Front matter

Author of Author of “The Trey of Spades,” “The Dead-Line,” etc.

Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop there on a flag.

There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot; but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table, playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved back from the table.

“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh can feed a horse.”

“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town, pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”

“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in Moolock.”

The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy” Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles, like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.

“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock town?”

“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’ as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”

“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there—land that was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this Moolock?”

“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle Cross, the biggest outfit.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.

As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its coat was drying rough with lather.

He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his own discovery.

“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact that he had drawn a gray.

There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town. Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the substitution had changed saddles too.

“We’ve still got our saddles,” he declared. “Now what in —— do yuh know about that?”

Hashknife untied his pinto and led it into the light from the saloon door, where he appraised the animal closely. It was sore-footed and weary. Sleepy walked in beside him, leading the gray, and was about to call to those inside the saloon to come out and help them wonder over it all, when a voice yelled out from the darkness—

“Put up yore hands, doggone yuh!”

A revolver flashed and the bullet bit a splinter out of the sidewalk. With an almost automatic movement, Hashknife drew and fired at the flash; and at the same moment he darted out of the light and flung himself flat on the ground. Sleepy went headlong out of the illumination, rolled down the hill and came to rest behind a big rock.

“Gosh dang yuh, what did yuh do that for, ‘Forty’?” wailed a voice from the gloom. “Who in —— told yuh to shoot, anyway?”

“Don’t walk into that light, ‘Swan River’!” cautioned another voice. “They didn’t go far. I’ve got to fix that gun of mine. It’s too easy on the pull. Don’t git in that light, you darned fool!”

The three men had come to the saloon door, wondering aloud what it was all about. The saloon keeper carried a sawed-off shotgun, and at sight of him, the one called Swan River spoke quickly—

“Hey, Pierson! This is the sheriff.”

“Hello, Swan River,” called the saloon keeper. “What’s all the ruction about?”

“Don’t git in that light!” warned the deputy, “Forty Dollar” Dion, whose gun was easy on the trigger. “I tell yuh they didn’t git far away.”

“Who yuh lookin’ for?” asked one of the men in the saloon doorway.

“The men who own them two horses,” replied Swan River Smith, the sheriff. “They stuck up a train this afternoon, and we’ve been on their trail ever since. That’s their gray and pinto.”

“Hey, sheriff!” called Hashknife.

“Listenin’.”

“Then listen close. Them ain’t our horses. I reckon the three men in the doorway can tell yuh that we rode a roan and a bay into this place late this afternoon, and that we’ve been in there ever since. We jist found that somebody traded horses with us, and was admirin’ ’em in the light.”

“That’s the truth,” said the saloon keeper. “They sure did ride a roan and a bay, sheriff.”

“Well—” the sheriff seemed a bit dubious—“if yuh say so, Pierson, I’ll take yore word. C’mon in, gents.”

Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back into the light and looked at Swan River Smith and his elongated deputy. Swan River was small, gray as a rabbit, and with a pair of eyes as hard as granite. Forty Dollar Dion was almost as tall as Hashknife, sad of face, and walked with a loose-jointed shamble that would cause one to suspect that he might fall apart at any time.

“I’m the sheriff of this county,” said Swan River, after a close scrutiny of the two cowpunchers. “Name’s Smith.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and they adjourned to the bar.

“You danged near killed me,” declared Forty Dollar mournfully. “My gun went off accidental. I had sense enough to sidestep; and yore bullet poked a hole in the air just after I left. And it ain’t like me to think fast, either.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh can’t blame me, pardner. One of yuh yelled for us to put up our hands and the other one shot at us.”

“Excuse him, if yuh can,” said the sheriff, “I can’t. Here’s happy days and a blanket at night.”

They drank and rattled their glasses on the bar.

“Didja take a good look at them horses, Forty?” asked the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I was right, Swan.”

The sheriff accepted Hashknife’s tobacco and cigaret papers, which were also passed to Forty Dollar.

“The question is—where did they go from here?” observed the sheriff.

“I’ll betcha forty dollars they headed for Bearpaw,” said Forty Dollar. “They’ve got fresh horses now.”

“And good horses,” added Sleepy mournfully.

“I never heard of a lost horse that wasn’t a good one,” grinned the sheriff. “Nobody ever lost a bad one. Ha, ha, ha! Well, there ain’t no use tryin’ to foller them two fellers now. Our horses are plumb whipped; so we might as well go home, I reckon.”

“How much did they get?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They blew the safe on the express car and took what was in it. Cut the train in two and made their getaway near where they had the horses staked out. But the engineer got a look at the horses they used, and as soon as the train got to Moolock he told me about it. Me and Forty cut straight across the hills and are lucky enough to spot ’em.

“Since then we’ve sure burnt up horseflesh. Comes night and we kinda loses track of ’em; so we heads for here and finds that pinto and gray, standin’ plumb in the light. Yuh can’t blame us for the mistake, can yuh?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head. It was all clear to him now, and he did not blame the sheriff.

“I reckon we’ll go to Moolock with yuh,” he said. “Mebbe them two horses are as fresh as yours, sheriff.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go. It’s a long ride back there; but there ain’t no accommodations in Tecoma. You know anybody down there, Hartley?”

“Nope. Me and my pardner rode into Bearpaw from over the Grayling trail. We kinda had an idea we’d like to do some gold minin’, and we was told that there was plenty of good ground left up there; but there wasn’t an inch. By golly, a moose bird has to keep in the trees to keep from bein’ a trespasser.”

“Pshaw, that’s all been located long ago. Well, let’s have one more drink and pull our freight, gents.”

They told Tecoma good-bye, mounted the jaded horses and headed for Moolock.

“Seems to me that I’ve heard of Moolock,” observed Hashknife, as they jogged along over the dim road through the pines. “The name is kinda familiar. You spoke of a feller named Allenby.”

“Frank Allenby,” said the sheriff. “He’s the biggest man in Moolock county.”

“To hear him tell it,” amended Forty Dollar, “Allenby thinks that his family is responsible for the risin’ and settin’ of the sun. ’S a fact. He tells it when to come up and when to go down.”

“Didn’t Allenby send some young feller to the pen a while ago?”

“Yeah. A young feller by the name of ‘Bud’ Bell. Allenby didn’t exactly send him to the penitentiary; but he was responsible for it. Bud’s out now. I ain’t seen him yet. Mebbe he hates me for what I done, but I had to do it. The Bell family are kinda strong on hate.

“Allenby bought the Half-Circle Cross from Henry Christman about three years ago. Allenby is from Philadelphia. Never seen a cow ranch until he hit this country. Hank Bell nested in on what Christman claimed as his own ranch; but Christman didn’t own it.

“There was bad blood between Christman and old Hank. Christman tried in every way to oust old Hank. Hank’s cows turned up missin’; some of ’em had their throats cut. But old Hank stuck. One day him and Christman met on the street in Moolock and shot it out. Christman got a bullet through one lung and old Hank got his right arm crippled for life.

“It kinda put a crimp into old Hank, as a gunman; so he spent all his time givin’ his son Bud a six-gun education. And Bud was a danged good pupil. Then Christman sold out to Allenby, who tried to oust old Hank, but the old boy had a title to his ranch. It’s a sore spot to Allenby, ’cause Hank’s place has the best spring in the Moolock range.”

“Did they quit killin’ off Hank’s cattle?” asked Hashknife.

Swan River Smith chuckled audibly.

“Yeah, yuh might say they did. The Bible says somethin’ about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Anyway, Allenby got the deadwood on Bud Bell and sent him up for five years; but the law let him out in two years and a few days. Now I reckon Allenby is shakin’ in his boots for fear Bud will make him pay for that two years.”

“Allenby is rich, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose he is pretty well fixed.”

“And I’ll tell yuh why,” said Forty Dollar. “Allenby is so stingy that he wouldn’t pay two bits for a front seat at the Custer battle, if the original actors would come back and play it. It’s an honest fact. To my way of thinkin’, Allenby is a big jughead, with too much money and a soul so danged thin that it squeaks in the wind like a fiddle string. He wants everybody to know that he’s from Philly-del-fee.”

“That ain’t nothin’ agin’ him,” said the sheriff.

“Not that part,” agreed Forty Dollar. “I admire him for gettin’ out that place. I’ve been there——”

“You mean you’ve heard about it,” corrected the sheriff.

Forty Dollar subsided.

“I’ve heard that men don’t value their lives very highly in Moolock,” said Hashknife.

“Thasso?” The sheriff seemed surprised.

“Some as cheap as five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap?” blurted Forty Dollar. “My ——, I could point out a lot that wouldn’t be worth that much per bale. Five thousand! Say, if I was Saint Peter I wouldn’t even accept souls from Moolock, unless they came prepaid.”

“Forty Dollar is a pessimist,” explained the sheriff quickly.

“Yeah and I’m a good democrat. M’ folks was Baptists. Tried to make me one, but the water was too cold that winter; and by spring I was all out of the notion.”

“I think we’ll like Moolock,” said Sleepy.

“Everybody does,” said Forty Dollar. “I know at least a hundred that couldn’t even think of leavin’ there.”

“Love their little city, eh?”

“No—they’re stuck on the little cemetery,” chuckled the deputy. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! I’ll drink with yuh in Moolock.”

They laughed and rode down the last of the steep grades into the valley of the Moolock. The moon had lifted above the timbered slopes of the mountains, bathing the hills and valleys in a blue haze. Far off to the left a light twinkled from a window.

“That’s the 27A ranch,” said the sheriff. “Joe Bass owns it. Joe’s part Nez Percé; quarter-breed, I reckon. Minds his own business. Been here a long time. Ships quite a lot of stock.”

“Moolock is the shippin’ center, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Most of it goes from there. It’s kinda in the center of the valley; so mostly everybody trades there. I was just wonderin’ what you meant about human life bein’ cheap in Moolock.”

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Hashknife. “I heard that a man—a certain man—only put that much value on his life.”

“Well, I dunno,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “I s’pose that some folks feel thataway about money. I’d hate to sell mine for that.”

“And yet yuh take a chance every day for so much per month.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. You fellers aim to get jobs over here?”

“Mebbe. Feller’s got to eat.”

“They sure do. Yuh might see Allenby. Jim Merton might need a man. He runs the Arrowhead brand, and his iron is on lots a cows. Them two are the biggest outfits. You’d like Jim. He’s young and full of ambition.”

“Do yuh think we’d like Allenby?”

“Mm-m-m, well, yuh might. It takes all kinds of folks to make up a world. What’s meat for one man is poison for another.”

It was about one o’clock in the morning when they rode into the town of Moolock, stabled the horses and got a room at the one little hotel. They were too tired to investigate the town, and even the hard mattress of their bed felt like downy feathers.

“It’s funny how things work out,” observed Hashknife, as they stretched out in bed. “We never had any idea of runnin’ into this place.”

“It’s the same Allenby, ain’t it?” asked Sleepy.

“Sure. Bob Freeman said in his letter that it was Allenby of Moolock; so it must be the same feller. He spoke about the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary; and about the old man.”

“They are the ones that are stealin’ Allenby’s cows, eh?” Thus Sleepy, with interest.

“The ones he said he’d pay us five thousand for, if we could convict ’em. If we could.” Hashknife laughed. “Allenby wants his detective work done on commission, Sleepy. He’s afraid of his life, that’s what’s the matter with him. And he values it at five thousand.”

“Prob’ly all it’s worth,” laughed Sleepy.

In a different environment Hashknife Hartley might have been a famous detective. His mind was quick to grasp the important points of a case, and that, combined with what a gambler would call a “hunch,” had enabled him to solve some of the mysteries of cowland, which had baffled even the best operatives of the Cattle Associations.

Both he and Sleepy Stevens were top-hand cowboys; but fate had always thrown them into troubled ranges where their detective ability was of more demand than their ability to handle cattle. It was a hazardous calling, and of little remuneration.

Their fame had spread from range to range; and the repeated telling in cowtown, bunkhouse and around the camp-fires had exaggerated their ability until they became a bugaboo to those outside the law on the ranges. But there was nothing superhuman about either of them. There was nothing marvelous about their gun-play; neither could they whip their weight in wild-cats. Yet they had left behind them a trail of righted wrongs, and a memory of two big-hearted cowpunchers, who fought with a grin, asking no favors of anyone; riding away ahead of thanks or remuneration, if possible.

There were homes on the ranges where these two men were mentioned in the evening prayer, and there were places where their names brought forth a curse and the hope that they would never come back. Still they rode on with a grin on their lips, knowing that fate had marked them for certain duties. And they were both confirmed fatalists—facing death with a grin, because they felt that they would never die until the moving finger on the big book wrote Finis after their names.

It was just breaking day the following morning, when “Chet” Hoban, foreman of the Half-Circle Cross, and “Omaha” Olsen, one of the Half-Circle Cross cowboys, rode through the main street of Moolock, which was the only street in the town.

It was a crooked street as well as a narrow one, bordered with false-fronted buildings, of which the livery stable was the most pretentious. The next building in size was the Elk saloon and gambling house, with its spacious hitch-rack crowding close to the narrow sidewalk.

Next to the Elk saloon was the Blue Front Café, with only the name to indicate that at some remote time it might have been painted. Adjoining this building was the White Horse saloon. Across the street from the Elk saloon was the sheriff’s office. On this side of the street were more saloons, a general merchandise store, post-office, stage station and other small business necessary to the comfort of rangeland humanity.

The Moolock hotel was neither of great size nor elegant in appointment, but it served. Its sign read—

MOOLOCK HOTEL FROSTY WELCOME PROP.

Which, as a cowboy had said, “If yuh don’t git treated well, you’ve been warned ahead of time.”

But “Frosty” Welcome was only frosty by nickname and not by nature.

The two cowboys rode through town and cut across a flat toward the big loading corrals near the depot. A string of cattle cars were being shunted onto a spur track by a freight engine, as they rode up to the corral fence and tied their horses.

Chet Hoban was a thin-faced, raw-boned man, whose hair was plentifully dusted with gray, and whose humped shoulders and bowed legs gave him the appearance of one who bears a mighty burden on his back. His boot heels were run-over on the outer side, which caused him to walk jerkily lest he sprain his ankles.

Omaha Olsen was taller than Hoban, and even leaner of frame. His eyes were sad; in fact his whole mien bespoke a great sadness, and his long nose, slightly twisted at the bridge, showed blue veins, as though it might be perpetually damp and cold.

The engine uncoupled and went puffing back toward the depot, while Hoban and Olsen crossed the track, circled the corral and stopped. For a space of several moments they surveyed the empty corral and then, as if by mutual consent, they climbed to the wide plank of the top and gazed across the different pens, their faces filled with an expression of wonderment.

Then Hoban circled to the main gate, where he sat down and looked at the broken padlock, which dangled from a twisted staple. Omaha Olsen came up and peered down at it. Then he produced his tobacco and papers and began calmly rolling a cigaret, while Hoban turned and gazed off across the rolling hills.

“They done busted the lock,” said Omaha. Hoban squinted at him, but did not reply. The busted lock needed no explanation.

“Three hundred of ’em, too,” observed Omaha.

“You keep on and there won’t be nothin’ to tell about,” said Hoban a trifle sarcastically.

“And Allenby will jist about bust a gizzard.” Thus Omaha, ignoring Hoban. “I c’n see him commencin’ to git red and swell up like a carbuncle. My ——, this’ll sure ache him all over.”

“You’d ache if somebody stole three hundred two-year-old Herefords from yuh,” retorted Hoban.

“——, I’d ache if I ever had that many. Now what in —— will we do with these cars?”

Hoban got to his feet, shaking his head.

“Let Clayton worry about that. C’mon.”

They climbed down and went to their horses, which they mounted and rode back into town. The sheriff was still asleep, but Hoban hammered on the office door and woke him up.

“Last night we had three hundred two-year-old Herefords in the loadin’ corrals, sheriff. They were to be loaded this mornin’. Somebody smashed the padlock on the main gate and swiped the whole herd.”

Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that was worth takin’. Smashed the padlock, eh? That’s a penitentiary offense. Took three hundred Half-Circle Cross Herefords, eh? Gosh! Somebody held up the train yesterday, too, Chet. Danged country is goin’ to the dogs. Allenby know?”

“Not yet. We just found it out.”

“We better find Clayton,” said Omaha. “He’ll likely want to see about them cars.”

“I’ll git on some clothes right away and see what I can find out,” offered the sheriff, turning back into the office.

Hoban and Omaha walked up to the hotel, where they found Ed Clayton, the cattle-buyer, just ready to leave for the loading pens. Clayton was a big man, without an ounce of fat on his huge frame. He was not unhandsome, dressed well, and was not over thirty-five years of age. Clayton was an inveterate gambler, a plunger; and his eyes were still heavy from a long session of poker at the Elk.

In a few short words Hoban told him what had happened.

“Sounds like a —— fairy story,” said Clayton, but quickly corrected himself with, “You know what I mean, Hoban; it don’t seem possible.”

Hoban relaxed and nodded shortly. He and Clayton had never been very friendly.

“Mebbe it don’t sound possible,” said Hoban slowly, “but they’re gone. What about your cars?”

“And nothing to put in ’em,” muttered Clayton. “Well, I’ll have to see what can be done. Want to walk up to the depot?”

“All right. Allenby will be here pretty soon.”

The freight was still at the depot and Clayton immediately explained the situation to the agent.

“I’ll tell yuh what we can do,” suggested the agent, “We can send ’em up to Bluejoint. Old Sam Bass has been yelling for cars for three days. He’s got some stock to ship. Shall I take that chance?”

“Go ahead,” urged Clayton. “I don’t want the darned things. If Bass can use ’em, he’s sure welcome.”

Bluejoint was merely a siding and a loading corral about ten miles from Moolock. It was sometimes used by the ranchers of that side of the valley in making small shipments, and was located about two miles from the 27A ranch.

The train crew grumbled audibly, but added the cattle cars to the train, took their orders and steamed away across the valley, while Clayton, Hoban and Omaha went back to wait for Allenby, who rode into town in a buckboard drawn by a pair of cream-colored horses.

Frank Allenby was about fifty years of age, portly and important. When Forty Dollar Dion had declared that Allenby thought the sun arose and set because of the Allenby family, he was not so far wrong. Allenby had a square, protruding jaw, which accentuated the flatness of his cheek-bones, and beneath a slightly hooked nose he wore an aggressive, brush-like, gray mustache.

His suit was of black broadcloth, his boots of finest leather, and his hats were made to order. But he wore an old-fashioned, stiff bosomed shirt, sans collar, but with a huge onyx button; while his cuffs were fastened together with big cameo cuff-buttons. He wore no vest. From a suspender stay dangled a solid gold watch chain, each link at least an inch long.

Hoban met him at the hitch-rack and tied the team, while Allenby got ponderously from the buckboard, the springs of which seemed to sigh with relief. He looked questioningly at Hoban, as though wondering why he was not busy at the loading pens. He could also see Omaha Olsen and Ed Clayton, standing in front of the Elk saloon.

It did not take Hoban long to inform Allenby of his loss, and the big man stiffened, as though to withstand a physical blow. His face paled with anger and then he hunched forward, as if to grapple with his foreman.

“Gone?” he muttered thickly. “You mean that some one stole them?”

“Yuh might say they have,” said Hoban slowly. “The padlock on the big gate has been smashed. I told the sheriff about it.”

Allenby shook his head like a wounded bull. The pocket-book was Frank Allenby’s vital spot, and it nauseated him to think of losing those Herefords. Then he shut his teeth with an audible snap and surged ahead toward the Elk saloon, where he stopped in front of Omaha and the cattle buyer.

“I know about it,” said Clayton sympathetically.

“By ——, I know about it, too!” roared Allenby. He was almost crying with anger. “I know who stole those Herefords. By ——, I know! I’ll——”

“Go ahead and tell me who stole ’em.”

Swan River Smith had crossed the street unnoticed and had heard Allenby’s statement. Allenby turned his head and glared at the sheriff. But Allenby’s glare did not affect Swan River in the least. The big cattle man’s dominating personality meant nothing to the little sheriff.

“Go ahead,” urged Swan River. “I’d shore like to hear his name.”

“That’s my business!” snapped Allenby.

“And mine,” added the sheriff. “If you know who stole yore cows tell me his name. If you don’t know, Allenby, if yore only makin’ a wild guess—keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll do as I —— please!”

“Yeah?” Swan River looked him over coldly. “All right. Free speech is yore right, Allenby. But if you ain’t got evidence enough to back up the name you mention—the law ain’t backin’ you.”

“I don’t need the law. I’ll be my own law, by ——!”

“Huh!” Thus the sheriff softly, as he turned and walked back toward his office. Allenby glared after him. Omaha and Clayton smiled; but Hoban’s face did not change a line.

“Little pup!” sneered Allenby, half under his breath; but the sheriff was too far away to hear it.

“He isn’t much,” agreed Clayton. Hoban looked sharply at the cattle-buyer. Hoban knew that Swan River Smith was a thoroughly capable officer, with a fine record behind him.

“Do yuh know who stole ’em?” asked Omaha innocently.

“Do I know who stole ’em?” parroted Allenby. “I do know.”

“Well, let’s go and get ’em back.”

“Fool!” snorted Allenby. “Do you suppose they’d leave ’em where we could find ’em?” He spat viciously and turned to Clayton.

“When will your man be here, Ed?”

“He’s due any time now. You just keep calm and let Jim Seeley work on this case. He’ll put a stop to it.”

“That’s the detective?” asked Omaha.

“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t tell everybody about it.”

“I hope he can handle it,” said Allenby wearily. “I can’t stand losing any more stock. Freeman, the secretary of the association, promised to furnish me with a couple of men, who, he said, are the best in the world on this kind of a case. But they refused to take it. I offered them five thousand dollars for a conviction, but they refused.

“I know who is doing the dirty work, Clayton. I know it just as well as if I had a confession from them; but I need evidence. Nobody else is losing stock. It’s spite work, that’s all it is. For over two years I’ve been losing cattle. I sent one man to the penitentiary, and next time I’ll send two. If I don’t stop ’em, I’ll be broke. I’m going home now.”

“You heard about the train robbery, didn’t you?” asked Clayton.

“Yes. The sheriff chased them to Tecoma, but they got away into the Bearpaw country.”

“Suppose there’s any connection between the train robbery and the rustlers?”

“No. Too far apart. Are you coming out to the ranch today?”

“I may be out later.”

Hoban untied the team and watched Allenby ride back toward the ranch, before joining Omaha and Clayton at the Elk bar.

Hashknife and Sleepy had finished their breakfast in time to see Allenby ride away. The sheriff was standing in the doorway of his office when they arrived, and told them that the big man was Frank Allenby.

“Allenby ain’t no woolly little sheep when he’s contented,” explained Swan River, “so right now he’s a ragin’ wolf with nothin’ in sight to bite into. Somebody busted into the loadin’ pens last night and lifted three hundred Hereford cows that were due to take a railroad ride this mornin’.”

“Lifted ’em out of a loadin’ pen, eh?” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll tell a man that’s the real handy way to get ’em. Sheriff, I’m of the opinion that this county ain’t so law-abidin’ that it aches.”

“Naw, she ain’t,” agreed Forty Dollar, trying to get a number nine foot into a number seven boot. “’F you was a deputy sheriff here for a while you’d find out. This here ain’t no office—it’s a job, y’betcha.”

“Any clues left by the light-fingered gents?” asked Sleepy.

Swan River shook his head.

“Not a clue. There’s so darned many cow tracks in this country, and no rain for two months, that yuh never could trail ’em.”

“Just have to trust to luck, eh?” Thus Hashknife, interested.

“Yeah—luck.”

“Have much rustlin’ to contend with?”

“Mm-m-m, not so much. It’s a queer thing about the rustlin’. Somebody has been stealin’ cows from Allenby for over two years. I’ve tried every scheme I could think of to nail the guilty party or parties; but they’re too slick for me.”

“Only from Allenby?” queried Hashknife.

“He’s the only one that reports a loss.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Kinda looks like somebody had a grudge against Mr. Allenby, don’t it?”

“Do yuh think so?”

“Well, what do you think, sheriff?”

Swan River Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew who Allenby suspected. There was a dead weight of evidence against that party right now; but Swan River wanted to be fair. He did not know who Hashknife and Sleepy were, except their names, and he did not want to make any mistakes.

“We don’t want to horn into yore business,” said Hashknife, reading the sheriff’s hesitancy. “It ain’t nothin’ to us, yuh see. We’d kinda like to get our broncs back though. Them was sure two goshawful good horses.”

Swan River looked up grinning.

“I’ll betcha they were,” he said. “I’d just like to help yuh get ’em back, to see how good they are. C’mon out to the stable.”

They went out through the rear door, with Forty Dollar bringing up the rear, stamping his feet to try and stretch his boots. If facial expression means anything he was accomplishing little.

“These are m’ dude boots,” he explained to Sleepy. “When I dress—I dress to kill.”

“Yourself?” asked Sleepy innocently.

Forty Dollar grinned painfully and rested on his high-heels, bracing one hand against the stable door, while the others went inside.

“I want yuh to take a look at the gray and the pinto,” said Swan River, pointing out the two horses in adjoining stalls. Hashknife looked them both over carefully and came back beside the sheriff.

“Notice the brands?” asked the sheriff.

“Both HB animals,” said Hashknife. “No other brands.”

The sheriff squinted at the rumps of the two horses, chewing reflectively on a straw.

“I didn’t need to look at the brands,” he said slowly. “I knew the two horses we were chasin’ yesterday. Yuh couldn’t mistake that pinto. That black head shows it up a mile away. And there ain’t many gray horses bein’ rode around here.”

“Kinda looks like Hank Bell’s goose was about cooked,” observed Forty Dollar, limping in from the doorway.

“That’ll be about all from you,” said the sheriff. “Yo’re just pessimistic from tight boots.”

They went back to the office, where Forty Dollar managed to take off the offending, if gaudy, footwear and put on his old boots.

“Them that wants to be dudes can be dudes,” he declared. “’F I can find the drummer what sold me that pair of boots, I’ll kick him seven times with each one. I want food, by golly. You fellers had breakfast yet? Yeah? Well, I reckon I can eat by my lonesome.”

Forty Dollar grabbed his hat and crossed the street to the Blue Front restaurant, while the other three men lounged in the doorway of the office, smoking thoughtfully. A man rode in past them and dismounted at the Elk saloon. He was not many years past his majority; a thin-faced youth and rather frail of physique.

“That’s Allenby’s son,” said the sheriff. “Harry Allenby. The old man thinks that Harry is the finest piece of man-flesh that ever was whelped. I dunno what in —— he’s ever goin’ to make out of the kid. Allenby is so ——ed stingy that he wouldn’t let the kid go to college; yet he expects him to be President of the United States, I reckon.”

“Kinda figures to have him be a self-made man, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“Somethin’ like that. I like Mrs. Allenby. She’s sure a nice little woman—too ——ed nice for Allenby. And June is a dinger. June is the daughter. She’s about a year younger than Harry, and I reckon he’s about twenty-four now.”

While they were discussing the Allenbys’ affairs two more riders came into the far end of the street and rode toward them. Swan River squinted thoughtfully, watching them ride to the Elk saloon rack.

“There’s Bud Bell and ‘Sticky’ Clay,” said Swan River. “Bud is the one on this side—the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary. Clay rides for the HB outfit, and he’s a gunman if there ever was one. Oh, oh! C’mon.”

The two men had tied their horses and were going toward the saloon door. Swan River stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the saloon. After a moment of hesitation, Hashknife and Sleepy hurried after him.

“There’s three men from Allenby’s in there,” explained Swan River, as they reached the sidewalk. “Mebbe it won’t mean anythin’, but yuh never can tell.”

As they went inside Clayton was just buying some chips in a poker game, while Omaha and Hoban were deep in the mysteries of trying to play pool on an uneven table, on which the cushions were as “dead” as strips of mattress. Harry Allenby was at the bar, with a bottle at his elbow, squinting sidewise at Bud Bell and Sticky Clay, who were also at the bar, being served by “Snowy” Barnette, the proprietor.

As far as outward appearances went there was no cause for the sheriff to feel any uneasiness. Bud turned his head and looked at Swan River Smith. It was their first meeting since Bud had come back from the penitentiary. But if Bud felt any malice toward the sheriff, his gray eyes did not show it.

“Hello, Bud,” said the sheriff softly. “Goin’ to shake hands with me?”

A slight smile flashed across the young man’s thin lips and he nodded quickly, as he held out his hand.

“Why shouldn’t I, Swan River?” he asked. “You wasn’t to blame.”

They shook hands solemnly. Omaha and Hoban stopped playing long enough to observe this meeting, and those in the poker game were silent until it was over. Harry Allenby took a lonesome drink and braced his elbows on the bar, hooked one heel over the bar-rail and studied the poker players.

“Howdy, Clay,” said the sheriff.

Sticky Clay grinned, showing two rows of bad teeth, and motioned for the sheriff to join them in their drink. Clay was wry-necked, sallow complexioned and almost bald. He seemed to be in bad health, but those who had had trouble with him declared that there was nothing sickly about him.

“Invite yore friends,” said Sticky, noticing that Hashknife and Sleepy were with Swan River.

“I’ll take a cigar,” said Hashknife. “Little too soon after breakfast to drink.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Clay. “I don’t diagnose no man’s inside workin’s. ’S everybody set? Here’s hopin’ yuh never get caught.”

“Here’s hopin’ I don’t have to catch yuh,” smiled the sheriff.

Harry Allenby laughed harshly. The saloon went silent. Swan River had spoken loud enough for every one to hear.

“You won’t have to,” said Harry meaningly. “A sheriff can do as he —— pleases.”

Swan River’s eyes narrowed, but he turned away, ignoring the implied insult. He knew that Harry had been drinking more than was good for him, and was willing to excuse him for his words. Bud was only a few feet away from Harry, with no one between them.

“You’re drunk, Harry,” said Clayton, shoving back from the table. “Better go out and get some fresh air.”

Hoban and Omaha carefully placed their billiard cues on the table and moved slowly toward the bar. Harry looked at them and laughed.

“I don’t need any help,” he assured them, waving them away with a slight gesture of his left hand. “I can take care of myself, y’betcha. Maybe it’s none of my business, but when the sheriff comes in and tries to put himself in right with a —— jail-bird of a horse-thief, I’m ——ed if I——”

His right hand jerked to his gun and he swayed from the bar, but his defense was too slow. Before he had finished speaking, Bud Bell had flung himself forward, and Harry Allenby went down from a smash full in the face that flattened his nose and loosened his front teeth.

He fell at the feet of Omaha and Hoban, who made no move to assist him, as they were looking at Sticky Clay, who had stepped into the center of the room, six-shooter swinging at his thigh, a grin on his lips. Harry got slowly to his feet, spitting gore; but the fight had all been taken out of him. His gun was still in its holster, but he had enough for one day.

“Yuh can put up yore gun, Clay,” said Hoban. “The kid’s been drinkin’ too much, thasall.”

Sticky Clay grinned and snapped the gun back into the holster. Bud Bell’s face was still white with anger, but he turned his back on the blubbering young cowboy, who was being led back to a bucket of water by Omaha Olsen. Clayton looked up at Swan River and said:

“Overlook that, will you, sheriff? Harry is just a fool kid, and he had too much liquor.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Swan River seriously. “I hope this will be a lesson to him. Somebody’ll kill him for talkin’ too much one of these days, Clayton.”

“I suppose they will,” agreed Clayton, and resumed playing.

Bud and Sticky left the place and crossed to a general merchandise store. In a few minutes Swan River, Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, where they met Forty Dollar. He wailed mightily when Swan River told him what had happened.

“Jist my darned luck!” he exclaimed. “Seems like I’m always eatin’ when anythin’ good is pulled off. ’F I ever want to see anythin’ of the world, I’ll have to starve, I reckon. Betcha forty dollars this won’t be the end of it.”

“I hope you lose that forty dollars sometime,” grunted the sheriff. “You’ve been offerin’ that bet ever since I’ve knowed yuh.”

“Nobody ever takes me up, Swan River. I’m game.”

“Oh, ——, you never had that much money. I reckon I better go up to the depot and collect a lot of telegrams from the express company. They’ll swamp me with ’em for a while, even if there wasn’t a two bit piece in that safe.”

“How much did they lose?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They prob’ly don’t know yet. Anyway, there ain’t a ghost of a chance to—” Swan River hesitated, cleared his throat harshly and headed for the depot.

“I’d say that he was a square-shooter,” observed Hashknife.

“Swan River?” Forty Dollar grinned softly. “Yeah, he’s all right. He’d play square with a horse-thief. That’s why our jail ain’t hardly ever occupied. But don’tcha ever get the idea that the little feller ain’t a fighter.”

“I wouldn’t choose him,” smiled Hashknife.

They sauntered across the street and met Bud, who was coming out of the store, followed by Sticky Clay.

“Hyah, Bud,” greeted Forty Dollar, holding out his hand.

“Old Forty Dollar Dion, how are yuh?” said Bud softly. “Long time I no see yuh.”

They studied each other for several moments.

“Yuh look all right, Bud,” said Dion.

“Yeah, I’m all right, Forty. It seems good to see yuh again.”

“Thank yuh, Bud. Say, I want you fellers to meet Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens. Gents, this is Bud Bell and Sticky Clay.”

The four men shook hands. Bud Bell’s eyes never turned from his study of Hashknife, even when he shook hands with Sleepy. It was evident to both Hashknife and Sleepy that Bud Bell had recognized them by name. Sticky’s eyes squinted reflectively, as he seemed to try and place them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never traveled incognito, even when knowingly going into an enemy country. Moolock was a long ways from any place where they had operated, and it was not surprising that more men did not recognize them by name.

There came an awkward pause, broken by Sticky Clay.

“We better be gettin’ back to the ranch with this stuff, Bud.”

“All right,” said Bud. “Pleased to have met yuh, gents.”

They walked across to their horses and rode out of town, while Hashknife, Sleepy and Forty Dollar sauntered down to the office.

“Did you ever know that tall puncher?” asked Clay, as he and Bud rode out of town. “Seems like I’ve heard that name.”

“I don’t know him,” said Bud slowly, thoughtfully, “but I’ve heard about him, Sticky. There was a man in the penitentiary, servin’ time for murder, who told me about him. This convict was part of the Moon River gang. Hartley sent him to the pen.”

“Was he the only one of the gang in the pen?” asked Sticky.

“Yeah—the rest died with their boots on.”

“Oh, yeah,” muttered Sticky. “What do yuh reckon he’s doin’ around here, Bud?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I dunno. Mebbe Allenby has hired him.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Sticky dubiously. “Yuh never can tell. Still, when you knocked Harry Allenby down, and Hoban and Omaha were comin’ from the pool table, I seen this tall puncher’s hand swing back toward his gun, and he kinda humped a little. I seen all this out of the corner of my eye. Mebbe he’s hired by Allenby, but I’m wonderin’ what would ’a’ happened if Allenby’s gang had started anythin’.”

Bud shook his head and examined his skinned knuckles, which had come in contact with Harry Allenby’s teeth.

“I heard,” said Sticky Clay, “that Clayton, the cattle-buyer, is goin’ to marry June Allenby.”

Bud looked up quickly, but Sticky was looking straight ahead, his sombrero pulled low over his eyes. For several moments they rode silently. Bud’s thin lips twisted painfully, as he said—

“Well, she’d sure make him a good wife.”

“That side of it is all right,” observed Sticky. “She’d make any man a good wife.”

“If he was lucky enough to get her,” said Bud softly.

Sticky squinted sidewise under the protection of his wide hat at Bud, who was gazing unblinkingly at the bobbing ears of his horse.

Frank Allenby fairly boiled with indignation when Chet Hoban told him what had happened in the Elk saloon. Harry had refused to come home with Hoban and Omaha. Hoban told Allenby exactly what had transpired, without excusing Harry in any way.

Allenby did not stop to consider that Harry had been a foolish young man; he only saw the disgrace to the Allenby family in having an ex-convict knock his son down in a saloon brawl.

“Why didn’t you and Omaha defend him?” he demanded hotly.

Hoban shook his head slowly.

“Harry was wrong; and Sticky Clay had every man in the room covered before Harry went down. And Clay will shoot.”

“Well, perhaps,” grudgingly. “And Harry wouldn’t come home, eh?”

“No.”

“He must feel the disgrace keenly.” Allenby turned away and went into the house. Hoban squinted after him and went back toward the bunkhouse, where Omaha was stretched out on a bunk, reading a paper-backed novel.

“How’d he take it?” asked Omaha.

“Rearin’ straight up,” said Hoban humorously. “I told him that Harry wouldn’t come home, and he said that Harry must feel the disgrace keenly.”

“My ——!” grunted Omaha. “‘The disgrace keenly,’ eh? Didja tell him everythin’ that Harry said?”

“Every word, cowboy.”

“He ought to be proud of his offspring.”

“That’s the —— of it, Omaha—he is.”

June Allenby was in the living room of the ranch-house when her father came in after his talk with Chet Hoban, and she could see that he was greatly perturbed. June was a tall, slender girl, with an unruly crown of soft brown hair above a face that the cowboys of the Moolock swore, “has anythin’ beat that ever came over the hills.” But June was not of the clinging-vine type, nor was she ever guilty of parading her own beauty.

Allenby flung himself down in an easy chair that creaked a protest, and stared moodily at the well-worn Navajo rug under his feet.

“What has gone wrong now, Dad?” asked June, closing the book she had been reading.

He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Wrong? Everything is wrong. Bud Bell whipped your brother in the Elk saloon today. Knocked him down like a dog!”

Allenby grasped the arms of the chair, as though trying to tear them from their moorings.

June colored slightly and looked away.

“Why did he do it?” she asked calmly.

“Why?” snorted her father. “Possibly Bud Bell thought it would help to pay me back for sending him to prison.”

“Don’t you know what started it?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Had Harry been drinking?”

“Drinking? He doesn’t——”

“Yes, he does, Dad. Omaha told me——”

“Oh, pshaw! They all drink a little. Harry isn’t a drinker.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t take much liquor to make him drunk.”

Allenby stared at June for several seconds. He chuckled angrily and got to his feet.

“June, are you trying to defend Bud Bell?”

“No, I——”

“You met him at several dances before——”

June sprang to her feet and they looked squarely at each other. Then Allenby laughed harshly, and June whirled on her heel and left the room.

“By ——, that would make the —— laugh,” he told the empty room. “That —— rustler!”

He turned to the front door as a vehicle rattled over the hard ground outside, and he stepped out to see Clayton and a stranger getting out of a buggy. The stranger was of medium size, dark-featured and with a small, black mustache. He was dressed in dark clothes, soft shirt and a stiff-brim Stetson hat.

“Mr. Allenby, meet Mr. Seeley—Jim Seeley.”

They shook hands jerkily. Clayton took a big suit-case from the buggy and placed it on the porch.

“Kind of a pretty place yuh got here, Mr. Allenby,” said Seeley, glancing around. “I never seen a cow-ranch with so much paint before. You believe in dudin’ it up, don’tcha?”

“Just because it is a cattle ranch, there is no need of living like savages,” replied Allenby.

“Mr. Allenby is several jumps ahead of the rest of the country,” declared Clayton. “He’s progressive. His ranch-house is as fine as a home in the city, and I’ll defy you to find a broken board, loose post or a loose wire on the place.”

Seeley laughed.

“I’m not goin’ to look.”

“Well, you couldn’t find it,” declared Allenby proudly. “I’ve seen to it all myself. Do you intend to stay right here?”

“Why not?” asked Seeley. “I’m workin’ for you now.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you,” said Allenby. “And when I hire a man I want him where I can see that he is on the job all the time. Come on in and meet the family.”

Seeley shot a side glance at Clayton, who was trying to suppress a smile, and they followed Allenby into the house.

“Now who do yuh reckon that is?” queried Omaha, who was looking out of the window and saw the three men going into the house.

Hoban joined him and took a look at the stranger.

“That must be the private investigator that Clayton sent for,” said Hoban dryly. “Allenby has had the detective idea for quite a while, it seems. He lost faith in the Cattle Association, and had some words with the secretary, who promised to get him a first-class cow detective; but it seems that Allenby didn’t ante high enough to get this man.”

“He wouldn’t,” agreed Omaha, turning away from the window. “I don’t like to appear disloyal, but personally I think that Allenby is so stingy that he takes out his false teeth at night to save the wear and tear from his snores.”

Omaha went back to his paper-backed novel, while Chet Hoban sat down to play a game of solitaire. About fifteen minutes later Harry Allenby came in. His nose was badly swollen, as was his upper lip; but he was well loaded with liquor, and if he had been disgraced he did not show it.

“Whoozup at th’ house?” he asked thickly, trying to point in the direction of the ranch-house.

“Clayton and a stranger,” grunted Hoban.

“Whooza stranger?”

“I dunno,” Hoban was trying to concentrate on the layout.

“Zasso?” Harry sat down on the bunk and looked owlishly at Omaha, who grinned behind his book.

“He’s a detective, sonny,” said Omaha patiently. “He’s come here to save yore papa’s li’l cowlets.”

“Zasso?” Harry blinked thoughtfully. “Zee a goo’ one?”

“Shore is,” nodded Omaha. “He’s the jigger that found the ‘Lost Chord,’ if yuh know what that is.”

“Yezzir, I dunno. Ol’ man up at the house?”

“Yeah, he’s there. If I was you I’d doctor up that nose and lip, Harry. Yo’re a —— of a lookin’ thing, if yuh ask me.”

“You better crawl into bed and sleep it off,” said Hoban, without looking up. “Don’t let yore dad see yuh drunk.”

“Zasso?” Harry stumbled over to a mirror and looked at himself with one eye shut.

“I’m a sweet lookin’ lily, tha’s a cinch,” he concluded.

He came back to the center of the room, as though the sight of himself had sobered him a little.

“I’m goin’ back to town,” he decided.

“You better stay right here,” advised Hoban. “Shuck off yore clothes and go to bed.”

“Not ’f I can get away without the folks seein’ me.”

He opened the door cautiously, peered out for several moments before going out after his horse. Omaha went to the window and watched Harry make his sneak back toward town.

“Danged fool kid,” opined Hoban.

“Yeah,” nodded Omaha, “he’s a fool all right, I s’pose. Still he’s old enough to know what he wants. I blame Allenby more than I do the kid. He won’t even pay Harry a cowpuncher’s wages.”

Some one was talking just outside the door; so Omaha went to the window and looked out at Swan River Smith and Forty Dollar Dion, who had just ridden up to the bunkhouse.

“The law has found us out, Chet,” he said as he threw the door open.

“Howdy, officers,” he called. “Get down and appear amiable.”

“Hello, Omaha,” grinned Swan River. “Is Allenby at home? I mean ‘Mr.’ Allenby.”

Omaha grinned widely and pointed toward the house, where Allenby, Clayton and Seeley had come out on the porch. Clayton got into the buggy and drove away, and after a few moments of conversation Allenby and Seeley came down to the bunkhouse.

Allenby did not introduce Seeley to any of them, but spoke directly to the sheriff—

“Something you wanted, Mr. Smith?”

“Nothin’ I exactly wanted, Mr. Allenby,” said the sheriff. “It was kinda in regard to yore loss of last night. In reply I can say that I ain’t been able to find any clue—yet. In yore talk of this mornin’ you kinda intimated that you suspected somebody of purloinin’ yore cows, and if you ain’t got nothin’ else to do right now, I’d kinda like to have yuh explain yore suspicions to me. Sincerely yours, Swan River Smith, sheriff of Moolock.”

Swan River had intoned the whole statement, as though dictating a letter, and Allenby’s ears reddened quickly. Omaha smothered a grin; but Forty Dollar Dion laughed outright. Allenby glared angrily at Forty Dollar, but that worthy did not mind.

“Are you trying to be smart, or just funny?” Allenby asked the sheriff.

“It’s all in the point of view,” said Swan River evenly.

“All right,” Allenby spat viciously. “As far as my losses are concerned, you may just forget them. I am not asking any assistance from the sheriff’s office, and I don’t care to have you volunteer any. I hope you understand what I mean.”

“——, you didn’t leave many loopholes for a mistake to crawl through,” grinned Swan River. “But yore likes and dislikes don’t mean nothin’ to me, Allenby. I’m the sheriff of this county, and I want to tell you——”

“Pardon me, but you can’t tell me anything.” Thus Allenby.

“That’s the whole trouble with you,” said Swan River slowly. “You think that yore a tin god around here, Allenby. Another thing yuh might do without any advice from me—and that is to look after that half-baked kid of yours.

“He came danged near gettin’ what was comin’ to him today, when he opened his mouth too wide. You’ve brought him up to think too ——ed much of the name of Allenby. Now I’m tellin’ this to you for yore own good. And yuh might preach it to him and practice a little of it yoreself. When you’ve got some evidence that’ll hold good in court, let me look at it. In the meantime, think what yuh please, but keep yore mouth shut. I hate to conduct coroner’s inquests. Adios.”

The two officers turned their horses and rode away, leaving Allenby gasping with wrath. Omaha stepped back into the bunkhouse, where he could laugh in safety, while Allenby spluttered and told the wide world what he thought of Swan River Smith.

Finally he introduced Seeley to Chet Hoban, but did not tell Hoban what Seeley’s business was. In fact Allenby was too mad to tell anything.

“We’re going to town, Chet,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll hitch up the team myself.”

He and Seeley went toward the stable, and Hoban leaned against the doorway until they drove away. Omaha, his face tear-streaked, came out to watch them depart.

“Prob’ly goin’ down to tell his son that the fatted calf is almost ready for the barbecue,” said Omaha hoarsely.

“More likely goin’ down to save his little lamb from the slaughter,” said Hoban. “Me and you better fix a new lock on this bunkhouse, Omaha. The next thing we know, somebody will steal us.”

For the next two days Moolock was devoid of excitement. Hashknife and Sleepy spent their time loafing around the Elk saloon and the sheriff’s office. They had made the acquaintance of several cowboys, but had not tried to secure work. Hashknife suggested that they move on, but Sleepy demurred.

“Somethin’ tells me that Moolock is a good place for to be, Hashknife,” he stated. “The poker games ain’t too avaricious, they put up good food, and I ain’t found a bug in that hotel. Yuh don’t find many places as good as this, cowboy.”

Swan River and Forty Dollar had scoured the country, trying to see what they could see; but there was no trace of Allenby’s three hundred Herefords. The express company had flooded Swan River with correspondence regarding the robbery but as yet they had offered no reward.

“I marked them off my slate, as soon as they got into the Bearpaws,” stated Swan River. “I’d like to see you fellers get yore broncs back.”

“Me, too,” said Sleepy. “They was the best pair of animals that ever wore a saddle, y’betcha. Whooee, but that roan of mine was a bird.”

“I’ll betcha,” nodded Swan River. “It could run a mile in spite of——.”

“Just about that fast,” agreed Sleepy. “It was one of them famous A-rab steeds, noted for endurance. It was the horse that the old emperor or somethin’ or other meant when he yelled that he’d trade his kingdom for a horse. Yessir, I’m sure pinin’ a lot for that hammer-headed, ring-boned hunk of coyote bait.”

“Speakin’ of horses,” observed Hashknife, “I’d like to play somebody a game of bottle-pool for the championship of Sweden.”

“I’ll poke yuh a game,” offered Forty Dollar quickly.

Swan River and Sleepy agreed to hold stakes and keep the score, but before the quartet reached the Elk saloon, Jack Merton, owner of the Arrowhead outfit, and Pete Sepulveda, one of his cowboys, came riding down the street, leading two horses.

Hashknife and Sleepy looked quickly at each other, as they recognized their horses. There was no mistaking Hashknife’s tall bay and Sleepy’s hammer-headed roan. Merton waved to the sheriff, and he and Sepulveda tied the four horses to the Elk saloon hitch-rack, and the four men waited for the two riders.

“Seen anybody that lost two horses?” asked Merton, a tall well-built cowboy, with a pleasant cast of countenance, indicating the horses. “These two were camped at my stable this mornin’; so I brought ’em in, sheriff. One’s branded with a JK and the other with a Triangle-6. They don’t show in my register book.”

“They belong to us,” grinned Hashknife.

“F’r gosh sake!” exclaimed Swan River.

“Is them the two saddle-racks yuh been wailin’ about? Well, well, well! Huh!”

“What about it?” asked Merton interestedly.

“Well,” Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully, “it ain’t ready for explanation, Jack. You just take my word for it that the horses belongs to these gents, will yuh?”

“Anythin’ you say, Swan River,” Merton grinned and hitched up his chaps.

“That’s fine of yuh,” admitted Swan River, and proceeded to introduce Merton and Sepulveda to Hashknife and Sleepy.

They all adjourned into the saloon, and a few minutes later another rider came into town.

It was not difficult to see that this rider’s veins carried a certain percentage of Indian blood. He was nearly six feet tall, a trifle gaudy in his spotted calf-skin vest and scarlet muffler, together with a canary-yellow shirt. He was about forty-five years of age, with a deeply lined face and prominent cheek-bones.

He looked over the horses at the rack, especially the two strange ones, before dismounting. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection he tied his sorrel horse at the rack, adjusted his belt and went into the saloon.

“Well, here’s Sam Bass comin’ to town!” exclaimed Swan River, as the newcomer approached the bar. “How are yuh, Sam?”

“Pretty —— good, you bet,” laughed Bass. “Hello, Forty Dollar. Hello, Merton. How are you? By golly, here’s Pete Sepulveda!”

“Have a drink,” invited Swan River.

“Sure I drink whisky. Pretty —— dry these days.”

They poured out their drinks and Swan River introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Sam Bass, who grunted and grinned widely.

“I see two strange horses at the rack,” he stated. “I don’t know the brands; so I s’pose strangers here. You ride bareback, eh?”

“Well, here’s regards,” said Hashknife, ignoring Bass’ question. He knew that Swan River did not want to explain about the lost horses. Bass noticed the evasion, and elevated his brows slightly; but drank his liquor and did not bring up the subject again.

“You don’t happen to know of somebody that wants to hire a couple of good punchers, do yuh?” Thus Hashknife, speaking to Merton.

Merton shook his head and motioned to the bartender to get busy again.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve got a full crew. Maybe Sam needs some help.”

“Not much,” replied Bass quickly. “I got too much help now. ‘Pinon’ Meade and Lem Elder set in the shade all the time.”

“Must take a lot of shade for all three of yuh,” observed Swan River.

Sam Bass laughed loudly, nodding excitedly.

“By golly, that’s right!” he exploded. “I’m lazy too. Swan River knows. Some cattlemen work all the time. Look at Allenby. He make new fence, paint it pretty; paint the house. He’s rich. Sam Bass let ranch go to ——; he’s poor.

“Allenby work all the time; worry, too, I guess. He’s —— fool. Sam Bass never work much, never worry no time. He’s —— fool, too. Let’s have another drink, eh? Drink to two fools.”

“Allenby wouldn’t appreciate that,” laughed Merton. “He sure thinks he’s a wise man. Personally, I think that Sam Bass is right.”

“Danged right he is,” agreed Forty Dollar. “Any old time a man says that Allenby is a fool, I’ll agree with him.”

“What about Allenby losin’ three hundred head of Herefords?” asked Merton. “Was it a fact?”

“You ask Allenby,” laughed Forty Dollar. “It gave him plumbago.”

“Plumbago is lead,” stated Swan River. “You don’t mean plumbago; you mean lumbago, Forty.”

“Thasso?” Forty Dollar emptied his glass and wiped off his chin. “If I shoot a man, I give him plumbago, do I?”

“If yuh shot him with a lead-pencil, Forty.”

“My ——!” grunted Forty Dollar.

“That liquor shore does take a-holt of yuh, Swan River. Shoot him with a lead-pencil!”

Forty Dollar stared around at the rest of the men, his eyes wide with wonder.

“You fellers better exchange a few last words with Swan River Smith, while he still has a little sabe left,” he said softly. “It shore is the turnin’ point in his glorious career. I’d rather see him dead than to not know anythin’. —— knows he’s always been bad enough, but this is too much.”

Forty Dollar Dion buried his face in his elbows on the bar and began crying.

“That danged fool always gets a cryin’ jag on, after about six drinks,” said Swan River disgustedly. “Let him cry.”

Someone passed a sack of tobacco and they were rolling cigarets, when a tow-headed youngster, his eyes wide with wonder, tiptoed into the saloon and looked at the group at the bar.

“What do yuh want, sonny?” asked the bartender.

“I—I want the sheriff,” faltered the youngster.

“Me?” asked Swan River. “What do yuh want, son?”

“You—you better come out here.” The lad turned and fairly ran out of the place.

“Mebbe I better,” agreed Swan River quickly, and he was followed by every one, except Forty Dollar and the bartender.

The boy was on the sidewalk, pointing excitedly toward the hitch-rack, where a man sat drunkenly on a horse, reins dragging.

“That looks danged funny!” exclaimed the sheriff, as they all hurried out to the man. He was roped to the saddle with a long lariat, and tied to the rope, where it circled the man’s neck, was a fairly fresh cowhide.

It was Seeley, Allenby’s detective. His face was gray as ashes, except where it was caked with blood; and there was blood all over his shirt. It appeared that the man had been shot in the head and in the body. Hashknife took out his knife and cut the ropes, while the others lowered the man to the sidewalk.

He groaned painfully and collapsed. Swan River sent one of the men after a doctor. Hashknife spread out the cowhide. It had been taken from a Hereford two-year-old, and the brand on the right shoulder was a Half-Circle Cross.

“Does anybody know him?” asked Swan River. “Ain’t he the feller who was stayin’ at Allenby’s place?”

“He was here with Allenby yesterday,” offered the bartender, who had left Forty Dollar alone.

“It kinda looks like he’d collected the hide of one of Allenby’s missin’ Herefords,” said Hashknife. “He’s got creased along the head, and it kinda looks like there might be a bullet in his right shoulder, which made him lose quite some gore.”

The youngster came racing back with the information that the doctor wanted them to bring the man down to his home. Some one got a blanket from the hotel, and there were plenty of men to carry the wounded man down to the doctor’s office. Swan River carried the cowhide over in front of his office and draped it across the little hitch-rack.

“What do yuh make of it, Hartley?” he asked seriously. “Why would anybody shoot this man, tie him to a saddle and send him back with that cowhide?”

“You want my opinion, Swan River?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Well, I ain’t got one. It kinda looks to me like somebody was tryin’ to take a slap at Mr. Allenby.”

Swan River sighed deeply. All this was only piling up misery for him.

“I suppose I’ve got to make an arrest pretty soon,” he said slowly. “I ain’t got a bit of evidence to make it on; but the arrow points just one way. Still—I dunno.”

He got up and walked to the door of the office. Hank and Bud Bell were dismounting at the general store.

“There’s old Hank Bell,” he told Hashknife, pointing at the angular little man, who carried his right arm sharply bent at the elbow. They disappeared into the store, and Swan River turned to Hashknife.

“That pinto and gray belong to old Hank,” he said softly. “Bud rides the pinto.”

“You still got ’em in yore stable?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure thing. When they start inquiring about lost horses, it’ll be time enough for me to do my talkin’. Nobody, except the four of us, know about ’em.”

Hashknife walked up to the store and went inside. He was curious to see old Hank Bell. Bud was buying some cartridges from the proprietor, who was telling him about the stranger who had been shot. Old Hank seemed indifferent to the telling, but Hashknife could see that the old man was not missing a word of it.

Old Hank was of the old school of cattlemen. He was small, wiry of frame, thin faced; his white hair reaching to his collar. His eyes were small and as hard as agate, but there were enough grin-wrinkles around them to prove that old Hank Bell was not always serious. His right arm was crippled in such a way that he was unable to reach below his waist; and Hashknife noticed that the old man wore his holster on the left side, tied down.

“Regular old he-wolf,” Hashknife told himself. “Taught himself to draw and shoot left-handed.”

The proprietor finished telling his story, and a ghost of a smile flitted across old Hank’s lips, when the proprietor spoke about the Half-Circle Cross cowhide that was hanging from the man’s neck.

Bud turned and nodded to Hashknife. He spoke aside to his father, who shot a quick glance at Hashknife. Pete Sepulveda came into the store and spoke to Hashknife—

“That feller was shot twice, Hartley. The one creased his head and won’t amount to much; but the other one went plumb through him. He was shot from behind. The doctor dunno whether it’ll kill him or not. Do you know who he is?”

“Nope. Somebody said he was stayin’ at Allenby’s place.”

“Allenby just drove in. I seen him comin’ as I came in here.”

Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. Allenby and his daughter were in the buckboard, stopped in the middle of the street, talking to one of the men who had just come from the doctor’s office. As Hashknife watched them Allenby whipped up his team and went toward the doctor’s place.

Bud completed his purchases and walked across to the Elk saloon, followed by his father, who gave Hashknife a searching glance as he went past.

“He’s a tough old pelican,” declared Sepulveda. “Don’t think he’s been in a shootin’ scrape since he got his arm smashed; but I’m bettin’ that he sabes how to shoot left-handed. Them old jiggers shoot first and talk afterward.

“Old Hank used to be awful fast with a gun. He had a funny way of gettin’ his gun, Hartley. He’d kinda swing his hand behind the holster—like a feller might swing his hand when he’s walkin’—and on the back swing he pulled and shot all to once. I dunno how he done it. I’ve tried to do it. They tell me that he learned Bud how to do it; but I ain’t never seen Bud have to shoot—yet.”

They walked outside and joined Sleepy and Merton.

“Allenby is throwin’ a fit,” declared Sleepy. “He acts like he was the one that got shot. I asked him who this feller was, and he told me it was none of my business—which it wasn’t. I’ve heard a lot of profanity, but Allenby’s got ’em all skinned.”

“Not in front of his daughter, did he?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she didn’t stay; she drove back to the post-office.”

Swan River Smith and Sam Bass were coming down the street toward the store; but crossed the street and went to the White Horse saloon.

“I’ll buy a drink,” offered Sepulveda, and Sleepy accepted; but Hashknife shook his head.

“Thank yuh just the same, Sepulveda. Mebbe I’ll join yuh later.”

Sleepy and Sepulveda went to the saloon, leaving Hashknife leaning against the front of the store, cogitating over certain things.

Bud Bell came out of the saloon, as Sleepy and Sepulveda went in. He declined their invitation to drink and came over to the store.

“How is everythin’ today, Hartley?” he asked, as he went past.

“Oh, kinda interestin’,” smiled Hashknife.

June Allenby was coming down the street, carrying some packages in her hands. It was the first time that Hashknife had seen her, and he was forced to agree with Forty Dollar Dion, that June Allenby was a “dinger.”

It was not like Hashknife to stare at a lady, but he did. In fact he was so interested in her that he did not hear Bud Bell come out of the store. June lifted her eyes from the sidewalk and looked straight past Hashknife, who turned his head and discovered Bud Bell.

They had both stopped and were staring at each other. Hashknife wished that he was on the opposite side of the street instead of almost directly between these two. Then Bud stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, as though to start across the street; but the girl halted him with a motion of her hand.

“Bud,” she said, “aren’t you going to even say hello?”

Bud’s hand went uncertainly to his sombrero, but his eyes shifted from June and glanced quickly around.

“Yes’m, I reckon that wouldn’t hurt anybody—and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He stepped off the sidewalk and headed swiftly across the street. Hashknife watched June’s face, as she followed him with her eyes until he went into the Elk saloon. Hashknife wanted to speak to her—to tell her that he would help to straighten things out—but he was tongue-tied. Perhaps she read his intentions in his eyes as she passed him and went into the store.

“She loves Bud Bell!” he told himself wonderingly. “Can yuh beat that? This is sure a queer old world. And in spite of all the trouble Frank Allenby has caused Bud Bell, I’m bettin’ that Bud Bell loves Allenby’s daughter. He said he didn’t want to hurt her. I wonder if he meant—oh, well, let’s see.”

He hooked his thumb over the waistband of his overalls and considered the situation for a space of time. His eyes shifted to their two horses at the Elk saloon hitch-rack.

“By golly, I’ve got to fix a place for them broncs,” he told himself, “and this is as good a time as any, I reckon.”

He turned on his heel and went slowly down the street.

Hashknife was barely out of sight when Allenby came from the doctor’s home. His face was black with anger and his hands were clenched at his sides as he strode along. Near the door of the Elk saloon he stopped and studied the horses at the hitchracks. Over in front of the store stood the two horses which Hank Bell and his son had ridden.

“Both here,” muttered Allenby, half-aloud. “By ——, I’ve stood enough!” He turned, spat viciously, grimacing, as though he tasted wormwood and gall, and went into the saloon.

Swan River Smith and Pete Sepulveda saw him cross in front of the White Horse saloon, and they lost no time in crowding into the saloon behind him. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Hank Bell, who was standing at the bar with Sleepy and Sam Bass. He did not notice that the sheriff was behind him.

Bud was sitting beside a card-table, looking at an old newspaper, but now his eyes shifted to Allenby.

“I’ve stood about all I’m going to, Bell,” Allenby spoke to old Hank in a shaking voice. Hank Bell turned slowly, his left hand swinging back of him, as though to shove him away from the bar.

“Look out,” whispered Pete Sepulveda, who knew what that movement meant.

Allenby was not a gunman. It is doubtful if he could have hit Hank Bell at that distance; but his anger had made him forget all caution. He wanted to crush this little, crooked-armed old man. But Hank Bell was not going to fight him. He stood there, poised easily, his left hand splayed out behind him.

But before anything more could be said, Swan River Smith butted Allenby with his left shoulder, while with his right hand he snatched Allenby’s gun from its holster. The jolt turned the big man half-around and he struck at the little sheriff; but Swan River easily dodged the blow and stepped between Allenby and Hank Bell.

“And that’ll be about all of this show,” said Swan River calmly. “If you fellers want to go gunnin’ for each other, you better go out on the flat somewhere.”

“I wasn’t gunnin’ for anybody,” said old Hank slowly, “but I hate to disappoint anybody when they ask me for trouble.”

“Thasall right, Hank.” Swan River turned to Allenby—“Some day, Allenby, you’ll make a mistake. And it’ll probably be the kind of a mistake that a man only makes once in a lifetime. I don’t blame yuh for bein’ mad—but yuh ought to use judgment.”

“What was this to you?” demanded Allenby hotly. “You had no right to interfere with my business. Give me back that gun!”

Swan River grinned and shoved the gun inside the waistband of his overalls.

“When yuh get ready to go home, I’ll just do that,” he said. “I’m kinda responsible for the wear and tear on Moolock, yuh know.”

“You’re responsible for a lot of things,” sneered Allenby. “I came to town to get a little information from you, Smith. This morning I had a little talk with a man named Pierson. He’s from Tecoma. He told me a little story about you being at Tecoma the other night—the evening of the day that the express robbery was pulled off.

“He told me about two men whose horses were stolen by the bandits—and he told me about a pinto and a gray that were left at the hitch-rack. The pinto had a coal black head. Pierson saw the brands, too. What about it?”

Swan River squinted at Sleepy and his brows drew into a deep frown. He realized that there was nothing more he could do to keep that evidence under cover. Hank Bell and Bud were looking straight at each other, and now Bud got to his feet.

“Take it easy,” advised Sleepy softly. Bud flashed a glance at him, as though wondering why Sleepy had said that.

“Well, what about it?” asked Allenby triumphantly.

He felt that he was putting the screws to Swan River Smith, and he knew that it was not welcome news to the Bell family.

“What about it?” queried Swan River vacantly. “Huh! Pierson told yuh this, did he?”

“Yes, he did. Would he have any reason to lie?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he would, Allenby.”

“What about the pinto and gray?” asked Bell wonderingly.

Swan River pursed his lips, as he shook his head slowly.

“You’ve got those horses,” declared Allenby. “You’ve had them ever since that night.”

Swan River did not deny it. Sepulveda turned to Sleepy.

“That’s how you lost your two horses, eh?”

Sleepy ignored the question.

“Are they in your stable or at the livery barn?” asked Allenby.

“Yuh might find out by lookin’,” said Swan River.

“All right!” snapped Allenby. “You know as well as I do that those two horses belong to Hank Bell. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“Do about it?” parroted Swan River.

“Yes! Are you going to let them escape while we go to look at the evidence?”

Swan River squinted at Hank and Bud.

“Are yuh?” he asked.

Old Hank shook his head and said—

“I’d rather fight than run, Swan River. Suppose we go with yuh.”

“That’s a —— of a way to run your office!” exploded Allenby. “Some of these days——”

“Suppose you stay here, Allenby,” suggested Swan River blandly.

“No, by ——! All I want is a square deal. Will we go to the livery-barn first?”

“Suit yoreself.”

They all trooped to the livery-stable, where it did not take them long to find that the horses were not there. Back they went to the sheriff’s stable, behind his office, where they found Hashknife, busily currying the tall bay. In the next stall stood the JK roan, belonging to Sleepy, and in the other two stalls stood Swan River’s sorrel and Forty Dollar’s buckskin.

Hashknife looked curiously at the crowd, but did not cease grooming his horse. Swan River leaned against the doorway and rubbed his chin, while the rest of the crowd looked around blankly and came outside.

“I—I hope yore satisfied,” said Swan River chokingly.

“Satisfied, ——!” snorted Allenby. He was no longer the triumphant person of a few minutes ago. Old Hank scratched his head foolishly, and motioned to Bud.

“You don’t want us for anythin’ more do yuh?” Old Hank spoke to Swan River.

“Shucks, no,” said Swan River. “I reckon everybody’s satisfied.”

“I hope so,” said old Hank. “C’mon, Bud.”

They walked back through the alley, leaving Allenby staring after them, his lips working painfully. He turned on the sheriff.

“What crooked work is this?” he demanded hotly. “You just the same as admitted that you had those horses.”

“I didn’t admit nothin’,” denied Swan River. “I was willin’ to prove that I didn’t.”

Allenby went back toward the street without another word.

“I’d buy a drink,” stated Pete Sepulveda. “I’d buy a drink for everybody.”

Sam Bass, Merton and several more of the crowd accepted on the spot; but Sleepy had already gone to work grooming his roan.

Swan River sat down on the feed-box and watched the two cowboys work on their horses, until the rest of the men had gone back.

“I thought they had yuh, Swan River,” said Sleepy, pausing to clean his currycomb. “Yuh could ’a’ knocked me down with a straw.”

“Yeah, I felt the same about it.” Swan River squinted at Hashknife questioningly, but the tall cowboy’s face was serious. For several minutes there was nothing but the “swish” of the currycomb and brush to break the silence. Finally Hashknife stepped back, looked the bay over carefully and threw the comb and brush into a box against the wall. He walked to the door and looked out, as he brushed off his shirt.

“Hartley,” said Swan River softly. “Did you know that Pierson had talked with Allenby?”

“Pierson?”

“Yeah. He’s the feller who runs the saloon at Tecoma. Didja know that Pierson told Allenby about those two horses—the pinto and the gray?”

“No-o-o, I didn’t know it. We needed a place to put our broncs, and I didn’t feel like payin’ a livery-stable to keep ’em.”

Swan River took a deep breath and looked at Sleepy, who had ceased work while Hashknife was talking.

“And that’s about all you’ll ever get out of him,” said Sleepy knowingly.

“Well,” Swan River sighed with satisfaction, “that’s enough to suit me. Mebbe we’re all wrong, I dunno. Anyway, I thank yuh, Hashknife. It saved me from a lot of explainin’.”

“Yo’re welcome, sheriff,” said Hashknife. He was thinking of a girl who wanted a boy to say hello to her; a boy who was afraid that even a hello from him might harm her.

“This is a —— of a world,” he said thoughtfully.

“It sure is,” agreed Swan River. “We don’t ask to get in; get —— while we’re here, and get out because we can’t help ourselves. My old dad used to say—

“‘Eat a lot of green vegetables, keep yore mouth shut and yore gun cocked—and you’ll live a long time.’”

Sleepy laughed and put up his brush.

“How close do yuh foller that advice?” he asked.

“Well,” grinned Swan River, “I keep my gun cocked quite a lot of the time. I figure that’s what they call a necessary of life—anyway around here.”

A lapse of twenty-four hours had made little difference in Allenby’s feelings toward the rest of the world. Seeley was still alive, but the doctor held out little hope for his recovery. The soft-nose bullet had just about wrecked one of his lungs, and the other had caused a slight concussion of the brain.

Clayton has just brought in the latest report of Seeley’s condition, and Allenby had called a meeting at the bunkhouse. Harry was sober but just a bit shaky; Omaha amused; Hoban serious. It was then that Allenby told them all about hiring Seeley to investigate for him.

“They shot him down like a dog,” Allenby told them angrily. “They have probably added murder to their other crimes. There is no doubt in my mind that either the sheriff, his deputy, or one of those two strange cowboys turned that pinto and gray horse loose, to ruin the evidence.

“Just what interest those two cowboys have in this deal, I do not know. I feel sure that Swan River Smith thought those two horses were in the stable, and that he was as surprised as anyone else when we did not find them. The sheriff is against us; so it is up to us to handle it in the only way possible—go and settle it ourselves.”

“How do yuh mean?” asked Hoban.

“I mean that we’ll ride down to the HB ranch, force them to confess and take them to jail ourselves.”

“Christmas daisies!” grunted Omaha. “You talk like we was goin’ out to bring in a cow.”

Allenby glared at Omaha. He did not believe in anyone questioning an order or a suggestion from him.

“Are you afraid to do this, Olsen?” he asked.

“No, I ain’t afraid,” said Omaha meaningly. “I just don’t think it can be done, tha’sall. You might get a —— of a lot of hot lead, but yuh won’t get no confession.”

“Would you refuse to go?” asked Allenby.

Omaha squinted at the floor for several moments before he looked up at Allenby and nodded slowly—

“Yeah, I reckon I would. If I caught a man stealin’ yore cows, I’d shoot him as quick as you would; but I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to try and take the law in my own hands and try to make a man confess. That’s up to the officers—not to me.”

“All right,” said Allenby briskly. “Your wages up to date are ready for you, Olsen. I want men who will do my bidding. How about you, Hoban?”

“I’ll ride with Omaha,” said Hoban calmly. “We came here together, yuh know. I’ve handled yore cows, Allenby—you handle yore own killin’.”

Allenby snorted audibly and looked around. He had been sure of Hoban, because Hoban was his foreman. It left only three of them to do the job—and he wasn’t so sure of Clayton.

“Well, that makes things different,” he decided grudgingly.

“Decidedly,” agreed Clayton. “Perhaps the idea wasn’t as good as it might have been. You see, Allenby, you haven’t enough evidence yet to force a confession from either of the Bell family.”

“Well, how can I get it?” demanded Allenby. “I’d give five thousand dollars for evidence enough to convict those two men.”

No one seemed to know—which was not surprising.

“Who are those two cowboys?” asked Allenby.

“One is named Hartley and the other one Stevens,” offered Harry. “I heard that much about ’em. The tall one is nicknamed Hashknife.”

Allenby squinted closely at Harry.

“Are you sure of that, Harry?” he asked.

“Well, that’s what they’re called.”

“That’s funny,” muttered Allenby, turning to Clayton. “That is the names of the two men that Freeman, the secretary of the Cattle Association, spoke to me about. They refused my offer, but still they came here.”

“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” said Clayton wonderingly. “Who sent them in here, I wonder?”

“I’ve done all the wondering I’m going to,” declared Allenby, turning to the door. “I’m going to town and find these two men. My offer is still open, and I think they’ll accept it, after I tell them what it means to me.”

“How soon can I get my pay?” asked Omaha. Allenby halted half-way outside and looked back.

“We will take that up later, Olsen. Are you going with me, Clayton?”

“Yes, I’ll go with you,” agreed Clayton.

They drove away in a cloud of dust, swinging out through the main gate on two wheels. Omaha grinned and sat down on his bunk.

“I suppose that me and you are canned, Chet,” he said.

“Yo’re canned,” corrected Chet, “I quit.”

“Aw, ——!” blurted Harry. “The old man will forget all that in an hour. You fellers got anythin’ drinkable around here?”

“You lay off the booze,” advised Hoban. “The first thing you know the old man will cut you off his will.”

“Is that so?” Harry laughed sarcastically. “That’ll hurt me a —— of a lot. He never did give me a —— cent; and he’ll live longer than I will probably.”

“If you don’t keep your mouth shut,” agreed Hoban dryly.

Harry laughed and went up to the ranch-house, while Omaha and Hoban began packing their war-sacks.

It did not take Allenby and Clayton long to make the drive to Moolock, and they were greeted at Elk saloon with the information that Seeley had died. The doctor wanted some information regarding this man, in order to notify his relatives; and Swan River Smith wanted some information regarding him, to use at the inquest.

Allenby knew nothing about him, except what Clayton had told him; and Clayton’s information was almost as vague. He knew that Seeley was a detective—a cattle detective—but he did not know where Seeley’s relatives lived.

Swan River Smith went back to his office, where Forty Dollar, Hashknife and Sleepy were playing seven-up at two bits a corner, and told them what Clayton had told him regarding the dead man.

“Name is Seeley, and he was a cattle detective, eh?” mused Hashknife. “It kinda looks to me like his profession reacted upon him. Mebbe he wore a star, or somethin’ that advertised his callin’.”

“That’s why Allenby told me to keep out of it,” grinned Swan River. He sobered in a moment, shutting one eye, as he considered the situation.

“I’ll tell yuh, it ain’t so much of a joke, at that,” he said. “Murder is murder, by golly. That Seeley was shot from behind; and it ain’t noways healthy nor conductive of pleasant thoughts to think that there might be a killer behind the next bush.”

“Looks to me like it might be a warnin’,” observed Forty Dollar. “I sure believe in them kinda signs. I’ve had my fortune told five times, altogether. Had ’em told by a different person every time—and every fortune was different. Doggone it, yuh never know who to believe.

“One of ’em told me to beware of a tall, dark man; another told me that I was goin’ to have a lot of trouble with a light complected man, and the rest of ’em dilated on trouble with three other kinds of men. And they all was different. If I tried to run my existence accordin’ to their warnin’s, I’d have to hide out in the hills. Whooee! I sure have got a lot of mixed sizes and colors tryin’ to make life hard for me.”

“I never had my fortune told,” said Swan River. “I’d a lot rather get along in my own dumb way. I don’t want to know what is jist around the next turn; but I’d sure like to have just a little inside information on who is doin’ this dirty work.

“We’ll have to hold this inquest tomorrow and shove that poor —— under the sod without knowin’ anythin’ more about him. Clayton, the cattle buyer, hired him for Allenby; but Clayton don’t know where Seeley’s relatives live.”

While they were talking, Doctor Edwall, the coroner, came in. He was a fussy little man, partly bald, and talked jerkily.

“Very little information to be had,” he declared. “Clayton knows very little. No known relatives. Came here from Omaha, Nebraska. Pockets yielded very little. Nothing worth while. Here—” he handed the sheriff a soiled envelope—“that is a letter to Seeley, written, I presume, by Mr. Clayton. I have read it.”

Swan River Smith took the letter out of the envelope and read it carefully. Swan River did not read very fast. Finally he placed it on his desk.

“Well, that don’t give us much information, doctor,” he decided. “We’ll just have to go ahead and hold the inquest, bring in the usual verdict, and bury the corpse, I reckon.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so, sheriff. Well, good-by, gentlemen.”

The doctor bustled away, as busy as a bee. Hashknife picked up the letter and looked it over. It had been sent from Moolock, and was directed to Jim Seeley, Omaha, Nebraska, care of general delivery. The letter read:

Dear Jim:

Frank Allenby, the biggest cattleman in Moolock, is

up against a very dangerous proposition and needs help.

It looks like a plain case of spite work by somebody and

you can make five thousand dollars for a few days work.

This gang of rustlers are able to pull off big jobs

and get away without the slightest chance of anyone

detecting them. Your work must be done without anyone

knowing who you are; sabe?

I will explain everything to you when you get here.

You will like Allenby. If you can’t take this job, Jim, it

will disappoint me greatly. If you come, keep it dark, or it

might make things very bad. Wire your decision.

Sincerely

Ed.

“Well, Allenby’s life is still worth the five thousand, I reckon,” smiled Hashknife, as he handed the letter back to the sheriff. “Mebbe he’ll raise the ante after awhile.”

“Speak about the ——,” muttered Forty Dollar.

Allenby was entering the office as Forty Dollar spoke, but he could hardly have heard what Hashknife said. Allenby was trying his best to be pleasant as he greeted all of them. He sat down and fanned himself with his hat.

“Going to hold the inquest tomorrow?” he asked the sheriff.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” nodded the sheriff. “Probably want you to testify, Allenby. It won’t amount to anythin’; but it’s accordin’ to law.”

“Certainly,” agreed Allenby warmly. “I wish I could give you more information regarding this man Seeley; but I knew nothing about him. There is no question but what he was murdered.”

“Well,” said Swan River slowly, “I never knowed a man to shoot himself twice in the back with a rifle. I suppose there is some of them con-tor-shunists that might shoot themselves once in the back; but I’ll betcha that a thirty-thirty would sure take the kink out of ’em real quick. No, I reckon we’ve got to look the facts square in the face and admit that Seeley was shot with malice aforethought and a high-powered rifle.”

“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Allenby.

Swan River’s face was so serious that Allenby wasn’t quite sure whether Swan River was joking or not. He decided to drop the subject; so he turned to Hashknife and said—

“I was just wondering if you two cowboys were looking for work.”

Hashknife grinned widely.

“You might change that question to read, ‘lookin’ for jobs,’ and get us to nod our heads.”

Allenby forced a laugh.

“I suppose it’s just as well to be honest about it,” he said. “There will probably be two vacancies on my ranch, and you two can have the jobs, if you care to take them.”

“Hoban and Omaha quittin’?” asked Forty Dollar.

“Well, it amounts to that. I shall make Harry foreman, I think. He needs responsibility.”

“He sure as——needs somethin’,” grinned Swan River.

Allenby’s lips formed a hot retort, but he curbed his feelings. He knew that there was nothing to gain in quarreling with the sheriff; so he shut his lips and waited for Hashknife to decide.

“Forty a month?” asked Sleepy.

“Yes.”

The forty dollars per month did not appeal to Sleepy, but he was willing to leave the decision to Hashknife, who was thinking deeply over the offer.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we might take it. It ain’t none of my business, but I’d like to know why yore foreman and the other man are quittin’ yuh.”

Allenby’s expression indicated that it was none of Hashknife’s business, but he replied evenly—