Front matter (continued 3)

“What do you know?” asked Roaring.

“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”

“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”

“Curiosity, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”

“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.

Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district.

“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several of the boys showed me the place.”

Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him curiously.

“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how he was able to walk.”

“Powerful stuff.”

They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and looked back.

“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife. “He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth and whisky. Uh-huh.”

“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your mind?”

“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”

“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”

“Long enough.”

They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a few boxes of .22 caliber shells.

“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.

“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete Conley used to buy quite a lot.”

“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”

“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”

Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.

“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.

“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”

“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”

“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”

The merchant slid a box across the counter.

“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”

“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”

“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”

“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”

Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.

“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”

“He said you did, Jimmy.”

“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.

“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.

“Sure.”

“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”

“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”

“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”

“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno. Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn—”

“I don’t want it, Pete—thanks.”

“She shoot good.”

“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.

“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.

“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”

“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”

“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you, Pete.”

They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been killed with a twenty-two rifle.

“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun. Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”

“Why would he, Roaring?”

“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4—”

“For twenty-five years—yeah.”

“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran—”

“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them steers inside the fence and near the road.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason things out.”

“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”

“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed ’em themselves.”

“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down. You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but that’s natural.”

“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.

“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife. He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office, and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I reckon—if the voters would elect him.”

“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”

Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an efficient officer.

“Strict, eh?”

“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in the open, but—but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him. If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a reclinin’ hero.”

“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.

“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.

Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a wonderful time.

They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.

“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively. “Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’ Bull stood up.”

“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think why I came to town.”

“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only think, he’d know it’s his turn.

“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know what we came here for.”

“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’ deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”

“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”

“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”

“That was t’day.”

“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”

“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”

“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee Roarin’.”

“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender. “But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll salivate both of you.”

“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”

“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender. May you eat well on your last mornin’.”

They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell flat on the sidewalk.

“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on ’em.”

But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously. Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.

“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly re-e-union, you shee.”

“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got stummick complaint.”

“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.

“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then to Hashknife he said—

“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”

“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.

“Ain’t dead, is he?”

“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”

“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.

“Gittin’ old.”

“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.

“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you—”

From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot. Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a Saturday night.

The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to the doorway behind him.

Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them from the alley between the office and a store building next door.

Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron. Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.

He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley, regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box; finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.

For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.

“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.

“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me. Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away. Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”

“Yeah—one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”

“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been Horse-Collar or Lovely?”

“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”

They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around, shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind River’s legs to keep him from jerking.

“You fools!” yelled Roaring.

He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring indignantly.

“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.

“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”

“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”

Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.

“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.

“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”

“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know—who shot ’in?”

“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”

“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”

Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.

“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.

As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.

“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”

Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.

But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.

“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.

Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.

“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”

Slim shook his head.

“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him, Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody investigated it.”

“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.

“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short, fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.

Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were still wet from washing Wind River’s head.

“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.

“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper with you, Roarin’?”

“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out. While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack, and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met you.”

“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.

“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.

“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”

“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”

The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.

It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.

It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.

“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”

He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.

“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”

Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.

“Glad, eh?” said Regan.

“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.

“My God!”

He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the night. The room was very quiet.

“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”

The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the window.

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Name your man, Doc.”

“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”

“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”

Sunday was a dull day in Turquoise City. Hashknife hardly left Sleepy’s side during the day. Sleepy had regained consciousness and was pretty sick. There was plenty of company. Wind River Jim, his head swathed in bandages, insisted upon playing nurse while Hashknife ate his meals.

“That’s the least I can do,” declared Wind River. “If your old leather beck hadn’t deflected that bullet, it would have hit me between the eyes. And between you and Roarin’, you stopped Horse-Collar from chokin’ me to death.”

Hashknife told Sleepy about Horse-Collar’s tourniquet, and Sleepy cried tears. Even with all his pain he still retained his overdeveloped sense of humor. Later in the day Horse-Collar came to the hotel. He was sober now and had been talking to Jimmy Moran at the jail.

“I been talkin’ with Jimmy,” he told Hashknife confidentially. “He says you’re detectin’. Gosh, I didn’t know that.”

“What about it?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Thisaway, Hartley. You can’t detect and set here. Tomorrow I’ll be here. I ain’t much of a good nurse, but I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Horse-Collar.”

“Not p’ticularly. I’m still workin’ for Jimmy, and I take orders from the boss. Old Conley’s out of danger, they say, and I heard that Frank Moran has paid Jimmy’s debts at the Black Horse. I’ll be here in the mornin’.”

Jeff Ryker came and talked to Hashknife, trying to see if Hashknife had any idea who had shot Sleepy.

“There’s been too much of this shooting going on around here,” declared Ryker earnestly.

“Well, you can’t blame it on Pete Conley or Jimmy Moran,” observed Hashknife. “Mebby it’s what you’d call an epidemic of crime.”

“That’s what it is. Conley’s trial starts tomorrow. He hasn’t a lawyer to defend him. The court will have to appoint some one to defend him, I suppose, and that will cause a delay. Personally, I don’t think a lawyer would do him any good.”

“You think he’s guilty?”

“Beyond a doubt. He went out to kill Mallette. Admits it.”

“Admits that he wanted to, Ryker.”

“I don’t know about that, because I never talked to him; but the evidence is all against him.”

Hashknife studied the thin face of the prosecuting attorney—the wry neck inside the misfit collar, the deep-set eyes.

“And you was willin’ to kill the case, if that half-breed girl would marry you, eh?” he said coldly.

Ryker flushed hotly and shuffled his feet on the old carpet of the hotel.

“That—that isn’t true,” he stammered.

“I never—”

“Why deny it?” queried Hashknife coldly. “You’re not the first man in your position to misuse his power, Ryker. You ain’t settin’ no precedent that I know of.”

“Oh, all right, I’m not going to discuss my personal affairs with you, Hartley. What I do is none of your business.”

Ryker turned on his heel and walked away.

“You stick to your own business then,” said Hashknife.

“And you stick to your own,” retorted Ryker hotly.

Hashknife laughed softly and went back to Sleepy.

The doctor came again that night. Sleepy had not developed any fever, and the doctor was jubilant. In the morning he was stiff and sore, but cheerful. Horse-Collar Fields came fairly early in the morning and offered to stay with Sleepy as long as Hashknife wanted him to stay.

The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of sympathy.

“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife. “How’s your father?”

“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”

“I wonder if I could talk with him.”

“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.

“Don’t talk too long.”

Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in bed.

Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.

“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”

“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.

“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.

“Will they hang him, do you think?”

“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”

“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”

“Law for anybody.”

“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”

Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with Moran, and the old man nodded.

“I hate him,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”

“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time. Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”

“Sure of it, Conley?”

“He called me out and shot me.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped outside. But he called and told me who he was.”

“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you. Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”

The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.

“That’s what hurts, Hartley—hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my side. That’s what hate does. I—I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”

“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know, this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’ and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”

“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.

“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game, and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”

“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.

“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”

“We get married, too,” said Minnie.

“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”

“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now, I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”

“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”

Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from blizzards.

He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush. It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide, and not over five feet deep.

Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking stuff.

He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the entire ranch.

He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford, where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked curiously at him.

A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared at the broken fragments.

Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and there were even specks of it on his palm.

He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton, but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth more money than Hashknife could estimate.

He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the prospect.

Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office, where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.

Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.

“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.

Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted closely at it and looked at Hashknife.

“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.

“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”

Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.

“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.

“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”

Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that piece of crumbly red ore.

“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”

“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it is for agriculture?”

Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.

“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine. Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’ their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here—” Mica shifted his chew thoughtfully—“out here, you can hold what you’ve got, pardner.”

“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never mind assayin’ that stone.”

“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”

“Thank you.”

Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed the dressing.

“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely. “They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.

“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete—jist them two. I tell you it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a farce, Hartley?”

“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”

“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”

“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from Pete?”

“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a crowd at the court-house.”

“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country. I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”

“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.

Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter. Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in his hand.

English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning. Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that night were in the room.

Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.

In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.

After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.

“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.

Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.

“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from whisky.”

“Are they?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country. I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he was at that time.”

“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go visitin’.”

“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.

Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”

“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”

The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.

“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.

“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”

“May I take a look at it?”

“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”

The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.

Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark—Fordhill Bond. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.

“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.

“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.

“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.

“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about all.”

“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.

“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the world.”

“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial. Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”

Roaring shook his head quickly.

“Got to get back, Judge.”

Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.

On the way back to the office, Roaring told Hashknife that the judge had asked him to walk home with him.

“He’s scared to death,” declared Roaring. “Personally, I don’t think they’ll harm him. I don’t think they’d ’a’ hurt Jim Randall, but he didn’t wait to see.”

“Time will tell,” said Hashknife. “The old judge has a right to be nervous.”

They went back to the office, where Wind River Jim was changing the bandage on his sore head. Hashknife sat down at the sheriff’s desk and rolled a smoke, while Roaring assisted Wind River Jim with his bandage. There were several sheets of writing paper on the desk, bearing the letterhead of the sheriff’s office. Hashknife picked one of them up in his hand and looked through it. Across the bottom of the sheet was the watermark—Fordhill Bond.

He dropped the sheet of paper back on the desk and lighted his cigaret.

“I’d like to get a line on the jigger that knocked on my temple,” growled Wind River Jim. “It shore aches me.”

“What does Pete think of the trial?” asked Hashknife.

“Sore about it.”

Roaring pinned the end of the bandage and came back to the desk.

“He testified today. Ryker tried to get him mad. I don’t think the jury believed Pete’s story. He admitted he wanted to shoot Mallette. He put up a good argument. Ryker wanted to know why he wanted to kill Mallette, and if he didn’t know it would be murder; and Pete asked him if it was murder to kill a horsethief. He said that Mallette stole his money, and that stealin’ was stealin’; and, by golly, the judge agreed with him, I think! You see, he’s bein’ tried for first-degree murder, and if that knot-headed jury brings in a verdict of guilty, it’s up to the judge to soak him awful hard. He can either hang Pete or give him life.”

“If somebody don’t shoot the judge between now and the time he’s supposed to pass sentence,” said Roaring dryly.

“I don’t think they will,” said Hashknife. “There’s other things to think about.”

Hashknife didn’t tell them what he meant, but went back to the hotel to relieve Horse-Collar Fields. Sleepy was in good spirits, much better than Hashknife expected him to be.

“How’s it comin’, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

“I’m just about to sing me a little song,” replied Hashknife, and Sleepy knew what that song meant.

Hashknife did not have a particularly melodious voice and seldom did he lift his voice in song, except when a puzzle was working out to his satisfaction.

“And me flat in bed,” wailed Sleepy. “But go easy, pardner. You can see just how easy it is for to go down and out. I never had no warnin’. I felt it slap me down, but I never heard the shot. It hurts worse now than it has any time. The doctor says it’s healin’ up fine. You’ll go easy, won’t you, Hashknife?”

“If you need help, call on Horse-Collar and Lovely. They’re the biggest liars that ever saw the sun come up, but they’re on the square.”

“Dang the luck, I want to ride with you. Can’t you put it off for a week or so? The doctor says I’ll be able to ride in a week or ten days, if I wear a wide belt.”

“You lay still and take it easy. Get well, cowboy. I shore miss you. Ain’t had nobody crabbin’ at me for two days, and it ain’t natural. And I’m not goin’ to get hurt. Can you eat anythin’?”

“Soup!”

“All right. I’ll git a tray of grub at the restaurant, and a bowl of soup. We’ll eat up here and, by golly, I’ll stay here until daylight. I’m as scared as the judge was. I’ll find Horse-Collar Fields and ask him to come agin’ tomorrow morning.”

It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.

“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last night?”

“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”

“I just wondered.”

Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.

He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east. Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could get a good view of the 7AL ranch.

He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.

There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse, which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.

Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road, passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.

They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy. Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad eyes—not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife, when it came to judging a man’s character.

Hashknife mounted his gray horse and rode down to the ranch-house. There was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.

As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He peered at Hashknife wonderingly.

“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”

“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good— mebby.”

He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.

“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.

“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”

“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus—and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.

“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”

“Fine.”

Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.

“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.

“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”

“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.

“What in hell do you want here?”

Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.

“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.

He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.

“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”

“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”

“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”

“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.

“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”

Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.

The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.

“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.

One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.

“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”

“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.

Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and bolstered his gun.

“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.

“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”

Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped off down the road.

Jud Hardy stared at the cook and slowly put down his hands.

“That shore as hell beats me,” declared the cook foolishly. “What was all that gunplay about, Jud?”

Jud spat savagely and went after his gun. It had struck on its muzzle and was half-full of dirt and gravel. Jud came back to the kitchen door, swearing to himself.

“Gee-mighty, that feller was shore forked!” said the cook. “Didja ever see a gun pulled thataway, Jud. Jist whap! And you’re it.”

“Yeah,” growled Jud darkly. He was fast with a gun himself.

“What did he want, Jinyus?”

“Breakfast.”

“Tha’sso? Is that all?”

“Well, that’s all he asked for.”

“What did he pick up off the ground? He was showin’ it to you.”

“Oh, that,” the cook grinned. “Nothin’ but one of them little empty twenty-two shells. He asked me if we’d been havin’ target practise, and I said that ever since Cutter had sent for that damn gun, they’d been shootin’ at everythin’.”

Jud stared at Jinyus for several moments.

“Yea-a-a-ah? The hell he did!”

“Shore did. Go wash your face and I’ll have you some eggs.”

“To hell with the eggs! I’m goin’ to town.”

Jud whirled and ran down to the bunkhouse. Jinyus looked after him, shaking his head.

“I dunno what it’s all about,” he told himself aloud, “but it looks t’ me as though somebody was all het up. My, but that jigger shore can yank a six-gun!”

Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.

The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table, slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a verdict for him.

At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented. The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.

English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to Moran— “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”

“I don’t know.”

“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out of town.”

Moran smiled thinly.

“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”

“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck before it hit Wind River.”

“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.

“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.

“I don’t know—but they are.”

“Who—Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.

“No, the men who shot ’em.”

Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid needed legal advice.”

“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I do?”

“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.

“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it. Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to free him.”

Moran looked queerly at English Ed.

“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.

“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”

“I suppose.”

“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I tried to run him out. I didn’t.”

“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”

“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.

“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”

Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.

“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.

Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.

“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”

“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”

Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.

Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.

Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned against his own table.

The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement. Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old judge.

“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room. “That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’ in a courtroom!”

“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!” boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.

The old judge rapped for order.

“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”

“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”

Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.

Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The judge rapped again for silence.

“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.

“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.

The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.

“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”

The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.

“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.

Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.

For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that silent room.

“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.

“That’s it,” said the foreman.

The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.

“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.

Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet, as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked back at the verdict.

“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face twisted painfully.

There came a slight noise from the rear of the room, and the judge looked up. It was Hashknife Hartley, coming down the aisle, his spurs rasping harshly on the board floor—a jarring note in the most dramatic moment of the trial. But Hashknife did not seem aware of it. There was an empty seat at the end of the first row, and he went all the way down to it.

He looked at Ryker as he sat down, and a smile creased his wide lips. He looked at Peter and Dawn, standing up. The girl looked at him and there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Hashknife turned his head and looked at the silent jury. The room was very quiet.

“They found him guilty, Hartley,” whispered a cowboy behind Hashknife and the whisper could be heard all over the room.

The judge looked sharply at the whisperer.

“Peter Conley,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word, “you have been found guilty. Is there any reason why the sentence of the court should not be imposed at this time?”

Peter did not speak. He did not know what to say.

“Have you nothing to say, Peter Conley?”

“I didn’t kill him, Judge; that’s all I say.” Hashknife got slowly to his feet, facing the judge.

“If you don’t mind, Judge,” he said slowly, “I’d like to speak for Pete Conley.”

“I object!” snapped Ryker hotly.

“You look like you had once before,” said Hashknife. “I’m kinda surprized at all that red on your handkerchief, Ryker; I thought you’d bleed yaller.”

Ryker turned appealingly to the judge, but the judge did not look at him.

“What did you want to say, Hartley?” he asked.

“Why not sentence the guilty man?”

“The guilty man?” It was a whisper— a hoarse whisper.

“The man who killed Joe Mallette by mistake, Judge. The man who dragged Joe Mallette from your door and took him across that vacant piece of ground, draggin’ his boots full of gravel. Mallette was so drunk that he made a mistake in houses, Judge. You’re safe; you shot because you thought he had come to fulfill that warnin’. Tell the truth!”

Roaring was on his feet, as were half of the men in the room. The judge continued to stare at Hashknife, whose voice rang like a bell in that crowded room.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” cried Roaring.

“Ask the judge; he knows.”

The old judge got slowly to his feet, his face white, his mouth half-open, breathing heavily. His right hand was in the drawer of his desk, clutching the heavy revolver.

“Be quiet!” cried Hashknife. “Let him talk!”

The judge wet his lips with his tongue.

“It’s time to tell,” he said. “Yes, it’s time. Hartley’s right. I hoped the jury—but that’s past. I killed Mallette. The gambling element warned me to get out of town. They swore to kill me. You all know it. I wouldn’t run. I—I waited for them to come after me. Mallette came. He flung open the door of my house and came in. I—I was sitting in my chair beside my table, and I shot once.”

His eyes went slowly around the room and he swallowed painfully.

“I never shot a man before,” he continued. “Wong Kee and I dragged him away. Better to have left him there and sent for the sheriff. But a man don’t know what he would do, until the time comes. Pete Conley is innocent. I killed in what I thought was self-defense.”

He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger.

“I’m glad it’s over now.”

English Ed was on his feet, facing Hashknife and the crowd.

“I don’t blame the judge,” he said. “Mallette was drunk and he got into the wrong place; but I’ll swear that Mallette was not in any plot to run the judge out. It was not the gamblers. I’ll swear that we had nothing to do with it.”

“And I’ll back you, Holmes,” said Hashknife.

He stepped through the railing his back to the jury, where he could face the crowd. A man was coming hurriedly down the aisle. It was Horse-Collar Fields. He stopped just short of the railing and said to Hashknife—

“He’ll be here in a minute, Hashknife.” Hashknife backed up a step and his hands dropped to his sides. The eyes of all in the room were upon him, and they saw him hunch forward a trifle, his right arm lifting just above his waist-line.

“It’s Jud Hardy comin’,” he said evenly. “He’s comin’ from the 7AL ranch, ridin’ the hocks off his horse to tell his outfit that Hashknife Hartley found an empty twenty-two shell beside the kitchen door. He tried to kill me, I reckon. He knew that a twenty-two was used to kill them eight Big 4 steers. He knew there was a million dollar ledge of gold ore on the Hot Creek ranch, and he wanted his share. He knew, and his outfit knew, that as long as Moses Conley lived he’d never sell out—and they wanted it. So they tried to send the Big 4 against Conley and when that didn’t work they tried to kill him. Cutter—don’t!”

Hashknife drew swiftly and fired from his hip. The report of his gun blended with the one that flashed beside him from Horse-Collar’s gun.

Cutter staggered sidewise, trying to cock the gun in his hand, but English Ed caught him in his arms and flung him to the floor. Wind River Jim vaulted the railing and fell upon Ted Ames, who was trying to reach the aisle, and from further back in the room came the triumphant yell from Slim Regan:

“Ho-o-o-old fast, Henry! Take his feet, Bill!”

They had captured Henry Miller. Horse-Collar had fired one shot at Ryker, who had drawn his gun, and then had whirled and run swiftly from the courtroom.

“Got Mister Miller!” yelled Regan.

From outside the building came a fusilade of shots, a wild yell. Some of the men ran out, crowding at the doorway, and some of them fell down. The room was in an uproar. The old judge had drawn his gun from the drawer and was standing very straight, resting the muzzle of the gun on his desk. The room was hazy with smoke. Roaring was shielding Dawn from the crowd.

English Ed got slowly to his feet. One knee of his pin-striped trousers was split wide open and the knot of his necktie was under his left ear. Cutter did not get up. Ryker was sprawled across his desk, one hand hanging limply over the edge, his gun on the floor. Hashknife stepped over to the table and touched the prosecuting attorney on the shoulder.

“Horse-Collar Fields shoots straight,” said Hashknife meaningly.

The crowd of men was coming into the room again, headed by Horse-Collar. They were bringing a disheveled Jud Hardy, whose face was bruised and dusty, clothes torn.

“He tried to git away on his bronc when he heard the shootin’!” yelled Horse-Collar triumphantly. “I had t’ hit him on the fly, by golly!”

“Kent Cutter’s dead,” said Roaring Rigby. “I don’t know yet what it was all about, Hashknife.”

“He’s a liar!” wailed Jud Hardy.

“You don’t even know what he said!” snorted Lovely Lucas.

“Bring ’em down here,” ordered Hashknife. “All three of ’em.”

They came—Henry Miller, Jud Hardy, Ted Ames—brought down bodily by cowboys who longed for a chance to handle them roughly. Hashknife looked them over. Miller and Hardy shut their lips tightly. Hashknife stepped up to Ted Ames.

“You’ll talk,” he said. “I’ve got the goods on all of you; but a talk will help you out, Ames—State’s evidence, you know.”

“Squealer, eh?” defiantly.

“Not now. It’s a hangin’ matter—unless you talk.”

Ames looked around at the faces of the men.

“I’ll talk,” he said. “Cutter and Ryker schemed it, just like you said. Cutter shot Conley; Jimmy Moran almost got Cutter that night. Me and Cutter killed them Big 4 steers. Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in the country, until Cutter sent away for one. Usin’ a twenty-two would cinch it on to Conley. Cutter wanted Mose Conley out of the way, so he could buy the ranch. Dawn Conley admitted to Ryker that she and her mother would be willin’ to sell.”

“Who shot Sleepy, my pardner, and tried to kill me?”

“Me and Jud Hardy. I missed you, Cutter said we’d have to kill you both, and they’d blame English Ed and his gang.”

“All right,” nodded Hashknife. “Cutter knew I found that mine, didn’t he?”

“Ryker came out and told us last night.”

“And Ryker was the one who wrote the warnings, wasn’t he? He used paper that the county furnished.”

“He wrote ’em,” nodded Ames. “Cutter wanted to be judge of this county, and he hated Judge Beal. They warned the sheriff, too. Cutter said he was too honest. But we didn’t know who killed Mallette. We thought Pete was to blame for that. Ryker wanted to marry Dawn Conley. Said he’d get control of the property thataway. Ryker was a bad bird.”

“Thank you, Ames. You’re wise to tell it all, and it won’t hurt you none at the trial.”

Hashknife turned to the old judge, who still stood at the desk, gun in hand.

“You can put up your gun, Judge,” he said. “The whole county will vindicate you for your mistake. Mallette was a thief and a card-sharp. You did just what any man would have done. Now, forget it.”

“I—I’ll have to put these three birdies in jail,” said Roarin’, “and turn Jimmy Moran loose, eh?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Bring ’em along, boys.”

Hashknife turned to meet Dawn and Pete. None of them spoke for several moments. Franklyn Moran stepped beside Dawn; he seemed bewildered. Hashknife smiled at Dawn.

“Let’s not talk about it, Dawn,” he suggested. “Jimmy will be out pretty quick, and he’ll come up the street, you know.”

Dawn glanced quickly at Franklyn Moran.

“It’s—uh—all right,” he said. “Fine, Dawn.”

“I don’t talk much,” said Pete dumbly.

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, “You’re a man after my own heart.”

Dawn and Pete went hurriedly up the aisle. The old judge came down to Hashknife and Moran and held out his hand to Hashknife.

“I don’t pretend to know much about it,” he said slowly.

They shook hands gravely, and Moran shook hands with the judge.

“You know many things, young man,” said the judge. “I have grown very old today, but I’m going to grow younger. I hope you stay with us; Turquoise City needs men like you.”

“I hope he will stay,” said Moran. “I’m still shocked, and I don’t know what to do or say.”

“Will you do me a favor?” asked Hashknife.

“Anything in the world, Hartley.”

“Come out and see Moses Conley with me.”

“Moses Conley? Why, well, that’s quite—I’ll go.”

They walked from the court room and met the doctor on the stairs.

“My goodness!” he blurted. “More shooting! I jump around like a grasshopper. What was it? Nobody talks—they yell. Ten men yelling at me at the same time. I can’t hardly keep Stevens in bed. Fields came up and danced on the foot of the bed. Crazy men.”

“You can’t do any good up there, Doc,” said Hashknife.

“Only in your capacity as coroner.”

They went on down to the street. Jimmy was running up from the jail, and Dawn met him. Pete stood on the sidewalk, blinking around. He didn’t know what to do.

Hashknife took Moran by the arm and led him down to where Dawn and Jimmy were looking at each other. Jimmy looked at his father and grinned foolishly.

“Hyah, Dad,” he said. “How are you?”

“All right, Jimmy. Why don’t you kiss her. We’re all going out to see her father.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Jimmy cried. “Who upset the world?” He stepped past Dawn and held out his hand to Hashknife. “You did,” said Jimmy. “I’m all out of words, Hartley.”

“Good, boy! So am I.”

It was Mrs. Conley who saw them from afar, as they came up the dusty road. There was a top-buggy, and several men on horseback. She had been anxiously waiting for Dawn to come home and bring the news. It had been impossible for her to leave her husband, as there was no one else to take care of him. She went back to the old man.

“Some folks come,” she said. “One buggy, five, six horses. They turn in our gate.”

“Who can it be? What has happened now, Minnie? Dawn said she was sure the case would go to the jury today. Who would be coming here today?”

“I go look.”

Mrs. Conley stood dumbly on the porch and watched Pete and Dawn and Jimmy Moran get out of the buggy, while Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan, Lovely Lucas, Hank Pitts and Hashknife dismounted from their horses.

Dawn ran up and threw her arms around her mother, who merely stared at everybody, especially at Pete, who grinned sheepishly.

“Peter is free, mother!” exclaimed Dawn. “He didn’t shoot Mallette! Don’t you understand? He’s free!”

“Pretty damn good, eh?” The Indian woman smiled.

“Will you shake hands with me?” asked Moran, holding out his hand to Mrs. Conley.

She looked closely at him for a moment.

“Your name Moran. You want to shake hands? You crazy?”

“No, I’m not crazy. I want to be a friend.”

“Damn funny.”

She shook hands with him wonderingly, and they all went into the house. Dawn ran to her father, telling him the good news. Conley patted her on the head and stared at Franklyn Moran, his sunken eyes wide with wonder.

“Conley,” said Moran, coming in close to the bed, “I came to see if we can’t be friends. It seems that our kids have decided to marry each other, and I think it’s time for us to bury the hatchet. Everything else has been straightened out. The 7AL were the ones that caused the trouble. They tried to start war between us. They killed my cattle on your land, and they tried to kill you. Hartley run ’em down. Cutter is dead and the rest of his gang are in jail. Ryker is dead; he was a leader in their crooked work. Will you shake hands with me?”

The old man held out a shaking hand.

“Hartley tells me you are rich,” said Moran, “and I want to be the first one to congratulate you. Ryker and Cutter discovered a rich gold ledge on your ranch, and that’s one of the reasons they wanted to buy you out. Hartley found it, too. That was one of his clews, I suppose.”

The old man’s eyes opened widely and he stared at Hashknife.

“Rich gold ledge?” he queried wonderingly.

“Rich enough to make them do murder to get it,” said Hashknife. “It’s that old prospect you told me about—the one east of Hot Creek, under the big sycamore.”

Conley sank back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“It’s awful rich,” said Hashknife. “Rotten with gold.”

“Rotten with gold,” echoed Conley. “Crooked gold!”

He lifted himself on his elbow and looked at Moran.

“Remember why I got mad at you, Frank? You cut me out of a deal. Mebby it was business; but that’s all past. You had money; you bought several pieces of property and paid a good price on surface showings, you remember?”

“I did, Mose.”

“Oh, I was mad,” smiled Conley. “I was hot-headed in those days. I wanted to get even with you; so I blew over a hundred dollars’ worth of gold-dust into that rotten, red quartz, with a shotgun. I salted it for you, Frank; but before I got a chance to show it to you, you left the country. I hated you for leaving. I hated what I had done so much that I never even tried to hammer the gold out of that little ledge. And that’s what caused all this misery.”

“And it’s been there over twenty-five years, Mose?”

“Yes, my first and last crooked work.”

“Pretty damn good!” exclaimed Mrs. Conley.

“That’s right,” said Hashknife. “I know how they felt. I had a touch of it myself.”

He walked out to the porch and Dawn followed him out.

“Do you realize what you’ve done today?” she asked.

Hashknife looked at her curiously.

“Aw, I didn’t do nothin’,” he said slowly. “It just kinda worked out thataway. I think Jimmy’s lookin’ for you.”

As Dawn turned back to the door, Slim Regan stepped out on the porch, his hat tilted forward. He scratched the back of his hat in evident bewilderment.

“I’ll be darned,” he said slowly. “Lotsa things I don’t sabe yet, Hartley. You say that Cutter and his gang knowed you was after ’em, and jist the same they go and leave a twenty-two shell layin’ around where you could find it.”

“They didn’t, Slim; I dropped it there myself. Their mistake was in admittin’ it.”

“F’r gosh sake! And what made you think Jimmy Moran didn’t shoot Conley?”

“Because there was two shots fired. Jimmy shot one, but Conley didn’t shoot any.”

“The hell he didn’t? There was an empty shell—”

“But it never was fired in Conley’s gun. He always kept the hammer of his gun on an empty shell, Slim. This shell had a queer dent in the primer, so I accidentally fired the gun to see what mark it made. That was the time Horse-Collar and his gang started the trouble. After the gravel in Mallette’s boots proved that he’d been dragged, I picked the judge as the killer.”

“Detectin’,” said Slim slowly, “ain’t nothin’ but jist common sense, is it?”

“And a lot of luck, Slim.”

“Well, I’ll be danged!”

Slim went clumping back into the house, anxious to talk.

Hashknife walked out to his gray horse and swung into the saddle. He was just a trifle weary and he wanted to get back to town, but Moran called to him, hurrying down from the rear of the house.

“How much do I owe you, Hartley?” he asked.

“What for?” asked Hashknife blankly.

“For what you’ve done. I realize it is more than I can ever pay you, but I—”

“Then I’ll always have somethin’ comin’,” grinned Hashknife. “Forget it, Moran. Right now I’m goin’ to town and fold myself around some ham and eggs. And then I’ll have to tell Sleepy what he missed. So long!”

He rode swiftly away, leaving Moran alone, check-book in hand. Mrs. Conley, Dawn and Pete came out on the porch, looking for Hashknife, but he was far down the road. Moran folded up his check-book and came back to the porch.

“I can’t figure him out,” said Moran.

“Pretty hard,” admitted Pete blankly. “He got me loose.”

“He’s wonderful,” said Dawn.

“Damn right!” said Mrs. Conley emphatically.

Which was all right with Hashknife, as long as he didn’t hear what was said.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 1, 1927 issue of Adventure magazine.