Front matter (continued 3)

“About five years ago. Oh, I’m an old sheepherder now, Hashknife. It pays me better than the cows did. Well, how in —— are yuh?”

“No better than ever, Bill. This here excess baggage of mine is named Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, you’ve heard me tell of Bill Steen.”

Sleepy shook hands with him gravely.

“Yeah, I’ve heard yuh tell about him. You and him stole cows together, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, we sure did,” laughed Steen.

“But what in —— brought you two fellers up here, I’d like to know? Lookin’ for jobs? If yuh are, you’ve sure got ’em.”

“Yo’re just as comical as ever,” declared Hashknife. “We’re cowpunchers, you old blat-listener. Listen, Bill: We came up to tell yuh that yore boss is in jail at Totem City.”

“Eph King? In jail?”

Hashknife explained in detail, while the sheepmen crowded near to find out how it had happened.

“That’s sure a —— of a note,” said Steen seriously. “I was afraid somethin’ had happened to him, so I sent a man down there an hour ago to see if he could find out somethin’. This here sure is serious news, Hashknife. My ——, they’ll hang Eph King.”

“I’m kinda afraid they will, Bill. And they’ll hang Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“Why would they hang Jack Hartwell?”

“’Cause they think he is a spy for Eph King.”

“Oh, the —— fools! Jack Hartwell’s no spy for us.”

“He’ll have to prove it, Bill.”

“What’ll we do, Bill?” asked one of the men anxiously.

“What became of Mac?” asked another.

“Mac got killed,” said Hashknife. “A man named Boomer Bates shot and killed Mac. Bates is dead, too.”

“Well, for the love of ——!” exploded a sheepman. “What did Boomer Bates shoot MacLeod for?”

“Mistook him for somebody else, I reckon. Were they friends?”

“Well, mebbe they wasn’t friends, but they wasn’t enemies. Mac didn’t even know Bates, I don’t think.”

“And what in —— is Bates doin’ over in this country?” wondered Bill Steen.

No one seemed to know just why Bates might be in Lo Lo Valley.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t sabe,” observed Steen, “and one of ’em is this: Why did you fellers ride plumb up here to tell us that Eph King is in jail?”

Hashknife grinned and began rolling a cigaret.

“Bill,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know you were here. I’m not a —— bit in sympathy with the sheep, but I thought it might be worth my while to come up and tell you what had happened.”

“Just how would it be worth yore while, Hashknife?”

“C’mere.”

Hashknife led him out of earshot, where they squatted on their heels and blew Bull Durham smoke in each other’s faces.

“Go ahead,” grunted Steen.

“Bill—” Hashknife was very serious—“why did the sheep stop where they are?”

“Why?” Steen grinned. “Dead-line.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fine. And what else?”

“Nothin’ else, Hashknife.”

“I see,” Hashknife nodded and rubbed his long nose. “Bill, what kind of a jigger is Eph King?”

“Hashknife, he’s one of the best yuh ever knew. Oh, I know he’s a sheepman, and all that. He’s got a bad name.” Steen shifted his position and inhaled deeply. “If King was the tough —— they’ve called him, we’d have sheep below Totem City by this time. But he don’t want a lot of killin’. He’s waitin’—well, I dunno.”

“Waitin’ for what, Bill?” queried Hashknife smiling.

“Well, he—he——” Steen faltered. “He thought it would be the best thing to do, Hashknife.”

“All right, Bill. I reckon we’ll be goin’ along.”

“Goin’ back to Totem City?” asked Steen, as they mounted.

“Eventually,” said Hashknife. “Got any word yuh want sent to King?”

Steen smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“Come and see me ag’in, both of yuh,” he said. “There’s always grub and a blanket waitin’ for yuh.”

“Thank yuh, Bill. Adios.”

They rode due east from the sheep camp, staying well above the dead-line. Their horses were fagged from the long ride up the slopes; so they took things easy now. Sleepy did not question Hashknife, but wondered at the reason for the wide swing of the country. It was almost sundown when they came down Deer Creek and swung west again to pass the Turkey Track ranch.

There was no sign of life about the ranch, and they did not stop. A smoke was lazily drifting from the kitchen stovepipe, but that was the only evidence of recent occupation. They came back on to the old road, leading toward Jack Hartwell’s place. Hashknife studied it closely and finally drew rein.

A coyote trotted out of a thick clump of brush below the road, looked them over for a moment and disappeared like a puff of gray-blue smoke. Hashknife reined his horse around and rode down to where the coyote had come out of the brush.

An offensive odor assailed their nostrils, coming, it seemed, from the tangle of brush. Hashknife dismounted and led his horse in through a natural trail to where he discovered the body of a horse, partly eaten by coyotes. Sleepy followed him in, and together they examined the animal. There was a brand mark on its right shoulder, which showed a well marked JN.

“That’s the horse you downed that night,” said Hashknife. “It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t cut out that brand.”

They went out of the brush, mounted and rode on toward Jack Hartwell’s place, keeping a close watch on all sides. They knew this to be hostile territory, and did not care to run into trouble. Their horses were too tired to show much speed, and the two riders were red eyed from lack of sleep.

They rode in at Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted. The front door was open, but there was no one in sight.

“Looks kinda queer around here,” said Hashknife, as he looked in through the doorway.

There was an upset table in the center of the room, a smashed vase and a litter of odds and ends on the carpet. A rocking-chair, with one arm broken off, leaned drunkenly against the wall, and a window on the east side of the room, looked as if some one had shoved an elbow through the pane.

“Holy gee!” whistled Sleepy, as they surveyed the wreckage. “They must pulled off a wrestlin’ match, when they arrested King and Jack.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed Hashknife, as he crossed the room and peered into the kitchen.

“C’mere!” he called to Sleepy. “Somebody got snagged.”

There was a well-defined trail of blood across the kitchen floor, leading out of the back door. They went outside and picked up the trail again. It led them straight to the corral, where they found a man, lying face down, almost against the fence.

He had been shot through the left side, below the heart, but he was still alive. They carried him carefully to the house, where Hashknife cut away his shirt and examined the wound, which had stopped bleeding externally. He was not a man that either of them had ever seen before.

“I’ll betcha this is the man that Bill Steen sent down here to find Eph King,” said Hashknife. “Now, what do yuh reckon he ran into down here?”

Sleepy got some water and they washed the wounded man’s face. It was all they could do for him. They forced a few drops between his teeth and after a few minutes he opened his eyes, looking dazedly up at them.

“All right, pardner,” said Hashknife. “Just take it easy and see if yuh can talk.”

The man frowned, as if trying to remember. Hashknife gave him another drink, which he took greedily, although he was almost too weak to swallow it.

“Do yuh remember what happened?” asked Sleepy.

The man shut his eyes, and they thought he had fainted, but he opened them again. He tried to take a deep breath, but choked with the pain. Then he made the supreme effort and whispered—

“Ed—shot—me.”

It was a very faint whisper, in which he added—“He—took—the—woman.”

For a moment he tried to say more, but the words would not come. Then he seemed to relax instantly and his eyes closed. Hashknife got slowly to his feet and looked around.

“So Ed got the woman, eh?” he muttered. “Now, who in —— is Ed?”

“I wish we had some whisky,” mourned Sleepy.

“What for?”

“To give him a shot. Strong liquor—”

“Wouldn’t do him any good, Sleepy; he’s dead.”

“Well,” said Sleepy vacantly, “I—the poor son-of-a-gun. What’ll we do with him?”

“Nothin’, Sleepy. We can’t keep on carryin’ dead men to town. I’m tired of bein’ a travelin’ morgue, so I reckon we’ll shut the door and leave him here for a while. It kinda looks like somebody by the name of Ed came along and took Hartwell’s wife.”

“My gosh, do yuh reckon he done that, Hashknife?”

“Yuh can’t dispute a dead man, can yuh? We’ve got to find this here Ed person and get an explanation. C’mon.”

They fastened the door, mounted their horses and rode on toward Totem City. It was growing dark now.

“If I ever get my sylph-like form between sheets, I’ll never get up,” declared Sleepy. “I’m plumb bug-eyed, I tell yuh. Night don’t mean nothin’ to me, except darkness. That Hartwell place is a hoodoo, I tell yuh. Every time we show up there we run into death. Well, why don’tcha say somethin’, Hashknife? Do a little talkin’, can’tcha?”

“Talk about what?”

“Anythin’, dang it. I’ve got to talk, hear talkin’ or go to sleep on this frazzle-legged bronc. If I fall off, don’tcha dare to pick me up. Just figure that I’m dead and lemme lay, cowboy. Why don’tcha sing? My ——, you’d sing at any other time.”

“Cows!” exclaimed Hashknife, jerking up his horse.

The road ahead of them was full of cows, the slope below them was a moving mass of cows, and more cows were coming down a cañon and crossing the road. Hashknife dismounted and Sleepy followed suit. It was impossible to estimate the number of cattle that crossed the road ahead of them.

And behind them came riders, not visible against the darkness of the landscape, but audible. One of them snapped a bull whip, like the report of a small pistol. Then they drifted away in the night, leaving only the odor of dust and cattle. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, as near as the two cowboys could judge.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy as they got wearily back on their horses and went ahead. “Reckon it was within the law?”

“It didn’t look like it, Sleepy, but my bronc is too tired to run away from trouble, and I’m too sleepy to shoot my way out of it. Anyway, I’m kinda losin’ my affection for these Lo Lo cattlemen.”

They stabled their horses at Totem City and went to a restaurant. Sudden Smithy was there with Sunshine. Sudden nodded curtly, and his face showed little enthusiasm when Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at his table.

Sunshine merely grunted and kept up a steady attack on his plate of food. Hashknife and Sleepy had noticed that there were quite a number of horses at the hitch racks: Evidence that all of the cowpunchers were not out at the dead-line. Sudden seemed slightly nervous and often squinted toward the front windows.

The waiter was just placing their food on the table, when in came Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney. He came straight to the sheriff, paying no attention to the other three men.

“Well?” said the sheriff coldly.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Hale. “Several of the men are over in Hork’s place, and it’s beginning to look dangerous. You know as well as I do that you can’t keep King and Hartwell in jail without a specific charge against them. As far as I know there is nothing against them. They were not arrested by the law; merely kidnaped.”

“All right,” grunted Sudden angrily. “I suppose yuh want me to turn ’em loose, eh?”

“I merely want you to comply with the law, Sheriff. It seems to me, that with all this shooting going on, and dead men, whose deaths have not been investigated, there should be something for the sheriff’s office to do beside keeping men in jail, against whom there have been no charges made, who have never even been arrested.”

Sleepy innocently clapped his hands by way of applause.

It angered Sudden. He whirled on Sleepy, who met his glare with an expression of angelic innocence.

“Ain’t he the talker?” queried Sleepy. “Silv’ry tongued, and all that. No wonder they sends lawyers to Congress.”

It was all said with such sincerity that Sudden turned and looked at Hale, as if wondering just what Hale had said.

“—— fool!” grunted Sunshine, his mouth filled with food.

“Mebbe,” said Sleepy, “but he don’t talk like one.”

“I meant you,” growled Sunshine.

“Check the bet,” laughed Sleepy.

Hale was looking closely at Hashknife, and now he said to Sudden:

“These are the two men who—uh—went away from the inquest, are they not?”

“Yeah, —— ’em!” growled Sudden. “They’re always around where they ain’t wanted.”

“If I remember correctly you made a specific charge against them at—”

“Now, just hang on to yoreself,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve been charged just about all we’re goin’ to be. You bunch of narrow-headed Lo Lo-ites are up against enough real grief, without tryin’ to fasten somethin’ on to me and Sleepy Stevens.

Yo’re asleep, that’s what you are. My ——, I dunno how you’ve prospered at all.”

He turned on the sheriff.

“Who’s Ed?”

“Ed who?”

“Just Ed. There must be somebody around here named Ed.”

“Well, let’s see.”

Sudden frowned thoughtfully. He knew almost every man in Lo Lo Valley by his first name. Sunshine had lived there for years, as had Matthew Hale, but none of them was able to give Hashknife the slightest assistance.

“That is rather peculiar,” said Hale thoughtfully. “In all the valley, I do not know one man by that name. There was old Ed Barber, of course.”

“But he’s dead,” said Sudden. “Nossir, I don’t know of one man by that name. What’s the idea, Hartley?”

“I’ve got to find Ed—who ever he is, Sudden—because he’s the man who killed another man at Jack Hartwell’s place today, and took Mrs. Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“What in —— are you talkin’ about?” exploded the sheriff, getting to his feet.”

“Took Mrs. Hartwell and ——”

“Set down,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t get excited. She’s gone, thassall. The house looks like a cyclone had swept through it, and there’s a dead man propped up on the sofy. Ed shot him, so he said, before he died. And he lived long enough to say that Ed took the woman. The woman must have been Mrs. Hartwell.”

“For ——’s sake!” gasped Hale. “What is this country coming to, anyway? When they steal women——”

“Who was the dead man?” asked Sudden.

“I don’t know,” Hashknife shook his head. “He was one of King’s men, who was sent from the sheep camp to find out why King didn’t come back. Mebbe he tried to protect the woman and got killed.”

Yeah?” Sudden got to his feet, his jaw set tightly. “How in —— do you know all this, Hartley?”

Hashknife smiled at him, shoved his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table,

“Mebbe it’s because I haven’t lived here so long that I’ve got cobwebs in my brain and scales over my eyes, Sheriff. Another question: Who owns the JN brand?”

“JN? I don’t know it. What’s the JN brand got——”

“I’m askin’ questions—not answerin’ ’em. Have yuh got a brand registry at yore office?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one.”

“Then let’s go and find out where it is located—this JN outfit.”

They paid for their meal and went outside. Hale was interested enough to go with them. As they crossed the street, going toward Hork’s store, the sheriff stopped, with a muttered exclamation. It was too dark to distinguish clearly, but in the yellow lights from the opposite building, there appeared to be a number of horses in front of the sheriff’s office.

“What the —— is goin’ on down there?” wondered Sudden.

The sheriff grunted and started down the middle of the street, when, from a point about midway between them and the office, some one fired a gun. The shooter blended into the wall of the building and was not visible, and his shot was evidently fired into the air as a warning.

A moment later several bullets whispered past the five men in the street, and they all broke for shelter. Hashknife and Sleepy ran across toward Hork’s store, while the others scattered separately.

Men came running out of the store, only to be driven back by a fusillade of bullets, which splintered the wooden sidewalks and bit chunks out of Hork’s porch posts. Hashknife and Sleepy flattened themselves against the building. Here and there a door crashed shut, as men decided that the street was no place to be in that storm of lead.

And about a minute later a group of horsemen swept up the street from the jail, shooting promiscuously to drive every one off the street. A bullet smashed through a window beside Hashknife and Sleepy, and they dropped flat. But as the horsemen rode through the cross lights of the Totem Saloon and Hork’s store, they saw the huge figure of Eph King, sitting straight in the saddle, leading his men out of the town where he was so badly hated.

The dust of the passing horsemen had settled before Totem City crawled out of their holes to see what it was all about. Hashknife and Sleepy ran down to the sheriff’s office and found the sheriff and Sunshine in there viewing the wreckage. For once in his life, Sudden Smithy could not find words to express his feelings.

Both prisoners were gone. The front door of the office sagged on one hinge, and two of the cell doors had been sprung so badly that they would never function again. The sheepmen had left two big crowbars, an ax and ten pounds of dynamite. It was evident that they were prepared for any emergency.

In a few minutes the office was filled with inquiring men. Sudden Smithy finally recovered his powers of speech, and their questions were met by a flow of bitter profanity. Sudden had, at one time, been a muleskinner, and his profane vocabulary was almost inexhaustible. In fact, Sudden was in no condition to talk coherently of what had happened, so Sunshine told them that the sheepmen had smashed the jail and had taken away Eph King and Jack Hartwell.

“Yuh should ’a’ known they’d do that,” said a cowboy.

This was sufficient to send Sudden into paroxysms of profanity, as he congratulated the cowboy on his wisdom.

“Well, we should,” agreed Sunshine, and this caused Sudden to choke on his own words and become silent.

“Jist about how did the sheepmen know that King was here?” asked one of the crowd.

Sudden looked at the speaker for a moment. He remembered that Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden out of town immediately following the locking up of King and Jack Hartwell, and he also remembered that Hashknife had seemed to know too much about the death of the man who had come to Hartwell’s place looking for King. Then Sudden threw up his hand in a signal for silence.

“I’ll tell yuh who told ’em!” he yelled. “The same men I accused of bein’ King’s spies last night.”

Hashknife was almost at his elbow, and between him and the door, looking at a book, which he had picked up from Sudden’s desk, while Sleepy was further back in the room.

As the sheriff spoke he whirled to grasp Hashknife by the arm, as if to place himself between Hashknife and the door, but Hashknife was fully alive to his danger, and when Sudden tried to jump past him, Hashknife’s right hand whipped through in an uppercut, and the Lo Lo sheriff’s teeth shut with a dull “cluck!” and he went down on his shoulders.

The sheriff had hardly hit the floor when Hashknife ducked out through the doorway, knocking a cowboy spinning along the wall. Sleepy sprang across the sheriff and tried to escape, but they fell upon him in a group, and he went down on his face, with half a dozen men on top of him.

The room was in an uproar, as others jammed into the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of Hashknife; but all they glimpsed was a rider going away from the Totem hitch rack. Whether or not it was the leanfaced cowboy they did not know. So they went back and helped the rest subdue Sleepy, who was making life miserable for everyone concerned. But there is strength in numbers, and in a few minutes Sleepy was behind the bars of the only intact cell in the jail, while the sheriff held on to his jaw with both hands and swore through his nose. There were others who had suffered from Sleepy’s toes and fists, and they were equally divided as whether to hang him right away or to wait until they all had a drink. The drink idea finally carried, and they trooped over to the Totem Saloon, leaving the sheriff and Sunshine alone in the office.

“You talked too —— much,” said Sunshine with little sympathy. He had been kicked in the ankle.

“Ozz zhut ’p!” groaned Sudden.

“If yuh had any sense, you’d ’a’ shot ’em both and then told the crowd what yuh shot ’em for. By ——, if I’m ever elected sheriff of this county, I’ll show ’em.”

Sudden did not think it worth while replying to Sunshine. It was difficult for him to talk, and he felt that all of his teeth had been driven at least an inch deep into his jaws. He got to his feet, kicked his chair aside and started for the door.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Goin’ ’fter drink.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay here,” snapped Sunshine. “But if them snake-hunters come and want to lynch that jigger—they can have him.”

Sudden grunted and walked out. Sunshine rubbed his ankle, after removing his boot, and the pain made him wince. He had stepped into range of Sleepy’s kicks, and now he cursed reflectively.

“Mary Sunshine!” called Sleepy. “Can I have a drink of water?”

Sunshine told him in plain profanity where he could go and get water.

“Got a mean disposition, ain’t yuh?” laughed Sleepy. “What are you so sore about? Did you get hurt?”

“Well, I got kicked in the ankle, and it’s all black-and-blue.”

“Oh, excuse me,” said Sleepy seriously. “I didn’t mean to kick you, Sunshine.”

“Well,” said Sunshine doubtfully, “I dunno whether yuh meant to do it, but yuh sure done it real good.”

He got up and limped into the rear, where he got a cup of water. He carried the oil lamp with him to the cell door and handed the cup to Sleepy. But it was not a hand that reached for the cup—it was the barrel of a big six-shooter that shoved out through the bars and almost punched Sunshine in the waist.

“Now,” said Sleepy, “you open this door and be —— quick.”

“Uh?”

Sunshine almost dropped the lamp. He did drop the cup, which clattered on the floor inside the cell.

“Wh-where did yuh-yuh get that gun?”

“Unlock that cell!” snapped Sleepy. “My finger itches, Sunshine.”

The deputy’s hand went gingerly to his pocket and he took out the key. The big gun fairly bored into his middle, as he leaned forward and unlocked the cell door. Then he stepped back and let the prisoner out.

“That’s a lot better,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I reckon I’ll go out the back door and take you along with me. C’mon.”

“I don’t sabe where yuh got that gun,” complained Sunshine.

“Foresight,” grinned Sleepy. “I was afraid there might be a lot of foolish questions asked, with all them folks gatherin’ around, so I put my gun inside my shirt. Mebbe it was a foolish thing to do, but I didn’t want to have to kill somebody, yuh see.”

“Yo’re smart,” applauded Sunshine as he preceded Sleepy out to the rear. “I s’pose Sudden will be sore as —— but he mostly always is, anyway.”

“Now, you can go back with yore light,” said Sleepy. “Adios.”

“So long,” said Sunshine sadly.

He marched back into the building, carrying his lamp, while Sleepy ran swiftly back out of the narrow alley. He did not know where to find Hashknife, and was not going to try, but he was going to be sure that those cattlemen did not get hold of him in their present humor.

But Hashknife had not deserted his partner. He had “lifted” a good-looking horse from the Totem hitch rack, circled the town and tied it to another hitch rack on the opposite side of town and on a side street. Now he was planning just how to get Sleepy freed. He did not know what had been done to Sleepy, but he felt sure that Sleepy was in jail.

The crowd was drinking in the Totem Saloon across the street from him, which made him feel more sure that Sleepy was behind the bars. He could see the sheriff at the bar. No doubt they had decided that he—Hashknife—had left Totem City, so they would not be looking for him to show up very soon.

He had made up his mind to go down and stick-up the guards, when he saw Sunshine come out of the office and hurry diagonally across the street toward the Totem Saloon. Some men had come out of the saloon, and Sunshine met them. Hashknife strained his ears to hear what was being said. One of the men called to the sheriff, who came out, still caressing his sore jaw.

Came a low buzz of conversation, and then the sheriff’s voice was raised in lamentation and profanity.

“Got away?” he wailed. “Had a gun inside his shirt? Gone?”

“I jist told yuh——”

Thus Sunshine angrily.

“Yo’re a —— of a deputy!”

“You put him in!”

“Don’tcha blame me!”

They were talking at the top of their voices, so Hashknife sneaked away, laughing. Sleepy had escaped. By the light of a match Hashknife examined his horse and found that it wore a Bar 77 brand, belonging to old Sam Hodges.

“I’ve got a good horse and no place to go,” he told himself.

He leaned against the hitch rack and tried to figure out what to do, but the lack of sleep had muddled his brain until he thought in circles.

“Got to have some sleep or lose my place in the procession.” He rubbed his nose and considered things. He did not dare go to the little hotel, and he did not want to sleep out in the open. Then he got an inspiration. Leaving the horse at the rack, he went around back of the buildings until he came to the sheriff’s stable. Cautiously he went inside and climbed into the loft. There was plenty of nice soft hay.

He crawled back to the rear and started to burrow down, when his hand came in contact with human flesh. It was a man’s face. Hashknife’s hand stole slowly back to his gun and he waited for the man to make a move. But instead of a move, the man said:

“Lemme alone, will yuh? ’S funny a feller can’t sleep.”

“Sleepy!” blurted Hashknife. “Is this you?”

“Go sleep. Who in —— do yuh think it is—Rip Van Winkle?”

And their snores blended thankfully.

Marsh Hartwell was at home that night when Bert Allen, of the Circle V, rode in and told him of the jailbreak. Allen was on his way back to the dead-line, and stopped only long enough to tell what had happened in Totem City.

“And them other two jiggers got plumb away, too,” declared Allen disgustedly. “The tall one knocked Sudden cold, swiped one of the Bar 77 broncs from the Totem Saloon hitch rack and hit for the hills.

“We caught the other one and threw him into a cell. But he had a gun inside his shirt, and when Sunshine brought him a cup of water he stuck the gun into Sunshine’s ribs and made him unlock the door. They’re kinda bad medicine, them two, Marsh.”

“I wonder if they are workin’ for King?” said Marsh.

“I’ll be danged if I know. If they are, King’s got two danged capable men, Marsh. Jist think of them two hangin’ around all the time, with most everybody ready to take a shot at ’em. I’d sure hit for the timber, if I was them.”

Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee had heard Allen’s story. It was the first time that Mrs. Hartwell had known that Jack had been arrested. After Allen’s departure, Marsh and the two women sat in the living room of the ranch house; Marsh puzzling his mind over what to do; the two women waiting for him to speak.

“Well,” he said slowly, bitterly, “I suppose that Jack is on the other side of the dead-line now—to stay.”

“Could you blame him, Marsh?” asked Mrs. Hartwell softly.

“Blame him? Why not?”

“After the way he has been treated, Marsh.”

The man sighed deeply, as he humped over his chair. He was physically and mentally tired, weary of the struggle. Just now he did not care if the sheep engulfed the whole valley.

“What about Molly?” asked Mrs. Hartwell.

Marsh looked up at her.

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“She’s alone over there, Marsh.”

“She’s probably across the dead-line, too.”

“Probably. But we don’t know that she is. And you know that there isn’t a more lonesome place in the valley. And more than that, Marsh: It isn’t safe for a woman to be alone now.”

“Jack isn’t in jail now. He’d be with her.”

“Would he? With every cattleman in the valley against him?”

“Even his own father,” said Mrs. Brownlee dismally.

“No!” Marsh Hartwell threw up his head. “Don’t say that! —— knows I’m sorry for what I’ve done to Jack. I hated Eph King so much that—well, it made me bitter to have my own son marry his daughter. I didn’t realize what it meant, I tell you.

“I’m not against my own son! I’ve been against him—yes. I’m a big man in Lo Lo Valley. They say that Marsh Hartwell is the biggest man in this county. I know I am.” His voice softened as he looked at the two astonished woman. “I’m big—in this valley—but I’m just findin’ out that I’m a ——ed small man in my own home.”

“Marsh!” Mrs. Hartwell got to her feet and crossed to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Marsh, you—you’ll help Jack and Molly?”

“Yes, I’ll help them, Mother—if they’ll let me. It’s awful late in the game to talk about helpin’ ’em, but I’ll do all I can to make up for what I’ve done to them.”

He got to his feet, shoved her gently aside and started for the door.

“I’m goin’ after my horse,” he told them. “I’ll see if I can coax Molly into comin’ over here to stay until this trouble is all over.”

He went out, leaving the door open. Mrs. Hartwell sank down in a rocking-chair, burying her head in her arms. Mrs. Brownlee patted her on the shoulder, the tears running down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Ma,” she begged. “Don’t cry about it.”

“Cry about it?” Mrs. Hartwell lifted her old face, her eyes misty with tears. “Cry about it? I’m not crying—I’m laughing. It has taken your father twenty years to find out that God made him just like other men.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Brownlee softly, “Maybe dad has found out that he isn’t such a big man after all, Ma.”

“And maybe,” said Mrs. Hartwell wistfully, “I have found out that he is bigger than he was.”

Came the scrape of a footstep on the porch, and they looked up at Jack, standing in the doorway, the palm of his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.

“Is Molly here?” he asked hoarsely.

“Molly?” His mother got up and came close to him. “She isn’t here, Jack.”

“Ain’t she?” He leaned his shoulder wearily against the doorway, shaking his head. “I—I thought she might be. I just came from home. There’s a dead man on the sofa, and the furniture is all upset. It wasn’t that way when they took me and Eph King to jail.”

“Didn’t she leave any word, Jack—no note nor anything?”

He shook his head and came into the room.

“Where’s Marsh Hartwell?”

He did not call him “Dad.”

But before either of the women had a chance to reply, the sheriff and Sunshine Gallagher stepped through the doorway behind Jack. The sheriff held a gun in his hand. Jack turned quickly, his hand going instinctively toward his holstered gun.

“Don’t do it, Jack,” warned the sheriff quickly.

“Well, what do you want?” queried Jack coldly.

“Well, I dunno,” Sudden Smithy seemed uncertain. “I—uh——”

“Don’t move!” growled a voice at the door.

Marsh Hartwell was humped in the doorway, a gun tensed in his big hand, a scowl almost concealing his eyes. He looked like a big bear, reared on its hind legs, looking for fight.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned again.

“Who in ——’s movin’?” grunted Sunshine.

“Just don’t,” warned Marsh. “I seen you come, Sudden. Now, what do you want here? Better drop that gun on the table.”

The sheriff tossed the gun on to the table, and relaxed.

“I don’t know just what I did expect to find, Marsh. You know what happened tonight in Totem City, don’tcha? Hartley and Stevens got away, and I kinda wondered—we were headin’ for Jack’s place, but decided to come here first.”

He turned to Jack.

“Have you been home?”

Jack nodded quickly.

“Is yore wife there?”

“No. That’s why I came——”

“Hartley said she was gone. Was there a dead man——?”

“On the sofa.” Jack came close to Sudden. “What do you know about it, Smithy?”

Sudden told him what Hashknife had said.

“Did he mean that some one had taken her away by force?” demanded Jack.

“I don’t know. Did she know any one by the name of Ed?”

Jack shook his head quickly.

“There’s nobody around here by that name, Sudden.”

“Mebbe it’s some of the sheep outfit,” suggested Sunshine.

“But, if it was, why did he kill one of King’s men? Hartley said the dead man was sent there to find out why King didn’t come back. He lived long enough to say a few words, it seems.”

“Well, who is this Hartley?” queried Marsh. “Every one talks about him and nobody seems to know for sure who or what he is. They say he’s a spy for King, but——”

“That’s a lie,” interrupted Jack. “Eph King never seen either of them two fellers until just before they captured and took us to jail. I’ll stake my life that they are not spies.”

“They’re somethin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Sunshine. “It ain’t reasonable to suppose that two men of their brains would be just bummin’ around. Them two jiggers think. Stevens thought far enough ahead to hide a gun inside his shirt. By golly, that’s lookin’ into the future.”

“Would they have anything to do with the disappearance of your wife?” asked Sudden of Jack.

“No. They’re not that kind.”

“If they merely got left by a train, why do they stay here and take all these chances?” asked Marsh. “What is there here for them? It don’t look reasonable.”

Sudden shook his head slowly.

“I dunno, Marsh. Somebody shot a horse—my horse—from under Hartley the night they came. I don’t think they had any idea who it was, and it may be that they’re tryin’ to find out. I’ve had an idea that they were hired by Eph King, but mebbe I’m wrong.”

“Well, we’ve got to find out what became of Molly,” said Marsh, “and we’d better start right now. Goin’ with us, sheriff?”

“That’s what I’m hired for, Marsh. C’mon.”

It did not take long for them to ride over to Jack’s place. The sheriff examined the house, looking for a possible clue, which he did not find. Then he loaded the body of the dead sheepherder on to his saddle.

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do,” he declared helplessly. “We ain’t got a thing to go on.”

“That’s true,” agreed Marsh.

Jack made no comment. He realized that it would be useless for him to go searching the hills for his wife. In fact, he was not sure that she had not gone of her own free will. He did not know any one by the name of Ed.

The sheriff mounted behind the dead man and they rode back to the Arrow, where Marsh invited Jack to spend the rest of the night. But Jack refused.

“I’m goin’ to town,” he decided. “I’ve got to find some trace of Molly. They’d know at the depot if she went away on a train. I’m not afraid of the cattlemen now.”

And so Jack Hartwell rode back to Totem City with Sudden Smithy, Sunshine Gallagher and the sheepherder who had not lived long enough to tell who Ed was.

“Yep—took the whole —— stock. Never even left a box of .22 shells. Even took a couple boxes of ten gage shotgun shells. And, by gosh, them shells cost money! Yuh can’t buy ca’tridges for nothin’, y’betcha. If I ever find out who took ’em, they’ll sure think they’re at a shivaree.”

It was the following morning that Hork bewailed the loss of his ammunition to Hashknife and Sleepy. It was a blow from which he would never quite recover. Hashknife and Sleepy had crawled out of Sudden Smithy’s stable, washed in the horse trough, and eaten a big breakfast at the restaurant.

Their escape from the cattlemen the night before had not seemed to teach them caution. They had heard Sudden and Sunshine ride away from the stable the night before, and later on they had heard them come back and unsaddle their horses. Sudden had talked about taking a dead man to Doctor Owen, so Hashknife decided that they had been out to Jack Hartwell’s place.

A good sleep and a full meal had put new life into both of the cowboys, and they were ready for anything that Totem City might have to offer them. They had purchased some Durham from Hork, who swore that he was crippled from the loss of the ammunition, and that the profit on two sacks of Durham looked smaller to him than the thin end of nothing, whittled to a point.

“I heard about you two fellers last night,” he told them. “I dunno whether yo’re wise in stayin’ here or not. Sudden don’t quite figure you fellers out, and he said last night that when the gall was passed around, you two must ’a’ been served first.”

“We slept in Sudden’s loft,” grinned Hashknife.

“In his loft? Huh! Well, I reckon Sudden was right. Jimmy Healey was worryin’ around about one of yuh swipin’ his horse from the Totem hitch rack. He howled his head off, until he finds it around on a side street, and everybody swore that Jimmy was so absent-minded that he forgot where he left it.”

A customer came in and engaged the attention of Hork, so Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the front of the store. Two men had just ridden in and were dismounting at a hitch rack across the street. Jack Hartwell came out of the Totem Saloon and started across toward the store. He paid no attention to the two riders who crossed in close behind him.

As Jack reached the sidewalk in front of the store, the two men came up to him, and one of them made an sneering remark. Jack turned quickly and looked at them. They were Casey Steil and Al Curt, of the Turkey Track outfit. Hashknife stepped swiftly out through the open doorway, so softly that Curt and Steil did not hear him.

“Just what did you say, Steil?” asked Jack calmly.

“You heard me; didn’t he Al?” Casey Steil laughed throatily.

“I wasn’t sure,” said Jack. “I’d want to be sure, Steil.”

“Touchy, eh?” Al Curt spat thoughtfully. “Go ahead and tell him what yuh said, Casey.”

“Since when did they start callin’ you by a good Irish name?”

Hashknife spoke softly, but, from the way Steil and Curt whirled to face him, it might have been an explosion.

Curt’s hand had made a motion, as if to reach toward his holster, but the hand and arm seemed paralyzed.

“Well, if it ain’t ‘Wide-loop’ Curt!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Sleepy, c’mere and take a look. Introducin’ Lee Steil and old Wide-loop, Sleepy. Gents, get used to lookin’ at Sleepy Stevens.”

Hashknife’s eyes bored into the faces of the two confused cowboys, while behind him Sleepy laughed joyfully.

“Mamma mine!” he chuckled. “Only two like ’em in captivity, Hashknife. Somebody must have a taste for knickknacks.”

“Couple of soiled souls,” declared Hashknife seriously.

“What the —— is this all about?” demanded Steil angrily.

“Don’t let yore lily-white hands get nervous,” advised Hashknife. “Mebbe yore lips won’t let yuh admit that yuh recognize us, but down deep in yore hearts, there’s somethin’ that tells yuh to be careful where yuh put yore hands—Casey Steil.”

“Let ’em do as they please,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I’d just like to see old Wide-loop forget that he’s a shade too slow to take a chance. Casey acts like he had tonsilitis. He ought to try a cyanid gargle.”

Jack Hartwell grinned. He knew that these four men had met before, and that there was something in the meeting now that boded no good for Steil and Curt. In fact those two worthies were wishing that they were far from Totem City.

“You ain’t got nothin’ on us.” Thus Curt rather painfully.

“What made yuh say that?” grinned Hashknife.

“Yuh ain’t!” declared Steil vehemently.

“You sure of that?” asked Hashknife softly.

Steil squinted narrowly at Hashknife for a moment. Then—

“—— sure.”

“Then don’t let me get anythin’ on yuh, Steil. Yo’re a dirty horse thief, a crook and a liar. I dunno what yo’re doin’ here in Lo Lo Valley, but I’m goin’ to find out. And that same goes for Wide-loop Curt.”

Jack stepped back, watching them closely for the gun play which did not materialize. Without a word, Curt and Steil turned, walked across the street and went into the Totem Saloon. Neither did they look back.

“And that,” said Jack musingly, “beats anythin’ I have ever seen. Steil and Curt are supposed to be gun fighters, Hartley.”

Hashknife sighed deeply and turned to Jack.

“Didja find yore wife, Hartwell?”

“Not even a trace of her. My ——, I don’t know where to look. She didn’t leave here on the train last night. Just what did that man tell you before he died?”

Hashknife told him the exact words. Jack shook his head wearily.

“Not a man by that name in this country, Hartley. It might have been a sheepman, of course.”

“Yeah, that might be,” agreed Hashknife dubiously. “But if it was, why did he shoot the other one?”

“—— only knows, Hartley. I don’t know what to do, where to look, or anythin’.”

They moved back into the store and sat down on the counter.

“Where did you ever know Al Curt?” asked Jack.

“He’s originally from Montana,” said Hashknife. “We knowed him in Idaho. They called him Wide-loop up there. Steil used to be around Wyomin’, Nevada, and maybe he nosed up into Idaho, too.”

“They’ve been here about a year,” said Jack, “but they’ve played straight, I think. They both work for the Turkey Track.”

“Owned by the duke of somethin’-or-other, ain’t it?” grinned Sleepy.

“Slim De Larimore. He’s no duke.”

“Steil and Curt work for him, eh?”

“Yeah. There’s another feller named Allison.”

“Allison? I reckon he’s a stranger to us. I don’t like to knock anybody, but I’d sure like to tip this De Larimore person off to watch Steil and Curt. They’d steal him blind if they had a chance.”

“They’ll not steal much from Slim. He’s cast-iron, that feller. I’ll betcha that nitric acid wouldn’t faze him.”

“Cold-blooded, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Good cowman, too. He’s been here over two years. Bought the Turkey Track from Buck Fenner’s widow. It wasn’t much of a place at that time, but Slim has built it up pretty good. He’s from Texas.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife humped over and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, some folks do make a success. I dunno how they do it—I know danged well I can’t.”

He slid off the counter, drew a folded book from his pocket and said to Sleepy:

“You set here and rest yore face and hands while I take this brand registry back to the sheriff. I had it in my hand when they run me out last night.”

“All right,” grinned Sleepy. “Didja find out who owns that JN outfit?”

“Yeah, I found out. Feller by the name of Jack Noonan. Ranch is located on the other side of Sunland Basin.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Jack. “They call him ‘Calamity Jack.’”

“Well, that’s a good name,” laughed Hashknife, as he went out on to the sidewalk.

He looked toward the Totem Saloon, but did not happen to notice that Steil and Curt were mounting at the hitch rack. They had seen him come out of the store, and as he started down toward the sheriff’s office, they swung into their saddles.

They were not more than a hundred feet from him, as they swung their horses into the street, and, without any warning, Steil drew a gun, jerked his horse to a standstill, and deliberately shot at Hashknife.

The tall cowboy jerked back, quickly crumpled at the knees and sprawled on the sidewalk. Steil’s gun was lifted for a second shot, but now he whirled his horse and they went racing out of town in a cloud of dust.

Sleepy and Jack almost fell off the counter when the shot was fired, and ran swiftly to the door. There was only a screen of dust to show that the riders were leaving town. Several men had run out of the Totem Saloon, and Sudden Smithy was running up the street from the sheriff’s office.

Sleepy was the first to reach Hashknife and turn him over.

“My —— where did he hit yuh?” panted Sleepy, his face white with the fear of losing his pal.

He began yanking at Hashknife’s shirt, when Hashknife sat up and reached for his hat.

“Hey? What the ——!” blurted Sleepy.

“Stumbled,” explained Hashknife. “Stubbed my toe.” He got to his feet and dusted off his knees.

“Hello, sheriff—” handing him the brand registry—“this belongs to you, I reckon. I had it in my hand when they chased me last night, and I was bringin’ it to yuh.”

“Uh-huh.” Sudden accepted the book wonderingly. “Yeah, thanks. Now, what in —— was goin’ on around here? Who was doin’ the shootin’?”

“It was Steil or Curt,” said a man from the Totem. “I wasn’t where I could see which one it was.”

“Was they shootin’ at you, Hartley?”

“At me?” Hashknife looked blankly at the sheriff. “Oh, no. Why would they shoot at me? Prob’ly got a drink or two too many and wanted to see if a six-shooter would go off.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff was not satisfied, but realized that he would never get Hashknife to admit anything he did not want to. He looked at the book, folded it up and frowned at Hashknife.

“I don’t sabe you fellers,” he declared complainingly. “Last night they were yellin’ for yore blood and—maybe they are yet, for all I know—and you go around actin’ like somebody had handed yuh the keys to the town. Ain’tcha got a lick of sense?”

“Not a lick,” said Hashknife seriously. “When they passed around the gall we took so much that they passed us up on the brains. A feller can’t have everythin’, sheriff.”

The sheriff’s ears grew red. He knew that some one had told them what he had said about them. So he nodded in agreement, turned and went back to his office, wondering aloud what in —— Hashknife had taken the brand registry for. Then he remembered that they had talked about the JN outfit. He looked for it in the registry and found it belonged to a Jack Noonan. He threw the book aside and sprawled on a cot to finish out his interrupted siesta.

While the others accepted Hashknife’s explanation, Sleepy knew that Hashknife had sprawled on the sidewalk for a purpose. The tall cowboy grinned seriously over his cigaret, as he led Sleepy and Jack to the livery stable, where they got their horses.

“We’re goin’ to take a little ride,” explained Hashknife.

Jack made no comment. Something seemed to tell him to depend on this lanky disciple of the rangeland. Sleepy scowled for a while, but the scowl gave way to a knowing grin. He knew that Hashknife was inbued with an idea. Every inch of the tall cowboy bespoke the fact that he was riding for a purpose.

They went north for a short distance and then swung to the east, leaving the road and heading for Lo Lo River. And as they strung out in single file along on an old cattle trail, Hashknife lifted his voice in mournful song:

“And that,” said Sleepy, “is probably different than even Caruso could have sung it.”

“Anyway,” said Hashknife seriously, “the sentiment is there. I may not sing very pretty, but I sure get rid of my song.”

“I was just wonderin’,” observed Jack, “just wonderin’ where you are headin’ for, Hartley.”

“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “I kinda wanted to get out to Turkey Track sidin’ without goin’ around by the road.”

“Yeah, yuh can do that, but we’ll probably have to swim the river.”

“Thassall right,” laughed Sleepy.

“This is Saturday.”

“We should have gone east from town,” said Jack. “Instead of comin’ out here, crossin’ the river at the bridge, we should have followed the railroad track. It wouldn’t be very easy travelin’, but we wouldn’t have to cross the river.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife, “but everybody would have known where we was headin’. Yuh see, Hartwell, I like to fool folks. It’s a lot of fun, don’tcha know it? And it’s kept me and Sleepy from lookin’ up at the daisy roots.”

“Like when yuh fell down a while ago, eh?”

“Probably. I didn’t want to down either of them jiggers. Right now they’re worth more alive than dead, for my purpose. And they think I’m dead or badly hurt—which makes it much better. I dunno which one of ’em fired the shot. I heard the bullet hit the building about twenty feet ahead of me.”

They crossed Slow Elk Creek near its mouth and came to the river, where they swam their horses across. From there it was only a short distance to Turkey Track siding, where they dismounted, tied their horses to the corral fence and sat down to have a smoke.

To the north they could see the timbered curves of Deer Creek, to the north and west the wide sweep of the Lo Lo range. To the north and east was the narrow, timbered valley, through which came the railroad from Medicine Tree, and beyond. Just across the river from them, about a mile and a half away, was the Turkey Track ranch, on the west bank of Deer Creek.

Hashknife seemed very thoughtful, as he scanned the country. He squinted toward the hazy outline of the main divide, where the break of Kiopo Pass was barely visible, and at the narrow valley to the northeast.

“Did yuh live here before the railroad came, Hartwell?” he asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Jack. “It hasn’t been here over six years.”

“Uh-huh. Where did the cattlemen market their stock before they had the railroad?”

“Mostly in Medicine Tree. That was before the sheep got control of Sunland Basin. We used to take some big drives out of this valley.”

“Over Kiopo Pass?”

“Mostly. A few tried takin’ stock out through where the railroad goes now, but it was a pretty hard drive. The railroad had to blast their way in through solid rock and travel miles to gain a few hundred yards. Of course yuh could take stock out, but most of ’em would have their heels worn off before they hit Sunland. We’ve never been afraid of sheep comin’ in that way.”

“Any station or town between here and Medicine Tree?”

“Not until you get into Sunland Basin. Between here and there is a wilderness. Good grazin’ land though. But the snow piles up too deep in there for any one to use it, except in summer; and in the spring it catches the drainage from both sides and comes —— a-whoopin’ down Lo Lo.”

Hashknife squinted sidewise at Jack.

“You worryin’ about yore wife?”

“Well, my ——, wouldn’t you?”

Jack got to his feet and leaned against the corral.

“I s’pose I would, Jack. Let’s go over and strike the Turkey Track cook for somethin’ to eat.”

“Fine,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe we’ll see Curt and Spiers. I’d give a lot to see the look on their faces when they see you.”

“Well, don’t get so danged interested in their faces that yuh forget their hands. Them two sidewinders are liable to strike before they rattle.”

“And they’re not friends of mine,” added Jack.

“What kind of a whipporwill is this Allison?” asked Hashknife as they mounted and rode toward the river crossing.

“I’d hate to say,” replied Jack. “If somebody had asked me a week ago what I thought of Curt and Steil, I’d probably have said that they were as good as the average.”

“Naturally. They tell me that you’ve had quite a lot of —— handed to yuh, Jack. I never got the story direct, yuh know.”

“And you probably never will, Hartley. I’m not complainin’. I went into it with both eyes open, yuh know. Mebbe I was all wrong, I dunno. Dad is a hard man, and he tried to teach me to hate. Mother is just the opposite, so she taught the opposite.

“Lovin’ got me some happiness and a lot of pure ——, but it kept me from turnin’ killer, Hartley. I’m the only one who knows what the last—well, the last hundred years—meant to me. It does seem that long. I’ve stood insults that would make a cotton tail fight a grizzly bear. They’ve called me a yellow skunk—a sheep lover—and I never even reached for my gun.”

“How about yuh now, Jack?”

“Now?” Jack laughed harshly. “I’ve got my war paint on. It’s a showdown from now on. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I was goin’ to start in on Curt and Steil. I haven’t forgotten the draw. There’s only one man in the country that can beat me, and that is Slim De Larimore.”

“He’s fast, is he?” asked Hashknife.

“Just like a flash. Wears his gun kinda in front of his thigh, carries his hand behind his holster, and his draw is just like lifting his empty hand. I’ve seen some gunmen, but he’s got ’em all beat.”

“Is he a good shot?”

“I don’t know; never seen him shoot. Very likely is though.”

Hashknife smiled seriously and rubbed his nose. It was a sure sign that he was pleased. Sleepy watched him and grinned.

They rode in at the Turkey Track and dismounted. There was no sign of life around the place, except the Chinese cook who answered their knock.

“Hyah, John,” grinned Hashknife pleasantly. “How’s chances for a little food?”

“I do’ no,” replied the Celestial. “Boss no heah.”

“Thassall right. You round up a little food for us.”

“Mm-m-m.”

John was not so sure. Then:

“You come in, eh? I make you li’l glub.”

They filed into the living room and sat down, while the Chinaman got busy with his fire. The Turkey Track living room was not an attractive place; it was more like a bunk house. There were three beds, badly tumbled, a few chairs, a littered table, a scattered lot of playing cards and a ragged carpet, plentifully littered with ashes and cigaret butts.

The Chinaman was busily rattling his utensils and singing in a weak, high-pitched voice. Hashknife stepped over to the door, leaned against the wall and watched him. Suddenly he leaned forward, squinting toward the stove, and spoke softly—

“What’s the matter, John?”

The Chinaman was putting some wood into the fire-box, but turned and looked at Hashknife.

“W’at yo’ say?” he asked, blandly.

“About that wood,” said Hashknife slowly. “Yuh can’t burn green wood, John.”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman looked at the stick of green cottonwood in his hand.

“Too green,” said Hashknife. “Use dry wood.”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman started to put the green wood into the stove, but Hashknife strode across to him, took the stick off the fire and tossed it out through the open door. Then he picked out some dry wood from the box beside the stove and stuffed it into the fire-box.

“That burns fine,” smiled Hashknife.

The Chinaman’s face did not change expression, and he went back to his pots and pans. Jack and Sleepy had come to the doorway, watching Hashknife, who walked back into the living room with them.

“What was the idea?” queried Sleepy in a whisper.

Hashknife grinned seriously.

“That Chink knows that green wood don’t make a good fire.”

“Wanted smoke, eh?”

“That’s the way it struck me.”

“Wanted to send up a signal?” asked Jack.

“Might be. Yuh never can tell.”

Hashknife walked back to the doorway and watched the Chinaman finish the cooking of the meal. He did not trust the cook. They ate the meal, but kept one eye on the Chinaman. Hashknife tried to draw him into conversation, but the Chinaman hid behind his “No sabe.”

When they had finished, Hashknife walked over to the stove, filled the fire-box with pitch-pine wood and went out into the yard, where he picked up the green stick. The Chinaman watched him put it into the stove, shut the fire-box door and sit down again.

“Whasamalla you?” asked the Chinaman. “Yo’ say no can do——”

“Can do now,” grinned Hashknife. “Plenty good smoke, eh?”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman shook his head violently.

“Nobody asked yuh to,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.

The three cowboys went outside, mounted their horses and rode away. A heavy smoke was curling up from the stove pipe, a smoke that would be visible for a long way. Hashknife chuckled joyfully.

“Slim De Larimore will probably see that smoke, and come a-whoopin’. It’s probably the signal that will bring ’em in from the dead-line, in case any strangers are around the ranch, and the Chink will get merry —— from his boss. So we’ll just step off a piece and watch the effects.”

As soon as they were well out of sight from the ranch, they rode into a brushy coulée, dismounted and sneaked to the crest, where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the ranch house. The heavy smoke no longer rolled from the stove pipe, evidence that the Chinaman had removed the green fuel.

It was about half an hour later when two riders approached the ranch from the east. They rode boldly up to the house and dismounted.

“I’m bettin’ that the smoke signal didn’t bring them in,” said Hashknife, but added, “unless the signal means that everythin’ is all right. They busted right in, didn’t they? Recognize the horses, Jack?”

“Not at this distance, Hartley. One of ’em is a light buckskin and the other is a rangy-lookin’ gray. They don’t belong to the Turkey Track, that’s a cinch. Honey Wier rides a gray, but that man wasn’t Honey Wier. And I don’t know of anybody in Lo Lo that rides a light buckskin. There they come out again.”

The two men had left the house and came out to their horses. The Chinaman was with them, and the three grouped together for several minutes before the two mounted and rode away. It looked as if they were going to ride past, which would give the three cowboys a chance to see who they were, but they turned and rode southwest, going down through a brushy swale and disappearing into the heavy cover.

“What’s down that way?” asked Hashknife.

Jack squinted thoughtfully for a moment, “Well, I dunno. There ain’t nothin’ much. Looks like they were heading for the forks of Slow Elk and the river. Maybe they’re goin’ to Totem City. Just above where we crossed Slow Elk, there’s an old shack and a corral. Anyway, there used to be. An old coyote hunter used it a couple years ago.”

“An old shack, eh?”

“Yeah. Probably fallen down by this time. It’s down there in a coulée, kinda out of the way, if it ain’t fallen down.”

“We’ll take a look at her,” said Hashknife, starting back to the horses. “In this game yuh can’t afford to overlook anythin’.”

They mounted and followed Jack down through the timbered draw, which opened on to brushy hillsides.

“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“What do you expect to find down there?” asked Jack.

“Yuh never can tell, pardner. Just lead us in the slickest way.”

It was about two miles from where they had mounted to where Jack led them over the crest of a broken ridge and pointed toward the brushy bottom below them.

“Yuh can see the top of the old shack, Hartley.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife quickly. “Get down!”

They slid out of their saddles and forced the horses to move further back. Through the screen of trees they could see part of the old corral, where two men were working with horses. It was impossible to see just what was going on, but a few minutes later two men rode down the coulée, mounted on a black and bay horse.

The two men did not seem in any hurry; neither did they act in a suspicious manner.

“Recognize them horses?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope,” Jack shook his head. “Lots of bays and blacks in this country. I wonder if it’s the same two men.”

“I think it is, Jack. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”

They mounted and rode down at the rear of the shack, where they slid to the ground and approached the shack. In the little corral stood a light buckskin and a gray horse sweat-stained, leg-weary. The door of the shack was unlocked and there was no one inside.

Of furnishings there were none; but on the floor were nine bed rolls, spread, just as they had been when nine men got out of bed and left them. Hashknife grinned at the amazement in Jack’s face, and led them outside. They went to the corral and looked at the two horses. On the right shoulder of each animal was the mark of the JN outfit.

“More of the Jack Noonan stock, eh?” said Sleepy curiously.

“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded seriously. “Been ridden to a frazzle, too. Well, this is worth findin’, gents.”

“But what does it all mean?” queried Jack. “I don’t sabe it”

“C’mon,” ordered Hashknife, heading back to the horses. “We don’t want to be spotted here in this coulée.”

They rode back to higher ground, where they drew rein and scanned the country. Not a living thing moved in that wide expanse of rangeland.

“Have you any idea what it means?” asked Jack.

“Haven’t you?”

Hashknife seemed surprised.

“Not much, Hartley.”

“Let me ask you an easy question, Jack. In all our travels today—and we’ve covered a lot of territory—how many head of cattle have you seen?”

Jack looked at Hashknife and his eyes swept the hills in a bewildered sort of way.

“Why, I—by golly, I don’t remember that we seen any. Say, that’s funny! I wondered what was wrong.”

“I didn’t see any either,” added Sleepy.

“Neither did I,” said Hashknife, mimicking Sleepy. “Because there ain’t any to be seen.”

“But where in —— have they gone?” demanded Jack.

“Mebbe they’ve gone where the woodbine twineth and the cuckoo calleth for its mate. But they haven’t!” Hashknife’s jaw snapped shut. “Lo Lo Valley has been buncoed, Jack. While every cattleman and cowpuncher have cooled their heels on a dead-line against sheep, rustlers have cleaned out their cattle.”

“My ——!” exploded Jack. “Do you think so, Hartley?”

“I know so. Me and Sleepy cut their trail the night we came here, and they killed a horse under me. We’ve seen ’em since then. It looks like this Jack Noonan has brought his gang from Sunland Basin over here to take advantage of the sheep invasions, and by grab, he’s sure makin’ a cleanup.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Jack helplessly. “There’s a gang of ’em to contend with.”

“And they know danged well that they won’t dare to desert the dead-line,” said Hashknife. “Jack, this bunch of cow thieves have got Lo Lo Valley by the neck.”

“By ——, they sure have!”

“But, of course—” Hashknife grinned over his cigaret—“it ain’t as though us three were losin’ anythin’. Me and Sleepy ain’t got no interests here, and they’ve handed you so much —— that they can’t expect you to break yore neck to help ’em out. So—” Hashknife scratched a match and puffed on his cigaret—“So we’ll just step aside and let ’em find it out to their sorrow.

“They’ve kinda handed me and Sleepy the worst of it, too. We’ve been accused of all kinds of things since we showed up here. They even wanted to hang us, I reckon. And, takin’ it all in all, we don’t owe ’em anythin’—none of us, eh, Jack?”

Jack squinted thoughtfully and looked away across the hills. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance and waited for Jack to speak. Finally he turned to Hashknife.

“I suppose yo’re right,” he said slowly. “They’ve kinda given you two the worst of it, and I know how you feel about it. You ain’t got no interests here—nothin’ to care about—so it’s all right. But with me—” Jack looked away for a moment, and back at them, with a wistful, apologetic smile—“Yuh see, I was raised here, and these are my people.”

Just that and nothing more. He had explained in a few words. Hashknife nodded slowly, a serious expression in his gray eyes. Then he suddenly held out his hand to Jack.

“You —— kid!” he said seriously as they shook hands.

“You don’t blame me, do yuh?” asked Jack wonderingly.

“Blame yuh?” Hashknife laughed, joyfully. “I just been wonderin’ if you was worth helpin’, Hartwell—and yuh are. Let’s go!”

Marsh Hartwell leaned against a rear wheel of the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch and looked moodily at Honey Wier and Chet Spiers, who were seated on the ground, cutting sticks of dynamite into proper lengths for their purpose.

Grouped around them were old Sam Hodges, Cliff Vane, Frank Hall and Bill Brownlee, each man with a cup of coffee in his hand. The chuck wagon had been shoved into the brush, until only the rear end was visible, and the little clearing in which it stood was so well masked by brush that it would not be visible from fifty yards away on any side.

“How about that for a bomb?” asked Honey Wier, holding up a bundle of short pieces of dynamite, from which a five-inch fuse projected. “That ought to make a mutton stew, eh?”

“That’s the ticket,” nodded Vane. “We’ll give every man a load of ’em, and we’ll blow all the —— sheep back into Sunland in one night. How do you like the idea, Marsh?”

Marsh Hartwell lifted his head,

“I don’t like it, Cliff. Perhaps it’s the only thing to do, but I don’t like the idea.”

“Sure it’s the only thing to do,” insisted Vane. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives around here, waitin’ for Eph King to start ahead. My idea is to start an offensive. With dynamite, we can bust up the whole works, scatter the sheep—mebbe capture King again. Anyway, we’ll make ’em so sick of Lo Lo Valley that they’ll be willin’ to get out with a whole skin.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed old Sam slowly. “A lot of fool cowpunchers will probably get killed with their own bombs, too.”

“The idea is to bust straight through to the sheep camp, ain’t it?” asked Frank Hall.

“That’s it,” replied Vane. “We’ll wreck everythin’ between here and there, too. Make up all our bombs here and distribute ’em all along the line. We’ll draw Slim and his men over to this side of Slow Elk, and that’ll give us about twenty men to throw dynamite. Oh, we’ll show Eph King the way back to Sunland, y’betcha.”

“Well, I wish you’d help make bombs and not brag so —— much,” complained Honey Wier. “Me and Chet can’t make ’em all.”

“Don’t bite the caps into the fuse,” advised Hodges. “Pinch ’em in with the point of your knife, Honey.”

“Aw, that’s too slow. I ain’t never bit too short on one yet.”

“And yuh never will—except just once. Yo’re only allowed one mistake, cowboy.”

“And that’s the truth,” nodded Chet. “I knowed a feller that was bitin’ caps on to fuses, and he caught the end of one between his back teeth.”

“Hurt him much?” queried Honey.

“Hurt him? It drove his legs into hard ground up to his knees and his hat didn’t come down until the next day.”

“Loan me yore knife,” said Honey seriously. “I’m scared I might git my arches busted down.”

A horseman was coming in through the narrow trail, and they waited for him to come into the clearing. It was Abe Allison. He dismounted and helped himself to some coffee.

“Glad yuh showed up, Abe,” said Vane. “Saves us a trip down to yore end of the line.”

“Yeah?” Allison blew on the hot coffee. “What for?”

“To tell Slim what we’re goin’ to do, and have him bring all you fellers up this side of Slow Elk. Tonight we’re goin’ to bust our way through the sheep and settle everythin’.”

“How?”

“Here’s how,” laughed Honey Wier, holding up a bomb. “We’re goin’ to shake the old hills, Abie.”

“Dynamite?”

“Y’betcha,” replied Vane.

Abe shook his head nervously.

“I’m scared of that stuff. Yuh never can tell what she’s goin’ to do. It ain’t noways reliable, I tell yuh.”

“Aw, ——, it won’t hurt yuh,” said Honey Wier, carefully poking the point of his knife through the copper detonator to secure it to the fuse. “All yuh got to do is to touch off the fuse, wait a second or two, to see that she’s fizzin’ properly, and then heave it as far as yuh can toward the sheep.”

“And what’ll them sheepherders be doin’ all this time?”

“Shootin’ at yuh, of course,” laughed Chet. “But they can’t shoot straight in the dark.”

“Prob’ly kill a few of us,” observed Honey sadly. “But, as has been wisely said: There is no diligence without great labor. I read that in my copy book when I went to school. I dunno what in —— diligence is, do you, Chet?”

“Killin’ sheepherders. Diligence is a Latin sayin’. D-i-l is the same as ‘kill’; sabe? I-g-e-n-c-e is what the Lats used to call a shepherd. I used to talk it kinda good, but I’ve forgot a lot of it.”

“You used to live with ’em didn’t yuh, Chet?” asked Vane.

“Yeah,” nodded Chet seriously. “I’m a blood brother of that tribe. Say, this dynamite is gettin’ sticky.”

“That’s the nitroglycerin thawin’ out,” said Brownlee. “I dare either of you fellers to clap yore hands.”

“Yeah, and I’m goin’ to get out of here,” Allison mounted his horse. “Shall I tell Slim, Marsh?”

“Yeah, yuh can tell him what we’re goin’ to do. Mebbe it would be better for him to show up here about nine o’clock tonight. We won’t take a very wide swath the first time. It might be that we’ll have to attack more than once.”

“All right.”

Allison glanced apprehensively at the pile of fused bombs beside Honey Wier, swung his horse around and rode quickly away.

“By golly, I’d like to throw one behind him in the brush,” grinned Honey. “He’d die of fright. I’ll betcha Abie Allison ain’t goin’ to be worth a lot to us. How danged many of these things will we need?”

“Ought to have about ten for each man,” said Vane.

“Yeah?” Honey counted what they had already made. There were ten. “All right, gents, I’ve made mine, so step up and help yourself.”

“Aw, you’re doin’ fine, Honey,” applauded Vane. “Keep right on. I never did see better bunches of dynamite in my life. I was just sayin’ to myself, ‘Honey Wier sure does sabe how to make up them bombs.’”

“You talk to yourself quite a lot, I know that,” grinned Honey. “You keep it up for a while, and you’ll prob’ly go into the sheep business yourself, Cliff.”

“Here comes somebody else,” grunted Brownlee, whose ears had caught the sound of approaching horsemen. “Several of ’em, too.”

The crowd around the chuck wagon moved apart and watched the trail, where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jack were coming into view. No one spoke to them, as they dismounted, but every one of the cattlemen’s faces betrayed their astonishment. Jack walked around to his father and glanced quickly at the circle of wondering faces.

“You can let yore guns alone,” said Jack slowly. “We’re not lookin’ for trouble —we’re bringin’ yuh some.”

“Bringin’ us some?” Marsh Hartwell spoke wonderingly.

“Yeah—bringin’ yuh some,” said Jack.

“Is it about Molly?”

Jack shook his head quickly,

“I don’t know where she is.”

He turned to Hashknife.

“You tell ’em about it, Hartley; it’s yore story, anyway.”

“It ain’t much to tell,” said Hashknife, “and only amounts to just this: While all you cattlemen have been settin’ here on the dead-line, waiting for the sheep to try and cross, somebody has been rustlin’ every danged head of cattle in this end of Lo Lo Valley, thassall.”

“What!”

Cliff Vane came toward Hashknife, his mouth half-open, a foolish expression on his face.

“How do you know this?” demanded Marsh Hartwell harshly.

The men crowded closer, swearing softly, asking for proof.

“Oh, there’s proof enough,” said Jack.

“You can ride the hills all day between here and Totem City and never see a head of stock. I tell you Hartley is right. We found where the rustlers live. It’s in that old shack down in the coulée near the mouth of Slow Elk. There’s nine bed rolls in that old shack.”

“Good ——!” exploded Marsh Hartwell.

“That’s why the sheep haven’t moved! Boys, it’s a game to loot Lo Lo Valley. Eph King and his gang forced us to guard the dead-line, while he stole all our cattle. The dirty thief!”

“Nine of ’em in that shack, eh?” gritted Vane. “Well, we’ll just go down there and shoot —— out of ’em, eh? C’mon, boys.”

“Wait a minute,” said Marsh. “They won’t be there now.”

He turned to Hashknife, squinting at the serious-faced cowboy, as if seeking to read his thoughts. Then,

“Hartley, yo’re on the square about this?”

Hashknife’s eyes narrowed, but his lips twisted slightly in a smile, as he said:

“Hartwell, I’m tellin’ you my opinion. I might be wrong, but I’m not lyin’.”

“Where do you come in on the deal?” asked Cliff Vane.

Hashknife looked at Vane, a look of contempt that he made no effort to conceal, as he said:

“Pardner, you’ve lived here so long, seein’ the same things, thinkin’ the same thoughts, that you’ve become so —— narrow that yore squinty little brain can’t conceive of anybody doin’ humanity a good turn, unless there’s somethin’ in it, some chance to feather yore own nest.”

Vane blinked angrily. Honey Wier guffawed loudly and slapped Chet so hard on the shoulder that the foreman of the Arrow almost fell down.

“What do yuh mean by them remarks?” demanded Vane.

“Ne’mind,” said Honey. “He wouldn’t get it, unless yuh wrote it out on paper, Hartley.

“Who the —— are yuh hittin’ around?” demanded Chet. “My ——, you ain’t got no feelin’s a-tall, have yuh, Honey? Some day I’m goin’ to pack a club for you.”

“I’ll use it on yuh,” nodded Honey, laughing.

“Aw, quit foolin’!” snorted Vane. “We’ve got to decide —— quick on what to do about this. Where are these cattle, Hartley?”

“I don’t know,” replied Hashknife. “Perhaps they are on their way into Sunland Basin.”

“Through the railroad route?” queried Chet.

“They haven’t gone over Kiopo Pass,” said Jack.

Marsh Hartwell swore feelingly,

“We might have known that Eph King was up to some dirty work. There has been a reason for his delay in tryin’ to put sheep below the dead-line.”

“We’re between the —— and the deep, blue sea,” said old Sam Hodges. “King knew he had us cinched. Any time we go chasin’ after our cows he’ll put the sheep across. And I’m bettin’ that he’ll know when we start after the rustlers.”

“Yeah?” Vane drawled his question and looked meaningly at Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’ll bet he will, too, Sam. Mebbe he’s gettin’ tired, waitin’ for us to find it out.”

Hashknife got Vane’s meaning. He knew that the others got it, too. They shifted uneasily. Hashknife grinned at Vane and shook his head sadly.

“Pardner, you’ve got a thin soul. Somebody hinted that me and my friend were employed by Eph King, and you accepted it as the truth. Yore brain can’t hold more than one idea at a time, so I’m not goin’ to make yuh feverish by provin’ anythin’.”

“Don’t bother with him, Hartley,” advised Jack, and then to his father, “Hartley is tellin’ the truth. I’d stake my life that he is not workin’ for Eph King.”

“You ought to know,” growled Vane.

“Yeah, I ought to know!” Jack whirled angrily on Vane. “I do know. Now, —— yuh, put that in yore pipe and smoke it!”

Marsh Hartwell stepped in between them, shoving Jack back.

“This is not the time to fight each other,” he said calmly. “I believe that Hartley is doin’ this for our good.”

“Let him prove it, and I’ll apologize to him,” said Vane sulkily.

“I don’t want an apology from you,” smiled Hashknife. “Keep ’em to use on yourself; you need ’em.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” howled Honey Wier. “Better’n a circus!”

Cliff Vane glared at Hashknife, but said nothing more. Marsh Hartwell turned to the other cattlemen,

“Boys, if this tale is true, and I reckon it is, we’re up against a stiff proposition. The rustlers have likely shoved a lot of our stock half way to Medicine Tree by this time, and they know that we don’t dare desert this dead-line.

“None of us have a title to enough of this range to stop the sheep from occupying it, except by force. We can’t fence against ’em. Now it’s just a question of two evils —sheep or the loss of our cattle. There’s at least nine of the rustlers. If we even match numbers with ’em, it’ll weaken our line badly. Now, what’s to be done?”

The cattlemen shook their heads. Old Sam Hodges dug savagely into the dirt with his cane, and turned to the soberfaced group.

“Boys,” he said slowly, “we’ve mistrusted Hartley and Stevens, and we’ve done our darndest to mistreat ’em. Right now some of yuh still think they’re crooked. Yeah, yuh do. But just to show yuh how I feel about it, I’m suggestin’ that we ask Hartley what to do about this proposition—and foller his idea.”

“I’ll tell yuh how I ——” began Vane, but Honey Wier interrupted him with,

“Oh, you be ——ed! We know how you stand, Cliff.”

“I’m satisfied to do that,” said Marsh Hartwell slowly.

“Same here,” laughed Hall. “That skinny cowpuncher don’t look crooked to me. Hop to it, long feller.”

Hashknife grinned and hitched up his belt,

“Yo’re askin’ me to do somethin’, gents. I never asked for a chance to untangle yore hay-wire situation. Mebbe I ain’t got no better idea than you have, but, if yo’re willin’ to trust me, I’ll do the best I can.”

“How soon do yuh start, and can I go along?” queried Honey Wier. “I’m tired as —— of makin’ dynamite bombs.”

“Dynamite bombs?” said Hashknife.

“We’re goin’ to attack the sheep tonight,” explained Hall. “And every man will carry an armload of dynamite.”

“Oh, I see,” muttered Hashknife. “Well, yuh may not have to do anythin’ like that. Have all the men got their bombs ready?”

“Yo’re danged right they ain’t,” laughed Honey, “and if they wait for me to make ’em up, they never will have.”

“We’re all goin’ to meet here about nine o’clock tonight and get ready for the attack,” said Marsh Hartwell. “Perhaps it would be best to smash the sheep pretty badly and then go after the rustlers. While the sheepmen are recovering from the battle, they’re not liable to try and drive their sheep.”

“No, that ain’t the idea,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately, and the success of my idea hinges on one thing. I can’t tell yuh what it is now, and it may look to you like I’m crooked, but I’m takin’ that chance.

“Go right ahead with yore dynamite idea. If I’m wrong, I’ll throw a few hunks of it myself, but don’t throw any until yuh hear from me. C’mon, Sleepy.”

They climbed on to their horses, while the cattlemen watched them, wondering where they were going, what they were going to do. But they asked no questions. Vane grumbled profanely, but turned back to the coffee pot, while Hashknife and Sleepy rode out through the brushy trail, swung straight north and rode across the dead-line, heading toward Eph King’s sheep camp.

No one challenged them. If any of the sheepherders saw them they kept out of sight, knowing that two men would be taken care of by those at the rear.

Bill Steen and Eph King were just riding into camp as the two cowboys topped the hill above them. There were at least ten other men there, eating a meal, who deserted their food at sight of the two cowboys; but at a sign from Steen they went back and sat down again.

Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted, shaking hands with Steen, who introduced them to King.

“We’ve met before, but not socially,” smiled King. “Bill was tellin’ me that you were up here to see him. I had an idea that you two might be responsible for me bein’ in Totem City jail, but Jack didn’t think so, and Bill wanted to make me a big bet that I was mistaken.”

Hashknife grinned and shook his head,

“I never put a man in jail, unless he deserved it, King.”

“Then yuh don’t think I deserve it, Hartley?”

“I didn’t think so. Right now I don’t know what to think. Either you ought to be hung—or——”

“Or what?”

King looked curiously at Hashknife. The sheepmen heard what Hashknife said, and one of them eased himself into a position whereby he could draw a gun. The others looked at each other, and eating ceased.

“What did yuh mean by that, Hashknife?” asked Steen.

“C’mere.”

Hashknife led them away from the diners. Once out of earshot, he squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigaret. Steen sat down against a boulder and accepted a smoke, while Sleepy stretched out full length and yawned wearily. King did not sit down.

“All right, Hashknife,” said Steen. “Tell us what it’s all about.”

“Yeah, I’m goin’ to do that, Bill. I came all the way up here to tell yuh; but before I tell yuh all about it, I’d like to have yuh tell me why yuh haven’t made any attempt to break through. You’ve been here too long. There’s a reason why, Bill; and I want to know what it is.”

“Of what interest is that to you?” asked King.

“A whole lot,” said Hashknife quickly. “And by givin’ me that information, I can probably save yore sheep, mebbe a lot of lives, and I can put the deadwood on the guilty men.”

“Save my sheep?” King smiled. “Save ’em from what?”

“Nobody answered my question,” reminded Hashknife.

“What if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll have to ride away from here, thinkin’ that you are the lowest coyote alive, Eph King.”

King’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Yo’re in my camp, Hartley. Maybe you won’t ride away.”

“Now wait a minute,” begged Steen. “Don’t anybody go off half-cocked.” He looked up at King. “I know Hartley, Eph. He ain’t the kind to say a thing like that without a good reason, and we’ve got to get this thing right.”

“All right,” growled King grudgingly.

“Thank yuh, Bill,” said Hashknife. “Now tell me why yuh didn’t try to force the sheep through.”

“Because it would be suicide, Hashknife. The plans went wrong. You know as well as I do that we can’t get through.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled thoughtfully. “And yo’re waitin’ until somebody finds the hole for yuh to crawl through, eh?”

Steen and King exchanged glances.

“Yuh might figure it like that,” said Steen. “There’s no use in sacrificin’ thousands of sheep and a lot of men.”

“That’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “Somebody ruined yore scheme, did they?”

Neither of the sheepmen denied it. Hashknife turned to King.

“Did you know that Jack Hartwell’s wife has been missin’ since yesterday afternoon?”

“Missin’?” King stared at Hashknife. “You mean that somethin’ has happened to her?”

Hashknife described the condition of the house, and of finding the dying man.

“That was Preston!” exclaimed Steen. “By ——, that’s what happened to him. What did he say, Hashknife?”

“He said that Ed shot him, and that Ed took the woman.”

“Ed who?” asked King anxiously. “Who is Ed?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“We don’t know, King. There ain’t a cowman in Lo Lo named Ed. Jack hasn’t the slightest idea where she is.”

King straightened up, his jaw shut tight, his big hands clenched at his sides.

“By ——, I’ll find her,” he said painfully. “She’s had all the —— I’ll ever let her have in this ——ed valley. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to come down here and sheep ’em out. Just to show ’em, that’s all.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife slowly. “While you and your sheep have been holding the attention of the cattlemen, a bunch of rustlers have been quietly liftin’ every head of stock in Lo Lo Valley. And yo’re goin’ to be blamed for it all, King.”

“Wait a minute,” breathed King, squatting down on his heels. “Say that again, Hartley, will yuh? Rustlers cleanin’ out the——”

“That’s what I said, King. Do you know the JN outfit?”

“Jack Noonan? Sure I know him.”

“Their horses carry his brand.”

King slowly turned his head and looked at Steen, who was staring at him.

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife. “You could ’a’ shoved yore sheep through that line any old time yuh wanted to. There ain’t over twenty men on that line at any time.”

Steen squinted at Hashknife and spat thoughtfully.

“Is that right, Hashknife?”

“Would I lie to you, Bill?”

“No, by ——, I don’t think you would.”

“And so they think I’m a thief, do they?” gritted King. “They branded me a thief years ago; so it’s easy for them to slap on the old brand again. They think that I’m holdin’ ’em on this dead-line while my men sneak in behind ’em and take their —— cows. By ——, that’s a good idea, too good for me to ever think of doin’.”

Steen got to his feet and threw away his cigaret.

“I can see the whole —— thing, Eph,” he declared. “I’ve been afraid that somethin’ was wrong.”

He turned to Hashknife.

“You know where to find these rustlers?”

“I know where their bed rolls were today.”

“Good!”

“All right, Bill,” said King firmly. “I reckon you’re right. Down there in Lo Lo Valley the women have used my name to scare their kids, and they’ve mistreated my little girl.”

He turned away and started down across the hills, his lips shut tightly. Then:

“I don’t owe ’em anythin’, but by ——, I’m not goin’ to have anybody stealin’ in my name—makin’ me blacker than I am. Tell the boys to get their horses, Bill. We’re goin’ across that dead-line to help the people that hate us.” He turned to Hashknife, a whimsical sort of smile on his big face. “I reckon this kinda fits in with that idea of turnin’ the other cheek, Hartley.”

“Sometimes it helps, King,” said Hashknife. “I’ve never lost much by helpin’ an enemy.”

“I never did help one,” said King slowly. “Marsh Hartwell is the only real enemy I ever had. We were friends once, me and Marsh. But I reckon we both wanted to be the big man of Lo Lo Valley, and one of us had to quit.

“The country was new then, Hartley, and we were a rough gang. There wasn’t any law and order, and the man with the longest rope got the biggest herd. Mebbe—” He smiled softly— “my rope was longer than Marsh’s and he got jealous. Anyway, I went out with the brand of thief. Bill is gettin’ the boys together, so we better get ready.”

They turned and walked back to the camp, where men were shoving rifles into their scabbards and saddling horses, which they were bringing out of the brushy cañon above the camp. And there was a grin of anticipation on the faces of these sheepmen. They were tired of inaction. King glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy’s saddles, and called Steen’s attention to the fact that neither of them carried a rifle.

Steen handed each of them a rifle and a belt filled with cartridges.

“Noonan travels with a tough gang,” he told them. “Boomer Bates was one of his men. I can see the whole plot now. King didn’t want to believe it, but he does now. C’mon.”

They mounted and went down across the brushy hills, fourteen strong, well-mounted, heavily armed, looking for trouble.

And about the time that the fourteen men rode away from the sheep camp, Marsh Hartwell and his son rode away from the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch. The cattlemen had decided to wait until nine o’clock before starting their offensive, taking a chance that Hashknife’s scheme, whatever it might be, would work out.

About a mile south of the camp they met the sheriff and Sunshine, who were seeking the latest news. They got it. Sudden rubbed his nose until it looked like an over-ripe cherry.

“By ——, I’ve been expectin’ this!” declared Sunshine.

“You never expected nothin’,” snorted the sheriff. “Don’t say that yuh have, ’cause yuh haven’t.”

“You don’t know what’s inside my head,” persisted Sunshine.

“The —— I don’t! Just like I know what’s in the hole of a doughnut. Don’t argue with me about anythin’, Sunshine. Lemme think. By grab, this is serious, don’tcha know it? Whole bunch of rustlers, eh? In that old shack down there—hm-m-m! Well,” bravely, “there’s just one thing to do, and that’s to go and heave some lead at ’em.”

“Don’t do it,” advised Marsh quickly. “That would chase ’em away, don’tcha see, Sudden? We’ve got to nail that whole gang at once; put enough men down there to stop every one of ’em, sabe?”

“And let Eph King send his sheep across, eh?”

“We got to take that chance, Sudden.”

“And Eph King knows it, I’ll bet.”

“You’ll probably win.”

“Uh-huh. Say, Marsh, let’s take a little sashay down that way. We can kinda act like we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Them jiggers are liable to pick up their beds and pull out.”

“Let’s do that,” suggested Jack. “Let’s do somethin’ besides talk. My ——, I can’t stand it much longer.”

“You ain’t heard nothin’ from your wife?” Thus Sunshine.

Jack shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid—now. With that bunch of rustlers around here, it’s hard to tell what has happened to her. That sun is almost down—and she’s been gone since yesterday. C’mon.”

They rode down through the hills, swinging to the east of the Arrow ranch, taking a course almost directly between the Arrow and Jack’s place. There were no cattle in sight. Ordinarily the hills were filled with Arrow, Turkey Track and Circle V cattle in that part of the range, but there were none of any brand now.

Suddenly the sheriff drew rein and pointed excitedly. About a mile away a group of horsemen were riding swiftly in the direction of the rustler’s shack. It was impossible to tell who they were or how many men were in the crowd, but they were making good time, and going almost away from the sheriff’s crowd.

“There they go!” blurted Sunshine. “And they’re goin’ like ——! I’ll betcha they’re wise to somethin’ and are beatin’ it for the shack to get their stuff.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed the sheriff nervously. “We’re not exactly equipped for battle, but we’ll give ’em a run for their money. Hit the grit, boys!”

Only the sheriff and Sunshine had rifles, but Marsh and Jack gave no heed to this, as they sent their horses into a swift run down through the hills. The brush whipped into their faces and tore at their clothes, but they stood up in their stirrups and prayed that their horses would keep their feet over the rough going.

Then came the spang! of a distant rifle shot, echoing through the hills. It was followed by a scattering volley.

“Somebody has jumped ’em!” yelled the sheriff. “Ride ’em high and keep goin’!”

But what the sheriff had thought was the rustler’s gang was Hashknife’s crew from the sheep camp. He had led them straight through the dead-line unchallenged, much to the wonderment of Eph King. No one even questioned their right to pass, and Hashknife knew that the word had not been passed to let them through, because no one knew that he was going to bring a crowd back across the line.