Front matter (continued 2)

“Didja hear the news?” asked Windy.

Barr shook his head.

“Somebody shot John the Baptist this mornin’ and robbed him of eight thousand dollars.”

Barr stared at them wonderingly.

“You ain’t jokin’, are yuh, Windy?”

“Honest to ——, I ain’t, Barr.”

And then Windy proceeded to tell Barr all he knew about it.

“About nine-thirty, eh?” mused Barr thoughtfully.

“About that time,” agreed Mark, and added, “There’s a lot of talk goin’ on, and I reckon they mean you, Barr.”

Barr laughed shortly and a deep furrow grew between his eyes.

“You wasn’t over there, was yuh, Barr?” asked Windy.

Barr nodded.

“Yeah, and that’s the —— of it—I was.”

“Does anybody know it?”

“Yeah—Ma Fann.”

“And she’ll head to Bob Kern.”

“I reckon so. I must ’a’ left there just at the right time to meet the old man.”

“You ain’t got no alibi?” queried Mark.

“No. Ma Fann was the only one that seen me. I was back here at a little after ten o’clock, but that won’t help me with a jury.”

“Maybe you better do a little runnin’,” suggested Windy. “If the old man dies—yuh can never tell what folks might do, Barr.”

“If I run, it’ll look like I’m guilty.”

“And if yuh stay you’ll look like a corpse,” added the practical Mark. “I’d run, y’betcha.”

Barr turned and went to the house. Mrs. Wyeth had seen him conversing with the two punchers, and she knew from the expression on his face that something was wrong. He came up and put a hand on her shoulder.

“Nell, your father was shot this mornin’ and robbed of eight thousand dollars.”

“Shot?” she gasped. “Not dead, Barr?”

“No, he’s alive. It happened in the cañon about half-past nine this mornin’.”

“My God! Who did it, Barr?”

Her face went white and she grasped him by the sleeve.

“I reckon they think it was me,” he said softly, “and I can’t prove it wasn’t.”

“You? Why, Barr, you couldn’t do that!”

Barr shook his head.

“No, I couldn’t, Nell; but you know what happened yesterday.”

He drew away from her and leaned against the wall.

“I’ve drank and gambled away the Lightning. Buck Kelly owns it—not me. I’ve been a —— fool, Nell, and I reckon I’m gettin’ what’s comin’ to me.”

“Don’t say that, Barr,” she begged tearfully. “How badly was my father hurt?”

“I don’t know. Windy said he’d probably live. I don’t know much about it, Nell—only what they just told me.”

“But can’t you prove that you didn’t do it, Barr?”

“No,” Barr shook his head slowly, “I can’t, Nell; but I may be able to prove who did. There’s no use of me trying to alibi myself. I can see where I’m up against it good and strong, unless I can slap the deadwood on the man who did do it—and make him admit it.”

“Have you any idea, Barr?”

Barr smiled and nodded.

“Yeah, I’ve got an idea, but I don’t know whether it’ll work or not. I’m goin’ to Bunch Grass and take a long chance on it, Nell.”

“A long chance, Barr?”

“Yeah—mighty long. Can’t wait here, don’t yuh see? Mebbe, it’s only a bluff, but a bluff is only good when yuh beat the other feller to it.”

“But they’ll put you in jail, Barr.”

“I don’t think so.”

He went down the steps and turned to her.

“If my bluff don’t work, Nell—” He hesitated and hitched up his belt—“I won’t go to jail, because I haven’t a Chinaman’s chance in there. I’m the same as convicted right now. Don’tcha worry about me nor about yore dad. He’s still alive and I’ve got a runnin’ chance.”

She watched him saddle his horse and ride toward town; watched him in a dumb sort of a way, as if she had no interest in him any more. She could not realize that her own father had been shot; possibly fatally, and that Barr was believed to have done it. Windy and Mark were coming up to the porch and she stared at them, as if they were total strangers to her.

“Where’s Barr goin’?” asked Windy, and she shook her head dumbly in reply to the question.

“If he ain’t a darned fool, he’ll beat it into the hills,” declared Mark. “If the old man dies, which he’s liable to do——”

Mrs. Wyeth swayed and collapsed on the porch.

“You —— fool!” wailed Windy. “The old man is her father!”

They ran up the steps and looked at her. Her face was white and her body was very limp, as Windy tried to lift her.

“Help me, yuh danged fool!” he grunted. “We’ve got to get her into the house.”

They managed to get her on to a bed and placed a pillow under her head.

“Now what do we do?” breathed Mark anxiously. “What do yuh give ’em in a case like this?”

Windy scratched his head thoughtfully.

“I dunno. Only two remedies I sabe are horse-liniment and castor-oil.”

“Don’t they pour water on ’em?”

“Yeah. Go and git the bucket, Mark.”

Mark departed to the kitchen to get a bucket of water, but Mrs. Wyeth’s eyes opened and she stared wonderingly around.

“You jist take it easy, ma’am,” advised Windy. “Mark’s gone after the water-bucket.”

“What happened?” she asked weakly. “Did I faint?”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s what it was. How do yuh feel now?”

“I’m all right now. I guess I just got dizzy.”

Mark stopped in the doorway and set down his bucket of water.

“Reckon yuh can git along all right now, ma’am?” asked Windy.

“Yes, I am all right now. Thank you both very much.”

“Yo’re welcome,” said Windy, and he and Mark went out through the kitchen, leaving the water-bucket.

Judge Henry Freeman was badly crippled in the legs from rheumatism, but was still able to continue his duties as district judge. He lived in a little house at the outskirts of Bunch Grass; prolific in his profanity, ready to argue anything from Blackstone to how to cure baldness, and smoking a very vile old pipe, which, when burning properly, sounded like eggs frying in a hot skillet.

He was a small man, with a long nose, abnormally bright eyes and a broad forehead. His hair was very thin, except in the back of his neck, where it grew down over his collar and started back up again in an attempted curl, or possibly trying to loop-the-loop. On or off the bench his tongue was as pointed as a rapier, but none could say that he was not impartial in his decisions—and just.

Just now he was hunched down in his easy chair, deep in thought. A few minutes before Buck Kelly had left him, after telling the latest news, and the judge was trying to digest the facts impersonally. Kelly had not told him which way the finger of suspicion was pointing, nor did he divulge the fact that the sheriff had gone out to try to save money for John the Baptist. And while the judge pondered, his housekeeper, Mrs. Letts, a very fleshy, middle-aged woman, admitted Barr Wyeth to the judge’s presence without advice from the judge.

“Mister Wyeth would see you, judge,” she said, after Barr was already inside the room.

“He would, would he?” retorted the judge. “My ——, woman, how many times do I have to tell you that—oh, well, go on out and let me talk to him in private. Sit down, Wyeth—go out, Mrs. Letts.”

Mrs. Letts faded out and shut the door rather hard. The judge frowned and threw his pipe on the littered table.

“Well?” He turned and faced Barr. “Go ahead.”

“You heard about John the Baptist, judge?”

“Umph! A little. Probably distorted. Always is. Never knew two men to tell the same story. Go ahead.”

“Judge, I want to tell you a little story. Yesterday I had trouble with John Fann.”

“Tried to kill him with a whisky bottle, didn’t you? I heard about it. Likely heard it all wrong. Go ahead.”

“I thought I had killed him, judge. When I found that I hadn’t I—” Barr hesitated—“I was glad.”

“Umph! Queer, —— queer! Go ahead.”

“I have hated John Fann, judge. He has said some mean things about me, and they hurt. You know I married his daughter against his wishes, and neither of us have ever been to see them since.”

“—— foolishness!” growled the judge.

“This mornin’,” continued Barr, “I rode over to the JHF to have a talk with John the Baptist. No, I didn’t go over there to quarrel with him, judge; I wanted to make peace with him.

“But he wasn’t home; so I came back down the road, thinking that I’d come to town and find him, but decided not to. I rode out of the cañon, intendin’ to cut across the hills to my own ranch. I was takin’ my time, and after I got out of the cañon I got to thinkin’ that I’d better go on to town and find him.

“I swung around the rim of the cañon, intendin’ to hit the road where it comes out into the valley, when I heard a shot. I didn’t think much about it right then, but before I hit the road a man rode past me, and he was sure goin’ fast.

“I was back in the mesquite and he didn’t see me. I stopped and done a lot of wonderin’ why he was foggin’ along so fast. From where I was I could see a long ways down the road and this man kept lookin’ back. About half a mile below me the road curves to the right, and I seen this rider swing off the road and head into the mesquite.

“I’ve just about made up my mind that it ain’t none of my business, when here comes another rider, goin’ just about as fast as the other one was. He busted past me and I watched him until he made the curve, still follerin’ the road. The last man was Bob Kern.”

“What time was this?” asked the judge.

“Between nine-thirty and ten o’clock.”

“Umph!”

The judge scratched his jaw and reached for his pipe.

“Who was the first man?” he asked abruptly, turning his head as he reached for his pipe.

“Chet Gunning.”

“The sheriff?”

Judge Freeman’s groping hand missed the pipe, and he sat down without it.

“You mean to say that the sheriff——?”

“I ain’t meanin’ to say anythin’, judge,” interrupted Barr quickly, “but those are the facts.”

“But why in —— would Chet Gunning shoot John Fann?”

“There’s eight thousand dollars missing,” reminded Barr. “That mortgage on the JHF.”

“Hm-m-m,” reflected the judge. “Bob Kern and Splinter Martin saw a man ride away from the place where they found John Fann. Could you prove that you were not that man?”

Barr shook his head.

“I can’t prove anythin’, judge.”

“What size gun do you shoot, Barr?”

“A forty-four.”

“And John Fann was shot with a forty-four.”

The judge reached for his pipe and began filling it, when Mrs. Letts knocked loudly and stepped into the room.

“Mister Pell would like a word with the judge,” she stated stiffly. “He’s outside, and I would not let him into the front door without a word from you.”

The judge grinned and sucked on his pipe.

“The human bulletin-board again.”

“He’s anxious to see you,” volunteered Mrs. Letts.

“Send him in,” nodded the judge, and as Mrs. Letts went out he turned the oil lamp down so low that it threw the room into a half-light. Barr was partly hidden by the back of his chair and the judge motioned for him to turn still further away from the light.

A moment later Pastry Pell opened the door and stopped on the threshold.

“Judge, I jist wanted to tell yuh that the doctor has come back from the JHF, and he says that John the Baptist ain’t liable to live, and the sheriff has gone out to arrest Barr Wyeth, because there’s a lot of talk of a lynchin’, if old John dies, and the sheriff’s afraid the old jail ain’t strong enough to stop ’em if they start and——”

Pastry stopped to catch his breath, and at this moment Barr Wyeth got up from his chair and looked at him.

Pastry swallowed hard and his mouth formed an O.

“F’r ——’s sake!” he gasped and went right back through the doorway. A moment later the front door shut with a crash.

“That was the first time I ever heard Pastry Pell stop talking, when he had something to say,” declared the judge.

“He said enough,” Barr was anxiously staring toward the door. “I wonder what I had better do, judge?”

“Don’t ask me. Right now I’m legally unfit to even hear the case. I usually am, as far as that’s concerned; because everybody brings me their troubles just ahead of the court session, but if you want an honest opinion, Barr Wyeth—go a —— of a long ways from here in the least possible time. That’s about all I can see for you to do.”

“I wouldn’t have a chance in court,” declared Barr.

“No, not a chance. You’ve been a —— fool, young man.”

“You don’t think I lied to you about the sheriff?”

“No, but the jury would. You’re losing time, Wyeth.”

Barr turned and went out of the door. He mounted his horse and sat motionless for a while. Beyond him were the yellow lights of Bunch Grass. Lights were twinkling in the windows of the scattered residences. Just across the way from him was a tumble-down sort of a home and a tall barn. He could hear voices.

Two bulky objects were coming down the dusty street toward him and he instinctively moved his horse into the heavier shadows of an old cottonwood. It was two cows, and behind them came a boy, herding them. They turned in at the open gate and the boy panted wearily as he dragged the old, sagging gate shut behind them. A voice called to him from the house.

“Aw, ma, I got here as soon as I could.” The boy’s voice was changing, and ended in a shrill treble. “Old Spot, the danged old tramp, was plumb over in Cherry Cañon. I’m goin’ to put a toggle on her, y’betcha.”

“You hurry up and git ready f’r supper.” This in a woman’s tired voice.

“Is pa there?” yelled the boy.

“He’s eatin’ his supper, and if you don’t hurry——”

“Did he hear the news?” The boy ignored the implied threat in his eagerness to dispense information. “Bud Newell told me that old man Fann was jist about to die, and that there’s sure goin’ to be a lynchin’ in Bunch Grass.”

“You come in the house and quit screechin’ such things!”

Came the rattle of a tin wash-pan, the splash of water, as the boy performed his evening ablutions. Then:

“Ma-a-a! Say, ma—kin I go to it, if there is?”

But there was no reply, and the door shut behind the excited youngster.

“Even the kids,” muttered Barr aloud as he rode away from the cottonwood. “There’s only one place where I’m anywhere near safe, and I’m goin’ to take a chance.”

He swung his horse and went slowly back toward the main road.

The lights were turned low in the JHF ranch-house living-room. Ma Fann sat close beside the bed, watching for any sign of returning consciousness in John Fann. Bob Kern sat on the floor against the wall, knees drawn up to his chin. Beside him lay an old magazine, the cover of it littered with match-stubs, ashes and the remains of many cigarets.

Humped over in an old rocking-chair was Splinter, reading the endless list of testimonials in an old medical almanac.

“Doc ought t’ be back pretty soon,” he said softly.

“You’ve done said that a hundred times,” reminded Bob. “I dunno what he can do, if he comes.”

“Is it goin’ to ache yuh any place, if I say it again?” queried Splinter. “And there’s lots of things that you can’t see.”

Ma Fann smiled sadly. She was used to the good-natured bickering of the two cowpunchers. She knew that both of them were itching for action, and were only there to keep her company until the doctor came back from Bunch Grass.

Suddenly Splinter threw up his head and glanced back toward the door.

“Somebody comin’,” he stated and went to the door.

He peered outside and grunted softly as footsteps sounded on the porch. Then, through the open door came Windy Hart, carrying a blanket-wrapped bundle in his arms, and behind him came Mark Ells, similarly burdened. They squinted around the room and advanced softly to a couch, where they placed their bundles.

Every eye in the room had been upon them, but now they turned to see Nell Wyeth, standing in the doorway, her dark hair in a tangle about her white face. Ma Fann had got to her feet and was staring at the girl in the doorway.

“Them is the kids,” Windy broke the silence, as he indicated the bundles on the couch. “C’m on, Mark.”

They tip-toed out of the room and Nell Wyeth moved aside to let them pass. From one of the blanket-wrapped bundles came the soft wail of a child.

“Ma, I had to come,” Nell Wyeth’s voice started bravely enough, but broke into a sob at the finish.

Ma Fann was leaning forward toward her, seemingly half-dazed, hardly realizing that it was her daughter. Then she threw out her hands to her; the light of a mother’s love glorifying her tired old eyes, her face tense with emotion.

“Then, why don’t you come, you poor kid?”

Bob Kern did not look at them as they came together; he grasped Splinter by the sleeve, whirled him around and led him out of the house. They sat down on the steps, and Splinter swore piously.

“What’sa matter, cowboy?” queried Bob. “You got a bad cold in yore head?”

“I—I’ve got the same kinda hay-fever you’ve got,” retorted Splinter. “I reckon she didn’t think Ma wanted her?”

“Ma,” said Bob softly, “Ma’s a dinger.”

From the house came the sound of voices talking softly, excitedly.

“Makin’ up for lost time,” said Bob. “Gotta lot to wau-wau about. I wonder what Barr Wyeth thinks about it?”

Splinter laughed.

“I was just thinkin’ about Windy and Mark,” he explained. “Think of them two salty old pelicans packin’ a baby per each plumb from the Lightnin’.”

“More company comin’,” remarked Bob, “and it ain’t Doc Knowles.”

A solitary horseman, indistinct in the moonlight, had turned off the main road and was riding up through the yard toward them. He dismounted fifty feet away and came slowly up to them. It was Barr Wyeth.

Bob got to his feet. He did not know what Barr Wyeth’s intentions were, and was taking no chances.

“I’m packin’ a white belt,” said Barr, using the old Indian peace greeting.

“All right,” nodded Bob. “We’re takin’ your word for it, Wyeth.”

Barr came closer and peered at the house.

“How’s the old man?” he asked.

“Lord knows.”

“Still alive, though?” hopefully. “I just——”

Barr stopped. He had heard his wife’s voice and he looked inquiringly at Bob.

“She just got here,” explained Bob. “I dunno why she came. Windy and Mark packed the kiddies for her.”

“I wonder if I could go in there, Kern?”

“Well, I dunno why not.”

Bob turned and walked up to the door with Barr close behind him. Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth were standing close to the bed, their arms around each other, looking down at John Fann.

Then they both turned and looked at Barr, who was awkwardly twisting his sombrero and looking down at the floor.

“Barr!” Nell Wyeth started toward him, but stopped. “Barr, I had to come.”

“Tha’sall right,” he muttered. “So did I.”

She crossed the room and took him by the arm.

“Barr, the sheriff came just as we were ready to leave. He wanted to know where you were and I—I had to tell him that you were in town.”

“Yeah, I was in town,” said Barr slowly, “but it never done me no good, Nell.”

Splinter came in and shut the door.

“I ain’t got much of a chance,” said Barr. “Folks have kinda got me convicted already; so I reckon I’ll just have to drift, if—” he glanced around at Bob and Splinter—“if you two ain’t goin’ to take the law in yore own hands.”

Bob shook his head.

“It ain’t for us to say, Wyeth—except that we’re sorry.”

Barr smiled bitterly.

“That sounds nice, Kern, and I ought to thank you, but I can’t help rememberin’ that you said that you’d see the day that Barr Wyeth was driven off this range, and that Nell would be sorry that she turned yuh down on account of yore crooked face.”

Bob started forward, his hands clenched at his sides.

“That’s a —— lie, Wyeth!”

“Is it?” Barr smiled crookedly. “Well, what’s the odds now. You hated me because I won your girl, Kern; and maybe I don’t blame yuh. After all, yore crooked face would have been better for her than my crooked soul.”

“Barr, what are you saying?”

Nell’s face was ashen and her hands clawed at his shoulders.

“Well, I can’t say anythin’ worse about myself than Bob Kern and the JHF outfit have said about me.”

Bob’s face was white with passion and his eyes gleamed yellow in the lamp-light, as he moved slowly toward Barr Wyeth. Barr moved back until he was against the wall near a window.

“Wyeth,” Bob’s voice was icy cold, “I have never said a word against you—as God is my judge, but right now I’ll say that yo’re a yaller-hearted quitter. You ain’t got the guts to fight for yore wife and babies. You want sympathy, don’tcha? Well, yuh won’t never git it by hurtin’ yore wife’s feelin’s.”

Barr laughed, but there was no mirth in it.

“The hero makes his speech,” he said sarcastically.

Behind them the door had opened slowly and they glanced back to see the sheriff framed in the doorway, a six-shooter in his hand. He was covering Barr Wyeth and paying no attention to the rest.

“I follered your wife, Barr,” he said triumphantly.

Bob relaxed and backed away. The sheriff shut the door with his foot.

“I hate to do this, folks; but it’s my duty. Barr Wyeth, I arrest you for attempted murder and robbery.”

Barr laughed, but did not move. The sheriff watched him narrowly, as he walked slowly forward.

“Yore duty, eh?” said Barr slowly. “What was you doin’ in the cañon at the time the old man was shot and robbed?”

“Me?” The sheriff stopped and the barrel of his gun wavered.

“Yes, you!” snapped Barr. “My word won’t be worth a —— against yours, but I want to tell you that you’ll never send me to the penitentiary for somethin’ you done yourself.”

As Barr finished his accusation, he whirled and dived head-first out of the window, smashing the glass and splintering the frame. It was so sudden and so unexpected that for several moments no one moved. Then the sheriff turned and sprang to the closed door. Yanking the door open, he ran on to the porch.

A man appeared to be just mounting a horse beyond the steps, and the sheriff was taking no chances now. His gun spouted fire once—twice—three times. The horse reared sideways, snorting wildly, but the rider swung on to the saddle, firing across the cantle at the sheriff. Twice his gun roared defiance at the sheriff, and then the horse whirled and sped away in the darkness.

From the porch came the gasping cough and the sheriff sprawled back half-way through the door. Bob sprang outside, gun in hand, but only the diminuendo of galloping hoofs came to his ears. He turned back to the sheriff and lifted his head.

“Hurt bad?” asked Splinter, moving in close.

“Too dead to skin,” replied Bob softly.

Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth moved over toward the door, dazed from the swift turn of events, and Bob turned to Mrs. Wyeth.

“Barr had t’ do it, I reckon. I don’t figure that the sheriff had any right to start shootin’ thataway. There wasn’t nothin’ but circumstantial evidence, noways.”

“He’s dead?” whispered Nell Wyeth, pointing at the sheriff. “Barr killed him?”

“Yeah, he’s dead, I reckon.”

Nell Wyeth turned and groped her way to a chair, where she sank down, staring with unseeing eyes at the carpet. Ma Fann went to her and knelt down beside the chair, while Bob and Splinter looked at each other across the body of the sheriff.

“Doc ought to be here pretty soon,” said Splinter.

“My ——, yore gettin’ to be some conversationalist,” observed Bob. “I hope he does come, so yuh can find a new remark to make.”

Came the rattle of loose buggy-spokes, the gritting of iron-tired wheels, and the doctor drove his buggy team up to the front porch. Bob stepped across the sheriff’s body and met the doctor at the bottom step.

Quickly he told the doctor what had happened, but before the tale was half-finished the doctor pushed past him and went inside. He knelt down beside the sheriff and gave a swift examination.

“No chance, is there, doc?” asked Splinter.

“No. Probably never knew what hit him.”

Doctor Knowles got to his feet and turned toward the bed.

“What’ll we do with him, doc?” asked Bob.

“Take him to my office. We’ll have to hold an inquest.”

The doctor turned back to the bed.

“We’ll hitch up the wagon-team, Splinter,” said Bob, and then to the doctor. “Didja meet anybody on the road, doc?”

“No.”

The two cowboys went outside and down to the barn.

“Wyeth’s a goner —— sure,” observed Splinter.

“Yeah, it looks like it,” agreed Bob wearily, “but I’d give a lot to know what he meant about the sheriff bein’ in the cañon at the time John Fann was shot. They’ll just about put the deadwood on Barr Wyeth now and lynch him.”

“Could that ’a’ been the sheriff we seen leavin’ old John?”

“Yeah, it could ’a’ been—but was it? The sheriff will never tell, and they won’t give Barr Wyeth a chance to tell his story, I don’t suppose.”

The inquest over the remains of Chet Gunning drew the range people from even the remote parts of Bunch Grass Valley. The news had traveled swiftly, and the town of Bunch Grass seethed with saddle-horses and rigs of every description.

Nell Wyeth was not called upon to testify, and Ma Fann was only called upon to corroborate Bob and Splinter’s testimony, after which she was hurried back to the bedside of John Fann, who was still unconscious.

Doctor Knowles, who was also coroner, conducted the inquest, with the assistance of Andy Allard, who had automatically become sheriff. Andy’s jaw was badly swollen from an ulcerated tooth, which Doctor Knowles refused to extract, and he was altogether a miserable sheriff.

The testimony was brief and the jury needed no deliberation to bring in a verdict to the effect that Chet Gunning had met his death from gun-shot wounds inflicted by Barr Wyeth, who was resisting arrest.

Buck Kelly seemed to breathe easier now that the sheriff was out of the way. He was afraid that the sheriff might be called upon to tell the truth, and the truth might be damaging. The inquest made good business for him, and he was very well satisfied with the way things had turned out.

Much liquor was consumed, and men who had never hesitated in speaking ill of Chet Gunning, now spoke glowingly of him; which is the way of humanity. Andy Allard growled like a wounded bear and insisted on talking with a finger in his mouth, telling disinterested listeners just where his teeth hurt the most.

Bob Kern said little, although many questioned him after the inquest. He wondered deeply over Barr Wyeth’s accusation, and there grew a doubt as to Barr’s guilt. Buck Kelly had said that only three men knew of the mortgage—Judge Freeman, John Fann and himself. Judge Freeman was above reproach; Buck Kelly had not done it himself.

Who else knew about it? Bob felt sure that robbery had been the motive, and the robber must have known of the mortgage money. Andy Allard came to Bob and drew him aside.

“Awgl huh dawg docl glawf,” said Andy, with a forefinger shoved inside his aching mouth.

“I’ll betcha,” agreed Bob seriously. “I knowed a man who died after havin’ a ulcerated tooth.”

“Thasso?” Andy’s face grew grave. “My gosh! How long after, Bob?”

“Six ’r seven years.”

“Aw-w-w!” Andy grated his displeasure of such levity, and his forefinger prodded the point of pain. “Arr-r ug glawf-f-f duddang it!”

“You ought t’ go to Russia,” said Bob. “Mebbe they can sabe yore wau-wau—I can’t, Andy.”

“Um-m-m,” said Andy painfully. “I wanted to ask yuh somethin’, Bob, but every time I start t’ ask it this —— tooth starts hoppin’. Will yuh take the job as deppity like I was before I got all this responsibility wished upon me?”

“Be a deputy-sheriff?”

“Yeah. It ain’t no —— of a good job, but somebody’s got to do it. Pays a hundred a month, Bob—and do yore own dodgin’. I’ve gotta catch Barr Wyeth, I suppose.”

“And yuh want me to catch him, eh?” queried Bob.

Andy nodded and caressed his jaw.

“Yeah.”

“Man huntin’ don’t appeal to me, Andy,” seriously.

“Me neither,” confided Andy. “I’m takin’ a chance on Barr fillin’ me with lead, and if I do nail him alive, these snakehunters’ll want to lynch him and I’ll git leaded up in tryin’ to be a hero and protect him.”

“Maybe he’ll leave the country, Andy.”

“Yeah,” wearily, and the finger went back inside his mouth. “Awgl gosh dagl.”

Bob left Andy talking to himself, and went in search of Splinter. Ordinarily Bob would have jumped at the chance to become a deputy-sheriff at one hundred dollars per month, but just now the job did not appeal to him.

He found Splinter in the Buck Horn saloon, backed against the bar, tears running down his face. Splinter was gloriously drunk—crying-drunk. It was not often that Splinter looked upon the wine when it was red, but when he did he made a thorough inspection. Bob looked him over and went back to the hitch-rack. He took Splinter’s horse to the livery stable and rode back toward the JHF alone.

At the spot where John Fann had been shot, he stopped his horse and tried to reconstruct the scene as he remembered it. John Fann had been shot from the left side of the road, or from the rear. He had evidently been allowed to pass the ambush and shot without any warning.

Bob dropped his reins and walked back from the spot. On the left side of the road the brush grew heavy and there was plenty of cover to conceal a man and a horse. The ground was so dry that it was impossible for him to find the imprint of a man’s boot, but in the mold of a rotten log he found an imprint that caused him to shake his head. It was the print of a shod hoof—with a bar-shoe.

Bob went back to his horse and swung into the saddle. If Barr Wyeth was innocent, why had he ridden into that thicket? To the right of the road there was little brush, but beyond that a fringe of timber extended up the side of the cañon. Bob rode slowly in that direction, crossing the narrow gravel-wash of the dry creek bed.

An old cattle trail wound down through the timber, worn deeply from the passing of many animals, and Bob headed up this trail, watching closely. About half-way to the rim of the cañon he found another bar-shoe track, pointing up the trail.

He rode out over the top, where the trail ended. Here was a wide level expanse, almost bare of grass, and the bar-shoe tracks were very plain: Here the rider had turned the horse around, possibly to look back into the cañon, but had turned around and headed straight toward the Lightning ranch.

A flash of sunlight on metal attracted Bob’s attention and he dismounted to pick up an empty cartridge shell. A glance showed him that it was a forty-four caliber revolver cartridge shell.

“Stopped here to look back,” mused Bob, “and reloaded his gun. Hm-m-m!”

His brows drew down in a heavy frown, as he examined the cartridge shell. He drew his own gun, extracted a cartridge and tried to insert the empty shell, but it would not fit. Then he put the shell in his pocket, rolled a cigaret and started across the hills, trying to trail the tracks of the bar-shod horse.

For about a mile the trail was plain to Bob, but a herd of cattle had obliterated it at the head of a cañon and Bob was unable to pick it up again. He was about to turn back toward the JHF, but an idea seemed to strike him and he rode back toward Bunch Grass town.

Splinter Martin was enjoying the fullness of things—mostly his own. He had quite recovered from his earlier melancholy outlook, wiped away his tears and had started out to do big things in the world.

Splinter was fat, with the waddling walk of a duck, and he required much room. In fact, the Buck Horn was much too small for him; so he went into the street. The crowd had dwindled away and Splinter gazed reprovingly upon several cowboys who were just leaving.

“Tha’s just m’ luck!” he wailed. “Nobody cares what b’comes of me-e-e! Gonna be lef’ all a-lone. Everythin’ goin’ out and nothin’ comin’ in. Oh, o-o-o-oh!”

A strange cowboy riding a jaded gray horse passed him and dismounted at the hitch-rack. He was a skinny sort of a person, dust-covered, long-nosed and watery of eye. Splinter looked him over with approval.

“Brother, we welcomes yuh,” greeted Splinter, with an expansive gesture. “The keys of our fair city are yours and they just held an inquest over the re-mains of the sheriff. Go as far as yuh like, but come back in time to have a drink.”

The strange cowboy grinned widely and hitched up his belt.

“What town is this, pardner?”

“This here?” Splinter stumbled slightly and looked around at the street. “This here town is Bunch Grass. She’s rawhide warp and bob-wire fillin’; guaranteed not t’ bend, break, rust, rumble nor rattle. Take it ’r leave it, and no questions asked.”

“You kinda like it, don’tcha?” grinned the cowboy.

“Like it ——!” exploded Splinter. “I love it.”

The cowboy laughed and considered Splinter.

“Mebbe you can tell me where I’ll find the Ten-Bar-B outfit?”

“Uh?” Splinter squinted thoughtfully, but shook his head. “It ain’t in no jog’fee I ever studied, pardner.”

“You ain’t lived here long, have yuh?”

“Ain’t I?”

Splinter balanced himself carefully and pointed at the hills beyond the town at the foot-hills.

“See them hills? Well, sir, when I came here that was the highest part of the Rocky Mountains.”

“Yeah?” The cowboy grinned. “Shrunk, ain’t they?”

“Shrunk ——! I wore ’em off driving cows across ’em. Let’s have a drink.”

“All right.” The cowboy seemed willing enough. “I’m headin’ for the Ten-Bar-B.”

“Many happy returns of the day,” said Splinter, “but I never heard of no Ten-Bar-B outfit.”

They went into the Buck Horn and leaned against the bar. The stranger had a thirst, and after about seven man-sized drinks he tried to sing a song, but Splinter vetoed it sharply.

“Don’t shing.”

“Don’t shing?”

“Not a shong.”

“Aw right,” reluctantly. “I c’n shing good.”

“Zasso? Where ’r you from, Mister Shinger?”

“Wyomin’. And I’m lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit.”

“You remin’ me of the feller that got on his horsh and went huntin’ for the moon,” grinned Splinter. “And the —— thing fell on him.”

“The moon did?” wonderingly.

“No—the horsh.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” The stranger helped himself to another drink. “That Ten-Bar-B outfit’s near here.”

“Is zasso?” Splinter wiped the back of his hand across his lips and reached for the bottle. “’F it is, it moved in this mornin’, pardner.”

“My name’s Mellody.”

“Oh, ex-cuse me. No wonder yuh wanted t’ shing. Mine’s Martin. Folks calls me Splinter ’count of my shape. Now Mister Mellody, since we’ve been properly introduced, I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that you’ll go cock-eyed tryin’ to find that Ten-Bar-B in Bunch Grass valley. It jist ain’t, tha’sall.”

Splinter delivered this opinion and looked around, just as Bob Kern came in through the doorway.

“Hey, Bob! C’m here. Want yuh to meet Mister Mellody, the whippoorwill from Wyomin’. Mister Mellody, this is Mister Kern, dangerous but passable.”

Bob shook hands with the cowboy, who wanted to buy a drink, but Bob refused gracefully.

“Mister Mellody,” said Splinter, “is lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B ranch.”

Bob smiled.

“Never heard of it, Mellody.”

“Thasso?” Mellody squinted down at the floor. “Tha’s real funny, y’betcha.”

“Do we laugh at yuh or with yuh?” queried Splinter.

“At me, I reckon. Yuh see, I’ve been workin’ for the Diamond-Dot outfit near Searchlight. Old man Himes owns the ranch, and he’s a slicker on buyin’ stock, y’betcha.”

“Buys cheap, eh?” asked Bob.

“Dang right. That’s how I finds out about this Ten-Bar-B outfit. The feller what owns it drives about three hundred head over into our range and sells most of ’em to old man Himes. He said that the range was plumb burnt out over here, and he was willin’ to sell cheap to git rid of ’em.”

“Yeah?”

Bob moved in closer and nodded to the bartender to set out the glasses.

“Yeah,” nodded Mellody. “I had a run-in with old man Himes, and quit. This here Ten-Bar-B hombre talked a lot about his place over here; so, when I got out of a job, I drifted over to see if he could use me.”

“Said it was near Bunch Grass?” queried Bob.

Mellody gulped his liquor and nodded.

“Anyway, I sure as —— understood it thataway.”

“Didn’t say what his name was, did he?”

“Smith. We all called him ‘Windy,’ for short, ’cause he talked quite a lot.”

“There ain’t no Windy Smith around here,” said Splinter, shaking his head. “Leave it to Buck Kelly, if there is.”

Buck was coming in behind the bar from the rear of the room, and he looked inquiringly at Splinter.

“Here’s a pilgrim from Wyoming, Buck,” explained Splinter, “and he’s lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B, which is run by Windy Smith. You ever heard of it?”

Buck frowned and squinted at Mellody.

“We’re provin’ it by you, Buck,” said Splinter, grinning.

Kelly shook his head.

“I never heard of the place.”

“’S —— funny,” Mellody shook his head and reached for the bar-bottle. “Anyway, I ain’t worried a heap. Mebbe I can git me a job.”

“Would yuh know Windy Smith if yuh seen him?” queried Kelly.

“Y’betcha. Well, here’s to yore old sun-bonnet.”

Kelly drank with them and walked back to the poker game, where he sat down. Mellody was beginning to get very intoxicated and Splinter began to cry softly; so Bob made a sneak out the front door and started across the street, when Doctor Knowles drove up to the front of his office. Bob went over to him and the doctor was grinning widely.

“John the Baptist woke up,” he informed Bob. “I was afraid it might have affected his mind, but he’s as clear as a bell. Had to swear at him to make him stay in bed.”

“By golly, that’s fine!” applauded Bob. “Yo’re some doctor. Betcha some of them city doctors would ’a’ killed the old man. He didn’t say anythin’ about seein’ the feller that shot him, did he?”

“He didn’t even know what happened to him, Kern. Don’t remember a thing. Was just riding along, when something hit him a terrible blow.”

“Knows he got robbed, don’t he?”

“Yes. I guess it hurt him more than the bullet, but he didn’t say anything.”

“No, he wouldn’t beef about it,” agreed Bob warmly. “Are they goin’ to bury Chet Gunnin’ tomorrow, doc?”

“Yes; in the afternoon.”

“Will yuh do me a favor, doc?”

“Why, I think so, Kern; what is it?”

“Before yuh git ready to bury Chet, will yuh cut out one of them bullets and let me see it?”

“Sure. What’s the idea, though?”

“Kinda curious, doc. Yuh see, we don’t know just what did kill him. Them holes are there, but we dunno what is inside of him.”

“I see,” admitted the doctor. “Well, that might be a good idea, Kern. I’ll have the bullets for you in the morning.”

“That’s kind of yuh,” nodded Bob. “S’ long, doc.”

Bob went back to his horse. He knew there was no use of trying to get Splinter to go back to the ranch, so he rode away alone, wondering who Mellody was and what or where was the Ten-Bar-B outfit. Bob knew every brand in the county, and there was no such iron used on any of the ranches.

He rode back to the JHF and stabled his horse before going into the ranch-house to see John Fann. Nell Wyeth met him on the porch, anxious for the latest news.

“Ain’t heard a word,” stated Bob softly. “Nothin’ been done yet.”

She nodded dumbly and turned back into the house. John Fann was propped up in bed and he grinned widely at Bob.

“Caused some excitement, didn’t I, Bob?”

“Yuh sure did, John. How are yuh feelin’?”

“I’m feelin’ fine.”

“Well, you take it easy,” advised Bob, drawing up a chair. “Doc Knowles tells me that you ain’t got no idea who shot yuh.”

John Fann shook his bandaged head.

“Never knew I was shot until they told me.”

“Been a lot of things happenin’,” observed Bob.

Nell Wyeth had stopped near the center of the room, but now she turned and went into the kitchen. John Fann’s eyes followed her and he shook his head sadly.

“Poor little girl. It’s a hard row of stumps for her, Bob.”

“Yeah,” nodded Bob, “she ain’t had a square deal.”

“Too much hate mixed up in it all,” sighed John Fann. “I have never said one word against Barr Wyeth, yet they hate me for the things I have said.”

“That’s right,” agreed Bob. “Accordin’ to Barr, I’ve said some danged mean things against him and Nell, but I never said ’em, John.”

John Fann shook his head thoughtfully and leaned back wearily on his pillow.

“Where’s Splinter?” he asked.

“He’s in town. The strain was too much for him, John.”

“Drinking? I often wonder what would happen to Splinter if he didn’t get drunk once in a while. Did you boys bring in any of the stock yet?”

“Not yet, John. There has been too much happening lately. Did you ever hear of the Ten-Bar-B outfit?”

“No, I don’t think I ever did, Bob.”

Bob explained about the cowboy from across the line, who was looking for such an outfit.

“Must be a Wyoming register,” said John, “I don’t remember of ever seein’ it in the Montana register. Likely got his directions mixed.”

“Yeah, I reckon he did,” agreed Bob doubtfully, “but the rest of his stuff kinda pointed toward this range. I’m goin’ to have another talk with him, if he don’t leave too soon.”

Bob got up and turned back toward the door, as Ma Fann came out of the kitchen and joined him. She walked out to the horse with him.

“Have they started hunting for Barr?” she asked softly.

Bob shook his head.

“I don’t think so, Ma. Andy wanted to give me the deputy job, but I didn’t take it. I wasn’t goin’ back to town tonight, but I think I will. Feller down there that I want to see.”

“Nell’s almost crazy over it, Bob. She just walks around and don’t say anything, except to wonder what has been done. Find out everything you can, will you, Bob? And let her know about it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, Ma. Barr’s had a good chance to make a long getaway, and I sure hope he keeps away.”

Bob swung on to his horse and turned toward the gate just as Pastry Pell, his horse reeking from a hard run, swung off the road and galloped up to them.

“Say!” he blurted. “Splinter shot that Wyomin’ cowboy a while ago, and they’ve got Splinter in jail!”

“Splinter shot him?” exclaimed Bob. “Shot Mellody?”

“Yeah, I think that’s his name.”

“For ——’s sake, what for, Pell?”

“Over a poker game. They was both drunk. Andy Allard put Splinter in jail.”

“For Heaven’s sake, what will happen next?” said Ma Fann wonderingly.

“A lot depends, Ma,” said Bob grimly. “I’ve got to see Splinter first.”

“I’ll ride back with yuh,” offered Pastry Pell, but Bob had spurred his horse into a run and Pastry’s horse was in no shape to make the trip again at that speed.

Bob was riding wild and with no purpose in his mind, except to hear the story from Splinter’s own lips. It was not like Splinter to do a thing like this, especially when he was drinking. Liquor only served to make Splinter more congenial. And Splinter did not care for poker.

Bob jerked his horse to a panting stop at the Buck Horn, dismounted and strode inside. Buck Kelly was at the bar, talking to Andy Allard, and he squinted closely at Bob as he strode up to them.

“Talk a little, Buck,” advised Bob hoarsely. “I want to get this whole story in a few words.”

“Well,” Buck smiled faintly, “I guess I can tell it to you in a few words. The strange cowboy wanted to play poker and he sort of hoodled Splinter into the game. They were both drunk and I didn’t want to play with them, but they insisted.

“Only a few hands were dealt, when Splinter kinda fumbled with the discards. The stranger called him for it and then Splinter went for his gun, or acted like he was goin’ to, and the stranger reached for his gun. Splinter shot first.”

“And Splinter goes to jail for it, eh?” queried Bob.

“Well—” Buck spread his hands helplessly—“the stranger accused Splinter of cheating, and Splinter drew first.”

“Don’t blame me,” wailed Andy, “I had t’ do it. Between gun-fights and this —— tooth of mine, I’ll be crazy in another day.”

Bob squinted one eye at the mirror and rubbed his chin violently.

“Can I have a talk with Splinter, Andy?”

“Yeah—sure. I reckon he’s sobered up a lot. C’m on.”

“Who else seen this shootin’, Buck?” queried Bob.

“Well, I happened to be with them at the table; the bartender was up near the front window, and Pastry Pell was just comin’ in the back door.”

“All right,” nodded Bob and followed Andy out the front door.

“Was this Mellody person killed plumb dead?” asked Bob, as they crossed to the jail.

“No, he ain’t dead yet, Bob; but doc says he ain’t got a chance in the world.”

They went in through the sheriff’s office and Andy unlocked a cell door. Splinter was lying on a cot, smoking a cigaret; as unkempt a figure of a cowboy as could be imagined. His eyes were blood-shot, face dirty, but he grinned at Bob and motioned him to a stool.

“You sure went and raised ——, didn’t yuh?” said Bob reprovingly.

“That’s what they tell me,” agreed Splinter hoarsely, “but I don’t remember a danged thing, except—” He hesitated and closed his eyes for a moment. “Say, it’s —— funny that I can’t even remember playin’ poker.”

“You must ’a’ been pretty drunk.”

“Ke-rect. ’S a funny thing just the same.”

Splinter dug down in his pocket and drew out a twenty-dollar bill and a few cents in change.

“I had twenty-seven dollars when I started drinkin’. I figure I must ’a’ spent about seven dollars f’r hooch. What in —— did I buy poker-chips with? You know dang well that Buck don’t play against credit in his poker games.”

“Yuh sure that’s all yuh had?” queried Bob.

Splinter laughed wryly. “Cowboy, I ain’t no book-keeper, but I sure sabe my own finances.”

“But can’t yuh remember nothin’, Splinter?”

“Not much. There was a poker game, Bob; I remember that much, and I remember settin’ down in a chair. Then I kinda remember that somebody came in and I heard Mellody speak to him.”

Splinter shook his head helplessly.

“Buck sure sells bad hooch. I remember that shot. It kinda woke me up, and the next thing I knowed I was bein’ slammed around, and then I’m in jail, with Andy explainin’ to me that I’ve killed Mellody.”

“Uh-huh,” reflected Bob. “And Mellody spoke to somebody, did he?”

“Aw-w-w, I’ll be —— if I know, Bob. I think he did. You know how hazy things git when yuh drink a lot.”

Bob turned to Andy—

“You got Splinter’s gun, didn’t yuh?”

Andy nodded slowly.

“Yeah. One cartridge had been fired. It’s out in the desk, if yuh want to see it, Bob.”

“Never mind. I’m goin’ over and talk with Doc Knowles. Take it easy, Splinter.”

“That’s —— good advice,” said Splinter dryly.

Bob went up the street and into Doctor Knowles’ office, where he found the doctor in a chloroform scented atmosphere.

“Is that cowboy still alive, doc?” he asked.

“Yes, he’s alive yet, and I think he’ll pull out of it, but he sure had a close call, Kern. The bullet skidded on a rib and missed his heart. He’s tough. The shock of the bullet almost killed him. What’s got into this country?”

Bob shook his head.

“I dunno, doc. Didja take the bullets out of Gunnin’ yet?”

The doctor opened a drawer of his desk and took out a crumpled envelope, from which he took two lumps of lead. One was badly battered, but the other was almost in its original form. Bob looked them over closely and handed them back to the doctor.

“Keep ’em for me, will yuh, doc?” requested Bob. “Yuh never can tell when I’ll want ’em.”

“Certainly. Did you see John the Baptist?”

“Yeah, and he’s all hunkydory, doc. And yuh think that Mellody will pull through?”

“Unless I’m badly mistaken. He’s unconscious yet from shock and loss of blood, but he’ll pull through. He was soaked with whisky and I guess he never felt the pain of it, but he’ll yelp when he wakes up.”

Bob grinned and thanked him, as he went back to the street. Pastry Pell was just riding up to the hitch-rack and he waited for Bob to cross to him.

“You sure ride fast,” grinned Pastry. “Your dust ain’t settled yet, Kern.”

“No, and it ain’t goin’ to settle either,” said Bob meaningly.

Pastry trailed him into the Buck Horn, and Bob went straight to the crowd around the poker table.

“That cowboy ain’t dead, Buck,” he stated, “and Doc Knowles says he’ll live. I’ll buy a drink for the house.”

Nobody refused the invitation, and they lined up at the bar.

“Splinter was wonderin’ just how he stood in that poker game when it busted up,” stated Bob to Kelly. “He’s kinda hazy over it yet.”

Kelly scratched his nose and grew very thoughtful.

“Danged if I know, Kern. Splinter bought either five or ten dollars worth of chips, and I don’t know just how he stood. Anyway, I’ll give him a ten-spot, just to be on the safe side.”

“Tha’sall right,” nodded Bob.

“Is anythin’ bein’ done to catch Barr Wyeth?” questioned a cowboy.

Kelly laughed.

“I reckon everybody is waitin’ for the reward to be announced. Andy can’t get anybody to take the deputy job, and he ain’t got no jailer to take care of his prisoner now; so he’s kinda up against it.”

“I’m goin’ to take that job,” announced Bob seriously.

“You are?” laughed Kelly. “What’s the idea, Kern?”

“Just want to show off, I reckon,” grinned Bob. “Mebbe somebody’ll take a shot at me, I dunno.”

Andy Allard had come into the saloon in time to hear Bob’s declaration, and now he shoved his way to Bob’s side.

“You mean that, Bob?” he asked anxiously.

“Sure thing.”

Andy did a double-shuffle and slapped Bob on the back.

“Hurrah for our side! There’s fifteen hundred dollars reward for Barr Wyeth. The county offers a thousand and the State gives a measly five hundred.”

“Dead or alive?” asked a cowboy.

“For the arrest and conviction,” stated Andy. “Yuh can’t convict a dead man, can yuh?”

Kelly laughed shortly.

“Yuh might arrest him, but yuh never will convict him.”

“Why not?” asked Andy.

“After what he’s done?” queried Kelly. “You’ll have a —— of a time savin’ him for trial.”

“Maybe he never done it,” said Bob slowly.

“That would be hard to prove.”

“Yeah, it—might,” admitted Bob slowly. “Anyway, I hope this Mellody person lives.”

“What do yuh know about him?” asked Andy.

“Too danged little. It’s the things I want to know about him, Andy. I’m wonderin’ who told him that the Ten-Bar-B outfit was located here.”

“Whatcha want to find them for?” asked a cowboy.

“They sell their cows cheap,” explained Bob, “and I’d like to buy some stock cheap.”

“Mebbe the jasper that robbed John the Baptist had the same idea,” suggested Andy.

“I’ll ask him—some day,” smiled Bob, “and I don’t care whether he answers me or not. Let’s go over and talk to my drunken, gun-fightin’ bunkie.”

Bob and Andy started across the street, when Doctor Knowles came out of his office and motioned for them to come over there.

“Mellody is conscious now,” he stated, “and perhaps he can answer a few questions if you’ve got anything important to ask him.”

They followed the doctor into a bedroom at the rear of the house, where Mellody had been placed. He stared at the ceiling, muttering foolishly.

“Delirious again,” grumbled the doctor. “He was all right a minute ago. Asked about Splinter and a man by the uncommon name of Smith.”

“Yeah?” Bob was interested. “Say anythin’ else?”

“No, not much. Didn’t remember getting shot, I guess.”

Mellody’s clothes had been carelessly thrown on a chair, and one of the boots attracted Bob’s attention. He picked it up and looked it over. The boots were nearly new, but a chunk had been torn out of the edge of the sole, and above that, just at the bulge of the little toe, there was a decided crease in the leather.

Bob handed the boot to Andy and called his attention to the damaged sole.

“Looks like a bullet done that,” observed Andy. “It ain’t been done long ago either.”

Bob tossed the boot back on the chair and turned to the doctor—

“Let us know if he starts talkin’ sense, doc.”

The doctor nodded and they went back to the street.

“We’re goin’ back to the Buck Horn,” explained Bob, “and you let me do the talkin’, Andy.”

“’F you don’t, I won’t know what we’re there for,” grinned Andy.

There had evidently been much conversation regarding them, because the talk died quickly as they came in. Bob led the way over to the poker table and turned to Kelly.

“Buck, will yuh fix the chairs like they was at the time of the shootin’? We’ll need this for evidence when Splinter comes to trial, don’tcha see?”

“Sure,” agreed Kelly, and proceeded to place the chairs around the table.

“You was facin’ the back door, eh?” said Bob. “Mellody was facin’ the front door and Splinter was kinda between yuh.”

“Yes, that’s the way we were sittin’.”

“Did Mellody fall backwards when he was shot?”

“No-o-o, he fell forward on the table.”

“I see,” muttered Bob, as he drew a chair away and peered under the table.

Other men stooped and looked under the table, but Bob straightened up, a queer expression in his eyes.

“I reckon that’s all I wanted to know, Buck,” he stated and turned toward the door.

“What do you mean?” queried Kelly. “You talk like it wasn’t——”

“Got a right t’ talk, ain’t I?” demanded Bob. “I’m a deputy-sheriff.”

He laughed mirthlessly and went out the front door, while Andy plodded along behind him.

“Whatcha find out?” asked Andy anxiously, as they crossed the street. “Lemme in on it, Bob.”

“My ——, don’t bother me when I’m knittin’!” exploded Bob. “I might drop a stitch.”

Bob went straight to a State map on the office wall and studied it closely. He drew a penciled line from Searchlight to Bunch Grass and compared it with the scale of miles on the map. Then he turned to Andy.

“Say, we ain’t a —— of a ways from Wyomin’, are we.”

“That,” said Andy disgustedly, “is a —— of a thing to hear yuh say, when I was looking to hear somethin’ worth listenin’ to.”

“Well, it ain’t much,” agreed Bob, “but it’s one of the stitches. Didja ever consider that Comanche Cañon might be an easy pass across the main divide?”

“I know danged well it is,” said Andy. “I’ve been up to the top, where I could look into Wyomin’. Why, it’s a railroad grade all the way. Betcha some day they’ll run trains through that pass.”

Bob nodded and studied the map again.

“What do we do now?” queried Andy.

“Oh yeah.” Bob scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Well, I suppose we might as well go out and arrest Barr Wyeth.”

“Zasso? Just like that, eh? Yuh don’t suppose that Barr Wyeth would stay in this country after he’d killed the sheriff, do yuh, Bob?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he would, under them circumstances.”

“Then what do yuh mean?”

“Andy,” said Bob thoughtfully, “a crook is like a calf; if yuh give ’em enough rope they’ll tangle themselves. There ain’t never been an outlaw yet, if he was left alone long enough, that didn’t wind up his own little ball of yarn. Mebbe they figure that it’s hard luck that stops ’em; mebbe they can look back and see where a little mistake upset their game, and mostly always that little mistake was in goin’ too —— far.

“That’s the trouble with ’em, Andy. The game looks so easy to beat that they pyramid their bets. When yo’re right, there’s an element of luck, but when yo’re wrong, yore luck is packin’ a hoodoo. The way I figure it is this: Crime is a payin’ proposition—for the devil.”

Andy listened closely and nodded his head.

“Yeah, I betcha yo’re right, Bob; but I don’t know a —— thing yo’re talkin’ about. I sabe the calf and the rope idea, but I dunno who yo’re referrin’ to.”

“I ain’t sure myself,” grinned Bob, “but didn’t I say a lot of stuff, like a temperance orator?”

“Yuh sure can use words, cowboy,” said Andy generously. “But I’d rather have yuh tell me what yuh was lookin’ for under Buck’s poker-table.”

“Didn’t yuh see it?” queried Bob. “Yuh didn’t? There’s a bullet hole in the floor, Andy.”

Andy rubbed his nose violently and caressed his sore jaw.

“Uh-h-h-huh. That’s the same bullet that nicked that cowboy’s boot-sole, eh?”

Bob nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, the same bullet.”

“Now,” said Andy wonderingly, “who in —— tried to shoot him in the feet, Bob?”

“That nicked sole was just a little mistake that the devil put in, Andy. I betcha he’s laughin’ right now.”

“I’ll betcha he is, but I don’t know what for,” confessed Andy foolishly, as he got to his feet. “Let’s go and git some supper.”

After supper they ran into Windy Hart and Mark Ells, and Bob asked them what they were doing.

“We’re still with the Lightnin’,” grinned Windy.

“Runnin’ it on yore own hook?”

“Well, yuh might say so,” agreed Windy. “We was goin’ to pull out, ’cause there wasn’t nobody to pay us a salary nor to tell us what to do; but Buck Kelly sent that gabby-mouthed Pell out to tell us to stay on the job. I reckon Kelly is goin’ to take over the outfit.”

“I s’pose,” nodded Bob seriously, and then, “Windy, I’m goin’ to ask you a question, and I hope you’ll answer it straight. Does Barr Wyeth ride a horse that wears a bar-shoe?”

Windy hesitated over the answer and looked closely at Mark Ells, who rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“He did,” said Mark slowly. “That hammer-headed sorrel wore a bar-shoe.”

“But that sorrel has been dead for a month,” stated Windy. “Got cut up in the bob-wire and we had to shoot him.”

“I tell yuh where yuh can find the remains,” offered Mark. “Yuh know where yuh hit the wire fence this side of the ranch? She kinda angles along the hill? Well, that sorrel is in the first coulee off the road. Likely the coyotes have packed it mostly all away, but yuh might take a look.”

“I’m sure obliged to yuh,” said Bob. “I sure am.”

“First time I ever got thanked for a dead horse,” grinned Mark.

“What’s this stuff about the reward for Barr Wyeth?” queried Windy. “Fifteen hundred, is it? Suppose they lynch him, who gets the reward?”

“There won’t be none paid,” said Andy flatly.

From there they went over to Doctor Knowles’ office to inquire regarding the condition of Mellody. The doctor took them back into the bedroom and they found Mellody fully conscious but very peevish.

“By ——, I hope you jaspers ain’t tongue-tied,” he said painfully. “This —— doctor won’t talk, except to tell me that I got shot in a poker game and that the hombre that shot me is in jail. Is that right?”

Bob nodded.

“Yeah, that’s true, Mellody.”

“Who shot me?”

“Splinter—the fat cowboy you was drinkin’ with.”

“Yeah?” Mellody’s eyes opened wide. “What fer?”

“Don’tcha remember of accusin’ him of cheatin’?”

Mellody wrinkled his brow and shut one eye as he squinted at Bob.

“Did I? Well, by the mighty Missouri River, that’s queer hooch we was drinkin’. My ——, I must ’a’ been drunk! ’F anybody’d asked me, I’d ’a’ said that the game hadn’t started yet.”

“Thasso?” Bob grinned widely. “Then who did shoot yuh, Mellody?”

“—— if I know—’cause I had my head turned.”

“How many shots were fired?”

“How in —— do I know? I never heard any of ’em.”

“Were you so drunk that you wouldn’t ’a’ heard a shot fired—if yuh hadn’t been hit?”

“Not me. I never was so drunk that I couldn’t start runnin’ any old time they starts throwin’ lead.”

“Then yuh don’t know whether Splinter shot yuh or not, eh?”

Mellody shook his head.

“I tell yuh I don’t know who shot me. He was awful drunk, I remember that; so drunk that he couldn’t get money out of his pocket.”

“Who was you lookin’ at when you turned around, Mellody?”

“I been wonderin’ about that myself. I was pretty drunk, and I might ’a’ been mistaken, but I thought it was Windy Smith, the foreman of the Ten-Bar-B outfit.”

“Who’s he?” queried Andy, but no one seemed able to explain.

Bob nodded slowly and turned back to the door. It was dark outside, and half-way across the street to the Buck Horn they met Windy and Mark.

“Gotta question to ask yuh,” said Bob, grinning. “What color horse has Barr Wyeth been ridin’ since his sorrel had to be shot?”

“Sorrel,” grunted Windy. “They looked a little alike, but the one we shot was bigger.”

“Thank yuh again,” grunted Bob and headed for the hitch-rack.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Andy.

“Goin’ to take a little ride, boss. You stay here and keep your eyes and ears open. Tomorrow is Saturday and everybody in the country will be in town; sabe? It would be a —— of a fine day to pull off a lynchin’.”

Andy gawped after him as he rode away down the street, and turned back toward the office. Andy was a slow thinker, and had no idea what it was all about, but he had confidence in his new deputy.

Bob rode straight to the place designated by Mark Ells, and had little trouble in locating the remains of the hammer-headed sorrel. There was little left except bones, but with the aid of matches he was able to find that all four shoes were still on the hoofs, and the right front hoof was shod with a bar-shoe.

A coyote yapped at him from the side of the hill, and from back in the brushy coulee came the spitting snarl of a hunting bobcat that had probably been cheated of its prey. Bob swung back on his horse and headed into the hills toward the JHF ranch.

He whistled unmusically between his teeth and grinned at the moon which was just peeping over the top of Blackfeet Pass.

“My knittin’ is almost done, bronc,” he told his horse, “or mebbe it’s more like weavin’ a pattern so that both sides come out the same. A fool crook only looks after the big things, and the first thing he knows a little thing gets tangled in his spurs and trips him.”

It was a long ways across the hills to the JHF, but Bob was in no hurry. It was nearly midnight when he rode down the slope behind the big barn and tied his horse to the corral fence. There was a faint light in one of the ranch-house windows, and Bob grinned as he noticed that this was in the spare bedroom.

He went softly into the bunk-house and sat down beside a window, without lighting a lamp. The moonlight flooded the old ranch-house, and cast heavy shadows across the yard. A cow bawled sleepily and a big, gray owl drifted like a shadow across the moonlit space and faded into the cottonwoods behind the house.

Then Bob saw a man come out of the shadows and stand looking toward the house. After a moment he walked boldly across the lighted space and up to the window, where he blended into the shadows.

Bob stepped to the door and opened it a few inches. He heard the soft creak as the window was raised, but could hear no voices. Quickly he turned and went to a rear window, which he opened, and crawled outside. By circling the corral he could keep in the shadows of the barn until he came to the shadows of the cottonwoods.

He went softly, taking plenty of time. The lamp had been extinguished now, but he could hear soft voices. Cautiously he circled the house until only the corner separated him from the man at the window. It was Barr Wyeth talking—

“—last place they’d look for me, and I had to have food.”

He was unable to hear Nell Wyeth’s reply, but she must have told him to come into the kitchen, because he said—

“Anythin’, Nell, just so it’s food.”

He stepped away from the window, came around the corner and ran into the muzzle of Bob’s six-shooter.

He smothered a curse and his arms instinctively went up. Without a word, Bob stepped in and took Barr’s gun from its holster. The moonlight flashed on his badge and Barr saw it.

“Turned sheriff to get me, eh?” he sneered.

“Somethin’ like that,” said Bob coldly. “Turn around and head for the kitchen. Yuh don’t need to keep your hands up, Wyeth.”

Nell Wyeth had unlocked the kitchen door and was putting food on the table when Bob herded his captive inside. She was only dressed in a night gown and her hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders.

She stared at Bob and her hands went to her mouth, as if to stifle a scream. Barr sank down in a chair and stared at the floor. He was uncombed, unkempt and the lines of his face were graved deeply.

“He turned deputy sheriff to get me, Nell,” said Barr in a flat voice. “He’s makin’ good.”

The sound of voices had awakened Ma Fann and now she leaned in around the dining-room doorway, her night-cap awry, her old eyes heavy with sleep.

“What in the world!” she exclaimed wonderingly.

Bob said nothing, but he watched Barr closely. Nell turned away from the table and sank down in a chair, crying wearily.

“Ma,” said Bob softly, “I reckon Barr Wyeth is hungry.”

Barr lifted his face and stared at Bob.

“A —— of a lot you care, Kern.”

“I s’pose,” said Bob sadly.

“I’ll get him a meal,” said Ma Fann. “Just wait until I slip on some clothes. Nell, you better put on some, too.”

Nell got to her feet and walked to the door, where she turned and looked at Bob.

“You’re satisfied now, aren’t you?” she asked bitterly. “You are a very good prophet, Bob Kern.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Bob, “I s’pose I am.”

Neither of the two men spoke while Ma Fann was dressing. She had explained things to John Fann, who came out with her, his head still swathed in bandages. He looked at Barr Wyeth and shook his head sadly, but turned to Bob—

“You are a deputy sheriff now, Bob?”

“Yeah, I am, John. Took the job today.”

“I suppose I’m already convicted,” observed Barr. There was a trace of his old sarcastic smile now.

Bob nodded—

“Yeah, I s’pose you’d call it that.”

“Can you wait for me to make a pot of coffee?” asked Ma Fann. “Everything else is cold.”

Barr drew his chair up to the table and attacked the food like a starving man.

“Don’t make me wait for the coffee. I’d like some, y’betcha, but I can’t wait.”

Ma Fann watched him for a moment, shook her head sadly and began preparing a pot of coffee. Nell came in and sat down across the table from Barr. She did not look at Bob, who had sat down, holding the six-shooter in his lap. He had put Barr’s gun in his own holster.

“Splinter still in jail?” asked John Fann.

“Yeah.”

“Splinter?”

Barr Wyeth turned and stared at Bob.

“Did you put him in, too?”

“Nope. Andy put him in for gunnin’ a feller in a poker-game. The man will get well.”

“Well, I’ll have company, anyway,” observed Barr.

“Barr, don’t talk like that!” Nell Wyeth’s voice was full of tears. “Oh, why did you come here tonight? We all thought you had left the country and was in a safe place.”

“Our friend Kern didn’t,” said Barr bitterly.

“Do you have to take him to Bunch Grass?” asked John Fann.

“Yeah, I do, John,” nodded Bob. “Why ask me that?”

“Knowing how the people feel about him,” said John, “don’t you think it is a little dangerous? And tomorrow everybody in the country will be in town, Bob.”

“I reckon that’ll be all right, John.”

Barr finished his meal and turned to Bob—

“Well, let’s go, Kern, I’m ready.”

“You ain’t runnin’ this party,” stated Bob, a half-grin on his face. “Yuh see, yo’re a dangerous person, and I’m waitin’ for daylight.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Bob, you don’t mean that, do you?” asked John Fann quickly. “Are you going to let every one——”

“He wants to show me to everybody,” interrupted Barr. “Somebody better make him a banner to carry.”

“Well—” John Fann shook his head—“I don’t know what it is all about, but you’re taking a big chance of having your prisoner taken away from you, Bob.”

“Yeah, I s’pose,” nodded Bob sadly. “This is the first man I ever arrested, and yuh hadn’t ought to try and stop me from advertisin’ it, John.”

John Fann squinted closely at Bob. He knew Bob too well to accept such a shallow excuse. There was something beside vanity connected with bringing Barr Wyeth into Bunch Grass in daylight, but John Fann did not know what it was.

Ma Fann cleared away the dishes and food. On the shelf an old alarm clock ticked noisily. Each of the five people in the little kitchen was deep in his own thoughts. One of the babies cried fitfully and Ma Fann bustled out of the room. Barr Wyeth lifted his head and looked at his wife, but she was staring down at the table-cloth. He turned and looked at Bob Kern.

“It’s goin’ to be hard on them,” he said softly, meaning the babies. There was no bitterness in his voice now.

Bob smiled softly and eased himself in his chair.

For half an hour the inhabitants of Bunch Grass carried water from all available wells, formed a bucket-brigade and did everything possible to save Doctor Knowles’ office and home, but to no avail.

At five o’clock in the morning a cowboy, coming out of the Buck Horn, had seen the flames inside the house. Quickly he had sounded the alarm. The place was an inferno when enough men arrived to carry out Mellody, the wounded cowboy, who had been slightly scorched. The doctor’s desk and a few pieces of furniture had been saved, but the rest of it went up in the flames that threatened to sweep the whole town.

No one knew the cause of the fire. Doctor Knowles swore that he had left no lamp burning, and at that time of the year there was no need of a fire, except for cooking purposes. Shortly after daylight the town began to fill up with people from the outlying districts, who made Saturday sort of a gala shopping day. They gazed upon the ruins, wished aloud that they had been there to see the blaze, and went on about their business.

As usual, Pastry Pell was much in evidence and told a graphic story of the fire. He had been drinking, and as a result the stories were totally different. Buck Kelly’s trade started early, and the thirst-burdened cattlemen crowded the place to capacity.

It had been decided that Chet Gunning’s funeral would be held that afternoon, and the conversation naturally turned to the excitement of the last few days. There was much argument over the robbery of John the Baptist, but that was secondary to the killing of the sheriff.

“And there ain’t been nothin’ done to lay the deadwood on Barr Wyeth either,” declared “Butch” Fletcher, who owned the Flying-M outfit. “It’s a —— of a note when a feller can shoot the sheriff and git plumb away without even havin’ anybody on his trail.”

“Been wires sent to every sheriff,” said another cattleman, who was so badly crosseyed that no one could ever tell in which direction he was looking.

“Might as well send ’em a Christmas present,” grunted Butch. “Catch him and string him up, that’s my motto.”

Whisky began to percolate widely and it appeared that Chet Gunning was a bloodbrother to every cow-man in the town. A few more drinks, and all they lived for was revenge.

It was about ten o’clock when a half-drunk cowboy floundered into the Buck Horn and blurted out news that sent every man in the place on a run for the door. Bob Kern was riding into town with Barr Wyeth, and just behind them came John the Baptist, Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth in a buggy.

Andy Allard saw them, too. He darted back to Splinter’s cell, threw open the door and handed the surprized Splinter a Winchester rifle.

“C’m on!” he blurted. “What in ——’s the use of havin’ a prisoner, if yuh don’t use him?”

Splinter trotted out behind him and they raced up the street, shoving cartridges into the loading-gates of their rifles.

The crowd from the Buck Horn had swung out into the street, and almost surrounded Bob and Barr. Andy and Splinter shoved their way through and waved the crowd back.

Butch Fletcher shoved his way to the front.

“Yuh might as well cave in and let us have him,” he declared. “It’ll save trouble and expense.”

Most of the crowd were half-drunk and Bob knew they were in a dangerous mood, but he only grinned and shook his head.

“Butch, yo’re a four-flusher,” he said slowly.

“The —— I am!” Butch snapped.

He turned and looked at those about him.

“Are we goin’ to let him get away with this kinda stuff?”

“No!” yelled a voice at the rear of the crowd. “Git a rope!”

“That sounded like Pastry Pell,” said Bob, standing up in his stirrups and peering over the crowd; but the owner of the voice had ducked.

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?” asked Andy impatiently. “I’m itchin’ to ruin the census.”

“You fellers want to lynch him, don’tcha?” queried Bob.

“We’re goin’ to lynch him,” corrected Butch.

“Without givin’ him a chance to tell his story?”

“What in —— story has he got to tell?” demanded Buck Kelly. “This is a dead open-and-shut case.”

“Still, he’s got a right to tell his side, ain’t he?”

There were murmurs of approval.

“Let him tell it,” agreed Butch. “We don’t have to believe it, do we, Kern?”

“No,” Bob shook his head. “I ain’t askin’ yuh to believe it—just to listen, Butch.”

“All right, let him go ahead and tell us,” agreed Butch.

Barr looked questioningly at Bob. He had no defense—nothing to tell that would help his case in any way. The crowd moved in closer and ranged in sort of a semi-circle, so that all might see and hear. Directly in front of Bob and Barr was Buck Kelly, Butch Fletcher, Mark Ells.

Pastry Pell had summoned up enough courage to shove his way to the front, and now he was at the edge of the circle to the right of the two mounted men.

Andy and Splinter still held their rifles ready for action and watched the crowd.

“Well, why in —— don’t he talk?” asked one of the men. “He had so —— much to say, didn’t he?”

“I know his story better than he does,” said Bob slowly, “so he won’t mind if I tell it for him. This story kinda dates back a little bit, gents. It starts with the stealin’ of JHF cattle by a man who rides a horse that wears a bar-shoe. We found a yearling with the JHF blotted and the Lightnin’ run on. That was Barr Wyeth’s start.”

“That’s a good story,” applauded a cowboy.

“Barr Wyeth hated John Fann,” continued Bob, “and that was a good excuse for him to steal JHF cattle. Chet Gunnin’ found out about the rustlin’ and the word kinda got to Barr Wyeth. Naturally, he gets mad and declares war. He tries to kill John Fann with a bottle of hooch, but missed a bull’s-eye by an inch.

“Barr Wyeth drank and gambled away his ranch to Buck Kelly, and he needs money goshawful bad. John Fann mortgages his ranch to Buck Kelly for eight thousand dollars and starts home with the money, when he gets shot with a forty-four bullet and robbed of his money.

“Barr Wyeth was in the cañon at that time, and the man who shot and robbed John Fann rode a horse that wore a bar-shoe. I know this, because I found where he had stood when he fired the shot and I trailed that bar-shoe over the rim of the cañon. Kinda looks like Barr Wyeth kept up the good work, don’t it?”

The crowd grunted an approval. They were interested in this story, because the most of it was new to them.

“It must ’a’ been Barr Wyeth,” continued Bob. “There were only three men, Buck Kelly, Judge Freeman and John Fann, who knew about the mortgage money. And I’ll tell yuh why John Fann drew that money. It was to help Barr Wyeth pay off his debts.

“John Fann thought that Barr was stealin’ cows to try and pay off his debts, and he was goin’ to give Barr this money.”

“How did Barr know that John Fann had this money?” asked Butch Fletcher.

“That’s got me beat,” grinned Bob, and looked at the blank face of his prisoner.

He turned and looked at the three people in the buggy. Nell Wyeth’s face was very white and she turned away, a look of loathing for his apparently deliberate speech of accusation. Ma Fann tried to smile at Bob, but it was a pitiful attempt to show that she still had confidence in him.

“Then,” said Bob, turning back to the crowd, “there comes the shootin’ of Chet Gunnin’. I seen a lot of that. Barr Wyeth accused Gunnin’ of havin’ a hand in the robbin’ of John Fann, but I don’t sabe what he meant.

“Anyway, Barr dove out through the window, Chet rushes out through the door and starts shootin’. Somebody plugs him twice and he’s dead.”

Bob stopped and looked around at the circle of faces.

“Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four Colt gun, gents; remember this. There’s a certain party in Bunch Grass who delights in packin’ lies. Mebbe he can’t help it. Some folks can’t, especially if they want to start a conversation. I mean Pastry Pell.”

All eyes turned to Pastry, who tried to back into the crowd, but they closed ranks and stopped him.

“Yeah, he lied to Barr Wyeth about the JHF and he lied to the JHF about the Lightnin’. Now, we’ll get back to the cattle rustlin’. Over five hundred head of the JHF stock has faded away, and that’s some cows, gents. It’s a man-sized job to dispose of that many cows. Yuh can’t blot brands and get away with it. No sir, you’ve got to be slicker than that.

“It had me fightin’ my head for a long time, but along comes a cowboy from Wyomin’ and hands me the key. He’s lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit. Ever hear of it?”

The cattlemen shook their heads. It was not a known brand.

“I didn’t sabe it,” grinned Bob. “This puncher is looking for a job with that outfit. He said that the owner of that brand had driven a lot of stock over into Wyoming and sold ’em to the outfit he worked for. Sold ’em cheap, too. Said the range was burnt out over here.

“This was the same puncher that Splinter was supposed to have leaded up in a poker game.”

“Supposed to?” queried Kelly. “Whatcha mean, Kern?”

“What I just said,” replied Bob softly. “Splinter was too drunk to shoot anybody. Mellody had a bullet in him and there’s one in the floor under the table, Buck. That bullet nicked Mellody’s boot.”

“Well, whatcha drivin’ at?” asked Butch Fletcher.

“Here’s what I mean,” said Bob coldly. “Wyeth’s horse that wore the bar-shoe has been dead a month. The shoes are still on its hoofs. Barr Wyeth is too wise to half-blot a JHF and smear on a Lightnin’ brand. Somebody knew of the bar-shoe and they didn’t know that Wyeth’s horse was dead. They bungled the brand-blottin’ to cover their own work.”

“That’s just yore idea, ain’t it?” queried a cowboy.

“Yeah, that’s right,” smiled Bob; “but yuh must remember that a rider of a bar-shoe horse shot and robbed John Fann. Yes sir, and they shot him with a forty-four bullet, but—” Bob fumbled in his pocket and drew out the cartridge shell he had found near the cañon rim—“here’s the shell of that cartridge. It’s swelled so it won’t fit a forty-four.”

Bob held it up for them to see.

“Gents, that shell was fired from a forty-five gun!”

“What does that mean?” asked Kelly, a trifle nervously.

“Just that and nothin’ more, Kelly,” replied Bob. “I’m tellin’ this tale as fast as I can. As I told yuh before, Barr Wyeth shoots a forty-four gun. The bullets that Doctor Knowles took out of Chet Gunnin’ were forty-fives.”

“The —— they were!” exploded Andy Allard. “I never knowed that.”

“Here’s what happened,” explained Bob. “Somebody was just gettin’ off their horse in front of the JHF ranchhouse when Chet busts out and starts shootin’. They just naturally shoots back at him. Barr Wyeth couldn’t ’a’ fired them shots.”

“Well, who in —— did?” demanded Butch Fletcher.

“You’d accuse me of guessin’, if I told yuh,” grinned Bob, “but I’ll tell yuh some more. This Mellody cowpuncher comes lookin’ for the Ten-Bar-B outfit, of which there ain’t no such an animal—not visible.

“Accordin’ to Hoyle he ain’t supposed to come here after that ghost-outfit, and there’s certain folks who ain’t noways in favor of his comin’. He gets drunk and sets into a poker game, gents. Then he turns his head and sees the owner of the Ten-Bar-B outfit coming in.”

Bob eased back in his saddle and his muscles seemed to draw taut.

“Pastry Pell,” he said slowly, “you stay where you are.”

Bob’s eyes drew down and he moved a trifle sideways in his saddle.

“Gents, the man who stole JHF cows; the man who shot and robbed John Fann; the man who killed Chet Gunnin’ and the man who sold the Ten-Bar-B cows to the Wyomin’ outfit is the same man. If you take the JHF brand, make an O out of the J, make the F into a B and draw a bar in front of the O, you’ve got the Ten-Bar-B.”

A murmur of astonishment came from the audience.

“By ——, that’s right!” exploded Butch Fletcher. “Who——”

“And this Mellody got shot because he recognized him,” gritted Bob. “There was two shots, gents. Splinter was so drunk that he never knew that they took his gun and fired it into the floor. The hole is there under the poker-table and there’s a notch in Mellody’s boot-sole.”

“But who in —— was it?” panted Andy, never taking his eyes off the circle.

“A man who talked too much; a man who shoots a forty-five six-gun—our harmless friend, Pastry Pell!”

Pastry Pell’s gun had always been a joke in the Bunch Grass country, but his joke-gun was only part of his harmless make-up. Swiftly as Bob Kern could draw, he would have been far too slow, but Andy was watching closely and fired the Winchester from his hip.

And almost over the spouting muzzle of that rifle, straight out of his saddle plunged Bob Kern, and his arms wrapped in a death-like grip around the body of Buck Kelly. They crashed back into the crowd, just as Pastry Pell spun on his heel and went face-down, riddled with bullets from the Winchester.

The crowd dragged Bob and Buck to their feet, and Andy managed to snap handcuffs onto Buck’s wrists.

“What did Buck have to do with it?” demanded Butch excitedly.

“He was the brains of it,” panted Bob. “It took brains to figure that brand, Butch. I never suspicioned Buck until Mellody got shot. He shot Mellody because Mellody recognized Pastry as the owner of the Ten-Bar-B, and they knew the game was up.”

Bob turned to Buck—

“Pastry set fire to Doc Knowles’ house to try and get rid of Mellody, didn’t he?”

“You know too —— much now!” snarled Kelly.

“Well, I reckon we’ll just use the rope pronto,” observed Butch. “No use delayin’ this, is there, gents?”

“Wait a minute,” said Bob. “I saved you fellers from doin’ a —— bad job, didn’t I? Well, let the law handle this case. There ain’t any of yuh so —— perfect that you’ve got any right to hang a man.”

“That’s right,” agreed a cowboy. “If yuh ever stop to assay yourself—eh, Bob?”

Barr Wyeth came pawing his way through the crowd and clapped Bob on the shoulder.

“I ain’t got words enough to say what I want to, Bob. Pastry Pell lived long enough to tell me that everythin’ you told ’em was true, and he said that Kelly always dealt a crooked game with me ’cause he wanted my ranch, and he told me that he had lied to me about you and John Fann. Kelly wanted to break the JHF and buy it cheap.

“But Pastry told us that Kelly had nothing to do with shootin’ and robbin’ of John Fann. He heard John and Kelly talkin’ about it when he was washin’ his face near the door of Kelly’s office; so he thought he’d make a little money for himself. He thought it would help Kelly break the JHF.”

“Yeah, and I —— near done it, too,” mumbled Kelly. “But just to show yuh that I quit the game, I’m givin’ yuh back your notes, Wyeth. I don’t reckon I’ll have any use for a cattle ranch. Tear up John Fann’s mortgage. Now put me in jail and call it a day.”

Andy and several of the cowboys led him to the jail, while others picked up the remains of Pastry Pell and carried him into the Buck Horn.

John the Baptist, Ma Fann and Nell Wyeth were still sitting in the buggy in the middle of the street. Barr had walked over to them and now he was leaning on a wheel. None of them were talking, but all were watching Bob Kern, who was still standing in the street, thinking it over.

“Bob Kern!” called Nell Wyeth.

Bob lifted his head and his serious expression faded into a broad grin. He went slowly over, patted the buggy horse and adjusted the bridle.

“Bob Kern, can you ever—” Nell Wyeth’s voice broke—“can you ever forgive me for what I’ve thought and said?”

“Why did you do this for us?” asked Barr hoarsely. “You knew we hated you, Kern. I don’t understand.”

“Well—” John Fann cleared his throat with difficulty—“Well, why don’t you tell them, Bob?”

“I’ll tell yuh,” Bob grinned softly, as he rubbed the palm of his hand on the buggywheel, “I—I—John, you asked me to round up all the JHF cattle, and I’m lazy as the dickens, and I didn’t want to do it; so I stalled around, tryin’ to keep from workin’ and I couldn’t help findin’ out things.

“Yuh see, I wanted to come into town when there was a crowd; so that nobody would miss my oration. Tha’sall, I reckon. Laziness drove me to become a de-teck-itive.”

Bob gave the wheel a final rub and turned away, going toward the sheriff’s office.

“Bob!” called Ma Fann softly.

He stopped and looked back.

“Don’t you know it is wrong to lie, Bob?”

Bob shuffled his toe in the dust and looked back at her seriously.

“Yes’m, Ma, it sure is. Liars don’t never go to heaven.”

He grinned widely and went on.

“If he don’t,” said Nell Wyeth softly, “it’s because there’s a better place than that.”

John the Baptist picked up the lines and nodded his head.

“I reckon we better be goin’ home. Get your horse, son.”

“All right, dad,” said Barr, and headed for the hitch-rack.

Bob Kern stood in the doorway of the office and saw them drive away, a look of unutterable sadness in his homely face. Then he shook his head, as if to drive away memories, and smiled softly to himself.

Transcriber’s Note

The three paragraphs starting with “Perhaps, she thought” are shown as printed, though there is an apparent localized transposition of the Barr Wyeth and Bob Kern characters.

This story appeared in the January 10, 1924 issue of Adventure magazine.