Front matter (continued 2)

“They are leaving the Half-Circle Cross because they would not obey orders.”

“Yeah? Well, mebbe we won’t obey ’em either, Allenby. But if you want to take that chance—we’re willin’, eh, Sleepy?”

“We can always quit,” said Sleepy indifferently.

“Well, that is settled,” said Allenby, with a certain amount of satisfaction, as he got up and started for the door. “You will be out to the ranch today?”

“Before supper time,” said Hashknife.

A few minutes later Omaha and Hoban rode into town, with their war-sack, containing their belongings, tied to the back of their saddles. Allenby met them on the street and paid what was due on their salaries.

Clayton was not going back to the ranch; so Allenby left town alone.

“What did yuh take these jobs for?” asked Sleepy, as he and Hashknife saddled their horses at the sheriff’s stable.

“Just a fool notion thasall,” said Hashknife seriously.

“All right,” Sleepy retorted grudgingly. “Forty a month, and take orders from some kid.”

“We ain’t took no orders from him yet, Sleepy.”

“That’s true. I’d kinda like to know what kind of orders he passed out to them other two hired men.”

“Wait and see,” advised Hashknife. “We’ll likely find out.”

About a mile out of town they overtook Allenby, who had driven off the side of the road and was waiting for them.

“I didn’t want to say too much there in town,” he told them. “Freeman told me your names at the time he spoke about me hiring you; so I know you are the same men. I think I need your help now more than I did before, and I just want to say that I’m still willing to pay you the sum of five thousand dollars for evidence that will convict those who have been stealing my stock.

“The men who have been stealing my stock are the same ones that killed Seeley. A conviction for rustling will fasten the murder on them also. For some reason or other, it appears that we have been working at cross purposes. I think you know what I mean.”

“Don’t reckon I do,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“That matter concerning the pinto and gray horse.”

“Oh, yeah. I heard the sheriff sayin’ somethin’ about it. What was it all about, Allenby?”

Allenby studied Hashknife and Sleepy for several moments. Sleepy’s expression was as innocent as that of a child, while Hashknife’s was merely indifferent, as he carefully shaped a cigaret and struck a match with his thumb nail.

“Well,” said Allenby dubiously, “perhaps—but it doesn’t matter.”

He spoke sharply to the team, which surged back into the road, and the two cowboys followed leisurely behind him.

“He’s still got that five thousand,” laughed Hashknife.

“Yeah, and he can keep it,” said Sleepy. “I don’t want no thirty-thirty bullets between my shoulders, y’betcha.”

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to Moolock the next day. Allenby and his son left early, as they were not sure what time the inquest was to be held. They gave no orders to Hashknife and Sleepy. Allenby told them to get used to the ranch, and to take it easy for their first day.

The two cowboys had instinctively liked Mrs. Allenby, a quiet little woman. June had colored slightly during her introduction to Hashknife as she recognized him, and wondered if he had remembered her meeting with Bud Bell.

Sleepy did not like the Half-Circle Cross ranch buildings.

“Ain’t noways homelike,” he complained. “Makes yuh feel like yore civilized. Even the bunkhouse door don’t squeak. By golly, I’d put some sand into them hinges if I stayed here long. Carpet on the bunkhouse floor and a re-cep-tickle for cigaret butts!”

“It sure is kinda dude-like,” admitted Hashknife. “But you have to excuse Allenby; he’s from the city. If he runs cows long enough he’ll develop squeaky hinges, bare floors and weather-beaten exteriors.”

About an hour after Harry and his father left the ranch, June asked Hashknife if he would saddle her horse. She rode a racy-looking little sorrel, a swell-fork saddle; and her riding clothes consisted of a divided skirt, flannel shirt, cowboy boots and a floppy sombrero.

“Mucho buena!” exclaimed Sleepy softly, as she rode away.

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife.

They watched until she disappeared in the hills to the east. There was nothing for them to do except to loaf around.

The inquest at Moolock caused a certain amount of interest, and there was quite a crowd present. Allenby admitted that Seeley was a detective, hired for him by Clayton, the cattle-buyer. Clayton said he had met Seeley a number of times, and knew that Seeley was a man of ability. The sheriff produced and read Clayton’s letter to Seeley, which had been among Seeley’s effects; and the hastily picked coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Seeley had been shot in the back by a party or parties unknown.

There was considerable discussion among the cattlemen, following the inquest. They had ignored Allenby’s statements regarding the number of cattle he had lost lately; but they were forced to admit that it was serious enough to cause a man to get shot in the back.

Neither Hank nor Bud Bell were in town. It might have complicated matters a little, as it was well known that there was bad blood between them and Allenby. The inquest was held about two o’clock in the afternoon, and at about three o’clock the stage from White Eagle, thirty miles away, came into town, with the driver, “Shorty” Elkins, sitting straight in the seat, hanging on with both hands, and with the lines twisted around one foot and held between his knees.

The team went past the stage station, caught the right front wheel into the post of a hitch-rack and jerked to a sudden stop; so sudden that Shorty pitched off over the wheel and fell against the sidewalk, where he stayed until some of the men picked him up.

They straightened him out on the sidewalk and some one poured a drink of whisky between his white lips.

“My gosh!” exploded Larry Neil, an Arrowhead cowboy, “somebody has sure riddled poor Shorty. Somebody get the doctor.”

Swan River Smith arrived, as did Allenby and Clayton. Another drink of whisky, forced between Shorty’s lips, seemed to revive him enough to open his eyes.

“How are yuh, Shorty?” asked Swan River. “Can yuh tell us what happened to yuh?”

Shorty’s eyes were filming, but he was conscious. He tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too much. Several times he twisted his lips, trying to speak. Then—

“June—Allenby——”

He managed to speak her name, spacing it widely.

“What about her, Shorty?” asked Swan River anxiously. “Try it again, son.”

“She—” He spoke the one word, tried to say more, but was unable to open his mouth again.

“Shorty’s dead,” said Swan River softly, getting to his feet.

Fred Hartwell, owner of the stage line, forced his way to the center and looked down at the dead man who had been his driver. Swan River told him all they knew about it, and they watched Hartwell as he examined the contents of the stage.

“The treasure box is gone,” he said. “We won’t know how much has been stolen until we check up with the office at White Eagle.”

The doctor arrived, and after a short examination shook his head, as he listened to a description of how the stage had arrived.

“I don’t see how he lived that long,” declared the doctor. “He must have fought hard against it.”

“But what did he mean about my daughter?” asked Allenby anxiously. “What could he have meant?”

“She wasn’t on the stage today, was she?” asked the sheriff.

“No. She was at home when I left there.” Allenby whirled and ran to his buckboard.

“Some of us better ride to the Half-Circle Cross,” said the sheriff quickly. “Shorty had that girl on his mind for some reason. Dang it, why didn’t he live longer!”

Swan River bowlegged his way swiftly toward his stable, with Forty Dollar right at his heels; while several of the cowboys mounted and waited for the sheriff to ride with them. But far ahead of them went the team of cream colored bronchos, running at top speed, while the lurching buckboard threatened at any time to capsize and throw Allenby and Clayton out into the sagebrush.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the bunkhouse when the cavalcade arrived. The horsemen had almost overtaken the team, and when the two cowboys came outside the yard was filled with riders. Allenby fairly fell out of the buckboard and ran to Hashknife.

“Is June home?” he panted.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, she ain’t. About an hour after you left this mornin’, she had me saddle her horse, and she rode away. I don’t reckon she’s come back yet. What’s the matter?”

Allenby groaned aloud and turned to the sheriff.

“She went riding,” he said blankly.

“That’s all right,” said Swan River. “Which way did she go?

“Went east from here,” said Hashknife, pointing in that direction.

“Straight toward the White Eagle road,” said a cowboy softly.

“We’ll spread out and comb that country,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we can find her.”

Allenby ran toward the house, where Mrs. Allenby had come out on the porch, wondering at the crowd of riders, while the sheriff told Hashknife about Shorty Elkins.

“He tried to tell us about her,” said Swan River sadly. “Somethin’ has happened to her, that’s a cinch.”

“Shucks, this is a civilized country,” said Pete Sepulveda. “I dunno what could happen to a girl around here.”

“Two men have been murdered this week,” reminded Swan River grimly, and several of the men growled audibly.

Hashknife and Sleepy ran to the stable and saddled their horses, while others helped Allenby and Clayton saddle suitable mounts.

It was not over fifteen minutes later that they rode out of the ranch yard, spread out fan-wise and headed east. Hashknife and Sleepy were the last ones to see her; so they headed for the spot where she had disappeared.

About six miles from the ranch they struck the road to White Eagle, which ran north and south. It was here that the riders drew together, searching for the spot where the stage had been held up. The roadbed was so hard that it was impossible to distinguish anything out of the ordinary; so the searchers split into two parties, going in opposite directions.

Hashknife and Sleepy joined Swan River Smith, going toward Moolock, and they were the ones to find the spot. It was in a timbered swale, where a small stream trickled down across the road. The signs were fairly plain here. The stage had swerved half-off the road into softer ground.

To the west of the road a deep cattle trail wound down the swale, where the timber would mask it from the road. Hashknife discovered the trail, and in it were the fresh imprints of a shod horse.

“She came down that trail,” he told the sheriff, pointing out the tracks. “They picked a dandy place for the job, too. It kinda looks like she busted right into the holdup, without knowin’ it was takin’ place. She couldn’t see the road until she came out through them bushes, and they likely seen her first.”

“Yeah, it looks thataway, Hartley,” agreed Swan River. “Mebbe they had to do somethin’ to save themselves, don’tcha see? If it was somebody she knew—well, it kinda put ’em up against it.”

Hashknife examined the tracks closely, squatting on his heels. Swan River turned around to take another look at the trail, and Hashknife suddenly reached down, picked up a tiny object and put it in his pocket.

“Where’ll we go now?” he asked Swan River.

“The Lord only knows,” confessed the sheriff. “There’s no way to track ’em. I’ve heard about savages bein’ able to follow a trail where there wasn’t any—but I’m no savage. Dang it all, that’s the worst of bein’ a sheriff. Everybody expects him to be wise as —— and with a nose like a bloodhound.”

“Might as well wait for the rest of the gang to come,” said Hashknife. “They’ll be bustin’ back this way soon. It was a cinch that Shorty Elkins didn’t drive an awful long ways, shot up thataway.”

They rolled cigarets and mused silently. There were no clues to work on. They had found where the stage had been stopped; but it had done them no good, as far as clues were concerned. It was possibly half-an-hour before the other riders arrived, and Hashknife showed Allenby what had happened at that spot.

Allenby listened dumbly, nodding his head; like a man who is too sick to talk.

“You think then that she was merely captured to prevent her from exposing the bandits?” queried Clayton.

“That’s about the only way to look at it,” said Hashknife. “Men don’t steal girls these days. It just ain’t done. I don’t know this country like some of yuh do,” Hashknife turned to the crowd, “If any of you was goin’ to steal a girl, where would yuh hide her?”

No one replied. Allenby stared dumbly ahead of him, his jaw shut tightly.

“I dunno where to look,” confessed Swan River. “It’s likely the same gang that held up the train.”

Allenby turned quickly and stared at the sheriff.

“The same two?” he said wearily. “Why—sure.” He turned and mounted his horse.

“Where are you goin’?” asked Swan River quickly.

Allenby picked up his reins, adjusted his belt.

“I’m going to kill the men who own a black headed pinto and a gray horse,” he said coldly. “I’m going, if I have to go alone.”

“Hank Bell,” said Forty Dollar Dion softly.

“Let’s talk about it a little,” advised Swan River. “They——”

“They wasn’t in town today,” interrupted Larry Neil.

“Neither were we,” said Hashknife, indicating himself and Sleepy.

“They’ve been stealing from me for over two years,” said Allenby grimly. “I helped to send Bud to the penitentiary. Hank Bell swore he’d get even with me. Their last steal was when they took three hundred Herefords from the Moolock loading pens.

“I hired a detective and they killed him—shot him in the back. The sheriff can’t deny that he thinks they robbed that train. He chased them to Tecoma, where they stole Hartley’s and Stevens’ horses, leaving the pinto and gray in their stead. If they’d steal my cattle, rob trains—is there any reason why they wouldn’t rob a stage—and steal my girl?”

“Why sit here and argue about it?” asked Harry Allenby. “Let’s go over to the HB and have it out with them.”

“Allenby’s argument looks —— plausible to me,” stated Merton. “It’s worth workin’ on, ain’t it?”

“Worth workin’ on—but it ain’t worth killin’ on,” said Swan River. “It’s awful easy to make mistakes.”

“Well, I’m going down there,” declared Allenby. “If I have to go alone, I’ll go anyway. I’m going to find June.”

“That’s fine,” said Hashknife. “We’re all lookin’ for her, Allenby, but we ain’t on no killin’ spree. If I’m any judge of humanity, Hank, Bud and that Sticky Clay sabe shootin’-irons. If we go down there, huntin’ for trouble, I’ll bet we find it. What do you fellers think?”

“I don’t care what they think!” exclaimed Allenby. “I’m going!”

“Wait a minute,” begged Clayton. “Hartley is right, Allenby. Right now you are in no frame of mind to go there. You know that those three men are dangerous. You are not a gunman. You wouldn’t have one chance in a thousand with them. No, you can’t get June back with a six-shooter.”

“You are all against me,” mourned Allenby pettishly. “Don’t you want me to get my daughter back?”

“Don’t be a —— baby!” snorted Hashknife. “This is no time for hysterics.”

Harry shoved his horse close to Hashknife.

“You let up on that stuff,” he ordered. “You can’t come in here and tell us what to do.”

Hashknife grinned at Harry and the boy’s face flushed hotly.

“Back up, you —— fool!” snorted Forty Dollar. “If you don’t keep yore mouth shut, Harry, somebody is goin’ to hit you so hard they’ll uncork yuh.”

Harry turned in his saddle and glared at Forty Dollar.

“By ——, I don’t have to take things like that!” he blurted.

“No, yuh don’t have to,” said Forty Dollar quietly. “If you’ve got any good ideas on how to handle this situation, yuh might step up and disgorge ’em. If yuh ain’t—shut up.”

“There’s a lot of truth in that,” agreed Clayton.

“Oh, go to ——!” Harry was sufficiently squelched to draw his horse back, but his face was black with rage.

The sun was just going down behind the hills, and they all knew that there was little daylight left to work in.

“If Hartley is right in his surmise, I don’t think that June will be injured in any way,” said Clayton. “I don’t think it is a situation that can be handled by force of arms. If we were lucky enough to blunder into them, it is hard to tell what they might do to keep her from exposing them.”

“That sounds like sense,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “This thing is not going to be easy to handle, nor is it a mob job.”

“What would you suggest?” asked Allenby. He seemed more at ease now.

“I’d suggest that we go home. Mebbe the girl wasn’t caught at all. We kinda went off half-cocked, just because a dyin’ man spoke her name. We don’t know for sure, don’tcha see?”

“That’s true,” agreed Allenby, willing to grasp at any straw.

“I wonder if that isn’t true?” Thus Clayton, visibly relieved.

“Let’s look at it thataway,” suggested Swan River. “Tomorrow is another day.”

After a few minutes of conversation, Hashknife, Sleepy, Harry and his father left the road and went back toward the ranch, while the rest of the searchers went on toward Moolock. Hashknife and Sleepy lagged back during that ride across the hills. “You ain’t hopin’ to see her at home, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Hopin’, thasall,” said Hashknife. “We had to bust up that argument someway, Sleepy. It’s a cinch that June got grabbed. Just who got her is a mystery. Me and you are goin’ to Moolock after supper.”

But June was not at the ranch. Allenby’s spirits went down below zero. He had evidently expected to find her there. Mrs. Allenby seemed very patient. She was not the kind of woman to show great emotion. Harry came down to the bunkhouse, where Hashknife and Sleepy were getting ready for supper, and apologized for what he had said.

“I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “That argument got on my nerves.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I’d ’a’ done the same thing. Just forget it, Harry.”

“Well, I’m glad yuh feel that way about it,” said Harry. “Dad seems to have great faith in you two.”

Hashknife smiled softly, as he hung up his towel.

“Faith is a great thing, Harry,” he said. “If folks ever have faith in yuh—don’t ruin it. This whole world is built on faith. Yuh can go a long ways, if yuh have faith in yoreself; but the minute yuh lose faith in yoreself—yore done. And yore done, when others lose faith in yuh.”

“Are you a preacher?” asked Harry, a trifle sarcastically.

“A preacher?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “No-o-o, I’m not a preacher, Harry. Mebbe I’m my brother’s keeper.”

“What’s that?”

“Did you ever read the Bible?”

“No. I’m not religious.”

Hashknife smiled.

“What is religion, Harry?”

“I dunno. Lot of —— Bible-backs, I reckon.”

Harry turned away and went out of the bunkhouse. Sleepy grinned at Hashknife and said—

“Shall we sing a hymn before supper, cowboy?”

Hashknife squinted seriously, as the cook hammered on the triangle at the kitchen door, calling them to supper.

“No,” he said slowly, “I don’t think we’ll sing, Sleepy. A little prayer might be a lot better.”

“A prayer for who, Hashknife—us?”

“It all depends on what’s in the Big Book, pardner. Let’s eat.”

Thus sang Lem Elder, a tall, weary-looking cowboy, who worked for Sam Bass, of the 27A outfit, as he rested his elbows on the White Horse saloon bar.

Pete Sepulveda was sitting on a card table, chin in hands, but now he looked up reprovingly at Lem.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to sing, Lem,” he said. “Songs ain’t appreciated in Moolock tonight. Yuh know, they ain’t found that girl yet.”

“That’s right,” nodded Lem. “Excuse me. That —— whisky they sell here makes yuh sing. Is anybody huntin’ for her, Pete?”

“Not now, I guess. Allenby and his bunch went home. Wasn’t much they could do in the dark.”

“I seen Harry and them two strange punchers ride in a while ago.” Thus Pinon Meade, another of Sam Bass’ men. Pinon was small of stature, but wide of shoulder. He had been so nicknamed from his fondness for pinon nuts.

“That’s Hartley and Stevens,” offered Pete. “They took the place of Omaha and Chet Hoban at the Half-Circle Cross.”

“Hoban and Olsen get fired?” queried Lem.

“Yesterday. Had a run-in with Allenby. They’re still here in town. They’re two danged good cow-hands.”

“Where did Hartley and Stevens come from?” asked Pinon.

“I dunno. Just drifted in, I suppose.”

“Good cow-hands?”

“I’ll betcha they are.”

Harry Allenby came in, his face flushed with drink, and set up the drinks to the three cowboys.

“Any news?” queried Pete.

“Not a thing,” replied Harry, glancing toward the door. “Bud Bell is in town.”

“Alone?” asked Pete.

“The old man and Sticky Clay are with him.”

“Put yore troubles in yore war-bag,” advised Pete meaningly.

“You think I’m afraid of them?” Harry drained his glass and flipped it back on the bar. He was drunk enough to be reckless.

“I would be,” said Lem Elder seriously.

“——, you fellers make me tired! I’ll get ’em one at a time.”

Pinon Meade laughed and walked out of the place. Harry’s eyes snapped angrily. The strong liquor was percolating through his veins, taking away what little judgment he might have had. He rubbed the palm of his right hand on the butt of his revolver, and his lips screwed into a sneering grin. His nose and upper lip were still swollen a little, and he did not look pretty.

He did not notice that Pete and Lem had stepped away from him, nor that the bartender had moved quietly toward the other end of the bar. He was facing the door, squinting at the floor, and now he looked up to see Sticky Clay framed in the doorway.

Harry blinked, as though not believing his eyes. Clay did not move. Then Harry swayed away from the bar, his right hand streaking for his gun. Harry was fast with his draw, but not fast enough. The experienced gunman in the doorway flipped his hand forward, fired almost from his hip. Clay’s draw was almost too fast for the eye to follow. Harry took a half-step backward, dropped his gun and fell forward on his face, arms outspread. For several moments Clay leaned forward, watching him. Then he straightened up, snapped his gun back in the holster and spoke to Pete—

“You saw this, Pete?”

Pete nodded quickly.

“Yeah, we all seen it, Sticky.”

“Lookin’ for it, wasn’t he, Pete?”

“Yeah, he was.”

“Got it, didn’t he?”

Pete nodded.

“Everybody satisfied then,” Sticky Clay turned and disappeared. Pete and Lem turned Harry over, expecting to find him dead; but he was far from it. The heavy bullet had scored along his head from the left temple to his left ear, where it had taken the top of his ear off cleanly. He was bleeding freely, but recovering nicely from the shock. An inch farther to the right, and Harry Allenby would have been a casualty.

They helped him into a chair and bound his head in a none-too-clean handkerchief. The report of the gun had caused the curious to go searching for its cause, with the result that Harry was soon surrounded, and the White Horse saloon began doing a good business.

Swan River Smith investigated, and nodded over Pete Sepulveda’s story; while Hashknife and Sleepy listened closely.

“He was lookin’ for trouble, Swan River,” said Pete. “I don’t blame Clay a —— bit. Harry started his draw first.”

“And that settles it,” said the sheriff. “As long as it was an even break.”

Some one had gone after the doctor, who bandaged Harry, in spite of Harry’s protests that he did not need any attention.

“You let him do it,” said Clayton. “If you don’t have it fixed up now, you’ll be marked for life. You’re lucky.”

The shock had sobered Harry, and he had nothing to say. Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the general merchandise store, where they found Hank and Bud Bell. Bud nodded to them. Several men were in the store, talking about the missing girl and about the stage robbery. Hashknife bought some tobacco and began rolling a cigaret, when he saw Bud Bell signal him to come outside.

Bud sauntered out and in a few moments Hashknife followed him. Sleepy had seen the signal to Hashknife, but did not go with him. Bud had walked down the sidewalk out of the lights, and Hashknife joined him.

“Hartley,” he said, without any preliminaries, “I want you to tell me all about this. I’ve heard several tales, but they are all different.”

“Mebbe mine is, too,” said Hashknife. “Anyway, here’s how it looked from my knot-hole.”

He told Bud all he knew about the shooting of Shorty Elkins and the disappearance of June Allenby. Bud did not interrupt. He told Bud his conclusions regarding the reasons for June’s disappearance.

“Thank yuh, Hartley,” he said. “Do you remember ‘Slim’ Stout?”

“Slim Stout?” Hashknife took the cigaret out of his mouth and nodded slowly. “Yeah, I do. I sent him to the pen.”

“That’s where I met him, Hartley. He told me about you.”

“Thasso?”

“Yes. He’s still got five years before he can look for a parole or a pardon. He says you let him off easy.”

“Shell stuck in my gun,” said Hashknife. “Slim didn’t know it, I reckon.”

Bud laughed shortly.

“Slim didn’t tell it that way.”

“Likely lied to yuh. Now listen, Bell; as friend to friend, I want to warn yuh. Things are gettin’ hotter every minute. Allenby has piled up evidence enough to hang a king—that is, outside the law. Sticky Clay and Harry Allenby just tried to kill each other a while ago, as you know. Allenby didn’t get hurt much.”

“As friend to friend?” said Bud wonderingly.

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Why? Was it you who turned those two horses loose?”

“I needed the stable space,” lied Hashknife.

“Yeah? And now yore workin’ for Allenby?”

“Externally.”

“Why are you takin’ an interest in me, Hartley?”

“I dunno. Why does the wind blow? Ask me somethin’ easy. Now you take my advice and don’t go to sleep. I know that all three of you are able to get along without crutches; but yuh can’t buck the whole county. I’m doin’ all I can, Bell. If they hang yuh, that won’t help me much—nor you either. I’m goin’ to sneak out to see yuh just as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Hartley.”

“Don’t thank me.”

Hashknife turned and walked across the street to the Elk saloon, leaving Bud alone to think it over. More men were coming in to town. Bud walked back to the store, signaled to his father, and together they got their horses. They knew that Sticky had gone home after the shooting, to prevent complications which were bound to ensue, if he stayed in town.

“Things look kinda cranky, Bud,” observed the old man.

“Yeah, and I’m afraid they’ll get worse, Dad. Stealin’ a girl is bad business. There’s a lot of talk and a lot of whisky in Moolock tonight; so we better keep out of sight. I wish Sticky had kept away from Harry Allenby; but Harry was lookin’ for it, and Clay is always willin’ to accommodate. They tell me that Harry started the draw first.”

“Young Allenby is a fool to draw with Clay,” observed the old man. “What did that tall cowpuncher want, Bud?”

“Wanted to give me some advice.”

“He’s workin’ for Allenby, ain’t he?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, we don’t need any advice from that —— outfit.”

“This didn’t come from the outfit, Dad. If it ever comes to a showdown, don’t hurt that tall puncher. And if he asks yuh to do somethin’—do it.”

“Who in —— is he, Bud?”

“He turned the pinto and gray out of Swan River’s stable.”

“But he’s workin’ for Allenby, Bud.”

“Yeah. I don’t sabe it, but I’m willin’ to foller his advice.”

While the Bell family rode homeward, Hashknife went to the White Horse saloon. Harry Allenby was still there, but fairly sober now. His head was bandaged and he was unable to wear his hat. Swan River took Hashknife aside and imparted the information that there was too much talk, mixed with whisky, to suit him.

“This girl-stealin’ has worked everybody up to a pitch,” he declared. “Dang it, they’ll ruin everythin’ if they start out on a rampage. I’ve done a lot of talkin’, and I’ve kinda got some of ’em sore at me. Are Bud and Hank still in town?”

“Just left a few minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “I think Clay left just after the shootin’.”

More men came into the saloon. Hashknife and Swan River sat down at a vacant card table near the rear of the room, where they could watch the place. Harry Allenby was drinking again, and seemed to parade his bandages, talking loudly.

“Swan River, have you still got that letter —the one that Seeley had in his pocket?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff drew it out of an inside pocket and handed it to Hashknife, who spread it out on the table. For several minutes he studied it closely, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret. He was about to fold it up, when something caused him to look at it again.

After concentrating on it for a space of time he looked up at Swan River, a grin widening his mouth.

“What’s funny in that letter?” asked Swan River.

“Nothin’,” grinned Hashknife. “I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ else. Mind if I keep this letter?”

Swan River shook his head, “It ain’t of no use to me.”

Forty Dollar came in and walked straight to their table. Forty was serious as he sat down.

“Somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” he declared. “Over at the Elk, they’re talkin’ too much to suit me. Some son-of-a-gun has told about them two horses, and a few of the gang wants to know if the sheriff’s office is standin’ in with the robbers.”

Swan River’s jaw clamped tightly and he got to his feet.

“I’ll answer their —— questions,” he rasped, and started for the door. Clayton was coming in, and they almost collided. Clayton’s sleeve was torn and he had the general appearance of one who had been fighting.

He stepped away from the sheriff and went to the bar, where he drank alone, turned with his back against the bar and looked around the room.

“Kinda looks like friend Clayton had been fightin’,” observed Forty Dollar.

Forty’s observation was punctuated with a “zz-zwhap!”. Clayton’s shoulders thudded back against the bar and Hashknife went sidewise out of his chair, while from outside came the report of a shot.

Clayton ducked, putting the end of the bar between himself and the open doorway, while the rest of the crowd scattered to get out of line. For several moments Clayton clawed at his shirt front. The bullet had burned across his chest, tearing a shallow furrow, but doing little damage; after which it passed within a short distance of Hashknife’s head and thudded into the rear wall.

“Hurt yuh much?” asked Hashknife.

Clayton shook his head, sprang to his feet and ran out through the rear entrance. Disregarding a possible second shot, Hashknife and Forty Dollar ran out through the front doorway and into the street. It was too dark, beyond the front window illumination, for them to see anyone.

Swan River came running from the Elk saloon, followed by several men, who had heard the shot. But the shooter had made himself scarce. Hashknife drew Swan River aside and together they made the rounds of the saloons, checking up on the cowboys

As far as they were able to find out, no one was missing, except Clayton.

“Do yuh reckon they was tryin’ to kill you or Clayton?” asked Sleepy, who joined them at the Elk.

“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. We’ll figure it was Clayton. He’d had trouble with somebody just before that shot was fired. If we can find Clayton, mebbe he’ll tell who it was—if he knows.”

But they were unable to find Clayton; so Swan River opined that Clayton was hiding out. The folks of Moolock town were getting plenty of food for conversation. Hashknife was curious about the trouble between Harry Allenby and Sticky Clay; so he found Pete Sepulveda and asked him about it.

“Harry was lookin’ for it,” explained Pete, a trifle thickly. “Pinon Meade, Lem Elder, me and Harry was there in the saloon, when Harry got to makin’ his war-talk. Pinon pulled out and in a few seconds we happens to see Sticky in the doorway.

“Harry don’t see him for a while, yuh see. Pretty soon he looks up and sees Sticky. They look at each other about a second and Harry breaks for his gun. Sticky makes his draw, shoots from his hip, and Harry falls on his nose. Sticky thinks he’s killed Harry, I reckon; but he ain’t excited. It was an even break, thassall.”

“Much obliged, Pete,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Has there ever been any trouble between Harry and Pinon Meade?”

“I don’t reckon there has. Pinon ain’t quarrelsome.”

Hashknife drifted back to Swan River and Sleepy, where he found Frank Allenby, listening to Swan River tell about the gunbattle between Harry and Sticky Clay. Allenby said little. He seemed to have aged greatly in the last few hours. Hashknife drew him aside.

“Has there ever been any trouble between you and Pinon Meade?” asked Hashknife.

“Not at all,” replied Allenby. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wonderin’, thassall. You heard about somebody shootin’ at Clayton, haven’t yuh?”

Allenby nodded quickly.

“Yes, but I do not understand it. I can’t find Clayton anywhere. He is not at the hotel.”

“There’s a fly in the axle-grease somewhere,” mused Hashknife.

“I don’t know what to do,” admitted Allenby. “—— knows, I can’t stand it much longer. My wife just sits and looks at the wall. I wish she could cry. It helps a woman to cry, don’t you think so, Hartley?”

“Not as much as it does to laugh, Allenby. I want to ask you a personal question: Is Clayton goin’ to marry yore daughter?”

“What has that to do——?”

“I’m askin’—not answerin’, Allenby.”

“Suppose he is—what about it?”

“Is there anyone else who might want her bad enough to kill Clayton over her?”

Allenby took a deep breath and shut his jaw tightly for a moment. Then—

“Do you suppose that is why he tried to kill Clayton?”

“He? Who do you mean, Allenby?”

But Allenby refused to say. Harry went past them, his bandaged head visible in the weak light, and went into the Elk saloon. He staggered slightly, laughing loudly with the other men. Allenby left Hashknife and went into the saloon.

Hashknife found Sleepy and together they went from place to place, listening to the general talk. It was mostly whisky conversation, and Hashknife did not feel that they were going to do anything rash. Later on he found Swan River, visibly relieved.

“I think everythin’ will be all right,” he told them. “I’ve talked with a few of them, includin’ Allenby, and they’ve all agreed to wait until mornin’. I’ve promised to lead a posse out to the HB ranch after daylight. If they—well, I dunno. Dang it, I’ve done the best I could, Hartley.”

“Nobody can say that yuh ain’t been fair,” agreed Hashknife.

“Mebbe I’ve been too fair, Hartley. Still, I discount everythin’ that happens, when there’s hate behind it. Christman hated old Hank Bell. Mebbe Allenby bought that hate along with the ranch.”

“How did they happen to catch Bud Bell that time?” asked Hashknife.

“When they sent him to the penitentiary? That was a little over two years ago. Allenby and Clayton—Clayton had only been here a few months at that time—were ridin’ through the hills, lookin’ over the stock.

“They were over near Two Men Cañon when they caught a glimpse of a man, who kinda seemed to be misbrandin’ a couple of critters. Had ’em roped and was heatin’ his iron, I reckon. Anyway, he seen ’em, too; so he snaps out of the brush on his horse, and hits into the hills, with Allenby and Clayton after him.

“He sure led ’em a merry chase, I guess. Allenby and Clayton got separated, and after while they gives up the chase. Clayton circles back to the two roped animals, and is lookin’ ’em over when Allenby gets back. They’re both branded fresh with the HB iron, kinda rough-like, and where the Half-Circle Cross ought to be, is a big spot burned over with a hot dry-pan.

“The rustlers sure must ’a’ been nervous to burn over that much space in ventin’ an ordinary brand. The HB ain’t very artistic, but there she is. That was all the evidence against Bud Bell. Old Hank couldn’t ’a’ done it, on account of bein’ crippled—and Sticky Clay was in a poker game at the Elk all that afternoon, which was an alibi for him. So they sent Bud up for stealin’ Half-Circle Cross stock.”

“Didn’t Bud have any defense at all?”

“How could he? Nobody would steal cattle for the HB. Yuh know, Bud used to wear one of them five-gallon sombreros, with a wide band, kinda studded with silver rosettes. Oh, yuh could see it a mile away, glistenin’ in the sun. Anyway, both Allenby and Clayton testified that this rustler wore no hat. Allenby says he was sure the man had a hat when they seen him first, but that he was bareheaded when he made his getaway.

“Allenby says he was too excited to remember just what kind of a hat this man had on when they seen him first. But it kinda made things worse for Bud. He’d naturally hide the hat, ’cause it was so well known and easy to identify.”

“And they didn’t get close enough to identify him for sure?”

“Nope. But their evidence sure convinced the jury.”

“The Half-Circle Cross brands on the right shoulder, and the HB on the right hip, don’t they?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Bud sure vented a lot of space on the right shoulder of them two critters.”

“No argument about ’em bein’ Half-Circle Cross animals?”

“There might ’a’ been, Hartley; but yuh could look real close and find the old scars of the original brand. They’d ’a’ never showed up after a few days, when the new burn healed. No, there was no question about ’em bein’ Allenby’s stock.”

“And the vented spot was bigger than the old brand, eh?”

“——, yes; four or five times as big.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grew thoughtful. “And yuh think there’s no danger of anybody doin’ anythin’ rash tonight, Sheriff?”

“Nope. They’ll likely drink a lot of liquor and kinda gird up their loins, but that’s about all. Will yuh ride out to the HB with us in the mornin’?”

“Very likely. I reckon we’ll go back to the ranch and get a little sleep now.”

Sleepy complained about leaving Moolock. It looked to Sleepy as though there might be trouble, and he did not want to miss any of it. He grumbled audibly, but rode out of town with Hashknife.

“I s’pose,” he said sarcastically, “that old folks like you have got to have their sleep, Hashknife.”

“You betcha,” agreed Hashknife. “Do you know the way to the HB ranch?”

“I can find it, Hashknife. You—say, what’s the idea?”

“Goin’ visitin, Sleepy. Folks ought to be neighborly, hadn’t they?”

“The road runs kinda south-east; so we better swing to the left. What are we goin’ to do out there? Didn’t Swan River say that he was——”

“Goin’ out there after daylight,” agreed Hashknife. “That’s the trouble with the ordinary sheriff, Sleepy—they want to make a parade out of it. They never find out anythin’.”

“What do you expect to find out, cowboy?”

“Parder, yuh never know what to expect. Anyway, we’re goin’ out thataway and see what we’ll see. Probably won’t see anythin’—mebbe we will.”

“Uh-huh.” Dubiously. “What was the idea of all them questions about Bud stealin’ cows and gettin’ sent to the pen?”

“Morbid curiosity, Sleepy. I just love to hear about grief and misery.”

“Oh, go to ——!” snorted Sleepy.

“Very likely—if there is such a place, Sleepy.”

It was about seven miles to the HB ranch from Moolock. The road wound through the hills, with little regard for grades; a strange road to the two cowboys, who only knew that somewhere along it was the HB ranch-house. In fact, at the end of it was the ranch, as it did not extend beyond.

There was no room yet, but the ribbon of road was easy to follow. The last few miles they rode silently, only the muffled sound of the horses in the dust to tell of their coming. The HB ranch buildings stood in the wide flat at the mouth of a cañon, and their silhouette was plainly visible from the road, which approached from a lower level.

No lights were visible, but Hashknife felt that somewhere around that black bulk of buildings some one was watching. They dismounted and led their horses away from the road into a clump of trees, which would screen them from anyone passing on the way to or from the ranch.

“Got to get higher,” said Hashknife, as he led the way out of the trees, keeping well away from the ranch, circling toward a rise of ground back of the stable. They were forced to proceed at a slow pace for fear of running into loose barb wire or other unknown difficulties.

At last they reached a point where they could look down on the group of buildings, and here they sat down to wait. It was well after midnight when they reached this point, and an hour later there was sufficient moonlight to enable them to distinguish something of the buildings and general contour of the surrounding country.

For a long time there was no sound, except the soft bawling of a cow in the corral. Far out in the hills a coyote called mournfully, and from the house came the short bark and growl of a dog. Then all was still again. Hour after hour went past, while the two cowboys huddled in the sage, unmoving, and worst of all, unsmoking.

The false dawn lighted the hills, and a chill wind swept down the cañon, causing the two cowboys to sink lower into the protecting brush. Suddenly Hashknife sat up. The dim figure of a man had crossed the corral and faded into the shadows of the stable.

“Didja see him?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Yeah,” Sleepy shivered. “He went into the stable. Probably one of the HB outfit doin’ his chores early. Of all the —— fools on earth, we’re the worst. Settin’ out here in the cold all night—there he goes back again.”

The man crossed the corral again, going in the opposite direction. He either went through a gate or crawled through the fence, and blended with the shadows so well that they were unable to see him again. They listened to see if they could hear him shut a door in the house, but there was no sound.

After several moments the dog barked loudly, and from over on the side of a hill came the snapping bark of a coyote. The dog, evidently under leash, grew frantic with its barking; but the coyote did not respond. Hashknife laughed softly.

“What’s so danged funny?” asked Sleepy.

“That coyote.”

“What in —— is funny about a coyote?”

“Nothin’ in general, Sleepy; but that one prob’ly smokes cigarets and packs a gun.”

“Yuh mean that it wasn’t a coyote, Hashknife?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“Aw, ——! Why would any man imitate a coyote thataway?”

“To make the dog bark.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sarcastically. Sleepy was chilled to the bone and aching for a cigaret. “Why in —— would he want to make a dog bark, if I may ask yuh?”

“So that anybody would think he was barkin’ at a coyote.”

“All right, all right. Some day I’m goin’ to ask you a question and get an intelligent answer.”

“And what then, Sleepy?”

“The shock will kill me.”

Hashknife laughed softly and got to his feet.

“Let’s sneak down there and see what that jigger was doin’. He never went into the house; so I don’t figure he’s part and parcel of the HB outfit.”

Cautiously they made their way down the hill and came in behind the stable. Daylight was coming swiftly now, but there was no sign of the man who had crossed the corral. They slid through the corral fence, circled the interior until opposite the door of the stable, where they again passed through the fence.

Part of a long, low shed blocked their view of the house.

“Wait here and keep watch,” whispered Hashknife. “I’m goin’ inside.”

Sleepy crouched against the fence, while Hashknife opened the stable door and went inside. He was in there so long that Sleepy became nervous. It was daylight now, and Sleepy felt like a burglar. He turned his head and looked toward the road. Only a few hundred yards away, coming up the road, was a big group of horsemen.

“That —— sheriff’s posse!” snorted Sleepy. He ran to the stable door to notify Hashknife, and met him coming out.

“Swan River and his men are here!” he blurted. “Whatsa matter, didja go to sleep in there?”

Hashknife ran to the corner of the stable and watched the horsemen swing in toward the house.

“C’mon,” he whispered, running straight back toward the hill, keeping the stable between him and the ranch-house. Sleepy was at his heels, and together they tumbled into a shallow washout behind some wild rose bushes.

“We can get back to the horses by goin’ down this washout,” said Hashknife. “Keep yore head down and c’mon.”

Swiftly they went down the narrow ravine, where the flood waters had gouged out the soft silt, coming out at the upper edge of a large brush patch, just above the thicket of cottonwoods.

It did not take them long to get their horses, swing back into the road and head for the ranch-house. The posse was grouped at the ranch-house door, talking to old Hank, Bud and Sticky Clay. Swan River had dismounted and was leaning against the porch, but the rest of the crowd were still in their saddles.

They turned to look as Hashknife and Sleepy rode up to them.

“Missed yuh in town, Sheriff,” said Hashknife. The sheriff nodded and turned to Hank Bell.

“I’m not chargin’ yuh with anythin’, Hank. I want yuh to understand that right here. There’s been so —— much talk that I had an idea that we ought to come out here this mornin’ and find out how much of it was worth arguin’ about.”

Old Hank squinted at the posse, which was composed of Merton, Sepulveda, Allenby, Sam Bass, Larry Neil, Forty Dollar, Lem Elder, Omaha Olsen and Chet Hoban.

“Well,” said old Hank slowly, “what do yuh want to do?” He seemed curiously meek, weary.

“Just to satisfy everybody, suppose we search the place,” suggested Swan River.

Old Hank squinted closely at Swan River, as though wondering what they expected to find.

“Go ahead,” said Bud slowly. “I reckon we can stand for that.”

Old Hank nodded in agreement, and the posse dismounted.

“We’ll help yuh, if yuh need us,” grinned Sticky Clay.

Old Hank threw open the front door, and the posse filed inside, led by Swan River Smith. Hashknife and Sleepy did not go with them, but sat down on the little front porch. It did not take long to search the house, and then the posse split into two parts, to search the stable and other outhouses. Hashknife followed now, and helped them go over every inch of the place. For about an hour they stayed at the HB, leaving no stone unturned in their efforts to uncover some evidence.

But their time was wasted and they came back to their horses.

“Satisfied?” asked Bud.

Swan River nodded, as he swung into his saddle.

“Yeah, I’m satisfied, Bud—and I hope the rest are.”

The rest of them did not express an opinion. Allenby slumped in his saddle, paying little attention to anyone during the ride back to town. He had hoped to find June at the HB ranch.

“You never find girl there,” declared Sam Bass. “Bell’s no fool. We find nothing there.”

“That’s the way I felt about it,” said Swan River. “If Bell did rob the stage and steal the girl, he wouldn’t put her in a showcase for us to look at. This idea of goin’ out in a crowd is all foolishness, I tell yuh. Like Hartley said yesterday, this is a one or two man job.”

“That’s right,” agreed Sam.

Allenby, Hashknife and Sleepy did not stop in Moolock, but rode on to the Half-Circle Cross, intending to get breakfast at the ranch.

“I wish I knew what to do,” said Allenby wearily. “There is no clue, nothing to work on. The sheriff is right, when he says that those who stole June will not keep her where we can find her. If they want money——”

“I don’t reckon they do,” said Hashknife.

“I know how yuh feel, Allenby. I sabe how yore wife must feel about it; but it’s somethin’ that can’t be helped right now. Did you see anythin’ of Clayton, after he got shot last night?”

“No, I didn’t see him, but Harry did. He told Harry he was going to the ranch. I think some one tried to kill him and that he was frightened into leaving town.”

“Harry had a close call,” observed Sleepy.

Allenby nodded sadly, but did not express an opinion. It seemed as though his hatred of the HB outfit had burned out, or had burned him out. Mrs. Allenby came from the house to meet them, hoping that they brought news, but was doomed to disappointment. She did not speak. Allenby turned his horse over to Hashknife to unsaddle, and walked to the house with her.

Hashknife and Sleepy stabled the horses and walked back to the bunkhouse. Clayton was sitting on the porch of the ranch-house, smoking.

“Well, we’re just as wise as we were before we went to the HB,” said Sleepy, stretching himself out on a bunk. “Lost one whole night’s sleep and didn’t gain a darned thing. That was probably one of the HB outfit that crossed the corral this mornin’.”

“I don’t hardly think so,” said Hashknife, yawning wearily. “It wasn’t none of the HB outfit that barked like a coyote.”

“Aw shucks!” Sleepy did not believe that a man had barked like a coyote.

“Well, the dog barked,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah, the dog barked. He was tied up.”

“And if the coyote hadn’t barked, some of the HB would ’a’ come out to see why the dog barked, wouldn’t they?”

Sleepy sat up and scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I suppose so, Hashknife.”

“The coyote barked first, didn’t it? Then the man crossed the corral. After he left the coyote barked closer, didn’t it? And the dog barked again—at the coyote.”

“Well, what in —— has the coyote got to do with it? What had the man to do with it? You always make a lot out of nothin’, Hashknife. You make me lose a whole night’s sleep, and then you make boogers out of a man crossin’ a corral, or a coyote that sounds like a man. What good did it do us, I’d ask yuh?”

Hashknife walked to the window and looked toward the house. Allenby was sitting on the ranch-house porch, talking to Clayton, and there was no one else in sight. Hashknife turned and came back to Sleepy’s bunk.

He reached inside his shirt and drew out two flat envelopes covered with seals, which had been broken; two empty Manila envelopes, which had been shipped as valuable packages by an express company. Sleepy took them in his hands and looked them over.

“I had a awful time findin’ ’em in that barn,” said Hashknife, as he took them back and slipped them back inside his shirt. “They were under a currycomb and brush in a little box on the wall.”

“That’s some of the loot from the train robbery,” whispered Sleepy.

“They once held some of the loot,” corrected Hashknife.

“But the posse couldn’t find anythin’.”

“There wasn’t anythin’ left,” grinned Hashknife.

Sleepy squinted at the ceiling thoughtfully. Then—

“Hashknife, who searched that box on the wall?”

Hashknife grinned widely and shook his head.

“Swan River Smith did. These Moolock outlaws ain’t fools, cowboys. Now will yuh believe that a man barked like a coyote, Sleepy?”

“——, I’d believe that they buzzed like a rattler, if you say so. Right now I’m in the right frame of mind to believe anythin’. Have yuh got any clue, Hashknife; anythin’ to work on? Oh, ——, you wouldn’t say so, if yuh had a million clues.”

“Yeah, I’ve got a clue—but I can’t tell yuh what it is.”

“All right. Keep me in ignorance.”

“Don’t blame me for what nature done to yuh, Sleepy. Let’s snore a few lines, whatcha say? Mebbe we’ll need it.”

“I can always do that, pardner. Sleep is m’ first name.”

While Hashknife and Sleepy slumbered in the bunkhouse, Allenby told Clayton about their failure to secure any evidence against the HB outfit. He told of the search and of Hank Bell’s willingness to have them search the place.

“He’s no fool,” grumbled Clayton. “He’s been expecting trouble for a long time, and he surely wouldn’t take a chance on having any incriminating evidence in sight. If he and his outfit robbed that stage and kidnapped June, they wouldn’t take her to the ranch.”

“No, I suppose not, Clayton. Have you any idea who shot at you?”

“Not in the least,” Clayton shook his head, as he felt of his bandaged chest, where the bullet had scored his breastbone.

“You haven’t had any trouble with anyone, have you?”

Clayton shook his head again quickly.

“Not a bit of it. The only person who might have done it would be that fellow Clay, who shot Harry.”

“Did you have any trouble with Clay?”

“Not a bit. I just thought perhaps he might be sore at all of us. I have been out here so much that they seem to think that I am one of the Half-Circle Cross outfit.”

“I suppose so,” said Allenby dubiously. “Still, it is hardly reasonable, Clayton. Sticky Clay is a gunman, and I don’t think he would try to murder you in cold blood.”

“Well, pick a more likely man to suspect,” Clayton was angered a little over Allenby’s insistence. “I’ve thought about it until I can’t arrive at any conclusion. Perhaps that bullet was intended for Hartley. It did not miss him far.”

“That might be possible, too. Where is Harry?”

“He went back to town this morning after breakfast. Did Hartley and Stevens ride with the posse?”

“They got there after we did. What time did they leave here this morning?”

“They didn’t sleep here last night.”

“Didn’t they? That’s queer. Swan River Smith said they had gone back to the ranch. They didn’t stay in Moolock.”

“Well, they didn’t stay here,” declared Clayton. “Harry and I slept in the bunkhouse.” He turned his chair and looked at Allenby, as he lowered his voice— “Do you know much about those two men?”

Allenby nodded slowly.

“I know what Freeman told me. He said that Hartley was the shrewdest cattle detective that ever wore a gun. I am not going to question what they do, Clayton. If they wanted to tell the sheriff that they were coming here to the ranch last night, and went elsewhere—that is their business.”

“But you did not hire them as detectives?”

“I did not. But I told them both that my former offer of five thousand dollars for a conviction still stands, and that they could do as they pleased while on the job.”

“Well, that’s different,” nodded Clayton. “I just didn’t understand the arrangement. I think I’ll go back to town and see if anything new has turned up. Want to go along?”

“Not now, Ed.”

Allenby went into the house, while Clayton, deep in thought, went to the stable, saddled his horse and rode toward Moolock.

The cook at the Half-Circle Cross did not believe in cooking and serving meals in the middle of the afternoon, but he made an exception in the case of Hashknife and Sleepy. “Wood-tick” Wylie was an old camp-cook, sour of disposition, crippled in both knees with rheumatism, and filled with indignation at the way the United States was run by those at Washington.

“’F I was the Gover’nor of this danged state, I’d have troops in here, by jin!” he told Hashknife confidentially. “C’n yuh imagine sich a condition of affairs? C’n yuh? I can’t. Somebody steals a girl. M’ ——, they ort to be torn limb from limb.”

Wood-tick shredded a helpless biscuit by way of illustration.

“Yeah, yore right,” admitted Hashknife. “You sure do mingle a wonderful egg, old timer.”

“Don’t I? When it comes to aigs, I know more than the first hen what laid one. I had a chance to cook f’r Teddy Rosenfeld once. Ain’t they doin’ nothin’ to try and retrieve that girl? Best danged girl yuh ever seen, too. Allenby don’t do nothin’ much. Helpless as ——.

“Her ma is in there—” he lowered his voice and came closer—“she’s in there lookin’ at June’s pitcher. Jist lookin’ at it, mind yuh. Acts like June was dead. Yes, sir, she ain’t et nothin’ since yest’day. Got a good appetite, too—most of the time. ——’s hinges! Wish I was sheriff of this —— county. I’d shore run somebody a ragged race.”

“Kinda hard for the sheriff to get somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife, his mouth filled with egg.

“Work on! M’ ——, I’d make somethin’ to work on. Who shot at Clayton? Nobody knows, eh? Sticky Clay smoked up Harry, did he? By the muddy Missouri River, this here county is gittin’ as salty as Utah. Want more aigs? Got a slew of ’em. No?”

“Seems kinda funny to me that none of the other women folks around this county have come in to weep with Mrs. Allenby,” observed Sleepy.

“Ain’t nothin’ funny about it,” denied Wood-tick. “Allenby is to blame for it all. He’s been so danged uppity, thassall. He ain’t never fit in with reg’lar folks. Thinks he’s worth more than they are. ——, yuh can’t do that.”

“Don’t make friends, eh?” Thus Hashknife.

“Don’t make nothin’ but money.”

“And somebody steals the profits, eh?”

“They shore do. I kinda think that some folks don’t believe that Allenby lost as much stock as he says he has; but he’s lost it all right. It’s killin’ him by inches. Allenby don’t think no more of a dollar than he does of his family—or not much more, anyway.”

Hashknife pushed away from the table and began rolling a cigaret.

“They tell me that he don’t give his family much to spend.”

“Much, ——! Nothin’.”

They thanked Wood-tick for the meal and went outside. Mrs. Allenby was standing on the front porch, looking off across the hills, shading her eyes. Hashknife studied her for a moment, before going around to the porch. She lowered her hand away from her eyes and looked at Hashknife.

“I—I was just looking,” she said simply.

“Yes’m,” he nodded. “The hills are kinda pretty this time of day.”

“Pretty?” She shook her head slowly. “I didn’t notice—much.”

“Where is Mr. Allenby?” he asked.

“I think he went to town.”

“Oh, yeah, I suppose he did.”

“I wish Harry would come home. He stays away most of the time these days. Where do you suppose June is?”

“I dunno, ma’am. It’s all kinda mixed up. Clayton was goin’ to marry June, wasn’t he?”

Mrs. Allenby stared at Hashknife, and a little color came back to her white cheeks.

“Who told you that?” she asked.

“I don’t remember. It wasn’t a secret, was it, Mrs. Allenby?”

“No, I—I don’t know.” She shook her head slowly. “Mr. Allenby wouldn’t——”

“He didn’t want Clayton for a son-in-law, eh?”

“Did he tell you that?”

“No, he didn’t, Mrs. Allenby. Would you want him?”

“Mr. Clayton?”

“Yeah.”

“Why—I—what right have you to ask me a question of that kind?”

“Mrs. Allenby, I don’t want to pry into your secrets; but I’ve got to know a few things. If you want your daughter back——”

“Oh, but I do!” Mrs. Allenby gripped the porch-post and stared at Hashknife. “I would sacrifice anything to get June home again.”

“Sure yuh would. You’ll get her, ma’am; but you’ve got to have a lot of patience. Now, I want you to answer me this: Does June want to marry Clayton?”

She turned away, shaking her head.

“All right. But you’ve done quite a lot to convince her that she ought to marry him, ain’t yuh?”

Mrs. Allenby turned quickly and stared at him.

“What makes you say that?” she asked hoarsely.

“Because it is true,” Hashknife knew that his guess had been correct. “Now you are goin’ to tell me why you wanted June to marry Clayton.”

“How did you find out these things?” Mrs. Allenby’s face was white, but her voice did not tremble now. “Who told you?”

“Nobody, ma’am. Mebbe I read it in the clouds. I just want yuh to tell me why yuh promoted Clayton.”

“Promoted him?”

“Well, somethin’ like that. Go ahead and talk about it.”

For several moments Hashknife was afraid that she was going to rebel. Finally she sat down in a rocking-chair near him, and he knew that the point was won.

“It was the wrong thing to do,” she began slowly. “But you do not know my husband. His one ambition is money. All his life he has been a slave to money. No, I am not complaining, nor excusing myself. I did wrong, and I will admit everything I have done.

“Ed Clayton has wanted to marry June ever since he first came here to buy cattle. June did not seem to care for him. Mr. Allenby liked him as a cattle-buyer, but he did not want him to marry June.

“I did not dislike Ed Clayton. He was a gentleman, until——”

Mrs. Allenby shook her head sadly.

“At any rate he asked Mr. Allenby for June’s hand, and was refused. It did not seem to make any difference to Clayton. He told me about it all, and asked me to intercede for him. I knew it was useless. When Mr. Allenby makes up his mind to a thing, nothing can change him.

“I told Mr. Clayton that it would not help his case in any way. He and Harry were great friends; so Harry came and asked me to help Clayton out. Harry liked Clayton, who always had money. You know, Harry never has any money. His father does not believe in giving children money—and he does not realize that Harry and June have grown up.

“Later I began to hear stories about Harry. They said that he was drinking and gambling. I know that his father heard the same stories, but he merely laughed and proved to me that it was all lies, because Harry had no money to drink and gamble with.

“Ed Clayton knew that I idolized my children. He knew that I would go to any length to help them. So one day he came to me and asked me to see if I couldn’t help him win June. I gave him the same answer. He did not get angry, nor did he threaten; but he did show me receipts for borrowed money, a total of five thousand dollars, signed with Harry’s name.

“Clayton had loaned Harry all that money. Clayton knew what Mr. Allenby would do, if he knew that Harry had done such a thing. But Clayton did not threaten me. He just pointed out the fact that some one must pay that money. He had loaned it in good faith.

“He said to me—

“‘Mrs. Allenby, I love June more than anything in the world, and I will try to make her happy. I feel sure that a little urging will win for me. And, in that event, I will give you these receipts, and everything will be forgotten.’

“That is why I tried to—oh, I know it was all wrong, but——”

“Yeah, it was all wrong, Mrs. Allenby,” agreed Hashknife.

“But my urging did not help—” Mrs. Allenby was crying now—“and I am glad. It would have been like selling my June. I realized it afterward, but at that time I could only see what might happen to Harry, don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Hashknife got to his feet. “I’m sure obliged to yuh, ma’am. This here is a secret between us.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said wearily. “I don’t know why I told it to you.”

“Thasall right, ma’am,” smiled Hashknife, as he walked back to the bunkhouse, where he joined Sleepy.

“What was you and the lady chawin’ about, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“Arguin’ about raisin’ chickens. She favored Plymouth Rocks and I held out for Rhode Island Reds.”

“And she cried for her side, eh? Yeah, I seen her wipe her eyes. You can lie faster than I can, Hashknife.”

Hashknife grinned and headed for the stable, where they saddled their horses and started for town. They found Forty Dollar at the sheriff’s office, bewailing everything.

“Swan River has led out another posse,” he told them. “He’s got Allenby, Sepulveda, Merton, Omaha and Hoban with him, and they’re headin’ toward Tecoma. Dunno where in —— they’re goin’, but they’re goin’, thassall. Swan River made me stay here, dang his old hide. Said somebody had to protect the office.”

He did not get much sympathy from Hashknife and Sleepy; so he paraded the rest of his woes, thusly:

“Ed Clayton is drunk and wants to fight somebody, the big brute. Harry Allenby is drunk enough to brag again, and he wants to help Clayton whip somebody, and there ain’t nobody around here to accommodate ’em. Pinon Meade might fight the two of ’em, if he got drunk enough; but Clayton, alone, is twice as big as Pinon. So there yuh are. On account of my official position I can’t fight ’em. Any news of the lost girl?”

Hashknife grinned at Forty Dollar’s woes and shook his head.

“No news, Forty. You heard anythin’?”

“How the —— could I, settin’ here all the time?”

Forty Dollar borrowed Hashknife’s Durham and rolled a cigaret.

“It ain’t none of my business,” he said pointedly, “but I was just wonderin’ where you two fellers were when we rode up to the HB this mornin’.”

Hashknife lifted his brows slightly, but his expression remained the same. Then a smile wreathed his lips.

“What makes yuh ask that question, Forty?”

“Curiosity. We was late gettin’ started, and we sure did whang —— out of our horses all the way. We never passed yuh on the road, and when yuh came up to us, yore horses wasn’t even breathin’ hard.”

“Forty Dollar,” grinned Hashknife, “yore a born detective.”

“Yeah? Well, I do notice some things. I kinda had a hunch that you fellers was pokin’ around. Swan River wondered why yuh wasn’t there to join the posse, and I told him that you wasn’t the kind to run in packs.”

“I reckon that’s true,” laughed Hashknife. “Swan River didn’t say when he’d be back, did he?”

“He didn’t know. Everybody expects him to be headin’ a searchin’ party; so he’s doin’ it. He was just ready to start when Allenby rode in; so they took him along. I reckon Clayton didn’t know they were goin’. Anyway, he didn’t go along.”

They invited Forty Dollar to go over to the Elk saloon with them, but he declined. Swan River had told Forty Dollar to stay at the office, which meant in town, but Forty Dollar translated it literally, and gloried in his martyrdom.

Harry Allenby was at the Elk, still wearing his bandage, which was slightly disarranged, and he was more than partly drunk. Hashknife took him aside and advised him to go home, but Harry would have none of Hashknife’s advice.

“You ain’t runnin’ my business,” he told Hashknife angrily. “I do as I —— please.”

“That’s yore whole trouble,” said Hashknife. “Yo’re just a fool kid, without brains enough to pound sand into a rathole. You go on home and quit spendin’ money that don’t belong to you.”

The shot went home. Harry’s eyes blinked for a moment and he had difficulty in swallowing; but he tried to bluff.

“What in —— do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“You know what I mean, Harry. If you want me to tell it, I’ll tell it loud enough for every one to hear.”

“Who told you that?” Harry’s voice was hoarse with anxiety.

“Who told me what?” asked Hashknife.

“That—that—” Harry hesitated, trying to clear his thoughts. “That I was spending money that didn’t belong to me,” he finished lamely. “It’s a lie, anyway.”

“It’s the truth, kid,” Hashknife spoke softly and with conviction. “Yore mother wants yuh to come home.”

“Aw, ——!” Harry turned away and walked outside.

For several minutes he stood on the porch of the saloon, thinking it over, but decided that he didn’t want to go home; so he walked up to the White Horse saloon and went inside.

There were few men in the Elk. Three cowpunchers were playing a game of freeze-out at one of the tables, while “Snowy” Garnette and a railroad contractor were playing two-handed stud. Hashknife and Sleepy drifted to the pool-table and began playing bottle pool.

Their game was about half finished when Harry came back, and with him was Ed Clayton. Clayton had been drinking, but he was not drunk. He and Harry had a drink together, and were at the bar when Hashknife and Sleepy put up their cues.

Hashknife noticed that both of them were serious, and as Hashknife approached the bar Clayton stepped in front of him. In spite of Hashknife’s height, Clayton was half-a-head taller, and weighed at least fifty pounds more.

“Who in —— told you that I loaned Harry money?” asked Clayton angrily.

Hashknife squinted coldly at Clayton and said—

“I didn’t say yuh did, Clayton.”

“You didn’t?” Clayton whirled on Harry. “Didn’t you say he told you that, Harry?”

“Why, I—I—that’s what he meant, Ed. He didn’t——”

“——!” Clayton turned back to Hashknife. “Where did you get this misinformation, Hartley?”

“I don’t reckon I was misinformed,” smiled Hashknife easily. “It kinda looks like Harry had proved it. I didn’t say who he got the money from—but he did.”

“Is that so?” Clayton sneered openly. “Well, I just want to tell you that it’s none of your —— business, Hartley. You are taking too much for granted, and I want you to keep your face out of my business, or I’ll bust it wide open.”

“Yore business?” asked Hashknife innocently. “That won’t take much, because it’s already beginnin’ to crack.”

Clayton was rather a sudden sort of person, and believed in the theory that the first punch wins. This tall, skinny puncher was only three feet away, slouched easily, when Clayton’s left fist snapped straight for his jaw. But that easy slouch was misleading, and allowed Hashknife to sway aside while the blow merely swished into empty air.

Hashknife did not lift his hands, but he did step back with a grin on his lips. Clayton blinked and recovered his balance. It was the first time he had missed with the snappy left, which was his stock in trade, and usually put him in a good position to finish the fight without much opposition. The card games ceased immediately. Harry started forward, only to have Sleepy kick his feet from under him and drop him in a sitting position half under a table.

“Git a front seat!” grunted Sleepy.

Clayton forced a smile to cover his chagrin. He did not expect this cowpuncher to put up a fight.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to telegraph yore punch,” grinned Hashknife. “A one-punch fighter like you ought to figure out a system, Clayton. Yuh tried to sneak one on me, but yore eyes and the whole left side of yuh told me what yuh was goin’ to do.”

“Did, eh?” Clayton smiled grimly as he fell into a crouch.

“Stop this one!” He darted at Hashknife, smashing with both hands. It was a disastrous attack. His right fist snapped against the top of Hashknife’s head, the left missed entirely, and Clayton went backward, half doubled up from a punishing smash in the stomach.

He backed out of range, his mouth wide open, as he tried to pump air into his lungs. Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Go in and get him, cowboy,” advised Sleepy. “He’s whipped right now.”

“Like —— he is!” snorted Clayton, shutting his teeth, and trying to strain the kinks out of his midriff.

“Well, come on and finish it,” invited Hashknife. “If I wanted to whip yuh, I’d ’a’ stopped the fight before this; but it ain’t no fight of my makin’, Clayton.”

Clayton was game, but wary. He had tasted one of Hashknife’s punches, and did not care for another of the same kind; so he elected to try the long-range game. He felt that this cowpuncher knew nothing about boxing. Some one shoved a table away, to give them more room, and Harry Allenby crawled on his hands and knees to the bar-rail, where he sat down, closely watched by Sleepy.

Clayton went in slowly, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, his guard high. Hashknife watched him calmly, guard down. It seemed to anger Clayton to think that this lanky person did not take the fight seriously enough to put up his hands.

Clayton stepped in range, snapping his left at Hashknife’s head. It was rather a weak attempt and Hashknife avoided it easily as he stepped inside the blow, blocked Clayton’s right, and drove another punch to Clayton’s middle.

It was enough to cause Clayton to drop his guard and step back; but this time the lanky cowboy stepped with him, and before Clayton could lift a hand to stop it, Hashknife uppercut him to the point of his jaw, with a full sweeping blow—and the fight ended.

Clayton collapsed heavily, rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

“The most complete thing I ever seen,” declared Snowy Garnette, leaving the table and walking to the fallen man. “I knew that Clayton would get whipped some day; but I thought it would take a bigger man than he is.”

The bartender threw a little water into Clayton’s face, and he sat up, gasping. It was a full minute before he realized what had happened. He got painfully to his feet, leaned on the bar for a while, trying to regain his balance, and walked outside, without a word. Harry Allenby followed him, rather disconsolately. His idol had fallen—and fallen hard.

No one asked Hashknife what started the fight. Snowy invited every one to have a drink, and waited on them personally. There had been no loud talking, no swearing. A man could have stood out in front of the saloon and not been aware of trouble within.

“I’ve paid twenty dollars to see a fight that wasn’t half as good,” declared the contractor. “Here’s to one cowpuncher that don’t need to shoot his man to win.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon as soon as possible after the toast. Hashknife disliked adulation—and he did not want to drink any more; so they excused themselves and went back to the sheriff’s office, where Sleepy proceeded to tell Forty Dollar about the fight.

“Jist my darned luck!” wailed Forty Dollar. “Here I been layin’ on my miserable back, readin’ ‘Deserted at the Altar,’ while there’s a fight jist across the street. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. And yuh knocked Ed Clayton out! Can’t git it through m’ head, thassall. Bigger’n you are, every way.”

“Don’t know the first thing about fightin’,” declared Sleepy. “Clumsy as a cub bear. Hashknife slapped him in the stummick and took all the fight out of him. Yaller as a dandelion.”

“Um-m-m,” Forty Dollar was not convinced. “I’ve seen him put up a good fight. Well, I’ve allus said that he’d meet his match some of these days. I used to be a fighter m’self, and I know.”

“Did you meet yore match?” asked Sleepy.

“Did I? Say, I met a whole danged box of ’em. What did Harry think of the fight?”

“I kicked him into a front seat,” grinned Sleepy. “I reckon he wanted to referee; but we didn’t need none. When they tackle old Hashknife, there ain’t but one decision to give. He just pets ’em on the chin, thassall.”

“Braggin’ is bad; but lyin’ and braggin’ at the same time is worse,” declared Hashknife. “Yore loop is draggin’.”

“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh don’t believe me, Forty Dollar—ask Ed Clayton.”

“I’ll take yore word for it.”

“Are you familiar with the 27A brand?” asked Hashknife.

“Me?” Forty seemed amazed. “Say, I’ve been in this country ever since the big trade between the Injuns and the soldiers.”

“What big trade was that?” asked Sleepy innocently.

“Lead f’r lead. What do yuh want to know about the 27A?”

“Where do they brand?”

“Right shoulder. The 7 and the A are connected.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife nodded solemnly, and walked to the door. He could see Ed Clayton and Harry Allenby in front of the White Horse saloon, and as he watched them, Clayton drew back his right hand and knocked Harry into the street.

It was not a knockout punch, but it sent Harry rolling into the dust. He clawed his way to his feet and went staggering across the street. Hashknife called Sleepy and Forty Dollar to the door and told them about it. Clayton went back in to the saloon, while Harry sat down on the sidewalk in front of the general store.

“Harry seems to get it from all sides,” observed Forty Dollar. “His luck is runnin’ kinda muddy, this week.”

Harry leaned against a post and seemed content to stay where he was. In a few minutes Pinon Meade came out of the White Horse, got his horse at the hitch-rack and rode out of town toward the 27A. The three men at the sheriff’s office went inside and sat down again. It was hot out there in the street.

Hashknife tilted back against the wall in his chair and made pencil notes on the back of an envelope, while Sleepy and Forty Dollar started an argument as to who won the Boer war.

It was a perfectly good argument, because neither of them knew just what countries had fought the war. Sleepy contended that the Swedes were the winners, and managed to prove it to Forty Dollar’s satisfaction. Several points were proved by Hashknife, who was so engrossed in his own notes that he “yessed” every question.

Just before dark Swan River rode into Moolock, leading a thoroughly tired posse of men. Their long ride had netted them nothing. They had come back past the 27A ranch, where Sam Bass had left the posse. Allenby was discouraged. He asked for Harry and found that Harry had gone home.

Clayton, showing no ill effects from his fight, talked with Allenby, after which he got his horse and rode away with him toward the ranch. Swan River stretched his tired body and swore witheringly at his luck.

“We went plumb to Tecoma,” he said. “It’s like huntin’ for a needle in a strawstack. Didn’t find out a danged thing. I reckon Allenby is all broke up over it; but I can’t help it, if he is.”

“Let’s eat,” suggested Forty Dollar. “There ain’t been much happened around here since yuh left, except that Hashknife had a fight with Clayton, knocked Clayton plumb out; and Clayton hit Harry Allenby later on. Otherwise it’s been Sunday all day.”

Swan River gawped foolishly at this information, but thought it was a joke and refused to question Forty Dollar. But he soon discovered that it was no joke. They went to the Blue Front for supper and heard the bartender of the Elk giving a vivid description of the battle.

“I didn’t know that there was trouble between you and Clayton,” said Swan River, as they sat down.

“There wasn’t,” smiled Hashknife. “He just wanted to fight.”

“Uh-huh,” Swan River was a bit dubious over this.

He knew that something must have been of sufficient import to cause such a battle; but he was willing to outwardly accept Hashknife’s explanation.

They ate their supper and drifted to the Elk saloon, where they ran into Sticky Clay. He was perfectly sober. A big poker game was in progress, which interested Sleepy and Forty Dollar. Swan River got into conversation with Snowy Garnette, and Sticky Clay drew Hashknife aside.

“You ain’t seen Bud Bell, have yuh?” asked Sticky.

“Nope—not since we were out to the ranch.”

“Un-hah. He ain’t been here today, eh?”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I haven’t seen him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. Bud rode away just after that gang was out there, and he ain’t come back. Me and the old man was kinda worried. —— it, I dunno why we are either, except that there’s so much —— bein’ raised around here.”

“Bud can take care of himself,” said Hashknife consolingly.

“Ordinarily,” conceded Sticky. “I suppose he’s all right. Yuh see, Hartley, I think a lot of Bud.”

“Sure,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I wanted to ask yuh somethin’, Clay.”

“Ask me somethin’? All right, what is it?”

“About that mixup between you and Harry Allenby. Did you know that Harry was gunnin’ for you?”

“Well—yeah, yuh might say I did. He was just drunk enough to be lookin’ for trouble. Somebody mentioned it to me earlier in the evenin’, and then Pinon Meade led me to look out for Harry. He said that Harry was in the White Horse, makin’ a war-talk.”

“I see.” Thoughtfully. “Is Pinon Meade a friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Sticky squinted narrowly. “No-o-o, I reckon not. Yuh see, a feller like me don’t have friends, Hartley.”

“Why not, Clay?”

“I dunno. Mebbe it’s cause I work for Hank Bell; mebbe it’s ’cause I look like I do. I’m kind of a mongrel, Hartley. Folks call me a gun-fighter—meanin’ that I’m dangerous. It’s jist like somebody sayin’ to yuh, ‘That dog will bite.’”

“From that time on, that dog will be a dangerous animal to you. You won’t never stop to figure out that the dog is good for anythin’, except to bite folks. That’s me. I’ve been branded a gun-fighter; and folks never figure that I eat food like other folks, snore in m’ sleep and wear the seats out of my pants.”

Hashknife did not laugh. There was nothing humorous in Sticky Clay’s simile. It was rather pathetic.

“I reckon I know how yuh feel,” said Hashknife.

“That’s fine,” nodded Sticky seriously. “I reckon I’ll be goin’, Hartley. Moolock ain’t none too safe for one of the HB outfit to be found in. There ain’t no news from that girl, is there?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Kinda tough luck,” said Sticky. “I’d like to feel sorry for Allenby.”

He turned to leave the room when Larry Neil ran in and yelled at the sheriff—

“Hey, Swan River! Clayton and old man Allenby just got here. They found Harry half-way between here and the Half-Circle Cross, and brought him in. He’s all shot to ——!”

The sheriff and Forty Dollar ran for the door, while there was a general exodus in that direction. Hashknife caught Sticky by the arm and whispered in his ear—

“Don’t tell anybody that Bud is missin’.”

“——!” blurted Sticky. “I’d been inquirin’ for him before I met you.”

Sticky hurried away, while Hashknife joined the crowd that were on their way to the doctor’s office to see how badly Harry had been hurt. Swan River tried to keep every one out of the house, but allowed Hashknife to slip inside.

Clayton and Allenby were at the bedside, watching the doctor make his examination, and nodded at Hashknife. Harry had been shot three times and was unconscious. One bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of his left shoulder, another bored through his left shoulder, just beneath the collar-bone, while the third struck lower on the left side and seemed to have skidded off a rib.

“Shot from in front, eh?” observed Hashknife.

“Yes,” said Allenby shakily. “Harry fired two shots at whoever dropped him. When he regains consciousness we will know who shot him.”

“And that killer was a good shot,” said Hashknife softly. “He was sure shootin’ at the kid’s heart. Notice that all three of ’em are on the left side.”

“Sticky Clay is a good shot,” said Clayton meaningly.

Hashknife squinted at Clayton closely, but Clayton did not meet his eyes. The doctor was busily engaged in cleansing the wounds, and Allenby began pacing the small room. Outside, they could hear the crowd questioning the sheriff. Forty Dollar came in to get a report from the doctor, and went back to report to the crowd.

“How soon will he be able to tell us about it?” asked Allenby.

“I don’t know.” The doctor shook his head. “He has lost considerable blood, but the wounds are not necessarily dangerous.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Allenby.

Clayton got to his feet and moved over to the door.

“I’m going to grab a bite to eat, and then I’ll be in shape to sit up here tonight,” he said.

Allenby nodded quickly and took Clayton’s seat beside the bed.

Hashknife walked outside and headed for the Elk saloon. The crowd had dispersed, feeling that Harry had better than a fighting chance; and many of them were back at the saloons, having a drink after the excitement.

Clayton had gone straight to the Elk bar, and Hashknife saw him drinking with Lem Elder. Frosty Welcome, the hotel proprietor, was at the bar, drinking with Joe Egan, his clerk. Frosty grinned at Hashknife and invited him to have a drink.

“I’m celebratin’,” he explained a trifle thickly.

“Birthday?” asked Hashknife.

“Nawshir—not birthday. I’m goin’ out of the —— hotel business. Tired of it. Yesshir, I’m sick of the business. Joe’s goin’ to run the hotel f’r me, ain’t yuh, Joe?”

“And that’s whatever,” nodded Joe. “I shore can run her, too.”

“What are you goin’ to do?” queried Hashknife.

“Cattle. By golly, I’m a cattleman, I am. Jus’ bought me a ranch, and I’m goin’ to run it. Pay f’r it tonight. Have ’nother drink?”

“I’ll buy this one,” said Hashknife grinning. “Goin’ to give me a good job on this ranch, ain’t yuh?”

“Tha’s a good idea, by golly,” agreed Frosty. “Need a good man. Shay, all jokin’ aside, will yuh take a job? I can’t hire yuh until I own it; but I’ll own it, y’betcha. Here’s a go.”

They drank and placed their glasses on the bar. Hashknife noticed that Lem Elder had left the bar, but Clayton was still there.

“You must ’a’ made money in that hotel,” observed Hashknife.

“Sure, I made money,” agreed Frosty. “But I never made enough to buy a cattle outfit. I had money in the bank, I did. I sold out a cattle ranch over in Ross Basin three years ago, and bought this danged hotel; but I banked most of the money. I’m sick of the hotel, and I’m celebratin’ my recovery, I am.”

“You goin’ to have a big outfit?” asked Hashknife.

“Big enough. I’m goin’ to blot all them —— 27A cattle, and register m’ old Circle W agin’, I am. Have ’nother drink?”

Hashknife managed to decline another drink, and went away, leaving Frosty and Joe in an argument as to the proper way to run a hotel. Sleepy was watching a poker game when Hashknife nudged him, and they left the place together.

Hashknife led the way to their horses and they rode out of town, heading northeast. Sleepy did not question him now. He knew that Hashknife had discovered something and that he would tell about it at the right time.

“Goin’ to rain,” observed Sleepy, as they traveled over the road which led to Tecoma. “Wish we had our slickers. I hate to get wet.”

“Worse things than gettin’ wet,” grunted Hashknife. Rain clouds blotted out the light from the sky, and they were forced to let the horses make their own way over the road. A wind was blowing in from the northeast, filling their faces with dust from the road.

But this discomfort did not last long. A dazzling flash of lightning, a crash of thunder—and the rain drifted into them in a solid wall of water, which quickly turned the deep dust in a muck of mud. They bowed their heads to the downpour and went on.

“Let up pretty soon!” yelled Hashknife consolingly.

But the storm had no intention of letting up. The lightning and thunder went rumbling away down the valley, but the rain elected to stay. It was nearly two hours after their departure from Moolock. Both cowboys were soaked to the skin, and Sleepy was beginning to grow profanely sarcastic; but Hashknife said nothing in return.

Hashknife was riding on the right side of the road, peering at the fence, which bordered the road. He had been riding thus for several miles, and now he grunted thankfully, as the outlines of a gate caught his eye, and a road turned through it at almost right angles to the one they had been following.

“C’mon,” he said. “Here’s where we turn, cowboy.”

“Thank —— for anythin’!” exploded Sleepy. “The water is runnin’ out of my boot-tops right now.”

Half a mile off the main road, as they were passing through a brushy spot, Hashknife swung his horse into Sleepy’s animal, forcing both animals into the brush and off the road. A few moments later a rider loomed up in the rain, and went past them, heading toward the main road.

It was impossible to distinguish the identity of the rider. They were about to move back into the road, when another rider, this one traveling at a gallop, went past their hiding-place, fairly splashing them with mud. It was evident that this later rider was anxious to overtake the other.

“Now that the mud-hen parade has gone past—” said Sleepy suggestively.

“We go on,” said Hashknife quickly. “It can’t be far to the ranch. Mebbe I’ve made a mistake, but I don’t think so.”

About two hundred yards farther on they came to the blacker bulk of corrals and outbuildings. From there they could see an open doorway, where the light from an oil lamp illuminated part of a buckboard and team, which was standing close to the porch.

They rode up and dismounted. No one was in sight, but as they entered the house a voice called from the kitchen—

“What in —— is the matter now?”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy, but did not reply. A moment later the speaker stepped into the room, a look of surprise on his face. He was a medium-sized individual, with a hooked nose and a scraggly beard. His clothes consisted of a badly worn blue suit, a moth-eaten fedora hat and yellow boots. Also worthy of mention was a batwing celluloid collar, of about sixteen-size, while the neck it encircled would have had plenty of freedom in a fourteen.

Circling his waist, mostly hidden by his coat, was a heavy cartridge belt, studded with ammunition, and below the edge of the coat protruded the end of a revolver holster. In his left hand he carried an old, yellow valise, bulging full.

“Huh!” he exclaimed explosively. “Where’d you fellers come from?”

Hashknife did not reply, as he squinted around the room. His gaze came back to the man with the valise, and he said—

“Yo’re the cook, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m the cook.”

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, slapping his wet thighs. “We are hungry as ——, pardner.”

“Thasso?” The cook leaned against the wall negligently. “Well, yore about half out of luck, gents. Right now I ain’t got no time to do any cookin’. I’m the only one at the ranch, and I’m goin’ to town right away. Sorry, but it’s got to be done.”

“We’ll pay yuh for the food,” said Hashknife, ignoring the cook’s statement.

“Will yuh?” The cook scowled impatiently. “Like I said before, I’m goin’ to town, and I’m lockin’ up everythin’; sabe?”

“I heard yuh,” Hashknife’s tone changed entirely. “We’ll cook our own meal, and lock up for yuh. How do yuh like that?”

“Not a chance. I’d be a —— of a feller to leave you two here alone, wouldn’t I? ——, I don’t even know yore names.”

“Mine’s Hashknife Hartley.”

The cook stiffened slightly at the sound of the name and his eyes shifted, as he moistened his lips. Then he shook his head.

“Don’t remember hearin’ it before,” he said, trying to make his voice behave.

“No?” Hashknife grinned widely. The cook shifted his feet, as he placed the valise on the floor, and his right elbow seemed to accidentally catch in his coat and throw it away from his holster.

And as he straightened up his right hand flipped to his gun. It was a swift draw, which proved that the cook’s experience with pots and pans had not caused him to forget how to draw a gun; but it availed him nothing.

His gun came to his waist level, but there was a nervless finger on the trigger; nervless because Hashknife’s bullet had hit the cook dead center before the latter’s gun hardly had left its holster. The cook’s gun spun over on his finger, fell to the floor, while the cook slid sidewise, almost blocking the door to the kitchen.

Sleepy coughed from the powder fumes and snapped his own gun back into the holster.