Front matter (continued 2)

“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”

“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”

Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders, and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.

He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone, singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed to a certain extent in a college glee club.

“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.

But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly. Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.

“Your father just came in,” said Slim.

“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”

“You don’t need to let that bother you?” retorted Slim.

“Oh, I know all about it,” grinned Jimmy. “You wired him. I got the depot agent drunk, and he told me about it.”

“The dirty bum!” exploded Slim. “I’ll fix him.”

“Well, he told the truth, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t need to tell anythin’.”

“Well, he didn’t,” laughed Jimmy. “I guessed it, and you bit like a hungry fish. I saw you head for the depot after the inquest; so the rest was a cinch. How’s the old man lookin’, and what’s he goin’ to do about it?”

Slim gnawed the corner of his lip.

“He’ll do somethin’—that’s a cinch,” said Clayton. “Old Mose Conley cut his upper fence, herded eight Big 4 steers down into Hot Creek basin and shot ’em. I reckon that’ll hold him for a while.”

“A-a-a-aw, what are you talkin’ about!” snorted Jimmy. “He never did any such a thing.”

“Yes, he did,” said Slim quickly. “We found ’em, Jimmy. We went down to bring the old man to town, and the girl got the drop on us with a shotgun. Oh, we all know how you feel about that girl—but I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

“Got the drop on you, Slim?”

“She shore did. Two-barrel shotgun.”

“Empty,” chuckled Clayton.

Jimmy took a deep breath and grinned widely.

“Well, can you beat that? What are you goin’ to do?”

“That’s up to your dad. He sent us to town after Roarin’ Rigby.”

“Well, I’ll be darned! Are you sure about them steers?”

“We seen ’em. Eight white-faced steers, with the Big 4’s pointin’ skyward. No mistake, kid. And the fence was cut.”

“Gosh, that’s bad, huh!”

“You headin’ up that way?” asked Clayton.

Jimmy shook his head quickly.

“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’ worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys better trot along and get the sheriff.”

“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.

“So long!”

“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.

“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders to the same effect.”

Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.

“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I sent that telegram.”

“Not until you admitted it.”

Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.

“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.

“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.

Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and limitations.

Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife, and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.

“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with tobacco smoke.

“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”

“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.

“They was inside his fence.”

“He cut the fence himself.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”

“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth would convict him.”

“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring your charge.”

“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only open winter water-hole in the country.”

“It’s his land.”

“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”

“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”

That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and announced that he was going to bed.

“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.

Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud of his own importance.

Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were responsible for his fortune.

He also explained to Hashknife his reasons for haste in coming to Turquoise City—to break off Jimmy’s engagement to a half-breed girl, who happened to be Conley’s daughter.

“That’s another one of Conley’s ideas of getting even with me,” he told Hashknife.

“He must kinda hate you,” observed Hashknife.

But Hashknife was really more interested in the fact that the sheriff of Black Horse had been frightened into resigning his office by the gambling element of Turquoise City; not that it made any difference to Hashknife, but it was in his blood to seek the reasons for things of this kind.

That was one of the reasons for Sleepy Stevens’ outburst against trouble, when Hashknife and Moran rode away from him at Sibley Junction. Sleepy knew what this word “trouble” would mean to Hashknife.

It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might be on the other side.

Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos—a top hand with cattle. But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land, untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration, asking no thanks.

In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that nothing could happen to them until their time came.

The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.

“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife. “That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’—they shoot when they’re wrong.”

Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.

The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.

Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.

They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.

“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”

“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.

“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”

“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”

They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.

“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”

“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.

“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”

“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.

He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night. Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.

Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.

“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”

“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”

“When you swear out a warrant, Moran. Pers’nally, I don’t see anythin’ to arrest him for. Eight dead steers without any brands don’t mean nothin’ to me. Lotsa folks around here has white-faced cattle. If you swear out a warrant for Mose Conley, I can’t help servin’ it.”

“I can prove ownership of these dead steers.”

“You’ll have a hell of a time!”

“Maybe. Oh, let’s go to town. This makes me sore; but what I’d like to know is this: Why didn’t Conley cut the brands off before you and Clayton saw the animals?”

“That wouldn’t have been any revenge,” said Slim.

“No, that’s true. I’ve a notion to go over and have it out with Mose Conley right now.”

“Hop to it,” grinned Slim. “You can shore have my share of it. My gun and Mark’s gun are still there, so you might ask him for ’em.”

Moran spat out the stump of his cigar and picked up his reins.

“I reckon it can wait,” he said. “I’ll see him later.”

They rode back through the cut fence, instead of going down through Conley’s gate. They rode to Turquoise City.

Dawn and her father had been out to Hot Creek earlier in the morning, and they were just as surprized as the Big 4 men had been to find the brands skinned off.

“Mighty queer,” said Conley heavily. “I don’t understand it, Dawn.”

“No one would,” replied Dawn.

“The Big 4 is tryin’ hard to get me,” declared Conley.

He seemed years older today, and he mounted his horse with difficulty.

“Why don’t you sell out, Dad?” asked Dawn.

It was the first time she had ever suggested such a thing, and he looked queerly at her.

“I won’t be hounded out,” he said firmly. “I’ll never sell to the Big 4, Dawn.”

“Sell to some one else. It will give us enough to take us away from here, and we can start in a new country.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I feel old today; didn’t sleep much last night. I kinda expected the sheriff out to get me, I guess. Don’t know why he don’t come. The Big 4 killed them steers, Dawn. They cut the fence and drove ’em down here. They want to railroad me out of the country.

“But I’m not goin’,” he said, after a pause. “I never done anythin’ wrong, and they can’t take me. I’ll shoot the first man that comes on my ranch.”

“The first man might be a friend,” said Dawn softly.

“I ain’t got a friend. They’re all ag’in’ me, Dawn. They got Pete into a poker game and stole his money. They knocked him down after they robbed him, and now they’ll try to hang him for killin’ a thief. Well, they can come and get the old man any time they feel like it—but they’ll know they’ve been to war.”

They rode back to the house, where Dawn hitched a horse to the rickety old buggy and drove to town after groceries. She wanted to have a talk with Roaring Rigby about the dead steers and about her father. She knew her father meant what he had said about taking a shot at anybody who came after him.

Roaring was not at the office, but Wind River Jim was there. With him was Jeff Ryker, the attorney. They both knew about the dead steers and were waiting for Roaring to return and tell them the rest of the story.

Wind River told her that Roaring had ridden out to the Big 4 with Regan and Clayton the night before, and hadn’t returned yet. Ryker was very pleasant. In fact he was so pleasant that Wind River snorted aloud.

Ryker did not know that Dawn’s mother had told her; but he hoped his suit was being looked upon with favor. Neither of them mentioned the dead steers, but Wind River told her that Jimmy Moran’s father was at the Big 4.

“He probably came back to try and buy your father out,” said Ryker.

Dawn shook her head.

“He knows it’s no use,” she said. “Dad won’t sell out to the Big 4. They’ve tried enough times.”

“So I understand.” Ryker rubbed his hands together, causing his celluloid cuffs to click. “Still,” he said thoughtfully, “I think he’d be wise to sell the place. Cutter would pay a good price. In fact, I think he made your father an offer, Miss Dawn.”

“I don’t know,” said Dawn. “Dad is queer about that old place. I wish he would sell. It isn’t pleasant living the way we do. I know I’d be willing to sell out.”

“How does your mother feel about it?”

“Mother doesn’t seem to care; it isn’t her nature.”

They both knew what Dawn meant.

“With Peter in trouble, I don’t think Dad would consider any offers,” said Dawn.

“Yes, I understand that,” said Ryker.

Dawn turned back to the door of the office.

“I believe I’ll go out and have a talk with your father,” decided Ryker.

Dawn shook her head quickly.

“I don’t believe you better, Mr. Ryker. He said he’d kill the first man that comes on the ranch.”

“But that is ridiculous, Miss Dawn!”

“Perhaps. But I wouldn’t go out there to see how much truth there is in it, if I were you, Mr. Ryker.”

Dawn left the office and went back up the street, while Wind River Jim leaned back in the old swivel chair and laughed at Ryker.

“That’s a reg’lar family of home folks,” laughed the deputy. “Girl sticks up two mad punchers with a shotgun and takes away their guns. Then the old gent declares war ag’in’ the world. I only hope he don’t decide to attack. As far as I’m concerned, he can jist set there on his porch until the stock rots off his Winchester. I’ve seen that old pelican throw lead from his old forty-five-seventy, and I don’t want him to notch no sight on me.”

“But that’s a ridiculous situation,” declared Ryker, waving his arms helplessly. “The man must be crazy.”

“Put yourself in his place, Ryker. His son faces hangin’; they find a lot of Big 4 steers killed on his land, and they’re goin’ to try and git him for it. What would you do, eh? Wave your arms and talk about it bein’ ridiculous? Huh! You make me sick!”

Ryker walked to the doorway and leaned a shoulder against the door-frame. Roaring Rigby, Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan and Hashknife Hartley were riding into the upper end of the street. Hartley and Regan rode in at the Black Horse Saloon hitch-rack, where they tied the three horses, while Moran and Regan came on down to the office. Moran shook hands with Ryker and Wind River Jim, and Ryker wanted to know all about the dead steers.

Moran told him exactly what they had found, and Ryker whistled softly.

“But you’re going to have Conley arrested, are you not?” he asked.

“Haven’t made up my mind.”

“You should; he’s out at his ranch, and he says he’ll kill the first man that comes out there.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ll wait until somebody else takes the first chance.”

Ryker grinned sourly as he walked away, going to the Black Horse Saloon. He found Hashknife and Regan at the bar. Regan invited him to have a drink; and he introduced Hashknife.

“Ryker is the prosecuting attorney,” explained Regan.

“He’s the jigger who proves they’re guilty, whether they are or not, eh?” laughed Hashknife.

“Something like that,” smiled Ryker, accepting the drink.

“You’re not part of the law that’s been ordered out of the county, are you?” asked Hashknife.

“Not yet. No, they’re not on my trail, it seems.”

Regan nudged Hashknife sharply. English Ed was coming up to them, and Regan didn’t want any arguments started. The gambler looked sharply at Hashknife, when Regan introduced him.

“Holmes owns this place,” explained Regan.

“Uh-huh. Quite a place you got, Holmes,” observed Hashknife. “Lot nicer than bootleggin’ hooch to the Flatheads, eh?”

Holmes started quickly, and for once he forgot to use his poker-face. But he recovered quickly and stared at Hashknife.

“I didn’t quite get that,” he said.

Hashknife looked at him keenly, his level gray eyes boring into the gambler’s face.

“Mebby I’m mistaken,” he said slowly. “There was a Holmes that bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads up in Montana a few years ago. He was a remittance man from Canada. Yeah, his name was Ed Holmes. I guess you’re not the man.”

“I know I’m not,” denied Holmes. “I never was up in Montana. I’m not sure I got your name.”

“Hartley. My friends call me Hashknife.”

“I see, you’re a stranger here. Going to stay long?”

“I dunno. I’ll buy a drink.”

“No; this is my treat,” said the gambler, motioning the bartender. They drank a “good luck” to the house, and Holmes excused himself.

“Glad to see you any time,” he told Hashknife. “Make this your headquarters.”

“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife; he watched the gambler cross the big room to a poker table.

“Jist how near right was you about that Flathead deal?” queried Regan.

Hashknife laughed, but did not reply.

“You are probably mistaken,” said Ryker softly.

“Is that a legal opinion, or man to man?” asked Hashknife.

“Merely my opinion,” said Ryker seriously. “Now, I’ll buy.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“Nope, I’ve had enough, pardner. Knowin’ when to quit is a failin’ I’ve always had.”

They left the bar and went to the sidewalk, where they met Kent Cutter and two of his men. Regan introduced Hashknife to them, and Cutter offered to buy a drink, but Hashknife and Slim declined. Not so Ryker. He went in with them, while Hashknife and Regan walked to the depot to see whether the train would be in on time.

The few drinks had made Ryker expansive. He wanted to tell Cutter what Hartley had said to English Ed, but English Ed joined them before Ryker had a chance to do much talking.

“Where did that fellow come from?” demanded English Ed.

“He brought Frank Moran from Sibley Junction,” explained Ryker. “His partner rented his horse to Moran, and the partner will be in on the train today.”

“Looks kinda forked,” observed Cutter indifferently.

“He is,” said English Ed. “That’s Hashknife Hartley. He’s a cattle detective.”

“Oh-ho-o-o!” grunted Cutter. “Association man, eh?”

Ryker grinned half-drunkenly.

“He knew you, didn’t he, Holmes?”

“That’s my business. You keep out of it.”

“That’s all right,” grinned Ryker.

“What’s he doin’ here?” wondered Cutter.

“Maybe Franklyn Moran knows.”

“There’s been no rustlin’ around here, Ed.”

“What about those dead steers at Conley’s?”

“Pshaw! They were killed yesterday. I think he just happened to come here. Mebby he—” Cutter hesitated— “Mebby he came here to investigate the killin’ of Joe Mallette.”

English Ed squinted at himself in the back-bar mirror.

“I don’t know who would hire him to investigate that.”

“Conley might,” suggested Ryker.

“That’s true enough,” agreed Cutter. “If Hartley is an Association detective, like you say, Ed, he’d have a slick way of comin’ into a place, wouldn’t he? Detectives don’t usually have a brass band and a lot of banners.”

“I suppose that’s true,” nodded the gambler.

Ryker laughed outright and reached for the bottle on the bar.

“I wonder if Hartley has seen Conley. The old man is out at his house with a Winchester in his hands, and he swears he’ll kill the first man that comes on the place.”

“How do you know?” demanded Cutter.

“His own daughter told me awhile ago.”

“Yeah, and he’ll do it, too,” said Cutter. “I’m shore glad I don’t owe him any visit.”

Mack Ort, one of English Ed’s gamblers, came up to the bar, nodding to the three men. Ort was a slim, dark-faced man of about thirty-five, reputed to be a gunman. Little was known of him in Turquoise City, except that he had cold, hard nerve, and very little sense of humor.

English Ed’s other gunman was Keno Smiley, a tall, tow-headed person, with a huge nose and a long, lean jaw. It was rumored that Smiley had left the mining camps of the Cœur d’Alenes just two jumps ahead of a United States marshal; but this rumor had never been confirmed.

Smiley had been picking out a tune on the piano with his long, lean fingers, but now he sauntered up to the bar beside Ort.

“Who was that puncher with Regan, Mack?” he asked.

“I dunno,” replied Ort. He turned to Cutter.

“Know who he is, Cutter?”

“That tall feller? Yea-a-ah. They tell me he’s a detective from Northern Idaho, Mack.”

Cutter seemed serious, but Smiley saw the grin on Ryker’s lips. He flushed slightly.

“You tryin’ to be funny, Cutter?” he asked.

“Not a bit, Keno. Go ask English Ed.”

“Does English know him?” asked Ort.

“To his everlasting sorrow,” grinned Ryker.

“What does he want here?” demanded Smiley.

“Give him enough time and he’ll probably show you,” said Ryker.

“Well, he’s got nothin’ on me,” declared Smiley.

“Nor me,” echoed Ort. “Let’s all have a drink.”

The train was late that afternoon. It had taken a long time to clear away the wreck. Hashknife was alone at the depot, when Sleepy climbed off the train, a wide grin on his face. He had Moran’s two valises, but Moran had told Hashknife to leave them at the depot, because he and Regan were going back to the Big 4.

“I was sure glad to see this train pull in at Sibley,” grinned Sleepy. “That bartender drove me wild. When he ran out of talk about himself, he read out loud from his book. Where’s the horses?”

“Tied to a hitch-rack up the street, Sleepy.”

“Uh-huh,” Sleepy’s blue eyes studied Hashknife seriously.

“How soon do we pull out, Hashknife?”

“Most any time, I reckon.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in surprise.

Sleepy was rather taken aback. Hashknife lighted a cigaret and sat down on the rear platform of the depot.

“Remember Ed Holmes, the remittance man, who bootlegged hooch to the Flatheads, Sleepy?” he asked.

“Holmes? Lemme see—Holmes. Remittance man, oh yeah.”

“He’s top hand in a big honkatonk here. Owns the place. I sprung the bootleg thing on him and he flinched; but he shook out of the loop pretty quick and denied everythin’. I admitted I might be mistaken; but he knows I ain’t, and he knows I know it. Got a few gunmen workin’ for him. Somebody has scared the sheriff out of the country, and tried to scare the county judge, but he don’t scare. Tin-horn gambler got shot by a half-breed a few days ago, but they got the breed. Old Man Moran owns the Big 4, and his wayward son is in love with this half-breed’s sister. Yesterday they found eight Big 4 steers dead on this squaw-man’s place, but before they got the sheriff out to see the evidence, somebody skinned out the brands. And that’s about all there is, Sleepy.”

Sleepy sighed deeply and rolled a cigaret.

“I’m shore glad,” he said slowly. “I tell you I was scared there might be trouble over here, and that you’d get your long nose into it. Didja get the twenty-five from Moran?”

“Y’betcha.”

Sleepy smoked slowly, eyeing the main street of Turquoise City.

“Didja meet young Moran?” he asked.

“Nope. Regan, the foreman of the Big 4, told me a lot about him. Wild young Irishman, I reckon. Busted with his father, they say. Took the money his mother left him and bought a ranch here. Too much liquor and cards have put him on the rocks, but he’s still a wild go-devil. Sent word to his father to mind his own damn business.

“The sheriff is a character, Sleepy. You’ll like him. He ain’t got a brain in his head, and he’s got a deputy that don’t know there ever was a Civil War—and don’t care. This sheriff was a deputy just long enough to learn how to pin his badge on right side up. There’s nobody to show ’em what to do. I met the prosecuting attorney. Queer looking jigger, named Ryker. Wears celluloid cuffs and a collar two sizes too big. Ex-assayer. Still owns the assay office here.

“They tell me that the judge is an old-timer here. Lives alone, with a crippled Chinese cook. Square as a dollar, drinks like a fish and thinks the town needs cleanin’.”

“What about this half-breed girl?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife smiled softly over his cigaret.

“I haven’t seen her, Sleepy. Regan says she’s as pretty as a picture. She stuck Regan and one of the cowboys up with a shotgun and took away their guns last night.”

“Um-m-m-m-ha-a-ah!” grunted Sleepy. “Beauty is as beauty does. I’ll say she ain’t no frail lily. And it’s her brother they’ve got in jail, eh?”

“And the sheriff is also in love with her,” smiled Hashknife. “I dunno how many others. And her old man sits on the porch with a great big .45-70 Winchester in his hands and swears he’ll kill the first man that shows up on his land.”

Sleepy stretched wearily and threw away his cigaret.

“I shore didn’t sleep much last night. Every time I turned over I knocked the bartender out of bed, and every time he turned over he knocked me out. I ate more cheese, crackers and salmon for supper, salmon, cheese and crackers for breakfast, and I ain’t had no dinner today. Let’s put on a feed-bag.”

They went to a restaurant next door to the Black Horse Saloon, where they found Roaring Rigby and Wind River Jim, sitting at a table with Jimmy Moran. Roaring waved a fork at them, inviting them to sit at his table. He introduced Hashknife, after which Hashknife introduced Sleepy to all of them.

“This is Frank Moran’s son,” explained Roaring. “Owns the Stumblin’ K, and is master of his own soul, ain’tcha, Jimmy?”

“To my own sorrow most of the time,” grinned Jimmy. “Dad probably painted a scarlet picture of me, didn’t he?”

“He said outside of bein’ a proper damn fool, you was all right,” replied Hashknife seriously.

“Well, that’s kinda soft language for him,” laughed Jimmy. “He hates me because I’m such a success. Right now I’m just one jump ahead of the sheriff. Ain’t that right, Roarin’?”

“Yeah, that’s right, Jimmy.”

Jimmy was facing the door. Suddenly he slid away from the table, grabbed his hat from a nail on the wall and headed for the door. Roaring twisted his head around and looked toward the front window in time to see Dawn Conley ride past in the rickety old buggy. Jimmy was already outside.

“Bet she came back to see you, Roarin’,” said Wind River. “She was at the office this mornin’, and she told Ryker her old man was gunnin’ for anybody that showed up on his ranch. I reckon she was a little nervous.”

Wind River walked to the window and looked out, but he came right back, nodding his head.

“Her and Jimmy are in front of the office, talkin’.”

Roaring was staring at his plate; his lips shut tightly. Hashknife watched the expression of his face, as he lifted his eyes slowly and cleared his throat.

“That’s all right,” he said, trying to make his tone indifferent. “They’ve prob’ly got things to talk about.”

The men resumed their meal, but something had caused the conversation to lag. It was possibly ten minutes later when Jimmy came in. He sat down across the table from the sheriff, his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands.

“Roarin’,” he said slowly, “Dawn wants to see you.”

“To see me? What for, Jimmy?”

“It made me laugh,” said Jimmy seriously. “You probably won’t see anythin’ funny about it. When Dad and Slim Regan left here this mornin’, Dad got the idea of goin’ to see Conley. I suppose he was goin’ to tell Conley what he thought of him. Dad would, you know. He hasn’t any sense of humor, I guess. And Slim’s a sort of a fool, too. He’d back any play that Dad started. So they went over to see Conley—or rather that seems to have been their idea. It—”

“Say!” blurted Roaring anxiously.

“Who got killed?”

“Oh, it wasn’t that bad, Roarin’. They got in reach of Conley’s Winchester, and Dad’s horse got killed. He piled on behind Slim, and they high-tailed it for the ranch. Dawn has the idea that you might be able to do somethin’. Might go out and explain to the old man that—”

“Me? Me go out there and—and— yea-a-a-ah! Like hell!”

“Well, go down and talk with her, Roarin’. She’s upset.”

“So was your pa,” grinned Wind River Jim.

“But I can’t do a thing,” protested Roaring.

“Is the old man crazy?” asked Hashknife.

“He is not,” declared Jimmy. “He’s mad. He thinks they’re all pickin’ on him. He hates Dad. He gave me orders to keep away. His son is in jail charged with murder and he thinks everybody is against him. And,” sighed Jimmy, “he may be right about it, at that.”

Roaring got heavily to his feet, yanked his Stetson down over his ears and went scuffling toward the door. Wind River Jim choked on his coffee and wiped the tears out of his eyes.

“He’s a great sheriff, that feller,” said Wind River.

Roaring found Dawn waiting for him in front of the office. She looked searchingly at him and he grinned rather foolishly.

“You know what happened, don’t you?” she asked.

“Y-yes, Jimmy told me. I dunno.” Roaring shoved his hat on the back of his head and rubbed his chin with the palm of his right hand. “I dunno what to do,” he said.

“I don’t either,” she said. “Dad’s stubborn. It will mean a killing, I’m afraid. But it was wrong for Slim Regan and Mr. Moran to come. Slim knew how Dad feels. Oh, it was lucky that only the horse was killed.”

“Lot of luck depends on your aim, when you shoot as well as your dad does, Dawn. Did he shoot more ’n once?”

“No, just once.”

“Makes it look better,” said Roaring, “but what can I do?”

“Can’t you come out and have a talk with him?”

“And git my earthly envelope all gummed up?”

“I don’t believe he—if he knew you were just coming to talk with him, he wouldn’t harm you.”

“Talk to him about what, Dawn?”

“Oh, about everything. Try to make him understand. He’s bitter. Sometimes I think he’s losing his mind. He hasn’t hired a lawyer for Peter. I asked him why he don’t, and he says it’s no use. He says that the Big 4 and the Black Horse Saloon are running the country and that they’ll hang Peter in spite of any lawyer.”

“Pshaw, that ain’t no way to feel,” said Roaring slowly. “Old Judge Beal ain’t against your dad.”

“No, he’s honest. Dad knows he is; but Dad says they’ll kill him before the trial.”

“Uh-huh,” Roaring caressed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I dunno; mebby they will.”

“And what chance has an honest judge, if a crooked jury brings in a verdict of guilty?”

“Shore, that’s the worst of it. I tell you what you do. You tell your dad I’ll be out this evenin’, and we’ll see what we can figure out. Pers’nally, I think he had a right to hoodie Moran and Regan off the ranch. They had plenty of warnin’.”

“I’ll tell him,” said Dawn wearily. “He likes you. But I hope nobody else comes.”

“I hope to gosh he don’t mistake me for anybody else.”

Dawn climbed into the buggy, while Roaring untied the horse.

“Why did Jimmy Moran’s father come here?” she asked.

Roaring tied up the rope carefully, looked the patched harness over and stepped aside.

“Don’t you know?” she asked.

“You better ask Jimmy,” he said. “He knows more ’n I do about it.”

“Was it about me, Roaring?”

Roaring leaned back against a porchpost and looked at the horse.

“Don’t let that git you down,” he said softly. “Lotsa parents are like that; they prob’ly didn’t pick so well themselves and they want to try and help the kids.”

Dawn drove away from the hitch-rack, and Roaring watched until she disappeared. The men were coming from the restaurant, so he went to meet them. But he didn’t tell them that he was going out to talk with Moses Conley.

Hashknife and Sleepy got a room at the Turquoise Hotel and put their horses in the livery-stable. Jimmy Moran had taken a liking to them and had introduced them to every one they met.

It was about an hour after dark when Lovely Lucas came into the Ranger saloon, where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy were playing seven-up, and announced that the Big 4 outfit had come to town in force.

“The whole works, I tell you,” declared Lovely. “Old Man Moran, Slim Regan, Clayton, Allard, Creswell and Pitts. They’re all in the Black Horse, except Slim. He went down to see the sheriff.”

The game broke up immediately, and the four men trailed up the street past the sheriff’s office, where they found Wind River Jim alone.

“Yeah, it was about that shootin’ today,” said Wind River. “The whole Big 4 is b’ilin’ mad. They hopped all over Roarin’ when he said there wasn’t anythin’ to be done about it. He’s over in the Black Horse, arguin’ about it with ’em right now.”

“Pretty sore, eh?” said Lovely.

“Right to a head.”

Jimmy touched Hashknife on the arm.

“I’ll see you later, Hartley,” he said.

“Yeah, all right,” replied Hashknife, and Jimmy hurried up the street.

They listened to Wind River Jim’s opinion of the case, and then they moved over to the Black Horse. Lovely demurred about going in.

“I owe ’em forty dollars for busted glass,” he said. “If I go in there I might have to kill somebody. You boys go ahead and hear what’s bein’ said.”

Hashknife and Sleepy strolled in unnoticed. The Big 4 gang was at the bar with Roaring Rigby; Slim Regan seemed to have the floor.

“It jist means that there ain’t no law here,” decided Slim, “and when there ain’t no law, it’s up to the citizens to make a little.”

“When you jiggers git through runnin’ off at the neck, I’ll speak my piece,” said Roaring. “Through yet? Can’t think of another thing to say? Fine. You’ve talked a lot and ain’t said anything. In the first place, Old Man Conley owns that land. He’s got it fenced. You know he fenced that to keep the Big 4 off his land. There’s been bad blood between him and Frank Moran for twenty-five years. You and Moran both know that Conley said he’d shoot the first man to come on his place. And yet you went on, didn’t you? Trespassed, didn’t you?

“Started over there with the intention of givin’ him the devil over them steers. And all he done was to make good his promise. You got off easy. That old pelican can hit a gnat in the eye at fifty feet. All you lose is one horse. What you ought to do is to write him a letter tellin’ him you’re much obliged.”

It was a long speech for Roaring Rigby.

“If Conley didn’t have a pretty girl, you’d talk different,” said one of the men farther back in the room.

Roaring whirled quickly, but he did not know who had made the remark.

“Will the dirty bum who made that remark say it once more?” he asked coldly.

But no one spoke. They knew the temper of that sad-eyed, bat-eared sheriff, whose shoulders hunched as his eyes swept the faces under the hanging lamps.

“Your arguments hardly do justice to your office,” said Franklyn Moran. “We have demanded the arrest of Moses Conley on a charge of assault with a deadly weapon. I didn’t know that this county paid you a salary as a debater.”

“You’ve got all the argument you’ll git from me,” said Roaring.

He turned his back on them and stalked from the room. Several people laughed, but he did not turn his head. Nor did he hurry as he crossed the street. They could see him from the lighted windows, as he went slowly toward his office. But once inside that office he did not move so slowly. Wind River Jim stared at him, as he sprang to the gun-rack, grabbed down a rifle and a belt of ammunition.

“You stay here, Wind River,” he ordered, and ran out through the back door.

Wind River walked to the front door, where he leaned out, chewing his tobacco violently. It was possibly five minutes later that Hank Pitts and Mark Clayton strolled past.

“Hyah, Wind River,” greeted Hank. “Howsa job?”

“Swell, elegant, Hank; beats punchin’ cows.”

“I s’pose it does,” agreed Hank. He craned his neck past Wind River and looked into the office.

“Roarin’ ain’t home, eh?”

“No-o-o-o, he ain’t exactly home jist now; he’s out.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Well, he didn’t leave no address,” grinned Wind River. “Didn’t say nothin’ much. He ain’t much of a hand to talk. Pers’nally I think he went huntin’ bear.”

“Bear!” blurted Clayton.

“Prob’ly.” Wind River spat across the sidewalk. “Anyway, I’d say he was heeled for bear. Took a thirty-thirty and a full belt of shells along, and he went out that back door like somethin’ was bitin’ his heels.”

“By golly, I told Slim!” snorted Pitts and, without waiting for any more information, they started on a run for the Black Horse Saloon.

“Well, that’s shore queer,” observed Wind River. “Jist like I’d touched a match to ’em.”

Pitts and Clayton ran to the doorway of the saloon, where they met Regan and Moran, who were coming out.

“Gone!” exclaimed Pitts. “Took a thirty-thirty along. He’s gone out to the Hot Creek ranch.”

“Yeah, and we’re goin’ along,” said Regan. “Get the boys.”

Hashknife and Sleepy came out and Regan saw them.

“Want to ride out and see the fun, Hartley?” he asked.

“What fun?” asked Hashknife.

“Out at the Conley place. Old man’s crazy. When we finish up tonight he’ll be in jail and we’ll strip every strand of wire off his fence. This half-witted sheriff has beat us to it, he thinks. But if he won’t enforce the law, we’ll have to. Better come along and see the fun.”

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“No-o-o-o, I reckon not, Regan. My sense of humor don’t run to laughin’ at folks who make mistakes.”

“Well, he’s made his last mistake,” laughed Regan.

“I wasn’t thinkin’ about old man Conley,” said Hashknife.

The men were mounting at the hitch-rack, and one of them called to Regan.

“I didn’t quite get what you meant, Hartley,” he said.

“Better think it over on your way out, Regan.”

Regan turned and went to the rack.

“Thank the Lord it’s none of our business,” said Sleepy, as the men rode away.

“Don’t lie,” cautioned Hashknife. “Your knees itch for the feel of a saddle right now. You’re dyin’ to ride with ’em, and you know it.”

“So are you, Hashknife.”

“I didn’t thank the Lord for anythin’, did I? Let’s play three games of pool and then go to bed. I’m tired.”

“Will we play in here?”

“Nope, down at the Ranger. This Black Horse ain’t safe.”

Jimmy Moran lost no time in leaving Turquoise City. He knew the temper of the men from the Big 4, and that they would take the matter in their own hands if his father was willing.

If his father had led them to town to talk with the sheriff, it was a sure thing that the Big 4 intended to do something. Jimmy realized that their intentions might be merely to capture Conley and put him in jail; but the capture might result in bloodshed. Conley was a fighter.

Jimmy intended to ride to the Hot Creek ranch, warn Conley and give him plenty of time to get away. He felt sure that Conley would be sensible enough to hide out until the wrath of the Big 4 cooled off a little.

He ran his horse all the way to the ford and found that the fence had not been repaired; so, instead of going around the road, he cut across the ranch. He wanted all the time he could get to present his argument to Conley. He would invite Conley to come to the Stumbling K. That would be the last place they would ever look for him.

There was no moon, but Jimmy was familiar with the lay of the land. He thought at first that the ranch-house was in darkness, but a thin thread of light peeped out from beside a curtain.

Jimmy dismounted a hundred feet away from the house and dropped his reins. It was ticklish business, he decided. He did not know that Conley was expecting Roaring Rigby. Jimmy sneaked in like an Indian; he meant to announce himself to Conley from a safe position.

A huge wild-rose bush grew at one corner of the porch, and just to the left of the corner of the house grew a twisted cottonwood that nearly covered the side of the house. There was a window just beyond the cottonwood, almost hidden behind the tangle of foliage. Jimmy sneaked in close to the cottonwood and picked up a handful of small pebbles, which he flung against the window with considerable force. For several moments there was no sound. Then came Conley’s voice, muffled—

“Who’s there?”

“Jimmy Moran,” called Jimmy. “I’ve got to talk with you, Mr. Conley; and we better make it fast, too.”

Conley did not reply. Jimmy waited, wondering what Conley was going to do. He thought he could hear the sound of a running horse. From where Jimmy crouched he could not see the doorway, but he did see the lamplight streak across the corner of the porch when the door opened.

The galloping horse was closer now. As Jimmy turned his head, looking down the stretch of road which led to the gate, a gun-shot crashed out so close to him that he sprang back, throwing up one arm, as if to protect his eyes. There was the dull thud of a falling body; a woman screamed.

Jimmy sprang forward, drawing his gun. He thought he saw a man just beyond the rose bush and instinctively he fired his gun at whatever it was. Then he stumbled across the porch and found himself looking down at Moses Conley, who was stretched full length on the porch.

The door was open behind him, the lamplight falling full on Jimmy, and he saw Dawn, white-faced, staring at him. The horse jerked to a stop behind him, but Jimmy did not turn until Roaring Rigby stepped in behind him, putting his hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. Dawn came closer, and her eyes were wide with horror. Roaring shook Jimmy slightly.

“How did it happen, Jimmy?” he asked huskily.

Jimmy shook his head.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I—I—”

He saw Dawn’s staring eyes. Roaring was taking the gun away from him. Jimmy stepped back.

“You think I shot him?” he asked hoarsely.

“He told you to keep away, you know,” said Roaring sadly. “Don’t try to run away, Jimmy. Help me take him inside.”

“Run away?” Jimmy’s voice was strained. “Oh, my God!”

Together they carried Moses Conley into the living-room and laid him out on the floor. Dawn dropped to her knees beside him.

“He isn’t dead!” she exclaimed. “Somebody get the doctor—quick!”

“Floor no good,” grunted Mrs. Conley. “Put on bed.”

No one had noticed her before. They placed him on a bed.

“I better go for the doctor,” said Jimmy anxiously.

Roaring looked at Jimmy and shook his head slowly.

“Better wait, Jimmy; we’ll go together.”

“You mean I’m under arrest?”

“Somethin’ like that, Jimmy. Good Lord, I’m sorry. I—”

Roaring took Jimmy’s gun from inside his belt and examined the cylinder. One chamber was empty, and the barrel smelled strongly of burned powder.

Roaring turned to Dawn and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Tell me what happened,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know. Dad was expecting you. Some one threw something against a window, and Dad asked who it was. I—I heard Jimmy answer. He told who he was. I don’t think Dad wanted to open the door, but I—oh, I asked him to. And when he opened the door—”

“Yeah,” said Roaring miserably. “He wasn’t armed either.”

“Yes, he was,” said Dawn. “I—I think his gun flew out of his hand. There were two shots fired.”

“I shot one of ’em,” said Jimmy quickly. “I thought I saw somebody.”

“Somebody come,” said Mrs. Conley.

The front door was wide open, and when they looked out the yard was full of men and horses. Roaring met them at the doorway.

“Smart, eh?” growled Regan. “Sneaked out on us, eh? Where’s old Moses Conley?”

“Don’t yell,” said Roaring. “Send one of your men after the doctor; Moses Conley has been shot.”

Franklyn Moran crowded in past Roaring and met Jimmy face to face.

“What are you doing here, Jimmy?” he asked harshly.

Jimmy’s lips were tightly shut and his face seemed pale in the yellow light.

“You let him alone,” said Roaring. “He’s my prisoner.”

“Your prisoner?” Franklyn Moran’s eyes opened wide. “What do you mean, Rigby?”

“Will one of your men go after the doctor?” asked Roaring. “If we don’t git medical help it might mean murder.”

“Do you mean to say that my son shot Moses Conley?”

“Mark,” said Regan, “you and Hank go and get Doc Shelley. Tell him to come as fast as he can.”

Franklyn Moran went to Roaring and grasped him by the arm, repeating his question.

“Oh, hell, don’t paw me!” growled Roaring. “What if he did? You led your men out here to do the same thing.”

Franklyn Moran turned and looked at his men. None of them met his gaze.

“I’m not goin’ to run away,” said Jimmy. “See if you can’t do somethin’ for the old man before the doctor gets here. If you can’t, I can. I know something about first aid.”

“Hop to it,” said Roaring.

Jimmy started to go into the bedroom but Dawn stepped in front of him.

“Mother knows what to do,” she said evenly.

Jimmy stared at her and his face twisted painfully.

“Can’t I help her, Dawn?” he asked.

“I’m helping her,” she said and turned away.

Jimmy walked across the room and stared out through the branch-covered window against which he had thrown the gravel. The men were silent. Some of them rolled smokes, but went out on the porch to light them. They could hear the drip of water, as the old Indian woman squeezed out a towel; they heard a whispered conversation between Dawn and her mother.

Roaring went outside and hunted in the grass just off the porch, where he found Moses Conley’s revolver. It was an old, single-action Colt .45, and in one of the cylinders was an empty cartridge. He brought it into the house to examine it. Franklyn Moran saw the empty shell.

“How many shots were fired?” he asked softly.

“Two,” said Roaring. “I heard ’em both. There’s a chance for him to prove self-defense. Moran must have fired first.”

“That’s good,” whispered Moran. “I’m glad there’s a chance.”

“Oh, as far as that’s concerned, Conley was lookin’ for it,” said Regan coldly. “A Black Horse jury will look at it right.”

“Oh, damn you all!” gritted Jimmy. “That’s all you think about! Beatin’ the law. Damn you and your Black Horse juries! I never shot Conley.”

“That’s all right, Jimmy,” said Roaring. “Don’t yell.”

“Why would I?” Jimmy turned appealingly to them. “Don’t you understand? I—I—” he choked—“I’m goin’ to marry Dawn, if she’ll marry me. Would I harm her father?”

“Any man will shoot in self-defense,” said Regan.

Jimmy groaned and turned away. Roaring went into the bedroom, and Jimmy saw Bill Creswell signal him cautiously to make a getaway, indicating that there was plenty of room to pass between him and the door. Jimmy liked Creswell and he realized that Bill meant it all for the best. But Jimmy shook his head firmly and turned back to the window. Creswell shrugged his shoulders. When Jimmy looked back at Creswell, he pantomimed that Jimmy could take his gun, as he went out. Perhaps he thought that Jimmy didn’t want to go unarmed. But Jimmy declined, and Creswell sighed deeply. He had done the best he could for a friend.

It seemed ages to Jimmy before the doctor arrived, but in reality Hank Pitts and Mark Clayton had broken all speed records in getting old Doctor Shelley from Turquoise City to the ranch. They had taken him through the ford so fast that all three of them were drenched, and the old doctor was as mad as a hornet.

Roaring went into the bedroom with him while he made an examination and, in a few minutes, Roaring came back to the men, advising them all to go home.

“The doctor says he’s got a slim chance,” said Roaring.

“That bullet missed his heart about three inches.”

He turned to Jimmy Moran.

“Where’s your bronc, Jimmy?”

Jimmy told him where he had left it, and Roaring sent one of the Big 4 cowboys to git it. Franklyn Moran went up to the sheriff.

“You going to put him in jail?” he asked.

Roaring cuffed his hat on the side of his head and looked quizzically at Moran. “What do you think?” he asked. “Ain’t there a law ag’in callin’ men to their own door at night and shootin’ ’em down?”

“But—but if Conley shot at him?” spluttered Moran.

“Jimmy ain’t claimed that he did, has he?”

Moran turned to his son.

“He did, didn’t he, Jimmy?” anxiously.

“No,” replied Jimmy wearily. “He didn’t even see me.”

“Don’t be a fool,” growled Regan angrily.

“That’s enough,” said Roaring firmly. “The doctor don’t need you, and I’m sure I don’t, so you might as well go home. C’mon, Jimmy.”

Hashknife and Sleepy knew nothing about the shooting until the next morning, when they found Roaring Rigby and several men in the restaurant, eating breakfast. The Black Horse had had a big play, and two of the dealers, Mack Ort and Keno Smiley, were eating breakfast before going to bed. Lovely Lucas was there, still half-drunk and inclined to be a bit belligerent.

As Hashknife and Sleepy came in, Lovely was at the height of an impassioned defense of Jimmy Moran. It did not take long for Hashknife and Sleepy to gather the gist of what had happened at the Hot Creek ranch. Ort and Smiley eyed Hashknife coldly, and it was evident to him that English Ed had told them who he was.

“I been wonderin’ where you boys were,” said Roaring. He turned to Lovely Lucas. “If you don’t shut up, I’ll put you in jail, Lucas,” he declared.

“By golly, I’ll be with honest men, if you do. Jimmy Moran never shot Old Man Conley. Why, I tell you, he was aimin’ to marry Dawn Conley. He wouldn’t shoot his father-in-law.”

“A-a-aw, what can you do?” wailed Roaring. “To hell with this kind of a job! Business is too good. Set down, boys. I’m glad there’s somebody around here that ain’t got no opinion. Ask me all the questions you like, but don’t offer any advice.”

“This is a free country, ain’t it?” demanded Lovely. “I ask you if it ain’t. You can’t put a man in jail for talkin’, can you, Roarin’? You can’t—”

“Men have been put in the graveyard for talkin’,” said Roaring seriously.

“Is that so? Huh!” Lovely got to his feet. “I’m goin’ home and tell Horse-Collar Fields about Jimmy. Horse-Collar gits some awful good ideas. Jimmy’s our boss, you know. Oh, I’ll be back, Roarin’. All hell can’t stop me, I’ll tell you that.”

Lovely went weaving toward the door, slammed it behind him and headed for the hitch-rack. Ort and Smiley paid for their breakfast and went out. Sleepy grinned widely. He could understand Lovely Lucas.

“Just what happened out there last night?” asked Hashknife.

Roaring placed his knife and fork carefully on his plate and told Hashknife just what he knew about it. Roaring wasn’t sure about the two shots being fired, but he thought that he had heard two. He was riding pretty fast; but there was no doubt that two shots had been fired. Jimmy admitted that there had been, and Dawn spoke of the two shots.

“Jimmy was a fool,” declared Roaring.

“He knew what would happen.”

“You say Jimmy threw somethin’ against the window to attract Conley, and then called to Conley, telling him that it was Jimmy Moran outside?”

“That’s what Dawn said; Jimmy didn’t deny it.”

“And when Conley came to the door he took a shot at Jimmy and Jimmy shot him.”

“Looks thataway. Conley must have shot first. I don’t think he could have fired after Jimmy shot him, unless he happened to have the gun cocked and it went off as he was fallin’.”

“How long was it between the shots?”

“I dunno how long; I didn’t ask. I’m goin’ out there in a little while. Why don’t you ride out with me?”

Sleepy groaned when Hashknife assented.

“What’s the matter with you,” asked Roaring.

“Somethin’ you can’t prescribe for,” grunted Sleepy.

“He groans thataway often,” said Hashknife seriously. “It sounds like he was in pain, but he ain’t; it’s a joy-groan.”

Anyway, Sleepy went along. They found Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan, Kent Cutter and Henry Miller on the porch. The doctor was still there. He had been there all night.

These four men had been waiting for him to report Conley’s condition, which he did shortly after the others arrived. Conley was still alive, but unconscious. And that was about all there was to report; so the men from the Big 4 and the 7AL went to town.

Dawn heard Roaring talking with the doctor and she came out to the porch. It was the first time Hashknife and Sleepy had seen her. She had spent a sleepless night, but in spite of that she was a very pretty girl. Roaring introduced them, and left her with Hashknife and Sleepy while he went in to see the patient.

“You weren’t out here last night, were you?” she asked.

Hashknife shook his head.

“We’re strangers, Miss Conley.”

“I know. I heard your name mentioned. Mr. Moran and Mr. Cutter were talking about you a while ago.”

“That so?” smiled Hashknife. “What about?”

“I just heard a little of it. Cutter said he heard you were a cattle detective. Moran said he didn’t know anything about you. Regan laughed and said you accused English Ed Holmes of being a former bootlegger to the Indians.”

“That last part is true enough,” nodded Hashknife. “Do you know Holmes very well?”

“Not very well.”

“His outfit is responsible for your brother bein’ in jail, I understand.”

“They cheated Peter,” she said quickly.

“Yeah, I know. Miss Conley, what is your honest opinion of what happened last night? Did Jimmy Moran shoot your father?”

Dawn turned and walked to the railing of the porch; she leaned a shoulder against a post.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Hashknife kindly.

“Oh, I know,” she said softly. “I don’t want to answer that question.”

“All right, this one is different. Did you hear two shots?”

“Yes.”

“How far apart?”

“Possibly—oh, I don’t know.”

“Right together?”

“Oh, no. There was one shot just after Dad opened the door. I—I think I ran almost across the room before the other one was fired.”

“Did your father shoot the first one?”

“I don’t know. Just after the last shot was fired I got to the door, and there stood Jimmy with a gun in his hand. And then Roaring Rigby was on the porch, taking Jimmy’s gun away from him.”

“Uh-huh. What did Jimmy say?”

“He said he didn’t know what happened.”

“Didn’t know, eh?”

“And then they brought Dad into the house. Roaring looked at Jimmy’s gun and asked me what happened. I told about the two shots being fired, and Jimmy said he shot one of them. He said he shot at somebody.”

“Admitted shooting, eh? Miss Conley, is there any reason for Jimmy to have shot your father?”

Dawn turned from the post and came back to Hashknife.

“Dad told him to keep away,” she said wearily. “He hates Jimmy’s father.”

“I know. You heard Jimmy call to your father and tell him who was out there?”

“Yes, I think Jimmy threw some gravel against the window to attract us. Then when Dad asked who it was, Jimmy told him.”

“Was your father mad when he went to the door?”

Dawn flushed a little.

“I think he was, Mr. Hartley. He was expecting the sheriff to come out here.”

“Was he goin’ to shoot the sheriff?”

“Oh, no; they were just going to talk things over. You heard about the dead steers, didn’t you?”

“Saw ’em; I was with Moran when the Big 4 found that the brands had been skinned out.”

“The Big 4 did that themselves.”

“Skinned out the brands?”

“No, cut the fence and killed their own steers. They hate Dad for fencing in Hot Creek, and they want to ruin him.”

“Moran wants to buy this place, don’t he?”

“Yes, he has made Dad a good offer. The 7AL wants it, too.”

“Yeah? That’s Cutter’s outfit, ain’t it?”

“Yes, but Dad won’t sell to the Big 4.”

“I see. Miss Conley, I’m goin’ to get personal.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m goin’ to ask questions that you might not care to answer; but I want you to understand that it ain’t because I want to embarrass you in any way. Did Ed Holmes ever come to see you?”

Dawn flushed, but smiled at Hashknife.

“Once, I think. I wasn’t home.”

“Any of the Big 4 boys?”

“I should say not!” said Dawn emphatically.

“Cutter?”

Dawn smiled.

“Oh, he has been out here. Perhaps he came to see me.”

“The sheriff?”

Dawn sobered quickly and glanced toward the closed door.

“You don’t need to answer that,” said Hashknife softly. “He’s all right.”

“Yes; he’s all right,” said Dawn. “But what’s the use of these questions, Mr. Hartley?”

“Were there any others?” queried Hashknife. “Honest, I want to know.”

Dawn bit her lip reflectively.

“Well, there was Jeff Ryker.”

“The prosecuting attorney?”

“Yes.”

“Since your brother has been in jail?”

“Yes.”

Hashknife took a deep breath and his wide lips twisted in a faint smile. Ryker was the man with the big collar and the celluloid cuffs.

“Did you talk with him?” he asked.

Dawn shook her head quickly.

“I stayed in the house,” she smiled. “He talked to my mother.”

“And you heard what he said?”

“Some of it.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife took a deep breath. “Did he say anything about—uh—goin’ easy on your brother?”

Dawn flashed Hashknife a quick glance of interrogation.

“How did you know that?” she asked wonderingly.

“Guessed it. He could go easy at the trial, you know, and he might make promises to your mother. Does your father like him?”

“No, I don’t think he does. Dad doesn’t like many folks.”

“Is the judge a friend of your father?”

“Judge Beal—I think Dad likes him.”

“Miss Conley, how long has the Big 4 been tryin’ to buy your dad out?”

“For about two years.”

“Ever since he fenced Hot Creek?”

“Yes.”

“How long has the 7AL wanted it?”

Dawn frowned thoughtfully.

“Oh, I think it was about three or four months ago that Mr. Cutter made his first offer. After that Jeff Ryker came out and talked with Dad about selling out.”

“What did Ryker want with it?”

“He was trying to buy it for Cutter.”

“Oh, I see; he was Cutter’s agent.”

Roaring and the doctor came from the living-room.

“You better lie down awhile and get some sleep, Miss Conley,” said the old doctor kindly. “There isn’t anything you can do. The sheriff is going to send some of my things out for me; so I’ll stay on the job.”

“Didja get the bullet?” asked Hashknife.

“It went all the way through,” said Roaring. He took the bullet from his pocket and gave it to Hashknife. “We found it on the floor in there.”

The piece of lead was slightly battered, but not too much so to prove the caliber.

“Forty-five,” said Hashknife.

Roaring nodded and put the bullet back in his pocket.

“We’re goin’ back, Dawn,” he said. “Is there anythin’ you need out here? No, don’t bother about it now. I’ll send Wind River Jim out with the doctor’s stuff, and he can find out what you need.”

“That’s mighty nice of you,” said Dawn.

“Pshaw!” Roaring cuffed his hat over one ear. “I wish I knowed what to do. Tomorrow is Sunday and the next day court starts. I dunno what cases are ahead of Pete’s. Your dad never hired no lawyer for Pete, did he? Thought he didn’t. I’ll have a talk with the judge. He’ll know what to do. Well, so long.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Dawn; she shook hands with him.

For a long while after the men had left the ranch Dawn wondered why Hashknife had asked all those questions. Why would an absolute stranger quiz her like that, she wondered? What was behind those level gray eyes, and that smile that seemed to drive her sorrows away for a moment? She was so sleepy and weary that she could hardly remember just what he looked like; but she remembered his eyes. And he seemed just an ordinary cowboy; the other man seemed to be one continuous grin and blue eyes.

Her mother, wearied from the all-night vigil, came out to her on the porch and they sat down together.

“Mose pretty bad hurt,” she said dully. “He talk long time ago. Long time ago he friend to Frank Moran.”

“I know,” said Dawn.

“Two strange men come,” said Mrs. Conley.

“With the sheriff,” said Dawn.

“What they want?”

Dawn shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know, mother. I think they want to find out who shot Dad.”

“Easy find out, Dawn. Everybody know.”

“I suppose.”

“Funny life,” said the old Indian woman. “Frank Moran hate Mose Conley; Mose Conley hate Frank Moran. Now both have son in jail for same thing.”

“I told that man what Ryker said to you, mother?”

Mrs. Conley looked curiously at Dawn.

“I told him that Ryker came to see me and talked with you,” said Dawn. “This man knew what Ryker said.”

“You tell him what Ryker say about turn Pete loose if you marry him?”

“I didn’t tell him all about it; he seemed to know.”

“Ryker tell him, Dawn?”

“No.”

Dawn got to her feet and looked down the road. Some one was riding up along the road. It was Ryker. Dawn knew who it was as soon as she saw him, even at that distance.

“Ryker is coming now,” she said. “I won’t talk to him.”

“I talk to him,” said her mother, and Dawn went into the house.

The prosecuting attorney guided his horse up to the porch and smiled a greeting to Mrs. Conley, who gave a short nod of her head in acknowledgment. He dismounted and came to the corner of the porch. Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure of his reception.

“I heard about the trouble,” he told her.

“Pretty damn bad,” she said inelegantly.

Ryker mopped his brow with a clean handkerchief and came up on the porch.

“Met the sheriff and two men,” he said jerkily. “Out here, wasn’t they?”

Mrs. Conley nodded. Ryker cleared his throat harshly.

“I thought so. Know who those two men are?”

“Pretty smart,” she said. “Tall man tell Dawn what you tell me.”

“Eh?” Ryker blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“Tall man tell Dawn you turn Peter loose if she marry you.”

“The tall man said!” Ryker stopped, staring at her. “Who told you this, Mrs. Conley?”

“Dawn tell me.”

“Who told the tall man?”

“Nobody.”

Ryker scowled heavily at the Indian woman.

“You told him,” he declared.

“You lie. I never talk to man.”

“You told Dawn and she told him.”

“’Nother lie. He tell Dawn. Pretty damn smart.”

“Too damn smart,” growled Ryker. “What did Dawn say when you told her?”

“I can answer that, Mr. Ryker.”

The prosecuting attorney turned quickly to see Dawn in the doorway.

“Why!” he began breathlessly.

“I heard what was said,” continued Dawn. “The other time you were here I heard what you said, Mr. Ryker. Are you the law?”

“The law?” faltered Ryker.

“Yes, the law. They say Peter may hang for the murder of Mallette. Can you trade Peter’s life for a marriage? Is that what the law is for—trade goods?”

Ryker flushed angrily.

“You don’t understand,” he said huskily. “It isn’t a case of trading, Dawn. I—I want you.”

“And I don’t want you,” she said evenly. “Go home.”

“Oh, all right,” Ryker turned angrily and walked to his horse. He started to get on, but hesitated and turned to Dawn. “I suppose you know your father hasn’t hired a lawyer to defend Pete. The trial starts Monday.”

He mounted and rode away, cursing his own luck and wondering how Hashknife Hartley knew about the proposition he had made to Mrs. Conley. English Ed had said that Hartley was a dangerous man, and Ryker was inclined to believe him.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode back to Turquoise City with the sheriff. They had not met Ryker, for the simple reason that Ryker had seen them coming and had avoided the meeting. They went to the sheriff’s office, where several men had gathered with Wind River Jim, waiting for word of Conley’s condition. They went away after the sheriff had reported no change in the patient, and the four men sat down in the office.

“Pete and Jimmy shore ain’t lost no appetite,” laughed Wind River. “I shore packed plenty ham and eggs.”

“What did Pete say about his father?” asked Roaring.

“He didn’t say much. I saw Judge Beal this mornin’. He was cold sober, too. Looked awful white and was kinda shaky, but he stopped long enough to ask about things. He ain’t been out of his own house for several days, and I’ll bet he’s been on a big drunk.”

“Gettin’ ready for the openin’ of court,” said Roaring.

“What’s your private opinion of those warnings?” asked Hashknife.

“Search me. They scared Jim Randall out of his job. They sent the old judge two. The last one was the day before Mallette was killed. Mebby it was the same day. Anyway, it was their final warnin’—and the judge ignored it.”

“And he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife. “It proves that the gang are four-flushers.”

“Yeah, it looks that way,” admitted Roaring. “But he’s been stayin’ in the house pretty close.”

Lovely Lucas was as good as his word. He came back to Turquoise City with Horse-Collar Fields, who came willingly. It was not often that Horse-Collar left the Stumbling K. He was a small, thin person, about fifty years of age, as bald as the proverbial billiard-ball. He had a slight cast in his left eye. He did the cooking for the Stumbling K.

Just now he wore a pair of misfit chaps. They belonged to Wind River Jim, whose waist measure was several inches larger than that which Horse-Collar boasted. He also wore a cartridge-belt and a holstered gun. Lovely led the way to the Ranger Saloon, with Horse-Collar swaggering along behind him.

“Hello, Horse-Collar,” grinned the bartender, a short, fat person, with a moonlike face and a damp curl of hair gracing his expansive brow.

“Boy, howdy,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “How’s chances to git drunk?”

“Best you ever seen. Ain’t seen you in a long time.”

“No, and you wouldn’t see me now, if it wasn’t that I’m needed here. Cities don’t appeal to me. I jist feel all cramped up in a city. What’ll you have, Lovely?”

“Some of that there corrosive sublimate which is designated as liquor. But before we salivate our lungs, liver and lights, I want to explain to you ag’in, for about the seventh time, Horse-Collar—we ain’t goin’ to git drunk.”

“And for seven times I replies to same,” said Horse-Collar. “When I takes the law in my two hands, I’m goin’ to have m’ stummick in shape to handle m’ brains. Gimme that bottle!”

“You takin’ the law?” asked the bartender.

Horse-Collar cocked one eye wisely, as he poured out a big drink.

“Right by the slack of the pants,” he declared. “They’ve got Jimmy Moran in jail, ain’t they? Here’s how. Well, well, well! ’F here ain’t one of them officers of the law!”

Wind River Jim had come in and was standing near the bar, considering them gravely.

“What about Jimmy Moran bein’ in jail?” asked Wind River.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” grunted Lovely.

“Grab a glass,” invited Horse-Collar.

“I’m purchasin’.”

“I hadn’t ort to,” said Wind River sadly. “I’m deputy sheriff, you know.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Well, I might gargle one with you, boys.” But they didn’t stop at one drink.

Lovely bought the next one, the bartender stood a treat and then it was Wind River’s turn. By this time Horse-Collar was in the right mood to buy again, which caused the others to treat in turn. Eight drinks of Ranger whisky were guaranteed to either bring out all the latent forces within a human being, or to put him flat on his back.

Horse-Collar surveyed the world through rose-colored glasses; he essayed a song.

“Don’t shing,” advised Lovely.

“Tha’s the worsht of friends,” sighed Horse-Collar. “They try to run your business. What’ll you do if I try to shing?”

“I’m shorry, but if you shing I mus’ has’en your demise. Know what a demise is, Horsh-Collar? Tha’s the end of you.”

“Whish end?”

“Now, don’ drink no more, Horsh-Collar. Ain’t that verdict, Wind River? Horsh-Collar mus’ not drink no more. We’ve got p’tic’lar work to do. Win’ River’s goin’ help us, Horsh-Collar. We’re goin’ down and deman’ releash of Jimmy. Whoo-ee-e-e!”

Lovely cuffed his hat off his head and laughed deliriously.

“Thish is a lovely day,” he declared. “Win’ River Jim, yo’re triplets! H’rah, f’r your fambly. Let’s go up to the s’preme palace of vice and visit our old friend English Ed.”

“He—he’ll mashacree you,” choked Wind River.

Horse-Collar shook his head so violently that he fell against the bar and sat down heavily on the bar-rail.

“Havin’ a chill?” queried Lovely. “My Lord, you shore can shake. Havin’ fits, Horsh-Collar?”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ mashacree nobody,” declared Horse-Collar. “Let’s go and fin’ Jimmy. Poor old Jimmy. Oh, poor old Jimmy!”

“Can yuh beat that?” demanded Lovely. “Cryin’!”

“Git up,” begged Wind River. “You make me shick. Let’s have one more drink, and then we’ll go down and have it out with Roarin’ Rigby. C’mon, Horsh-Collar. A-a-a-aw, dry up!”

“You fellers start monkeyin’ with the law, and you’ll get hurt,” said the bartender.

“Will, eh?” grunted Wind River. “Well, I’m about half of the law around here, and I know what I can do.”

Hashknife and Sleepy came from the restaurant near the Black Horse Saloon and saw Franklyn Moran and English Ed, sitting together in a buggy, the team of which was tied to the Black Horse hitch-rack.

Moran called to Hashknife, who went over to them. Sleepy sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and rolled a smoke.

“You’ve met Holmes, haven’t you, Hartley?” asked Moran.

Hashknife nodded quickly. Holmes laughed shortly.

“Yes, we’ve met before, Moran. Hartley recognized me. He’s got a good memory, it seems.”

Hashknife studied the gambler. It seemed rather odd that the man was admitting all this, and Hashknife wondered what his reason might be.

“I’m putting my cards on the table, Hartley,” said Holmes. “I knew you. At first you had me puzzled, but I remembered.”

“And then what?” asked Hashknife coldly.

“I’ve been telling Moran about you, Hartley. I’ve got nothing to conceal. I’m just as anxious to have things cleared up as he is. You heard about the warnings sent to Jim Randall and Judge Beal? Well, I didn’t send ’em.”

“No?” Hashknife smiled curiously. “Why tell me, Holmes?”

“Because I know you are not here for your health.”

“That’s true; my health never worries me.”

English Ed shook his head.

“Still suspicious, eh? Don’t blame you. Do you believe Jimmy Moran shot Moses Conley?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’d like your opinion.”

“Haven’t any. None of my business, Holmes. Must have been enough evidence to satisfy the sheriff.”

“It’s not hard to satisfy a sheriff,” said Moran slowly. “Holmes tells me that you have cleared up a lot of hard cases, Hartley. I didn’t know I was hiring a horse from a detective when I met you at Sibley Junction. I hired your horse and now I’d like to hire you. How about it?”

“I’m more or less of a cowpuncher,” said Hashknife. “I’m not a detective, Moran. Never pretended to be one.”

“Will you take this case?”

“What case?”

“Jimmy’s case.”

“Oh, yeah, Jimmy’s case. You mean—to try and prove he didn’t shoot Conley?”

“If it’s possible—yes, I’ll pay well.” Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“You’ve got the wrong dope on me, Moran. My skin is worth quite a lot to me. Even if I was able to solve a mystery, I’d have no chance here. Somebody would fill me full of lead before I got started.”

English Ed laughed shortly.

“Which proves that you don’t think Jimmy is guilty. If he was, why would you be afraid of getting shot?”

Hashknife shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t think Jimmy killed those Big 4 steers at Hot Creek, do you?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Holmes flatly.

“Somebody does,” smiled Hashknife. “Nope, I don’t want any finger in this pie; I might get it hurt.”

He nodded and turned back to Sleepy, who joined him. They saw Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields coming from the Ranger Saloon, and the sidewalk was not wide enough for them to walk in single file.

“What did they want?” asked Sleepy.

“Wanted me to clear Jimmy Moran. English Ed had filled Moran up with a lot of stuff. I wouldn’t trust Holmes as far as I could throw a prize bull by the tail.”

“You didn’t take the case, did you, Hashknife?”

“Not so much you’d notice it.”

“Boy, howdy! Now we can high-tail out of here, eh?”

“Mm-m-m-m. Let’s go down and see how Roarin’ is gettin’ along.”

They found Roaring Rigby sitting on the edge of the cot that he had moved into the office. His eyes were blurred with sleep, but he grinned a welcome.

“Took a little shut-eye,” he said. “Fixed me up pretty good, too. Ho-o-o-o-hum-m-m-m-m! Gosh, I shore was sleepy! What’s new in the world?”

“Nothin’ much,” replied Hashknife. “Roarin’, what kind of a gun did Jimmy Moran use?”

Roaring yawned heavily.

“Colt. I’ve got it here.”

He went to his desk, sat down heavily and opened one of the drawers. There were three guns in the drawer, and he placed them side by side on the desk top.

“This is Jimmy’s,” he said. “The middle one belongs to Moses Conley and the other is the one Pete killed Mallette with.”

Hashknife examined Jimmy’s gun. The hammer was still down on the exploded shell. It was a .45 caliber. He picked up Pete’s gun, a .45, single-action Colt. It was fully loaded and fairly clean.

“He had plenty of time to reload and clean it,” said the sheriff.

Hashknife nodded and put the gun back on the desk.

“There wasn’t any bullet in Mallette, eh?”

“Nope; went plumb through.”

Hashknife picked up Moses Conley’s gun. It was of the same model as Pete’s. There was an empty shell in one of the chambers. Hashknife slid it out and looked it over. Some one was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. Hashknife replaced the shell. He was half sitting on a corner of the desk.

Roaring Rigby was rolling a cigaret and Sleepy was busily examining a reward notice. Some one stopped at the open door, but Hashknife didn’t look up. His long fingers gripped the heavy revolver, a thumb drew back the hammer almost to full cock and let it slip.

Wham!

The big gun roared like a cannon in that small room. Hashknife had the muzzle pointed at the floor and, as the gun jerked in his hands, he glanced toward the door in time to see Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields.

Wham!

Horse-Collar Fields had yanked out his gun and fired so quickly that the report of his gun was a thudding echo of Hashknife’s shot.

Wham!

Lovely Lucas’ gun went off before it was out of the holster.

“You-u-u-u-u-u-u damn fools!” howled Roaring. He went over backward, clawing at his face.

Hashknife sprang sidewise, collided with Sleepy, and they went sprawling together, while the three drunken cow-punchers backed out, fell off the sidewalk and proceeded to empty their guns at anything and everything in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy sat up, staring at each other; while Roaring crawled to his feet and peeked over the top of his upset chair.

“My Lord!” exploded Sleepy.

“Where’d the nigger come from?”

Roaring’s face, except for the tip-end of his nose, was as black as ebony. He spat disgustedly and wiped the back of a hand across his lips.

“Ink!” he snorted. “Damn fool busted the ink-bottle and I got it all in the face. What in the devil is goin’ on around here, anyway?”

Wham!

A bullet came through the window and splatted against the end of the room.

“Shoot at me, will you?” It was Horse-Collar’s voice, filled with righteous indignation. “Show yourself, you murderer! Give ’em hell if they rush you, Wind River!”

Roaring wiped some more ink off his face and got to his feet.

“Don’t go near the door,” advised Hashknife.

“I’m not goin’ to. What started this here war?”

Hashknife grinned sheepishly.

“Mebby I’m to blame. I accidentally fired this gun, and them three men must have thought I was shootin’ at them.”

“Hunh!” grunted Roaring disgustedly.

“One was Lovely Lucas,” grinned Sleepy. “He said he was goin’ to get help and come back, didn’t he? Wasn’t he goin’ to get a jigger named Horse-Collar?”

“That’s right! Why, the dirty bum! And they’ve got my deputy along with ’em. See if you can find out where they are, Sleepy.”

“Is that so!” snorted Sleepy. “Take a look and grab a harp. Not me, brother.”

“Hunh! Well, they won’t shoot at me, I’ll betcha.”

Roaring strode over to the doorway, ducked convulsively when a bullet thudded into the wall behind him, and whirled in against the wall.

“I lose,” he said quickly.

The shooting had caused considerable excitement in the main street, but none of the three men went to the door until Hank Pitts, of the Big 4, came down to the doorway as a committee of one to find out what caused it.

“They’re over in the Ranger Saloon,” he told Roaring. “Anybody—my Lord, you shore got painted! Ink?”

“Ink! Nobody got hurt. Hartley accidentally fired Moses Conley’s gun, and them drunken fools thought we were shootin’ at them. Got a darn good notion to jail all three of ’em.”

“I wouldn’t; they’re drunk,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt.”

“I suppose that’s right. The darn fools might have killed somebody. Hank, if you see Wind River, will you tell him to sober up and get back on the job?”

Hank promised and went back to the Black Horse. Hashknife examined the shell he had fired, and a faint smile twisted his wide lips. He handed the gun back to Roaring, who was scrubbing his face with a handkerchief, trying to remove the ink, which had already dried in.

“Put that gun in a safe place, will you?” asked Hashknife.

“You’re right I will!” spluttered Roaring. “How’d you ever come to fire it thataway?”

“Slipped,” grinned Hashknife. “Mind if I talk with Jimmy Moran?”

“I reckon not. I’ll bet they’re wonderin’ what all the shootin’ was about.”

They opened the jail door and went in. Pete was frightened. He thought there had been an attempt to take him from the jail. Jimmy laughed joyfully at Roaring’s description of how Lovely and Horse-Collar and Wind River had got drunk and had come down to get him out of jail.

“They’re a wild bunch,” laughed Jimmy. “All heart and no brains.”

“I want you to tell me about Conley’s shootin’,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got Miss Conley’s story.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Jimmy cautiously.

“Just curious, Jimmy. Tell me about it.”

And Jimmy told him everything as he had seen it.

“You shot at a man, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“There was somebody behind that bush,” declared Jimmy. “I was kinda excited, you see. No, I didn’t see where the shot came from; I was too far around the corner. But I didn’t see anybody after I shot.”

Hashknife continued to question—

“Was there more than two shots fired?”

“That’s all, and I fired one of ’em.”

“You went out there to warn Conley that the Big 4 outfit were comin’ out, didn’t you?”

Jimmy nodded quickly.

“What else could I do?”

“Did you skin out them brands, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shifted his eyes and a ghost of a smile passed his lips.

“You’re just guessin’, Hartley,” he said.

Hashknife smiled.

“Good guesser?” he asked.

“Mebby you think you are.”

“By golly, I never thought of that!” exploded Roaring.

“I’m just tryin’ to help you, Jimmy,” reminded Hashknife.

“I need little help,” said Pete.

Hashknife turned his head and looked at the half-breed. Pete was leaning against the bars, a wistful expression in his dark eyes.

“I reckon you do,” agreed Hashknife.

“Pete ain’t even got a lawyer,” said Roaring.

“Don’t need none,” said Pete quickly. “Damn lawyer don’t know who kill Joe Mallette.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“That’s very true, Pete.”

They left the jail and, while Roaring went on a hunt for Wind River Jim and his two wild-shooting companions, Hashknife and Sleepy got their horses and rode out of town, heading toward Hot Creek.

Quite a crowd collected in the Ranger Saloon, trying to get a firsthand account of the gun battle, and they got it in three distinct versions.

“They repulsed us,” said Horse-Collar dismally. “Oh, the loss was terrific. There was bodies stewed—strewed all over the street. In one plash—jus’ in one plash, mind you—I shaw twelve dead men in one pile. An’ if that ain’t the truth, you can cut off Lovely’s ears.”

“Whozears?” demanded Lovely. “Horsh-Collar’s a liar. That long-geared Hartley shot d’liber’tly at my heart; that’s what happened. Jus’ lifted his six-shooter and shez t’ me, ‘I’ve gotcha faded, Misser Lucas.’ Jus’ like that. And then he pulled the trigger. It was the mean-esht thing I ever beheld. That feller’s a murderer—jus’ a common murderer.”

“A-a-a-a-aw, hell!” snorted Wind River. “You and Horsh-Collar are drunk. Here’s what act’ally happened, gents. Me and Lovely and Horsh-Collar went down to pay our reshpects to Roarin’ Rigby. We was jus’ as innochent as a unborn sheep—three of ’em. Hartley and Stevens was there with Roarin’, you shee. Well, they mus’ ’a’ thought we was makin’ an attack, because they armed themshelves with Winchester rifles, you shee. And when we came in, p’lite as hell, and shed good-afternoon, they opened fire on us, jus’ like that. Bing! Bang! Boom! Bim!”

Wind River struck the bar three times, emphasizing his vocal imitation of a shot, but the fourth time he missed the bar and hit his chin on the edge of it.

“They must be drunk,” declared the bartender, grinning.

“I’ll shay they are,” agreed Horse-Collar.

“Didja kill any of ’em?” asked Hank Pitts.

“All five,” said Horse-Collar solemnly. “Let’s all have a drink. My conscience bothers me. It’s the firsh time I ever missed a shot. Gittin’ old. Any old time I have to take three shots to kill two men, I’m all wrong. Whatcha drinkin’?”

It was about ten minutes later when Roaring Rigby came into the Ranger Saloon. He leaned against the bar and looked sadly at Wind River Jim, who goggled at him owlishly.

“H’lo corpsh,” said Wind River.

“Go stick your head in a horse-trough,” advised Roaring. “Drown some of the liquor out of you and then go back to the office where you belong. You’re a hell of a deputy!”

“Deputy?” Wind River’s eyes opened widely. He turned and hit Horse-Collar a resounding whack between the shoulders, the force of the blow knocking Horse-Collar against the bar, from which he rebounded and sat down on the floor.

“You quit knockin’ Horsh-Collar ’round,” ordered Lovely. “Who do you think you are, anyway. Git up and pile him, Horsh-Collar. Don’t let’m knock you ’round, the big bully.”

“Who in the devil got hit?” wailed Horse-Collar in a thin voice. “Lemme alone, will you, Lovely? Keep your nose out of my business, will yu-u-u-uh? ’F I want to pile Wind River, I don’t need no advice from you. Gittin’ so a man can’t even git knocked down, without somebody advisin’ him.”

“Give ’m hell!” grunted Wind River. “’S’ all right, Roarin’. I’m shober.”

Wind River cuffed his wide hat almost over his eyes, got his bearings and headed out through the doorway.

“Have a li’l drink, Roarin’?” asked Lovely.

“You boys better go home, Lovely.”

“Tha’ so? Huh! Whaffor? Nothin’ to do. We ain’t goin’ home until—whatcha shay, Horsh-Collar?”

“Drunken idiots,” said Roaring, and he went out.

Hashknife and Sleepy circled the Hot Creek ranch fence to where the wire had been cut at the north side and then they came down to the coulee where the Big 4 steers had been killed. Luckily they had been killed far enough away so as not to pollute the water. A coyote sneaked away from one of them, and a flock of magpies went chattering into the trees. Nature’s scavengers were swiftly obliterating the Big 4 losses.

Hashknife examined one of the steers. It had been shot in the head.

“Funny they didn’t hear the shootin’ down at Conley’s,” said Sleepy.

“A twenty-two don’t make much noise, Sleepy.”

“F’r gosh sake! No wonder. Probably used longs; them little guns are beef killers. Looks as though the killers didn’t want to be heard, eh?”

“Looks thataway,” agreed Hashknife, mounting his horse. “Let’s ride down and see how Conley is feelin’.”

The doctor had gone to town a short time before they arrived. Conley was conscious, but the doctor had left orders with Dawn that he was to see no one. She came outside to talk with them.

“What did he have to say?” asked Hashknife. “Did he know who shot him?”

Dawn nodded, her eyes filled quickly with tears.

“Jimmy, eh?” said Hashknife softly.

“Yes. The doctor wouldn’t let him talk much.”

“Of course not; but the doctor thinks he’ll get well, don’t he?”

“He thinks Dad has a good chance now.”

“Well, that’s great.”

Hashknife sat down on the steps and rolled a smoke.

“Is there much deer huntin’ around here in the fall?” he asked.

“Not very close,” said Dawn. “The boys go back about fifteen miles. They get quite a lot.”

“Plenty grouse, eh?”

“Quite a few; Peter kills lots of them.”

“It’s a lot of fun, if you’ve got a shotgun,” said Hashknife.

“Peter uses a twenty-two rifle,” said Dawn.

“Uh-huh.” Hashknife did not look at Sleepy. He had found out that the Conley family owned a .22.

They did not stay long. Mrs. Conley was sleeping, and Hashknife realized that Dawn wanted to be with her father.

“How much longer are we goin’ to stick around here?” asked Sleepy, as they rode back toward Turquoise City.

“Not long, I reckon. It kinda looks as though the Conley family killed those steers.”

“Well, that’s what everybody else thinks; so why not you?”

“I hoped they hadn’t, Sleepy, that’s all.”

“As far as ownin’ a twenty-two is concerned—there must be more twenty-twos in this country.”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy.

“You do have an idea once in a while, cowboy. But how much easier it would have been if Conley didn’t.”

“I suppose it would. But what do we care? Let’s figure on pullin’ out tomorrow.”

Hashknife frowned thoughtfully. There were still things that puzzled him greatly, and he hated to leave things unsolved. The jury would find Pete guilty, and he would be sentenced to hang; that was almost a certainty. If Conley died, Jimmy Moran might get off with a sentence. It would all depend on the jury, and a Black Horse jury would give Jimmy the benefit of a doubt.

But Jimmy wanted to marry Dawn Conley, and nothing except complete vindication would ever give him that chance. Hashknife did not believe English Ed Holmes. He had a feeling that Holmes merely wanted to know whether Hashknife was going to work on the case.

It was rather hard for Hashknife to believe that old Moses Conley had cut the fence, herded in those Big 4 steers and shot them down just for revenge. Revenge for what? For something that had happened twenty-five years before. That would be ridiculous presumption. No doubt Conley had fenced in Hot Creek against the Big 4; but that was no crime. He owned the land.

Had some of the Big 4 cut that fence and killed the steers merely to have a reason for starting trouble with Conley? Possible but hardly probable, he decided. Slim Regan was a hard-bitted sort of person, but Hashknife could hardly believe that Slim would do that.

“You’re doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” observed Sleepy.

“Am I?” grinned Hashknife. “It ain’t doin’ me much good. I’m kinda stuck.”

“Glad to hear it. Mebby you’ll quit.”

“I might,” grinned Hashknife.

About a mile out of Turquoise City they met the old doctor, heading back to the Conley place, driving his old sway-backed gray. The two cowboys drew rein beside the road, and the doctor stopped.

“Hyah, Doctor,” smiled Hashknife. “Hear your patient is comin’ along fine.”

“Good enough,” answered the doctor gruffly. “Didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“The little lady wouldn’t let me.”

“Good for her. Smart girl; nice girl, too. Obeys orders. Feel sorry for her. Conley says Moran shot him. Lucky thing I’m pulling Conley out of it. Hate to see the kid strung up.”

The old doctor talked jerkily.

“Conley didn’t say he saw Moran, did he?”

“Didn’t say; suppose he did. Kind of hot today.”

“Little warm,” agreed Hashknife. “You’re the coroner, ain’t you, Doc?”

“Yes, who’s dead this time?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Nothin’ like that, Doc. You handled this Mallette, didn’t you?”

“Naturally, bein’ a murder case.”

“Didn’t find any bullet?”

“No; shot in the head; bullet went on. You’re not trying to find out who killed him, are you?”

“Why not?”

“No question about Pete Conley, is there?”

“Might be, Doc. Tell me about how Mallette looked. Was he shot at close range?”

“Guess not. Not close enough to get burned. They said he had been drinking heavily. Drank absinth with his liquor. Darn bad combination. Wore cowboy boots. Funny thing about his boots. When I took them off I found a lot of gravel in them. I told the sheriff about it.” The doctor laughed heartily. “He said Mallette wasn’t very clean.”

“Gravel in his boots, eh?” mused Hashknife. “Man would have to go without a bath a long time to acquire gravel.”

“He would,” laughed the doctor, picking up his lines. “I’ve got to be going on, boys.”

They told him good-by and rode on. Hashknife’s eyes were keen now and his lips shut tightly. Sleepy looked closely at him, groaned and yanked his hat down viciously.

Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.