Front matter (continued 2)

“There will be no bill, Marsh. I liked old Ed, and that was the least I could do for him.”

The doctor got into his buggy and drove away. Marsh Hartwell stared after him for several moments before he turned toward the house, where Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee were waiting for news from the dead-line.

Mrs. Brownlee was two years older than Jack, a tall, thin-faced, tired-looking woman. Any beauty she might have possessed while a girl had long since departed with the drudgery of running a ranch house.

Marsh Hartwell came slowly up to the steps, leading his horse. Both women knew that something was decidedly wrong.

“Did yuh know that Ed Barber died this mornin’?” he asked them.

They shook their heads. The doctor had not been to the house.

“Died about half-past six,” said Marsh wearily. “Murder is all they can make of that.”

“That’s all the rest of it amounts to,” said Mrs. Brownlee wearily. “It is just a grudge fight between you and Eph King—and your armies.”

“You, too, Amy?” Marsh Hartwell looked curiously at her.

“Oh, well—” she turned away half angrily— “There will be a lot of men killed, men who have no interest beyond their monthly pay check. You branded Jack a spy last night; turned him out of his old home because he married a sheepman’s girl. That was spite. I’m getting tired of spite and grudges. My husband is up there on your dead-line, trying to kill somebody, because you pay him sixty dollars a month.”

Marsh Hartwell’s expression hardened slightly, but he did not reply to his daughter’s angry accusations. Mrs. Hartwell looked away. It was not her nature to accuse nor condemn. Mrs. Brownlee went into the house and closed the door, leaving Marsh Hartwell and his wife together.

“The sheep moved back a little this mornin’,” he told her wearily. “Everything is quiet along the line, so I came home for a while. Anyway, I want to ride east along the Turkey Track end of the line and see how things look. We expect the sheep to spread into a longer line by tonight.”

Mrs. Hartwell remained silent. They had not mentioned Jack since the night before.

“Too darned bad about old Ed,” continued Marsh. “They shot him down like a dog.”

“And who will pay for it, Marsh?” she asked.

“Pay for it? —— only knows. It was the sheep men who shot him, but the dirty spy who told them that old Ed was the guardian of Kiopo Pass is the real murderer.”

“Who would tell?”

“Who?” Marsh Hartwell’s features hardened. “Nobody knew it, except cattlemen. It was something that we guarded close. It was not the work of a spy; it was the deed of a traitor.”

“And you still accuse your own son, Marsh Hartwell?”

The big man laughed bitterly and turned toward the door.

“Jack is no traitor, Marsh,” she declared flatly.

“No?” Marsh turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I wish I could believe that, Mother. Last night Jack broke through our dead-line and went over to Eph King. He rode his horse over Gene Hill to get through. If he isn’t a traitor, what is he doin’ over there?”

“Are you sure, Marsh?”

“You bet I’m sure.”

For several moments they looked at each other, the old lady with tearful eyes; the big man, whose thin lips showed in a white line now, his eyes filled with pain.

“It hurts you, too, Marsh?” she whispered.

“Hurts? Good God, it hurts! He’s as much my son as yours, Mother. The men all know this. They don’t say anythin’ to me, and I’m tryin’ to put myself in their place. I’m tryin’ to forget that it’s my son, but it can’t be done, Mother.”

He shut his jaw and turned away. Al Curt, a thin-faced, narrow-shouldered cowpuncher from the Turkey Track, was riding in at the main gate, so Marsh Hartwell waited for him to come up.

“Mornin’, Curt,” he said hoarsely.

“Mornin’. How’s everythin’ along yore line, Marsh?”

“Quiet. I just left there.”

“Plenty quiet on our end, too. They ain’t got the sheep down that far yet. Didja know anythin’ about a lot of shootin’ that was goin’ on early this mornin’ over near the old Morgan place?”

Marsh shook his head,

“No, we didn’t hear it, Curt.”

“Uh-huh. Wasn’t none of yore men, eh?”

“My men were all on the line, Curt. I traveled the line twice last night myself. You say it was over by the Morgan place?”

“Yeah; about an hour or so before daylight. We could hear it pretty plain. Thought at first it was the sheep tryin’ to bust through, but it was too far south for that. Must ’a’ been fifty shots fired. Slim told me to ride down here and see what I could find out about it. I came past the Morgan place, but didn’t see anybody.”

“Wasn’t anybody at home, Curt?”

“I didn’t go up to the house, Marsh, but there wasn’t anybody in sight.”

“Where are you goin’ now?” asked Marsh.

“I’m goin’ back and let some of the boys off for breakfast. Was the sheep movin’ any this mornin’?”

“Not much. I expect they’ll take their time.”

“They better,” grinned Curt, and rode back toward the east end of the dead-line.

“What do you suppose the shooting was about?” queried Mrs. Hartwell anxiously.

“That’s what I’m goin’ to find out, Mother. It was near the old Morgan place. Now, there’s no use borrowin’ trouble. It can probably all be explained.”

And just to show that he believed in his own assurances, he mounted his horse and went galloping across the hills toward the Morgan ranch. He was afraid that some of the cattlemen had taken it for granted that Jack was the traitor and had paid him an early morning visit.

He knew that Gene Hill had not been lying when he said that Jack had smashed his way through the dead-line. Hill bore evidences of the encounter. Bert Allen had seen him, but not near enough for recognition. Things looked bad for Jack, but down in his heart, Marsh Hartwell could not believe that his son had turned traitor out of spite.

He rode to the top of a hill in sight of the little ranch, where he drew rein. There was no assurance that Jack would not enforce his private dead-line, and Marsh had no desire to be made a target for his son’s rifle. From his elevated position he could see two men and a saddled horse in the front yard.

It looked very much like a black and white pinto, belonging to Sudden Smithy. He whistled softly and spurred down the hill, wondering what would bring the sheriff out there so early in the morning.

The sheriff and Jack were not having a very animated conversation, as he rode up and dismounted. In fact the sheriff seemed a trifle annoyed over something, and barely nodded to Marsh Hartwell. Jack did not make any sign.

“Ridin’ early ain’t yuh?” asked Marsh.

“Kinda.”

The sheriff nodded shortly.

“What was all the shootin’ about over here?”

“Shootin’?” The sheriff was interested. “Did you hear it?”

“No. Al Curt came over to the Arrow to see if we knew what it was all about. They heard about fifty shots.”

The sheriff turned and squinted at Jack, who looked him square in the eyes.

“You heard ’em, didn’t yuh, Jack?” he asked.

“Did I?”

“Oh, ——!” snorted the sheriff. “That’s as far as I can get with him, Marsh.”

“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Marsh. “What do you know about it, Sudden?”

“I know this much—” he pointed at a saddle, lying on the ground near his pinto— “I loaned two horses and two saddles to two strangers last night. They came in on a cattle-train—or said they did—and the train went away and left ’em in Totem City.

“This train got off the track at Turkey Track sidin’, so I loaned ’em the outfits to ride over to catch their train. They were to leave the horses tied to the old loadin’ corral. Later on I got to thinkin’ what a fool I was to let ’em have them horses, so I saddles the pinto and takes a straight cut toward the sidin’.

“It was doggone slow goin’, I’ll tell yuh. I hunted in the dark for a shallow crossin’ of the river, and wasted a lot of time thataway, finally havin’ to swim across. Well, I finally got to the sidin’, but don’t see my horses.

“Just about that time I hears a lot of shootin’ goin’ on down by the old river crossin’. I rode down there, but finds that the shootin’ is gettin’ farther away all the time. Then I waited until daylight and came in over the old road. About a mile from here I finds my roan horse lyin’ right in the middle of the road, too dead to skin. I took the saddle—and that’s all I know.”

“Well, that’s quite a lot, Sudden,” observed Marsh.

“Yeah, it’s quite a lot, but not enough. Jack must know somethin’ about it, but he won’t talk.”

“Why should I talk?” asked Jack coldly. “I never fired any of the shots, and I don’t know who killed your horse.”

The sheriff sighed and hooked his thumbs over his belt. He was plainly exasperated, so exasperated that he forgot caution.

“His wife answered my knock at the door,” he said, indicating Jack, “and her head is all tied up in bandages. She looks like she’d been run through a threshing machine.”

“You leave my wife out of this, Sudden!” snapped Jack. “She had nothin’ to do with it. If you want to find out anythin’, you better find them two strange cowpunchers.”

“Yeah, and I’ll do that too!” snorted Sudden. “They’ll talk, or I’ll know why.”

“You better take their word for it,” grinned Jack.

“Is that so?”

“Very likely.”

“You know ’em, do yuh?”

“Ask Casey Steil about Hashknife Hartley.”

“That’s the tall one,” said the sheriff quickly. “Casey knows him, does he?”

“I think he does.”

“Well—” the sheriff picked up his saddle and turned to the pinto—“I reckon all I can do is to go back and wait for ’em to show up and talk about it.”

He mounted his pinto, carrying the saddle in his arms, and headed for Totem City, while Jack and his father faced each other, both waiting for the other to begin.

“What did you want here?” asked Jack after a long silence.

“I heard about the shooting and I was afraid——”

“That somebody had come gunnin’ for the spy?” Jack laughed harshly. “Don’t mind me. I can take care of myself.”

“Ed Barber died this mornin’.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. He was hurt worse than we thought.”

“I forgot to tell the sheriff.”

“He’s got enough grief right now, I reckon.”

“We’ve all got plenty of that, Jack. Did you see Eph King last night?”

“Yeah.”

Jack was not trying to deny it.

“You rode over Gene Hill, didn’t yuh, Jack?”

“Yeah, I sure did. He tried to stop me.”

“They all know that you went over to the sheep last night.”

“And then what?”

“Jack, don’t you realize what that means? Good ——, they’ll hold you responsible for old Ed Barber’s death and for the sheep comin’ into Lo Lo Valley. Have you lost yore mind entirely?”

“Mebbe I’ve lost my mind, but not my nerve.”

“Nerve won’t help yuh. Don’t be reckless, boy. There is yet time to get away. I’ll stake yuh. Peel out of here while the sheep are keepin’ everybody busy. Take yore wife and head east until things are blown over. Won’t yuh do that, Jack?”

“And admit that I was a traitor? ——!” Jack laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Not by a —— sight. Any old time I start runnin’, it will be after somebody.”

Marsh Hartwell turned to his horse and started to mount, but changed his mind and came close to Jack.

“Jack, I’m goin’ to ask yuh a question that’ll make yuh mad, but I’ve got to do it. Did yore wife have anythin’ ——”

“Leave her out of this, Dad,” interrupted Jack, but his eyes did not hold steady.

“All right, Jack.”

Marsh Hartwell mounted and rode away. In his heart was the sudden conviction that Molly, not Jack, was the traitor.

“But is she a traitor?” he asked himself. “We’ve treated her all wrong, and Eph King is her father. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And Jack is just reckless enough to die rather than let any one know that she is to blame.”

Jack walked back to the doorway. Molly had just opened the door and was watching Marsh Hartwell ride away. Her head was swathed in bandages, and there was little color in her face.

“What did your father want?” she asked.

“Well, he thought we ought to run away, Molly.”

“Run away?”

Jack had not told her of the suspicions against him, nor did she know that he had seen her father.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “They think that I was the one that sent the information to your father. They’ve thrown me out, brandin’ me a traitor. And I’ll be kinda lucky if they don’t come down here in a bunch and hang me.”

“Jack, they don’t think that!”

“Well, I wish you were right. While you was tryin’ to run away from me last night, they were puttin’ the sheep dip on to me. It was a big night in my life, I’ll tell yuh. They think I did all this because Dad treated me the way he has. And last night I smashed my way through the dead-line, Molly. I thought you had gone to your father. And the cattlemen seen me go through.”

Molly stared at him, trying to understand what he had done.

“You went to see my father?”

“Yeah, and I seen him, too.”

“Did you? Oh, what did he say, Jack?”

“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he said that if there was any kings around, I could easy get a job as a fool.”

It was still fairly early in the morning when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Totem City. They put both horses into the sheriff’s stable and went back to the street, where Hashknife had seen a little harness and saddlery store. Here they were able to purchase belts and holsters. Luckily they were able to pick up some second-hand ones, which would fit their needs, and then they went to the general merchandise store to get a supply of cartridges.

Jim Hork, the proprietor, listened to their wants, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he looked at his stock of cartridges.

“Mebbe I can let yuh have a box apiece,” he said. “I’m runnin’ low, and I’ve got a whole slue of orders.”

“That’s enough,” grinned Hashknife. “We ain’t goin’ to shoot more than fifty men apiece.”

Hork grinned and sold them the cartridges. They filled their belts and guns, and he watched them curiously, but Hork was a life-long resident of the cattleland, and did not ask questions. It was not often that strangers came to Totem City and bought revolver cartridges.

But Hashknife and Sleepy did not enlighten him. They knew he was aching for them to talk about themselves, but they kept a discreet silence. A little, barefooted boy came in to buy some kerosene oil.

“Did they kill any sheepherders last night, Mister Hork?” he asked excitedly. “Ma wants to know, she said.”

“I dunno, Jimmy. Don’t reckon they did. You ain’t got no relations fightin’ for the sheep, have yuh?”

“Me?” shrilled Jimmy. “By jing, I ain’t! I hate ’em.”

Hork laughed and went into a back room to get the oil.

“It’s quite a battle, ain’t it, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, it ain’t—yet. Pa says she’ll be a humdinger. Which side are you on, mister?”

“I reckon I’m on my side, Jimmy.”

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy scratched the calf of his leg with the big toe of his other foot. “I’ll betcha they’ll make Jack Hartwell hard to catch.”

“Thasso? What did he do, Jimmy?”

“Jack Hartwell? Huh! Pa says he’s the son-of-a-gun that told the sheepmen all about when and how to git in here. He ort to be shot, y’betcha. He married a sheep-girl.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. That was quite a while ago. Nobody liked him since. And his pa is the biggest rancher in this valley, too. I know him and I know Mrs. Hartwell, too.”

“Jack Hartwell?”

“I don’t mean him; I mean his pa and ma.”

“You don’t like Jack Hartwell, Jimmy?”

“Well,” the youngster hesitated, “I did—once.”

“Who is yore pa, Jimmy?”

“Gee, don’tcha know my pa? He’s the sheriff. I thought that everybody knew my pa.”

“Here’s yore coal oil,” said Hork, coming in from the rear. “You tell yore ma she better get a bigger can. That one just holds an even gallon.”

“Ma knows it,” grinned Jimmy, holding it gingerly. “She measured it. If it ain’t plumb full when I get home, me or you are goin’ to catch thunder.”

Hork exploded with laughter while Jimmy went pattering out of the store, watching his step closely.

“Jimmy is a great lad,” observed Hork. “He sure sees the funny side of things. Was he tellin’ you about Jack Hartwell?”

“Yeah,” Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret. “Jack Hartwell is in kinda bad around here, ain’t he?”

“Well, it’s too bad,” admitted Hork. “Still, I reckon I ain’t in no position to talk about it a-tall. If he done what they say he did, he ought to get hung. But if he didn’t, he hadn’t.”

“Well, that’s justice,” said Hashknife seriously. “I hope he knows how yuh feel about it.”

“I try to be fair about things.”

“Well, that’s right, I suppose. Sleepy, let’s me and you go and wrap our insides around some ham and eggs. It seems like years and years since I ate anythin’.”

They walked out and crossed the street to the restaurant, where they had eaten the night before. They ordered a big meal and did full justice to it.

“Now, we’ve got to face the sheriff,” said Hashknife, loosening his belt. “I suppose he’ll rise up and tear his hair when he finds that his roan horse is a casualty.”

“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy dismally. “He’ll tell us that the roan was worth five hundred dollars and that it could run faster than anythin’ on four legs.”

“Sure. If he don’t tell us that, he’ll swear that it was a family heirloom. It was, all right. The fastest move it made was when it started fallin’. Oh, well, human nature is queer.”

They paid for their meal and walked outside. The sheriff had just ridden in and was talking to old Sam Hodges, of the Bar 77, in front of Hork’s store. The sheriff still had the saddle in his arms.

“There’s our first difficulty, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go right over and have it out with him.”

The sheriff scowled at them, as they came across the street.

“Hyah, sheriff,” grinned Hashknife. “You must be anticipatin’ somethin’ to be packin’ an extra saddle with yuh thataway.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff was not to be mollified. “Mebbe you fellers don’t know where I got this saddle, eh? I got it off my roan horse.”

“Oh, is that so? By golly, you got out there quick.”

“Mebbe I did. And then what?”

Hashknife grinned widely and began rolling a cigaret.

“Before we go too far,” he said slowly, “would yuh mind tellin’ me how many hundreds that roan bronc was worth?”

“Not a —— hundred! Fact of the matter is, he wasn’t worth six bits. But that don’t tell me nothin’.”

Hashknife and Sleepy gawped at each other. It was unusual. In fact it had never happened to them before. Old Sam Hodges grinned. The sheriff had just told him enough to whet his interest in the matter. He instinctively liked the looks of these two cowpunchers, and old Sam was a pretty good judge of human nature.

“Somebody,” said Hashknife mysteriously, “shot that horse.”

“——, that wasn’t hard to see!” snorted the sheriff.

“When I was on him, goin’ as fast as he could go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We went to Turkey Track sidin’, like we said we would, but the train was gone. We started back, like we intended to do, if the train wasn’t there. And when we crossed the river, some folks started throwin’ lead at us. By golly, they sure did heave the old shrapnel at us.

“They chased us all the way to that little ranch on the creek, where we busted into the house and the six-gun parade turned around and went away. About a mile from the ranch, one or two of them bullets hived up in the roan, and we had to do the last mile on one horse. Now, I dunno how you folks do things around here, but I think it’s a —— of a way to treat strangers.”

The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and turned to look at old Sam, who was masticating rapidly and trying to figure out what it all meant. Then he spat explosively.

“But who in —— was the shooters?”

“They never said,” replied Hashknife blandly. “Mebbe they thought it wouldn’t make any difference with us. But I’d rather be shot by somebody I know than by a total stranger. It ain’t etiquette.”

“It’s sure beyond me.” The sheriff shook his head. “Just why somebody desires yore death is more than I can figure out. Do you fellers know anybody around here?”

“Reckon not,” grinned Hashknife. “We never were here before.”

“And we ain’t comin’ ag’in,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t mind havin’ one or two men shootin’ at me, but when they come in flocks—I’m through.”

“Well, they never scared the grins out of yuh,” observed old Sam Hodges.

“Might as well grin,” said Hashknife. “Outside of the sheriff’s roan horse, nobody got hurt; and we’ll pay for that.”

“Yuh will not,” declared the sheriff. “It wasn’t no fault of yours, Hartley. I’d give all my horses to know why yuh was shot at. Kinda looks to me like somebody mistook yuh for me and Sunshine.”

“Somebody that wants to wipe out the sheriff’s office?” asked old Sam quickly. “Sudden, I’ll betcha that was it. Find yore enemy and you’ll find the men that killed the roan.”

“The theory is fine,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s one big flaw in it, gents. One horse was a roan and the other is a dark bay. At night nobody could identify ’em. And another thing; would they be lookin’ for you and Sunshine to come out there last night?”

“And that,” said old Sam, “picks a big hole in the idea.”

“Yeah, it does,” agreed the sheriff. “I’m goin’ to put this horse in the stable and get me some breakfast. You fellers had breakfast?”

“Just exactly,” replied Sleepy.

“Well, I’ll see yuh later.”

The sheriff turned his horse and started to ride away, but drew rein. A cowboy was riding toward them, coming in from the north. He swung off his horse and nodded to Hodges.

“I wonder if Hork has got any ammunition,” he said.

“I ain’t been in there,” said Hodges, “but I don’t reckon he’s had time to get any yet.”

“Uh-huh.”

The cowboy glanced at the sheriff and nodded. Then he looked at Hashknife and Sleepy. For a moment he squinted, and a peculiar expression flashed across his face. He turned awkwardly and struck his shin against the wooden sidewalk, swore softly and went into the store.

Hashknife pursed his lips and began rolling a cigaret. The sheriff had seen Casey Steil’s face, which told him that Casey had recognized these two men. Hashknife glanced up and found the sheriff looking closely at him.

“You know Casey Steil?” he asked.

“Casey Steil?” Hashknife frowned. “Where does he live?”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff turned his horse and rode away. Hashknife looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who grinned widely.

“Lives at Uh-huh, Hashknife. Didja ever hear of that town?”

“That was Casey Steil who just went into the store,” offered old Sam Hodges.

“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted toward the closed door. “What made the sheriff think I knowed that jigger?”

Old Sam did not say. He felt that it was none of his affair.

“Casey Steil worked for Slim De Larimore,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife did not seem greatly interested in Casey Steil. He turned to Sleepy.

“Gimme yore Durham, cowboy. I scraped my pocket for that last smoke, and this coat of mine is all wool.”

“Go and buy yoreself some tobacco, why don’tcha?” complained Sleepy. “They sell it in that store.”

“All right, yuh doggoned miser.”

Hashknife stepped up on the sidewalk and went into the store. After a moment Sleepy followed him, with old Sam limping along behind.

Casey Steil was at the counter, talking with Hork, who had taken several boxes of cartridges off the shelf for his inspection. Steil glanced quickly at Hashknife and busied himself reading the labels on the boxes.

Hork sold Hashknife some tobacco, and when he turned back to Steil, the Turkey Track cowpuncher had walked away and was heading for the door. Hork grunted peevishly and put the boxes of cartridges back on the shelf.

Old Sam Hodges had been watching Steil, and he knew that Steil had walked away to prevent Hashknife from speaking to him. But Hashknife merely glanced toward Steil’s disappearing back and began rolling a cigaret.

“Wanted shells kinda bad,” observed Hork sarcastically. “Acted like he was half asleep. Didn’t even seem to know what sizes he wanted. And then—” Hork threw the last box back on a shelf—“he went out without any.”

“That’s what is called lapse of memory,” said Hodges.

Hashknife glanced quickly at the old man, and they both grinned. Hodges crossed the room to Hashknife and held out his hand.

“My name is Hodges—Sam Hodges of the Bar 77.”

“Mine’s Hartley—Hashknife Hartley of anywhere,” grinned the lanky cowboy as they shook hands. “Sam Hodges, meet Sleepy Stevens. He belongs to the same outfit that I do.”

“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Sleepy, holding out his hand.

They shook hands gravely, and the three of them walked out of the store together. Casey Steil had mounted his horse and was riding out of town.

“My place is almost due east from here,” said Hodges as they stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. “Anybody can direct yuh. We’d like to have yuh come out, gents. The Bar 77 ain’t no millionaire place, but we eat three times per day, and there’s always plenty of room at the table.”

“That’s sure nice of yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “We’ll likely be around here a few days.”

“Fine. Come out any old time.”

The old man got into his buckboard and rattled out of town.

“Salt of the earth,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll betcha he’s as square as they make ’em.”

“I won’t bet,” declared Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m more interested in Casey Steil. He sure ignored us, didn’t he? Hashknife, that mean-faced jigger almost swallowed his teeth. He was so darned scared you’d talk to him that he barked his shins on the sidewalk. How come that yuh didn’t speak to him?”

“That was up to him, Sleepy. Me and you know what Lee Steil used to be, but we’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he’s workin’ here and goin’ straight—good for him. He don’t need to be scared of us.”

“I’ll betcha he wishes he knew that,” laughed Sleepy.

They walked down to the sheriff’s office, where they found Sunshine, stretched out on a cot. He recognized them, but was in no mood to enthuse over anything.

“I reckon I was pie-eyed last night,” he told them sadly. “My mouth tastes like the bottom of a parrot’s cage today, so I know danged well that I had a cargo aboard. What’s new? I heard Sudden swearin’ around, but he didn’t think me worth while talkin’ to, I guess.”

“Nothin’ much new, Sunshine,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Ahem-m-m-m! Any news from the battle front, I wonder?”

“Not much. Somebody tried to play rough with us last night, but only killed one of the sheriff’s horses.”

“Eh?” Sunshine sat up quickly. “Which one?”

“A roan.”

“Oh, that old jug-head! I’ve been tellin’ Sudden that the old roan was dead, but wouldn’t lay down. What was it all about?”

Hashknife described how the sheriff had loaned them the two horses to ride after the train, and of what happened later. Sunshine gawped widely at the recital. He was still a trifle hazy from his potations, but most of it percolated through his brain.

“Well, that’s what I call a —— of a note!” he declared. “Mistook yuh for sheepherders, eh?”

“Very likely,” dryly.

“Still—” Sunshine scratched his touseled head—“they hadn’t ought to do that either. You was horseback, wasn’t yuh? Uh-huh. And it was dark, too. Come to think of it, it looks danged queer. How did they act?”

“Awful.”

“Oh yeah. Sudden know about it?”

“About all there is to know, Sunshine.”

Sunshine thought it over for a while, or tried to. Then he reached for his boots and drew them on.

“Well, I dunno,” he said sadly. “I’m in no shape to work out puzzles. I git kinda giddy in the head.”

The conversation lapsed. Sunshine tried to smoke a cigaret, but threw it away in disgust. Finally the sheriff came back to the office and sat down to smoke his pipe. He was not bubbling over with conversation either, confining himself to cursing a pipe that is always stopped up.

Then came Doctor Owen, carefully removing his hat, mopping his brow and adjusting his glasses.

“Old Ed Barber died at six thirty-two this morning,” he stated.

The sheriff’s pipe rattled on the desk top.

“The —— he did!”

“Yes. I suppose we shall have to hold an inquest.”

“H-m-m. Yeah, I reckon we will. By grab! Poor old Ed’s dead, eh?”

The sheriff picked up the pipe and polished the bowl with the palm of his right hand.

“Old Ed was murdered,” he declared slowly. “Mebbe everythin’ is fair in war, I dunno. This is goin’ to stir things up badly. I swore to uphold the law, and I told ’em at the meetin’ that I’d do it, but by ——, I’m huntin’ for the men that shot old Ed. The law says that the sheep have the same right as cattle, but in a case like this, I reckon I’ll make a few laws of my own.”

“Don’t yell,” begged Sunshine, holding his head. “Sudden, you don’t know how loud yore voice is.”

“You stay sober!” exploded Sudden. “I’m goin’ to need yuh, doggone yore hide!”

“Oh, aw-w-w right!” Sunshine held his hands over his ears. “Jist don’t yowl at me. I’ve got a headache, I tell yuh.”

Sudden turned to the doctor,

“We’ll hold the inquest tonight at the Arrow, Doc. I reckon we can call in enough men for a jury.”

“Yes, I think we can, Sudden. Well, I will be going now.”

Sunshine sighed with relief when the doctor had gone.

“Too —— exact,” he said wearily. “Tellin’ us that old Ed died at exactly thirty-two minutes after six. I’ll betcha he held a watch on old Ed. What the —— was he tryin’ to do; find out if it was a world’s record? Aw-w-w, gosh! I taste like Paris green!”

“You look like it, too,” stated the sheriff. “You better go and rinse out yore system with strong coffee.”

“Oh, aw-w-w right.”

Sunshine groaned miserably and went in search of something bracing.

“What are you fellers goin’ to do?” asked the sheriff. “Are yuh goin’ to stay here a while, or are yuh pullin’ out?”

“Yuh don’t mind if we stay, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“No-o-o. I was just wonderin’, thassall. How long have yuh known Casey Steil?”

“What makes yuh think we know him?”

The sheriff scratched a match and lit his pipe, which did not draw at all well. He spat disgustedly and threw it on the desk.

“Tell us about this sheep trouble,” urged Hashknife. “We’ve heard enough of it to make us curious.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff grinned wisely. “Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know.”

“We’ll take a chance on the cats.”

“All right, they’re yore cats, Hartley. I don’t know neither of you two fellers. Mebbe yo’re connected with the sheepmen, for all I know, but the causes of this trouble ain’t secret. So I’ll tell yuh about ’em.”

The sheriff was not a story teller. At times he was forced to go back and bring in other threads, but at last he finished, and attacked his old pipe again, while Hashknife tilted back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling.

“So old Marsh Hartwell turned down his son because he married Eph King’s daughter, eh?”

“Well, Jack was an awful fool to bring her here, wasn’t he?”

“Accordin’ to yore liver and lights,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “On the other hand it was the natural thing to do. Did you folks ever think what a lot of —— it must’a been for that girl to have everybody dislikin’ her?”

“Well, I s’pose it wasn’t so awful nice, Hartley.”

“And folks kinda turned Jack down, too, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, yuh might say they did. But lookin’ at it——”

“From yore point of view? Say, sheriff, you folks have lived in this tight little valley until you’ve got so —— narrer that yuh could take a bath in a shotgun barrel. A lot of you folks can’t see higher than a cow’s vertebray. That’s a honest fact. I’m not tryin’ to start an argument.

“You never stop to think that bein’ cattlemen or sheepmen is only occupation, not blood. I’m not tryin’ to defend the sheep. I ain’t got no more use for a sheep than you have. I hate the danged things. I know what they’ll do to a range, and I know that the cattle business is rockin’ on the narrow edge right now, on account of the sheep; but I also know that sheepmen are just as human as cattlemen. They’re mostly cattlemen gone wrong.”

“Well, we won’t argue about sheepmen,” said the sheriff. “Jack’s own father accused him of bein’ a traitor, but I’ve got a sneakin’ idea that it’s Jack’s wife, not Jack.”

“That’s sure a sneakin’ idea,” agreed Hashknife softly.

The sheriff caught Hashknife’s meaning, but did not show that it had offended him. He was more sure now that Hashknife and Sleepy were in some way connected with the sheep. Else why would Hashknife defend the sheepmen?

“Are you fellers goin’ to try and get work around here?” he asked.

Hashknife smiled and shook his head.

“No, I don’t reckon we will, sheriff. We was takin’ a vacation, by ridin’ that cattle-train East; but that idea got ruined, so we’ll kinda mope around here for a while instead—if yuh don’t mind.”

“——, it’s a free country, gents.”

“Too —— much so,” grinned Sleepy. “Folks feel free to take shots at yuh any old time. They really ought to have an open and closed season on human beings.”

The sheriff laughed and began tinkering with his pipe, so Hashknife and Sleepy got to their feet.

“Mind if we attend the inquest tonight?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff looked up quickly,

“Be glad to have yuh, Hartley. Ride out with me, if yuh want to. If yuh don’t want to ride Hartwell’s horse, I’ll get yuh one.”

“Much obliged, Sheriff. See yuh later.”

They went outside, leaving the sheriff debating what to do about them. There was no doubt in his mind that they had purposely been left behind by that train. It was all too obvious. And as long as they were not in the employ of the cattlemen, it must be that they were employed by the sheepmen to work behind the cattle lines. The sheriff decided that these men were well worth watching. He did not care to share his suspicions with any one, as he wanted full credit when the dénouement came.

That night the inquest over Ed Barber’s body was held in the big bunk house at the Arrow. The low-ceiled room was hazy with tobacco smoke when Hashknife and Sleepy went in with the sheriff. At sight of the two strange cowboys the conversation stopped. Old Sam Hodges alone greeted them kindly.

Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney, and Doctor Owen, the coroner, had already drawn the jury, which consisted of Buck Ames and Mel Asher of the 404, Cloudy McKay of the Arrow, Gene Hill of the Bar 77, Abe Allison of the Turkey Track and Bert Allen of the Circle V.

Hashknife and Sleepy sat down near the door, feeling strangely out of place. They studied the faces of the crowd and decided that there were no mail-order cowpunchers present. They were a hard-looking, bronzed-faced crew of men, unkempt, heavily armed. The sheep had served to keep many of them from procuring clean clothes or using a razor.

But none of them asked questions regarding Hashknife and Sleepy. The fact that they had come with the sheriff kept many from wondering why these two strangers came to the inquest. There was no delay in the proceedings. Honey Wier was put on the stand and described how he had found old Ed Barber, and what the old man had said to him.

“Nossir, he didn’t say who shot him,” declared Honey. “Somebody sneaked in on the old man and popped him over the head, so he told me, They tied him up. Nossir, he didn’t know who shot him.”

That was the sum and substance of the evidence. Old Ed had told them practically the same story before the doctor had come. Doctor Owen testified to the fact that the old man had died from two gunshot wounds, which had been made by a .38-55 caliber rifle.

And with this evidence the jury brought in the usual verdict to the effect that old Ed Barber had come to his death from gunshot wounds, inflicted by a party or parties unknown.

“Well, I reckon that’s about all we can do,” said Honey Wier, as the jury was dismissed. “Anyway, it’s all we can do until we can put the deadwood on the men who done the shootin’.”

“Which can’t be done,” declared Abe Allison, a lean-jawed, tobacco-chewing, wry-necked cowpuncher. “My idea is to wipe out all them —— sheepherders, and by doin’ that we can sure hit the guilty ones.

“By ——, that’s what I’d like to do.”

“Hop to it,” grinned Sam Hodges. “There ain’t nobody settin’ on your shirttail, is there, Abe?”

The crowd laughed, but with little mirth, while Allison bit off a fresh chew and tried to think of some smart remark to hurl back at Hodges, who was probably two or three answers ahead of Allison.

The prosecuting attorney, of the stolid, red-faced type, whose very presence breathed the majesty of the law, scanned the faces of the crowd until his gaze rested upon Hashknife and Sleepy. He had been long in Lo Lo Valley, and knew every man, woman and child. After a close scrutiny he turned to the sheriff.

“Sudden, who are the visitors?” he asked.

The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, and his eyes flashed around the circle.

“Gentlemen, I don’t know,” he said mysteriously. “They laid claim to being stranded from a cattle-train but their opinions has kinda led me to think that mebbe the sheep was their reason for bein’ stranded. Queer things has happened since they came, so I decided the safest thing to do was to keep ’em kinda in sight. This might be a danged good place to ask questions, folks.”

Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved. The sheriff’s words were as much a surprize to them as they were to the crowd. Then one of the cattlemen swore audibly and several shifted in their chairs.

“What do yuh mean, Sudden?” asked Marsh Hartwell, who had taken no active part in the inquest, but had kept well in the background.

“Well,—” the sheriff shrugged his shoulders—“it might be a handy thing for Eph King to have somebody behind our line, Marsh.”

“By —— that’s right!” exclaimed Cloudy McKay. “We’ll jist ask a few questions.”

“And get answers,” snorted Gene Hill. “We’ll find ——”

The sheriff had made a move to get between Hashknife and the door, but the lanky cowboy shot out of his chair and backed against the door, covering the men with his gun, while Sleepy backed into a position beside him, his gun tensed at his hip.

“Don’t move!” ordered Hashknife sharply. “I can see every man in this room, and I’m gunnin’ for a move. Just relax, please.”

“I told yuh,” complained Sudden. “Yuh see now, do yuh?”

“Aw, shut up,” snorted old Sam Hodges.

“If you seen so——much, why didn’t yuh act before?”

“Yo’re all wrong, sheriff,” said Hashknife easily. “We’re not connected in any way with Eph King nor the sheep interests.”

“Then whatcha make all this gun play for?” asked Gene Hill.

“Because a lot of —— fools like you ain’t got brains enough to try a man before yuh hang him. Our answers to your questions wouldn’t suit yuh at all, so we’d get hung. Sleepy, go out and get the horses ready, while I keep ’em interested.”

Sleepy slid carefully outside. Old Sam Hodges laughed softly and some one questioned him in a whisper.

“Why?” asked the old man. “Can’t I laugh if I want to? I was just thinkin’ that it would be impossible for one man to stick us up, but it ain’t. I ain’t got no more desire to draw a gun than I have to go swimmin’. That one man ain’t got no more license to keep the drop on us than anything, but he’s doin’ it.”

“Against the law of averages,” admitted Hashknife smiling. “But it’s psychology, Hodges. I’m doin’ this to save my life. If killin’ me would save yore lives, I’d live about a second. Don’tcha see the edge I’ve got? I’ve got everythin’ to gain; you’d have everythin’ to lose, without a chance of personal gain.”

Came a low whistle from Sleepy, who had led the horses up to the doorway. Hashknife backed half way through the partly open door, still covering the crowd. Then he fired one shot directly over their heads, ducked back and sprang for his horse.

In a moment they were both mounted and spurring for the gate, while the demoralized crowd in the bunk house bumped into each other, swearing, questioning, trying to find out if anybody had been hit. The shot had held them long enough for Hashknife and Sleepy to disappear in the night, and when the crowd did manage to get outside, there was not even the sound of galloping hoofs to tell which way the two men had gone.

Some of the men mounted their horses, but did not leave the ranch. There was considerable speculation as to where they might go, but Lo Lo Valley was a wide place in which to search for two men in the dark. They went back into the bunk house, where the sheriff was besieged with a barrage of questions. He admitted that he had nothing except his own suspicions to work on, but he pointed out that they had all been held up at the point of a gun, and that the two men had made their getaway.

“Yeah, they’re guilty of somethin’,” declared Gene Hill.

“Guilty of havin’ brains,” growled Sam Hodges.

“One of ’em is ridin’ yore horse, ain’t he?” asked Honey Wier.

“Yeah; the tall one. The other one is ridin’ a horse that belongs to Jack Hartwell.”

“Jack Hartwell?”

“How’d he get that horse?”

“Where does Jack fit into this?”

“Are they friends of Jack?”

These questions and many others were hurled at the sheriff, who threw up both hands and proceeded to tell just how and why Sleepy Stevens was riding Jack Hartwell’s horse. He told them all about the killing of his horse, or rather Hashknife’s version of it.

“But who would shoot at them?” demanded Marsh Hartwell.

“Search me,” replied the sheriff wearily. “I don’t sabe it.”

“Aw, they’re lyin’ about it,” opined Allison.

“Wait a minute,” said Marsh, turning to Allison. “You were with Slim De Larimore, Allison, when these shots were fired.”

“That’s right,” Allison nodded quickly. “Al Curt rode down here to see if you knew what it was about. There sure was a lot of shootin’ goin’ on. We thought it was a battle somewhere along the line.”

“Do you suppose they ran into a bunch of sheepherders?” asked Sam Hodges.

“I don’t know,” Marsh Hartwell shook his head. “It was behind our lines, and I’d hate to think that the sheepmen could seep through that way, Sam. And if they were down here, why start a battle with two men, who were merely ridin’ along, mindin’ their own business?”

“Queer,” declared Sam Hodges. “In fact, it would take a lawyer to figure it out. Where’s Matt Hale?”

“He beat it for home,” laughed a cowboy. “As soon as Matt got outside he fogged out.”

“That six-gun made him nervous, I guess,” laughed Sam. “It made me nervous, too. If I’m any judge of human nature, that long-geared puncher would shoot at the drop of the hat, and drop it himself.”

“Yeah, he’s a gunman,” agreed the sheriff. “They both are. And what would two gunmen be doin’ around in a strange country, I ask yuh?”

“Which don’t get a rational answer from anybody,” said Honey Wier disgustedly. “It’s time we went back to the seat of war and gave the rest of the boys a chance to grab a cup of coffee.”

“That’s about right,” agreed Marsh Hartwell. “We’ll let the sheriff grieve over his lost horse, while we protect our own.”

“I ain’t goin’ to grieve a whole lot,” declared Sudden. “Just now I feel like a —— fool for denouncin’ these two men, and lettin’ ’em get away. They won’t be noways friendly to me.”

“If you wanted their friendship, why didn’t yuh keep your mouth shut until you have evidence to work on?” asked Hodges. “You plumb ruined any chance to connect them with any crime. They know how everybody feels toward ’em, and if they are with the sheep, all they’ve got to do is ride behind the line. And right now I’m ——ed if I care to face them across a dead-line.”

“I reckon we can handle ’em,” said Allison.

“You can have my share, Allison.”

“——, they ain’t much.”

“Let’s get back to the line,” said Marsh Hartwell. “If Eph King planted those two men behind our lines, they’ve failed to do him any good. From now on we’ll be on the lookout for them. Let’s go.”

Hashknife and Sleepy rode blindly into the hills. Their main idea was to put a certain distance between themselves and the Arrow ranch, which they proceeded to do as rapidly as possible. There was no moon yet. As soon as they were far enough away to preclude possibility of pursuit, they drew rein and debated on their next move.

“We’re in a sweet mess,” declared Sleepy. “Everybody and their brother-in-law will be gunnin’ for us, Hashknife.”

“Sure thing. What struck that danged sheriff? I never expected anythin’ like that, did you?”

“I’m gettin’ so I never know what to expect in this life. What’ll we do now? Every hand will be ag’in’ us, cowboy.”

“Two poor little orphings, Sleepy. Honest, I feel like cryin’. If I didn’t wear long pants, I’d sure bawl a plenty. But I have to laugh when I remember how them jiggers looked at us. They sure didn’t want to set there with folded hands, did they? I sure looked for one of ’em to make a break, but they remained comatose.”

“Yeah, and we’ll remain comatose, if some of them fellers run across us in their present frame of mind. Where do we go?”

“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “As far I can see, we ain’t got no place to go. The sheriff will probably arrest us for horse stealin’, and—aw, I dunno. Let’s go and visit Jack Hartwell. Nobody likes him, and misery likes company.”

“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “Which way is his place from here?”

“Where is here?” asked Hashknife. “We’re kinda lost, Sleepy.”

It was so dark that they had lost all sense of direction, and they knew it would be several hours before the moon came up.

“Well, we won’t get there unless we start,” declared Hashknife. “Jack Hartwell lives somewhere, and if we go far enough we might strike a road. C’mon.”

Hashknife instinctively swung to the left, and they started out in singe file. It was slow traveling, as the country was broken up with small cañons, washouts and brushy swales, where they were forced to swing wide in order to cross.

For about an hour they poked aimlessly along, hoping to cross a road or run into some sort of habitation.

“I’ll betcha we’re in another county,” said Sleepy. “We’ve come miles and miles. I figure that we’ve passed Jack Hartwell’s place.”

“Mebbe, perhaps and probably,” agreed Hashknife. “If that old moon would only come up we might be able to see somethin’. But, in the mean time, we might as well keep movin’.”

For about thirty minutes they kept going, but now they were bearing to the right a little. The hills had become more precipitous, and they felt that they were altogether too high to strike their destination.

Then Hashknife discovered a light. It was quite a way below them, but it did not take them long to find that it was a light in a ranch house window. It was plainly evident that it was not Jack Hartwell’s place, as it was a much larger ranch house. They found the gate, and rode up to the house.

The light they had seen was from a kitchen window, so around to the kitchen door they went and knocked loudly.

“Whasamalla you?” called a Chinese voice.

“Little of everythin’, John,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re lookin’ for information.”

“Yessah?”

The Chinaman evidently misunderstood. He opened the door a little, and peered out at them.

“What ranch is this?” asked Hashknife.

“Tu’key Track, yo’ sabe?”

“Turkey Track, eh? Anybody home?”

“Yessah—me.”

“Good. Now that yo’re at home, John, mebbe yuh can tell us how to find Jack Hartwell’s place.”

“Jack Ha’twell? Yessah, I sabe. Yo’ want find him place?”

“If it ain’t stretchin’ yore imagination too much.”

“Yessah. Yo’ go those way.” He pointed back across the kitchen. “Yo’ find road pretty quick. Bimeby yo’ find Ha’twell place.”

“Uh-huh,” nodded Hashknife. “I sabe fine, John. Much obliged.”

“Yessah, yo’ find plenty good now. Goo’-ni’.”

He shut the door in their faces, and they heard him drop the bar into place.

“Yuh can’t beat a chink for caution,” laughed Hashknife, as they mounted their horses. “We must ’a’ swung away north of Jack Hartwell’s place.”

They left the Turkey Track and soon found that they were on the old road of the night before. The horses were willing to follow this, after miles of brushy going. About a mile along the road they suddenly drew rein. Some one ahead of them had lighted a match.

They drew off to one side, and in a minute a rider passed them, puffing on a cigaret. They gave him plenty of chance to ride on, before they swung back into the road.

“That was probably one of the Turkey Track riders, who was at the inquest,” said Hashknife. “I’ll betcha they’re all wonderin’ where we went.”

“I’ll betcha I don’t care,” said Sleepy. “I’m wonderin’ what’s goin’ to become of us. We can’t buck the whole county, Hashknife.”

“Not all at once, Sleepy. We may have to make ’em form a line. Right now I feel so danged sleepy that I don’t care what happens.”

“I hope I never get that way. When my hide is in danger, my skin tightens up so much that I can’t shut my eyes.”

They rode in at the gate of Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted at the corral. There was no sign of a light in the house. They unsaddled and put the horses into the the little corral, threw them some hay and debated on what to do.

“Will we wake ’em up?” asked Sleepy.

“Not under the circumstances. We’ll see if there’s some hay in his little stable, and if there is, we’ll hive up there for the night. It ain’t noways healthy to go knockin’ on ranch house doors at night in Lo Lo Valley. In the mornin’ we’ll start in clearin’ the atmosphere around here.”

“What do yuh mean, Hashknife?”

“Why, kinda settlin’ arguments and all that.”

“Oh, yeah. Listen to me, cowboy: Our best bet is to slide out of here as fast as we can. We’ll never get anywhere in an argument with these folks. The best we can hope for is a chance to write our last will and testament, as the lawyers call it. My idea of a good time would be to sneak over to Turkey Track crossin’, flag down the first train and hook our spurs into a cushion seat. We ain’t got no business around here.”

“All right,” Hashknife sighed heavily. “I didn’t know you was the runnin’-away kind, Sleepy. Have you forgotten last night? Have you forgiven them men for shootin’ a horse out from between the legs of your little friend? And last, but not least, do you want to run away from these kind folks, who like us so well that they want to fix it so we’ll never leave their soil?”

“Mm-m-m, well,” hesitated Sleepy, “let’s see if there’s any hay in this stable. If there ain’t, we can carry some in from the stack.”

And that same night Eph King stood in the light of one of the camp-fires and gazed off into the night; a huge figure of a man, his deeply lined face high-lighted in the glow from the fire, his head bared to the wind. Near him crouched the wizened old man who did his cooking, poking coals around a huge coffeepot.

The little cook straightened up and looked at King.

“Want a cup of hot coffee?” he asked.

King shook his head slowly.

“No, Shorty.”

“Uh-huh.” The cook squinted out into the night. “It ain’t like I expected, is it to you?”

“What’s that, Shorty?”

“The fight. I had a idea that there’d be a lot of shootin’ and all that. But all we’ve done is to set here. A lot of the men was arguin’ about it last night. Some of ’em wondered if you was afraid to bust that line, or if you was tryin’ to play safe and wait a while.”

“I wondered what they’d think, Shorty.” Eph King turned his back to the fire and gazed back toward Kiopo Pass. “We’ll go just as soon as the word is passed. I don’t want to see a lot of killin’, when we can get what we want without it. Once we get on to the lower ranges, the law will take care of us. Possession is nine points in the law, Shorty.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard that, King. Well, mebbe yo’re right. When a feller is dead, he’s jist dead, thassall. It’s plumb easy to kill a man, but there ain’t nobody found out how to unkill him.”

Eph King smiled grimly. Shorty Jones had been working for him ever since he had started into the sheep business, and was more like one of the family than a hired man.

“But what I don’t sabe,” remarked Shorty, “is what yuh mean by havin’ the word passed. Yo’re the boss, King.”

King shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t tell you right now, Shorty. I may be an awful fool, but I don’t want every one to know it ahead of time.”

A man came out of a tent and approached the fire. As he came into the light, King spoke to him.

“How’s the arm, Mac?”

It was the man who had carried the note to Molly Hartwell.

“’Sall right, boss,” he said. “Scraped the bone and took away a little meat. Got her bandaged tight and can’t use it, but it’ll be all right pretty soon.”

“Want some coffee, Mac?” asked Shorty.

“Yeah, I’ll drink a cup, Shorty.”

As the little cook bustled away after a tin cup, another man came in out of the night, leaned his rifle against the side of a tent and came over to the fire. It was Steen, the foreman.

“Well, what do yuh know, Steen?” asked King.

“Not much, boss. They held an inquest at the Arrow tonight. There were two strange cowpunchers there, and somebody passed the word that they were spies for you. They got away. Jack Hartwell and Molly are in danger right now.”

Shorty came back, carrying several cups, which he filled and passed two of them to Steen and the one called Mac.

“They’re sure that either Jack or Molly are spies,” said Steen. “And that’s about all I can find out, except that we’ll have to wait a while longer. The cattlemen don’t sabe us, and they’re watchin’ the line pretty close. We might make a bluff to get through on the west end tomorrow.”

King did not reply to Steen’s suggestion. The foreman placed his cup on the ground and squatted on his heels while he rolled a cigaret. Then:

“Steen, do you know what kind of fish yuh could catch, if yuh used about thirty thousand sheep for bait?”

The foreman looked up at him blankly.

“I dunno what yuh mean, boss.”

“I didn’t think yuh did, Steen. You ain’t that kind.”

He turned to Mac.

“Think you could find that old Morgan place again, Mac?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. We’re going down there tonight.”

“Better not,” advised Steen. “They’ve plugged all the holes, and yuh might run into some hot lead.”

“We’re goin’ down,” said King firmly.

Steen knew better than to voice any more objections. When Eph King made up his mind to do a thing, nothing would stop him. He offered to go along, but King objected.

In a few minutes Mac and King left the camp, heading in a southeasterly direction. They passed through the bedded sheep and worked their way down Slow Elk Cañon. It was so dark that the Bar 77 men were unable to distinguish an object at three feet distance, and as a result they passed safely through the dead-line.

From there it was an easy task to follow the creek to the old Morgan place. Hashknife and Sleepy heard them walk past the stable, talking in an undertone. Without a word the two cowboys crawled out of the hay and opened the stable door. King and his companion had reached the door of the ranch house, and their knocking was audible to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“What do yuh make of it?” whispered Sleepy.

“I dunno. Mebbe they’re friends, Sleepy.”

There was a long period of silence, and then some one called from inside the house.

“This is Eph King talkin’,” replied King.

Hashknife and Sleepy were unable to hear what was said, but a moment later a lamp was lighted, and the door opened. The two men went inside and closed the door.

“Eph King, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “Oh, what a chance for the cattlemen, if they only knew it.”

“We might capture him and get in good with the cows ag’in,” suggested Sleepy.

“And plumb ruin our conscience,” declared Hashknife. “We’re goin’ back to bed and forget what we’ve seen and heard.”

They piled back into the hay, but not to sleep.

Jack Hartwell faced Eph King and the man he had knocked down, with a cocked six-shooter. He was still a trifle hazy with sleep, but managed to keep them the width of the room away.

“What do you want here?” he demanded.

“I want to see Molly,” said Eph King softly. “I heard tonight that she is in danger, Hartwell.”

Jack turned toward the bedroom door to call her, but she had thrown a wrap around herself and was opening the door as Jack turned. She blinked at her father.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asked.

“Hello, Molly. I came to see yuh, that’s all.”

“But, Dad, don’t you realize——?”

“I realized that my runaway daughter was in danger, so I came to find out just how real it is.”

“It’s real enough,” said Jack bitterly. “And if any one saw you come here, it would be ten times worse, King. They’d hang me for havin’ you in my house.”

“They didn’t see me, Hartwell. It’s too dark for that. I’ve come down here to ask yuh both to go back with me. I can send you over into Sunland until this trouble is over.”

“Well, that’s fine.” Jack’s lips twisted sarcastically. “You’d like to make me out a traitor, wouldn’t yuh? I suppose that would fit in with yore idea of gettin’ even with Marsh Hartwell, eh?”

“It’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero.”

“Is it? You ought to know, King.”

The big man’s eyes hardened and he started toward Jack, but the big revolver in Jack’s hand did not waver, so he stopped.

“Jack, don’t do that,” begged Molly. “Dad means it all for the best.”

“For the best—yeah, that’s true,” nodded Jack, but added, “for himself.”

“All right,” King turned and looked at Molly. “You go with me, Molly. You can’t stay here any longer. They’ve given you a hard deal, girl. Oh, I know all about it. They treated you like dirt because you happened to be my daughter, but I’ll even things with ’em for that. By ——, I’ll sheep out Lo Lo Valley, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

“That’s fine,” laughed Jack. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve heard that you were goin’ to do that, King. Women used to scare their kids by tellin’ ’em that Eph King would get them if they wasn’t good. That’s what folks over here think of you.”

The big man’s fierce expression softened to one of pain. He looked at Molly for several moments before turning back to Jack.

“They didn’t do that, did they, Jack?” he asked, half whispering.

“The —— they didn’t!”

“They—they made ’em afraid of me—the little kids?”

King took a half step toward Jack, ignoring the gun. It is doubtful that he remembered the gun. Jack nodded emphatically.

“I’ve heard ’em say it, King. I’ve seen kids playin’ a game. They’d draw straws to see who’d be King, and he’d have to run the gauntlet. They’d take slats——”

“Don’t say that!” King rubbed the back of his right hand across his eyes, as if bewildered. “My ——! Even the little kids.” He grasped the back of a chair to steady himself. “Why did they do that? I’ve never harmed a kid. Good ——, what do they think I am?”

“And they think the same of Molly, I suppose,” said Jack wearily. “I didn’t give her a square deal by marryin’ her and bringin’ her here. But I didn’t think how it would be. I married her because I loved her, King. I didn’t ask you for her. I took her. You would have interfered if you had known about it.”

“No, Jack,” King whispered his denial. “Molly had a right to her own happiness.”

“Then why did you use her to spy on us?”

For several moments no one moved or spoke. Eph King looked at Molly, whose face had gone white.

“That’s the rub,” said Jack harshly. “—— knows I don’t blame her, after what she’s had to stand, but you should have known that she would be suspected. And you sent that note.”

“That note?” King’s voice was husky.

“The note that that man—” pointing at Mac—“brought. The note that caused me to cripple him, King. I got a corner off it, anyway. I reckon you were willin’ to take any old kind of a chance to get information. You knew that the men of Lo Lo never hang women, so you used my wife.

“Oh, it don’t matter much now, except that it will cause a few men to lose their lives, and the sheep will make a dust pile out of Lo Lo, like you promised. They’ve branded me a traitor, because Molly is my wife. I wanted you to know all about it, King. But I’m not runnin’ away. I won’t blame Molly if she goes back to you—but I’d—I’d miss her somethin’ awful.”

Jack turned and looked at Molly, as he finished speaking. She shook her head slowly, her eyes filled with tears.

“Well——”

King sighed deeply and moistened his lips with his tongue. He seemed undecided what to say. There was nothing arrogant about him now; nothing that would brand him as the hard fighting sheep king. He seemed to have grown suddenly old.

“I’m not going, Dad,” Molly whispered.

“No, I don’t suppose so,” said her father dully.

He stared down at the floor for several moments. Then he looked up and shook his head.

“That was awful—about those kids,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I deserved that. I—I don’t mind about the grown folks—but kids—little ones.”

He turned toward the door, as if to leave the room. Mac stepped in front of him, opened the door and started outside, when there came the sound of a sudden blow, followed by the ringing report of a rifle. Mac spun on his heel and fell face-down on the floor.

Hashknife and Sleepy had gone back to the hay, where they debated in whispers. Hashknife contended that it was none of their business if Eph King wanted to visit Jack Hartwell, but in spite of his contention, they got out of the hay and went outside the stable.

Once they thought they heard a horse traveling along the side of the hill behind them, but were unable to see anything.

“I don’t feel right about it,” whispered Hashknife. “Somethin’ makes me nervous.”

“Same here,” grunted Sleepy. “Everythin’ makes me nervous. By golly, I won’t feel like myself until I get out of this danged country.”

“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Hashknife. “Look toward the front fence. I seen somethin’, Sleepy. —— the dark, anyway! Don’t they ever have a moon around here?”

“I can’t see anythin’,” complained Sleepy.

“I can’t see it now. Probably seein’ things.”

They remained silent, straining their eyes toward the fence, or where the fence should be, but there was nothing to be seen.

Suddenly the door of the house opened, throwing a beam of light into the front yard, and from out by the fence came a streak of orange-colored light, followed by the rattling report of a rifle.

Both Hashknife and Sleepy were on their feet in a moment and running toward the fence, regardless of danger. And beyond them, traveling parallel with the fence, ran the dim form of a man. Hashknife crashed into the fence and almost lost his feet, but righted himself in time to see this man mount a horse.

The man and horse were not more than fifty feet away, an odd shaped bulk in the night. Sleepy almost crashed into Hashknife, and their guns spoke almost at the same time. As fast as they could work their six-guns they fired. The flashes of the guns blinded them and made accuracy out of the question. Some one was running from the house toward them. A horse was galloping away into the hills.

“That horse ain’t got no rider!” yelped Sleepy. “I seen him against the sky. C’mon, Hashknife.”

“It’s Hartley!” panted Jack Hartwell’s voice. “Yoo-hoo, Hartley!”

“Yeah—all right!” yelled Hashknife.

Eph King and Jack ran up to them, questioning, panting from their run.

“Here he is,” said Sleepy, lighting a match.

They gathered around a man, who was lying on his face in the sage, where he had fallen from his horse. A few feet away was his rifle. They turned him over. It was no one that Hashknife and Sleepy had ever seen; a man of about thirty years of age, with a thin face, large nose and a mop of black hair.

Hashknife glanced down at him and looked at Eph King, who was staring down at the face of the dead man.

“Who is he?” whispered Jack. “I’ve never seen him before.”

“I—I don’t know,” said King, but Hashknife knew from the expression on the sheepman’s face that he lied.

“Let’s take him back to the house,” suggested Hashknife.

The four of them carried him back and placed him on the floor of the ranch house, beside the body of the man called Mac. Hashknife looked at the other man and at Eph King.

“Bushed him, eh?”

“Mac just opened the door,” said King slowly. “It could have been me.”

“Was this feller gunnin’ for you?”

King stared at Hashknife for a moment and shook his head.

“No. I don’t understand it at all. Poor old Mac!”

Molly was standing across the room, leaning against the wall, and Hashknife nudged Jack.

“Take care of yore wife, Hartwell. This ain’t no place for a lady.”

Jack turned and crossed the room to Molly, while Hashknife faced King across the two bodies.

“I’m not tryin’ to pry into yore affairs, King,” said Hashknife coldly, “but a while ago you said you didn’t know this man. Lyin’ ain’t goin’ to help things, yuh know.”

The sheepman’s jaw tightened perceptibly, but his eyes turned away from Hashknife’s steady gaze, as he said:

“What right have you got to call me a liar?”

“I don’t need any right, King. I’ve always been able to back up what I say. Come clean, King; it’s always the best thing to do.”

King’s gaze came back to the body of the man who had killed his companion, and rested there for several moments before he looked up at Hashknife.

“I did know him,” he said slowly. “His name is ‘Boomer’ Bates. He used to be a railroad man—a brakeman, I think. But for the last few years he’s been livin’ in Sunland Basin.”

“With what kind of a gang, King?”

King shook his head.

“Not very good.”

“And what was his grudge against the man he killed?”

“Grudge? I don’t believe that Mac even knew him.”

“Hated you, did he?”

“Not for any reason that I knew.”

Hashknife nodded. He knew that King was telling the truth.

“As long as there are so many questions to be asked,” said Jack, “I’d like to ask you how you two fellers happened to be here at my place at this time of night?”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “we were tryin’ to get some sleep in yore barn, Hartwell. We’ve lost more doggoned sleep since we hit Lo Lo Valley than we have all our life. This sure is one place where it pays to keep awake.”

“You are not Lo Lo cattlemen?” queried King.

“No-o-o. We got left here, thassall. Cattle-train went away and left us sittin’ on a sidewalk, but we ain’t set down much since.”

“Don’t worry about us,” assured Sleepy. “Instead of soldiers of fortune, we’re cowpunchers of disaster. The only time we ever seen peace was one day when Hashknife found it in the dictionary. The question before us right now, is this: What will we do with these two bodies?”

Jack shook his head.

“I don’t know. There’s too much to be explained.”

“Can’t you two men take charge of them?” asked King.

“With the sheriff and every cattleman in Lo Lo Valley believin’ that we’re spies of the sheep interests?” grinned Hashknife. “We were down at Ed Barber’s inquest and backed out of there with guns in our hands. We’d look well takin’ these two men to Totem City and turnin’ ’em over to the coroner.”

“What makes them think you are spies?” asked King.

“I dunno,” laughed Hashknife. “They’ve got to lay the deadwood on somebody, ’cause somebody told you that old Ed Barber was the man who had blocked yore efforts before, King. Accordin’ to what I can learn, he sat in a cabin up there, where he could watch the slopes into Sunland Basin. Any time the sheep got above a certain level, he signaled the cattlemen, who corked the pass. Now, somebody squealed on the old man.”

“That’s how it is, eh?” King squinted thoughtfully. “Do they blame you for shootin’ the old man?”

“Mebbe not the actual shootin’. Yuh see, they blame you for that.”

“Is that so?” King sighed and looked down at the two bodies.

“I suppose they would,” he said slowly. “I have known for a long time that there was some one who watched the slopes into Sunland Basin. But I’ve never tried to send my herds over the pass. Until a short time ago we’ve had enough feed in our own country, but the long drought—” He hesitated for a moment. “Have you any idea what it means for me to establish my herds in this valley?

“I know the cattlemen’s views on the subject; I know what the law says about it. Possession means nine points in the law, so they say. Well, I don’t know how it will end.”

“I can see yore angle of it,” said Hashknife. “And I can see what it means to the cattlemen. But what I don’t understand is this, King: Why are yuh standin’ still up there? Why don’t cha come on down into the valley with yore sheep?”

King looked keenly at Hashknife, as if trying to read what was back of that pointed question. Then—

“The cattlemen have established a dead-line.”

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife, and turned to Jack. “There’s only one way to take care of this matter—and that’s the right way. You get us two horses to pack these bodies on, and we’ll deliver ’em to the sheriff.”

“But what will yuh tell him?” asked Jack.

“The truth. He won’t believe it, but we’ll tell it, anyway.”

“And get thrown into jail.”

“Might be all right,” grinned Sleepy. “They can’t shoot us in there.”

They caught Boomer Bates’ horse and got another from Jack. King and Jack helped them rope the two bodies to the saddles, and they started for Totem City.

“We’re runnin’ into a rope,” complained Sleepy. “You danged fool; you gets heroic thataway and declares to tell the truth. It sounds fine. And in days to come they will likely find out that we told the truth, and the little children will come out and strew vi’lets on our graves on Decoration Day.”

“They won’t use no rope on us,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe they won’t believe us, and mebbe they’ll talk real big; but me and you are goin’ down there, talk the truth and then get so danged tough that they’ll let us alone; sabe?”

“Uh-huh,” said Sleepy doubtfully. “I’ll betcha we can do that in Totem City. They sure get scared easy.”

They were near the forks of the road, traveling along in the moonlight, when they met five riders, who had swung off the Arrow road and were traveling toward Jack Hartwell’s place. They were Gene Hill, Skinner Close, Micky Hart, Mel Asher and Paul Dazey.

Hashknife tried to crowd past them with the two packed horses, but they swung their horses to block the road.

“Jist about who have we here?” asked Gene Hill. He had been drinking.

“F’r ——’s sake!” blurted Micky Hart. “Looks like a killin’ has been done.”

One of them dismounted and began lighting matches, while the others shoved in closer and looked at the bodies.

“Know either of ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t,” declared Hill. “Do any of you fellers?”

There was a general chorus of negative replies.

“Mind talkin’ about ’em?” asked Micky.

“Down at Totem City I’ll tell about ’em,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff will probably want to know.”

“Prob’ly,” said Gene Hill dryly. “You are the two jiggers that made a getaway from the inquest, eh? I’ll betcha the sheriff will be glad to see yuh. We’ve all been kinda lookin’ for yuh.”

“By golly, that’s right!” exploded Mel Asher.

“And now that you’ve found us?” said Hashknife.

“Well,” said Hill after several moments of silence, “we didn’t want yuh so awful bad, yuh know. The sheriff kinda cussed a little, but as long as you’re goin’ down to see him, I reckon it’ll be all right.”

“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife. “Mebbe you’d like to ride back and hear what I tell the sheriff.”

“We ain’t got time,” said Asher. “We’re on business. But at that, I’d like to hear what yuh tell him.”

“Mebbe he’ll tell yuh later,” laughed Sleepy.

“It all depends,” said Hill, and they moved aside to let Hashknife and Sleepy start on down the road.

As soon as the two cowboys and their pack horses had disappeared, Hill took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around. They were all half drunk, but there was no hilarity.

“That’s enough hooch for now,” declared Hill. “We don’t want to be drunk. I’d sure like to know who them two dead men are. They don’t belong around here.”

“What we ought to have done is to make them two whippoorwills tell us all about it,” said Paul Dazey. “We ain’t got much sense.”

“And if you’d ’a’ seen them two fellers back out of the Arrow bunk house, with their six-guns all set, you’d say it wasn’t none of our —— business,” declared Mel Asher. “We showed pretty good sense, if anybody rises up to ask yuh.”

The sheriff and Sunshine were both asleep in the sheriff’s office when Hashknife and Sleepy hammered on the door. It was nearly morning, but not near enough for Sunshine to awake in good spirits. He came to the door, looked them over with sleepy eyes and wanted to know what in —— they meant by trying to knock down the door.

Hashknife led him out to the horses and showed him the two dead men. This served to jar the sleep out of Sunshine and send him back into the office, where he yelled at the sheriff—

“Hey, Sudden! Git up! There’s been a eppy-demic.”

“Epidemic?” queried Sudden sleepily. “Whatcha mean?”

“C’mon out and look at the dead ones. They’re bringin’ ’em in by the pack load.”

The sheriff came out, sans socks and pants. He squinted queerly at Hashknife and Sleepy, as if wondering just what their attitude would be after what he had done to them at the inquest. Then he turned his attention to the dead men, while Sunshine aided him with matches.

“Bring ’em inside, I reckon,” he said gruffly.

They carried the two bodies in and placed them on the floor, where the sheriff made a closer examination.

“Both of ’em dead,” he decided.

“I’ll betcha that’s why they elected yuh sheriff,” said Sleepy.

“Why is that?” asked the sheriff.

“’Cause yuh catch on to things so easy. Some folks just kinda jump at conclusions, don’tcha know it?”

“Huh!”

Sudden got to his feet and walked over to a chair, where he sat down and looked at the two cowboys.

“Well?” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you fellers ag’in!”

“You didn’t think yuh scared us away, didja?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff did not seem to know just what to say, so he said nothing.

“Didja ever see either one of these dead men?” asked Sunshine.

The sheriff shook his head.

“Not me. I’d kinda like to hear about it.”

“Yo’re goin’ to,’ grinned Hashknife. “And don’t intimate that I’m lyin’ until after I tell the story.”

“Is there any use of lyin’ about it?”

“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly, “I’ve been tryin’ all the way from Jack Hartwell’s ranch to think up a good lie, but I can’t; so I’ll have to bother yuh with the truth.”

The telling of the story did not take long, as Hashknife did not embellish it in any way. The sheriff and Sunshine listened to every word, exchanging glances occasionally, but neither of them interrupted.

“What was King and this other man doing at Jack’s place?” asked the sheriff, when Hashknife finished.

“I didn’t ask him.”

“And he knew this feller Bates, eh?”

“Yeah—seemed to.”

“Why did Bates kill this partner of King’s?”

“You better ask somebody that knows of their personal affairs, Sheriff. I brought the bodies in, thassall. Outside of my story, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll have to take your word for it. There’s a lot of men kinda lookin’ for you two fellers. Some of ’em didn’t leave here so long ago either.”

“We met ’em,” nodded Hashknife. “If they were lookin’ for us, they’ve forgot all about it.”

“My gosh, yuh didn’t kill all five of ’em, didja?” blurted Sunshine.

“Only four,” said Sleepy seriously. “The fifth one saw that he didn’t have a chance, so he shot himself.”

For a moment both the sheriff and deputy swallowed the story, but Hashknife’s grin reassured them that Sleepy was joking.

“I—I wouldn’t put it past yuh,” said Sunshine.

“After what the sheriff did to us at that inquest, I wouldn’t put anythin’ past a human bein’,” declared Hashknife. “It sure was one dirty trick.”

“Aw-w-w-w, ——!” blurted the sheriff, confused. “I—you two——”

“Absolutely,” interrupted Hashknife.

The sheriff’s confusion greatly amused Sunshine.

“Went off half-cocked, eh?” he said. “That’s the trouble with Sudden. That’s where he got his name; always gettin’ himself into a jam. Never thinks twice—that’s Sudden. That’s where he got his name, I tell yuh. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha, ha ——!” snapped Sudden angrily. “You never got yore name because of yore disposition, that’s a cinch.”

“Aw, that’s all right,” said Sunshine. “One thing, I don’t go and decide, too quick on a thing.”

“You ain’t got brains enough to ever decide.”

“Ain’t I?”

“You sure as —— ain’t.”

“You never give me a chance to show what I can do.”

“I know what you’d do.”

“Well, I’d think first, I’ll betcha.”

“Well, go ahead and fight it out,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re goin’ to hunt a place to eat some food.”

“If I was you I’d fade out of Lo Lo Valley,” advised the exasperated sheriff.

“And if I was you, I’d prob’ly be as poor a sheriff as you are,” retorted Hashknife. “We don’t need advice, pardner. If Lo Lo Valley wants us, you tell ’em we’re eatin’ breakfast. And if Lo Lo Valley wants trouble, we’ll accommodate ’em, sabe?”

“Fight ’em all, eh?” sneered the sheriff.

“Yeah—and lick ’em,” retorted Hashknife. “S’long.”

They went up the street, walking stiff-legged and laughing at each other.

“Bad men from Bitter River,” chuckled Sleepy. “I feel as tough as pelican soup. I’ll betcha that single-track-minded sheriff thinks we’re in earnest.”

“If he don’t think we are, he ought to try us,” said Hashknife seriously. “I’m gettin’ tired of bein’ suspected as a sheepherder.”

Totem City was beginning to wake up as they entered the restaurant. They were the first customers of the day, and the sleepy-eyed waiter was none too cheerful. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were badly in need of some sleep, so they drank many cups of black coffee, while the waiter sucked at an extinct cigaret and wondered why these two strangers persisted in staying around Totem City, when they were not wanted. He had heard them discussed considerable.

They had finished eating when old Sam Hodges came in. He had been talking with the sheriff, who had told him about the shooting at Jack Hartwell’s place.

“It’s a danged queer proposition,” he told them. “A lot of them men at the inquest kinda want to salivate you two fellers. That shot yuh fired over our heads made ’em mad, don’tcha know it?”

“If they want us, we’re here,” grinned Hashknife.

“Sure, sure. But that ain’t it, boys. I know yuh. They’d have one —— of a time puttin’ their hands on yuh, but it would be fifty to one, don’tcha see? Now, you fellers show sense. Come out to the Bar 77 and hole up until this is over. There ain’t nobody out there but the cook. ——, I don’t want to see you fellers hurt.”

“That’s fine of yuh, Hodges,” said Hashknife. “We appreciate it a heap. Yo’re plumb white, but we can’t do it. We’ve been shot at. And we never hole up after we’ve been shot at.”

“Uh-huh.” Old Sam squinted thoughtfully. “Well, it ain’t none of my business. I ain’t seekin’ information, but I’ll bet odds that neither one of yuh ever herded sheep nor worked for sheep outfits.”

“Thanks,” dryly.

“Yuh don’t need to thank me.”

“Hodges—” Hashknife slowly moistened the edge of his cigaret paper and shaped his cigaret carefully—“why is that sheep outfit standin’ still?”

“Why? Huh! Well, the dead-line, for one thing.”

“Been any shootin’ up there?”

“A little. Nobody hurt—yet.”

“Just a case of waitin’, eh? Kinda hard on the ranches, ain’t it? All the cowboys on the dead-line thataway.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. But the roundup is over for this year.”

“Uh-huh. Well, mebbe that’s right. Seems to me that King ain’t makin’ a —— of an effort to break through.”

“Maybe he’s tryin’ to outstay us. He’s got pretty good feed up there. He shifted the line a little to the west, but not very much. It kinda looks like he wanted to swing west, but don’t want to do it too openly. I’d like to get my hands on him.”

“What would the cattlemen do to him, Hodges?”

“If they caught him? Well, I don’t know what they’d do. He’s been hated in this valley for so long that the cattlemen would probably declare a holiday and hang him higher than a kite.”

“Then it would be a continual fight, even if he did get a foothold in here, eh?”

“You bet. There’d be plenty of killin’ as long as a sheep remained, Hartley.”

They went out of the restaurant and down to the Totem Saloon. It was a little too early in the morning for much activity. None of them wanted a drink, so they sat down at a card table to smoke and talk. Swampers were engaged in mopping up the floors, while the bartender polished glasses and put the bar in shape for the day’s work.

A swamper went out, carrying two big empty buckets. He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and stared down the street. After several moments he turned and came back into the saloon.

“The sheriff must ’a’ caught somebody,” he announced. “They’re takin’ several people into the office.”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Hodges hurried to the doorway. There were several saddled horses in front of the office, and Gene Hill was talking with Sunshine.

“Better go down and have a look,” suggested Hashknife, and they moved across the street, heading for the office.

Hill saw them coming and spoke to Sunshine, who moved back to the open door. Micky Hart came into the doorway behind him, and the three of them watched the three men coming down the sidewalk.

“That’s about close enough,” warned Hill nervously.

“Close enough for what?” asked Hashknife.

“Close enough for you to come, stranger.”

“What’s the idea, Gene?” queried Hodges.

“Well, you all stop right there and I’ll tell yuh. We caught Eph King at Jack Hartwell’s place.”

“You—you caught Eph King?”

Hodges could hardly believe this.

“Yo’re —— right we did. And we caught Jack Hartwell along with him, too. The sheriff is fittin’ ’em in cells right now.”

“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” exploded Hodges.

“That sure is good to hear.”

“They were headin’ for there when they passed us,” whispered Sleepy.

The rest of the cowboys came out with the sheriff, talking excitedly, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy they stopped talking. Several of them looked at the sheriff, as if expecting him to say something, but he remained silent.

“I hear yuh caught Eph King,” said Hashknife easily. “Do yuh mind lettin’ me talk to him for a minute?”

The sheriff laughed and looked around at the cowboys.

“He’s got about as much chance of that as he has of talkin’ to the King of England, ain’t he?”

“Less than that,” laughed Gene Hill.

“We might put him in, too,” suggested Micky Hart.

“Yeah?” Hashknife grinned widely at Micky. “Yuh might. But it wouldn’t be a healthy dose for the place, cowboy.”

“You don’t want to talk too much,” warned Hill. “You two hombres ain’t any too well balanced around here.”

“Oh, all right,” said Hashknife meekly. “We don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Haulin’ in yore horns, eh?” sneered Hill. “Well, I knew——”

Hashknife started toward Hill, looking him square in the eyes. It was a bold move; a foolish move, under the circumstances. But it got results. Hill started to retreat, not realizing that he was on the edge of a two-foot-high sidewalk. His first backward step dropped his foot off the edge and he sprawled on his back in the hard street. It was such a shock that he made no attempt to get up for several moments.

Hodges laughed outright and the tension was relaxed. Even the sheriff grinned.

“And that ends the mornin’ performance,” said Hashknife. “It’s a good trick—when it works.”

He turned his back on the crowd and walked back toward the Totem Saloon. After a moment’s scrutiny of the crowd, Sleepy turned and followed him, while Gene Hill got to his feet and swore with what little breath he had left.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Totem Saloon hitch rack, where they had left their horses, mounted and rode out of town toward the west. The crowd in front of the sheriff’s office watched them and wondered where they were going. But none of them cared to follow. Anyway, they had captured Eph King, and that was quite enough for one day.

They adjourned to the Totem Saloon, where they proceeded to regale themselves with whisky and recite their own deeds of valor. Slim De Larimore rode in after ammunition and found Hork, the storekeeper, swearing a streak.

“Ammunition, ——!” he roared. “I got enough shells on that train last night to supply an army, and some dirty coyote broke into my place last night and stole the whole works! Holy gosh, they not only took the new shipment, but they took everythin’ else!”

“And that leaves us in a fine fix,” declared Slim angrily. “I’m almost out of shells, I tell yuh.”

“Well, ——, I never stole my own ammunition!” wailed Hork.

Slim whirled and walked out of the place, while Hork called down curses upon the heads of those who had robbed him. He was a thrifty soul, was Hork, and it was the monetary loss, not the plight of the cattlemen which caused him to grieve so deeply.

Slim’s thin face expressed deep disgust as he started across the street and met Micky Hart. Slim had eyes of a peculiar greenish cast, and when he grew angry they seemed to intensify in color. For Slim was not of the jovial type, and when Micky related the good news of Eph King’s capture he did not enthuse greatly.

“We’ve got him,” declared Micky, after relating the details. “He was with Jack Hartwell, so we hung ropes on Jack and brought him in, too. I reckon we’ve done pretty well, eh?”

“Why didn’t yuh bring his wife?” asked Slim.

“Aw, ——, yuh can’t do that to a woman, Slim. What the ——? We can find her any old time, and she can’t do no harm now.”

Micky bow-legged his way on across the street. Slim studied the situation for a while, turned away from the saloon entrance, went back to the hitch rack and mounted his horse. For several moments he sat there, deep in thought.

Finally he swung his horse around and rode down to the sheriff’s office, where he dismounted. The sheriff met him at the door.

“Heard the news, have yuh, Slim?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Didja hear about the shootin’ at Jack Hartwell’s place?”

“No. What was that about?”

The sheriff invited him into the office, where he showed him the two bodies. Slim looked them over closely, while the sheriff told him the story as told to him by Hashknife. Slim listened closely to the narrative, but made no comment, except to ask where these two strange cowboys were now.

“Rode out of here a little while ago, Slim. Dunno where they’re goin’. By golly, I don’t sabe ’em. They don’t scare worth a ——, either.”

“Uh-huh,” reflected Slim. “Somebody stole that shipment of cartridges that came in last night. Hork’s yellin’ his head off over ’em.”

“Broke into his place? Who in —— would do that, Slim?”

“That’s the question, Sudden—who would?”

“The sheepmen couldn’t, could they?”

“Not very likely.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff grew thoughtful. Then an idea seemed to strike him.

“Slim, I’ll betcha it was Hartley and Stevens. I tell yuh, they’re here for no good. Yessir, that’s some of their work. What time did them shells arrive?”

“On the train last night, I suppose.”

“Hm-m-m! By grab, I’ll bet they got ’em. Next time I get a chance I’m goin’ to shove them into jail, I tell yuh. They’ve caused me all the worry they’re goin’ to. Want to see King?”

“Aw, to —— with him.”

“Didn’t know but what you’d like to laugh at him, Slim.”

“Naw. I’ve got to be gettin’ back. These crazy punchers chasin’ all over the country, drinkin’ liquor and capturin’ people kinda busts a lot of holes in the dead-line. Next thing we know, we’ll have sheep all over the street down here.”

Slim went out, swung into his saddle and rode out of town, heading north.

Eight armed men were eating a belated lunch at the sheep camp when Hashknife and Sleepy rode their jaded horses up to the huddle of tents and dismounted. They had circled far to the west, beyond the guarded dead-line, to get past the cattlemen.

Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy thing to do; to ride into that sheep camp. A number of saddle horses were tied to the wagons, giving it the appearance of a cattle camp. The sheepmen ceased eating and received them with Winchesters in their hands; a hard-bitten lot of men, who handled their rifles with familiarity.

Steen, the foreman, was there, and met them as they dismounted. He and Hashknife looked keenly at each other for several moments.

“I’ll betcha,” said Hashknife slowly, “I’ll betcha, if yuh had that bunch of hair off yore face, I’d call yuh Bill Steen.”

“Hartley! You old, long-legged galliwimpus!”

Bill Steen almost threw himself at Hashknife, reaching out with both hands. They mauled each other with rough delight, while the sheepmen grinned and stacked their rifles.

“Well, dern yore old soul!” exploded Steen. “Long time I no see yuh, Hashknife.”

“Plenty long,” grinned Hashknife. “Yo’re the last person I ever expected to see up here. Bill, when in —— did you turn to sheep?”