bein’ tried?”

“Yeah, the last one. Mebbe he killed the first one, I dunno.”

“He don’t look like a killer.” This from Sleepy.

“No, he don’t, but he’s meaner than a snake.”

“Just in what way?” Hashknife was curious, and Trainor glanced quickly at him.

“Oh, just mean. He said he’d shoot the first Circle Cross man he found on the Tomahawk.”

Hashknife grinned.

“He must have a grudge ag’in’ yore outfit, Trainor.”

Trainor grunted an unintelligible reply and turned as some one called his name. It was an undersized cowboy, with a limp cigaret glued to his protruding underlip.

“You seen Whitey Anderson?” he asked.

“Not today,” replied Trainor.

“He was lookin’ for yuh about fifteen minutes ago.”

“All right, Shorty.”

Trainor accepted another drink and left the saloon.

“Who’s Anderson?” asked Hashknife of the bartender.

“Depot agent.”

They drifted outside and found Lonesome Hobbs sitting on a hitch-rack. How he ever got himself up that high was a mystery, but he was up there. He nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy and slid over to give them room.

“I seen yuh have yore fuss with young Lanpher,” he said huskily. “Bub-by gosh, he needed a jolt. How’d yuh ever think up that winkin’ idea?”

“Used my head,” grinned Hashknife.

“That’s it,” nodded Lonesome. “Feller’s got to use his brains—if he’s gug-got any. I can think of the best doggone schemes, but I forget ’em right when I need ’em bad. Feller told me a good scheme once. Said to step hard on a feller’s feet, when yo’re fightin’ him and he’ll fall down. I tried it—once.”

“Didn’t it work?” asked Sleepy.

“Not fer me, it didn’t. I reckon that was only part of the trick; the rest of it was to keep the other feller from knockin’ —— out of yuh until yuh could fu-find his feet. Anyway, that’s how she ’pears to me.”

They were laughing as Trainor came up to the rack and untied his roan horse.

“Goin’ home?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Wish I had a job for you two. Hope you get one.”

“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll swindle somebody out of a few month’s wages. Adios.”

“Seems like a right nice sort of a feller,” observed Hashknife, as Trainor rode away.

“Who, Trainor? Best there is, y’betcha. Danged good cowman, top-notch puncher and reliable as ——”

“Which is some reliability,” agreed Hashknife. “We’d kinda like to work for him.”

“Well, I dunno whether I would or not.” Lonesome pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’m kinda superstitious, don’tcha know it? I figgers that things happens three times before they quits. There’s been two of the Circle Cross punchers killed lately. They was leaded considerable, too.

“Figgerin’ the way I do, there’s another one to go. It don’t always work out that-away, of course, bub-but I ain’t the kind of a jasper that goes dead ag’in’ my own hunches.”

“Why do yuh reckon they was killed?” queried Sleepy.

“Why.” Lonesome leaned his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “I ain’t prepared to say.”

“Any idea who killed ’em?”

“Well, they’re tryin’ old Cassidy for the last one.”

“Where is Cassidy’s ranch?” asked Hashknife.

Lonesome jerked his thumb in a northerly direction.

“Out thataway. Yuh take the main road out there, and a little over two miles she forks, but don’t take the right-hand fork, ’cause that goes to the Circle Cross. Keep on goin’ about a quarter-mile and take the left-hand road.

“It’s about seven miles to the Tomahawk, and about five to the Circle Cross. I’d keep plumb away from the Tomahawk, if I was you. They ain’t a danged bit friendly.”

“But Cassidy is where he can’t hurt anybody.”

“No, he can’t, but there’s young Lanpher livin’ there, and Jimmy Droop-drawers.”

Hashknife laughed outright.

“For gosh sake, what a name!”

“He’s a half-breed,” grinned Lonesome, “and that name fits him like a plaster. Jimmy was absent the day they was passin’ around the brains, but he sure can shoot.”

“You got kind of a sweet lot of folks around here,” observed Hashknife. “Looks to me like Wolf Wells had enough gunmen to hold up the reputation of a bigger place.”

“Aw, we ain’t botherin’ with gunmen.” Lonesome spat dryly and shook his head. “We ain’t afraid of nothin’ we can see, y’betcha. It’s the things we can’t see that gits under our hides.”

“Such as what?” asked Hashknife.

“Cows that evaporate, for instance.”

Hashknife and Sleepy looked closely at Lonesome, but his face was deadly serious.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve heard of evaporated milk. Mebbe that’s where it come from, Lonesome.”

“Mum-mebbe,” dubiously. “Anyway, it ain’t a fav’rite subject with me, gents. I reckon I’ll be goin’ back to the office. You ain’t found no jobs yet?”

He almost fell off the hitch-rack, without waiting for an answer, recovered his hat, which rolled under a horse, and bow-legged his way across the street.

Sleepy grinned and looked at Hashknife.

“What do you think of things, Hashknife?”

“Well, it’s too danged early in the game to make any remarks, but I’ll say there’s a lot of folks around here that might start shootin’ any time.

“I don’t think a lot of old man Lanpher’s offspring, but I do like his pardner. Trainor seems like a regular he-man. The sheriff has only one thing to recommend him, and that is the fact he’s so danged thin that nobody could hit him with anythin’ bigger than a .22 rifle.

“Lonesome Hobbs is all right. Old man Cassidy might ’a’ killed that puncher, but I have my doubts. His girl is danged pretty, and William Lanpher might be danged well honored to think that she’d look at his slack-headed son. Outside of that, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat.”

“All right,” agreed Sleepy. “I kinda feel that we’re goin’ to like Wolf Wells. It kinda reminds me of the old Willer Crick outfit, Hashknife. Everybody suspicious of everybody else. I sure hope they don’t suspicion us.”

“They will, if we don’t get a job, Sleepy.”

As they crossed the street, Ben Lanpher, Cassidy’s squaw and Lorna Cassidy were getting into a light wagon. Lanpher saw them, but did not look up as they passed. The girl gave them a keen glance and the two cowboys lifted their hats. As they went into a restaurant, Hashknife looked back and the girl had turned her head and was watching them.

“I hope she knows us next time she sees us,” said Sleepy, grinning.

“I hope they all do,” replied Hashknife. “I’d hate to be mistaken for some of the boys from the Circle Cross.”

The Tomahawk was a typical squaw-man’s ranch. There was little semblance of order in the locations of the ranch-house, barns or corrals, and the buildings looked as if they might collapse in the next breeze.

The weather-beaten ranch-house, a low, rambling affair, was sway-backed from old age and the weight of many snows, and the barn stood, as a cowboy might express it, kinda antegodlin’ to everythin’. The corral fences were lopsided and badly in need of repair.

A few mongrel chickens strayed around the littered front yard of the ranch-house, clucking wildly after the winged grasshoppers; a family of magpies chattered in the cottonwoods behind the barn, while down in a corral a hungry calf bawled loudly.

It was the day following the dismissal of the jury. In the long living-room Ben Lanpher humped over in a dilapidated rocking-chair, staring moodily at a crumpled envelope. His hair was matted, his face unshaven and his clothes bore evidence that he had slept in them—and not on a bed.

Lorna Cassidy leaned against the side of the adobe fireplace, looking with troubled eyes at Lanpher, while near her the squat figure of Mrs. Cassidy was seated on a low stool. At the far end of the room, sitting on the floor, with his knees drawn up to his chin, was the half-breed cowboy, known by the unlovely title of Jimmy Droop-drawers.

Jimmy was a typical half-breed, in which the Indian blood seemed to predominate strongly. His lower lip was thick and pendulous, his eyes mere slits above his high cheek-bones, and his garb, with the exception of his high-heeled boots, badly run-over at the heels, was entirely aboriginal. It was plainly evident that his beaded-blanket pants had not been made by a tailor, because the seat was entirely too commodious—which accounted for his cognomen.

Ben Lanpher crumpled the letter in his hand and got to his feet.

“Well—” He tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Well, that settles the cathop, I suppose. The old man has cut off my credit—told me that I could have no more of his money.”

He turned his head and looked at Lorna.

“Well, why don’t somebody say something? I’m too —— dry even to curse him.”

“There is nothing to say,” said Lorna softly.

“Ain’t there?” Ben laughed hoarsely. “It means that we won’t be able to hire a lawyer for the next trial. I’m broke.”

“Why need lawyer?” asked Mrs. Cassidy. “My man never kill cowboy. Only one man think so.”

“That —— Smoky Cole!” snapped Ben. “I’ll fill him so full of holes that he’ll——”

“And who will pay for the lawyer to keep you from hanging?” asked Lorna quickly.

“You don’t need a lawyer when you kill a man in self-defense.”

“Yo’ look out,” advised Jimmy thickly. “Cole bad man with a gun. Mebbe yo’ need doctor—not lawyer.”

“Too much talk about kill,” said the stolid old squaw, as she slowly filled a pipe with plug tobacco. “No good to talk.”

“Tha’s jus’ right,” nodded Jimmy. “Old Minnie know. Big talk, small medicine.”

“Who were those two men who passed, when we were ready to leave Wolf Wells yesterday?” asked Lorna.

“Them two?” Ben took a half-filled bottle from his hip pocket and reached for a tin cup on the table.

“I dunno who they are. Couple of smart cowpunchers, I guess.”

“Ben, why don’t you go back to your home?”

“Huh?”

Ben took the cup away from his lips and stared at her.

“Why don’t I go home?”

“Yes—back to your people.”

Ben laughed harshly.

“Why should I go back to them?”

“They are your people. You don’t belong here. They would be glad to have you come back.”

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Lorna?”

Lanpher was half-angry, as he got to his feet and walked over to her.

“I told yuh I’d stay here and see that the old man was cleared. Dad wanted me to stay with the Circle Cross, but me and Trainor couldn’t get along. He treated me like I was a kid. Told me not to come over here. Said that you was just a —— Injun, and that your father would shoot me if I came on the Tomahawk ranch.”

Lorna turned and stared out of the window, her lips shut tight, as if to hold back a flood of bitterness. Then—

“Well, I suppose he was right, Ben.”

“What do we care?” laughed Ben hoarsely. “If I want to marry an Injun, that’s my business, ain’t it?”

Lorna shook her head.

“No, you are just foolish, I think. You go back to your people and forget everybody in the Ghost Hills.”

“Not by a —— sight! When I go back to California—to Frisco, you are going with me, Lorna.”

The old squaw took her pipe slowly from her lips and looked up at Ben.

“You are very big —— fool, I think,” she declared.

“Is that so?”

Ben turned to the old squaw.

“Mebbe you’d have somethin’ to say about it?”

She nodded slowly and began puffing on her pipe.

Ben shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another drink. He had imbibed so much liquor during the last two weeks that his system shrieked for more.

“Why don’t you quit drinking?” asked Lorna. “When you came here you did not drink.”

“Lot of things I didn’t do then.”

Ben wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed uncertainly, as he looked closely at his almost depleted flask.

“I’ve got to go to town and get more hooch.”

“What will you do when your money is all gone?”

“Do?”

Ben laughed and picked up his hat.

“Rob a bank, I guess. Maybe I’ll join the Ghost Hills gang. By —— I’ll bet they’d take me in.”

He turned and walked out of the door, staggering slightly, as he clumped off the porch and headed for the barn. Jimmy, the half-breed, walked to the door where he leaned lazily against the sill, puffing on his cigaret.

The old squaw did not turn her head as Ben went out, but continued to puff at her pipe, while Lorna moved from the fireplace and stood beside the table, her shapely fingers picking at the cloth.

“Just a —— Injun,” she said softly, sadly. “Just that and nothing more. Am I any different or worse than other girls?”

The squaw knocked the dottle from her pipe and got clumsily to her feet, which were shod in buckskin.

“You good girl, Lorna. Good Injun just as good as white people.”

“You —— right!” agreed Jimmy from the doorway. “You jus’ right, Lorna. To —— with Trainor.”

Jimmy turned away from the door and came back toward them.

“Ben gone to town,” he announced, and added. “Too much whisky no good.”

He squatted at the fireplace and started to roll another cigaret, but his trained ears heard a sound outside and he arose swiftly and his hand swung back to jerk his revolver holster into position.

Came the scrape of a footstep on the narrow porch and Jim Trainor’s voice called—

“Anybody home?”

“Somebody home,” replied Jimmy huskily. He was just a trifle afraid of the big man from the Circle Cross.

Trainor’s huge frame fairly blocked the door as he came in from the porch. Lorna looked straight at him, but the old squaw, after the manner of her kind, paid him no heed. Jimmy watched him closely.

“Hello, Lorna,” grinned Trainor, “I got to wonderin’ how you folks were gettin’ along so I came over to see. Where’s Ben Lanpher?”

“He go to town,” said Jimmy. “Go jus’ now.”

“Gone down to get drunk again, I suppose.”

Trainor sat down in the rocking-chair and threw his hat on the table. He seemed entirely at home, even though his welcome had not been any too cordial.

“Why do you come here?” asked Lorna.

“Why?” Trainor laughed shortly. “I told you I wanted to see how you were all getting along, Lorna.”

“That should not take long to find out, Mr. Trainor.”

“No, I guess that’s a fact. Too bad about that jury.”

“Too —— bad,” corrected Jimmy, and was immediately sorry he had spoken.

Trainor turned and looked straight at him.

“When I speak to you, I’ll call you by name.”

Jimmy swallowed with difficulty and sidled toward the door. He was not of a belligerent disposition and he greatly respected Trainor’s fighting ability. At the doorway he turned and fired a parting shot.

“Next time jury agree, mebbe. You know what Pinto Cassidy said about Circle Cross men.”

And then Jimmy Droop-drawers faded out of sight. Trainor’s face went black for a moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted across the old squaw’s face, but Trainor passed it off with a laugh.

“I hope they do agree,” he laughed, “and I don’t think that Pinto Cassidy will be so hasty next time.”

“You believe my father killed him?”

Lorna leaned across the table and looked Trainor square in the eyes.

“Well—” Trainor looked away and rubbed his chin with the ball of his right thumb. “Well, I hope not, Lorna. But if he did he was only making good his threat. Ed Meeker had no business coming over here. He knew what Cassidy had said.”

“Who killed the other man—Lloyd Hansen? He wasn’t found on the Tomahawk.”

“I don’t know who killed him. But your father ain’t accused of that killin’.”

“Why was he killed?” demanded Lorna.

“Why?” Trainor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. But that does not interest me. Did Ben get a letter from his father lately?”

Lorna turned away from the table and sat down near the old squaw.

“I know nothing about Ben’s mail,” she replied.

Trainor smiled.

“He’s sayin’ that he’s goin’ to marry you, Lorna.”

“I have no strings on his tongue,” indifferently.

“I thought he was lyin’,” smiled Trainor. “His father wrote me that he had sent word to Ben that his money supply was cut off. It’s about time, I reckon.”

“Ben is a fool,” continued Trainor, when Lorna ignored his statement. “His father is wealthy and can give him everything he would want. He can marry a white girl and live in a fine house; so why should he stay around here?”

“And marry a —— Injun,” added Lorna.

Trainor looked keenly at her. He remembered saying those same words to Ben, and wondered if he had told her.

“Well, you know how city folks look at Indians, Lorna. You don’t look like an Injun. If I didn’t know different, I’d never know that you had a drop of Indian blood in yuh.”

“What have the Indians ever done to make a white man look down upon their blood?” asked Lorna hoarsely. “They only fought for what had belonged to them for many years. It was not that they wanted to win more, but to keep what they already owned.

“I know. I have read history in school. I have read many tales of the Indian—written by men who knew only the one half of the tale—the white half. The Indian fought in his own way—the only way he knew.

“The Indian was lazy, because that was his disposition, but the squaw was not lazy. And the Indian was honest and sober until the white man—that superior race—came to ruin his morals and soul. He taught the Indian to lie, steal and drink. Perhaps—” Lorna turned away scornfully—“it will take many more years to bring the Indian up to the standard which the white man started to teach him many years ago.”

Trainor laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.

“Lorna, when you turn loose, I wonder if you’ve got any white blood in yuh.”

“I am never ashamed of Indian blood,” she retorted, “but there are times when I am ashamed of my white blood.”

“All right,” grinned Trainor. “I don’t blame yuh. Let’s drop the subject. I never like to argue with a lady.”

“Bad business,” grunted the old squaw.

“That’s right, Minnie,” agreed Trainor, laughing. “Anyway, I like Lorna too well to argue with her.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“I’m going to run in real often,” he stated. “Cassidy won’t get another trial before the next term of court, and that’ll be three months from now. You’ll probably be needing a little help before he can get cleared, and I want yuh to understand that the Circle Cross is willing to help yuh in any way we can.”

“Good!” grunted the old squaw.

But Lorna did not express any thanks for his offer. He looked keenly at her before he turned toward the door. She gave him a sidelong glance as he went out through the door, but it was not a look of gratitude.

She heard him gallop away, going back toward the Circle Cross, and then she sat down beside the table. The old squaw had put away her pipe and was softly crooning a Sioux cradle-song, a chanting, tuneless thing that recited the superiority of the Sioux papoose over anything else on earth. It was one of the first things Lorna remembered, but she shuddered just now. It seemed so foolish to think that the Indian could be superior.

“Perhaps,” she told herself, “it is the white blood that rises above the red and makes me dislike Indian songs.”

The squaw finished the song and started all over again. Lorna got to her feet and walked to the door, as if to get away from the song, and as she looked out into the sunlight, two riders, the two men who had lifted their hats to her in Wolf Wells, were riding up to the house.

Jimmy, the half-breed, was working around one of the corrals, but when he saw the two men he came up toward the house. Hashknife and Sleepy took off their hats and spoke to Lorna pleasantly.

“We was just ridin’ around, ma’am, and thought mebbe we could get a drink of water,” explained Hashknife, “We tried to take a drink out of the little creek below here, but it was a little too bitter with alkali.”

“We have plenty of water,” replied the girl, and turned to the half-breed.

“Jimmy, will you get some water from the well? These men want a drink.”

Jimmy squinted at the two cowboys for a moment before he turned and went around the house. Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted and came up to the steps, just as Mrs. Cassidy came over to the door.

“Hello, mother,” smiled Hashknife. “How are you today?” The old squaw smiled broadly at the title and nodded pleasantly. Hashknife turned to Lorna.

“This is the Tomahawk ranch, ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, I wasn’t sure. Somebody told us that we’d likely get shot if we came here, but we don’t believe everythin’ we hear.”

Lorna smiled, but there was little happiness in it.

“I am glad you did not believe,” she replied. “We have never killed any one.”

“Sure yuh ain’t,” agreed Sleepy heartily. “I can jist look at you and see that yuh never. Gosh dang it, some folks sure do get things twisted.”

Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy and a grin spread his lips. Sleepy saw the grin and shuffled his feet nervously.

“Well,” he said defensively, “can’t you, Hashknife?”

“I never disputed yuh, cowboy,” grinned Hashknife.

Jimmy came around the corner with a bucket of water and the two cowboys quenched their thirst.

“Best water I ever drank,” declared Sleepy. “Never knowed that water could taste so danged good. Betcha I’ll be ridin’ this way real often f’r my drinks. Don’tcha know.” Sleepy was almost confidential. “I wonder why men drink strong liquor, when water tastes so good.”

“Now, little Dew-drop, don’t get so enthusiastic,” advised Hashknife seriously, and then to Lorna—

“He’s the same way over everythin’, ma’am.”

“He likes water,” said the old squaw.

“Under bridges,” admitted Hashknife. “Sleepy—say, I plumb forgot to introduce us. I’m Hashknife Hartley and this here water-soaked pardner of mine is named Sleepy Stevens.”

“I am Lorna Cassidy,” said the girl, “and this is my mother, Mrs. Cassidy.”

“We’re sure pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy, bowing gracefully, but kicking over the water-bucket at the same time.

“You’ve gotta watch him all the time,” explained Hashknife, as Sleepy hastened to right the bucket. “He’ll get his feet right into anythin’ that’s got water in it.”

Sleepy stood up, a grin on his flushed face. Lorna was laughing and a wide grin overspread the old squaw’s face. Jimmy, the half-breed stepped in and held out his hand to Hashknife.

“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Nobody speak my name.”

Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with him.

“You’ll excuse me, won’t yuh Jimmy?” asked Hashknife, “and we both thank yuh for the water.”

Jimmy grinned.

“Plenty water. You want more?”

“No, thank yuh, Jimmy. If there was any more water around here, I’d have to get a canoe for Sleepy. He can’t swim a lick.”

Jimmy grunted and went away with the bucket. He had no sense of humor, but he instinctively liked these two cowpunchers. Perhaps it was because they shook hands with him and treated him as an equal.

“My man in jail,” said Mrs. Cassidy, as if explaining his absence. “Can’t get out. Too —— much law.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, mother,” said Hashknife, “but he’ll get out.”

“Won’t you come in?” asked Lorna. “It is cool in the house.”

“Betcha we will,” agreed Sleepy quickly. “I’m about fried to a cinder.”

Jimmy followed them into the house and sat down against the wall.

“Ben Lanpher lives here, don’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“He has been staying here,” corrected Lorna. “Do you know him?”

“He was pointed out to me, and they said he was livin’ here.”

“Too much whisky,” grunted the old squaw.

Hashknife smiled and rolled a cigaret. He had been afraid to ask questions in Wolf Wells for fear that some one might find out that he and Sleepy were investigating the rustling situation.

“You folks been losin’ any cattle?” he asked.

Lorna nodded quickly.

“Yes, I think so. Dad insists that we have. He told everybody that he was losing cattle, and two days after that we found a card pinned to the front door. It had been written with a pencil and told us to keep our mouths shut or something worse than loss of cattle would come to us.”

“Don’t talk about it,” advised Jimmy warningly.

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. They knew now why there was no talk about the rustlers. It was the fear of the unknown that had shut the lips of the cattlemen. It was a condition that would make every man suspect his neighbor.

“Where do the cattle go?” asked Hashknife. “You’ve got to have a market for stolen stock. Is there any way out of here, except by railroad, where cattle could have been sent?”

Lorna shook her head.

“I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. “You are strangers to us, and for all we know you may belong to the Ghost Hills gang. Every one is afraid around here. Two men have already been killed and I think they were killed by the rustlers, but we have no proofs.”

“Ghost Hills gang, eh?” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Have they ever been seen by any one?”

“No seeum,” grunted the old squaw.

“Sort of fantom riders, eh?” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno whether we want jobs in this range or not, Hashknife. I’m kinda spooky m’self.”

“Does kinda make a feller feel creepy,” admitted Hashknife seriously, “and I don’t blame you folks for not talkin’ too much. I don’t suppose the sheriff is spendin’ much time tryin’ to round ’em up.”

“He stay home,” grunted Jimmy. “Sheriff smart man.”

Hashknife laughed softly and picked up his hat.

“Well, folks, I reckon we’ll drift along. Can we cut straight across the hills to Wolf Wells?”

“Yeah,” grunted Jimmy. “No fence, no trail. Not so long as road.”

Lorna followed them to the door and watched them mount.

“Will you come again?” she asked, just a trifle wistfully.

“Unless the ghost riders plug me first,” said Sleepy quickly.

“She meant both of us,” grinned Hashknife, as they rode away. “Sleepy, you sure do lose what little sense yuh got when yuh see a pretty girl.”

“Well, by golly, she sure is a pretty girl, Hashknife. She’s got Lanpher’s daughter beat four ways from the jack.”

Hashknife turned in his saddle and looked keenly at Sleepy, who was looking back toward the Tomahawk ranch-house. Sleepy turned and encountered Hashknife’s gaze.

“Rope’s draggin’ ag’in, Sleepy,” warned Hashknife.

“Lemme alone, will yuh?” snapped Sleepy, spurring his horse ahead and up the brushy slope.

“There’s some nice lookin’ girls in the city,” said Hashknife, quoting what Sleepy had said the night he had met Miss Lanpher.

But Sleepy only grunted. He and Hashknife had been partners for years, riding the ranges from Alberta to Mexico, and both were still heart and fancy free. Neither of them had ever been willing to marry and settle down. No range had ever been home to them for more than a few months at a time, and neither of them was young.

Both of them bore scars of conflict, and behind them were greater scars, which they had left in payment of injustice to others. They did not seek trouble, but, as Hashknife had said:

“There’s an antidote for every kind of poison, Sleepy. Some of it ain’t nothin’ more than salt-water or soapsuds, but it does the trick. Poison is poison, whether it’s somethin’ yuh get out of a bottle or somethin’ that grows in yore soul.

“When me and you first started hornin’ into dirty deals, I figured we was professional trouble-shooters, but I’ve come to the conclusion that the good Lord intended us as an antidote for range poison. And we’ve sure cured a lot of hard cases.”

“And never profited thereby,” reminded Sleepy.

“No-o-o, but yuh never heard of soapsuds and salt-water yelpin’ for pay. We’re just antidotes, thasall.”

Sleepy had a habit of falling in love at first sight, but it never went beyond that. Both of them realized that the marriage of one would mean the end of their adventures, and they were not ready to lead a peaceful life.

Fat Fleager was putting in a bad afternoon. It was bad enough to have Smoky Cole in town, drunk. Smoky had been drinking alone since the jury had been discharged, and he was beginning to move around, as if defying the whole world.

He had imbibed raw whisky for twenty-four hours, and was still on his feet. Not only was he on his feet, but he was fairly steady on them. His eye was bloodshot, but not at all bleary.

Fleager had observed Smoky Cole closely, waiting for him to run into some of the folks who had denounced him in the courtroom. Then came Ben Lanpher to add to the slatlike sheriff’s troubles. Ben was nearly drunk when he reached town, and he lost no time in bracing his chest against the Lily of the Valley bar and filling his interior with fighting liquor.

Fat lost no time in hot-footing it back to the office and waking Lonesome Hobbs out of his mid-day siesta.

“Nouk,” grunted Lonesome. “To —— with ’em both. Let ’em git at each other, Fat.”

“But me and you have sworn to uphold the law,” wailed the sheriff. “We’ve gotta do it, Lonesome.”

“I’ll hold her up,” agreed Lonesome, getting off the bunk, adjusting his hat and selecting a sawed-off shotgun from the gun-rack.

“Where’s all them buckshot shells, Fat?”

“Now whatcha goin’ to do?”

“Shoot —— out of both of ’em. It’s gettin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Where’s the shells?”

“Aw-w-w, go lay down!” wailed the sheriff. “You ain’t no help to me, Lonesome. You’re either as lazy as the ——, or as bloodthirsty as a cannibal. I hired yuh as a deputy and all I got was a drawback.”

“Well, whatcha want me to do?” grunted Lonesome. “I only know how to do two things real well—sleep and shoot. You woke me up, darn yuh, and now yuh won’t let me know where them shells are. You ain’t noways consistent.”

“Yuh might use a little brains!” snapped the sheriff.

“If I had brains—” The cot creaked raspingly, as Lonesome stretched himself out again— “If I had brains I’d never live in Wolf Wells, I’ll tell yuh that, Fat Fleager. Anyway, it ain’t no job for a fat man, this ain’t. All you’ve got to do is stand sideways and nobody can hit yuh. With me——”

Lonesome lifted his head and looked toward the door, but the sheriff had gone, and Lonesome did not finish his sentence.

Then he groaned dismally, got off the cot and buckled on his belt. He was in no mood to be trifled with now. It was his usual siesta time, and he meant to make it worth losing sleep over.

With Ben Lanpher in the Lily of the Valley, and Smoky Cole in the Antelope saloon, the sheriff planted himself between the two, which were half-a-block apart, and made a resolution that they—Ben and Smoky—must be kept apart.

The fact that one of them did not know the other was in town helped the sheriff considerably. Lonesome looked witheringly upon the watchful sheriff and went into the Lily of the Valley, where he found Ben Lanpher, standing with his shoulder-blades sort of hooked over the top of the bar, while he considered things of importance.

Lonesome Hobbs was no diplomat. He knew that Ben was just drunk enough to pick trouble. His bleary eye and the belligerent angle of his sombrero proclaimed to Lonesome that Bennie was contemplating starting something.

Lonesome walked up to the bar beside Ben, as if to buy a drink, turned swiftly and kicked Bennie’s feet from under him. And while Bennie was going down in a sitting position, Lonesome uppercut him with a right fist, which landed Bennie into dreamland.

Then, while everything in the saloon suspended operations to watch him, Lonesome removed Bennie’s gun, flipped out the cartridges and replaced the gun.

“And that’s some sudden!” exclaimed the bartender.

“Dud-danged right,” admitted Lonesome, and to the crowd—

“When he wakes up, you tell him to high-tail it out of town, ’cause I’m comin’ back to make both sides of his face match up.”

Then Lonesome went out of there, walking stiff-legged, and headed for the Antelope. The sheriff was still planted in the same spot, but Lonesome walked past him, as if the sheriff was a stranger. He spoke to Lonesome, but got no reply.

Lonesome went into the Antelope and found Smoky in a poker-game. Or rather, Smoky was half-in and half-out of the game. He was standing up, leaning across the table and talking in uncertain and very profane terms over what he declared to be a deliberate attempt to swindle him out of a pot.

Smoky was just drunk enough to be vile in his language, and dangerous withal. He was standing up in front of his chair when Lonesome’s right hand hooked into his gaudy muffler, and a moment later he went over backward, taking the chair with him, and landed on the back of his head with a thud.

It knocked all the fight out of Smoky, and his mind was a blank during the time that Lonesome removed his gun and took out the cartridges. Smoky had no friends in the place to assist him, and those present seemed to get a lot of fun out of the incident.

“Tell him to rattle his hocks out of town,” said Lonesome. “He’s been makin’ himself ob-obnoxious around here, and I’ll be watchin’ the front door for his goin’. Me and the sheriff is plumb tired of bein’ annoyed.”

Lonesome went out of the door and crossed the street toward the office, without looking at the sheriff, who was still holding forth between the two saloons. Lonesome went into the office and planted himself near the front window, after placing the sawed-off shotgun handy.

It was several minutes later that Ben Lanpher came to the door of the Lily of the Valley. His right hand caressed the side of his head and he seemed undecided as to what he intended doing. He took stock of the fact that the sheriff was between him and the Antelope saloon, but started walking toward him.

About this time Smoky Cole staggered out of the Antelope, his hat in his hand. He was also a trifle erratic in his movements, and perhaps a bit near-sighted after the bump on his head, because he too started toward the sheriff.

There was nothing for the sheriff to do but to move away from between them, which he did and did quickly.

“Don’tcha start nothin’!” he yelled. “Don’tcha ——”

But his warning was wasted. The two belligerents had recognized each other. For a moment they hesitated, then two hands reached for two guns. Smoky was the faster of the two. His gun was out before Ben had started his draw, but the hammer fell upon an empty cylinder.

Swiftly his thumb hooked the hammer, and again the dull click of a dead cylinder. Ben’s gun was leveled now, but his efforts were as unavailing as were Smoky’s. But Smoky did not hear the click of Ben’s gun, because Smoky was going away as fast as his legs would carry him.

Ben did not pay any attention to Smoky’s going, because a quick glance told him that his gun was empty, and he turned to run the other way. Lonesome whooped with glee and fell backward on the cot, while the sheriff, after a glance in either direction, hurried across to the office.

Lonesome sat up and looked at the sheriff, his eyes filled with tears. The sheriff was a trifle pale and his lips worked soundlessly.

“What’s the matter with you?” choked Lonesome.

“Thank the Lord!” exclaimed the sheriff. “I—I’m glad to hear your voice, Lonesome. I thought I had lost my hearin’. Them two guns ——”

“Were empty,” finished Lonesome. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! They never thought to look at ’em, and nobody told that I took out the shells.”

“You took ’em out?”

“Yeah, I took ’em out,” laughed Lonesome, and then told the sheriff what he had done to both men.

The sheriff went to the door and looked into the street. Ben Lanpher was mounting his horse, and a moment later rode away toward home. He was unsteady in his saddle and lost his hat, but did not stop to recover it.

It was probably ten minutes later that Smoky Cole rode out of the livery-stable and headed toward home. He was savagely drunk and took out his spite on his horse, which almost threw him off in front of the sheriff’s office.

“Well, they’re gone and I hope they never come back,” declared the sheriff fervently.

“You and me both,” agreed Lonesome wearily. “It’s gittin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Next time I’ll take a hammer and nails with me and nail their pants to the floor. I’ll betcha they’ll stay put next time I have to git out of mum-my sleep to correct ’em.”

“You think you’re a little bit of ——, don’tcha?” queried the sheriff sarcastically.

“Not such a little bit either,” retorted Lonesome. “I’ve got the stren’th to hold up the law, y’betcha.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in from the other end of town, and the sheriff watched them ride up to the front of the office and dismount. He was not exactly sure whether he liked these two punchers or not. Still their smiles were friendly enough, but he was not sure that they were not laughing at him.

“Howdy,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricks are fine,” yelled Lonesome. “I jist pup-played a dinger. Lemme tell yuh about it.”

And with great gusto and much stuttering, Lonesome told them how he had treated the two drunken punchers.

“And Fat Fleager thought he’d lost his hearin’, ’cause he couldn’t hear ’em shootin’,” concluded Lonesome. “Mamma mine, I never done nothin’ half as good before.”

“Didja think they’d do that, when yuh took the shells out of their guns?” asked Hashknife.

“I wasn’t sure of nothin’,” admitted Lonesome, “but it sure worked out swell.”

“Now they’ll pack a grudge agin’ you,” declared the sheriff.

“And I’ll pack a riot-gun,” said Lonesome laughing.

“Kind of a tough place yuh got here,” said Hashknife, sitting down on the sidewalk and producing his papers and tobacco. “Cattle fade out and folks get shot. You kinda got yore hands full, ain’t yuh, sheriff?”

The sheriff nodded slowly and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.

“Yeah, I reckon things are kinda unsettled, Hartley.”

“You fellers find a job yet?” Thus Lonesome, as if to change the subject.

“Not yet,” grinned Hashknife. “Jobs is scarce.”

“If I wanted a job punchin’ cows, I’d sure pass up the Ghost Hills range,” observed the sheriff. “There’s lots of better ranges than this, where there’s always a need for top-hands.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “It ain’t noways the best. The Circle Cross is the best outfit around here, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I reckon it is. They run more cattle than any other outfit around here—or did until—say, did yuh go over to the Flying M? Old man Shappee might have a job for one of yuh. It’s about four miles east of here. And there’s the 66 outfit about seven miles kinda south of here.”

“We was just ridin’ around today,” explained Hashknife. “We ran across the Tomahawk ranch-house, but they ain’t hirin’ nobody.”

“That’s a cinch,” said Lonesome, grinning widely. “They never did hire anybody. Old Cassidy and Jimmy Droop-drawers done all the work. Mebbe Ben Lanpher is doin’ somethin’ since old Cassidy git into jail, but I doubt it. He’s so soaked with hooch that he’s no good to anybody.”

“Who is this here Ben Lanpher?” asked Hashknife.

“Millionaire kid,” grunted the sheriff. “His father owns half of the Circle Cross. Lives in Frisco, I think. Sent the kid out here to learn the cattle business and he took a post-graduate course in whisky and six-guns. He was at the Circle Cross for quite a while, but he got stuck on Cassidy’s daughter, pulled off a quarrel with Jim Trainor and hooked up with the Tomahawk. He says he’s goin’ to marry that breed girl, but I doubt it.”

“So do I,” agreed Sleepy, and added quickly. “He’d never stay sober long enough for that.”

Hashknife chuckled to himself and tried to catch Sleepy’s eye, but Sleepy was busy examining his fingernails and would not look up.

“It’s a wonder that his father wouldn’t make him come home,” said Hashknife. “Somebody’ll kill him if he don’t pull the kink out of his neck.”

“Well, sir, he’s got a nice father, too,” observed the sheriff. “I kinda like Lanpher. Not a —— bit like the kid. He was here about a year or so ago—him and his wife and daughter.”

“And that daughter is a dinger,” wheezed Lonesome. “Prettiest girl I ever seen. She sure was a promisin’ lookin’ filly, but Jim Trainor kinda close-herded her all the time. By golly, there was a lot of punchers that’d given their right eye to even dance with her. Her ma high-toned everybody, but papa was sort of a harmless hoptoad.”

Lonesome laughed and shook his head sadly.

“Mamma looked right over my huh-head, when I tried to shake hands with her. I told her to set her sights lower if she wanted to connect with me and she got sore. Anyway, I got papa drunk and he confided that he had high ideas for daughter. I often wonder if he hit what he was aimin’ at.”

“And they ain’t been here since, eh?” This from Sleepy.

“Nope. Their little son stayed, thasall. And I’ll tell a man that this country didn’t draw much when they got him.”

“Lots of cattle shipped out of here?” asked Hashknife.

“Ain’t been for a while.” The sheriff shook his head. “Oh, there’s a few bein’ shipped now and then, but no big shipments. The 66 outfit shipped some horses the other day, didn’t they, Lonesome?”

“Gosh, I dunno,” Lonesome yawned widely. “I never keep track of them kinda things. It keeps me busy knockin’ down drunken bad-men. Ho-o-o—hum-m-m!”

“Why don’tcha try sleepin’ for it?” asked Hashknife.

“Try it?” snorted the sheriff. “My —— he don’t do nothin’ else but sleep.”

“Don’t I?”

Lonesome slapped himself on the chest.

“I went out and cleaned up on the bad-men, while the sheriff planted himself over there on the sidewalk and got cockeyed from tryin’ to watch both ways at once.”

“Yuh should ’a’ seen him, gents. He seen Smoky comin’ one way and Bennie the other. Then he yelps:

“‘Don’tcha start nothin’!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Lonesome roared his mirth and the sheriff whirled and went into the office, quivering with indignation.

“Now he’s mad at me,” wailed Lonesome, “and I suppose he’ll fire me, and I won’t have no more job than a jackrabbit. That’s just my luck.”

“You think yore kinda —— smart, don’tcha?” growled the harassed sheriff.

“Well,” Lonesome sighed gleefully, “it isn’t as bad as I thought it was. When Fat gets to blamin’ me for bein’ smart, I know everythin’ is all right.”

Lonesome began manufacturing a cigaret and the conversation stopped for a few minutes. A loaded wagon creaked down the street, stirring up a cloud of dust. Over in front of the Antelope saloon a couple of cowpunchers mounted and rode away, arguing loudly over something that neither of them knew anything about. Up the street a couple of dogs started a battle, which was a signal to every dog in town to come and look on.

Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret and motioned with his arm to take in the whole town.

“Boys, this is the kind of a town to live in. They can all have their cities—give me the old cow-town.”

“Huh!”

Lonesome flipped away his match and stared at Hashknife.

“Pardner, you’ve got a —— of an idea of a place to live. You ain’t been around much, have yuh?”

“No-o-o, not a whole lot.”

“I guess you ain’t.”

“Here comes an old-timer,” observed Sleepy, pointing up the street. “Betcha he struck the mother-lode.”

It was a bearded old prospector, astride a bony, gray horse, and trailing him was a decrepit-looking pack-horse, with pack askew and a limp in one leg.

The one-man caravan came straight to the office and the bearded man shaded his eyes from the sun, as he spelled out the sheriff’s sign over the door.

“Howdy, stranger,” said Lonesome. “Somethin’ I can do for yuh?”

“You the sheriff?” asked the bearded one anxiously.

“No, I’m his hired bad-man buster,” grinned Lonesome.

Just then the sheriff came to the door, and Lonesome jerked his thumb in that direction.

“There’s the sheriff—such as he is.”

“What do yuh want?” queried the sheriff.

“Well—” The patriarch cleared his throat raspingly and leaned forward in his saddle—“I found a dead man a little while ago.”

The sheriff stepped out nearer him.

“Keep on talkin’, stranger. Where’d yuh find him?”

“Back up the road a piece. Mebbe it’s a couple of miles. He’s layin’ on his face in the middle of the road. I didn’t move him none, I didn’t, but I looked at him enough to know that he’s dead. Been shot in the back of the head, ’cordin’ to what I observed.”

“What did he look like?” queried Lonesome.

“I told yuh he’s layin’ on his face—kinda rootin’ into the dust. Got on chaps and overalls and a shirt. Jist a little ways before I finds this here dead man, I finds this in the road.”

He drew a six-shooter from the waistband of his overalls and handed it to the sheriff. It was a Colt single-action .44 caliber.

“Say yuh found it in the road?” asked the sheriff, examining the gun closely.

“Yeah. I thinks to myself that I’ve found me a good gun, but when I finds the dead man, I decides to turn the gun over to the sheriff. It’s been shot once.”

“I see it has,” nodded the sheriff, and then to Lonesome—

“Get a hack from the livery-stable and we’ll go out after this dead man.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street and down to the stable, while the sheriff went back through his office to the stable, where he and Lonesome kept their saddle-horses.

The old prospector turned and studied the saloon signs across the street, spat dryly and rode over to the Antelope to quench a thirst that was probably of long standing.

“Who do yuh reckon got killed, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, as they waited for the sheriff.

“Probably that fool Lanpher. Here comes the sheriff.”

They swung on to their horses and joined Fleager, without waiting for Lonesome.

“He’ll come along after while,” assured the sheriff. “We’ll go ahead and investigate.”

It took them only a short time to reach the spot, where the man was lying. On both sides of the road was a heavy thicket of brush and rocks. The sheriff dismounted and turned the man over.

It was Smoky Cole. Hashknife and Sleepy swung down and the three of them made a minute examination. Cole had been shot from behind, the bullet striking him almost at the base of the brain.

“Never knowed what hit him,” declared the sheriff, standing up and dusting his knees.

“His gun is still in its holster, too,” said Hashknife as he drew the gun out and looked it over. All the chambers were loaded and the barrel was clean.

“Kinda looks like he never had a chance, sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded gloomily and began searching for tracks in the deep dust.

“I wonder where Sandy Claws found that six-gun.”

“Said it was a little beyond here,” said Sleepy. “It was prob’ly beyond that curve, and we can likely see where he picked it up.”

They left the body and walked up the road, searching for the place where the old man had dismounted to pick up the gun. About fifty yards beyond the first turn in the road they found the spot.

“Here’s where the gun was dropped,” observed the sheriff, pointing at the footprints in the road.

Hashknife was looking a little farther on, and now he crossed the road, reached into the brush and picked up a black sombrero.

“Here’s a hat,” he called, and walked back to the sheriff.

It was a fairly new Stetson, but badly soiled, and in the sweat-band was punched the initials “B. L.”

“Ben Lanpher,” declared the sheriff thoughtfully. “That’s his hat. He probably bushwhacked Smoky and lost his hat and gun in his getaway. And he was likely so drunk that he never thought to stop and get ’em.”

As they walked back to the body, Lonesome drove into view and managed to turn his team around near the body.

It did not take Lonesome long to find out all they knew and he shook his head sadly.

“I knowed it,” he declared. “Yuh can’t mix whisky and six-guns. Well,” optimistically, “the county ain’t loser none to speak about, Fat.”

“Mebbe not,” grunted the sheriff, and motioned for them to help him put the body into the hack.

Lonesome climbed back to his seat and the sheriff gave his orders where to deliver the body.

“Ain’t you goin’ back with us?” queried Lonesome.

“Nope, not now. I’ve got to go and get Ben Lanpher.”

“Goin’ to give him a medal?” grinned Lonesome.

“Goin’ to arrest him for murder.”

“Aw, for gosh sake! You don’t call this murder, do yuh?”

“Well—” The sheriff mounted and adjusted his holster—“well, yuh couldn’t very well call it self-defense, Lonesome. Smoky never drawed his gun, and he was shot from behind. No, I reckon Bennie is sure up ag’in’ it good and strong.”

The sheriff rode on toward the Tomahawk, while Lonesome sputtered at the team and drove back toward Wolf Wells, with Hashknife and Sleepy riding behind the wagon.

“Gosh, this sure will be a jolt to old man Lanpher,” observed Sleepy sadly.

“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife. “I sure feel sorry for them folks. I wonder if the sheriff knows Lanpher’s address in Frisco.”

“You know it, don’t yuh?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want anybody to know that I do.”

He called to Lonesome and asked him about the Lanpher family.

“I don’t know his address, and I don’t reckon that Fat does either,” replied Lonesome. “Jim Trainor’d know it.”

“Suppose we ride to the Circle Cross and tell Trainor? He’d probably want to know about Smoky Cole.”

“That’s a good idea,” admitted Lonesome. “You go ahead.”

Lonesome drove on, and the two cowboys turned and rode back up the highway toward the Circle Cross.

Hashknife was very thoughtful, but finally turned to Sleepy.

“Cowboy, it kinda looks like we’ve bit off a big chaw.”

“Sure does,” agreed Sleepy, “and there don’t seem to be no handy place to start chawin’, does there?”

Hashknife shook his head, his eyes squinted thoughtfully.

“No, there don’t, Sleepy. I reckon it’s a fact that a gang of rustlers are makin’ a cleanup in this range, but everybody is scared to talk about it.

“It must ’a’ been that gang who killed the two cattle detectives, but I don’t think they had anythin’ to do with this killin’ today.”

“Mebbe old man Cassidy is one of the gang,” suggested Sleepy.

“Might be. As far as that’s concerned, Ben Lanpher might be one of ’em, too. It looks to me like Smoky Cole tried to convict old Cassidy at that trial. He sure stuck for conviction. I’m just wonderin’ if Smoky Cole didn’t try to make love to Lorna Cassidy, and that was why the old man drew a dead-line against the Circle Cross outfit.

“Smoky was a mean sort of a jasper, and that would be his idea of revenge, to hang the old man. Still I don’t think that Ben belongs to the rustlers, because he wouldn’t hardly steal from his own father.”

“How about that warning that Lorna told us about, Hashknife?”

“Don’t mean anythin’, Sleepy. They’d naturally want everybody to think they was sufferin’, too. But where in —— are they disposin’ of the stock? Workin’ in the dark thisaway is kinda hard, don’tcha know it? And we can’t ask a lot of fool questions, because we don’t know when we’re talkin’ to some of the gang.”

They passed the spot where Cole had been killed, and took the right-hand road at the forks, which wound in and out of the brushy coulées and into a wide swale on the bank of a creek where the Circle Cross buildings were located.

It was growing late, but there was still enough light to show that the Circle Cross was no small outfit. The ranch-house was pretentious in size, the barns, fences and corrals were in good repair, and even the front yard of the ranch-house seemed well-kept.

“Looks like the teepee of a millionaire,” observed Sleepy, as they dismounted at the ranch-house.

A fat Chinese answered their knock at the front door and nodded solemnly when they asked for Trainor.

“Yessah, he in. I call.”

“Who’s out there?” yelled Trainor’s voice.

“This is Hartley,” called Hashknife.

“Come on in and rest your feet.”

They followed the Chinaman into the living-room, and in a few moments Trainor came in. He was carrying a bottle of liquor and some glasses, and seemed a trifle unsteady in his walk.

“Glad to see yuh,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Circle Cross, gents. I’ve just been tryin’ out some new liquor and I find that it has a lot of authority.”

He started to pour out a glass.

“Say when, Hartley.”

“When!” grunted Hashknife quickly.

“Say, that ain’t half-full, cowboy. Why ——”

“Too late in the afternoon, and we ain’t been fed since breakfast.”

“You ain’t?” Trainor turned and yelled toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Quong! Throw on a couple of steaks. Cut ’em thick, yuh hear me?”

“Yessah, can do,” called the Chinaman.

“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “We didn’t come out here to bum a meal and a drink, Trainor; we came to tell you that Smoky Cole was killed a little while ago, and that the sheriff has gone to arrest Ben Lanpher for murder.”

Trainor stared at Hashknife, started to put the bottle on the table, but missed, and it fell to the floor, where its contents gurgled out over a fine Navajo rug.

“Smoky Cole? How did this happen, Hartley?”

Hashknife explained how Cole’s body had been found and how the evidence all pointed to Ben Lanpher. He told Trainor of the bloodless gun-fight at Wolf Wells, and that Ben Lanpher had ridden away ahead of Smoky Cole.

“And he shot Smoky from the brush, eh?” Trainor’s jaw muscles bulged angrily. “Never gave him a chance. Wait a minute.”

Trainor stepped out onto the front porch and yelled at two cowpunchers, who were down near a corral. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him out and watched the two men come up to them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never seen these two, and Trainor introduced them as “Buck” Avery and “Poco” Saunders.

Avery was a square-faced, pig-eyed, medium-sized man, about thirty years of age, whose face was badly marked from smallpox.

Saunders was of medium height, but thin-faced and as dark as a Mexican. His eyes were sullen and the pupils seemed flecked with red. After a searching glance, which seemed to take in every inch of both Hashknife and Sleepy, Saunders kept his eyes on Trainor’s face, while Trainor repeated what Hashknife had told him.

Buck Avery swore witheringly, but Saunders said nothing when they learned that Smoky Cole was dead.

“We’ll all have a drink and then go to town,” said Trainor. “C’mon.”

But Poco Saunders did not accept the invitation. He turned and walked back toward the corral, without a word.

“He was Smoky’s bunkie,” said Trainor, which seemed sufficient explanation for refusing to drink.

“Poco don’t drink much, anyway,” added Buck, “but I feel like a drink would kinda take the edge off a shock like that. It ain’t that it’s any surprize t’me, though. Smoky always got mean when he was drinkin’, but he thought he was such a —— of a gunman that he’d git past with anythin’.”