Front matter (continued 2)

“Search me. We’ve got a prisoner charged with the crime.”

“Somethin’ like the killin’ of McFee, wasn’t it?”

“Yo’re plumb full of questions, ain’t yuh?” grinned Chuck.

Hashknife grinned back at him and nodded.

“Yuh got to be if yo’re goin’ to know things, Haverty.”

“If yo’re goin’ to damn sure,” said Chuck seriously.

“Come to think of it, I reckon yo’re right,” said Weary. “McFee was shot in the back jist like O’Neil was.”

“And he was workin’ for the Box 88 too—eh?”

“Just what are you drivin’ at, Hartley?”

“Did you know McFee?” asked Hashknife, ignoring Weary’s question.

“I did not. Nobody seemed to. He rode in and took a job with the Box 88. Never was here before. All we knew was that his name was Charley McFee; so we buried him out on the hill with the rest of the folks. He rode to town alone that night and never got here.”

“Kinda funny, wasn’t it?” mused Hashknife. “I wonder if anybody knew he was ridin’ alone the night he was killed!”

“I guess not. Hayward said that him and Joe LeClere was intendin’ to ride in with him but changed their minds. Joe was out there soberin’ up. He dang near had snakes. Cornes, McLeod and Dalhart had come to town earlier in the evenin’. None of ’em saw McFee after they left the Box 88.”

“Do yuh reckon somebody killed him for what money he might have had on him?”

“Not a chance, Hartley. Hayward loaned him five dollars before he left the ranch and he still had it in his pocket when we searched the body.”

“O’Neil wasn’t robbed, was he?”

“He never had anythin’. Spent it faster than he made it.”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, pondering over all this information. Chuck Haverty looked at Hashknife with amusement.

“Run out of questions?” said Chuck softly. “Hartley, you’d make a good lawyer.”

Hashknife smiled at Chuck, who was grinning.

“I’m afraid not, Haverty,” said Hashknife. “I like to see everybody get a square deal.”

A little later they left the office and went to a Chinese café for their supper. Mike Dalhart and McLeod were at the rear of the café eating a meal and both of them glanced up at Hashknife and Sleepy as they came in. They sat down near the front of the room with Sleepy facing the rear.

After a few minutes Dalhart said something to the waiter, who nodded, and Dalhart went out through the kitchen. McLeod waited a while and then came to the front of the room and paid for two meals.

He then nodded shortly to Hashknife and Sleepy as men do to strangers and went out. McLeod was rather a big man with iron-gray hair, possibly fifty years of age. He stopped outside and looked around as though looking for Dalhart, who came through an alley and met him.

Dalhart was of medium height, dark-skinned as an Indian, with small, close-set eyes and an aggressive chin. He was quick of movement and walked with a decided swagger. They went to the Silver Streak where McLeod sat down in a poker game. Dalhart stood around until Tuck Hayward showed up and they went to Tuck’s private office together.

Tuck shut the door tightly and turned to Dalhart.

“Well, what do yuh know, Mike?” he asked.

“Not much. We stopped at the IS. Didn’t see Joe. Yvonne told us the same thing we heard here—that Joe shot himself accidentally or that the horse kicked over the rifle and shot him through the leg. I talked with the doctor and he said it was a clean wound. Yuh can’t tell me that a thirty-thirty, with a mushroom bullet—”

“That ain’t what I want to know, Mike. Did she say anythin’ about these two strange punchers?”

“She said they found Joe and helped him home. I’ll bet if Joe had been hit with a thirty-thirty he’d ’a’ lost his whole leg. Say, who in hell are these strange punchers?”

“Said their names are Hartley and Stevens.”

“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” Mike’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Where are they from?”

“I dunno; never talked with ’em. You know ’em?”

“Not me.”

“How soon will Joe be out?”

“The girl said in a couple of days. Say, she’s a dinger, Tuck. If she was my girl—”

“Which she ain’t, Mike,” coldly.

“No, that’s true as hell. Well, I reckon that’s all, Tuck.”

“All right; thanks, Mike.”

“Yo’re welcome.”

Dalhart had a drink at the bar and then went out to his horse. He was riding out of town when Hashknife and Sleepy came from the café. He turned and looked at them but they were not looking in his direction.

They did not stop at the Silver Streak but went on down to the Chongo Saloon where they found an unoccupied pool-table and started a game. It was their favorite relaxation.

“Didja ever see this Dalhart person before?” asked Hashknife, squinting down the length of his cue when the game was well started.

“I don’t reckon I have; have you, Hashknife?”

“I’m just wonderin’ how good yore memory is.”

“Who is he?”

“Well—he’s Mike Dalhart of the Box 88 I reckon.”

“You reckon?”

“Yore bust,” smiled Hashknife.

It was another week before Joe LeClere was able to get around. Even then he was unable to wear a boot. Hashknife and Sleepy had been out to the IS ranch several times but had not talked with him. Yvonne had never mentioned the cattle-stealing incident and Joe felt sure that his father had believed Hashknife’s lie as to how he had been hurt. Yet there was something wrong. He caught his father looking queerly at him several times.

Did the old man suspect something? he wondered. Frenchy LeClere was keen-eyed in spite of his age. Joe tried to dismiss the thought but it persisted. His enforced stay at the ranch had cleansed his system of liquor and when the craving subsided at times he swore to himself that he was all through with the stuff.

He cursed the stuff bitterly to himself. Twice within a year he had been on the verge of delirium tremens. So far gone in fact that he hadn’t remembered what he had done. It was like a nightmare. Hayward had warned him that if he got a third attack it would finish him. Joe had no desire to see any more little green devils with red hats. Next time he would drink moderately, he promised himself.

Yvonne seemed changed too and Joe wondered whether it was because Soapy Weed was in jail. He couldn’t understand why Yvonne would choose Soapy, who had nothing in the world, when Tuck Hayward, who had everything, desired her.

He sat on the porch of the ranch-house and smoked innumerable cigarets, wishing he was in Chongo town where there was something going on. Yvonne came out and sat on the steps near him. She was doing a small piece of embroidery work and he watched her needle going in and out.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked. Yvonne shook her head but did not look at him.

“He rode north this morning,” she said, “and he carried a rifle.”

Joe blinked thoughtfully.

“What about him carrying a rifle, Yvonne?”

“I don’t know, Joe. He said he talked with the sheriff yesterday about losing cattle.”

“And the sheriff didn’t believe him?”

“I guess not. He said it was up to him to furnish evidence. I don’t know what evidence he needs. The last round-up shows that we have lost a good many head, Joe.” Yvonne turned her head and looked at him. “What were you doing with those cattle the day you were shot?”

Joe smiled crookedly.

“Not a thing. I was a fool to start anythin’.”

“You must have been doing something, Joe.”

“Do yuh think so? Well, I wasn’t. There wasn’t any evidence to show that I had done anythin’. What could I do to a Box 88 animal, even if they did find a runnin’-iron?”

“Then why did you start trouble with them?”

“Jumpy, I reckon,” grinned Joe and then sobered quickly. “Who are these two men anyway? What are they doin’ here?”

Yvonne shook her head.

“I don’t know, Joe. Nobody seems to know. They make friends with everybody. You can’t help liking them.”

“Can’t, eh? I remember one of ’em shot me in the leg.”

“But you shot at them first, didn’t you?”

“Oh, sure! I don’t blame ’em.”

Joe rubbed his leg carefully, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret.

“You ain’t never been in to see Soapy, have yuh, Yvonne?”

“No,” softly.

“Do you think he killed Kid O’Neil?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Haven’t you any idea, Joe?”

“What idea would I have?” quickly. “What are you drivin’ at, anyway?”

“Joe, the night O’Neil was killed you wasn’t home. You came here after Soapy Weed left.”

Joe dropped his cigaret as he leaned forward, his lips shut tightly for a moment. Then—

“You ain’t tryin’ to put that on me, are yuh?”

Yvonne folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead.

“I’m not trying to put anything on you, Joe. You are my brother and I—but Soapy didn’t kill him. He—Joe,” she turned and looked up at him—“I think Soapy Weed tried to protect you. He was taking the body away when his horse got away from him.”

“Tried to protect me!” sneered Joe. “What the hell! I’m nothin’ to Soapy Weed.”

“You never considered me, did you, Joe?”

“Considered you? You mean that for you—is that yore idea of it? He was tryin’ to protect you?”

“I wonder.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! So you think yore brother murdered Kid O’Neil, eh? My God, you’ve got a lot of respect for me! Kill Kid O’Neil, eh? I busted his nose because he said things about you, didn’t I? Sa-a-ay! This ain’t somethin’—who else has this fool idea?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Joe. It was my idea.”

“Well, that’s shore a sweet idea, I must say.”

Joe leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigaret. His hands shook slightly and he gnawed at the corner of his lower lip.

“Well, why don’t-cha go down and tell this to the sheriff? He might fall for it and let yore sweetheart loose. You can’t tell me that any man would be fool enough to stay in jail to protect his girl’s brother.”

Yvonne got to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Joe,” she said, her voice shaking, “you have associated with that crowd around the Silver Streak until you haven’t a shred of common decency left. Now you take back what you just said.”

“I ain’t got a thing to take back, kid. Go ahead and tell the sheriff. He’s fool enough to fall for anythin’. But if Soapy Weed ain’t guilty they’ll have a hell of a time tryin’ to put the deadwood on somebody else.”

Yvonne walked past him and went into the house shaking with anger. Joe grinned crookedly as he lighted a cigaret. At least he had his sister’s opinion. Some one was coming up the road on horseback and he recognized Tuck Hayward.

“Now, what the hell does he want?” wondered Joe.

Tuck rode up and dismounted, dropping the reins. His tall bay was broke to stand to dropped reins. Tuck grinned as he came up to the porch carrying a paper-wrapped parcel.

“Hello, Joe!” he grinned. “Able to be around, eh?”

“Just about,” grunted Joe glancing back toward the open doorway. Tuck caught the signal and nodded as he handed Joe the parcel.

“Thought yuh might be dry,” said Tuck. “Here’s a quart.”

“Dry! My God, I’ve spit cotton for a week! Thanks, Tuck.”

“Tha’sall right,” Tuck sat down ponderously on the step. “How’s the leg?”

“Gettin’ good. Be ridin’ day after tomorrow.”

“Good. I been intendin’ to come out and see yuh but I’ve been pretty busy. So the leg is almost healed, eh? Didja have a steeljacket bullet in that thirty-thirty?”

Joe shot a keen glance at Hayward before he said:

“Didn’t mushroom, I guess.”

“I guess not,” said Hayward softly and Joe flushed angrily.

“What are yuh drivin’ at, Tuck?”

Tuck glanced at the doorway and shook his head.

“Not a thing, Joe. Least said, soonest mended.”

“Is that so? Did that Hartley—” Joe stopped short, and Hayward looked at him curiously for a moment before he asked:

“What about Hartley?”

“Nothin’.”

Joe realized that he had made a slip. Hayward’s eyes bored into him and he turned away.

“I heard that Hartley and Stevens found yuh,” said Tuck.

“Yeah; they helped me home.”

“What else do yuh know about ’em, Joe?”

“Not a damn’ thing.”

“Uh-huh! Well, I’m glad yo’re gettin’ better. Come down as soon as yuh can.”

“I’ll be down in a day or so, Tuck. Thanks for the quart.”

“That’s all right. Where’s the Old Man?”

“Out in the hills. How’s all the gang?”

“Same as ever. Well, I’ll be goin’. See yuh later.”

Tuck mounted and rode away while Joe limped back into his bedroom where he locked the door and picked up a corkscrew. His good resolutions had vanished. He swore softly, filled a water-glass half-full of the amber liquid and sat down on the bed.

During the week Hashknife had talked several times with Soapy Weed. In fact Hashknife had been included in the daily pitch game in Soapy’s cell and had come to the conclusion that Soapy was either innocent or a hard customer. He had stuck to his story of finding the body near the river with such persistency that Hashknife was inclined to believe him.

Weary had told Hashknife about Soapy’s slip at the inquest in which he had mentioned finding the body in the weeds and Hashknife had talked it over with Fat Garnette.

“I don’t sabe yore interest in this case, Hashknife,” said Fat.

“Just a humane interest,” said Hashknife. “I don’t believe in soakin’ an innocent man.”

“Neither do I. But what can yuh do with a young fool like Soapy?”

“Do you suppose that Soapy is protectin’ Joe LeClere?”

“How do yuh get that?” asked Fat.

“Soapy Weed took Yvonne LeClere home from that dance. Joe had busted O’Neil’s nose that night and you all admit that O’Neil was a tough hombre. Suppose he followed Joe home and Joe laid for him. Suppose Soapy found the body, realized that it would incriminate the brother of his girl and decided to move it to a safer place.”

“Ain’t it funny?” sighed Fat. “I’ve pictured it just that way but I was afraid to mention it. Joe LeClere murdered O’Neil and before he had time to get away with the body Soapy and Yvonne came along in the buggy; so Joe ducked. On the way back from the house Soapy finds the body and packs it on his horse. The horse gets away from Soapy and comes to town. By God, it’s as clear as anythin’!”

“Clear to you,” grinned Hashknife. “But the thing to do is to get Soapy to admit where he found the body.”

“Which he won’t.”

“No, I suppose not. You say O’Neil had no gun?”

“Wasn’t any on the body. The bartender at the Silver Streak had the Kid’s gun.”

“Hm-m-m, that’s different. But would the Kid go after Joe LeClere without a gun?”

“Not likely. But we’ve no proof that he did go after him. Tuck Hayward says he told the Kid to go home.”

“The Kid was of age.”

“Yea-a-ah—sure!”

“Would Joe know that the Kid followed him?”

“By God, you can find more things to talk about!” wailed Fat. “Build up a case and then tear it down.”

“That’s the thing to do, Fat. Common-sense tells us that Soapy Weed would have no reason for killing the Kid unless the Kid attacked him. If Joe knew that the Kid was on his trail he might bushwhack him. Joe drinks heavy and he might not want to swap lead with the Kid, who was a gunman, accordin’ to local talk.”

“I never seen him do any shootin’, Hashknife. Dang it, if Soapy would only tell where he found the body we might figure somethin’ out of it; but he won’t, darn him!”

“Let’s me and you ride out to the IS, Fat. We might get a chance to talk with Joe and yuh never can tell what a man might let slip.”

“Shore; I’ll ride out with yuh.”

Sleepy was in a poker game at the Chongo Saloon; so the two rode away from town without him. Fat showed Hashknife the spot where Soapy claimed to have found the body and they examined it closely. No rain had fallen since that day but they were unable to find even a boot-print.

“Was there any blood on Soapy’s saddle that mornin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Not a bit.”

They rode on to the double line of trees which extended along the last half-mile of the road. Here the road was bordered on each side by a strip of grass and weeds possibly fifteen feet across.

“Plenty weeds,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Dusty weeds. Plenty fox-tail, Fat.”

“Weeds,” said Fat. “Yeah, there’s—by golly, do yuh suppose that this—”

“Lots of ’em!” smiled Hashknife. “Never find anythin’ in all these. Still it’s worth a look. You ride down that side and I’ll ride down this. Cut about the center.”

“But yuh never could find where a body laid this late in the game,” protested Fat. “Like huntin’ for a needle in a hay-stack.”

“Just like it. But let’s see what we can find.”

Each took a side of the weedy strip and rode slowly along, scanning the ground closely. The task seemed hopeless. The mass of timothy, fox-tail and various weeds was almost knee-deep to their horses; a harsh dust-covered tangle. They rode nearly to the ranch-house before turning back into the road.

“No chance to find anythin’ there,” declared Fat.

“Not even if yuh knew what yuh was lookin’ for, which I don’t.”

“Well, we looked,” smiled Hashknife. “I’m always willin’ to look.”

He turned in his saddle and looked back at the dusty strips of weeds along the trees.

“Soapy mentioned weeds,” he said thoughtfully. “Deep weeds, didn’t he say? Well, there they are.”

“Lotta good it does anybody,” grunted Fat. “There’s Joe on the porch.”

Joe was leaning against a porch-post as they rode up and it did not require a keen eye to discover that he was as drunk as the proverbial boiled-owl. His eyes were shot with red streaks and his lips sagged in a derisive grin.

“Whasha want?” he demanded belligerently.

“Hello, Joe!” grinned Fat. “How’sa leg?”

“None of yore damn’ business. Who’s yore long-geared friend, eh? Shorry I can’ give yuh a drink. I drunk it all. Tuck Hayward brought me quart t’day. He’s a frien’, I’ll tell yuh that! Whasha want, Fat Garnette?”

“Set down; yo’re drunk!” grunted Fat disgustedly.

“Set down when I damn please!”

“Stand up then. Where’s Yvonne?”

“Tha’s some more of my business,” owlishly. “’F yuh want to know so damn’ bad, she’s settin’ on the corral fence. She said I wasn’t fit to stay in the house with. Ain’t that a nice thing for a sister to shay?”

Yvonne in disgust left the house and sat on the corral fence

“I reckon she knew what she was talkin’ about,” replied Fat while Joe staggered over to the corner of the porch where he could see the stable and a corner of the corral. He chuckled drunkenly and headed for the doorway.

“Here’s my pup-paternal anchestor; so I guess I better hunt a li’l hole and crawl in.”

He disappeared within the house as Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came from down by the corral talking earnestly. They caught sight of the sheriff and Hashknife.

“Hello folks!” called Fat waving his hand.

“By gosh, de sheriff!” exclaimed Frenchy. “And Meester Hart-lee! Well, well!”

He glanced at the porch and seemed relieved to note that Joe was not in evidence. They all shook hands but Frenchy did not invite them to dismount. They knew why Yvonne seemed very quiet and had nothing to say.

“Joe, she’s get along fine,” offered Frenchy. “I’m s’pose she’s lie down jus’ now and tak’ rest.”

“We just rode past to see how he was comin’ along,” said Hashknife. “He’ll be out in a few days, won’t he?”

“Oh, for sure!” replied Frenchy.

They were visibly relieved when Hashknife suggested to Fat that they had better be going along and Fat accepted quickly.

“Come out again, won’t you?” asked Yvonne. “Please do. We are glad to have you.”

“Thank yuh, Yvonne,” smiled Hashknife. “We shore will.”

As they rode away they noticed that Frenchy and Yvonne went quickly into the house.

“Joe will get merry hell,” grinned Fat. “The Old Man has a terrible temper.”

“He deserves it,” declared Hashknife. “Too much liquor. Tuck Hayward ought to get a good kick in the pants for bringing whisky out here to the boy.”

“I reckon that’s right.”

They rode along the strip of weeds but were making no attempt at a further search when suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse, turned him around and rode back a few steps. Quickly he dismounted and walked a short distance through the tangle of weeds where he picked up an object.

“Whatcha find?” asked Fat, reining back through the weeds.

Hashknife held it out to him—a heavy Colt revolver.

“I got a flash of the sun on it,” he said.

“Fully loaded!” said Fat. “Forty-five.”

Hashknife was squatted on his heels examining the grass and Fat dismounted beside him.

Together they looked the spot over and Hashknife found a mat of old leaves about as large as his hand apparently glued together. He examined it closely and got to his feet.

“What is it?” asked Fat.

“I think we found where Kid O’Neil went down and out. Unless I’m badly mistaken, that bunch of leaves is stuck together with gore.”

“It ain’t red,” declared Fat.

“Yuh didn’t expect it to stay red, did yuh? Plenty of fox-tail here too. Do yuh recognize that gun?”

“No. Nothin’ on it to show who owned it, Hashknife.”

Hashknife wrapped the leaves in a handkerchief and mounted his horse, while Fat put the gun in his pocket. They rode back to Chongo and turned the leaves over to Dr. Plumley, who confessed that he was not exactly a chemist but that he could determine whether it was blood or not.

But Hashknife did not wait for an analysis. They went to the jail where they found Sleepy and Chuck Haverty in the cell with Soapy Weed, arguing over a seven-up game. They went in and Hashknife sat down beside Soapy. Hashknife had the gun, which he placed on the little table.

“Didja ever see that gun before, Soapy?” he asked.

Soapy examined it closely, shaking his head.

“Never saw it before in my life. What about it?”

“That’s the gun Kid O’Neil had when he was killed.”

Soapy looked closely at Hashknife who was examining the gun again.

“How do yuh know that?” asked Soapy wonderingly.

“Because we found the spot where you found the body. It was just a little ways this side of the IS ranch-house, on the north side of the road. The weeds are deep there, Soapy. And it might interest yuh to know that Joe LeClere got drunk today and made things so unpleasant that Yvonne was obliged to go out and set on the corral fence.”

Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.

“That dirty bum! If he—” Soapy stopped.

“Were you tryin’ to protect Joe LeClere?” asked Hashknife.

Soapy settled back on the cot, his eyes thoughtful.

“I reckon I might as well tell it all now. It had to come out sooner or later. I wasn’t tryin’ to protect Joe but I did want to protect Yvonne. She’s his sister, yuh know.”

“You didn’t see Joe kill him, didja?” asked Fat quickly.

“No. I was comin’ back from takin’ Yvonne home and I saw a horse. It had the reins tangled in its feet. It was a Box 88 horse. I untangled it and the darn thing broke away. Then I fell over the body. I didn’t know what to do. But I knew it would cinch Joe; so I put it on my horse and got on behind. The darn bronc bucked and I was scared of losin’ the body. Yuh see, it was a hell of a mean job gettin’ it on.

“Well, I fell off and the bronc ran away. I chased him plumb to the river. It put me in a bad fix. When Fat arrested me I thought it would end at the inquest, but I made a fool break about that deep grass and they soaked me in here. I never shot O’Neil and I don’t know who did.”

“But you felt sure that Joe LeClere did,” said Hashknife.

“I was afraid he did,” amended Soapy.

Hashknife stretched and began rolling a cigaret.

“What’s the next move?” asked Fat anxiously. “Shall I arrest Joe LeClere, Hashknife?”

“You better talk it over with the prosecutin’ attorney. Personally, I don’t think there’s a thing that they can put on Joe. It’s just circumstantial evidence. Joe’s rep would be against him. Probably a jury would convict him.”

“What about me?” asked Soapy anxiously.

“You’ll stay here until we get a better man to fill yore cell,” said Chuck.

“I reckon that’s about the size of it,” agreed Fat.

“Anyway they won’t hang me,” grinned Soapy.

“They’ve never hung anybody around here for bein’ a damn fool,” declared Chuck.

“That’s a lucky thing for the population, I suppose,” said Fat seriously.

Hashknife supposed that Fat would tell what the prosecuting attorney had to say about it, but he didn’t see anything of Fat until late that evening when Fat rode in with Joe LeClere and put him in jail.

Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came in shortly afterwards, rather dazed over the sudden turn of events. Joe was half-sober and in an evil frame of mind. He cursed Fat and everybody until Fat locked him in a cell and left him to sober up.

The prosecuting attorney had talked with the judge, who advised turning Soapy loose, and as Soapy came from the jail free at last he came face to face with Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne. He stopped short and stared at Yvonne, who walked past him without a sign of recognition. Soapy almost fell down.

“Well, what do yuh know about that?” he wailed to himself. “They turned me down like a white chip.”

He headed for the Silver Streak where he found Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Yo’re loose, eh?” grinned Hashknife.

“Loose as hell!” snorted Soapy. He lowered his voice.

“Met Frenchy and Yvonne and they never recognized me.”

“That’s kinda funny, ain’t it?” queried Hashknife.

“Mebby you think it is—I don’t! Do yuh reckon they blame me for Joe bein’ in jail?”

“You didn’t put him there, Soapy.”

“I shore didn’t. By golly, I’ve got to find Fat. If he lied about what I said I’ll salivate him.”

And Soapy hurried across the street looking for Fat, who was in his office talking with Yvonne and her father. But Soapy didn’t go in. He walked past, looked through the open door and then sat down on the wooden sidewalk fifty feet past the office door.

Fat was having rather a strenuous time.

Frenchy wanted to know the reasons for everything and Fat was obliged to tell him that Joe had been under suspicion for quite a while but that they had needed a confession from Soapy as to where he had found the body before they could act.

He told them about finding the evidence near the IS ranch-house.

“I never hear no shot that night,” declared Frenchy. “I’m t’ink Joe come straight home that night.”

“You think he did?”

“I’m don’ know for sure,” sighed Frenchy. “Well, I’m s’pose we mus’ do our bes’. No use to kick. When you have trial?”

“I don’t know, LeClere. I suppose he’ll have to have a hearing and then be bound over to the superior court.”

Yvonne had nothing to say. She knew that Joe was not in the house that night when Soapy took her home, because she saw him ride in at daylight.

She and her father came from the office and went up the street together, going in the opposite direction from Soapy, who got to his feet and went to the office door. Fat glared at him because Fat was in a bad humor just then.

“What the hell do you want?” asked Fat.

“What did you tell ’em about me, Fat?”

“I dunno what yuh mean.”

“Oh, the hell yuh don’t! They never spoke to me.”

“Didn’t, eh?”

“No, they didn’t. They acted just as though I was a plumb stranger. Never even recognized me.”

“Well, what in hell can yuh expect, with ten-days growth of whiskers on yore face? Go get a shave, you bo-hunk!”

Soapy’s hand went slowly to his face, which had not felt a razor since the day before his arrest.

“Well,” he said slowly, “thanks, Fat!”

Joe LeClere had his hearing the following day and quite a crowd assembled in the little court-room. Joe was sullen and eyed the crowd angrily. He glared at Hashknife as though he blamed Hashknife for his incarceration. Soapy Weed was sworn in and told exactly what happened that night as far as he was concerned. He admitted trying to shield Joe.

The sheriff told of finding the spot where O’Neil had been killed and exhibited the gun as evidence. Following him came Doctor Plumley, who testified that the handful of leaves had been clotted together with blood. Quite a number of employees of the Silver Streak were present, including Tuck Hayward and McLeod, his ranch foreman.

Joe refused to testify but he did get to his feet and single out Hashknife.

“Yo’re the one that framed all this!” he shouted. “You put me in jail with yore damn meddlin’. Who in hell are you? You better keep yore damn long nose out of my business—or you’ll wish yuh had.”

“Shut up!” snapped the sheriff, jerking Joe down in his chair. “If you’ve got anythin’ to say, be sworn and tell it under oath.”

“I’ve got plenty to say!” snapped Joe. “When it comes down to cases I can say a hell of a lot.”

His eyes roamed the room and he laughed harshly.

And so the judge bound him over to the next term of court and the prosecuting attorney filed a charge of first degree murder against him. There was much speculation as to what Joe had meant about having plenty to say.

In celebration of Soapy’s release he and Cling proceeded to imbibe plenty of hard liquor. They tried to get Chuck Haverty to join them but Chuck was duty bound to stay at the jail. It was only a small building, located about fifty feet behind the sheriff’s office, and a small room at the front was used as a home for the jailer.

Soapy hugged Chuck, cried on his shoulder, told him he was the finest jailer on earth and that they owed him a real good time; but Chuck remained loyal to his job, although he hankered to join the two cowboys and cut loose.

“He was jus’ like a father t’ me, Cling,” sobbed Soapy. “Jus’ like a father and mother t’ me. Oh, he’s lov’ble person, Cling! Shake hands with Chuck, will yuh? Oh, you’ll jist love him; he’s part Scotch—the finan’shl part!”

“Shert’ly glad to meetcha,” said Cling solemnly. “So glad you were kind to our li’l soap weed. Won’t you come and let us buy you a snifter of demon rum?”

“Aw, hell, I can’t leave here!”

“Isn’t he profane?” applauded Soapy. “Didja ever hear a man use pr’fanity better ’n that, Clingin’-Vine? He’s a wunnerful pitch player. Oh, jus’ wunnerful! Ought to be a claim-agent. Claims everythin’; high, low, jack and the game.”

“Go home and sober up,” growled Chuck.

“There y’are!” exploded Soapy. “Tha’s one side of his nature I never rec’gnized. I judged him wrong. I thought he was a hail feller, well met; and the son of a horned-toad tells us to go home and shober up. C’mon! I’m shert’nly disappointed in him. But he’s good to his captives. Oh, my, he’s so good!”

“Aw, go to hell!” snorted Chuck.

Soapy and Cling went to the Chongo Saloon where they essayed a duet. Soapy had a barber-shop tenor which strangled him badly at times, while Clingin’-Vine sang in a mournful baritone with many a quaver and jiggle in his voice.

“Just break the news to Mother,” they sang tearfully, as they leaned against the bar.

Then they broke down and cried while the sleek-haired bartender snorted disgustedly and polished the bar with great vigor. He was also sentimental and that barber-shop chord was something he loved.

“I can’t stand it,” sobbed Soapy. “My heart’s too full for shong.”

“Yore stummick is, yuh mean,” said the bartender callously.

“Tha’s a inshult,” declared Clingin’-Vine tearfully.

And so they locked arms and weaved their way outside where they headed for the Silver Streak. The games were running full blast. They leaned against the bar, imbibed another drink and proceeded to regale the world with:

It didn’t get over so well because the two-piece orchestra, consisting of a violin and a tin-panny piano, were playing “The Irish Washerwoman.”

The singers realized that their efforts were spoiled; so they went back to the little orchestra platform where they sat down together. Several cowboys were dancing with the “girls” and after the dance was finished some one invited the orchestra to have drinks.

The fiddler placed his instrument on the platform near Soapy and headed for the bar. A few moments later Soapy and Cling were out behind the saloon and Soapy had the fiddle and bow.

“The ques’n is,” propounded Cling, “just what in hell did yuh steal that fiddle for, Soapy?”

“The answer to yore overpowerin’ ques’n, Clingin’-Vine, is thish: We need ’companyment to our shong. I never re’lized it so much before.”

“Well, tha’s great, Soapy! But why in hell didn’t you steal the fiddler too?”

“Don’t need ’em.”

“You can’t play no fiddle, Soapy.”

“The hell, I can’t! Ee-magine that, will yuh? I can play anythin’ I can get m’ hands around. I took two lessons on one of these whine-boxes. C’mon!”

They went around several buildings and finally emerged on the street below the Chongo Saloon where they sat down on the sidewalk. Soapy tucked the fiddle under his chin and proceeded to make a lot of wailing discords.

“Rec’nize it, Clingin’-Vine?” he asked.

“Not ’zactly, Soapy; what is she?”

Soapy cuffed his hat over one ear and sang softly:

“Do yuh rec-nize it now, Cling?”

“Well,” sighed Cling, “I’ll take yore word for it. But I will shay thish much; either yore voice or that damn fiddle is way to hell off the tune.”

“It ain’t me, Cling—it’s you. Yore ears ain’t percolatin’ right f’r music.”

“Pos’bly. Now what’ll we do?”

“I jus’ got lovely insp’ration; let’s sherenade Chuck Haverty. Whatcha shay? Le’s give ’m a treat.”

“Oh, lovely! C’mon.”

It was with difficulty that they got to their feet. Soapy dropped the fiddle and they bumped together in trying to recover it. Soapy got a heel through the top of it but they didn’t mind that.

“Prob’ly make it shound better to me,” said Cling.

“Oh, always! Tha’s the firsth thing I’d do if I got me a new fid’l. The very bes’ musicians always step on a fid’l the firs’ thing. I ’member when I was playin’ with a big orc’restra—”

“Big what?”

“Orc-rest-ree.”

“Where and when, Soapy?”

“Tha’s the trouble with you,” sighed Soapy. “I wish I hadn’ brought up that subject. Look out! Didn’ you shee that hitch-rack? When you shee a hitch-rack comin’ toward yuh, don’ try to jump it. Duck under it like I did.”

“When you shee a hitchrack comin’ toward yuh don’t jump it—duck it”

Soapy crawled around on his hands and knees, recovering the stolen fiddle, while Cling sat on the edge of the sidewalk and nursed his nose. They finally got on the sidewalk and went past the sheriff’s office to the alley which led around to the jail.

They managed to reach the front steps of the jail where they sat down together. The fiddle had been all knocked out of tune but they didn’t mind. Soapy sawed dolefully on the loosened strings while both of them sang mournfully. It was a terrible musical effort.

For possibly ten minutes they sawed and sang but nothing came of it. Their last few drinks had begun to take active effect and their final song was a series of squeaks and vocal discords.

“Do you shuppose we shung him to sleep?” asked Soapy.

“Tha’s about the shize of ’t. Let’s go and wake ’m up.”

The door was unlocked, so they went in. But there was no sign of Chuck Haverty. Cling smashed the lamp in trying to light it and Soapy fell down across his fiddle, breaking the neck completely off it, and they ended their evening when Cling fell across Chuck’s bed and Soapy went to sleep with his head pillowed on the broken fiddle.

“No, the sheriff ain’t here. He went to the mines early this mornin’ and he won’t be back before this afternoon. You say somebody stole yore fiddle? Well,” Weary braced one elbow against the side of the office doorway and rubbed his touseled hair vigorously, “I dunno nothin’ about it. Now, if it was a stolen cow or a horse—”

“Well, it ain’t—it’s my fiddle.”

The fiddler from the Silver Streak spat angrily and considered the sleepy deputy who stood barefooted in the doorway with only a pair of over-alls over his red underwear. He had just got out of bed.

“Yeah, it’s yore fiddle,” admitted Weary. “After listenin’ to you playin’ it, Andy, I’d look for a deaf man if I was you. Nobody with two good ears would ever steal that fiddle.”

“It cost me seven dollars and six bits.”

“Which was pretty high for that kind of a fiddle.”

“Who do yuh reckon would steal it, Weary?”

“Somebody prob’ly played a joke on yuh. One of the boys prob’ly took it.”

“Yeah, that might be. I went to take a drink last night and when I came back it was gone.”

“Well, you’ll find it. A fiddle ain’t somethin’ yuh can get rid of. Ain’t very many fiddles in this country. Didja have yore initials cut in it or anythin’?”

“Yuh don’t do things like that to a fiddle. Might ruin the tone.”

“Aw, hell! You could shoot yore initials in that one with a buffalo-gun and never hurt the tone. But I’ll keep an ear cocked, Andy. I’d recognize that fiddle, y’ betcha!”

“Thank yuh, Weary.”

Weary watched him go up the street, shook his head and went back to dress.

“This here country is goin’ to the dogs,” he told the four walls of the office. “When they start rustlin’ fiddles I’m all through. And that kind of a fiddle!”

He buttoned up his shirt and drew on his boots. Weary wore boots a size too small and they gave him misery in the morning. He stomped around the office for a while, picked up his hat and went back to see Chuck. They usually ate breakfast together, after which Chuck carried a tray of food to the jail.

Weary walked right in, stopped short and looked around. Cling Heffner was sprawled across Chuck’s bed while in the middle of the room was Soapy Weed, lying across the smashed fiddle. Just beside Soapy was the oil-lamp, just a pile of smashed glass now amid a huge ring of kerosene.

Both men were snoring industriously. Weary rubbed his chin and considered them gravely. There was the missing fiddle—what was left of it. But there was no sign of Chuck. There was a half-barred door leading down the jail corridor which was always kept locked, but when Weary turned the knob the door swung open. There was no one in the corridor.

“Chuck!” called Weary, but there was no response.

Weary walked down the short corridor and leaned against the bars of Joe LeClere’s cage. Joe was lying in the middle of the floor, instead of on his cot. Weary snorted with indignation and walked back to Chuck’s room where he surveyed the wreckage and the two sleeping men.

“Drunken lotta bums!” he snorted virtuously. “Slipped the bottle to our prisoner, didja? Gotta good notion to kick yuh both out in the alley where yuh belong. I suppose Chuck is over at some saloon cryin’ on the bartender’s shoulder.”

Weary went outside, slammed the door shut and headed up the alley, telling himself that he was going to talk plenty strong to Chuck Haverty. Of course he wasn’t Chuck’s boss but that didn’t matter. The idea of making a barroom out of a perfectly respectable jail! Chuck would hear about it in plain language.

Chuck wasn’t in the Chongo Saloon. Nobody in there except a couple of swampers and a bartender. At the doorway of the Silver Streak he met Sleepy who had just come over from the hotel.

“Seen anythin’ of Chuck?” asked Weary.

“Not this mornin’, Weary.”

“Ain’t in the Silver Streak?”

“Wasn’t ten seconds ago. Yuh don’t mean to say you’ve lost yore jailer, do yuh?”

“Kinda looks like it,” grunted Weary and proceeded to tell Sleepy about Cling and Soapy and the busted fiddle.

Sleepy laughed at Weary’s description of the fiddler bewailing his loss.

“I was here when he missed it,” chuckled Sleepy. “Accused everybody except Tuck Hayward of stealin’ it. I wondered who got it. Come to think of it, I did see Cling and Soapy over there by the orchestra but I never connected them with the disappearance of the fiddle. Did Fat say what time him and Hashknife would be back?”

“Afternoon, I reckon. Fat was goin’ to check up on a shipment of hides from the Box 88 and Hashknife went with him.”

“I know about that part of it. Yuh say Soapy and Cling slipped some liquor to Joe LeClere?”

“Shore did! Fat will give Chuck hell for this, y’ betcha.”

“Mebby we better get that fiddle and bury it before the owner of it finds out who got it.”

“Aw, to hell with it! I hope he makes Soapy and Cling pay a month’s salary for bustin’ it. And that don’t mean the fiddler is any friend of mine either. Chuck would have been respectable if them two geezers had stayed away from him. They’d corrupt anybody.”

They walked back across the street and sat down in the office to have a smoke.

“Do yuh suppose Yvonne LeClere is stuck on Soapy?” asked Sleepy.

Weary cocked one eye at Sleepy and grinned widely.

“Not me!” laughed Sleepy. “I’m female proof.”

“Me too!” sighed Weary. “I dunno about Soapy. He kinda had the inside track, it looked like t’ me. But yuh never can tell about a woman. I had a girl turn me down for a bat-eared shepherd once. Fact! Ever since then I’ve kinda steered away from ’em. Gee, he shore was bat-eared!”

“Marry her?”

“Shore did.”

“Had money, eh?”

“Had ten dollars I loaned him, if yuh call that money. It was so much he never paid me back. That was seven years ago and they’ve got two sets of twins and a couple singles. I’ve seen ’em all and every kid has got bat-ears.”

“Marriage is a serious thing,” smiled Sleepy.

“If yuh don’t think so jist take a look at them twins and singles. Six of ’em to feed and clothe! I’ll betcha it’s serious. It shore would crimp a salary like mine. But if I had ’em I’d pin back their ears while they was young. If a feller with ears like that ever moved to a windy country he’d have to carry a rudder.”

In the meantime Hashknife and Fat rode to the mines on Chongo Creek. Hayward had notified the sheriff that he was going to ship hides in a few days and they had to be inspected by the sheriff’s office.

They found Cornes and Asher at the butchering corrals. Cornes had met Hashknife and now he introduced him to Asher, a skinny, long-nosed cowboy. The two went on about their work while Hashknife assisted Fat in checking over hides. It was not a long job and they found every hide branded with the Box 88. The sheriff tagged each bundle with an inspection card. Neither he nor Hashknife was interested in the mines; so they started back as soon as their work was finished.

“Didja ever find anythin’ besides a Box 88 hide?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Twice,” replied Fat. “Once it was an AH and the other time it was an IS. They got in by mistake and were killed. But both owners were paid the market price and the hides were returned. Oh, Tuck Hayward is square as a dollar in his cow business! I dunno much about his gamblin’ games.”

Hashknife was gravely thoughtful. He had examined every one of those hides and had noticed certain things that puzzled him greatly. LeClere swore that he was losing stock—and Hashknife believed him. But where were they going? And what was Joe LeClere going to do with the Box 88 stock he had in that brush corral? Why was he heating a running-iron? What in the world could he do with a running-iron on a Box 88? To change that brand to any other brand on the range would be impossible. If he boldly vented the brand and ran on another it would be a plain case of suicide. As far as Hashknife could find out, the IS had no vent-brand. That is, a brand to use in case an animal is vented, showing that the IS came by the animal legally.

And apparently Tuck Hayward was a friend of Joe LeClere. Hashknife had puzzled over it ever since he had been in the country and he was no nearer to a solution now.

“How do yuh account for LeClere losin’ cattle?” he asked the sheriff, as they rode back to town.

“I don’t account for it, Hashknife. The old man is loco.”

“His round-up tally has showed short twice now.”

“His tally, Hashknife. I know what his last tally showed and I’ll check up myself next round-up. I don’t believe he ever had any cows stolen. Nobody else has lost any.”

“Mebby yo’re right. It looks that-away, Fat.”

“I know I’m right.”

And while they rode back to Chongo town Soapy Weed opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. His mouth was apparently full of ashes and there was a dull throb in the back of his head. After due deliberation he raised up and looked around.

Beneath his left elbow were the remains of that fiddle and he squinted at them curiously. He looked at Cling’s feet dangling over the edge of the cot. His head turned and he looked at the half-open door where the sunlight glared through.

He spat dryly and rubbed his eyes.

“I must have fallen asleep,” he said huskily.

“Ditto.”

He turned and looked at Cling who was sitting up with a queer expression in his face.

“Ditto, eh?” said Soapy.

“Yeah—ditto. We both fell asleep. Lemme see—”

“Where’d this damn fiddle come from, Cling?”

“Don’tcha remember, Soapy? We stole it at the Silver Streak.”

“That’s right. Oh, yeah, I remember now! What time is it?”

“Forgot to wind m’ watch last night, and it stopped.”

“Must be almost noon,” squinting at the sunlight.

“Funny thing they ain’t found us,” yawned Cling. “Wonder where Chuck is? My God, did we upset that lamp, Soapy?”

“Lamps,” said Soapy seriously, “don’t usually fall down and break themselves. My God, this fiddle is a wreck!”

“So’m I. Oh, what a head! What did we drink, do yuh s’pose?”

“We drank anythin’. I’m hungry.”

“I’m not. Waugh!” Cling got to his feet and went over to the doorway. “No water close, I don’t reckon. My God, I’m ninety per cent dryer than Death Valley in July!”

“C’mon,” sighed Soapy wearily. “No use stayin’ here.”

He kicked the fiddle under the cot and led the way out through the narrow alley to the street. Weary was in the office door and looked them over pityingly,

“Drunken bums!” he said solemnly. They stopped together and made wry faces at him. Sleepy came and stood beside Weary, a grin on his face.

“Yo’re gonna get hell,” declared Weary. “Wait’ll Fat gets back.”

“Since when did it become a penitentiary offense to get drunk in Chongo?” asked Soapy.

“I suppose yuh got Chuck drunk and left him in an alley,” said Weary.

“Yo’re crazy as hell! We never even seen him.”

“Addin’ lies to his other crimes,” said Weary sadly.

Soapy spat dryly and looked longingly across the street.

“I need water,” said Cling. “Need lotsa water. Let’s go down to the livery-stable pump and drink her dry.”

“Where’s Chuck?” asked Weary.

“We never seen him,” said Soapy indignantly. “What’s all the fuss about anyway?”

“I suppose you’ll deny that yuh slipped a bottle to Joe LeClere?”

Soapy shut one eye and looked at Cling.

“Remember anythin’ like that, Cling?”

“Not me. My thinker ain’t so clear, but I’ll be damned if I remember any such a thing as that.”

“Yuh remember stealin’ the fiddle, don’tcha?”

“What fiddle?” asked Soapy innocently.

“There yuh go,” wailed Weary. “What fiddle? Why, the one yuh was sleepin’ on.”

“Didja see me on any fiddle, Cling?”

“’F yuh ask me anythin’ about it I’d say that Weary is fit to herd sheep. C’mon, Soapy; this conversation makes me awful dry.”

They wandered across the street and down to the livery-stable, where they took turns at pumping water over one another’s heads.

“I know just how they feel,” grinned Sleepy, rolling a cigaret. “It don’t pay.”

“It shore don’t,” agreed Weary. “Gosh, I wish Chuck would show up! He’s supposed to pack some food to the prisoner.”

“Probably the prisoner don’t feel like food.”

“Prob’ly not. Oh, I dunno! I guess it’s Chuck’s business.”

“Chuck’s a good feller, Weary.”

“Shore! But—well, mebby I better kinda clean up things. I’ll see if Joe is in any mood to eat. Want to go along?”

They closed up the office and walked around to the jail. Chuck was not in evidence. Weary picked up the remains of the broken lamp and threw them outside. Sleepy examined the fiddle and declared that it was ruined forever.

“We’ll hide it,” said Weary. “But, by golly, I’ll see that Soapy and Cling pay the fiddler for it!”

They walked back through the corridor and peered in Joe’s cell. Joe was lying in the same position as when Weary last saw him. It was still a little dark in the cell.

“Wake up and pay for yore lodgin’!” yelled Weary. “Hey! Joe! Time to get up!”

But Joe didn’t move. Weary looked at Sleepy, who was peering closely.

“What’s the matter with the damn fool?”

“Have you got a key to this cell, Weary?”

“Chuck’s got ’em.”

“This don’t look right to me,” said Sleepy seriously.

“Yuh don’t think he’s hurt or sick, do yuh, Sleepy?”

“He acts like a dead man.”

“Well, that ain’t—hey? Joe! Wake up, can’tcha?”

“Let’s see if we can’t find Chuck.”

They went outside and looked around. Weary was visibly nervous.

“I dunno where to look. Damn it, what do yuh reckon has gone wrong?”

Sleepy led the way over to the sheriff’s stable, which was large enough to take care of four horses. Two horses were still in the stalls. But Chuck was not there. At the rear of the stable was a small pole corral where the owners kept their hay. Sleepy shoved his way between the hay and the rear of the stable and there they found Chuck Haverty tightly bound and effectively gagged.

There was blood on the gagged head, but the man was unconscious

There was blood on his face and neck from a bruise on the side of his head but he was conscious. Quickly they cut the gag loose and stripped off the ropes. Chuck made no effort to get up; so they braced him against the hay and waited for him to get his voice back again. The corners of his mouth had been bruised by the gag until they bled and it took him quite a while to articulate at all. He grimaced with agony as the returning circulation sent streamers of pain through his arms and legs. Five minutes passed before he was able to stagger back to the jail where Weary unearthed a small bottle of liquor Chuck emptied.

“Can yuh talk now, Chuck?” asked Weary.

“Can try it,” mumbled Chuck painfully. “What happened?”

“You’ll have to tell us; we don’t know.”

Chuck shook his head painfully.

“I dunno. Somebody called to me, and I stuck my head out. I guess they sapped me on the head. I woke up out there in the hay.”

“Was that last night, Chuck?”

“About nine. I was goin’ to bed.”

“Where are the keys to the cells?”

“Under the mattress on my bunk.”

Weary lifted the mattress and found the keys. Chuck sat down on the bunk and held his head in his hands while Weary and Sleepy went back and unlocked Joe’s cell.

“My God, he’s been shot!” exclaimed Weary. “Look at the blood, will yuh? What the hell has been goin’ on, anyway?”

“He ain’t dead,” said Sleepy, after they had turned Joe over. “Must have been shot quite a while ago, judgin’ from the dried gore on his shirt. Better get the doctor quick as yuh can.”

“You stay here, will yuh, Sleepy?”

“Shore thing. Get goin’.”

Weary dashed out after the doctor and Sleepy went back to Chuck, who listened vacantly to what Sleepy told him.

“I dunno,” wailed Chuck. “I’m sick as a fool. They busted me in the cranium, didn’t they? And they shot Joe? That’s a hell of a thing to do. Where’s Fat?”

“Him and Hashknife are out at the mines, checkin’ hides. You say yuh heard somebody callin’ yore name, Chuck?”

“Yeah. I thought it was some of you boys. But I didn’t see ’em. I stuck my head out, thasall.”

Sleepy walked out on the little step and saw Hashknife and the sheriff riding up to the little stable. He called to them and they rode over. In a few words Sleepy told them what had happened, and while they were examining Joe Weary and the doctor came in.

In a few minutes half the town was in front of the jail

They moved Joe to the front of the building for the doctor to make his examination and a few minutes later it seemed as though half the town of Chongo was in front of the building, trying to find out what had happened. Sleepy went out and told them what the trouble was all about. In the meantime the doctor had ordered Joe to be taken to his office. They put him on the cot and carried him down there, with Chuck trailing along to get his head fixed up.

Joe LeClere was badly hurt. A bullet had passed through his left side a few inches above his heart and the doctor was a bit dubious. Over a dozen hours had elapsed since the bullet had been fired.

Hashknife found the bullet on the cell floor. It was a forty-five, with the nose only slightly battered. Doctor Plumley spent considerable time over the wound and after Joe was in bed he patched Chuck Haverty, who needed a couple of stitches in his scalp.

Soapy and Cling lost no time in coming to the sheriff with their story. They admitted that they had gone to the jailer’s with the intention of serenading Chuck with the fiddle and that they hadn’t found Chuck. They had had no idea what time of night it was but they had been sure it was only a short time after they had stolen the fiddle.

This would place the time of the shooting between nine and nine-thirty. No one had heard the shot fired but that was easily accounted for, as the corridor had probably been closed and the shot fired at close quarters. Outside the sound would probably have been only a jarring thud. And the shooting had been done while Chuck was still knocked out and probably in the hay and just a short time before the serenaders arrived.

Soapy and Cling chipped in and paid the fiddler what the fiddle had cost him, after Weary had sworn to the price as told to him by the fiddler, Andy Elders.

Fat was gloomy. It was rather a discredit to the sheriff’s office to have somebody knock out his jailer and shoot down a prisoner in his cell. It established a precedent which did not exactly suit Fat, who went around uneasily, his hands shoved down in his pockets, chewing an unlighted match.

He sent Weary out to notify Joe’s father and sister and Weary cursed Fat all the way out to the ranch. The job wasn’t one to please Weary. Hashknife and Sleepy sat on the Silver Streak hitch-rack and smoked calmly while the rest of the town discussed the latest development in the local crime wave.

“What do yuh know for sure?” asked Sleepy.

“Don’t know a darn thing,” said Hashknife. “But I do know it’s goin’ to take more luck than brains to find out who shot Joe.”

“Somebody wanted him out of the way, don’tcha think?”

“Very evident,” dryly.

“How many in the gang?”

Hashknife smiled sourly.

“I’m no mind-reader, Sleepy. We looked over all them hides and they belonged to Box 88. Of course the Box 88 wouldn’t make any fool moves. They’d be suckers to show a wrong hide. Fat thinks they’re on the square and I can’t find a thing to prove they’re not. If I only knew what Joe LeClere was goin’ to do with them Box 88 cows he had in that brush corral! Now Joe is pretty badly shot up and the doctor don’t think he’s got a chance to pull through. He’s the one who could put me on the right track. I’ll bet he knows who shot him. Or he’d know who might shoot him. It’s all a muddle, I tell yuh.”

“And the man who pokes his nose into it is liable to get what Joe got,” said Sleepy.

“He’s the third one,” said Hashknife. “Three times and out.”

“You think there’s any connection between this shootin’ and the other two, Hashknife?”

“I dunno. There might be. All three men were shot with a gun.”

“You think yo’re pretty damn smart, don’tcha?”

“No, I don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “I know I’m not.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were down at the sheriff’s office when Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came in. Weary had told them the whole story with embellishments.

Frenchy had little to say but there was misery in his eyes. He loved Joe in spite of Joe’s wild ways. Hashknife shook hands with the old man and with Yvonne. Fat went with them to the doctor’s office. Joe was unconscious. The doctor seemed more hopeful than he had been at first.

“It was a clean hole,” he told them. “Went through a thin shirt and I don’t think any of it went inside. He’s got a fighting chance.”

“She’s look awful w’ite,” whispered Frenchy, shaking his head. “By gosh, I’m like to fin’ de man who shot her! You fix her up, Doc, eh? I’m like to take her home.”

“Can’t move him now, Mr. LeClere. Might be fatal.”

“I suppose not. You t’nk she’s get well?”

“I hope he will.”

“I’m hope so too, Doc. She’s good boy—jus’ wild. I’m hire good lawyer for her. If she’s die now—always Frenchy LeClere’s boy be murderer.”

“He isn’t going to die, Dad,” whispered Yvonne hopefully.

He patted her on the shoulder but there were tears in his eyes as they walked out. They met Tuck Hayward just at the doorway and the big man was sympathetic.

“I just heard about it,” he told them. “Went out to the ranch last night and just got in. How is he?”

“Mebby she’s live,” said Frenchy. “Pretty bad!”

“Gosh, that’s tough! Joe’s a good boy. I’ll go in and have a talk with the doctor.”

Frenchy and Yvonne walked up the street together to where their team was hitched. Frenchy went into a store to make some purchases and while he was there Soapy Weed came down the sidewalk. Yvonne smiled wistfully at Soapy and his heart missed a whole beat. He had expected her to turn him down.

“Hello, Yvonne!” he said softly. “Gosh, I’m sorry about what happened! Didja see Joe? How is he?”

“Not very good, Soapy. I didn’t know whether you’d speak to me or not, after I didn’t come to the jail to see you—and all that.”

“Oh, that didn’t make no difference, Yvonne!”

“I should have come, Soapy. I realized you were protecting Joe all the time—and me.”

“I didn’t do very much good. It was all right until Hashknife and Fat found the gun. They had me cinched and I had to tell the truth. I was shore glad to get out, but it was tough on Joe. And now look what’s happened to him!”

Yvonne nodded wearily.

“If Joe dies they’ll never know who killed O’Neil.”

“Do yuh reckon he knows?” asked Soapy quickly.

“I don’t know.”

“Well, let’s hope he don’t die. I mean, we’ll shore pull for him to get well. Joe’s all right. Can’t I come out and see yuh, Yvonne? Gosh, I’d shore like to!”

“Why don’t you, Soapy?”

“Well, I am coming! Gosh!”

“But don’t bring a fiddle.”

Soapy’s ears turned scarlet. He tried to speak but his tongue refused. Then—

“We—Weary told yuh? Oh, that ornery sheepherder!”

Yvonne laughed softly.

“He mentioned it,” she said.

“He would! Well, I reckon I didn’t play it well.”

“He said you didn’t.”

Frenchy LeClere was coming from the store and Soapy was glad of the interruption. He wanted to tell Weary what he thought of him.

“Hello, Soapee!” said Frenchy. “How you come, eh?”

“Swell—elegant!” grinned Soapy.

“You play de feedle now, eh? Feedle music ver’ good. Sometime you come out and play de feedle for de ol’ man, eh?”

Soapy opened and shut his mouth several times. Then—

“I’ll be out—sure!”

Soapy headed straight for the sheriff’s office where he found Weary, Fat and Chuck. They were discussing the shooting of Joe LeClere and welcomed Soapy warmly.

“I dunno nothin’ except what I’ve told yuh,” he declared, when they wanted him to repeat what had happened. “Ask Weary. He knows more about it than I do.”

“I wasn’t there,” said Weary.

“Well, you know all about it, judgin’ from what I heard. You shore spread that fiddle story around,” sneered Soapy. Weary’s face broke into a wide grin.

“I never told anybody except Frenchy and Yvonne. I had to tell it all, yuh see. And I had to tell ’em about the fiddle.”

“Yuh would! Things like that are a duty to you.”

“All I told ’em was that you got drunk, stole a fiddle, tried to serenade Chuck and then fell down and used the fiddle for a piller. That ain’t much, is it?”

“Well, I don’t know of a damn thing yuh left out.”

“I forgot to tell ’em that you paid for the fiddle.”

“You would! Any damn redeemin’ feature you’d leave out.”

“That ain’t no redeemin’ feature,” laughed Weary. “You paid up when yuh was caught with the goods.”

“That’s all right,” grinned Soapy. “Wait’ll I get a chance to deal you a bum hand!”

Hashknife and Sleepy were at a restaurant when an idea suddenly occurred to Hashknife. He laid down his knife and looked intently at Sleepy as he said:

“You remembered the time we met McFee, didn’t yuh?”

“Sure.”

“He was deputy sheriff of Piney River and he was on the trail of a horse-thief.”

“That was it. He said the man’s name was Welton or Holton or—”

“Belton! ‘Bitter River’ Belton, he called him.”

“That’s the baby!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s memory for yuh! But what good does that do us?”

“Quien sabe? as they say below the line.”

They finished their meal and sauntered down to the depot where a tired-looking depot agent fought flies with an old palm-leaf fan and tried to amuse himself with an old magazine. Hashknife secured a telegraph blank and wrote out the following message:

SHERIFF OF PINEY RIVER WYOMING

IF POSSIBLE WIRE ME COMPLETE DESCRIPTION OF BITTER RIVER BELTON WANTED BY YOUR COUNTY ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO STOP MUST BE COMPLETE FOR IDENTIFICATION

GARNETTE SHERIFF

Hashknife paid for the wire and they went back up the street.

“What in hell has Bitter River Belton got to do with this proposition?” queried Sleepy.

“Not a thing, I’ll bet! Just a hunch, Sleepy. When yo’re stuck as solid as I am you’ll play hunches.”

“I don’t see where Belton could figure—”

“Neither do I, Sleepy. Go on and forget him. He’s just a name as far as we’re concerned—but don’t mention it.”

“Oh, all right! I always travel in the dark in these things. I don’t know why yuh don’t never tell me anythin’.”

“Life is just travelin’ in the dark, Sleepy. We all do. We don’t know what it’s all about. And when we’re dead—take yore pick of resurrection, reincarnation or the end of things. I knowed a feller who believed in reincarnation. He was sure he’d come back in a different form. And I’ll be a liar if I don’t believe he did. About five years after his death I met a polecat. Well—aw, go ahead and laugh! There’s lots of things we don’t know about.”

“I feel better about it now,” laughed Sleepy.

The next morning Joe LeClere was still alive and the doctor was still hopeful. Yvonne rode in early to see how Joe was getting along and Hashknife and Sleepy rode home with her. She tried to appear hopeful but it was no use.

“Dad worries so much,” she said. “He’s afraid Joe will die and that he will never get cleared of that murder charge. Dad doesn’t believe Joe is guilty of course.”

“Do you?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t believe he killed O’Neil but I believe he knows who did kill him. The morning O’Neil was killed Joe didn’t come home until daylight. He wasn’t home when I got back from that dance.”

“Does the sheriff know this, Yvonne?” She shook her head quickly.

“You are the only one I’ve told.”

“Then he wasn’t at home when Soapy Weed found the body, eh? That looks bad. Where do yuh reckon he was?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Your father doesn’t know this?”

“No. He would be the last person I’d ever tell. Oh, I want him to keep his faith in Joe!”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s best. But why did you tell me all this, Yvonne?”

“Because—well, I don’t just know, Hashknife. You played so square with me that day—the first time I ever saw you. You saved Dad a big heartache. If he had known that Joe was a rustler it would have killed him, I think.”

“Thank yuh for the confidence, Yvonne. I’m doin’ everythin’ I can to save Joe. It’s one awful jumble though.”

They rode in at the ranch and Hashknife unsaddled her horse while she went in the house. Frenchy came down to them and was questioning Hashknife about Joe when Yvonne came out on the porch and Sleepy went up to her, leading his horse.

“I don’t know, Hart-lee,” sighed the old Frenchman. “Joe she’s not so very strong and she’s bad hurt.”

“He’ll be all right, Mr. LeClere,” assured Hashknife. “You quit worryin’.”

“I guess I worry all my life ’bout Joe,” wistfully.

“Aw, Joe’s all right.”

“It is nice from you to say good t’ing of Joe—when you know better.”

Hashknife looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant.

“You try to save de old man,” said Frenchy softly. “You tell me Joe she’s h’accidently shoot herself.”

He lifted his eyes and looked at Hashknife.

“You know it is not true, Hart-lee. I’m fin’ dat gonn has not been shoot and de mag’zine she’s full of shells.”

“Oh, yeah!” sighed Hashknife, trying to think of a reasonable alibi. “Well, yuh see, we cleaned—”

“Non, non!” the old man shook his head quickly. “I’m go back to de spring where Joe says she’s got shot. I’m h’examine spring ver’ close. Nobody she’s got shot dere. Bimeby I ride up de cañon and somet’ing led me to a brush corral. She’s full of Box 88 cows. I turn him loose. Now, w’at you say?”

“Well, old-timer,” said Hashknife slowly, “I ain’t got a thing to say. I done what I thought was for the best.”

“I know, Hart-lee. You are w’ite man. You never tell nobody ’bout my Joe. I’m glad to know man like you.”

“Shucks!” said Hashknife. “It wasn’t none of my business. And anyway I shot him. He shot first of course.”

“I know. I never h’ask Joe. I’m jus’ let it go. But I want you to know I ’preciate w’at you do for me.”

“Well, yo’re shore welcome, Mr. LeClere!”

They walked up to the porch and talked with Yvonne a few minutes before they mounted and rode away. Hashknife told Sleepy what the old man had found out and Sleepy whistled softly.

“He’s no fool, Hashknife. Yuh can tell by his eyes that he’s a smart man. But ain’t it hell to see the hurt in his eyes? When they get old—and get hurt—”

“That’s the worst of it, Sleepy. I can see my old dad in most every white-haired man I find. He had his failings the same as every one. But he was awful human. Mother was human, too. My God, she had to be to raise a family like she did! They’re both gone now. I wasn’t there when they went away.”

“That was my fix,” sighed Sleepy. “Where are we goin’?”

“Out in the hills, just ridin’ I suppose. I get tired of town and I want to look at cows and horses.”

They rode far back into the hills, just drifting along. At times they would draw up their horses to look at range stock, sometimes just to look at the panorama of the hills slumbering in the afternoon sun. They did little talking. Wild horses threw up their heads from afar and looked at the two riders until a suspicious stallion led them away on a wild chase farther back into the hills.

Range cattle eyed them suspiciously but allowed them to ride in close. Hashknife was reading brands as they went along, the IS, AH and the Box 88, of which the Box 88 predominated.

They had ridden out on a flat mesa, where several head of stock were crossing near them and Hashknife began taking down his rope.

“Let’s take that roan steer, Sleepy,” he said, pointing to an animal which had just passed them.

Sleepy shook out his rope, swinging to the right, as Hashknife, swinging a wide loop, rode to the left at a gallop. His first cast encircled the animal’s head and Ghost sat back quickly, whirling the surprised animal around. Sleepy, riding in close, deftly roped its hind legs and a moment later the big steer was stretched out on its side, bawling softly, while Hashknife dismounted and came along his rope. They had thrown the animal on its left side, exposing the Box 88 on its right shoulder.

Hashknife leaned over the animal, examining the brand closely. It was a Box 88 but seemed to have been made rather recently. There were no other marks on the animal.

“What did yuh find?” asked Sleepy.

“Fresh brand on an old steer. Looks and feels all right.”

Neither of them saw two riders come over the edge of the mesa behind them and neither was aware that another human was within miles until they heard McLeod of the Box 88 say:

“What in hell is the big idea?”

Hashknife straightened up suddenly. Within fifty feet of them sat McLeod and Asher, looking them over curiously. It was rather an embarrassing position for Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Oh, hello!” said Hashknife easily.

“That’s a Box 88, ain’t it?” queried McLeod coldly.

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.

“Then what in hell are you two jaspers doin’ with him? I’d like to know.”

Hashknife smiled softly.

“We thought we knowed this critter,” he said slowly. “He was too shy for close inspection; so we used a rope.”

“Sounds damn fishy to me.”

“Don’tcha like fish, McLeod?”

“Never you mind what I like; and I don’t like yore explanation, Hartley.”

Hashknife walked over to McLeod, who eyed him angrily.

“That’s the only explanation we’re usin’ today, McLeod.”

“The hell it is!”

“Just that—and no more.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah!”

McLeod looked Hashknife over closely. He intended telling this lanky cowpuncher what he thought of people who get free with their rope, but there was something in those level gray eyes which caused him to hesitate. He looked at Sleepy, who was lolling sideways in his saddle a half-smile on his face, resting his right hand on his hip just above the butt of his gun.

“The sheriff might be interested in this,” said McLeod.

“He might,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s shore soakin’ up all the information he can get.”

“We been wonderin’ about you,” said McLeod meaningly.

“Yeah?”

“Wonderin’ what yo’re both doin’ around here.”

“Found out anythin’ yet?”

“Well, yuh can draw yore own conclusions. You’ll probably hear more about this later.”

“If there’s anythin’ I can help yuh out on—don’t hesitate to speak about it.”

McLeod grunted, turned his horse around and he and Asher rode away, disappearing over the edge of the mesa. Hashknife looked at Sleepy and they both laughed foolishly.

“Hell of a situation!” snorted Hashknife as he removed the ropes and let the steer go its way.

“A damn dangerous situation!” said Sleepy.

“Mebby more than you think, cowboy! I reckon we better go back to town before we get into any more mischief.”

They rode off the mesa and headed back for Chongo town while McLeod and Asher swung further to the east, forded the river about two miles above the town, taking a short-cut to the Box 88. McLeod was properly indignant. He told the wide world that he didn’t want strangers roping Box 88 cattle in the hills.

“Why didn’t yuh bawl that tall puncher out good?” asked Asher innocently.

“Didn’t I?”

“Well, yuh didn’t scare him none, Mac. He don’t look like a person yuh could scare very easy.”

“I reckon he’s salty,” agreed McLeod. “But he can’t get away with that kind of stuff, y’betcha.”

They found Tuck Hayward at the ranch with Mike Dalhart and McLeod lost no time in telling Tuck what they had seen and what had been said.

“What’s it all about?” queried Tuck.

“I dunno. They had the steer tied down when we walked in on ’em.”

“Why didn’t yuh smoke ’em up, the dirty thieves?” asked Dalhart.

“Well, they hadn’t stole anythin’, Mike.”

“What the hell kinda evidence do you have to have?”

“I’ll run my end of the business, Dalhart.”

“You keep out of this, Mike,” ordered Hayward.

“Oh, all right!”

Dalhart and Asher went down to the bunk-house, leaving Hayward and McLeod to talk it over.

“Just what did they seem to be doin’, Mac?” asked Tuck.

“Stevens was on his horse and Hartley was lookin’ at the brand. I dunno what it was all about but they shore felt cheap when we moved in on ’em.”

“Scared ’em, eh?”

“Like hell! You try to scare ’em, Tuck!”

“You say they felt cheap?”

“Well, you know what I mean. I reckon we better keep an eye on ’em.”

“It was a Box 88 they was lookin’ at?”

“Shore was!”

“I wish I knew what the idea was, Mac. Well, I reckon there wasn’t any harm done; so we won’t say anythin’ about it. I may mention it to the sheriff. As long as they didn’t have no fire nor runnin’-iron—”

“No, they didn’t, Tuck. But I don’t like their curiosity.”

“Well, just forget it. Did the sheriff check over that bunch of hides at the mine?”

“I reckon he did. Asher said that Hartley was out with Fat and they tagged all the hides.”

“Hartley was out there, eh?”

“That’s what Asher told me.”

“Mm-m-m-m! Well, I’ve got to go back to town, Mac.”

“How’s Joe LeClere?”

“Still alive. Doctor said he had a fightin’ chance.”

“Who the hell do yuh suppose shot him, Tuck?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” laughed Hayward. “Queer proposition! Well, I’ll see yuh later, Mac.”

Hashknife told Fat Garnette about the steer-roping incident as soon as he got back to town.

Fat didn’t seem to see any reason why Hashknife should throw a Box 88 steer until Hashknife explained that the brand looked too new.

“You ain’t tryin’ to put anythin’ on the Box 88, are yuh?” Fat wanted to know.

“Just curious,” smiled Hashknife.

“Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know, don’t yuh?”

“I’ve heard since that it didn’t. How’s Joe?”

“Still alive.”

Fat cuffed his sombrero over one ear and spat violently.

“I can’t make head nor tail out of it. If there’s one more killin’ I’ll be fit for the bug-house. What we need is a detective. As much as I hate the breed, I reckon we need one. I’ve been talkin’ to the prosecutin’ attorney for an hour or more and I’ll be damned if I don’t think they blame me for everythin’. The county commissioners had a meetin’—and they blame me.”

“I don’t blame yuh, Fat. I’m as much at sea as you are.”

“You? What the hell is it to you? Yo’re not a sheriff. They even wanted to know who you are. I couldn’t tell ’em. I tell yuh, I’m gettin’ so thin that my pants won’t stay up. Gotta wear suspenders, I suppose. Ain’t protectin’ society! I suppose they think I’m protectin’ murderers. By golly, I’ll resign—that’s what I’ll do! To hell with the job!”

Hashknife laughed and slapped Fat on the shoulder.

“Stay with ’em, pardner; you’ll win out.”

“Yeah, I’ll worry myself into a grave.”

Chuck Haverty had recovered from his busted scalp and he wanted revenge.

“Show me the geezer that petted me on the head and I’ll give yuh a first-class corpse,” he declared.

“Prob’ly stubbed yore toe and butted yore head against the door,” said the unfeeling Weary. “Yo’re a hell of a jailer.”

“I suppose yuh think I shot Joe and then tied myself up.”

“Wouldn’t put anythin’ past yuh, Chuck.”

“Well, I didn’t. Weary, ain’t you got no idea who might have done it? My God, some of us ort to figure out who done it! Fat is goin’ around fightin’ his hat all the time. Mebby if we steal his hat he’ll start thinkin’. Where is he?”

“I seen him and Hashknife together a while ago and they was headin’ for the Chongo Saloon.”

Chuck started to walk toward the door when the tired-eyed depot agent came in, bringing a telegram.

“A wire for the sheriff,” he said, handing it to Weary.

“Don’t suppose there’s an answer but I’ll wait and see.”

Weary tore it open and scanned the contents. It was from Evans, sheriff of Piney River, and said:

BITTER RIVER BELTON DARK SKINNED FIVE FEET TEN WEIGHT ABOUT ONE FIFTY SMALL BROWN EYES THREE MOLES TOGETHER ON UPPER LEFT WRIST AND A DEEP SCAR ON LEFT ELBOW STOP CONVICTED OF SECOND DEGREE MURDER HERE BUT ESCAPED STOP ADVISE IF YOU HAVE HIM

As Weary was puzzling over the telegram Tuck Hayward came in.

“I don’t reckon there’s any answer,” said Weary. “Fat ain’t here now. If there’s an answer he’ll come up to send it.”

The depot agent nodded and went out as Weary turned to Tuck with a grin.

“Ever hear of Bitter River Belton, Tuck?”

“Bitter River Belton? Don’t reckon I ever did, Weary.”

“Neither did I. Listen to this.”

Weary read the telegram to Hayward and Chuck.

“I don’t sabe it,” declared Weary. “Sounds as though this here Piney River sheriff thought we had him.”

“Does sound that way, Weary. Where’s Fat?”

“Around town somewhere. I seen him and Hashknife headin’ for the Chongo a while ago.”

“Oh, all right! I’ll see him later.”

Hayward turned and walked from the office while Weary read the telegram over again.

“Sounds loco to me,” said Chuck.

“Shore it does! The Lord’s Prayer would sound loco to you.”

“Well, do you make sense out of it?”

“You mean this telegram?”

“No, the prayer.”

“Wait’ll I hear it, can’tcha? I’m goin’ to find Fat.”

He found Fat and Hashknife at the Chongo Saloon and gave Fat the telegram. Hashknife got one look at it and smiled.

“Answer to one I sent, Sheriff.”

“One you sent?”

“I signed yore name to it. Got action quicker. Lemme read it.”

Hashknife read it carefully, tore it into small bits and threw them in a cuspidor.

“What’s the idea?” asked Fat wonderingly. “I get a telegram and you tear it all to hell.”

“Don’t worry!” smiled Hashknife. He turned to Weary.

“Forget it, will yuh, Weary?”

“Oh, sure!”

“Yo’re the only one that seen it, Weary?”

“Just me and Chuck and the depot agent and Tuck Hayward.”

“My hell!” exploded Hashknife softly. “Why didn’t yuh paste it on the front door? Oh, that’s all right, Weary! It was my fault; I should have told yuh all about it.”

“Well, what does it mean?” demanded Fat. He had only an indistinct memory of what it contained.

“Shootin’ at shadows,” smiled Hashknife. “Playin’ a hunch. Don’t ask me any more, boys. Fat, I’ll play yuh that game of pool now.”

“Make it three-handed and spot me half the string,” said Weary.

“You go back in the office and keep Chuck from gettin’ killed,” ordered Fat. “And if there’s another murder before this game’s over write out my resignation and I’ll sign it.”

“I’ll have three of ’em written out,” grunted Weary.

“Well, I’m a fool-hen if this ain’t got me doin’ a whirligig!”

Fat Garnette cuffed his sombrero so lustily that it flew across the room. On the table in front of him was a large envelope which he had just opened and the objects of his exclamation were scattered around the desk-top. These objects happened to be at least a dozen printed reward notices, all alike.

Hashknife was tilted back in a chair near the door, looking over a copy of the state brand register. He shut the book and looked at Fat.

“Another murder?” he asked.

“Murder be damned! Look at this—will you?”

He handed Hashknife a notice which stated that five thousand dollars’ reward would be paid for the arrest and conviction of the man or men who murdered Jack Shields, alias Kid O’Neil. It was signed by the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association.

“What’s wrong about it?” asked Hashknife mildly.

“Oh, nothin’ of course. Who in hell was Kid O’Neil to be worth five thousand? And this county is offerin’ two thousand for the scalp of the geezer who shot Joe LeClere. And Joe’s got to stand trial for killin’ O’Neil. Didja ever see such a mulligan? It’s damn’ evident that the Cattle Association don’t believe Joe killed the Kid.”

“Not necessarily. Yuh see, it says for conviction.”

“But who in hell was O’Neil? Was he a cattle detective?”

“Looks thataway,” said Hashknife, scanning the notice.

“Gosh, he was a wild one!”

“If he was Jack Shields he was playin’ wild. I’ve heard about him, Fat. The poor devil played wild to get in on the inside of things.”

“You knew him, Hashknife?”

“Not personally; but I’ve heard about him.”

“Uh-huh.” Fat recovered his sombrero and sat down. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ about that telegram yuh got day before yesterday. What was it all about, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh yet. Maybe it don’t mean anythin’. It was just a shadow I shot at, thinkin’ there might be a man around here who made the shadow. Just a hunch, Fat.”

“Yo’re a shadow shooter, eh?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “Well, it’s worth two thousand to find the man who shot Joe. And it’s worth five thousand more to find the man who shot O’Neil.”

“Was there any reward for the killer of McFee?”

“Nope. Wasn’t anybody much interested in him, I reckon.”

“Did you say they were goin’ to move Joe out to the ranch?”

“That’s what they say. It’s so hard to get a nurse and the doctor thinks he can stand the trip. He was conscious this mornin’ for a while but he don’t seem able to talk. Some of the boys are helpin’ Frenchy fix up sort of a stretcher to take him home on. I reckon he’s goin’ to get well, after all, and I’ve told the doctor to not let anybody question him. If Joe knows who shot him I want to know it first.”

“That’s right—if he’ll tell.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell?”

“I dunno.”

“Sometimes you make me tired, Hashknife.”

“Sometimes I make myself tired,” smiled Hashknife.

“I’ll betcha. Well, I suppose it’s up to me to post up these notices.”

Fat dug in a desk drawer, bringing forth a broken-handled hammer and a box of carpet tacks.

“Betcha this O’Neil notice will shock the folks, Hashknife.”

“Prob’ly will. Might get a little action, though.”

“Action hell! Make a lot of ’em laugh at me for puttin’ Joe LeClere in jail. Still he might be guilty, yuh know.”

“Might be. How did it ever happen that Tuck Hayward didn’t get in on the silver mines, Fat? He’s quite progressive.”

“Wasn’t lucky, I guess. He did have a claim back on Dog Soldier Creek. That’s a tributary to Chongo but a long ways from the big mines. He done quite a lot of work in there but it never panned out. Mebby he still owns it.”

“Silver proposition?”

“Shore. He had a crew of men in there for a while. They built cabins and all that kinda stuff. Dog Soldier is almost a box cañon back there. The creek don’t amount to much except in high-water.”

“Rough country, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Well, I’ve got to tack up these notices.”

That afternoon they took Joe home. The doctor assured the prosecuting attorney that Joe would not be in shape even to think of escaping from the law for at least a month; so the law was satisfied. Joe needed more nursing than the doctor could give him and there were no nurses in Chongo town.

There was much speculation over the reward notices. The sheriff made it a point to tack both notices together in the saloons where they were much discussed; Hashknife made it a point to listen in on some of these conversations but was not enlightened to any extent.

Hashknife made it a point to listen in on the speculations over the reward notices

Later in the evening he met Tuck Hayward in the Silver Streak and found the big man in a genial mood. He invited Hashknife to have a drink with him and they discussed the reward notices.

“I don’t quite sabe that Association notice,” he told Hashknife. “It looks as though O’Neil had been a detective, and if he was he was a wild one. Fat tells me that you knew him.”

“Only by reputation, Hayward. Jack Shields was a good man. He had handled a lot of tough cases for the Association.”

“What do yuh suppose he was lookin’ for out here?”

“I dunno.”

“Kinda funny. Fat told me quite a while ago that you and Stevens were lookin’ for jobs. I was shy one man after O’Neil was killed but I figured to get along without him. Yesterday Dalhart and Asher quit me. They been wantin’ to head for Arizona for quite a while. Now I’m needin’ a couple of good men and if yuh want to go to work just say so. I need one at the ranch and one at the mine. Asher worked out there.”

“I dunno,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We’ve got a notion to head for Arizona ourselves. The winters are kinda bad around here, they tell me.”

“We’ve got a notion to head for Arizona ourselves,” said Hashknife. “The winters are bad here”

“Yeah, they are bad. If yuh don’t care for blizzards yuh wouldn’t like the winters here. It’s pretty high, yuh know.”

“I been figurin’ on that,” said Hashknife. “But yuh never can tell about us. If we decide to stay we’ll take yuh up. What part did Dalhart and Asher head for?”

“Down around Springerville, I think. They wasn’t sure.”

When Hashknife left the Silver Streak he met the sheriff near the saloon.

“Want to go down and see Joe?” he asked. “Weary was just down there and he said that Joe was conscious. They’re not goin’ to take him home until tomorrow and I thought he might talk a little.”

Hashknife went down with him and the doctor cautioned the sheriff against too much conversation. Joe looked very thin and weak, in spite of a heavy growth of black whiskers.

“Glad to see yuh doin’ so well, Joe,” said the sheriff.

“I’ll be fit to hang!” whispered Joe.

“Forget that, Joe.”

“Hard thing to forget, Fat.”

“I know. Did you see the man who shot yuh?”

“No,” whispered Joe weakly. “It was too dark. I thought it was Chuck when I came up to the bars.”

“Why would any one want to kill yuh, Joe?”

Joe shook his head on the pillow. Only once did his eyes shift to Hashknife and then merely for a second.

Perhaps he knew Hashknife didn’t believe him.

“Yuh might like to know that the Cattle Association is offerin’ five thousand for the man who killed O’Neil.”

Joe’s eyes opened slightly.

“His name was Shields,” said the sheriff. “He was a cattle detective.”

“O’Neil was a cattle detective? I don’t believe it, Fat.”

“Well, he was, Joe.”

“I’ll be damned!”

Hashknife smiled softly, realizing that Joe did not know before that O’Neil was a detective. He had been afraid that Joe knew O’Neil was a detective but Joe’s astonishment was painfully real.

“They’re offerin’ two thousand reward for the man who shot you,” said Hashknife.

Joe frowned heavily as though not understanding.

“Yuh know,” grinned Fat, “it’s quite a crime to break into a jail and shoot prisoners.”

“Two thousand reward for the man who shot me!” said Joe slowly. “Can yuh imagine that?”

“You might collect it, Joe,” suggested Hashknife.

“No chance, Hartley. I don’t know who shot me.”

“I think that is enough for today, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor. “We can’t take any chances, you know.”

“Sure!” said the sheriff quickly. “Much obliged, Doc.” They left the place and sauntered up-town.

“Well, that didn’t help much,” sighed the sheriff. “Joe don’t know any more than we do.”

“Not much, I guess. Hayward offered me and Sleepy jobs today. Dalhart and Asher have quit the Box 88 and headed for Arizona.”

“Thasso? Are yuh goin’ to accept the jobs?”

“Don’t know. We may go to Arizona later on; can’t tell yet.”

“Hayward is a good man to work for.”

“Prob’ly a better man to work for than against.”

“I don’t know what yuh mean, Hashknife.”

“I don’t believe I do either,” smiled Hashknife.

“Well, you say the funniest things!”

“Yeah, I guess I do—but I’m the only one that ever gets much of a laugh out of ’em. They sound silly to other folks.”

“Like shootin’ at shadows, eh?”

“That ain’t funny; that’s pretty—serious.”

“Well,” sighed Fat, “I can’t figure yuh out.”

“Nobody can but me, Fat; I own the answer-book.”

Hashknife drifted back to the Silver Streak and sat in on a game of draw where Hayward was playing. Hayward must have known that Hashknife went down to see Joe because he asked Hashknife how Joe was feeling.

“He’s doin’ fine,” replied Hashknife easily. “We asked him whether he knew who shot him; but he didn’t. At least he says he don’t know. Personally I think he’s a liar. He’s afraid to tell.”

Hayward looked sharply at Hashknife but made no comment.

“Mebby he wants to get well and do his own killin’,” suggested Johnny Colburn of the AH.

“That may be his idea,” smiled Hashknife. “Anyway, I’d bet better than even money that Joe knows who shot him.”

“What gave yuh that hunch?” asked Hayward, examining his cards closely.

“I dunno. Give me three cards.”

“Two!” said Hayward. “Funny how yuh get a hunch of that kind. Pass the bet.”

“Not so funny. Pass here.”

Hashknife played out his chips and drew out of the game.

“If yuh decide about them jobs let me know, will yuh?” asked Hayward.

“Shore—thanks!”

“Say!” said Johnny Colburn. “Do yuh think Joe would rather get hung than tell what he knows?”

“Not little Joe,” laughed Hashknife. “He’ll talk when the time comes. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, yuh know. It’ll be worth while listenin’ to what he’ll tell.”

“Be worth about seven thousand to the man who gets into action first,” grinned Johnny. “He’ll tell who killed O’Neil and who shot him. Seven thousand dollars’ worth of talk.”

“Suppose he killed O’Neil himself?” said Hayward.

“Well, he didn’t shoot himself—that’s a cinch, Tuck.”

“And they can’t convict him of killin’ O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “As far as I can see there wasn’t enough evidence against him to hold him for trial. He whipped O’Neil, didn’t he? On the spur of the moment he busted O’Neil’s nose. He left town before O’Neil was patched up. He didn’t even know O’Neil was going to follow him. It was dark that night. I know there was a moon, but that wasn’t sufficient for Joe to have seen O’Neil comin’ and known who he was. You’ll say that O’Neil and Joe might have met and Joe shot O’Neil when his head was turned. Nothin’ of the kind. If O’Neil was mad enough to kill Joe—and he was mad enough if he followed him—he wouldn’t talk it over and turn his head. If Joe had cause to fear a cattle detective he might have killed O’Neil—but Joe didn’t know O’Neil was a detective. Now where’s yore case?”

“You should have been a lawyer—or a detective,” laughed Hayward. “Stick around and we’ll elect yuh sheriff next term. How would that job suit yuh?”