Front matter (continued 2)

“And yuh think it would be better, eh? No wonder yuh don’t want to go out there. Moved ’em out and nailed the door, eh?”

“Miss Cleveland suggested it.”

“The —— she did! I thought you was supposed to be her adviser.”

Williams tried to grin, but it was a sorry effort. Murtch looked again at his watch.

“What time does that Chink restaurant open?”

Williams shook his head.

“What difference——”

“Lot of difference. If I can get that Chink now, I can get him out there on the job before they wake up.”

“We can find out. If they’re not up, we’ll wake ’em.”

Murtch put on his coat and they went to the restaurant. There was no sign of life, so they went to the rear, where the proprietor and his hired help slept in a sort of a shed-like annex.

Murtch hammered on the door and a sleepy-eyed Celestial shuffled into view. It was the proprietor of the restaurant, and to him Murtch explained what he wanted.

“Yo’ want same boy like yo’ take before?”

“Yeah, the same one. Catchum good job. Same ranch.”

The Chinaman turned and hurled a volley of words toward the rear of the shed. Began a conversation which lasted fully a minute. Then the proprietor shook his head.

“Boy say no.”

“Lemme see him,” said Murtch, and a moment later the Chinaman came to the door.

“Good job this time, John,” explained Murtch. “You go with me and take charge of the same ranch-house.”

“Same place we go before?”

“Yeah, same place, John.”

“No can do.”

“No can do! Whatcha talkin’ about? This good job?”

“No can do,” said the Chinaman stolidly, and went back to his bed.

The proprietor shut the door softly and barred it from within.

Murtch and Williams went back to the street.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Murtch. “There ain’t no other chinks and we can’t get a white cook. If you’d had any sense you’d ’a’ left the old woman there.”

“Things are in an awful tangle,” agreed Williams. “An awful tangle.”

“Now, that made a —— of an impression on my mind,” said Murtch angrily. “You’ve balled up everything. I’ll go out and explain things to Miss Cleveland. She’s got such —— good ideas, such as nailing up bunk-house doors and posting notices—mebbe she’ll see a way out of this.”

Murtch hurried after his horse and rode toward the NR ranch. It was daylight now, and Murtch hoped he would not meet any of the NR cowpunchers. Not that Murtch was afraid, but their rough humor was too pointed to suit him.

About two miles out of town he ran into them. There was no way to dodge them, so he drew up in the center of the road and tried to think of a reason for being there so early in the morning. He inwardly cursed Eph Williams for nailing that bunk-house door.

Then he saw that there was a fourth man, roped to his saddle and riding in an unusual position. They drew up near him, their faces very serious, and waited for him to speak. He knew at a glance who the fourth rider was and he frowned wonderingly.

“Somebody shot him,” offered Wheezer. “We found him and was takin’ him to the doctor.”

Murtch rode in closer to Hardy and tried to get a look at his face.

“He ain’t dead, is he?”

“Wasn’t when we started,” said Chet, “but he ain’t in the best of health right now.”

“No?” Murtch glanced around at them. “Where did yuh find him?”

He emphasized “find” very strongly.

“None of that!” snapped Wheezer quickly. “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. Hardy tried to bushwhack somebody and got leaded for his trouble.”

“Did, eh? Who was that somebody?”

“We dunno.”

“Dunno, eh? Where’s Kleig?”

“Dunno that either.”

“Thasso?”

“Why argue with the danged fool?” queried Wooden-shoe. “He’s got his mind fixed. Give him his second-hand deputy and let’s go back and finish our sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Wheezer, handing the lead rope to Murtch. “He can take better care of Hardy than we can.”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Murtch. “You can’t pull nothing like that. You come back with me—all of yuh.”

“Yuh mean to arrest us?” asked Wheezer.

“That’s what I mean to do.”

“All right,” grinned Chet. “We’ll remember it.”

Murtch clamped his jaws and looked them over. Here were three men who had no respect for him nor the law. He knew it would be useless to insist on them going back to Broken Butte with him; not only useless, but dangerous as well. But he was willing to try and bluff them.

“Yuh know what it means to resist an officer?”

“Did somebody resist yuh, Murtch?” asked Wheezer.

Murtch studied them for a moment and tightened upon the lead rope.

“All right,” he said meaningly. “I asked yuh to come with me and yuh refused, remember. Next time I want yuh I’ll bring men enough to take yuh.”

“Kind of a mass meetin’, eh?” grinned Chet. “Mebbe we won’t stay for yore party, sheriff.”

“You’d be —— wise not to!” snapped Murtch as he turned and rode away, leading Hardy’s horse.

The three cowboys watched him for several minutes, but he did not look back. Then they whirled their horses and went back toward the ranch.

“We’ll pack what stuff we want and fade out,” said Chet. “There’s no use takin’ any chances. If he once gets us behind the bars—adios.”

“What about Leather?” asked Wheezer. “I ain’t goin’ to fog away without hearin’ from him. If he was the one that nailed Clay Hardy he’ll show up or send us word.”

“What do you think, Wooden-shoe?” asked Chet.

“I been wonderin’. Ain’t it kinda funny that the sheriff advised us to pull out of here? That ain’t accordin’ to my idea of what a sheriff ought to do. He can’t hold us for what happened to Clay Hardy.”

“If he does, he can,” observed Chet. “And if they ever put the deadwood on us for all this rustlin’—whooee! Nawsir, I can’t see myself waitin’ for him to come out with a posse. Williams knows that we loaded this range with cattle, and I don’t trust that jasper a-tall. Mebbe Leather had the right idea in tellin’ him—I dunno.”

They found Miss Cleveland on the porch of the ranch-house, and from her appearance, she had slept little. She was not the imperious lady of the day before, and seemed rather glad to see the three punchers.

“Howdy,” greeted Wheezer, as they dismounted. “Nice morning, ain’t it, ma’am.”

“Yes, it—it’s very nice. Did you just come from town?”

“Well, not quite from town, ma’am. Yuh see, a man got kinda shot up down there by the gate this mornin’, and we had to take him in.”

“A man got shot! Oh, I heard the shots! Who—how did it happen?”

“Some feller pulled the trigger,” explained Wheezer. “Jist like blooie, blooie, blooie! Three times.”

Wheezer held out his hand and went through the motions of pulling the trigger three times.

“But who was it?”

“Nobody you know, ma’am,” said Chet. “One feller laid for the other one. Didn’t amount to nothin’.”

“But I want to know who it was.”

“The one that got shot was Clay Hardy, the deputy sheriff.”

“Was—was he trying to make an arrest?”

“Prob’ly,” said Wheezer dryly. “I wouldn’t put anythin’ past that sheriff’s office.”

The girl looked inquiringly at them and adjusted her tumbled hair.

“Did you see Mr. Williams this morning?” she asked.

“Old fish-eye?” Chet shook his head. “We’re layin’ for him, and I’ll betcha he don’t show up. Wonder when Ma is goin’ to have breakfast ready.”

“Oh!” Miss Cleveland looked curiously at him and frowned slightly. “Didn’t you—er—Mrs. Coogan is not here. Mr. Williams took her to town last night.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Chet rubbed his chin and nodded slowly. Wheezer and Wooden-shoe squinted at each other and back at Miss Cleveland.

“Went to town, did she?” asked Wheezer. “That’s funny.”

“Mr. Williams took her,” repeated the girl. “He said he would bring me another cook early this morning.”

“Said he would,” parroted Wheezer. “Whatcha know?”

“Ma’am,” said Wooden-shoe, “I don’t reckon you sabe about Ma Coogan. Mebbe folks has told yuh wrong.”

“You lemme do the talkin’,” Wheezer interposed impatiently. “You don’t want no Chinese cook. You——”

“Are you running this ranch?” asked Miss Cleveland, but her voice was a trifle weak, and she seemed to force herself to be stern.

Wheezer laughed softly and shook his head.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t. Yo’re the owner and boss, but we know this here ranch better than you or that fish-eyed lawyer does. We seen that notice on the bunk-house door and we seen all our stuff piled outside.

“Thassall right. We ain’t wailin’ about that part of it. Ma’s old, ma’am. This is her home. She’s been here a long time, don’tcha know it. Mebbe you had a mother, and if yuh did, and if she was old like Ma, and——”

Wheezer stopped and scratched his head. He had about run out of words. Miss Cleveland bit her lip. She seemed very thoughtful, and the boys waited for her to speak.

“And Ma didn’t have no money,” said Chet softly.

“I—I’m sorry,” said the girl. “I—oh, don’t talk to me! I had to stay alone in that house all night and I never slept at all, and —— such a place!”

She whirled on her heel and fairly ran into the house, leaving the three cowpunchers gawping after her.

“She cusses jist like a human bein’,” said Chet wonderingly. “She said, ‘—— such a place!’ I betcha she’s mad at the old NR.”

They sat down on the steps and rolled smokes. There was no use in them staying at the ranch, and they knew of no place to go.

“We’re in a —— of a fix,” declared Wheezer.

“Wooden-shoe can cook,” observed Chet. “If I could cook I’d go into the kitchen and cook.”

“I ain’t et nothin’ since yesterday noon,” complained Wheezer. “My insides are paralyzed from inaction.”

“I wonder if she’d let me cook?” questioned Wooden-shoe.

“You try it and see.” Miss Cleveland spoke from the doorway. “I had a can of corn for my dinner and I haven’t had anything since. I don’t know how to cook.”

“Lemme at that kitchen,” grinned Wooden-shoe. “I’m plum familiar with food. If the lawyer comes you tell him to tie his chink to the corral-fence, ’cause there’s a horse-thief in the kitchen.”

“Honest?” Miss Cleveland stared at him.

“Well, about as honest as a horse-thief ever gets,” grinned Wooden-shoe, and jingled his spurs into the kitchen.

Murtch lost no time in taking Clay Hardy to a doctor—old Doctor Chisholm, the only M. D. in Broken Butte. He was a tall, very severe old man, whose spectacles were forever threatening to slip off the end of his long nose.

He made a quick examination of Clay Hardy, who had never regained consciousness, and shook his head.

“Sher-r-riff, this is no job for a sur-r-r-geon. Ye are wantin’ the coroner.”

“Is he dead?” asked Murtch quickly.

“I ha’ never seen a deader one, sir.”

Murtch shook his head wearily.

“Well, you’re the coroner, Doc.”

“Aye. How did ye say he came by his wounds?”

“I didn’t say,” growled Murtch. “That —— gang from the NR outfit turned him over to me awhile ago. They told a fool story about some one shootin’ Hardy at the ranch, but don’t know who done it.”

“Then the cir-r-rcumstances calls for an inquest?”

“I think he was murdered.”

“Ha’ ye any idea who would do it?”

“There’s one of the NR outfit missin.’ Name’s Kleig.”

“Weel—” the doctor adjusted his glasses and rubbed his nose thoughtfully—“weel, I suppose we may as well sit on the case in th’ mor-rnin.’ Ye will pr-r-roduce the necessary witnesses, sheriff?”

“I’ll come —— near doin’ it,” growled Murtch, and went back to his horse.

He found Williams at his office, a bandage around his head and a frayed cigar clamped between his teeth. Murtch lost no time in telling Williams what had happened to Clay Hardy. For several moments Williams was incoherently explosive, but overcame his feelings enough to try and think calmly.

“What was that —— fool doin’ out there, anyway?”

Murtch shook his head.

“How’d I know? I bawled him out for lettin’ Kleig run that sandy on him, and he got mad about it. Mebbe he tried to salivate Kleig, I dunno.”

“Went out after him, eh?”

Murtch nodded gloomily.

“Looks like it, Eph. Kleig is missing today—so the boys said, but I don’t believe ’em. I’m gittin’ cock-eyed over this thing, I tell yuh.”

“You’ll be lucky if you don’t get worse than that.”

“Thasso?” Murtch flared for a moment, but cooled off quickly. “Mebbe yo’re right, Eph. What in —— is the best thing to do?”

“Well—” Williams rubbed his sore head and smiled sourly—“my advice would be to throw Spade Hollister into jail on a murder charge, raise that one thousand nine hundred and twenty dollars for those four NR thieves and tell ’em to get to —— out of the Broken Butte country.”

“Yuh would, eh?”

“Well, then you suggest something, Murtch.”

“That ranch can’t stand payin’ that much money.”

“You might take a mortgage on the ranch.”

“Aw, ——! I wish somebody’d shot me before I ever heard of the NR. —— old Ralls! —— all his relations!”

“Go ahead and get it out of your system Murtch.”

“All right; —— you along with the rest!”

Murtch got to his feet and stamped to the doorway. There was no doubt but what the sheriff of Broken Butte was both angry and disgusted. He leaned against the door-jamb and glared around.

Suddenly he leaned forward and looked intently toward the Broken Butte hotel. Then he turned and called to Williams—

“Come here!”

Williams joined him and together they watched Chet Wells help Ma Coogan into a buggy, behind which was tied Chet’s saddle-horse, and drive out of town toward the NR ranch.

“What does that mean?” grunted Williams.

Murtch shrugged his shoulders.

“I s’pose it means that you ain’t got a —— of a lot to say about the NR ranch, Eph.”

Williams spat out his frayed cigar and looked gloomily after the departing buggy. Murtch squinted at Williams, as if enjoying the lawyer’s bitterness.

“Well, what’s the answer?” he asked.

“It won’t suit you, Murtch, but it’s the only solution that I can see. You are going to howl like a wolf, but it’s got to be done. Come back into the office.”

Murtch debated for a moment, after Williams had gone back to his desk, but followed him inside.

Miss Cleveland came out to the ranch-house doorway as Chet drove up to the porch with Ma Coogan. To the new owner of the NR it seemed as though fate was bound to keep Ma Coogan on that ranch. The old lady smiled up at her as Chet helped her out of the buggy.

“Sure, I’m glad and proud to be back,” said Ma happily, “and I’m pleased that ye sent for me, miss.”

“Oh—uh—yes,” faltered the girl, looking hard at Chet, who turned and glanced toward the bunk-house, as if looking for the moral support of the other boys.

Miss Cleveland had not sent for Ma Coogan. Wooden-shoe’s culinary efforts had not been appreciated.

“He means well,” explained Wheezer, “but the food ain’t noways sympathetic enough, ma’am.”

And then Chet Wells had an inspiration.

“Ma’am, do you want to hire a good cook?” he asked.

“It appears that such a person is desired,” she replied, and Chet had appointed himself to employ just such a person. Hence Ma Coogan’s return.

Wheezer and Wooden-shoe came out of the barn, got a glimpse of Ma Coogan on the porch and came up on the run. Chet had not explained who he was going to hire.

Ma Coogan shook hands with them and beamed widely.

“Sure, the old ranch needed me,” she laughed. “Chet tells me that Wooden-shoe set himself up as a cook.”

Wooden-shoe patted her on the back and grinned widely.

“I plumb ruined the food to git yuh back,” he explained. “I’m smart, I am.”

“But not as smart as Chet,” stated Wheezer, looking at Miss Cleveland.

Ma laughed and turned to the girl.

“God bless ye, miss. Ye dunno how much happiness it gives me to be back here. Sure, the world wasn’t much for the old lady away from here. Ye can’t understand. It’s just home to me—and the children—” She smiled affectionately at the cowboys. “Ye are children, so ye are. I had four fine little boys when I went away, and I’ve four little boys and a little girl when I came back.”

She threw one arm around Miss Cleveland and gave her a squeeze, before she went into the house. Wheezer lifted his shoulders in a sigh of relief. Miss Cleveland turned from watching Ma Coogan and looked straight into Wheezer’s solemn eyes.

“Yuh ain’t sorry she came back, are yuh, ma’am?” he asked softly.

“Sorry?” The girl stared at him unblinkingly for a moment and turned toward the door. “No, I’m not sorry—I—I think I’m glad.”

“Then there’s four glads around here,” said Chet slowly. “Ma’s a dinger, y’betcha.”

She went into the house and in a few minutes they heard her talking to Ma Coogan.

“Yuh got more brains than I gave yuh credit for, Chet,” said Wheezer. “I never figured yuh was thinkin’ about bringin’ Ma back here. What’ll Williams say?”

“He’s all through sayin’ things about Ma,” said Chet. “Me and that jasper is goin’ to lock horns, if he comes out here again. I seen him and Murtch in Williams’ office, and they was watchin’ us leave.”

“Didja hear anybody talkin’ about Clay Hardy?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Nope. I wasn’t doin’ no talkin’. Broken Butte didn’t seem much stirred up about it.”

It was possibly an hour later that Murtch and Williams rode up to the NR on horseback. The three cowboys met them at the door of the ranch-house, but there was no welcome in their greetings.

Williams smiled in a sickly way as he said:

“Well, I see that you brought the old lady back here. Good idea. Was thinking about it myself.”

“With a reverse English,” nodded Wheezer seriously.

“Not at all.”

Williams smiled and shook his head, as he glanced around. Then—

“Where is Mr. Kleig?”

“My ——!” grunted Chet. “Mister Kleig!”

“We dunno where he is,” replied Wooden-shoe.

“I see,” nodded Williams meaningly. “Perhaps you might be able to find him later. At any rate—” He drew a bulky package from his pocket and opened it—“I have drawn one thousand nine hundred and twenty dollars against the NR estate to be paid to you four men for services rendered. I shall have to entrust you with four hundred and eighty of it for Mr. Kleig.”

Wheezer started to cuff his hat to one side of his head, but the blow sent the sombrero spinning off the porch. Wooden-shoe sagged at the waist and his hand went uncertainly to his mouth; while Chet merely kicked himself on the ankle with his spurred heel.

Murtch tried to smile, but it faded quickly.

“Your year’s salary,” said Murtch thickly, and then seemed to have difficulty clearing his throat.

“Yeah—year’s salary,” parroted Wheezer foolishly, as he watched Williams separate the four payments.

“I have talked it over with Miss Cleveland,” said Williams, handing them each the money and giving Leather’s share to Wheezer, “and we decided to meet your claims. Perhaps it is hardly legal, but, under the circumstances, and out of the goodness of her heart, she decided to do this.”

“All I can say is ‘hurrah for our side!’ ” grunted Wooden-shoe. “My gosh!”

He looked down at the money and his nose fairly quivered.

“Have you any plans?” asked Williams.

“Plans?” Chet looked up quickly. “My ——, yuh don’t need plans when you’ve got a year’s salary in yore hand.”

“I’ll take her as she comes,” declared Wheezer, trying to be serious.

“You will be leaving this range soon?” Williams’ tone was suggestive as well as interrogatory.

“Mebbe,” nodded Wheezer. “Yuh can’t sometimes always tell.”

“I had an idea that you’d leave as soon as you got that money.”

“Yeah?” Chet pocketed his money and grinned widely. “Cowboys, lemme at that old roulette. I’m goin’ hawg wild and bull strong.”

“I’ve got the good system,” offered Wooden-shoe. “All yuh got to do——”

Murtch snorted disgustedly, and Wooden-shoe stopped.

“What’s a matter with you?” he demanded. “Ain’t a feller got a right to have a system?”

“Didja find out who shot Hardy?” asked Wheezer, who wanted to promote peace.

“Naw!” snarled Murtch. “But I’m goin’ to, by ——! And when I do, he’ll hang!”

“I betcha,” nodded Wheezer. “You won’t even wait for judge nor jury, Murtch. Right now yo’re mad at something, ain’tcha? You’ve got a terrible disposition.”

Murtch snorted something unintelligible and stamped back to his horse, but Williams went into the house, where he engaged in conversation with Miss Cleveland. The three cowboys sat down on the steps and looked at each other queerly.

It was more money than they had ever had—all at one time. They were not entitled to it, that much was sure.

“I wonder if they’re goin’ to give Ma some money,” said Wheezer softly. “I betcha that girl has done felt sorry for what she done. I hate to take her money.”

“So do I,” nodded Chet. “Mebbe I’ll pay it back to her some day—mebbe.”

Williams came out and hesitated for a moment before he told them of the inquest.

“I suppose you boys will have to be there to tell what you know about it.”

“Yeah,” agreed Chet. “We’ll come early. Fact is, I reckon we’ll start pretty soon. Yuh goin’ to have Miss Cleveland? She heard the shots fired.”

Williams frowned slightly, but went back into the house for a few minutes. When he came out he told them that Miss Cleveland would attend the inquest.

“It will be a good chance for her to meet some of the Broken Butte folks,” he added, and went to his horse.

Murtch did not speak to him, and they rode silently away from the ranch.

Williams and Murtch had hardly reached Broken Butte before Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe came in sight of town. Their future was a pink haze of riotous living and their horses’ legs were not swift enough. They pounded into town, barely took time to stable their horses and headed for the Shoshone.

They were questioned regarding the shooting of Clay Hardy, which, under ordinary circumstances, would have given them food for much conversation and argument, but with four hundred and eighty dollars apiece—they were tongue-tied.

Battler Morgan grinned widely and pointed at the ceiling, which meant that there was no limit. Murtch looked into the Shoshone, groaned bitterly, spat viciously and went away. Wheezer had put Leather’s money into his boot, rather than to entrust it to any one.

It was nearly daylight the next morning when Chet and Wooden-shoe bumped into each other at the doorway, as they were both going out.

“Whazza matter?” asked Chet owlishly. “Doorsh too li’l f’r you, par’ner?”

“Thaz’ ri’,” clucked Wooden-shoe, hanging to a porch-post, which seemed to sway him about. “Whazza m’r with you, eh? Shame y’shelf?”

“Broke,” dismally. “Money all gone and shomebody stole m’ rudder. Can’t steer m’shelf.”

“Ep’demic,” hiccoughed Wooden-shoe. “Ter’ble ep’demic. Awful losh of life. Blew m’ shubstanch in ri’tous livin’. Whazza use?”

“Poor li’l girl,” wailed Chet, suddenly becoming remorseful. “Lied her out of for’shun. Shame m’shelf, y’betcha. Poo-o-or li’l girl.”

“Thash ri’,” sobbed Wooden-shoe, getting into the spirit of the occasion. “Poo-o-o-or li’l girl. Oh, my gosh! Poo-o-o-or li’l thing!”

And together they sobbed tearfully, remorsefully, trying to pat each other on the back at a distance of eight feet apart.

The cool air revived them somewhat and after a time they quit crying and became dignified. There was a lighted lamp in Williams’ office. Chet’s eyes focused upon it.

“Wooden-shoe,” he said seriously, “our lawyer is indushtrious. Works night ’n day. Let’s go and shee him. What yuh shay? Mebbe we can think of shomethin’ he ain’t paid for, eh?”

“Sh-sure,” stuttered Wooden-shoe. “Never can tell. We’ve had a nice night f’r thish time of the year. You go ’head, Chet, ’cause you know the way acrosh better’n I do.”

They started out in single-file, but cross-currents interfered, and at times they were fifty feet apart.

They finally reached the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street, but below Williams’ office.

“Mus’ ’a’ been cloud-bursht,” observed Wooden-shoe. “Never sheen the river so swift before. Mus’ ’a’ had to git off and swim, don’tcha know it. I’m all wet.”

“’S’nawful current right here,” admitted Chet thickly. “C’mon.”

They started up the street, bumping into the wooden sidewalk at intervals, but managed to reach the corner of Williams’ office.

Wooden-shoe began to laugh hoarsely.

“’S’all right, Chet. I thought I fell in river, but ’s only a bottle of hooch busted in m’ hip-pocket.”

Chet slid across the sidewalk and peered into the office window. Williams was there, sitting at his desk, and just in front of the desk stood a man, with his back toward the window. Wooden-shoe crawled over and peered into the window.

Williams was hunched back in his chair, saying nothing, but the other man was tensed forward, talking rapidly. As Chet’s eyes began to focus properly he saw Murtch leaning against the wall, partly in the shadow, and about six feet from the man who was talking.

The conversation was pitched too low for Chet or Wooden-shoe to hear what was being said, but they knew that it was a heated argument. Neither of the cowboys were eavesdroppers; so they crawled to the corner, dropped their feet over the edge of the high sidewalk and sat with their backs to the street.

“Whozat arguin’ in there?” asked Wooden-shoe.

“Tha’s Hollister, the crooked gambler.”

“Zasso? I wonder——”

Came the thud of a muffled shot, and the corner of the building, against which Chet was leaning his shoulder, jarred slightly. At the same instant the lamp went out.

Chet and Wooden-shoe promptly fell off the sidewalk and landed on their hands and knees.

“Sh-h-h!” cautioned Chet, as they turned around and poked their heads above the sidewalk. There was not a sound for a minute or so; and then a door closed softly. It sounded like it might be the rear door of Williams’ office.

Then the front door opened and Williams came out. He lighted a cigar, surveyed the street for a few moments and walked slowly away.

“Whatcha think?” queried Wooden-shoe, poking his head above the level of the sidewalk.

“Yes,” grunted Chet enigmatically. “Let’s go down to the livery-stable and find a soft place to sleep.”

“But what was the shootin’ about?” persisted Wooden-shoe. “There was a shot fired in there as sure as——”

“Tha’s none of my business—in my condition,” declared Chet. “C’mon and sleep it off.”

The inquest had been fairly well advertised by word of mouth, and quite a crowd gathered in Broken Butte. Clay Hardy was not popular. Had he been killed in an open fight, or if his slayer was known, there would have been little interest shown. But there was an element of mystery, which always appeals.

Williams had sent a man out to the NR ranch after Miss Cleveland, and he had brought Ma Coogan along. The inquest was to be held in Williams’ office, which was hardly large enough to accommodate a crowd.

Chairs had been brought from the Shoshone Saloon and placed in orderly rows. Doctor Chisholm, with the able assistance of “Judge” Myers, a justice of the peace, conducted the inquest.

Chet and Wooden-shoe slept late in the hay-loft of the livery-stable, and were hardly in physical shape to enjoy the proceedings. Wheezer had not slept, but his winnings amounted to seven hundred dollars and he was vocally jubilant.

The three of them managed to worm themselves to a point of vantage near the middle of the room, in spite of Murtch trying to keep them back. It was hot in that packed room, and the three cowboys wished that they were outside.

“Slim” Carey, proprietor of the stage-office, Gus Welch, a restaurant keeper, Buck Harmon, owner of the Box-H, “Peewee” Sorenson, blacksmith, Jud Reeves, owner of the livery-stable and King Cole, were chosen as a coroner’s jury.

Wheezer Bell was the first witness, and he perspired copiously over his explanation of what happened at the gateway of the NR ranch. Murtch asked him where Leather Kleig was at that time, but Wheezer did not know.

Murtch testified as to how he had taken possession of Clay Hardy’s body, and that the three cowboys had stated that Clay had tried to bushwhack some one.

“The bullet holes r-r-ranged downward,” stated Doctor Chisholm, indicating the angle with a poke of a forefinger. “He was shot fr-r-rom above.”

“Didn’t he have trouble with Kleig?” questioned Buck Harmon.

“Hol’ on!” snapped Chet. “If Leather had killed Hardy he wouldn’t ’a’ run away, y’betcha.”

“You’re not a witness, Wells,” advised Murtch.

“The —— I’m not!”

“Order!” yelled the judge, hammering on the desk. “One more remark like that and out you go.”

“Gimme a chance and I’ll go before that,” retorted Chet. “This danged place would cook a ham.”

“He had trouble with Kleig,” said Murtch, ignoring Chet and speaking to Harmon. “Kleig shoved a gun in his ribs——”

“Sa-a-ay!” interrupted Wheezer. “Where’s the jasper that Clay was framin’ to shoot in that poker game?”

Murtch turned and spoke to the judge, who shook his head quickly. Murtch turned back, saying—

“Kleig disappeared that night and——”

“I asked a lady-like question and can’t git no answer,” wailed Wheezer. “Where’s that gambler?”

The judge rapped sharply again and glared at Wheezer.

“I told you once that I’d put——”

“Try doin’ it,” invited Wheezer. “I want to know where that gambler is. He’s the jasper that knows.”

“Do we have to suffer all these interruptions from three drunken cowpunchers?” asked Williams angrily.

“Who’s drunk?” demanded Wooden-shoe, and started to get up, but Wheezer drew him back.

“Ar-r-re we goin’ to make this a place of hecklin’ and blatherin’, or do we pr-r-roceed with the inquest?” burred the doctor impatiently.

“Are we sure that this shootin’ was done at the NR ranch?” asked Slim Carey. Slim was very slow in his speech, which was partly muffled by a huge chew of tobacco.

“Miss Cleveland heard the shots,” offered Williams.

Miss Cleveland nodded quickly and waited for him to question her, but the jury seemed to take it as conclusive evidence. Every one in the room endeavored to catch a glimpse of the new ranch-owner.

“Miss Jane Cleveland inherited the NR ranch from her uncle, Nick Ralls,” explained Williams.

There was a shuffling of feet and several talked in undertones. Suddenly a man came worming his way through the crowd. It was a cowboy from the Box-H, and he was excited, as he called to Murtch.

“Sheriff, I found a dead man down in Cannonball Gulch! He’s been shot and looks like he’d been dumped over the edge.”

Cannon-ball Gulch paralleled the stage-road, and was only about a mile from Broken Butte.

“Who was he, Bud?” asked Harmon.

“I dunno him. Looks like a gambler t’ me.”

“That’s the feller!” exclaimed Wheezer. “Name’s Hollister, or somethin’ like that.”

Miss Cleveland had got to her feet and was staring at Wheezer, while she grasped the back of the chair in front of her. The place was momentarily in an uproar.

“That’s the feller that Hardy had the trouble with!” yelped Wheezer. “I’ll betcha——”

“Don’t you go to bettin’ too much!” rasped Murtch, half-yelling his words.

“Order!” yelled the judge. “Set down and shut up!”

Miss Cleveland ignored every one and forced her way to Wheezer.

“Say that name again,” she panted. “Was it Hollister?”

“Yeah—they called him Spade, ma’am.”

“Spade Hollister!”

The girl gasped out the name and stared at Williams. He had heard her, and his cheeks went pale. His fishy eyes shifted quickly to Murtch. There was so much conversation that only those vitally interested were paying any attention to the girl.

The cowboy was explaining to those around him how he had accidentally run across the body. It was not in a place where it would be easily discovered. Chet got to his feet and put a hand on the girl’s arm, as he looked at Murtch and Williams.

“Say, do yuh want me to tell yuh who killed that Hollister?”

Murtch jerked back, as if afraid, but hunched forward again, staring at Chet. Williams grasped Murtch by the arm, trying to gain his attention, but Murtch was waiting for Chet to speak again.

“What do you know about that murder?” asked Jud Reeves.

But before Chet could tell what he knew, there came a mutter of voices, the shifting of feet, and in through the crowd came Leather Kleig and a young woman. She was a stranger to Broken Butte.

Kleig was grinning. He stopped near the center of the room and glanced around.

“Heard somebody say that I got here just in time,” Leather smiled widely. Murtch and Williams were staring at him. He turned and looked at Miss Cleveland, whose face was white.

“I reckon I got here in time,” continued Leather. “I didn’t know that Clay Hardy was dead. Yuh see—” He glanced around the room—“I had an idea that even a lawyer can make mistakes. Mister Williams I’d like to have yuh meet Miss Jane Cleveland, the new owner of the NR ranch.”

Leather indicated the girl with him, and a gasp of surprize went up from the crowd.

“What do you mean, Kleig?” Williams’ voice was hoarse with anger and fear.

“What do I mean?”

Leather leaned forward. His smile was gone now, and the lines about his eyes were drawn tightly.

“I mean that you picked the wrong girl, Williams. You helped the old man make out his will, and you saw a chance to steal the ranch; so you picked the wrong heiress. Murtch was in on the deal.”

“That’s a lie!” Murtch fairly screamed his denial.

Leather turned to Miss Cleveland—

“Did you know Spade Hollister?”

The room fell silent. For a moment she stared straight ahead, and then—

“Yes. Spade Hollister was my sweetheart.”

“And, by ——, Murtch and Williams killed him!” yelled Chet. “I seen ’em together, and me and Wooden-shoe heard the shot!”

“Murtch killed him!” screamed Williams, “I——”

Williams’ confession, or accusation, was cut short. Murtch had whirled sidewise and fired his six-shooter so close to Williams’ side that the report was only a jarring thud.

As Williams fell, Murtch whirled on the crowd like a cornered wolf, but Leather’s gun was spouting lead into him and he went down cursing thickly.

“Good boy!” yelled King Cole. “He’d ’a’ killed like a coyote with the rabies. God! What a mess!”

The room was in an uproar. Doctor Chisholm lifted Williams’ head and Leather crowded in close. Williams was conscious, but evidently knew that he was passing fast. He sneered at Leather and spat a curse.

“Open my safe,” he croaked to the doctor. “Key’s in my pocket. Quick.”

The doctor took out the key and opened the safe.

“The package with the rubber band,” croaked Williams.

He slipped the band loose and peered at the papers wonderingly. What he looked for was not there.

“Look in the safe!” he panted. “Find—paper.”

“She’s plumb empty, Williams,” said the judge.

“Empty?” Williams nodded weakly and peered up at Leather. “I guess you win, Kleig. I might as well tell it all. Miss Cleveland is a honkatonk actress and we got her to play this part.

“Hollister was stuck on her, —— him! He found out something and came here to ask for his share and to see that she wasn’t harmed. I guess he killed Clay Hardy. He demanded five thousand dollars, or would tell that it was a crooked deal. Murtch shot him.

“Murtch had Clay frame it to kill Hollister in that poker game, but you spoiled that. We were going to buy the NR from—her—for—one—dollar.”

Williams laughed chokingly.

“You know what ruined our scheme, Kleig. Too—many—crooks.”

He rolled sidewise and his head pillowed on his arm.

“It’s a good thing we ain’t got nothin’ to arrest,” said Wooden-shoe foolishly. “We ain’t got no sheriff nor lawyer. What do yuh reckon he was lookin’ for in the safe?”

“I’ll take char-r-rge now,” said the doctor wearily. “And I per-r-rsume there won’t be any inquest.”

The crowd moved back to the street. Ma Coogan was trying to “mother” Miss Cleveland, or rather the one who had been Miss Cleveland, and get acquainted with the real Miss Cleveland at the same time.

Leather Kleig drew King Cole aside and they walked down the street together, while the other three cowboys went to the livery-stable to arrange transportation back to the ranch for the women. When King Cole and Leather came back, the two-seated spring-wagon had drawn up to the sidewalk, with Chet driving.

Leather motioned to him to get down, and then spoke directly to the new owner of the NR.

“Like I told yuh before, ma’am, the ranch ain’t nothin’ for a lady to run. Mister Cole kinda wants to buy the place, as soon as the papers can be fixed up, and he offers a good price.

“Yuh better just stay here at the hotel until it is all fixed up, which will take a week or so. Ma will stay with yuh, of course.”

He turned and put a hand on Ma’s shoulder.

“Yo’re fixed for life, Ma. Miss Cleveland insists that yuh take the money from the sale of the ranch and live easy the rest of yore life.”

“But—but—” spluttered Ma Coogan, bewildered.

“That is true,” replied the young lady. “I feel that it should belong to you.”

“Hurrah f’r our side!” blurted Wooden-shoe.

“Sure, and what will become of you boys?” asked Ma Coogan anxiously. “Isn’t there money enough——”

“We’ve got jobs down in the lower end of the valley,” assured Leather, “and we’ll see yuh once in a while.”

It was two hours later that the four cowboys rode away from the NR ranch. They had gone back to get their belongings, and each man had a bulging war-sack tied behind the cantle of his saddle.

“Now will yuh tell us where we’re goin’?” asked Wheezer, as they halted at the top of a hog-back ridge and looked back at the old ranch-house.

Leather laughed softly and looped one leg around his saddle-horn while he rolled a cigaret.

“I was suspicious of Williams,” he said slowly. “He was too —— interested, don’tcha know it? They wanted all of us off the place. I smelled a crooked deal.

“Then when they tried to kill Hollister, I knowed he was mixed up in it. Well, I wasn’t so danged sure about any will bein’ made out, so I out-smarted old Williams, knocked him on the head, opened his safe and put the key back in his pocket.

“That will was what he was lookin’ for in that bundle of papers. I dunno what he ever saved it for, ’cause that was what cinched the deadwood on to him. I slipped out of town and headed for Keogh. I didn’t know what luck I was goin’ to have, but——”

“Hold on,” interrupted Wheezer. “Do yuh mean to say that yuh got the will that old Nick made out?”

“Yeah—sure.” Leather scratched a match and lighted his cigaret. “Their will was a forgery.”

“Then why didn’t yuh jist show the will and——”

“Nope,” Leather inhaled deeply and shook his head. “I’ll show yuh why.” He took a legal-looking document from inside his shirt and opened it.

“This is the will that Ma Coogan witnessed. It gives the whole —— NR ranch to us four fellers.”

“To us!” blurted Chet. “Whatcha mean?”

“That’s what the will says, Chet. Us four fellers owned every danged stick and stone on the NR.”

“Well, but—goshdang it, talk can’t yuh?” croaked Wooden-shoe. “Where does this Miss Cleveland come in?”

“Her name wasn’t Cleveland—not mine wasn’t. Her name was Hollister once. Spade Hollister was her husband. He mistreated her awful, and I danged near killed him for it. Now, she’s married to a good feller and they’re doin’ fine. She’s my sister.”

“Oh, my gosh!” exploded Wheezer. “And you got her to—I getcha, Leather.”

“Yeah,” nodded Leather. “I knowed how yuh all felt about Ma Coogan, and that’s the only way I could figure to fix her up for life. And her money’ll be clean, too.

“I told the whole thing to King Cole, and gave him a list of what we stole for the NR. He’s goin’ to tell these different outfits and see that they take back their stock and keep still about it.

“And he’s goin’ to pay Ma a good price for the NR and what honestly belongs there. My sister will see that it is all done on the level.”

Leather grinned softly and touched a match to the document as he said—

“Ma wouldn’t touch a crooked nickel, but she don’t have to now.”

“Where’s the jobs yuh spoke about, Leather?” queried Wheezer.

“Somewhere,” smiled Leather. “There ought to be jobs for honest and capable cowpunchers somewhere, hadn’t there?”

Wheezer nodded solemnly, as he said:

“Y’betcha, cowboy. I take back what I’ve said about old Nick Ralls. He meant to shoot square, but he never figured Ma in on the game; so we’ll jist call it a misdeal.”

Leather nodded as he pinched out the fire on the remaining corner of the will and crumpled it into a tiny ball, which he tossed aside.

Then, as if by mutual consent, they turned from looking at the old ranch-house and rode out of sight over the hog-back.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the June 30, 1923 issue of Adventure magazine.