III.

Dug Breed was greatly disgruntled over his failure to find any clue to Bud Daley’s whereabouts. He had not expected to find any trace of the train-robbers. The express messenger and the engine crew said that there were several masked men in the gang; but their failure to do more than damage the through-safe and the interior of the car hardly made them worth bothering with.

Breed was of the opinion that the hold-up was planned only as a means for taking Bud Daley away from him, because of the fact that an organized gang would hardly stick up a train and blow the express safe unless they were reasonably certain of some remuneration.

But he could hardly understand just who would do such a job. The JM outfit might have done such a thing. There were four men at that ranch. But Breed well knew that Sody Slavin was too drunk that night, and that Uncle Jimmy Miller had been at the depot to see Bud leave. This was a perfect alibi for the JM.

“I don’t sabe it a-tall,” he told Charley Morse, his deputy, who was tilted back in an office chair, trying to coax a tune from a home-made banjo.

Charley balanced the banjo on his knee while he rolled a cigaret. Charley was not very keen mentally, and Breed’s worries bothered him very little.

“Bud’s prob’ly got a gun, by this time,” he observed.

“Yeah, he prob’ly has,” agreed Breed.

“And he’ll use it, too.”

“What would you do, if yuh had twenty years starin’ yuh in the face? Wouldn’t you use a gun, Charley?”

“Y’betcha.”

“All of which makes Bud a dangerous man,” mused Breed.

“Gotta outsmart him, thasall,” declared Charley, picking up his banjo and hunching to a comfortable position.

“Yeah? How would you outsmart him, Charley?”

Charley yawned widely and rubbed his nose. Charley was not slighted when they passed around noses.

“He’s got a wife, Dug,” said Charley. “He’ll want to see her, won’t he? Stick him up when he comes home.”

“Uh-huh?” Breed squinted reflectively. It was not such a bad idea, at that, he agreed.

“He’ll come home after grub, I reckon,” added Charley. “Feller has got to eat.”

“But his wife ain’t home, Charley. She’s at the JM ranch.”

“Does Bud know it?”

Breed glared at Charley and spat disgustedly.

“How in —— do I know what Bud knows?”

“Have to watch both places, I reckon.”

“All right. As soon as it gets dark we’ll pull out. You go to the JM and I’ll watch Bud’s place. It ain’t likely that he knows she went to the JM, Charley. Don’t let nobody see yuh, sabe? Cache yourself away where yuh can watch the house all night.”

“——!” Charley threw the banjo on the table and fumbled for a match. “Set there all night, eh? I had a —— of a good idea, didn’t I?” Charley rubbed an ear violently. “Next time I’ll keep my danged mouth shut. Bein’ real smart didn’t git me anythin’.”

“You prob’ly won’t have much to do, Charley?”

“Only keep awake. I played poker all night, I’d have yuh know.”

“That ain’t my fault. You better take a shotgun along, ’cause you’re cock-eyed already.”

Breed went across the street to the Rest Ye All, where he sat in at a poker game. It was shortly before dark when the boys from the 76A rode in and proceeded to regale themselves with plenty of liquor.

Breed noticed that they talked among themselves, ignoring the games, but drank plenty of whisky. Then they went out and were gone quite a while, drifting back in singles to meet at the bar again.

“Lookin’ for somebody,” Breed decided.

More cowboys drifted in, and in a little while Breed cashed in his chips and drew out of the game. Charley was at the office, with the two saddled horses, and in a few minutes they were out of Modoc and on their way, unseen by any one in the town.

About a mile out of town the road forked; one road leading to the JM and the other to Bud’s ranch. Breed gave Charley final instructions and they separated.

There was no moon, but the sky was brilliant with stars. The road led along the slope of the hills, winding in and out of the hollows, crossing an old water-course, deep in the shadows of cottonwood and willow, only to lead straight back into the sage-covered hill again.

Further on it skirted the side of a hill, and Breed could see a light in the ranch-house window. Somewhere a horse nickered shrilly. Breed drew up, dropped to the ground and placed a hand over his horse’s muzzle. After a minute or two he went on, walking and leading his horse.

The road led in past the stable, but Breed dismounted in the brush before reaching the stable, tied his horse and went cautiously past the corral and stopped at the corner of the stable. He was not in a position to watch the entire house; so he went back to an open window, climbed inside the stable and felt his way to the door, which he found unlocked.

He shoved the door partly open and sat down. From here he could see part of the front porch, all of one side and the kitchen door. The horses moved uneasily for several moments, but settled down to their feeding.

He could not see the lighted window now. It was warm there in the barn. He found a saddle-blanket and a box, with which he made a comfortable seat, and settled down to his long vigil. He felt sure that Bud would not show up before midnight, if at all.

Then he did the natural thing under the circumstances—fell asleep. After all, a sheriff is only human, and he was comfortable.

He did not know what awakened him, but he suddenly found himself wide awake and staring out through the doorway. A man was between him and the house, bulking large in the half-light. As far as Breed could determine, this man was watching the house. Then he began moving slowly toward the front porch, apparently cautious.

Breed grunted to himself, drew his gun and stepped softly outside.

“He ain’t takin’ no chances,” he observed to himself. “Bud always was cautious, and he don’t know who might be in the house.”

Swiftly but softly, Breed crossed toward the man, who was so intent on the house that he did not think of any danger from the rear, and when within about twenty feet, Breed stopped and spoke:

“Put ’em up real high, young feller.”

The man whirled swiftly, and his answer was an orange-colored streak of fire and the crashing report of a revolver. Breed felt the wind from the bullet, ducked instinctively and shot from his hip. The man grunted, staggered sideways and went to his knees, shooting as fast as he could, while Breed’s gun stabbed streaks of fire in his direction.

Then a bullet struck in the gravel a few feet from Breed and threw a spray of fine rocks into his face. He ducked sideways and almost ran into a bullet, which was coming from another direction; while from three different directions came the barking reports of six-shooters, all throwing lead at the sheriff.

Breed did not stop to question any one. He almost decided not to bother with a horse, but his course was in that direction. Luckily the corral gate was open, which gave him a chance for a long run before his jump, and he barely scraped a heel on the top pole of that seven-foot corral.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in bed when the first shot caused them to sit up, like a pair of mechanical toys. The next shot sent them out of bed, gun in hand and running toward the door; but the fusillade caused Hashknife, who was in the lead, to stop short, and Sleepy bumped violently into him.

“What the —— are yuh tryin’ to do—knock m’ teeth out?” demanded Sleepy. “Yore danged elbow is jist like a bay’net.”

“Aw, hire a hall!” snapped Hashknife. “What’s goin’ on around here, anyway?”

The firing ceased. Some one ran past the front porch, crunching heavily on the gravel. Hashknife cautiously opened the door and peered out. All was serene. From far away came the sound of a running horse, and somewhere in the hills a coyote barked snappily and wailed dismally, as if protesting against being disturbed.

“Well, now that sure does beat —— by a neck!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Jist why do they pick our little ranch to stage a battle?”

“Some of it was danged close, too,” said Sleepy. “Them first few shots were right up against our house.”

Hashknife led the way back to the bedroom, where they proceeded to dress and buckle on their belts.

“She’s a small world,” complained Sleepy, “when they have to come out to our yard to have their fights. What do you make of it, Hashknife?”

“Mebbe somebody was havin’ fun with us, Sleepy.”

“Well, they’ve had it, cowboy. I’m a-quiverin’ all over.”

They went out on the front porch and looked around. There was not a sound to be heard. Hashknife led the way around the corner and stopped short. A man was lying flat on his back, looking up at the sky, arms outstretched. A few feet from him was a heavy six-shooter.

Hashknife knelt beside him and felt of his heart. He was still breathing, and as Hashknife touched him he groaned aloud.

“He ain’t dead, is he?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah. They always groan thataway after they’re dead.”

Hashknife got to his feet and dusted off his knees.

“Grab his feet, Sleepy; we’ll take him in the house.”

They carried him in and placed him on the floor, after which they lighted a lamp and looked him over. It was Red Blair; but he was an unknown to them. Hashknife made a brief examination of him and pronounced him a case for a doctor.

“And we ain’t got no time to lose,” declared Hashknife. “There’s a buckboard down at the stable, and I reckon them other two horses are broke to harness. We’ll take this jasper to Modoc and find out who he is.”

It did not take them long to harness the team, load the wounded man into the buckboard, and head for town. The road was not very smooth, but Sleepy held the man down, while Hashknife drove the team at a stiff gallop most of the way.

It was past midnight when they drove up to the Rest Ye All. The place was fairly well filled, and Lavelle was at the bar, talking with several men, when Hashknife asked the bartender where he could find a doctor.

“Somebody hurt?” asked Lavelle.

“Yeah,” replied Hashknife, “I dunno who he is. There was a lot of shootin’ goin’ on out at Daley’s ranch, and this feller must ’a’ got in the way of some lead. He’s out there in the buckboard.”

There was a general exodus to the front of the saloon, and Hashknife soon found out who the man was. Lavelle took immediate charge and sent a man for the doctor.

“Mind telling me how it happened?” asked Lavelle.

Hashknife told him what he knew of the matter, but it was evident that Lavelle did not believe a word of it. Some one was sent after the sheriff, who appeared in a few minutes. He made a great show of asking questions, which no one could answer—except the sheriff himself—and he grew absent-minded, trying to appear at ease and to puzzle out what Red Blair was doing at the Triangle D ranch, and who did the shooting after Red Blair went down.

He felt sure that Hashknife and Sleepy were telling the truth, as strange as it might seem to those who did not know.

The doctor took charge of the wounded man, and Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the ranch, wondering what Lavelle’s cowpuncher was doing at their doorstep, and who shot him.

“This,” declared Hashknife, “sure as —— has got me fightin’ my head, Sleepy. What did that red-headed puncher want out there? Who shot him? Was all them shots fired at the jasper that shot this Red Blair? Who were they? Sleepy, I’ll be darned if this ain’t some mix-up.”

“Do yuh reckon Bud Daley was mixed up in it?” queried Sleepy.

“That’s hard to tell, Sleepy. There’s a lot of things to work out. F’r instance, who stole Bud’s cows? Who robbed the bank? Who held up that train? Why did they take Bud away from the sheriff? What in —— was Red Blair doin’ out there tonight, and who shot him? My gosh, no wonder Sherlock Holmes was a hop-head.”

“Well,” laughed Sleepy, “yo’re happy, ain’t yuh, cowboy?”

“Gittin’ thataway,” laughed Hashknife.

They unsaddled at the stable and went to the house, but drew all the curtains before lighting the lamp. Hashknife started toward the bedroom, but stopped and squinted toward a corner of the living room.

“Sleepy,” he asked, “wasn’t there a rifle in that corner when we left here?”

“By jolly, I think there was, Hashknife. It was there the last I seen of it.”

“Uh-huh.” Hashknife strode into the kitchen with the lamp and looked around, with a wide grin on his face.

“We’ve had a visitor,” he stated. “Bud’s been here after a gun and a grub stake, Sleepy. That dog-gone pantry is jist about cleaned out, and I’ll betcha we’re shy a horse and saddle.”

“That’s fine!” grunted Sleepy. “Takes a load off m’ mind. I was kinda worryin’ about Bud, but we know he’s all right now.”

They went back to the bedroom and undressed.

“I wish we’d ’a’ been here,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve got a lot of questions to ask that danged fool.”

“What about, Hashknife?”

“Oh, about hang-nails, and if he’s bothered with dandruff,” replied Hashknife sarcastically. “If I’ve got to live with an idiot, I might as well be crazy, too. Good night.”

One of their horses was missing in the morning, but Bud took his own saddle. Sleepy saddled one of the buggy team and found it much better riding than a harness-animal. They went to Modoc, where they found that Red Blair was still unconscious and that the doctor was still prospecting him for bullets.

Dug Breed made a show of questioning Hashknife, while Cleve Lavelle listened. But Hashknife had told all he knew the night before. Lavelle was thoughtfully serious, and the bartender confided to Hashknife that Lavelle had lost a lot of money at stud poker last night.

“And that’s the first time anybody has tapped him hard since Bud Daley took ten thousand out of here,” stated the bartender.

“Lost his luck?” queried Hashknife, grinning.

“I betcha.” The bartender breathed tenderly upon a glass, and polished it carefully.

“Lavelle’s sure out of luck when they can hit him hard.”

“Gamblin’ is a queer profession,” mused Hashknife. “They’re all superstitious. They make up their mind that somethin’ brings ’em luck—and it does. I reckon it’s just another case of mind.”

“Lavelle’s thataway,” laughed the bartender. “Horse-shoes, pins on the floor, pointin’ toward him, pictures hangin’ crooked on the wall—oh, a lot of hoodoo or good-lucks.”

“Alle same Injun medicine-bag, eh?” grinned Sleepy.

“That’s it.”

Lavelle came in and walked over to the bar, inviting the two cowboys to have a drink.

“How far is it to Black Wells?” asked Hashknife as they lifted their glasses.

“About thirty-five miles,” said Lavelle.

“Good road?”

“Good enough for a saddle-horse. Been neglected so long that it wouldn’t be passable for a wagon. Thinking of going there?”

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I’m goin’ over there, Lavelle. Have you got any idea what could have become of Bud Daley’s cattle?”

Lavelle laughed and indicated for the bartender to fill up the glasses again.

“Just between us,” said Lavelle, “I think that Bud sold his cattle.”

“In Black Wells?”

“Perhaps. That is the best place.”

“Well,” said Hashknife, “we’re goin’ over there and see what we can see. There ought to be somebody there that could put us on to the right track.”

“If they would. Black Wells,” said Lavelle slowly, “is one place where it’s hard to get folks to talk.”

“We never get folks to talk,” said Hashknife. “Let ’em alone and they’ll tell everythin’. Well, Sleepy, we better be hittin’ the grit. We’ve got to stop at the JM outfit a while, and I dunno if them hammer-headed broncs are good for thirty-five miles, or not.”

“You two were on the car the night the hold-up men took Bud away from the sheriff, wasn’t you?” asked Lavelle.

“Y’betcha,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll never forget it. They tried to rob me and Sleepy, but I told ’em that all we had left was the draggin’ end of a pair of railroad tickets, so he dug into his pocket and tossed me some money for a breakfast stake.”

Lavelle laughed and lighted a cigar.

“How much did he give you?”

“I dunno. It wasn’t much. Well, c’mon, Sleepy; let’s hit the grit.”

Monte Sells and Frank Asher were riding into town, as Hashknife and Sleepy rode out. Monte squinted closely at them and turned in his saddle to watch them fade out down the road in a cloud of dust.

The Miller family, Mrs. Daley and the cowpunchers were all at the JM and greeted them warmly. Sody noticed that Sleepy was riding one of Bud’s horses and asked him what was wrong with the JM horse.

“Bud took him,” laughed Hashknife. “From what we can observe, Bud has a horse, grub and a gun. He took that rifle out of the corner of the front room, cleaned out the cupboard and lifted a horse.”

“Oh, did you see him—talk to him?” exclaimed Mrs. Daley.

“Wish I had,” said Hashknife. “We wasn’t there when he came. We was packin’ Red Blair to a doctor.”

“What happened to Red Blair?” asked Uncle Jimmy.

Hashknife described what had happened at the ranch the night before, and Dinah Blewette almost choked to death, trying to express himself. Sody hammered him on the back and ordered him to use his ears and let his tongue alone.

“Do you suppose that Bud had anything to do with it?” asked Mrs. Daley wonderingly.

“He didn’t have no gun,” said Sleepy. “Least we don’t reckon he did. It was after that when he took the rifle.”

“Well, tie up yore horses and have somethin’ to eat,” invited Ma Miller. “You two gallinippers are jist like every other puncher I ever knowed—always show up at meal-time.”

“Ma throws a mean flock of food,” grinned Uncle Jimmy. “I know she’s bakin’ bread and there’s beans in the oven, too.”

“Oh, we’ll stay,” said Hashknife. “My gosh, we’ll stay.”

The wide porch of the ranch-house looked inviting to Hashknife. Sody and Dinah were breaking a bronc at the corral, and this was inviting enough for Sleepy. Uncle Jimmy followed Ma to the kitchen, leaving Hashknife and Mrs. Daley together. They sat down in the shade, and Mrs. Daley waited for Hashknife to speak. His long, lean face was serious as he carefully rolled and shaped a cigaret before saying a word. Then—

“Where was you the night the bank was robbed?”

“Why, I was at home.”

Mrs. Daley looked curiously at him, and a fear clutched at her heart. Did he know that Cleve Lavelle was out at the ranch that night, she wondered?

“Wasn’t Bud home that night?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“No, he did not come home.”

“Where’d he go that day—to Modoc?”

“I—I think so. He said he was going to see the sheriff about the stolen cattle.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife smoked thoughtfully. “Are him and Breed good friends?”

“No, I do not think so.”

Hashknife turned and looked directly at her, as he said—

“Lavelle thinks that Bud sold his cows and lied about ’em bein’ stolen.”

“That is not true! Why, Bud wouldn’t do a thing like that. You ought to know Bud better——”

“I didn’t say it,” interrupted Hashknife. “Lavelle said it.”

“Well, it’s not true. We were just getting a good start in life, when this all happened.”

“All right.” Hashknife nodded and shoved his hat onto the back of his head. “Why didn’t Bud talk at the trial?”

“Why didn’t he talk?” Mrs. Daley looked at Hashknife closely.

“Yeah. He didn’t even try to tell where he was that night.”

“No, he didn’t tell,” Mrs. Daley spoke softly. “He wouldn’t tell anything.”

“Feller ought to talk,” said Hashknife slowly. “Did he ever tell you that he didn’t do it, May?”

“No.” Softly.

“Did he ever tell you where he was that night?”

“No.”

“Say!”

Hashknife turned half-around and looked at her. She lowered her eyes, but he put his hand on her shoulder and she looked up at him, her eyes filmed with tears.

“May Daley, did Bud talk to you a-tall?”

She bit her lips to try and keep back the tears, as she shook her head.

“Why didn’t he?”

“I—I do not know.”

“Grub-pile!” yelled Uncle Jimmy. “Come and git it!”

Hashknife helped her to her feet and she gripped his hand tightly as she looked up at him.

“Why do you ask me these questions?”

Hashknife grinned down at her and shook his head.

“I can’t tell yuh yet, May. I don’t want yuh to think that I’m meddlin’ into yore personal affairs; but I’d like to ask yuh if yuh still care for Bud?”

“More than any one in the world, Hashknife Hartley.”

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“I hope he knows that, May. If I wasn’t his friend I’d think he was guilty; but friendship makes it look different.”

“Do you—” she faltered—“do you think there is any way of saving him?”

Hashknife grinned and patted her on the arm.

“Miracles do happen,” he told her smiling. “I saved half of my salary one year. Let’s eat and forget it.”

The town of Black Wells was on the east side of the range and on the main line of the railroad, the branch of which extended into the Modoc country, but from a point much farther South.

Until the building of this branch line, all the cattle of the Modoc had been herded into Black Wells for shipment; but since then, Black Wells had ceased to be more than one of the many little cattle-towns along the railroad.

Its one street was little more than a dusty road, bordered by false-fronted, unpainted buildings, which looked as if they might fall down in the next gust of wind; their signs were faded and dimmed by time.

The railroad did not come within a quarter of a mile of the town and it seemed that the town did not like the railroad well enough to move over close to it. The little depot stood bravely forth in the sage-covered plain, and a few hundred yards from it were the big corrals and loading-pens, fast falling apart from neglect.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Black Wells after dark, put their horses into a corral, foraged some hay and went hunting for a hotel. A frowsy hotel-keeper answered their banging on the front door, grumbled at being disturbed, but finally agreed to give them a place to sleep.

He held up his overalls with one hand, a smoking oil-lamp in the other, and padded along barefooted to a door, which creaked a protest at being disturbed.

“Ain’t used to puttin’ up folks at night,” he explained. “The hotel business ain’t what it used to be. I’ve seen the time when this old Californy House was loaded to the guards. I’ll leave yuh fix up the bed the way yuh want it. This lamp ain’t got more’n enough ile to see yuh to bed, and I’ll be darned ’f I’d ever fill one by match-light.”

He placed the lamp on a rickety dresser and peered around.

“How about a little water, pardner?” asked Hashknife.

“Water? T’night? Nope.” He shook his head violently. “Fetch yuh some in the mornin’. That —— old pump is hard t’ find in the dark, and she’s gotta be primed to beat ——, or yuh don’t git nothin’ to come up.”

He padded out, shut the door and went down the narrow hallway, complaining audibly. The room was hot, unventilated; but both cowboys were too tired to care about that. They flopped on the old bed, which creaked and groaned at every move, and stayed there until daylight, when they went wearily down the hall and on to the front porch.

Black Wells woke up by degrees. A mongrel dog got up from in front of the Welcome saloon, turned around three times, lay down. Then it got up, yawned widely, snapped at a fly and went down the street toward a watering-trough.

Somewhere a door banged shut, and some one began whistling discordantly. A high-pitched voice complained profanely against the whistler, who stopped whistling long enough to tell the plaintiff to go plumb to ——. A window slammed down and there came a tinkle of broken glass.

“You —— fool, that winder has been cracked ever since eighteen eighty-six!” complained a feminine voice. “Whatcha slammin’ it down fer?”

The reply was muffled. A man came across the street, leading a horse to the watering-trough. He began manipulating the rusty old pump-handle, which screeched loud enough to wake every one. Another man came out of a one-story building across the street; a short dumpy man, bearded to the eyes. He slid back the wide door of the blacksmith shop and went inside, where he busied himself singing a tuneless song and beating time on the anvil. The proprietor of the hotel, evidently fearful that Hashknife and Sleepy might get away without paying for their lodging, came out on to the porch, still using his two hands in lieu of suspenders.

“Howja sleep?” he asked.

“With our eyes shut,” said Hashknife.

“Howja find the bed?”

“That wasn’t a bed,” said Sleepy dryly, “that was a buggy.”

The man seemed aggrieved.

“Yuh can’t expect no New Yawk accommodations in Black Wells. ——, man; yo’re in the West. Black Wells is a good town. Whatcha like for breakfast—coffee or tea?”

Hashknife laughed and got to his feet.

“That’s what I’ve always heard about Black Wells—yuh can get what yuh want. We’ll take coffee.”

“Yuh sure can git anythin’ yuh want,” admitted the proprietor. “She’s a he-man’s town, y’betcha.”

He went back into the house. The blacksmith was still singing to the music of his anvil, his voice quavering with the intensity of feeling. Hashknife grinned and nodded toward the shop.

“That feller’s human, Sleepy. My bronc has a loose shoe; so we’ll give the singer a job, and mebbe he’ll talk.”

They got the horse at the corral and took it to the shop. The blacksmith grinned good-naturedly and examined the loose shoe.

“Better take her off and shape her up li’l’, eh?” he asked.

“Yo’re the doctor,” said Hashknife. “Do yore job.”

“Quite a town yuh got here,” observed Sleepy.

The blacksmith looked up from his work and squinted at Sleepy.

“You tryin’ to be funny, or start an argument?” he asked.

“Neither one,” grinned Sleepy. “But that’s the regular thing to say, ain’t it?”

The blacksmith laughed and walked back to his forge, where he shoved the shoe into the fire and leaned heavily on his bellows pole.

“You fellers are strangers here,” he said slowly. “I sabe the JM brand on this bronc, and I sabe the Modoc. I ain’t been here long, but I know everybody by their first name. Black Wells is a —— of a town, any old way yuh look at it.”

“Ain’t much since Modoc quit bringin’ their cows over here, I reckon,” said Hashknife. “I dunno how yuh make a livin’.”

“Oh, I manage to get a little job now and then.”

“Know the 76A outfit?”

“Know of ’em. I put a couple of shoes on a 76A bronc not long ago. That was the first job I had, after I opened this shop.”

“You been open long?”

“Less than a month.”

He took the shoe from the fire and shaped it carefully, while Hashknife sat on the edge of the slack-tub and watched him work.

“You must ’a’ been here when them Triangle D cows were brought over here,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “That wasn’t more than a month ago.”

The blacksmith squinted thoughtfully for a moment.

“No, I don’t remember them. Mebbe that was before my time. Who owned them Triangle-D cattle?”

“Bud Daley.”

“Oh, yeah. He was the feller that robbed the Modoc bank, wasn’t he? And then got away from the sheriff?”

“That’s the feller.”

“I dunno him. How did he happen to bring his cows over here?”

Hashknife laughed shortly and shook his head.

“Do you know the sheriff of Modoc?”

“Nope.” The blacksmith went over to the horse and fitted the shoe. “I dunno many folks over there. I used to be there a couple of years ago, but I went up to Pocatello, Idaho, and stayed there until jist a while ago.”

“Over in Modoc they told me that Black Wells has a pretty bad reputation,” said Hashknife, watching the blacksmith closely.

“I dunno.” The blacksmith laughed shortly and came back to the forge. “I never seen anythin’ bad about it. I suppose there’s a certain gang that ain’t teachin’ no Sunday schools; but they jist kinda fade in and fade out of here. Nobody bothers me; so I keep my mouth shut and drive nails.”

“After all,” observed Hashknife, “that’s the best thing to do.”

“Safest, anyway,” grunted the blacksmith.

The proprietor of the hotel came out on the porch, a huge bell in his hand, and proceeded to announce breakfast. Men began to drift in from all directions, and there was a sizable crowd in the dining-room, when Hashknife and Sleepy arrived.

No one spoke to them, but, being strangers, they created a certain amount of silent interest. Hashknife sized up the crowd and decided that Black Wells might be able to live up to advance notices. There were two men whose attire stamped them as saloon owners or gamblers, another whose tonsorial splendor shrieked of the fact that he mixed drinks for a livelihood. Another might be a keeper of a store. The rest were cowpunchers or cattlemen.

There was little conversation, except in a low tone. The proprietor of the hotel waited on table, assisted by a slatternly, middle-aged woman, who did not change expression during the meal.

After breakfast they filed silently out of the room. Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the blacksmith shop, paid for the work and took their horse back to the corral.

“I wish I knowed what in —— we came down here for,” complained Sleepy. “This ain’t my idea of a good place to stay.”

“I want to find out if Bud sold them cows himself,” replied Hashknife.

“All right,” grinned Sleepy. “That’s somethin’ yuh never did expect to find out down here.”

“You’d laugh at me, if I told yuh why I came, Sleepy.”

“No, I’d fall dead, Hashknife.”

They went into the Welcome saloon, where a poker game had already started. Hashknife looked the players over, but decided that there was too much dexterity shown by the dealer; so he did not take the vacant chair. The blacksmith came in, bought himself a drink and appropriated the chair.

Several hard-faced cowpunchers drifted in, took a few drinks and went away. It was hot. The old saloon reeked of stale liquor and tobacco smoke. Flies crawled over the bar and buzzed up and down the dusty mirror and windows.

The proprietor of the saloon, a crafty-faced individual, with an almost-bald head, which was knobby in contour, was in the poker game. He drank whisky copiously and perspired generously on his bald dome.

The day passed slowly, dustily. The poker game was listless, and Hashknife and Sleepy dozed in a pair of chairs on the porch of the saloon. Cow-ponies stood listlessly at the hitch-racks, switching their tails wearily at the flies, while the sun beat down on the dusty street until the pine boards of the buildings oozed pitch.

“There ain’t been a soul spoke to us all day,” said Sleepy. “I hope to gosh that we pull out this evenin’. Even if they do use our dooryard to pull off their killin’s, I’d rather be there than here.”

Supper time came and about the same crowd went to eat. There was a little more conversation, because of the fact that much liquor had been consumed. Several of the men nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy, and the proprietor of the Welcome muttered something about it being a warm day for this time of year.

“They’re thawin’ out,” grinned Hashknife.

“At a hundred and ten in the shade, they ought to,” grunted Sleepy, wrinkling up his nose at the dishes of hot food. “I’d like to hit that old Crooked Cañon ag’in. It’s cool there.”

“Don’t get impatient,” said Hashknife. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Oh, that’s what yo’re doin’ over here, eh? Buildin’ another Rome.”

They went back to the Welcome saloon and sat down. Men drifted in and started another poker game, but this time the proprietor of the saloon did not sit in at the games. He went behind the bar and let the bartender go to eat his supper, and his first act was to invite everybody up to have a drink.

Hashknife and Sleepy came up with the others, but stayed at the bar after the rest of the crowd had gone back to their drinks.

“You fellers goin’ to locate around here?” asked the proprietor.

He had drunk enough whisky to make him just a trifle thick of tongue, but his eyes were keen.

Hashknife considered his question thoughtfully, but finally shook his head.

“Didja come from over in the Modoc country?”

The man was busy washing glasses and did not look up when he asked the question.

“Yeah, we rode in from there last night,” yawned Hashknife.

The proprietor filled several bottles from a keg, arranged his glasses carefully and turned back to them.

“Many Modoc folks drift over this way?” queried Hashknife.

The man appeared interested in an argument which had started at one of the poker tables and did not answer, although Hashknife felt sure that he had heard the question. Finally he said:

“When are you goin’ back to Modoc?”

“Mebbe tonight, we dunno,” said Hashknife.

“Nicer ridin’ at night than in the daytime.”

The man looked straight at them when he spoke, and it seemed that his statement held a warning.

“That’s right,” grinned Hashknife. “It’s kinda hot in the daytime. You know much about the Modoc country?”

“Not much.”

Hashknife leaned across the bar and lowered his voice.

“Pardner, I’m lookin’ for information. Do you know who Bud Daley is?”

The man squinted keenly at him, but lowered his eyes, a slight frown on his face. He was putting up a show of thinking. Then:

“I’ve heard the name. Didn’t he git into trouble over there?”

“They say he shipped some stock from here,” said Hashknife, ignoring the question, “and we’re tryin’ to find out if that is the truth.”

The man shook his head, but called to a cowpuncher who was watching one of the games. He was a frowsy, unkempt individual, who had been around there all day. He slouched over to the bar.

“Jud,” said the proprietor, “here’s a man who wants to find out if Bud Daley has shipped any stock from here lately?”

Jud licked his lips and reached for a cigaret-paper.

“Jud kinda has charge of the loadin’ corrals,” explained the proprietor.

“Bud Daley?” Jud seemed to be questioning himself. Then he looked at Hashknife keenly, “Whatcha want to know fer?”

“I’ll trade answers with yuh,” said Hashknife.

“Trade with me?”

“Yeah. You tell me if he has and I’ll tell yuh what I wanted to know for.”

Jud grinned wisely and licked the edge of his cigaret-paper. His eyes shifted to the face of the proprietor and back to Hashknife.

“Suppose I tell yuh I don’t know,” he suggested. “How’d yuh trade on that?”

“By tellin’ yuh it wasn’t none of yore —— business,” replied Hashknife.

Jud gawped at Hashknife for a moment and flushed angrily.

“Yo’re kinda salty, ain’t yuh?” he queried.

Hashknife laughed with his mouth, but there was no mirth in his steady eyes. Jud fidgeted nervously, ripped a match viciously along the bar and lit his cigaret.

“I’ll buy a drink,” said the proprietor slowly.

Jud whirled on his heel and walked back to the poker-table, ignoring the invitation. The proprietor laughed and set out glasses and a bottle. He did not drink, but lighted a fresh cigar instead.

“This one is on me,” said Hashknife, tossing a dollar on the bar, “I reckon that folks didn’t lie to us when they said that we’d never find out anythin’ in Black Wells.”

He and Sleepy tossed off their drinks and went outside, leaving the dollar on the bar.

“My gosh, that’s awful whisky!” exclaimed Sleepy. “No wonder this town hates itself. Where now?”

“Back to Modoc,” said Hashknife, “I don’t like this place.”

They went back to the corral and began saddling. A moon had just come up over the Modoc hills. Sleepy was fussing with his cinch and looking at the moon. Then he stopped and grasped the saddle with both hands.

The moon was acting queerly. It seemed to advance and recede rapidly, and the queer motion was making Sleepy sea-sick. He looked over at Hashknife, who seemed to be acting strangely. Then a sudden dizziness struck him and he fell backward against the corral fence, where he slumped down in a heap.

It seemed to Sleepy that he had only been on the ground a short time, when he groped for the fence and managed to get back to his feet. The moon was high in the heavens now, and he wondered how it had got up there in such a short time. He was still nauseated, hazy; but the cool night breeze revived him rapidly.

The horses were still there. He crossed the corral, where he found Hashknife leaning against the fence, his head on his hands.

“Say, what in —— happened?” queried Sleepy painfully.

Hashknife groaned and straightened up. He looked at Sleepy and laughed hoarsely.

“Feel in yore pockets, Sleepy?”

Sleepy did so.

“Anythin’ missin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, I’ll be —— if I ain’t shy about ten dollars!”

“They cleaned me out,” groaned Hashknife. “I’m as clean as a new six-gun barrel.”

“Well, what in —— is the answer?” demanded Sleepy angrily.

“Them last drinks,” said Hashknife, “they must ’a’ filled ’em full of knockout drops, Sleepy. I’ve been doped before, but I never got all there was in the world in one drink. Waugh!”

“They doped and robbed us?” queried Sleepy.

“That’s the answer.”

“All right.” Sleepy’s voice was harsh with anger. “We’ll go back to that Welcome saloon and take it back with interest. C’mon, Hashknife. I’ll show that bunch of tin-horns somethin’ quaint.”

“Nope.” Hashknife laughed and went back to his horse. “Me and you are goin’ back to Modoc. It’s late.”

“You ain’t goin’ to let that bunch of side-winders get away with all this, are yuh?” demanded Sleepy.

“They didn’t get much.”

Sleepy went to his horse, shook up the saddle and drew up the cinch. He was mad. They rode out of the corral gate and down the street. As they passed the Welcome saloon, Sleepy drew up his horse and peered through the window. There were several men at the bar and among them was the proprietor.

“Hang on to yourself,” advised Hashknife. But he was too late.

Sleepy drew his gun and sent a bullet smashing through the window and into the back-bar. The crowd at the bar fell back in a panic. Another bullet bored through the broken window, splintered the back-bar mirror and played havoc with some bottled goods, which were on display.

A man threw open the door, but slammed it shut quickly, when a bullet buzzed in over his head.

“Yeow! Ye-e-e-ow!” whooped Sleepy. “Dodge, you Black Wells pickpockets!”

Three times more he sent bullets in through the windows, before he set spurs to his horse and went thundering out of Black Wells, riding high in his saddle and stuffing more cartridges into his six-shooter.

Straight out the old Crooked Cañon road they went and into the moonlit hills before they slackened pace.

“I sure gave ’em a receipt for my money,” laughed Sleepy, looking back toward the town, “yo’re too easy, Hashknife. I only hope that bunch of reptiles will be pickin’ glass splinters out of their mangy hides for a month.”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I dunno that I blame yuh, cowboy.”

“Blame, ——!” snorted Sleepy, “I wish we’d ’a’ gone in there and salivated the whole works. I was shootin’ at the cash register, and I hope I rung up enough to make it worth while. You wanted to come to Black Wells, and I hope you’re satisfied.”

“I’m satisfied,” answered Hashknife. “Perfectly satisfied.”

“You didn’t do no good for anybody.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Well, where in —— did yuh? You asked questions and got no answer. We got doped and robbed. And you’re satisfied. Brother, it don’t take much to satisfy you, does it? Sometimes, I wonder if you’re just right in the head.”

“My heart is in the right place, Sleepy.”

“Yeah—and I suppose yore liver is accordin’ to the location notice. You’re actin’ as happy as though you done some good there.”

But Hashknife only laughed joyfully, in spite of the fact that his stomach was almost too weak to bear the drag of his heavy belt and gun.

It was breakfast time the next morning at the 76A, when Dug Breed and Charley Morse rode in for breakfast. A rumor that Bud Daley was back in the Lost Pine country had given them eighteen hours of riding, with no results.

Monte Sells, Frank Asher and Brent Allard were eating, but stopped long enough to greet the sheriff and deputy, who sat down at the long table.

“A feller don’t have to strain his eyesight to see that yuh didn’t have much luck, sheriff,” observed Monte.

He winked at the other two cowboys. Dug Breed noted the wink, but did not appreciate the humor of Monte’s observation.

“Not much,” said Breed dryly.

Frank Asher laid down his fork, rested his elbows on the table and leaned toward Breed, as he said—

“Breed, who do you think shot Red Blair?”

The sheriff had a cup of hot coffee at his lips, but he slowly lowered it to the table, his eyes searching the faces of the three men across the table.

“What in —— was Blair doin’ out there?” he countered.

“What’s that got to do with it?” asked Monte.

“Quite a lot.” The sheriff seemed more at ease. “If we knew what Red Blair was doin’ out there, we might get a line on who shot him.”

Asher grunted and began eating, but Monte took up the discussion.

“What do yuh know about them two punchers who are livin’ at Bud’s place?”

“Not a thing.”

“Did yuh ever think that they might ’ve had a hand in the shootin’ of Red?”

“If you’ll tell me what Red was doin’ out there, I might say.”

Brent Allard got to his feet and shoved back his chair.

“What’s the use of arguin’ about it?” he asked.

“I’m not arguin’ about it,” laughed Breed. “Red will likely tell us what he was doin’ out there, as soon as he is able.”

“The doctor don’t think he’ll get well,” observed Monte. “I was down there last night. Them two punchers told about a lot of shots bein’ fired out there that night. They claim to have found Red after the shootin’ was all over.”

Breed nodded slowly.

“Yeah, I know that’s what they said.”

“Who do yuh reckon done all the shootin’?” queried Allard.

“Didn’t you say that there wasn’t no use arguin’ about it?” asked Breed, grinning. “Don’t ask me who done it, Allard; I didn’t see ’em.”

Breed and Morse finished their breakfast and went on to town, while the three cowboys sat down on the ranch-house porch and rolled fresh cigarets.

“Do yuh know what I think?” asked Monte.

Nobody seemed to care what he thought, but he continued—

“I think that Bud Daley was the one that shot Red.”

“All right,” said Brent Allard. “It’s a free country, Monte. I told yuh before we went there that we was monkeyin’ with dynamite. But Red got a lot of drinks under his belt——”

“He didn’t get any more than the rest of us did,” interrupted Monte.

“I know it. But Red got braver than the rest of us. I told yuh what would happen. Red thought we could frame up a scare for them two jaspers; but yuh see what happened, don’t yuh.”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” snorted Frank Asher. “You can’t make me believe that one of them was guardin’ the place. They didn’t know we was comin’ out there. I’ll betcha that Bud was the one what busted up the party for Red.”

“Here comes Mesa,” said Monte, pointing down the road, where a lone horseman was riding swiftly toward the ranch.

They watched him ride in at the gate and come straight to the porch, where he dismounted and joined them.

“Red died a couple of hours ago,” he stated wearily. “He never got conscious.”

Monte swore softly and rolled a fresh cigaret, while Mesa Caldwell helped himself to Monte’s tobacco.

“Lavelle thinks it was Bud Daley that done it,” said Mesa. “I was talkin’ to Lavelle a while ago. Met the sheriff and his deputy and told them about it. I reckon most everybody thinks that Bud done the shootin’.”

“That’s where yo’re all wrong,” insisted Brent Allard. “If you —— fools would only believe me, when I tell yuh that them two fellers, Hartley and Stevens, are——”

“Aw, stop croakin’, Brent!” wailed Monte. “My ——, yo’re always lookin’ for spooks! If yo’re so scared of them two, why don’tcha pull yore freight out of here?”

“Gimme my time, then,” said Brent quickly. “I’m plumb willin’ to go, Monte. I tell yuh, there ain’t nothin’ but trouble, where yuh find them two snake-hunters. I remember the time they——”

“Aw, hire a hall!” exploded Frank Asher, and Allard subsided, growling and shaking his head.

“So Lavelle thinks that Bud Daley shot Red, does he?” queried Monte. “I wonder if Lavelle thinks that his opinions are worth a —— of a lot? They’d have a sweet time convicting Bud of it, wouldn’t they? Personally, I think the least said about it the better it will be for all of us. Bud’s likely got a horse and a gun by this time, and he’ll be a hard jigger to corral.”

“We’ll likely find out,” grinned Mesa knowingly. “Lavelle is goin’ to turn us all over to the sheriff—to assist him in gettin’ Bud Daley.”

The three cowboys stared at Mesa, who seemed to enjoy their silent expressions.

“Mesa Caldwell, are you lyin’ to us?” demanded Monte.

“Cross m’ heart and hope t’ die, if I am. The county is offerin’ two thousand for Bud, dead or alive, and the bank antes a thousand. As soon as our friend Dug Breed gets back to Modoc, Lavelle is goin’ to offer him our services.”

“Well,” said Brent Allard slowly, “Cleve Lavelle and Dug Breed can go plumb to ——, as far as I’m concerned.”

Allard set his jaw tightly and hitched up his belt.

“Scared?” queried Mesa, grinning.

“Yeah, I’m scared.”

“Of one man?”

“No, not of one man. Bud Daley don’t count. I liked Bud and I still like him. Them two punchers ——”

“Aw, they’ve got yore goat,” laughed Monte, and the other two punchers joined in the laugh at Allard’s fears.

“All right,” Allard was not interested in their sarcasm.

He knew what he knew, and their joking would not change him.

“They ain’t got nothin’ to do with us,” pointed out Mesa.

“Not until we try to put the deadwood on Bud Daley,” agreed Allard. “They’re friends of Bud Daley, that’s a cinch; and I don’t intend to give them a chance to work agin’ me. I’ll take my pay and hunt for another range—it’s safer.”

“You won’t find a safer place to work than for Lavelle.” Thus Monte, who did not want to lose Allard.

“Mebbe we better go over and have a talk with these bad hombres,” suggested Mesa, laughing. “Would they recognize yuh, Brent?”

Allard squinted at Mesa, but did not answer. He was not going to commit himself.

“We could ride over there,” continued Mesa. “It would be four against two. It wouldn’t be hard to start somethin’, especially if they recognized you and made some remarks.”

“Any ti-i-ime,” drawled Allard, shaking his head quickly. “Not for mine, Mesa. You fellers trot right along and start somethin’ with them two; but leave me here. Mebbe they’d recognize me. Hartley, the tall one, ain’t got a bad memory for faces. And—” Allard squinted seriously and rubbed his stubbled chin—“I’d like to bet that he knows more about why and how things have been done since he showed up than the men that done ’em.”

“Yo’re crazy,” declared Monte.

“Jist like a li’l fox,” grinned Allard. “I love my own hide so much that I’ll go into a hole any old time that the runnin’ ain’t good.”

“Well,” observed Mesa, “mebbe yo’re right, Brent. If yuh feel like yo’re runnin’ into bad luck, it’s a good thing to lay off the game for a while. Talkin’ about luck, Lavelle got a trimmin’ at stud agin’ last night. Sody Slavin and a gambler from Burke sure cleaned out Lavelle.

“Sody went in on a shoe-string and came out with enough to buy a train-load of cows. Lavelle almost lost his shirt. That bird from Burke and Sody took turns throwin’ the hooks into Lavelle, and I’m tellin’ you that the Rest Ye All is danged badly bent.”

“They must ’a’ been loaded with luck,” observed Monte. “Lavelle is usually awful lucky at his own game. But he’s been gettin’ hit hard lately. I wonder if his luck is slippin’?”

“Sure it’s slippin’!” Brent Allard spoke with conviction. “The minute I heard them two names, I knew——”

“You poor fool!” Monte swung around angrily. “What in —— would they have to do with Cleve Lavelle’s luck? You talk like a sick buzzard, Brent.”

“He’s sure superstitious,” laughed Mesa.

But there was a note of uneasiness in Mesa’s voice. He, too, believed in omens.

“I dunno,” continued Mesa. “Somethin’ is wrong with Lavelle’s luck—and Lavelle knows it, too. He’s sour-balled, I tell yuh. I watched him playin’, and he was as nervous as an old woman. Kept kinda lickin’ his lips. He got sore at Sody Slavin, ’cause Sody kidded him about his bad luck. Why, I even seen Lavelle kinda countin’ his chips.”

“Countin’ his chips, eh?” grunted Allard. “That’s a jinx.”

“Mebbe,” said Monte thoughtfully, “he was workin’ one jinx against the other. Sometimes that works.”

Which proved that Monte Sells was not proof against superstition. Brent Allard laughed at Monte’s opinion and stalked off the porch toward the bunk-house.

“—— him!” muttered Monte, after Allard had passed out of earshot. “Him and his —— superstition make me tired. We’ll all be jumpin’ around with bad nerves if he don’t quit it.”

“Well, let’s go and take a look at these two pelicans,” suggested Mesa. “We don’t have to choose ’em, if we don’t want to.”

And while the boys of the 76A argued about them, Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the JM ranch in time for breakfast. Sody Slavin, with wealth in every pocket, greeted them like long-lost brothers and insisted on telling them how he had helped clean out Cleve Lavelle.

“It was like takin’ straw away from the ‘crippled cow,’” explained Sody. “I seen him quit cold, when he had me beat in sight. And I went in with ten dollars. Man, I never seen a game like that. I’d take a wallop at Lavelle and then that gambler from Burke would paste him for a bushel of chips. We sure seesawed him out of a lot of dinero.”

“Yuh ought to have a little compassion,” said Hashknife.

“Not me.” Sody shook his head. “I hookum cow, when I git m’ feet rammed into a lucky spot. Lavelle has cleaned me plenty of times, but I’m more’n even with him this time.”

Ma Miller welcomed them to breakfast and demanded the latest news from Black Wells.

“I used to know Black Wells pretty well,” she laughed. “When we used to trail our cows over there, I handled the chuck-wagon.”

“And there never was a puncher late for a meal,” declared Uncle Jimmy proudly. “Ma sure can make food. Black Wells ain’t much, is she?”

“Not much,” grinned Hashknife. “This here food don’t look like what they feed yuh over there.”

“They didn’t like us,” grinned Sleepy, balancing a whole fried egg on his knife-blade. “They don’t fuss over strangers.”

Sody grinned encouragingly. He felt that something worth while had happened over there and wondered how they had found out that Black Wells did not like them. Mrs. Daley came from up-stairs and smiled a welcome to them. She sat down at the table and waited for the conversation to resume.

“Do any of you folks know a puncher over there named Jud? He’s kinda pointed-faced, with squirrel-teeth, and looks like he never lived in a country where there was soap.”

“That’s Jud Mahley,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I betcha that’s who yuh mean. His eyes are awful close together—kinda makes him look like he’s cross-eyed.”

“That’s him,” grinned Hashknife. “And there’s the proprietor of the Welcome saloon. He’s——”

“That’s ‘Bumpy’ Dickenson,” laughed Sody. “Got a bald head, with bumps all over it, ain’t he?”

“That’s the whip-poor-will,” admitted Sleepy. “Nice sort of a gent.”

“With a reverse-English!” exploded Uncle Jimmy. “There ain’t a bigger crook in the world than Dickenson.”

“Unless it’s Jud Mahley,” amended Sody. “He ain’t only crooked, but he’s lucky.”

“Sody shot at him once,” grinned Uncle Jimmy, “and Sody has been sore ever since.”

“Danged right!” snorted Sody. “I’d bet forty dollars agin’ a cigaret paper that it was Jud Mahley. He was usin’ a runnin’-iron on a calf, back toward Crooked Cañon. I had a .45-70 and a lot of them —— D. C. ca’tridges that got into this country, because they was cheap.

“Anyway, I got a good runnin’ shot at that jasper, and I’d ’a’ handed him a harp; but the head blowed off the shell, knocked —— out of my Winchester, and I couldn’t see to spit for twenty minutes.”

Hashknife laughed at Sody’s disgusted expression. He knew just how Sody had felt at the time.

“So Jud used to be over here, eh?” he asked.

“Yeah, he sure did,” grunted Sody. “He worked around for the different outfits. Thinks he’s a gun-man. He sure rattled his hocks out of the Modoc hills.”

“Aw, he comes back once in a while,” said Uncle Jimmy. “I seen him in Modoc a few weeks ago.”

“And yuh didn’t tell me?” Sody grew indignant to think that this information had been withheld.

“You still want to kill him?” asked Hashknife.

“Yo’re —— right I do!”

“Well, you’ve got my permission,” laughed Sleepy. “But you’ve got to beat me to him. I’ve picked him, cowboy.”

They got up from the breakfast table and moved into the living-room, while Ma and Mrs. Daley cleared away the breakfast table.

Uncle Jimmy signaled Hashknife to follow him outside, and they walked to the far corner of the porch.

“Did yuh find out anythin’?” queried Uncle Jimmy.

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Nothin’ that would show who sold them cows of Bud’s. They’re a tight-lipped outfit over there, Uncle Jimmy.”

“——, yes,” thoughtfully, “I dunno whether we’ll ever find out the truth of it all. I hate to think that Bud is guilty.”

“I wish to gosh I could have a talk with Bud.”

“He wouldn’t talk when he was in jail, Hartley.”

“He’d talk to me or I’d knock —— out of him.”

“Uh-huh.” Uncle Jimmy seemed a bit dubious of Hashknife’s ability to do this.

“I’ve got a hunch that Bud’s cows were shipped out of Black Wells,” said Hashknife, “but that’s as far as my hunch goes. This Jud Mahley has charge of the loadin’ corrals over there, but he won’t talk. Have yuh heard how that Red Blair is gettin’ along?”

Uncle Jimmy shook his head. He was not interested in Blair.

“That was kind of a funny deal,” observed Hashknife. “Do yuh suppose Bud had anythin’ to do with it?”

“I don’t think so.” Uncle Jimmy sucked thoughtfully on his old pipe. “Red Blair and Bud never had any trouble that I know about.”

“Blair works for Lavelle, don’t he? Who else is in that outfit?”

Uncle Jimmy named over the other cowboys of the 76A. Hashknife listened thoughtfully, squinting his eyes away from the smoke of his cigaret.

“Brent Allard, eh? Kinda sad-lookin’ jasper, with a lock of hair that’s always in his eyes?”

“Yeah.” Uncle Jimmy looked up quickly. “You know him?”

Hashknife grinned softly and threw away his cigaret.

“I know a Brent Allard, and I’d like to see if this is the one. Does Bud Daley know Jud Mahley?”

“Yeah, he knows him. Everybody around here knows Jud. There’s a fat reward out for Bud. The country offers two thousand dollars, dead or alive; and the bank says he’s worth a thousand to them.”

“That’s a lot of money, Uncle Jimmy.” The old man nodded slowly.

“Yeah—dead or alive,” he said sadly and jerked his head toward the door. “I ain’t told May. She’s got enough to worry about without knowin’ that the law is willin’ to pay for Bud’s carcass. I sure feel sorry for her, Hartley. She’s jist a kid.

“Her and Bud was jist gittin’ a good start, when he got hit with all the troubles in the world. I got sore as —— at Bud, ’cause he wouldn’t talk to nobody. I went down there and argued with him, but he didn’t seem to give a —— what they done to him. Why, that —— fool seemed pleased when the judge sentenced him.”

Uncle Jimmy snorted his disgust and knocked the dottle from his pipe against his spurred heel.

“Wouldn’t even talk to May,” added Hashknife.

“Not to anybody. It looked bad to the jury. What could a lawyer do in a case like that? They’ve got to know whether yo’re guilty or not, before they can prove that yuh ain’t. But they never did know about Bud.”

“That’s the one big question,” observed Hashknife. “If we only knew why he wouldn’t talk.”

Hashknife did not get a chance to talk with Mrs. Daley before they left the JM ranch. He and Sleepy had ridden all night and were too weary to think of much except a chance to stretch out and sleep.

They went back to Bud’s ranch-house, stabled and fed their horses and slept until mid-afternoon. Bud had cleaned out their food supply, which had not been replenished; so they decided to go to Modoc and eat.

At the restaurant they heard that Red Blair was dead, but it did not seem to have excited the town greatly. They met the sheriff, who seemed disposed to talk, or rather to ask questions; so they got away from him as gently as possible and went over to the Rest Ye All.

Lavelle was behind the bar, talking to the bartender, but turned as they came up. He squinted at them closely and smiled as he placed a bottle and glasses on the bar.

“We’ll have some see-gars,” said Hashknife, shoving the bottle aside and leaning against the bar.

“That stuff is ten years old,” stated Lavelle.

“Let her live to a ripe old age,” grinned Hashknife. “We got hold of some bad liquor over at Black Wells, and it kinda cured us of the drink habit. A shot of that stuff is the best temperance lecture I ever attended.”

“Strong?” queried Lavelle.

“Well, I took one drink and it affected the moon,” grinned Sleepy. “And that’s no danged imagination either.”

Lavelle laughed and handed out a box of dusty-looking cigars.

“I remember that you said you was going to Black Wells,” he said indifferently. “It used to be a wild place a few years ago.”

“I’ll bet they’re wild yet,” laughed Sleepy. “I wrote my initials on the back-bar of the Welcome saloon with a six-gun.”

“You did?”

Lavelle grew interested and would like to have heard more, but Sleepy decided that he had told quite enough. Sleepy dropped his cigar into a cuspidor and began rolling a cigaret.

“Did you hear that Red Blair died?” asked Lavelle.

“Three times,” said Hashknife. “First two times I didn’t believe it, but three times is a charm. Did he ever wake up?”

Lavelle shook his head. He did not like the way Hashknife treated the subject, but could hardly see where it would be policy to chide him for his attitude.

“There’s three thousand reward for Bud Daley.”

Hashknife grinned at Lavelle’s statement but suddenly sobered and leaned across the bar toward Lavelle.

“I hear you’ve lost yore luck, Lavelle?”

Not a muscle of the gambler’s face moved for several moments. Then his eyelids twitched slightly, and his lips parted.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” he asked coldly.

“I just heard that Sody Slavin busted the stud-game last night. I hear that you quit cold, with the best cards in sight.”

Lavelle laughed, but without mirth. Hashknife was looking him straight in the eyes, and the gambler turned his head away.

“Well, he didn’t break me,” he said slowly, “and as far as quitting—I know enough to quit when I’m beat, Hartley.”

Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and tossed away his cigar. He knew that Lavelle was mad, and wondered just how far he could go with his baiting. Lavelle had started to go around the end of the bar, when Hashknife turned to him again.

“What’s yore particular hoodoo, Lavelle?”

“Hoodoo?” Lavelle stopped and looked queerly at Hashknife. Then he came back.

“What did you mean by that?” he asked softly.

“Yore bad-luck medicine,” explained Hashknife, although he knew that Lavelle understood the question.

“I’ve knowed a lot of superstitious gamblers,” continued Hashknife after a moment. “They believed in signs and all that kinda stuff, and I wondered what yore pet hoodoo was, thasall.”

Lavelle laughed shortly and shook his head.

“Not me, Hartley. I believe in good luck and bad luck, but I have no charms to bring me luck.”

“No, I didn’t think yuh did,” said Hashknife.

Lavelle looked quickly at him, but did not reply. Sleepy was itching to know what it was all about, but he knew, deep down in his heart, that Hashknife was not talking in vain. Lavelle walked from behind the bar and went toward the back room without another word, while Hashknife laughed silently and rested his elbows on the bar.

A moment later Monte Sells, Frank Asher, Mesa Caldwell and Brent Allard came, rattling their spurs and arguing over the fact that the sheriff wanted them to start on their man-hunt today. Monte glanced quickly at Hashknife and Sleepy and stepped aside to see what Brent Allard would do.

Brent was in the rear, crowding in behind Caldwell, who also stepped aside, leaving Brent almost within reach of Hashknife. He looked up and stopped in his tracks. No one spoke. Brent’s two hands had been against Caldwell’s back, and they remained in that same position for several moments. Then they slowly relaxed, but he kept them above his belt-line.

Hashknife was grinning at him, and a foolish grin came to Brent Allard’s lips.

“Hyah, Allard?” said Hashknife easily. “Long time I no see yuh. Wyomin’, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Allard wet his lips with a dry tongue and cleared his throat raspingly. “I—I come there from Oklyhomy.”

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife. “I remember hearin’ that the sheriff run yuh out of Oklahoma. Boot-leggin’ to the Injuns, wasn’t it, Allard?”

Allard grinned foolishly; Monte snorted disgustedly. He felt that Allard was too frightened to resent an insult. Hashknife’s eyes flashed to Monte, considered him coldly for a moment, and turned back to Allard.

“You workin’ for the 76A, ain’t yuh, Allard?”

“Yeah. I’ve been here quite a while, Hartley.”

“Wasn’t it one of yore outfit that got shot out where we’re livin’? We packed him in. We jist found out that he died.”

“Yeah,” said Monte harshly, “and we’re lookin’ for the man that shot him.”

Hashknife squinted at Monte and at the rest of the 76A outfit. They shifted uneasily under his steady, half-contemptuous gaze. They remembered that Allard had declared that Hartley could read their minds, and four pairs of eyes shifted uneasily.

“You’re lookin’ for that man, are yuh?” queried Hashknife slowly.

“You’re —— right!” grunted Monte.

“So are we,” declared Hashknife. “Come and have a drink.”

The invitation was unexpected. For a moment they hesitated, but only for a moment. They had expected trouble. Allard laughed nervously, but was the first one to reach the bar, where he filled his glass with a shaky hand.

“Here’s hopin’ we find him,” said Hashknife seriously.

“If you’re huntin’ for him,” said Allard nervously, “you won’t need hopes.”

They drank deeply, except Hashknife and Sleepy, who took cigars. Monte grinned at their choice, but the grin left his face when Hashknife said seriously—

“We was over at Black Wells yesterday, and Jud Mahley told us to give yuh his regards.”

“The —— he did!” blurted Monte. “Can’tcha think of anythin’ funnier than that to say?”

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head. He wanted to find out if Jud Mahley was a friend of the 76A boys—and he found out quickly.

“Mahley never meant it,” laughed Caldwell.

“We’ve got a —— of a job ahead of us,” said Frank Asher disgustedly. “We’re goin’ to help the sheriff find Bud Daley.”

“That’ll be quite a chore, I’d imagine.” Hashknife hunched backward against the bar and proceeded to crumble the cigar between his long fingers.

“I’ve knowed Bud a long time, and if he ain’t changed, you’ll have to bring him in on a stretcher.”

“And we ain’t got a —— thing agin’ him,” complained Brent Allard. “The law don’t mean nothin’.”

“It never did, to you, did it?” laughed Hashknife.

“Aw, you know what I mean,” protested Allard. “Bud’s all right.”

“He’s all wrong,” said Hashknife. “The danged fool never tried to get away. That bandit had to almost throw him off the train.”

The 76A boys exchanged quick glances, as if questioning each other. Monte half-smiled and moved in a trifle closer. It was evident that he did not want any one, except those immediately concerned, to hear his question.

“You got a good look at the two men who took Bud away from Dug Breed, didn’t yuh?” he asked.

Hashknife nodded seriously, but his face broke into a grin.

“Yeah, we got a good look—especially into the muzzle of their guns. They were masked, yuh know.”

“I sabe that part of it,” nodded Monte. “It’s kinda hard to describe a masked man. But I thought that mebbe yuh was able to kinda pay attention to their size and—you know what I mean.”

“Didn’t they say anythin’?” asked Allard.

“One of ’em did,” said Hashknife. “But I reckon he changed his voice quite a lot. The other one said nothin’. If I remember right, they were both kinda tall. One was kinda skinny—the one that didn’t talk—but the other one wasn’t fat.”

“That’s a good description,” stated Mesa Caldwell.

“It must ’a’ been quite a good-sized gang,” observed Sleepy, “and it looks like they intended to take Bud away from the sheriff. They never touched any of the other passengers—never even went into the cars.”

Monte scratched his chin thoughtfully and motioned for the bartender to fill up their glasses again.

“The express robbery must ’a’ been done by tenderfeet,” grinned Hashknife. “They never got a cent for their trouble.”

“I dunno what they’d expect to get on a branch railroad.” Thus Sleepy wisely. “They never carry money.”

“Sometimes they do,” said Monte. “The mines at Dixon ship bullion from the Kalura, and the money for a big pay-roll comes in from the bank at Burke.”

“They was probably figurin’ on that pay-roll money,” observed Hashknife. “Somebody must ’a’ got the wrong dope.”

“Yeah, they must have,” agreed Monte dryly.

In a few minutes Charley Morse came in and told them that Breed was in need of their services. Hashknife and Sleepy watched them all ride out of town, heading into the hills, with the intention of looking through the Crooked Cañon country.

The sun was nearly down when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the ranch again and found Mrs. Daley and Dinah Blewette there. Dinah had driven her down there in the buckboard after some clothes she had forgotten to take with her.

Dug Breed and the man-hunters had crossed the road just ahead of them, and Mrs. Daley questioned Hashknife as to whether some one had given the sheriff information about Bud’s hiding-place. Hashknife assured her that no one seemed to know just where Bud was located, but that Breed was making the search on general principles.

She seemed to gather a certain amount of satisfaction from this, but she knew that evading the posse would only make him safe for the time being. Dinah took no part in the conversation; being content to nod or shake his head.

Mrs. Daley gathered up what articles she desired and was putting them into a battered telescope valise, when there came the sound of a running horse and a muttered curse, and a man came up the steps. He flung himself into the doorway, leaning heavily against his elbow, swinging a six-shooter in his right hand.

It was Bud Daley, unkempt, unshaven; his face drawn and haggard. Hashknife had taken a step toward him, but Bud’s leveled gun caused him to stop quickly.

“Bud, don’t yuh know me?” asked Hashknife.

Bud stared at him, licking his dry lips.

“Good ——! Hashknife Hartley!” Bud’s voice was a croak. “And Sleepy Stevens! Where did you come from?”

His gun-hand waved and dropped to his side weakly.

“Bud, you’ve been hit, ain’t yuh?” Hashknife crossed quickly to him, as Bud lurched forward.

“In the leg,” breathed Bud. “The posse is close behind me.”

Sleepy quickly closed the door behind Bud, who sank down in a chair. May, her face white with fear, threw an arm around Bud’s shoulder and began crying.

Hashknife ran to a window and scanned the hills, which were already dimming in the fading light.

“How far behind yuh is that posse, Bud?” he asked.

“Close,” panted Bud. “I think they knew I was headin’ home.”

“Where did they hit yuh?” queried Sleepy. “In the leg?”

“Yeah. Through my thigh, I think. It’s bleedin’ quite a lot. They’ve got me, I guess. I had a rifle; but it wouldn’t do me no good to kill ’em. Can’t kill everybody, yuh know. Ha-ha-ha!”

Bud laughed from sheer weakness, but there was no mirth in it.

“Don’t, Buddie,” begged his wife. “Don’t laugh like that. We’ll take you to a doctor.”

“And from there to the pen,” said Bud wearily. “Anyway, it’s better than dodgin’ in the hills. It’s a losin’ game. But, Hashknife, where did you fellers come from? I can’t believe it’s you two.”

“It’s us all right,” said Hashknife, his face glued to the window pane.

The posse had come out on the sky-line of a hill, about five hundred yards away and were bunched, as they debated.

Just away from the front porch stood Bud’s horse, one foot on the dragging reins, its head down as it panted wearily from its long run. The buggy team was tied near the back of the house, out of sight of the sheriff and posse.

Hashknife turned from the window. Sleepy had cut away part of Bud’s overall-clad leg and was trying to stop the flow of blood. Hashknife examined it quickly and slapped Bud on the shoulder.

“It went plumb through, Bud. You don’t need a doctor; we’ll fix it up ourselves.”

Dug Breed was highly elated, but still cautious. He knew that Bud was in that house, but getting him out might be a different matter; hence the deliberation on the hilltop.

“He’s hit, I tell yuh,” insisted Charley Morse. “I could tell the way he was ridin’—one foot out of his stirrup.”

“That’s right,” admitted Breed. “He’s plugged; but that makes him a bad hombre to drag out of a hole. If he wasn’t hurt, I don’t think he’d hole up at home. Kinda funny he didn’t shoot back at us, though.”

“Nothin’ funny about that,” snorted Monte. “Bud ain’t no danged fool, Dug. He knows too much to waste ammunition on flyin’ targets. From now on, he’ll shoot—and he’s a good shot, too.”

Breed nodded, as he squinted at the house below them. Then:

“We’ll surround the place. Monte, you and Caldwell swing to the left and work into that old washout over there; Frank can watch the front, while me and Charley and Brent can swing to the right and work in back of the barn and corrals.”

“You’ve overlooked another bet,” said Brent Allard quickly. “There’s Hartley and Stevens to look out for.”

Breed squinted at Allard and back at the house.

“Do yuh think they’d back Bud’s play?”

“You’d be a —— fool to take a chance on ’em not doin’ it. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Breed deliberated, but shook his head stubbornly.

“We’ll go ahead with our program. Better move fast, ’cause a movin’ object is harder to hit. Let’s go.”

Swiftly they separated and began their encircling movement. Frank Asher rode straight down the hill, with the intention of reaching a thicket of greasewood about three hundred yards from the house, but he had only gone a short distance, when he drew his gun and sent two shots into the air.

A man had run from the front door of the ranch-house—a man who limped badly. He caught the horse and mounted slowly. Breed had heard the shots and drew rein, swinging up his rifle. His horse lunged badly on the steep side-hill, making it impossible for him to draw a bead; so he dismounted and began shooting.

But the rider was wasting no time in seeing where the shots were coming from. He swung his horse around the corner of the house, galloped straight across the open ranch-house yard, hurdled the fence and bored straight into the hills. The encircling movement had failed.

Breed swore bitterly and mounted again, racing ahead as he stuffed shells into the loading-gate of his rifle. Monte Sells and Mesa Caldwell were riding swiftly along the slope to the left of the ranch-house, while Frank Asher swung wide and followed in the wake of Breed and the other two riders.

And far ahead of them rode the quarry, riding into the dusk of the hills, holding a straight line toward the Crooked Cañon country. Mile after mile reeled away behind them. It was almost dark now. Breed scowled at the fading light as he roweled his weary horse to greater efforts.

Suddenly he threw up his head and laughed triumphantly. Monte and Caldwell, better mounted than the rest, had caused the rider to swing farther to the right, and Breed had caught a glimpse of him, cutting around the side of a cañon, heading toward the bottom.

“Got him, by ——!” swore Breed.

He yelled shrilly at Morse and Brent Allard and waved at Frank Asher. Swiftly they gathered around him, their horses blowing heavily.

“We’ve got him, boys!” panted Breed. “He’s headed into that blind cañon just ahead of us. All we’ve got to do is to smoke him out. C’mon.”

“Bud wouldn’t head into a blind cañon,” protested Allard.

“Well, he did,” said Breed, laughing. “He didn’t know that I seen him, and he thinks that’s the last place we’d ever look for him.”

A blind cañon is one of those freaks of nature; like an alley, which ends in a blank wall. Usually the sides are precipitous, as is the end. Even the wild things shun them as they would a trap.

The entrance to this one looked harmless enough, sloping away gently to the bottom; but further along the sides reared higher and higher, impossible of foot-hold. Monte and Caldwell came in from the opposite side and the whole posse met at the mouth of the trap where they stopped to rest their horses.

“He can’t get away,” declared Monte, staring into the gloom of the cañon. “I’ve been in there, and I know that you’d have to have wings to get out. But how did Bud happen to run in there? He knows this place as well as we do.”

Breed laughed and dismounted to tighten his cinch.

“That’s where he tried to outsmart us, Monte. He figured that we’d never look for him here. It was lucky that I seen him headin’ down here. We’ll move in to where the sides break straight up and bottle him up. It would be dangerous to move in on him in the dark. He’s hurt, I think; and a night up there won’t make him any more active than the law allows.”

Breed swung back on his horse and they moved ahead. Suddenly they stopped. A rider was coming slowly out of the narrow neck of the cañon. Breed threw up his rifle, but the rider did not pay any attention to it. He was looking up at the sides of the cañon. Then he moved in closer; close enough for them to see that it was Hashknife Hartley.

Breed swore hollowly and lowered his gun. Allard laughed nervously, a chuckling laugh of vindication. Hashknife rode up to them, his face serious, as he motioned back toward the far end of the cañon.

“Say,” he remarked easily, “that —— cañon’s blind.”

“Huh!” Breed crowded the disgust of his soul into one grunt. The rest of the posse merely nodded.

“Yessir, it’s blind,” continued Hashknife. “A feller could never get out that way.”

Then he seemed to consider the posse for the first time.

“You fellers goin’ in that way? Don’t do it.”

Breed spluttered angrily for several moments before his tongue finally shaped words.

“Say, what in —— do yuh think you’re doin’? You—huh!”

“Me?” queried Hashknife innocently. “Whatcha mean?”

“You know —— well what I meant! I’ve got a good notion to arrest you.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife seemed amused. “Why don’tcha, Breed?”

Breed looked around at his posse as if trying to seek an answer, but he found them grinning foolishly. Brent Allard seemed almost convulsed with mirth, and it angered Breed.

“What the —— tickles you so —— much, Allard?”

“Wall,” laughed Allard, “I told you you’d be a —— fool to overlook Hartley.”

“Yeah!” Breed snorted and looked back at Hartley, who was grinning softly and offering his sack of tobacco to Monte.

“I reckon we better call it a day,” observed Caldwell. “I know I’ve had all the exercise I need, and my horse twisted two shoes off on that scab-rock below here.”

Breed swung his horse around and led them back out of the cañon to the open hills, where he stopped and faced Hashknife.

“Hartley,” he said, “I won’t forget this. You made a monkey out of me and my posse.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife soberly. “I didn’t mean for yuh to ever catch me; but that danged cañon ruined it.”

“How about goin’ back to the ranch?” suggested Morse.

“Not my gang,” said Monte firmly. “If Bud stayed there while we ran the heads off our broncs, he ain’t there now.”

“Stevens would see that Bud was taken care of,” laughed Allard.

“All right!” snapped Breed. “It’s too late to do anythin’ tonight anyway.”

He swung his horse to the left and they headed across the dusky hills toward Modoc town while Hashknife rode alone down the hills toward the Triangle-D, grinning into the night.