Front matter (continued 3)

“Why does Heffner say it doesn’t prove anythin’?”

“Says it would take an expert to prove it. And even at that a cow jury prob’ly wouldn’t believe it. But the B is the same, Hartley. It’s got the curlicue at the bottom and one at the top. I’m no expert, but I could see that. But don’t say anythin’, Hartley.”

“I’m not sayin’ anythin’, Sheriff; but I’d like to see that signature.”

“I’ll get it for you, as soon as the bank opens.”

The sheriff glanced at his watch.

“Tex Blanco quarreled with Buck Dennig the night Dennig was killed, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“Dennig accused him of cheatin’ at poker,” said the sheriff, “but that ain’t evidence. Somebody stole the ten thousand off Buck that night, but we’ve no trace of that. Buck cashed a check for it that afternoon. Nobody knows what he was goin’ to do with the money. Might as well go over to the bank and get that signature; it’s ten o’clock.”

They went over and started into the bank, but found the door locked. The sheriff looked at his watch again.

“My watch must be fast,” he said, winding it slowly.

Hashknife looked at his watch; it showed ten minutes after ten.

“Shearer’s late,” decided the sheriff, and they sat down on the edge of the high sidewalk to wait.

They saw Tex Blanco ride in and go to the little drug store down the street. He came out in a few moments, mounted and rode swiftly out of town. Hootie Cooper came along, tried the bank door, and came out to the edge of the sidewalk.

“Shearer must have overslept,” he said.

But Guy Shearer, the cashier, did not come. Several other people tried to get into the bank. It was after ten-thirty, when old John Rice, president of the bank, came along. He and Shearer were the only employees of the bank, and Rice was not in the habit of coming very early. Rice was a small, gray-haired man, slightly crippled, an old-timer in the Stormy River country. He seemed greatly surprised to find the bank still closed.

“Perhaps Guy is sick,” he said, as he unlocked the front door. “He was all right yesterday. Come right in, gentlemen.”

They followed him in. He carefully blocked the door open, before doing anything else. The Pineville Bank was a small institution, the room being about twenty by thirty feet in size, less than a third of it used for office space.

Rice led the way to the low railing that separated the office desks from the rest of the building, swung open the gate and stepped inside. At the rear of this was the front of the vault, which was little more than a large safe, set into the wall. Rice placed his hat on a desk and started to turn back to the men, when he stopped and leaned forward, both hands on the desk.

“My God!” he exclaimed loudly. “What has been done here?”

Hashknife had halted near the gate, and now he flung it open and stepped inside, with the sheriff close behind him.

Stretched out on the floor, half under the desk, was Guy Shearer, the cashier, his head in a pool of blood. On the floor near him was a length of lariat rope. Hashknife took one look at Shearer and decided he was dead. Quickly the sheriff and Rice dropped on their knees beside him, while Hootie and Sleepy leaned across the railing and watched them turn the man over on his back.

Hashknife picked up the rope, looked it over quickly. It was an ordinary spot cord rope, which had been used quite a lot. He quickly inspected both ends of the rope. One end had been wrapped tightly with a fine copper wire, while the other end, frayed slightly, showed a fresh cut.

Hashknife moved around the room, glancing sharply from one corner to another, holding the rope in one hand. The men were too interested in the dead cashier to pay any attention to Hashknife. Suddenly he stooped and picked up an object from near the leg of a desk, concealing it in his hand for a few moments while he played idly with the rope, and then slipped it into his pocket.

“There’s no use goin’ for the doctor,” Hootie was saying. “He’s gone out to the B Arrow to see Hastings’ kid.”

John Rice’s face was very white and his lips trembled as he leaned against the railing and looked at the dead cashier.

“You better set down, John,” advised the sheriff. “There ain’t no use of you standin’ up. Nothin’ you can do. He’s as dead as a salt herrin’.”

“But why—who killed him, Pat? The door was locked.”

The old banker looked around the room, and his gaze came back to the vault door.

“Those windows won’t open,” he said slowly. “Will some of you lock the front door? We can’t have folks coming in here now.”

Sleepy walked over and closed the door.

“If I were in your place,” said Hashknife, “I’d open the vault and have a look inside.”

“But the vault is locked,” said Rice. “Nobody could—”

“Folks don’t usually break into a bank just to kill the cashier, you know.”

“Mebby you better, John,” said the sheriff.

The old man went over to the vault and slowly worked the combination. None of the men went near him. He swung the door open and, after a moment of inspection, stepped back.

“It—it has been cleaned out,” he said painfully.

Hashknife and the sheriff walked over beside him. The inside door was partly open. The sheriff swung it the rest of the way, disclosing an empty interior. That door opened with a key, and there was no key in the lock.

“Better close it up,” said Hashknife. “No use tellin’ everybody.”

Rice closed the outer door and turned the combination.

“This is terrible,” said Rice hoarsely. “What can we do?”

The sheriff shook his head helplessly, staring at the body of the cashier. Sleepy perched on the rail, smoking a cigaret, and kept an eye on Hashknife, who was idly swinging the rope in his hand. The sheriff took the rope and looked at it.

“This was on the floor, wasn’t it, Hartley?”

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Was the cashier in the habit of workin’ in here at night?”

“Not very often. There wasn’t enough work for that.”

“Uh-huh. He had a key to the inside door of that vault?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“Let’s see if he’s still got it. Shall I search him, or will you, Sheriff?”

“You do it,” said the sheriff.

In a trouser pocket Hashknife found the key ring, and Rice identified the key.

“Did anybody, except you two, know the combination?”

“Just the two of us,” said Rice wearily.

Hashknife and the sheriff walked around the place. There was no evidence that any one had been at work. The desks were orderly. Hashknife went back and examined the body. The blow had been struck from behind.

“What do you think, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.

“Hard to tell. Looks as though somebody had met this man, forced him here at the point of a gun, robbed the vault and then hit him over the head. They went through the front door, which is on a spring lock. Mebby they intended to just tie him up here, but somethin’ happened and they killed him, and forgot their rope.”

“That’s my theory, too!” exclaimed the sheriff. “That’s what they done. Prob’ly met Shearer on the street. Mebby he recognized them, and they had to kill him.”

“That sounds reasonable,” agreed Hashknife. He turned to Rice. “Did they get much from the vault?”

“At least twenty-five thousand dollars.”

Hashknife whistled softly.

“I didn’t know you kept that much cash in a bank of this size.”

“Sometimes more than that. We won’t know until a check is made of it.”

“I hate to move that body until the coroner gets here,” said the sheriff. “He ought to be back in a little while. I think I’ll go down to Allen’s place and see what they know about Shearer. Allen’s place is where Shearer lived,” he explained to Hashknife. “Want to walk down?”

“Yeah, I’ll go with you.”

“I’d like to have one of you stay here with me,” said Rice quickly.

“I’ll stay,” said Sleepy. “I’m good company.”

They walked down to the house and inquired of Mrs. Allen, but did not tell her that Shearer was dead until she said that Shearer did not show up for breakfast. She did not know whether he had left early or late the evening before, as he had a room on the lower floor, with an outside entrance.

She was greatly shocked to know that he was dead, and let them in to examine his room. The bed had not been disturbed. On the dresser was an enlargement from a snapshot picture, showing the front of the bank, Shearer, Buck Dennig, Cleve Tolman and John Rice.

“That picture was taken about the time Shearer went to work for the bank,” said the sheriff. “He was with the Garnet Mercantile Company for quite awhile before he came here. That’s Buck Dennig next to Shearer.”

“Buck was a good lookin’ feller,” said Hashknife.

“And a nice feller, too. Well, I guess we’ll have to go back and wait for Doc Brent to come back from the B Arrow. This will shore upset this town.”

They went back up the street. Quite a crowd had collected in front of the bank and, as they drew near to the bank, old Doctor Brent drove in from the east side of the town. Someone told him about the trouble at the bank, and he stopped at the little hitchrack. The sheriff went in with him, but Hashknife stayed outside listening to the different opinions. Hootie was telling them all about the discovery of the murder.

Cleve Tolman rode in. He was a director in the bank and one of the heaviest depositors. Hashknife watched him enter. In a few minutes some of the men secured a narrow cot, which they used as a stretcher to carry the body down to the doctor’s office. The bank closed its door for the day.

The crowd dispersed quickly, after the body had been taken away. Sleepy joined Hashknife and they sat on the edge of the sidewalk together.

“I suppose that’s the work of The Bunch,” said Sleepy.

“Looks thataway,” nodded Hashknife.

Sleepy looked around and as he rolled a cigaret, edged a little closer to Hashknife and said—

“What did you find in there, Hashknife?”

“You saw me find it?”

“Yeah. Nobody else did, though.”

Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out a hondo, the loop on the end of a lariat, through which the rope runs. It was of metal, covered with leather, and in the leather had been burned the initial B and a crudely drawn arrow, the mark of the B Arrow ranch.

Sleepy examined it closely and gave it back to Hashknife.

“Cut it off the rope and then lost it, eh?”

Hashknife nodded slowly as he put the hondo in his pocket.

“Looks thataway. They meant to tie Shearer, and didn’t want that marked hondo to be found. Probably workin’ in the dark and lost it. That hondo might hang somebody, Sleepy.”

“Shore! Ain’t you goin’ to give it to the sheriff?”

“Not yet. There’s several men at the B Arrow, and they didn’t all kill Shearer.”

“They must be The Bunch,” said Sleepy quietly. “We’ll have to keep an eye on ’em, cowboy. I hear they’ve been rustlin’ TD beef for a long time. But I like Judd and Corbett. Carson don’t say much. They tell me Judd is a fighter. He whipped Shorty Gallup.”

“So did Grimes,” smiled Hashknife. “He had Shorty whipped that day we met him. It was Sturgis who knocked Grimes down, you remember—hit him from behind.”

“Yeah, that’s right. This killin’ will make folks sore. This Shearer was well liked.”

Oscar Johnson came along and sat down with them.

“Lotsa crime around here,” he said. “I liked Shearer. Who do you suppose killed him, Hartley?”

“The same folks who sent us that note, Johnson.”

“I s’pose. Pat was surprised that you fellers didn’t pull out. Your eight hours are up long ago.”

“I dunno,” mused Hashknife. “Eight hours from when? They should have set a time, Oscar. How would they know when I got that note?”

“That’s right. But you wouldn’t go, anyway. I told Pat you had more nerve than Sears did. He shore high tailed quick. I never seen a cow detective yet that had any nerve. We’ve got a job on our hands, tryin’ to clear all this up. Don’t think we ever will. Takes brains, don’tcha know it. Me and Pat ain’t got enough. He thinks he’s smart, but I know him.”

“Don’t you even suspect anybody?” asked Sleepy.

“Shore,” nodded Oscar solemnly, “but what’s the use? You can’t prove it. Look at the money they’ve got! Ten thousand from Buck Dennig, three thousand from that stage and now they get about twenty-five thousand more. Thirty-eight thousand dollars!”

“And two dead men,” said Hashknife.

“Yeah, two dead men. That kind of money ought to burn a man, Hartley.”

“It will.”

“Mebby. If we don’t never catch ’em, it won’t.”

“Who was sick at the B Arrow this mornin’?”

“Little Jimmy Hastings. Tex came in after medicine. Told me the doctor was scared the kid had typhoid. Tex thinks a lot of that kid. He’s a queer feller, this Tex Blanco. You wasn’t here the day the stage was held up, was you? No, that was before you came. Me and Pat went out to where the stage was robbed. Mrs. Cooper and Miss Evans had been to Garnet, and they must have been pretty close behind the stage.

“We found where the robbery had been pulled off, and we saw where Cooper’s buckboard had pulled out of the road at the same spot. And we found a woman’s tracks, where she left the buckboard and walked about four or five steps and then came back.

“But them women wouldn’t admit that they seen the holdup, nor that they walked around at the spot. Pat’s got an idea that they’re keepin’ somethin’ quiet. Anyway, we came back past the B Arrow and talked with Andy Hastings. He said that Tex went to Garnet to the dance the night before.

“And while we was talkin’ to Andy, Tex rode in. He shore looked tough. There was blood on his muffler and on his shirt, and he wore his hat tilted to one side, as though to hide somethin’. And another thing—he didn’t have no gun in his holster. Jist nodded howdy to us and rode on. Acted as though he didn’t want to talk with us. It shore looked queer to me.”

“Why didn’t you ask him where he’d been?” asked Hashknife.

“Yea-a-ah! In the first place, it wasn’t none of our business.”

“Wasn’t Buck Dennig killed in the same way as Shearer?”

“Shore was. I never thought of that.”

“And they tell me that Windy March, the stage driver, never saw the men who held him up.”

“That’s right, Hartley. Oh, they’re clever all right. Poor Windy ain’t over it yet. He sat there and looked the way they wanted him to look. I don’t blame him m’self.”

“Neither do I,” said Hashknife seriously. “Did any of you check up on Tex, to see if he was at Garnet that night?”

“I don’t guess anybody did, Hartley.”

“And you don’t know what Buck Dennig was goin’ to do with that ten thousand?”

“Nope, never knew he had it until after he was killed.”

“I guess we better go and eat, before you admit that you ain’t done a thing.”

“Hell, I can admit that on an empty stummick—but I’ll eat with you.”

“Ro-o-ho-oll on, silv’ry moo-hoon—

Light the trav’ler on his way-ha-a-ay—

O, la-lay-hee-e-e! O, la-lay-he-hoo-o-o-o!”

As a yodler, Luke Jones, cook for the TD outfit, was terrible. In fact it was a series of broken notes, wails and hoots, sent forth at the top of his voice, as he leaned against the side of the kitchen door. In his left hand he held a tin cup which contained some violet tinted liquid, while his right hand, concealed beneath his dirty apron, gripped a big single action Colt revolver.

Luke was very drunk, but very much awake. His bleared eyes caught sight of what appeared to be the brim of a sombrero, extending just out from the corner of the bunkhouse. He jerked his hand from beneath the apron and fired from his hip. The bullet smashed a window in the bunkhouse, three feet from the corner, and old Luke grinned, exposing a few crooked teeth. He drank from the cup, twisted his face in a scowl and yelled—

“C’mon out and git shot, you chuckwalla!”

But no one came out. Luke had been there for fifteen minutes, defying the whole TD outfit. Shorty Gallup had kicked on the breakfast, as well he might, because Luke was drunk when he cooked it—drunk on prune whisky which he had made himself. Luke was a periodical drunkard, but he had always gone to town to celebrate.

Luke had taken Shorty’s kicks as personal insults. He wanted to show them who was boss of that kitchen, and he was doing it. He had Shorty, Matt Sturgis, Alex McLean and Bud Hough hiding out behind the bunkhouse. Tolman and Dobe Severn had left for town before Luke’s outburst.

“I’m goin’ to step out and kill that old fool,” declared Shorty angrily. “He deserves it, I tell you. Aw, he couldn’t hit me, even if he had a shotgun. My stars, there goes another window!”

Shorty drew his gun and stepped out quickly from the side of the bunkhouse. Came a sharp whap! Something went pwee-e-e, down toward the corral, and Shorty fell back against the wall, swearing softly.

“Look at that!” he wailed, indicating the right leg of his batwing chaps, where a bullet had torn away the leather and forcibly removed one of Shorty’s silver rosettes. It was the rosette they heard pweeing its way down past the corral.

“Couldn’t hit you without a shotgun,” jeered Bud Hough.

“Accident—mebby,” said Matt Sturgis.

“Mebby,” said Shorty dryly. “Peek around there and see what he’s doin’, Alex.”

“When I’m too old to be of any use,” grinned Alex. “You do your own peekin’.”

They did not know that Luke had gone in the kitchen and filled his tin cup again, and was now sitting on the steps. The homemade liquor had made his legs unstable. He had two more shells in his gun, so he fired both of them at the door of the bunkhouse. One struck the roof of the stable and the other hit the ground halfway between Luke and the bunkhouse and ricocheted its way off across the hills.

But the boys behind the bunkhouse stayed where they were for about fifteen minutes more, before Shorty mustered up nerve enough to peek around the corner again. Only the soles of Luke’s boots were visible, sticking through the kitchen doorway.

They surrounded the recumbent form of the old cook, took the gun from his unresisting hand and told him what they thought of him. But it was all right with old Luke Jones; he couldn’t hear them.

“Hitch up the buckboard, Bud,” ordered Shorty. “We’re goin’ to ship him away from here right now. When he wakes up, he won’t be the TD cook any longer.”

So they took old Luke to Pineville, along with all his possessions, and left him at the livery stable to sleep off his prune juice. McLean and Bud Hough, who had brought him to town, met Tolman and told him what Luke had done.

Tolman didn’t like the idea of losing a cook, but he said nothing. Tolman was upset over the killing of Shearer and the robbery of the bank. Being a director and a heavy depositor, he was naturally much concerned.

Hashknife and Sleepy were with Oscar Johnson, when the stage came in that afternoon, and they noticed that Windy had a passenger—a middle-aged, thin-faced man, who wore glasses and was dressed in a rusty black suit.

The passenger met Sam Hall and Old Man Beebee, and the three of them walked out to the schoolhouse. It was almost four o’clock when they came, so they waited until Marion dismissed school.

When the last pupil had left the room they walked in. Marion looked at them wonderingly, but she did not have to wait long for an explanation.

“Miss Evans, this here is Mr. Long,” said Sam Hall, in his nasal drawl. “Mr. Long teached the school about a month last term when our reg’lar teacher quit. Now, we’ve been thinkin’ it over and we come to the conclusion that this here ain’t no job for a lady, so we’ve done hired Mr. Long to take over the school.”

Marion gasped.

“You mean, to take my position?”

“Yes’m,” said Beebee firmly. “That’s the idea, ma’am. He will begin teachin’ t’morrow mornin’.”

“But such a thing is unheard of,” protested Marion. “You told me I was to have the school for this term.”

“Yeah, we did think so. But you—well, you ain’t been so satisfactory, ma’am. A lot of the wimmin ain’t satisfied, you see.”

“So the women run the school, instead of the trustees.”

“We don’t want no hard feelin’s,” said Sam Hall quickly.

In a dazed way Marion gathered up her belongings and left the schoolhouse, while Beebee, Hall and the new teacher waited for her to go. She did not tell them goodby.

“Pers’nally,” said Sam Hall, after Marion had gone, “I think she’s so pretty that the wimmin got jealous.”

“A paragon of pulchritude,” said Long seriously.

“I been tryin’ to think of that,” said Beebee.

“You have, like hell!” snorted Sam Hall. “The only big word you know is asafœdita; and you only know that because you wear it in a bag, hanging around your neck to keep away disease.”

Marion went straight home, heartsick over her dismissal, wondering what to do next. There was no one at home, so she dumped her books on the porch and sat down to adjust her thoughts. That noon she had heard of the bank robbery and murder of the cashier, but all that had faded to insignificance now.

She was so deep in her own thoughts that she did not see Andy Hastings ride up to the gate in the B Arrow buckboard and tie his team, nor did she look up until he was standing at the bottom of the steps, hat in hand.

“I came past the schoolhouse,” he told her. “Old Man Beebee told me you wasn’t there no more, so I came here to find you, ma’am.”

Mrs. Cooper came to the gate, looked curiously at the team and came on up the walk. Andy glanced at her, but turned back to Marion.

“I didn’t have much hopes,” he confessed slowly, as Ma Cooper halted beside him, looking inquiringly at Marion. “I talked it over with Tex, and he said you wouldn’t come. But jist the same I hitched up the buckboard.”

“I don’t understand,” said Marion blankly.

“It’s Jimmy, the little feller, ma’am. He’s got typhoid, the doctor says. He keeps callin’ for you all the time. He don’t know none of us, ma’am—jist wants you.”

“That’s your little boy, Andy?” asked Ma Cooper.

“Yes’m, my boy.”

“But Marion can’t go out there, Andy. She’s got her school.”

Marion lifted her eyes and looked at Ma Cooper.

“I’ve lost the school, Ma. A man, a Mr. Long, from Garnet, has been hired to take my place.”

“Oh, you don’t mean that, Marion.”

“Old Beebee told me,” said Andy.

“Yes, it’s a fact,” said Marion slowly. “They were not satisfied with my work.”

Andy sighed and adjusted the band on his hat.

“I’m sorry you can’t go, ma’am. Mebby he’ll be all right. I jist thought mebby you—thank you jist the same.”

He started away, but Marion stopped him.

“I guess I’ll go,” she said. “It—it don’t make so much difference now.”

“That’s the stuff!” exclaimed Ma Cooper. “You jist go. If a lot of these Pineville fork tongues want to talk—let ’em talk. Wait’ll I meet Old Lady Beebee and Hall. You jist go, honey. If you want to stay all night, you stay. I’ll come out tomorrow myself. You jist grab a nightgown and go.”

Ma Cooper fairly “shooed” her out to the buckboard and helped her climb in. Andy was so excited that he almost upset the buckboard.

“Don’t go the back way!” yelled Ma Cooper. “Go down the main street. Give ’em all a chance to talk.”

And they did go down the main street, with the roan team on the run and Marion clinging to her hat with one hand and the seat with the other. They almost ran over Old Man Beebee and Sam Hall, who were a bit slow at getting out of the road.

“Looks to me as though Andy Hastings was a-runnin’ away with her!” panted Beebee, wiping the dust and gravel out of his face.

“Looks t’ me as though that damn team was runnin’ away with both of ’em,” grunted Sam Hall. “I felt sorry for her. I never done a dirty trick like that before, and if it hadn’t been for your wife—”

“Your wife was as bad as mine, Sam.”

“Worse. Old Hennery Goff won’t speak to either one of us now, ’cause we outvoted him. Well, I hope them wimmin will be satisfied.”

“Mine won’t be,” wailed Beebee. “She showed her stren’th. Next time she opens her mouth about the school, I’ll resign. I’m jist as ashamed as you are, Sam, mebby more.”

“You’re pretty low in your own estimation, if you are.”

The killing of Shearer and robbery of the bank awoke Pineville to the realization that some very bad actors were in their midst and, as a result, quite a crowd of men met at Hootie’s store that night in a sort of indignation meeting.

Their criticism of the sheriff’s office was rather more destructive than constructive, because none of them had any ideas worth working on. Mort Heffner was called in to give his opinion, and admitted that there was nothing his office could do.

“We hired a detective,” he told them. “The cattle association sent us a man, who was warned out of the country, before he had a chance to do much. You men know how much chance a detective would have around here. The sheriff wants to stop these killings and robberies as much as you do, but he can’t do a thing.”

“Ain’t nobody safe,” complained Lester Cline.

“Not if they’ve got money,” added Beebee.

“Well,” declared Sam Hall angrily, “if the law don’t do somethin’ pretty soon, we’ll take the law in our own hands.”

Heffner laughed shortly.

“You probably heard somebody say that, Sam. But go ahead and take the law in your own hands. It is your privilege to apprehend criminals. Don’t let me stop you, gentlemen. In fact, I wish you would do something.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were rather amused at the expressed opinions of those present, but left the meeting before it broke up and went to the Stormy River Saloon, where they found old Luke Jones at the bar, telling the wide world that he had not been treated right by the TD outfit.

His prune whisky jag had left him in a bitter frame of mind. His shirt and overalls were bespecked with hay from the livery stable and one lock of his thin hair stuck straight out from his forehead, like an accusing finger.

“Fired because I sung,” he declared. “Tha’sall I done; jist sung m’self out of a job.”

“There’s different grades of songs,” said the bartender.

“Mine’s top hand,” declared Luke. “I’m a natcheral singer. No sense in firin’ a natcheral singer, is there? We’re few and far between. And I’m a cook, too. You ask Tolman. And you jist wait till he hears about me bein’ fired by that squirt of a Shorty Gallup. Gimme liquor, that my gorge may not rise and suffy-cate me.”

“You’ve been with the TD a long time, ain’t you, Luke?”

“Long? My Lord! When I came here, Stormy River was jist a little spring.”

Luke leered around, as if challenging anybody to dispute that statement. He fixed his eyes on Hashknife and a smile twisted his lips.

“C’m’ere and have a drink. I ’member you, tall feller. You ’member me? I was the cook at the TD the mornin’ Grimes quit out there. I shore ’member you. C’mon and have a drink.”

“I remember you,” grinned Hashknife. He didn’t want the drink, but he did want to get acquainted with Luke Jones.

“Invite your pardner,” said Luke. “Put out the glasses, bartender; we’re havin’ comp’ny. Say!” He turned to Hashknife. “I’m fired. They can all go to hell, as far as I’m concerned. I jist had two good friends on that ranch. One was Buck Dennig and the other was Grimes. One’s gone to a better land and the other stayed around here.”

“They tell me Buck Dennig was a fine feller,” said Hashknife.

“You didn’t know him? Pardner, he was a man.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Beloved by everybody.” Luke tried to keep back the tears.

“That’s what I’ve heard. But they never found out who killed him.”

“Never.” Luke wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “And they never will.”

“You think they won’t?” asked Hashknife softly.

Luke was not too drunk. He looked sharply at Hashknife.

“What do you know?” he asked.

“Nothin’.” Hashknife toyed with his glass. “But murder will always out, you know, Jones.”

“Tha’sall right.”

“What do you know, Jones?”

Luke paused with the glass at his lips. He placed it on the bar and squinted at himself in the mirror.

“I don’t know nothin’—much.”

Some other men came in, and Luke shifted his interest to them. Hashknife knew there was nothing more to be learned from Luke Jones at present, but he had a feeling that the former TD cook knew something.

That night as they went to bed Sleepy asked—

“Have you got anythin’ to work on at all?”

“Two murders and three robberies,” smiled Hashknife, “not to mention the fact that we’re still here and our eight hours were up a long time ago.”

“They were bluffin’, Hashknife.”

“Mebby.”

“Well, they ain’t made good.”

Hashknife smiled.

“The note didn’t say they’d kill us five minutes after our time was up. Give ’em time, cowboy.”

Tex Blanco stopped short in the center of the living room at the B Arrow and looked at Marion. Tex had been working late and was still clad in his wide, batwing chaps, his features streaked with dust. He had left the ranch about the time Andy Hastings had gone to Pineville and did not know Marion had come back with him.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he said. “I told Andy I didn’t think you would, but he said he’d try.”

“I guess I just came,” said Marion simply.

Tex shook his head slowly.

“I—we all wanted you to come, Marion, but I think we did wrong in askin’ you to come out here.”

“It doesn’t make any difference, now. You see, I’ve lost my school.”

“You’ve lost your school?” He came toward her. “I don’t know what you mean, Marion.”

She shrugged her shoulders wearily.

“Just lost it. They hired a man to take my place.”

“They hired a man—but why?”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. They said I wasn’t satisfactory.”

Tex stared at her for a moment.

“They know that wasn’t true,” he said firmly, “and you know it, too, Marion. It was my fault. Oh, I know; it was because I came there. I’m to blame for you losin’ that job.”

Marion shook her head.

“No, that wasn’t it.”

“Oh, I know. I—I guess I contaminated the kids.”

He turned away and flung his sombrero on a chair.

“Jimmy told me what the children said. And they don’t talk, unless they hear things at home. How is he, Marion?”

“Sleeping. The doctor promised to come out tonight. You heard what happened in Pineville?”

“Judd told me.”

Mrs. Blanco came in from the kitchen and Tex went to her, bending down to kiss the little old lady.

“Ye are a little late,” she said, “but I’ve kept the supper warm. And were ye surprised to see the lady with us? Ah, it was fine of her to come. Do ye know it, the boy went fast asleep when she talked to him, Tex?”

“It was mighty fine of her to come; Jimmy will get well now.”

“He will, thanks to a most unselfish young lady. Ah, ye are unselfish, though.”

Mrs. Blanco put her arms around Marion’s waist, patting her on the arm.

“Do ye know, my dear, you are the first woman to come in this house in years?”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” smiled Marion.

“They’d know in Pineville. Folks avoid this place as though it had a plague. ’Tis a bad reputation the B Arrow has. Aye, that’s a fact. They say that the old lady smokes a pipe. And she does. She may put unclean things in her mouth, but—but never mind. Tex, I’ll set ye a supper.”

She patted Marion on the arm and hurried away to get the supper for Tex.

“I think she’s wonderful,” said Marion.

Tex nodded slowly.

“You don’t know half of it, Marion. She’s my silver linin’. I’d have left this country a long time ago, but for her. The Spanish half of me gets mad and wants to run away, but the Irish half listens to her, and I stay. What pleasure can she get out of life? No women ever come here. You don’t know what it means to be shunned. When I take her to Pineville the women avoid her. They all avoid me, too. But that doesn’t hurt me.

“That’s what a reputation will do, Marion. I’ve killed men in fair fights. They had an even break. But they call me a killer. I’m not a killer. God knows, I’m not. And then some dirty voiced liar hinted that we stole cattle. It don’t take long for such things to get around. Killers and cow thieves! No wonder they leave us alone. They say I killed Buck Dennig—”

Tex laughed bitterly. He started to say something about the stage robbery, but checked himself in time. Mrs. Blanco called him from the kitchen, and he went out to her.

Marion sat down on a couch covered with a gaudy blanket. It was quite cool, and one of the boys had built a fire in the big fireplace. The flames crackled merrily, and a little yellow canary in a homemade cage began singing softly.

Old Doctor Brent came before Tex finished supper. Jimmy was still asleep, and the doctor was well satisfied. Mrs. Blanco told him the effect Marion had had on Jimmy, and the old doctor thanked her for coming.

“I don’t blame Jimmy.” He smiled, looking closely at Marion, as they were introduced. “Don’t blame him in the least. Fact of the matter is, I envy Jimmy.”

He chuckled to himself, as he gave them orders. As he left he put a hand on Marion’s shoulder.

“Mrs. Cooper told me about the school,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I hope you can stay here until the boy is out of danger.”

“Oh, I don’t think I can stay here very long, Doctor.”

“I don’t expect him to be sick very long.”

That night the cowboys all sat around the living room, telling stories. Little Jimmy was worse and babbled incessantly about the school. No one went to bed. The cowboys drowsed heavily, awoke to roll cigarets and drowsed some more. They were all fond of Jimmy.

Morning came. Jimmy went to sleep and the cowboys dragged out to breakfast. It was about nine o’clock when Mrs. Cooper came. It was the first time she had ever been on the ranch, but Mrs. Blanco greeted her warmly. Marion was asleep on a couch in the living room, but awoke at sound of Mrs. Cooper’s voice.

Ma Cooper fairly hugged her.

“I met Mrs. Beebee this mornin’,” chuckled Ma Cooper. “She tried to avoid me, but I cornered her, and what I told her would take the polish off a mahogany table. Whoo-ee-e-e! Oh, we had it hot and heavy. She swears you eloped with Andy Hastings. Ha-ha-ha-ha! Well, how’s the little boy?”

“He’s asleep, Ma Cooper. Had a bad night, though. The doctor wants me to stay here until Jimmy is better.”

Mrs. Cooper lifted her brows quickly, a smile in her eyes.

“The doctor does, eh? Well, always obey the doctor, honey.”

Marion flushed quickly, as she added—

“But I can’t very well do that, Ma Cooper.”

“Why not? Bless your heart, of course you can, if you want to. I’ll send your trunk out. And when you get all through with the doctor’s orders, come back and live with us. Hootie says he misses you. That’s quite an honor. He never misses me.”

The three women sat down and talked for an hour. Mrs. Blanco seemed to grow younger every minute. Tex came in and stood against the dining room entrance, listening to the chatter, a smile on his lips.

He tiptoed through the hall and went to the bedroom, where Andy was sitting beside the bed. Jimmy was awake, but his little face looked pinched and drawn and his blue eyes clouded. He knew Tex and smiled.

“Hello, little pardner,” said Tex softly.

“He asked for you, Tex,” said Andy, “asked me to have you sing to him.”

“Sing to him? Jimmy do you want me to sing to you?”

“About the rose, Uncle Tex,” weakly.

Tex looked queerly at Andy. A strange request for a sick boy. But Tex turned to a corner and picked up an old guitar that he had not played for a long time. Softly he tuned it, while the little fellow watched him wearily.

He began singing softly, in a crooning tenor, and little Jimmy closed his eyes, listening. Andy rested his chin on his hands, tears in his eyes. Out in the living room the three women stopped talking and listened.

“He’s singing to the lad,” whispered Mrs. Blanco. “It’s the song he likes best. Listen—”

“You may search everywhere, but none can compare,

With my wild Irish Rose.”

“He calls it his rose song.”

“... and some day for my sake, they may let me take

The bloom from my wild Irish Rose.”

The voice crooned the end of the song. Ma Cooper held out her hand to Mrs. Blanco.

“I’m goin’ now,” she said softly. “I’m glad I heard the song, Mrs. Blanco. I’ll come again. When you come to Pineville, come and see me, will you. Marion, I’ll send out your trunk.”

She hurried out to the buckboard and rode away, leaving Marion and Mrs. Blanco in the doorway, looking after her.

“That song made her cry,” said Mrs. Blanco softly.

“It almost made me cry, too,” confessed Marion.

Tex came out, closing the door softly behind him.

“He’s asleep again,” said Tex. “He was awake and knew me and Andy. Can you imagine it, he asked me to sing.”

“I—I don’t blame him,” said Marion. “We heard you.”

“Pshaw! I was just singin’ for Jimmy.”

Ma Cooper sent the team spinning over the road to Pineville. She was glad she had visited the B Arrow, and she decided to go again. As strange as it may seem, she had never before exchanged a dozen words with Mrs. Blanco. She had found her a delightful old Irish lady.

“Got a lot more class than some of these Pineville holier-than-thous,” she declared to herself. “And everybody said she was an ignorant old pipe smoker! Ignorant! If some of ’em had half her brains, they’d die from headache.”

She drove up in front of Hootie’s store and found Oscar Johnson, who seemed to have nothing better to do than to brace up one of the porch posts.

“Are you awful busy, Oscar?” she asked.

“Not right now, Mrs. Cooper.”

“I was just wonderin’ if you’d do me a big favor.”

“Wouldn’t be a bit surprised,” he grinned.

“Well, I’ve got to get somebody to take this team and haul Miss Evans’ trunk out to the B Arrow ranch.”

“Out to the B Arrow ranch? Oh, yeah, shore. Is she goin’ to stay out there?”

“Long enough to need her trunk.”

“Uh-huh. Want me to go right away, Mrs. Cooper?”

“If you’ll do it, Oscar.”

“Ain’t a bit busy.”

“Well, get in and we’ll load up at the house.”

Oscar carried the trunk down to the buckboard. The back of the vehicle was hardly large enough to accommodate the trunk, and Oscar had no ropes to tie it on.

“But I reckon it’ll ride there,” he told her, as he climbed in. “I’ll take it easy.”

He drove out of town, holding the team in check. The last time he had driven a buggy team he had smashed the buggy, and he was going to be more careful this time. Everything went well until the crossing of Stormy River, and he swung a little too far down the stream, where some big boulders blocked a wheel, almost upset the buckboard and threw the trunk into the river.

Oscar yelled like an Indian, whipped the team to the shore, where he tied them to a snag, and then went galloping down the stream after the trunk, which had wedged on a sand bar twenty feet below where it had gone into the water.

“If I ever do anythin’ right, I’ll die next minute,” declared Oscar, sloshing out of the river with the trunk in his arms, the water running a stream from one of the corners.

He placed the trunk on the sand and surveyed it sadly.

“Wetter ’n hell!”

He sat down on it, removed his boots and poured out the water, while the team watched him, possibly wondering what it was all about. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be able to dry out the things, so he opened the trunk, which was not locked.

It was fairly well filled with feminine attire, the top things being dry. He dumped them out on the sand, grunting disgustedly when he found the things sodden in the bottom of the trunk.

“Well, f’r heaven’s sake!” he grunted, and lifted a big, pearl-handled Colt forty-five from the bottom of the trunk. It was fully loaded.

Ignoring the rest of the things, Oscar sat down, with his back against the trunk and examined the gun. Oscar was not very quick minded, but something seemed to tell him that a schoolteacher, under ordinary conditions, would not own a new gun of that size and description.

He removed the cartridges and amused himself for a while by snapping it at different objects. He liked the trigger pull and the balance of the weapon. The pearl flashed in the sun like an opal as Oscar polished it with a none too clean handkerchief.

He took out his own gun and compared them. They were the same model, same caliber. But Oscar’s gun was shiny in spots, nicked, the trigger pull altogether too heavy for accurate work. In fact, Oscar’s gun was old. Suddenly a bright idea occurred to Oscar.

He took his pocket knife, unscrewed the handles of both guns and changed handles, putting the pearl ones on his own gun. Now he had a new gun with old handles, while his old gun, resplendent in mother of pearl, went into the bottom of the trunk, along with the sodden clothes.

“What in hell would a schoolma’am want of a new gun, anyway?” he asked himself. “A gun’s a gun. It ain’t stealin’, if you put back as good as you take.”

Thereupon Oscar loaded the things back in the trunk, put it back on the buckboard and headed for the B Arrow. Marion was asleep, much to Oscar’s relief, and Mrs. Blanco told him to leave the trunk on the porch. Oscar left it in a sunny place, hoping it would dry out a little, at least.

He drove back, stabled the horses in Cooper’s barn and went back to the office, well satisfied with himself. The inquest over the body of Guy Shearer was held that afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy attended, but were not called as witnesses. The usual verdict was rendered by the jury.

The sheriff had heard a number of remarks reflecting on his ability as a peace officer, and he was not in a good frame of mind when he went back to his office with Oscar.

“What do they expect me to do?” he asked plaintively. “I never had no trainin’ at this here job. To hear some of them whippoorwills talkin’, you’d think I ought to have an X-ray eye. I’m sick of the whole danged job.”

“Same here,” agreed Oscar. “I took this job to help you out, Pat, and you don’t need no help, not for what you’ve done.”

“We’re a awful mess, Oscar.”

“Speak for yourself. I’m all right for what I’m intended. A deputy ain’t supposed to have any brains.”

Oscar took off his heavy belt and gun and placed them on the desk, after which he sighed deeply and stretched out on a cot. The sheriff stared sad eyed at the belt and gun, thinking over the woes of his position. His fingers picked absently at the cartridges in the belt loops.

He ran his fingers over the butt of the gun, not because he wanted to feel of the gun, but because of something to do. Then he shut one eye and looked at the exposed breech of the gun. After a moment’s scrutiny, he drew the gun from the holster and looked at it closely.

“Where’d you git the new gun, Oscar?” he asked.

Oscar sat up like a mechanical toy, quick and jerky.

“Wh-what gun?”

“This here one.”

The sheriff held it up.

“Oh, that one.”

Oscar swore inwardly at himself for leaving that gun on the desk.

“New gun, ain’t it, Oscar?”

“Pretty new.” Oscar sank down again.

“Pretty damn new, it looks to me. You never had it before.”

“No,” said Oscar. “It’s almost new, Pat.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Where’d I get it?”

“Yeah, where’d you get it?”

“Oh, I dunno.”

“You dunno?”

“Well, my stars!” Oscar sat up and glowered at the sheriff. “What’s the difference where I got it? When you start harpin’ on anythin’, you never know when to quit.”

“I ain’t harpin’; I just asked you where you got it.”

“Where I got it, eh? Ain’t that harpin’?”

“Well, I just asked you. You’re my deputy. Ain’t I got a right to ask you where you got a new gun?”

“Got a right, yes.”

“Well, where didja get it, Oscar?”

“You mean, who did I get it from?”

“If that’s the answer, yes.”

“I didn’t get it from nobody.”

“Didja find it?”

Oscar got off the cot and hitched up his pants. He was mad enough to tell where and how he got it—and he did.

The sheriff listened, open-mouthed, while Oscar described how he lost the schoolteacher’s trunk in Stormy River, how he recovered it and wanted to dry out the clothes, and where he found the new gun.

“And that answers your question, Pat,” he finished. “Now forgit it, will you?”

“And you took the pearl handles off it and put ’em on your old smoke wagon, eh? You traded guns—Oscar Johnson, you damn fool!”

The sheriff got to his feet and advanced on the cot, half choking, as he tried to talk.

“O-o-oh, you damn fool!” he wailed. “Who had a new six-gun with pearl handles? Who did? Tex Blanco! He lost it at that holdup. That’s what them wimmin stopped and picked up. That teacher got it. She’s stuck on Tex, Oscar. She put the gun in her trunk, and you—you traded—oh, my soul! Oscar you’ve ruined the evidence!”

Oscar sat up, rubbing his nose. Then he got to his feet and hitched up his pants. He looked at the sheriff sadly and shook his head.

“Well, you kept on harpin’ until you got an answer, didn’t you. Curiosity killed the cat, and it made you pretty sick. Now what’ll we do?”

“Keep our mouths shut!” snapped the sheriff. “If we ever let this get out, they’ll laugh us out of the valley.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to tell it. Didn’t I try to even keep it from you?”

“You jist the same as stole that gun.”

“I traded,” said Oscar firmly. “Mine had a heavy pull on the trigger, and it throwed me off. Some day I might accidently kill somebody.”

The sheriff stumped around the office, while Oscar laid down again and began rolling a cigaret. Finally the sheriff sat down again, holding his head in his hands.

“If I had knowed about that gun—” said Oscar slowly. “But I never once thought about the schoolma’am havin’ Tex’s gun in her trunk. Why should I? I never even remembered that Tex had a pearl handle six-gun. I remember it now.”

“It’s too late now. It’s an old gun that’s got the pearl handles on it now. Tex could laugh at us.”

“Unless you might make that girl admit findin’ it, Pat. If you caught her before she found that gun in the trunk. Even at that, she might not see that the gun was different.”

“You mean we might bluff her into admittin’ that her and Mrs. Cooper found the gun there?”

“Why not? If we could get the gun, without Tex seein’ it, we can change the handles back again.”

“Yeah, we might do that.”

The sheriff sighed and lifted his head. It was worth a try. He started to suggest something more, but stopped short. Hashknife Hartley was standing in the doorway, leaning against the door frame, slowly rolling a cigaret, his face very grave.

“We might bluff her,” said Oscar, “but she’s got to be talked to before she empties that trunk, Pat. She’ll see it’s been tampered with, and she’ll get scared and give Tex back his gun.”

Hashknife looked at Oscar, who was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, all oblivious to Hashknife’s presence. The sheriff cleared his throat harshly, glared at Oscar murderously.

“It won’t be any job to change the handles,” said Oscar.

“Are you goin’ to keep runnin’ off at the mouth?” asked the sheriff explosively.

Oscar sat up, took one look at Hashknife and sank back.

“He’s got the hoof-and-mouth disease,” said the sheriff wearily. “Every time he opens his mouth he gets his foot in it.”

“The inquest didn’t amount to much,” said Hashknife.

“Not much. How could it?”

“Did Shearer have any relatives, Sheriff?”

“In Chicago, I think. Rice sent some telegrams, and we’ll wait to hear what they want done with the body.”

“None around here, eh?”

“Matt Sturgis is a forty-second cousin, or somethin’ like that.”

“Sturgis of the TD outfit?”

“Yeah. Shearer worked over at Garnet quite a while. Nice sort of a feller.”

“What kind of a person was Buck Dennig?”

“Wild as a hawk, but square as a die.”

“Get along well with Tolman?”

“Oh, shore.”

“Like hell!” snorted Oscar. “They used to quarrel a lot. You must remember I worked for ’em.”

“Quarrel over what?” asked the sheriff. “I never heard it.”

“Over money. Cleve Tolman gambled on the stock markets, and he got stuck a couple times pretty hard. Buck was a gambler, too, but not on the markets. I heard ’em hot and heavy one night a year or so ago. I reckon Cleve had used some of the partnership money. Anyway, they decided to each bank their share after that.”

“I found out after Buck’s death that they had separate bank accounts,” said the sheriff, “but I never knowed why.”

“Well, that was why,” said Oscar. “Buck shore was mad, and he gave Tolman hell. I couldn’t help hearin’ it. I thought it was all off with the partnership, but next day they was all right again. But outside of their quarrels, they was good enough friends, I reckon.”

Hashknife left the office in a few minutes. He had heard enough to know that in some way Oscar Johnson had found the gun in Marion’s trunk and had left his gun in its place. And he had also heard enough to know that the sheriff intended getting a confession, if possible, and recovering the evidence.

But both the sheriff and deputy were afraid that Hashknife had heard too much.

“I don’t sabe that feller,” declared Oscar. “You don’t know whether he’s for you or against you.”

“Well,” said the sheriff sadly, “he prob’ly knows that it ain’t Tex’s gun in that trunk. He kinda antagonizes me.”

“You don’t suppose he’s in cahoots with Tex, do you?”

“You git some real bright ideas, Oscar. Nossir, Tex Blanco held up that stage, as sure as shootin’. Mebby him and Judd. Anyway, there was more than one man. We won’t do nothin’ now, Oscar. We’ll wait until dark, and then go out to the B Arrow. We’ve got to take a chance that she ain’t found that gun. And even if she has, she wouldn’t rec’nize it.”

“That’s a good idea,” applauded Oscar. “But I hope Tex ain’t there. Anyway, he don’t know about that gun, so we’re safe, as far as that’s concerned.”

Hashknife found Sleepy at the Stormy River bar talking with Frank Shell, the owner of the saloon, and Dobe Severn. Matt Sturgis, Shorty Gallup and Alex McLean were playing pool at the rear of the room.

“What became of old Luke Jones?” asked Hashknife.

“He went to Garnet this mornin’,” said Dobe. “Sobered up and pulled out, I guess. He’ll probably get drunk in Garnet. He shore raised hell at the TD. Got drunk on prune whisky and pot-shotted everythin’ around the place.”

Hashknife wanted a chance to talk seriously with the old cook. Luke Jones had admitted that he knew something, and Hashknife wanted to know what that something might be. Sleepy went with him from the saloon, and they crossed the street to the bank, which was closed. Hashknife knew where John Rice lived. They found the old banker at home.

“I’ll tell you what I want to see,” explained Hashknife. “Buck Dennig cashed a check for ten thousand dollars the afternoon of the night he was killed, and I want to see that canceled check, if it still exists.”

“Why, I suppose it still exists,” said Rice. “But what is the idea of you wanting to see it?”

“Curiosity, I reckon, Mr. Rice.”

“I’m sorry, but I—”

“Do you think Buck Dennig committed suicide?”

“That would have been impossible, Hartley.”

“And you don’t think he buried that ten thousand before he died, do you?”

“Buried it? Why would he bury it?”

“All right, he was murdered and robbed. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d like to see that check.”

The old banker’s mild blue eyes wavered under the steady stare of the gray ones, and he turned slowly on his heel.

“Wait until I get my hat,” he said. “I—I suppose there would be no harm in it, Hartley.”

They walked back to the bank, where Rice unlocked it, and they went inside. It did not take Rice long to find the check, along with Buck Dennig’s statement and several other smaller checks, drawn by Buck. Hashknife spread them all out on the counter and examined them closely. He was not an expert on handwriting, but his eyes were keen. Finally he took out the warning note he had received and examined it again.

The old banker did not seem interested. The canceled checks meant nothing to Sleepy, who talked with Rice about the murder and robbery. It seemed that there was a difference in the opinions of the several directors of the bank, and no final decision had been made as to how soon the bank would resume operations.

“I suppose Cleve Tolman has taken over the TD ranch, ain’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes,” nodded the banker. “I believe he has a court order to that effect. Buck Dennig died intestate and, as far as any one knows, he has no relatives. Naturally the ranch and all of Dennig’s personal goods belong to Tolman.”

Hashknife folded up the statement and checks, handing them back to Rice.

“Thank you, Mr. Rice,” he said. “Keep those where we can get at ’em, in case we need ’em again.”

“Yes, certainly. Are you a—a detective, Mr. Hartley?”

“Under the circumstances,” smiled Hashknife.

“What was the queer idea of lookin’ at them checks?” asked Sleepy, after they left the bank.

“Just playin’ a hunch, Sleepy. After supper we’re ridin’ to Garnet to have a talk with Luke Jones. I hope he’s sober enough to come clean, or drunk enough to talk.”

“Have you hit the trail, cowboy?”

“I dunno. Anyway, I’ve got a couple blazes in sight.”

Marion did not discover that her trunk had been soaked in the river. Mrs. Blanco had ordered one of the cowboys to move it into the room Marion was occupying, and she had had no cause to open it. Little Jimmy was so sick that both women spent most of their time in the room with him.

Tex came in from work about five o’clock. The doctor had not been there since morning, so Tex sent Corbett after him. Tex was pleased to find that Marion’s trunk had been brought to the ranch. Neither Tex nor Marion had mentioned that gun again, and Tex did not know that Marion suspected Hashknife of overhearing what she had told Tex that night about finding his gun at the scene of the holdup.

Tex had offered no explanation, no alibi. Marion did not want to believe that Tex robbed that stage, but the evidence was all against him.

The doctor did not get there until after supper and he decided to stay awhile and watch the patient. Mrs. Blanco sat in the bedroom with the doctor and Andy Hastings, while Tex and Marion sat in front of the fireplace in the living room.

“It’s funny how things break,” said Tex. “Who would ever have bet on any kind of odds that you would ever be stayin’ here at the B Arrow, Marion?”

“I suppose not.”

“But I’m glad you are. I’m sorry for little Jimmy, but his sickness brought me luck. It gave me a chance to see you for more than a minute at a time.”

Marion stared in the flames, her chin resting in her palm.

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” he said slowly. “I’m no fool. You’re thinkin’ how much better it would be if I was a respectable citizen, instead of a man under suspicion of bein’ a murderer, stage robber and a lot of other crimes.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that, Tex,” she said quickly.

“But I am, you know.”

“I don’t know it, Tex.”

They sat there together for a long time, saying nothing, while the flames crackled in the old fireplace. Finally Tex walked over to a table, picked up an old photograph album and brought it over to Marion.

“Some of the old Blanco family,” he said, opening the old book. “Oh, they were respectable enough, I suppose. I’m the black sheep of the family. Some of those tintypes are rather good. There’s my father, when he was twenty. I reckon he was a gay young blade of Seville. Always wanted to be a bull fighter, he said. Came to California to pick up gold on the streets.”

Tex laughed shortly.

“Didn’t find the gold, so he went into the cattle business—and found it. That next one is an uncle of mine. He was a bull fighter in Mexico City, until he found a bull that was color blind. Saw the man instead of the red cloth.”

Mrs. Blanco came from the bedroom.

“The doctor is still there,” she said. “He thinks the lad is gettin’ along well.”

“I was just showing Marion some old pictures,” said Tex smiling.

“Aye, and they’re old, too,” smiled Mrs. Blanco.

Some kodak pictures had been left between the leaves of the album and, as Tex started to gather them up, Marion stopped him and took one of the pictures. It was a very good snapshot of Tex and another man, standing close together, holding their big hats in their hands, with a corner of a corral fence for a background. The faces were well lighted.

Marion stared at the picture for several moments, and her face was white as she looked up at Tex.

“Who is that—that man with you, Tex?” she asked.

“That?” Tex laughed shortly. “That’s Buck Dennig.”

“Buck Dennig? The man who was—who was killed?”

“Yes, Marion. Go ahead and say it.”

“Buck Dennig?”

“It was taken about five years ago, Marion.”

“Did you know anything about him, Tex?”

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mrs. Blanco. “Your face is all white, lass.”

Marion shook her head, and her hands trembled, as she examined the picture again, staring down at the smiling face of Buck Dennig.

“Nobody knew much about him,” said Tex. “He had no relatives, I guess. He never spoke about his past. I don’t—”

Came a sharp knock on the front door. Tex walked over and opened the door, admitting the sheriff and deputy. They did not stop to wait for an invitation to enter. Oscar stopped at the doorway, while the sheriff advanced toward Marion and Mrs. Blanco. Tex still had his hand on the door.

“I’ve been talkin’ to Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff, addressing Marion. “She didn’t want to get in bad with the law, so she talked quite a lot. Now, it’s your turn. I want that pearl-handled six-shooter you’ve got in your trunk.”

Marion’s face was whiter now, as she looked up at the grim-faced sheriff, her mind trying to conceive that Ma Cooper had divulged their secret.

“What pearl-handled six-shooter are you talkin’ about?” demanded Tex.

The sheriff did not turn his head, as he replied:

“That’s my business with this young lady. You keep out of it.”

“That’s what I say,” growled Oscar, trying to keep his nerve.

“Mrs. Cooper told you?” Marion’s voice was a whisper.

“Shore thing. Now, you dig up that gun. I could put you in jail for doin’ a thing like that. Hurry up.”

“What did she tell you?” asked Marion weakly.

“About you findin’ that gun at the holdup. We know whose gun it is, and we’re goin’—”

Tex acted quickly. In fact he acted so quickly that Oscar Johnson’s feet went from under him and he fell along the wall, clawing for support, his holster dangling empty. When the sheriff turned, Oscar crashed down on the floor, and they heard the porch railing creak, as Tex vaulted it.

The sheriff sprang toward the doorway, while Oscar swore bitterly and got back to his feet, feeling for his gun, which Tex had taken away.

“Let him go!” snapped the sheriff. “We’ll get him, Oscar. What we want right now is that six-gun. Where’s the trunk?”

But before Marion could tell him, from somewhere out in the darkness came the thudding report of a revolver shot. In another moment came a spatter of shots, as if several guns were discharged close together. In possibly five seconds there were three more shots, spaced about two seconds apart.

The sheriff and deputy seemed rooted to the spot, unable to understand what it was all about. Outside, somebody was shouting questions; a man swore wonderingly. Frank Judd ran up the steps to the front door and stepped inside, staring at the sheriff and deputy.

“What in hell is goin’ on around here?” he demanded.

“God knows, I don’t,” said the sheriff.

Someone came into the kitchen, and they all went into the dining room. It was Hashknife Hartley, half carrying, half dragging Sleepy Stevens. Hashknife’s face was white in the lamplight. The doctor had stepped out from the bedroom, and now he went straight to Hashknife.

“In here,” said Mrs. Blanco, “on the couch. Don’t lay him on the floor.”

Judd grasped Sleepy’s feet, and they carried him into the living room couch.

“For God’s sake, what happened?” asked the sheriff.

He had forgotten all about the trunk.

Hashknife shook his head, his lips shut tightly, while the doctor cut away Sleepy’s vest and shirt, trying to determine the extent of his injuries. So interested were they that they did not see Tex Blanco return.

Marion was first to see him. He was standing in the doorway, leaning weakly against the wall, while the left shoulder of his pale blue silk shirt was gradually assuming a scarlet cast. The blood seemed to have drained from his face, and his brown eyes were filled with pain.

“Tex!” whispered Marion. “Oh, Tex, you’re hurt!”

“It’s all right,” he said weakly. “I’m all right.”

Hashknife stepped over and helped Tex to a chair, where he slumped wearily. Hashknife tore away the shirt and began mopping away the blood. Tex had been shot rather high up through the shoulder. From the way he carried his arm, Hashknife felt sure that no bones were broken.

“In the name of God, what happened?” demanded the sheriff. “Who done all the shootin’, anyway, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head and watched the doctor.

“Nasty wound,” said the doctor. “Rib probably saved his life. Broke the rib, but turned the bullet. Went all the way through, but turned aside enough to give him a mighty good chance. Mrs. Blanco, will you get me plenty of hot water and cloths?”

He got up from the floor and walked over to Tex, who was gritting his teeth to keep upright.

“Lucky all around,” muttered the doctor. “Clean through and never touched the bone. Miss Evans, you can help me, if you will.”

He had noticed that Marion was on the verge of keeling over in a faint, so he used these means of bracing her nerve.

“Go out and help Mrs. Blanco fix the water. Nobody is going to die, my dear. Regular hospital, we’ve got here. Sheriff, if you can’t think of anything else to do, try closing your mouth. It has been open for five minutes.”

“Well!” snorted the sheriff. “Won’t nobody tell me what happened? Two wounded men, and no explanation.”

“I don’t know, Sheriff,” said Hashknife, looking down at Sleepy. “We rode in here, down by the gate, and somebody shot Sleepy. I didn’t know he was hit until he fell off near the back door out there. I was shootin’ at the flashes.”

“I shot at somebody,” muttered Tex, “but they shot me first. There was a lot of shootin’, I think.”

“Plenty,” said Hashknife grimly.

“Why did you come out here, Hartley?” asked the sheriff.

“Why did you come out here?” retorted Hashknife.

“I guess you knew why. I came out here to get that gun, and I’m goin’ to get it. You keep your nose out of my business, will you? I’ve got the goods on Tex Blanco, and I’ll put that girl in jail with him for tryin’ to destroy evidence. I don’t know what your game is, but you better not monkey with the law.”

“I’m not monkeyin’ with the law,” said Hashknife.

He looked at Frank Judd, who had been shifting around nervously.

“Go and get Miss Evans’ trunk and bring it here, Judd.”

“You never mind!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ll get that there trunk and—”

“Aw, quit bluffin’,” said Hashknife. “Get the trunk, Judd.”

Judd brought the trunk and placed it in the center of the room.

“Open it up and find a six-shooter in it, will you?” requested Hashknife.

The sheriff swore impotently, as Judd dug deeply in the trunk. Mrs. Blanco and Marion came in, bringing the hot water and cloths. Marion stopped short at the sight of Frank Judd digging in her trunk. Finally he straightened up, holding the pearl-handled gun in his hand.

Hashknife took it from him and showed it to Marion.

“Is that the gun you found at the place of the holdup?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Fine,” smiled Hashknife.

He walked over to Tex and held it before him.

“Is that your gun, Tex?” he asked.

Tex stared at it for a moment and looked up at Hashknife blankly.

“That’s not my gun,” he said evenly. “My gun was new.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Hashknife seriously.

He turned the gun over in his hands, looking at it closely.

“There’s two initials scratched on the bottom of the trigger guard,” he said slowly. “Looks like O. J.”

Hashknife looked keenly at Oscar Johnson, but the deputy was not interested enough to look at him. Hashknife stepped over and handed the gun to the sheriff.

“There’s your evidence, Sheriff.”

The sheriff’s face was a study in mixed emotions. He knew that the evidence was ruined now. His idea was to have secured the gun, switched the handles again, and to swear that the new gun was the one found in the trunk. He looked at Oscar and longed to bend the gun over his thick head. But all he could do was to accept defeat gracefully.

“All right, Hartley,” he said thickly. “You’ll hear more of this later. I’m not through with you—yet.”

“Well, that’s fine, Sheriff.”

Oscar followed the sheriff away from the ranch, glad to be out of the house, while Hashknife and Judd helped the doctor. Sleepy was still unconscious when they put him to bed. Hashknife wanted to take him to town, but the doctor would not listen to him.

“Right here he stays, Hartley, and right here I stay.”

Tex refused to go to bed, but stretched out on the couch. He had lost considerable blood, and the heavy bullet had shocked him badly, but he felt better now. There were too many things to talk about for him to think of going to sleep.

He wanted to know how Oscar Johnson’s revolver happened to be in Marion’s trunk. He listened in amazement to what Hashknife told him. Of course, Hashknife did not hear all the story, but he had heard the sheriff and deputy say enough for him to build up the rest of the story.

“And you knew they would come after that gun tonight?” asked Marion.

“Wasn’t sure, but I knew they intended to come and get it. They didn’t want Tex to see that gun, until after they had switched handles again.”

“You saved my bacon, Hartley,” said Tex wearily. “They’ve got the goods on me, I guess. But I want you to know that I’m mighty grateful for what you’ve done for me.”

“How grateful, Blanco?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Hartley.”

“Grateful enough to tell me about that holdup?”

“To tell you what about it?”

“How your pearl-handled gun happened to be there.”

“Looks as though I lost it, don’t it?”

“Let’s stop sparrin’ around, Blanco. Where was you when that stage was robbed?”

Tex turned his head and stared at the fire several minutes, while they waited for him to speak.

“I didn’t try to prove any alibi,” he said slowly. “I’m not a good liar, and this sounds like a lie. Nobody would believe it, so I kept still. The night before the holdup I was goin’ to Garnet to the dance.

“I left the house and went down to the stable to get my horse. As I stepped into the stable, somethin’ hit me on the head, and I didn’t know anythin’ for quite a while. When I woke up I was tied tight, gagged and blindfolded. I had an awful headache and a thirst. You’ve read about men gettin’ loose from ropes? Well, I couldn’t. I reckon I rubbed all the skin off my wrists.

“I don’t know how long it was before somebody came. I knew it was daylight, because I had felt the sun for a long time. They unfastened my legs and helped me to my feet, but didn’t say a word. It was hard for me to stand up, even when I braced my legs.

“Then a man spoke to me and said he was goin’ to cut my hands loose. He told me to leave the bandage on my eyes until I could count a hundred, before I took it off. He warned me that he was counting, too, and if I took it off too quick, he’d kill me. Then he cut my hands loose.

“My gun was gone. I felt for it first. I counted a hundred before I took off that blindfold and gag. Then I found myself in a little clearing in the brush, about two miles from here. My horse was there, tied to a snag. My head was so sore I had to wear my hat on one side of my head, and I was so thirsty I couldn’t talk. So I came home. I told mother, because she would believe.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Don’t say that,” replied Tex. “It sounds like a badly told lie.”

“And somebody stole your gun, trying to make them think you robbed the stage!” exclaimed Marion.

“If you believe my story,” sighed Tex. “I can’t hardly believe it myself.”

“Oh, I’m glad I found that gun. Suppose the sheriff had found it, Tex.”

“I’d be in jail, I suppose. But, Marion, just before the sheriff came in tonight, you were looking at Buck Dennig’s picture. What was it all about?”

Marion went to her trunk and, after a few moments, she came back and handed Tex a picture of a man.

“Why, that’s Buck!” he said. “Buck Dennig.”

“My brother,” said Marion softly. “Blaine Evans.”

“It’s Buck Dennig all right,” said Judd. “Little younger, but it’s Buck, just the same, Miss Evans.”

“Then Buck Dennig was my brother.”

The doctor examined the picture, nodding slowly.

“That is the man we knew as Buck Dennig, Miss Evans.”

“That’s somethin’ to shock Cleve Tolman,” grinned Judd.

“They say I killed Buck Dennig,” said Tex bitterly. “And I haven’t even a good lie to use as an alibi. We quarreled that night. I reckon I would have killed him, because he called me a thief.”

“I don’t believe you killed him,” said Marion.

“Well, I can’t prove it, Marion. I suppose they are sayin’ that I killed Guy Shearer and robbed the bank.”

Hashknife reached in his pocket and drew out the hondo, which bore the brand of the B Arrow, and held it down in front of Tex.

“Who owns that hondo, Tex?” he asked.

Tex stared at it for a moment and took it in his good hand.

“That’s mine,” he said. “Where did you get it, Hartley?”

“On the floor of the bank, when we found Shearer. The rope was there, too, but the hondo had been cut off.”

Tex stared at the hondo, turning it over in his hand.

“You found that on the floor—my rope and hondo?”

“The sheriff has the rope, I reckon. You can’t identify a rope.”

“Does he know you’ve got this hondo?”

“Nope, I sneaked it off the floor.”

Tex lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes wearily.

“And I’ve got no lie to tell about that,” he said. “I don’t know who nor what you are, Hartley, but you’ve sure been a friend to me. That evidence would hang me.”

“I suppose it would. Did you lose the rope?”

“I don’t know. Never missed it if I did.”

“Any of your boys carry a marked hondo?”

“I don’t think so. Do you know any, Frank?”

Judd shook his head quickly.

“I guess not, Tex.”

Hashknife put the hondo on the mantel.

“I’m goin’ to Garnet,” he told them. “Take good care of Sleepy, will you? He means more to me than anythin’ on earth. I don’t like to run away, when he’s bogged down thataway, but he knows me and he’ll understand why I went.”

And without another word he went out to his horse and mounted in the dark.

“We better get you into a bed, Tex,” suggested the doctor. “You probably don’t realize that you are badly hurt.”

“Yeah, I realize it, Doc,” said Tex, “but I’m all right, except that I don’t know what it is all about. Who shot Stevens and me, I wonder? What was it all about, anyway?”

“I wish I knew,” said Judd. “Andy is asleep in the bunkhouse, and Tommy and Kit are in Pineville. I ran out of the bunkhouse, when the shootin’ started, but I couldn’t see anybody. Who would want to shoot ’em, Tex?”

“Search me. I think the sheriff was mad enough to shoot somebody, but he’s no bushwhacker. Who are these two men, I wonder? Nobody seems to know much about ’em.”

“They seem all right,” said Marion softly.

“They are all right,” declared Tex. “They’ve proved it to me. How badly is Stevens hurt, Doc?”

“Bad enough to lay him up for awhile.”

The doctor went back to where Sleepy was lying. Little Jimmy had decided to sleep through it all, and the doctor was satisfied with his condition.

It was nearly midnight when Hashknife reached Garnet. He tied his horse at a hitchrack near the Overland Saloon, the big gambling house of the town, and went in. The place was fairly well filled and a number of games were running full blast.

Hashknife went along to the bar, where he stopped and looked over the room, which was hazy with tobacco smoke. He wanted to find Luke Jones, and he expected to find the hardboiled old TD cook where the drinks came fast.

The room buzzed with conversation, the click of chips, the droning voices of the dealers, while glasses clicked at the bar and spurs rasped along the metal bar rail.

No one paid any attention to the tall cowboy who leaned against the bar, smoking a cigaret. At the rear of the room were a number of tables, where drinks were served. The three piece orchestra struck up a dance, and several of the chap-clad gentry tramped around the small dance space with the girls, having a boisterous time.

Suddenly a girl screamed, and her scream was punctuated by the thudding jar of a revolver shot. The room was in an uproar in a moment. The girls scattered like a bevy of frightened quail. Hashknife shoved his way through the crowd and found himself against a table which had been upset by someone who stood not upon their manner of going.

A man was lying flat on his back on the floor and, against the wall, standing alone, gun in hand, was Cleve Tolman, owner of the TD outfit. Some men were moving in closer to him and he eyed them with evident hostility.

“Keep away from me,” warned Tolman. “I shot in self defense, that’s all.”

“That’s right,” said a cowboy, who had evidently seen the shooting. “The other feller went for his gun.”

“Thank you,” said Tolman coldly.

He looked around and saw Hashknife, looking at him across the table.

“Somebody ought to get a doctor for him,” he said, and several men left the saloon.

Tolman slowly replaced the gun in his holster.

Hashknife stepped in close and looked at the man on the floor. It was old Luke Jones, ex-cook of the TD. Another man knelt down and lifted the old man’s head and shoulders. But old Luke wasn’t dead. He groaned a couple of times and opened his eyes. It seemed as if he had some difficulty in realizing what had happened.

“Been drinkin’ quite a lot,” said one of the men.

Luke looked at him, but shifted his eyes to Hashknife.

“Where’s Tolman?” he asked hoarsely. “Didn’t I git him?”

“I guess you didn’t,” said Hashknife. “Never mind. Just take it easy, old-timer; the doctor will get here in a few minutes.”

“Aw, to hell with the doctor! I’ve got mine, I guess. So he beat me to it, eh? First time that’s ever happened, too. He wouldn’t pay me to keep my mouth shut, Tolman wouldn’t. All I wanted was a thousand dollars. That ain’t much.” He blinked around at the faces and added, “To keep yore mouth shut.”

“Shut about what?” asked Hashknife softly.

“About Buck Dennig. I told him to give me the money or I’ll talk. He called me a dirty black somethin’, and I went for my gun. Where is he, the dirty sidewinder? Buck was my friend. I knowed more about Buck than anybody. Buck’s got relatives. He’s got a mother and a sister. Tolman didn’t know it until tonight. He called me a dirty liar, and then killed me to keep me from tellin’ it.”

“You ain’t dead yet,” said one of the men.

“No, but I’m close to it. And this here Western country loses a good man when I cash in. Where’s that doctor? Where’s Tolman?”

“Who killed Buck Dennig?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. Think I’d let him live, if I knowed. You’re Hartley, ain’t you? I ’member you. Are you a damned detective?”

“Do I look like one?” smiled Hashknife.

“Why don’tcha go and arrest Tex Blanco if you are?”

“Did Tex Blanco kill him, Luke?”

“I dunno. Gimme a drink, can’tcha? How bad does a man have to be hurt before he gets a drink. Where’s that doctor? I’m bleedin’ to death, I tell you.”

“Listen to me, Luke,” said Hashknife seriously. “What do you know about the killin’ of Buck Dennig? What do you know about that ten thousand they stole from him?”

Luke blinked painfully.

“I think Tolman knew,” he said hoarsely. “They quarreled the mornin’ Buck drawed that money. I heard some of it. Tolman gambled for big money. Buck tried to stop him. I didn’t hear it all, but I know Tolman said, ‘We split here, Buck. I’ll buy or sell. Ten thousand down and the rest on time.’ That’s what I heard that mornin’. Tolman knows, damn his dirty hide!”

The doctor came elbowing his way through the crowd, and Hashknife got to his feet. That end of the room was packed solid with interested humanity, but Tolman had vanished. Hashknife did not wait to hear the doctor’s verdict, but went back to his horse.

He was no nearer a solution than he was before. But he knew now that Cleve Tolman and Buck Dennig had quarreled, and that Tolman knew Buck was to draw that money. Evidently Buck had decided to buy out Tolman’s interest in the TD, and had drawn the money to make the initial payment.

And it was also evident that old Luke Jones had tried to blackmail Tolman out of a thousand dollars, knowing that his evidence might convict Tolman. As far as the shooting was concerned, Tolman would have little trouble in proving self defense, but he might have trouble in explaining away what old Luke had told about him.

But there were other things that Hashknife had discovered, little things which no one else had considered. He rode back to the B Arrow and found only Mrs. Blanco and the doctor awake. The doctor assured Hashknife that all the patients were doing as well as might be expected; so Hashknife rode on to Pineville, knowing that all the beds were filled at the ranch.

There was a light in the sheriff’s office. Hashknife tied his horse and knocked on the door. The sheriff, half dressed, came to the door and glared icily at Hashknife.

“F’r God’s sake, what are you doin’ around here?” he demanded. “I hoped you wouldn’t never come back.”

“I saw a light,” grinned Hashknife. “The rest of Pineville is fast asleep. You’re up late, ain’t you?”

“Aw, hell! C’mon in. I think I’d like to talk with you.”

Hashknife followed him in and the sheriff shut the door. Oscar, the deputy, was stretched out on a cot, snoring. The sheriff sat down at his desk and motioned Hashknife to a chair near him.

“Set down,” he growled. “I swore to myself that I’d curry you with a six-gun if you ever came in here again.”

“Oh, you never want to feel thataway about anybody, Sheriff.”

“You made me so damn mad. What are you tryin’ to do, anyway? Goin’ down to the B Arrow and—”

“Keepin’ you from gettin’ Oscar’s gun?”

“The big jughead!”

“How does it come you’re up so late—or early?”

“You don’t know, eh? Well, I’ll tell you why. Fifteen minutes ago Cleve Tolman left here. He was here for half an hour, and he told me about havin’ to shoot Luke Jones.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife smiled. “Tell you why he shot him?”

“Old Luke had been drinkin’; kinda got loco and opined to kill Cleve, didn’t he?”

“Did Tolman tell you I was there, Sheriff?”

“He said you was. You didn’t see the shootin’, didja?”

“Nope. Oh, I reckon he shot in self defense.”

“He said he did. Hartley—” the sheriff stretched wearily—“who shot your pardner at the B Arrow?”

“Who knows?”

“Was it Tex Blanco?”

“I never thought of that.”

“Did you shoot Tex Blanco?”

“I hope not.”

“Mm-m-m-m. Was Luke Jones dead when you left Garnet?”

“Nope. I don’t know how badly he was hurt.”

“Why did you go from the B Arrow to Garnet?”

“Exercisin’ my bronc.”

“Oh, I see. I suppose you were just exercisin’ your bronc, when you went out to the B Arrow.”

“No, I went out there to keep you from makin’ a fool of yourself.”

“To keep me? You’re crazy. Hartley, sometimes I like you. Yes, sir, I think you’re fine, when you mind your own business; but right here and now I want to tell you to keep your long nose out of my business. I can run my office.”

“Then you don’t need any help a-tall?”

“You’re damn right, I don’t!”

“You can catch’m all by yourself, eh?”

“All the catchin’ I need, yes.”

“You ought to run Scotland Yard.”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, a little corral they’ve got in London.”

“I dunno anythin’ about that, but I do sabe my own job.”

“You must be a great help to the county.”

The sheriff glowered at his sock-clad feet and wiggled the big toe of his left foot, which protruded through a hole in the wool.

“I reckon I can get along without your help,” he said wearily.

“That’s fine. Did Tolman tell you why he had to shoot Luke Jones?”

“He said Luke was loco and imagined things. Wanted Cleve to pay him a thousand dollars or he’d tell somethin’. Cleve said he didn’t know what it was he was goin’ to tell.”

“Tolman didn’t wait to see if Luke died.”

“That don’t mean anythin’. He shot in self defense.”

“I suppose you’d like it fine if I’d go away and let you sleep, wouldn’t you, Sheriff?”

“I sure would.”

The sheriff didn’t tell him goodby, but he did slam the door rather hard, after Hashknife was outside. Hashknife laughed to himself and went to the hotel.

Doctor Brent did not leave the B Arrow until morning. All of his patients were doing well, due to the fact that he had been on the spot to handle their wounds at once. Sleepy was in worse shape than Tex, but told the doctor that if he saw Hashknife he should tell him that everything was fine.

The doctor met Hashknife in front of the hotel and delivered the message. By this time nearly every one in Pineville knew of the shooting at the B Arrow, and many had heard of the shooting of Luke Jones at Garnet.

Hashknife was passing the post office, when Henry Goff, the postmaster, accosted him from the doorway.

“I’ve got a letter for you, Hartley,” he said. “Sent to you in care of the sheriff, but he don’t call for his mail until after the stage gets in this afternoon, and I thought it might be important.”

Hashknife thanked him and went in to get the letter. It was in a plain envelope, slightly soiled, and the penciled line inside read:

We got one of you and you’re next.

—THE BUNCH.

Hashknife compared it with the other letter he had from The Bunch, and it did not require a practised eye to see that the messages had not been written by the same person. In fact they were not alike in any detail. Hashknife smiled to himself and went down to the sheriff’s office, where he found Oscar Johnson.

“Pat’s gone out to the B Arrow,” he told Hashknife. “The things that happened out there last night has got him kinda pawin’ his head. He knowed you wasn’t out there, so he went out. Said he might git at the bottom of things if you wasn’t around to horn in and spoil the deal. My stars, but he was mad about that six-shooter deal!”

Hashknife showed Oscar the warning.

“By golly, they mean business, don’t they?” exclaimed Oscar. “So it was The Bunch who shot Stevens and Tex. That lets Tex out, unless Tex—”

“Unless Tex what?”

“Well,” said Oscar slowly, “Tex was out there and got mixed up in the shootin’.”

“Did he do any shootin’?”

“I’ll be darned if I know. He had my gun, you know, and I forgot to take it away from him when he came back in.”

“So there’s no way of connectin’ Tex with the shootin’.”

“Not a bit,” wailed Oscar. “There’s a lot of things happenin’ around here, and always there ain’t no clue. Somethin’ wipes out the evidence. Me and Pat are jist about disgusted.”

“Were you awake when Cleve Tolman came here last night—or rather this mornin’?”

“Shore, partly. He shot Luke Jones in Garnet.”

“I know all about that part of it. I was there.”

“Oh, yeah, I think Pat mentioned it. He wondered what you was doin’ there. Tolman said that old Luke was loco from too much drink. Demanded a thousand dollars from Tolman and started to draw a gun on Tolman, when Tolman wouldn’t give him the money. Old Luke has been makin’ his own liquor at the TD, and that kinda stuff will make you crazy.”

Hashknife did not tell Oscar what Luke Jones had said. He knew that the story would circulate fast enough, anyway. It was nearly noon when the sheriff came back from the B Arrow, and he was not in a pleasant frame of mind. Hashknife came down to his office and inquired about the sick and injured at the ranch.

“I didn’t see ’em,” growled the sheriff. “Old lady Blanco wouldn’t let me in the house. Said the doctor gave her orders to not let anybody in to see ’em. But I saw Miss Evans and I shore told her about that gun. She sent one of the punchers to Mrs. Cooper, with a note, askin’ her why she told me what she did. And now, by God, I’ve got to apologize to Mrs. Cooper.”

“She didn’t confess, eh?”

“Hell, no! I lied to get a confession.”

“Lyin’ seems to be a popular pastime around here.”

“Oh, go to hell!”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“Pat Lynch, who do you think killed Buck Dennig?”

“I dunno. My Lord, if I knowed—”

“Who robbed that stage?”

“Tex Blanco.”

“Who killed Shearer and robbed the bank?”

“I dunno.”

“The only thing you’re sure of is that Tex Blanco robbed the stage, eh?”

“That’s all.”

“All right. Just for the sake of an argument, how often is money carried on that stage?”

The sheriff looked sharply at Hashknife.

“Not very often, I’d say.”

“Would Tex know enough about it to pick the right day?”

“Not unless he was told.”

“Who could tell him—Windy March?”

“By God, I’ll bet he could.”

“If the money was sent to Windy, he might.”

“What are you drivin’ at? Are you protectin’ Tex Blanco? And what’s all this talk about? What’s all this to you? It seems to me that you’re takin’ a lot of interest in all this stuff. Tex lost his gun after he held up that stage, and them women found it. If it hadn’t been for Oscar, the Swede jughead, we’d have Tex in jail. And if it hadn’t been for you, we’d have had him, anyway. I could jail you for what you done.”

“Yeah? And I could have made Stormy River County laugh you out of the state of Wyoming. Anyway—” seriously—“you always want to look before you leap, Sheriff. Look at this.”

He let the sheriff read his latest warning.

“Tex never posted that,” declared Hashknife. “He hasn’t written a line since Sleepy got shot, and he couldn’t have known that The Bunch was goin’ to get one of us.”

“You ought to be a detective, Hartley. Still, you wouldn’t be much use, because you’re always goin’ around provin’ that everybody is innocent. Heffner’s yellin’ his head off for a chance to convict somebody. The county commissioners are ridin’ him, and he’s ridin’ me. I’m ready to quit.”

“You hadn’t ought to do that, Sheriff. There’s worse sheriffs than you are.”

“Where?” asked Lynch bluntly.

“Well, I just can’t answer you off-hand.”

“That’s supposed to be funny, ain’t it?”

“It’s all in your point of view, Sheriff.”

When the stage arrived that afternoon, Windy March brought the information that Luke Jones wasn’t dead and wasn’t liable to die until his appointed time.

“Danged old wood-rat wasn’t hurt much,” laughed Windy. “Swore he was dyin’, they tell me. Had a pint of whisky in the inside pocket of his coat, and the bullet smashed it all to hell, cracked one of Luke’s ribs and tunneled under the skin plumb around to his back.

“The doctor dug the bullet out, tied a few yards of bandage around Luke and let him go. Luke was plenty sick, but he went back to the Overland Saloon and celebrated his resurrection by gettin’ as drunk as a boiled owl. I seen him this mornin’, settin’ on the sidewalk, runnin’ a rag through his six-gun and singin’ to himself.”

As Windy was telling them about Luke Jones, Bud Hough drove through town in a buckboard, accompanied by a short, heavy set man, dressed in black. Bud waved at the men around the stage, but the other man merely nodded.

“I wondered what Bud was doin’ in Garnet,” said Windy. “Must have been there to git that feller. I seen him git off the train.”

“Prob’ly somebody visitin’ Tolman,” said Oscar.

Hashknife rode out to the B Arrow that afternoon and found Sleepy getting along fine. Tex was around the house, bandaged, and wearing his left arm in a sling. Little Jimmy’s fever had been broken, and their greatest concern was to keep him quiet.

Sleepy didn’t remember getting hit. He had heard one shot fired and remembered reaching for his gun. The rest of it was a complete blank. He was anxious to know what Hashknife had accomplished, but Hashknife was unable to tell him anything, except about the gun fight between Tolman and Luke Jones.