Front matter (continued 3)

“I might do that, Hayward,” seriously.

“I’ve always wanted to wear a shinin’ star and have an office.”

“Fat ain’t doin’ much for the county,” laughed Johnny. “All he does is walk in circles like a pup gettin’ ready to lay down; walk in circles and fight his hat. Chuck sets on the end of his spine and tells what he’ll do to the man who sapped him that night—and Weary cusses both of ’em.”

“What else can they do?” queried Hayward. “There’s nothin’ to work on. Yore deal, Johnny.”

“There’s always somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife.

“Show me somethin’,” challenged Hayward.

“You’d like to collect that seven thousand, eh?” laughed Hashknife. “No chance, Hayward!”

“Well, I’ll bet you won’t collect it either, Hashknife.”

“Not all of it,” smiled Hashknife as he walked away.

“Now what the hell did he mean by that?” queried Colburn.

“Just a smart remark!” growled Hayward. “Yore deal, Andy.”

The next day being Saturday Slim Benito, cook at the AH ranch, came to Chongo town. Slim didn’t come to town often because he was saving his money. Slim was short, fat and good-natured. He detested liquor in every form but like many other men he drank to be sociable. And Slim was sociable. After the second drink he became expansively sociable. He threw away his purse and put the money loose in his pocket where it would be handy.

Slim didn’t come in early in the day, as he waited for Soapy and Cling who were going to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch. Frenchy had made a canvas sling for the wagon bed and had piled it deep with straw and blankets.

The doctor had advised taking Joe back after sundown to escape the heat, and it was still an hour of sundown when the three AH boys came to town. Soapy and Cling were not averse to taking a few drinks, so they also grew sociable along with Slim.

“I’m a whipper-will,” declared Slim, “and this is my night t’ sing. I feel loose and free like a wagon-wheel which has done slipped off the axle on a down grade.”

“Yo’re a grand man,” agreed Soapy. “If yuh live long enough and have good luck yuh might be a grandfather. But if you keep this up, Slim, you’ll be drunk.”

“I can hold as much liquor as any livin’ man,” declared Slim. “But I only drink to be sociable. I hate the stuff. I hate the stuff, I tell yuh! Wine is a mocker; so drink whisky. If it wasn’t for bein’ sociable—sociable, yuh know—”

“Do you have to be sociable?” asked Cling.

“I’m accust’md—accust-um-dud—”

“Oh, yo’re accustomed to bein’, eh?”

“Oh, certn’ly!”

“Well, you better coil up yore rope,” advised Soapy. “In three more drinks you’ll fold up like a blanket, Slim. Far be it from me to advise a friend—but go easy. We don’t want to have to carry yuh home.”

“Is thasoo? Well, well! You’ll carry Misser Benito home? You? Shay, lemme tell yuh, par’ner—”

“Listen, Slim!” begged Cling. “Me and Soapy have got to be goin’. Now have a pleasant evenin’ but keep sober.”

They walked away, leavin’ Slim to goggle after them from beside the bar. Finally he turned to the bartender.

“I bub-bought sheven or eight drinks,” he said thickly. “They never bought none, di’ they? And now they run out on me. Aw ri’! I’m a lone wolf fr’m now on. I hate liquor but I mus’ be shociable. Lets me and you have li’l drink.”

“All right!” grinned the bartender. “But I’d advise yuh to quit long enough to get yore eyes in focus. You can’t see anythin’, Slim.”

“You know how ol’ I am, barten’er? Don’tcha? I’m fifty. And any damn man who ain’t sheen a plenty by the time he’s fifty ain’t got no use f’r eyes anyway. Here’s my shincere regards. May you choke to death on a diamond!”

“Why on a diamond, Slim?”

“Oh, tha’s jus’ my idea of a firs’-class, high-tone death. Fill’m up and you think of one.”

Soapy and Cling kept away from the Silver Streak. They had imbibed a sufficient amount to cause the world to have a rosy tinge, as it were. They lost a few dollars at the Chongo Saloon and then went to a restaurant where they met Chuck and Weary.

“Didn’t recognize yuh without a fiddle,” said Chuck seriously. “What are yuh doin’—all in-cog-neeto, as it was?”

“Go to hell, you iron-headed bastile-tender,” replied Soapy. “Hello, Weary! How’s crime?”

“Seems to be doin’ well,” grinned Weary. “How come that you drunkards ain’t in the gutter before this?”

“We’re not gutterin’,” grinned Cling. “Fact of the matter is this: Me and Soapy came in to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch this evenin’.”

“You’ve got a swell chance,” grunted Weary, removing his elbows to give the waiter a chance at the table.

“What’s the matter?” asked Soapy.

“Joe had a re-lapse. Yep—this afternoon. Fever and chills. Guess he got well too fast. Anyway, the doctor won’t let nobody see him and it’s a cinch they can’t move him this evenin’, so yuh might as well go gutterin’.”

“That’s kinda hard luck. Anyway, we’ll see Frenchy when he comes in, so he’ll know we kept our word.”

“Prob’ly floor him,” said Chuck. “He won’t look for yuh.”

“Oh, he’ll look for Soapy,” laughed Cling. “Soapy has to stand in with the old man.”

They argued and laughed through their supper and it was dark when they finished. Then Soapy and Cling went down to the doctor’s place to see whether Frenchy had arrived yet. He was not there and the doctor told them that it would be impossible to move Joe. He refused to let them see Joe; so they went back.

In the meantime Slim Benito had ceased to be a whippoorwill. After a crying spell, induced by the knowledge that he was a “lone wolf” without a friend in the world, he became a trifle savage, which is a wolf trait.

Slim carried a heavy Colt gun inside the waist-band of his trousers and the bartender eyed this weapon with great disfavor. He had been a bartender for so many years that he was well able to read drunken character and he tabulated Slim as being dangerous. And when Slim decided to drink alone it looked worse than ever.

“I’m wild,” he told the bartender seriously. “Come from a wild family. Never was a male Benito that wasn’t fit to be tied. We’re snappin’ turtles.”

“Sure,” agreed the bartender. “Tough family.”

“Meaner ’n dirt.”

“A lot meaner.”

“Meaner ’n hell.”

“Oh, yuh bet!”

“Screamin’ mean,” Slim’s eyes flashed.

“Fightin’ fools,” agreed the grinning bartender.

“Gun-fighters, y’betcha!”

Slim’s lips curled back at the mere suggestion and his right hand yanked the gun from his waist-band.

Crash! The first shot struck squarely in the center of the back-bar mirror and the splintering of the big glass was almost as loud as the report of the gun. The bartender just let loose and went flat to the floor.

Wham! The next shot swept through a pyramid of glassware, sending it skyward in a sparkling shower.

“Yee-hoo-o-o-o-o!” screamed Slim.

Bam! Another bullet smashed through a side case and into a stock of fancy liquor, including several bottles of champagne which exploded merrily.

Then Slim whirled around, the gun at his hip. The saloon was in an uproar. Players ducked for any old kind of a shelter while Slim stood there in a fog of powder-smoke yelling at the top of his voice.

Bam! A bullet ripped through the cloth of a roulette table.

Crash! Another went accidentally and almost shot Slim in the foot.

“Yee-ho-o-o-ow-ee-e-e-e!” screamed Slim and went weaving out through the open doorway swinging the smoking Colt in his right hand. He bumped into a porch-post, staggered sideways and would have fallen if Soapy and Cling hadn’t grabbed him.

Soapy got the gun and they dragged Slim into an alley while men came running out of the saloon swearing, asking questions. Slim was speechless, helpless. He had gone through three stages of inebriation, the sociable, the maudlin and the fighting, and now he was unconscious.

“Stick here with him,” whispered Soapy. “I’ll find out who he killed.”

Soapy went around to the saloon where a crowd, including the sheriff, were examining the extent of Slim’s damage. The back-bar was a wreck, as was the big mirror.

“This kind of stuff has got to quit,” declared Hayward. “By God, that mirror cost me a lot of money! And look at it! Look at them glasses! And he was shootin’ around at everybody. You put him in jail, Fat.”

“I s’pose I’ll have to, Tuck. This place shore is a wreck. Where’d he go?”

Nobody seemed to know. One man thought he saw Slim go out through the front door but he wasn’t sure because he was down behind the pool-table.

“I’ll find the damn fool,” declared Tuck.

Soapy ducked back to Cling and Slim. Slim was propped against the wall snoring heavily.

“We’ve got to keep him away from the sheriff,” declared Soapy. “All he done was to smash the mirror and wreck the back-bar, and they want to put him in jail.”

“Yeah! And they’ll find us here—that’s a cinch! What’ll we do with him, Soapy? He can’t ride.”

“C’mon!”

They picked up the limp Slim and carried him through the alley, circled the rear of the Silver Streak and came in past the hitch-rack where some of the men were looking to see whether Slim had taken his horse.

“Horse is still here,” declared a voice and the men went back toward the front of the saloon.

“My God, this geezer weighs a ton!” panted Cling. “His feet ain’t draggin’, are they?”

“Mine are,” grunted Soapy. “What’ll we do with him?”

“Drop him somewhere in the dark.”

But they kept on going, praying that they would not meet any one. Down a side street they went where the lighted window showed the doctor’s office. Just ahead of them was the black bulk of Frenchy LeClere’s wagon and team.

“I’ve got a idea,” panted Soapy. “Here’s a hide-out.”

Cautiously they went over to the wagon and with a supreme effort they dumped Slim over the side of the wagonbox and into the stretcher which had been made for Joe LeClere. They pulled the blankets from under him and covered him up completely.

Frenchy and the doctor came outside, talking softly, and the two cowboys lost no time in making a sneak around the other side of the town, coming back to the street near the sheriff’s office.

In front of a general merchandise store they met the sheriff.

“Where yuh been?” he asked.

“Do yuh mean all our lives?” asked Soapy innocently.

“I mean just now.”

“Oh, we was down to yore office, Fat. Somebody said yuh had captured Slim Benito.”

“You knew I was lookin’ for him, eh?”

“We heard yuh was. Didja find him?”

“I didn’t. Where was you when he shot up the saloon?”

“We was down at the Chongo. Yuh see we didn’t want to associate with Slim, so we went down there. Honest, he ought to be hung.”

“Yeah,” growled Fat. “I s’pose so.”

Fat wasn’t at all convinced that Soapy and Cling hadn’t had a hand in helping Slim to safety. Cowboys are notoriously faithful to their own outfit, even when in the wrong, and especially where the law is concerned.

And down in his heart Fat didn’t blame them. He had been a cowboy before he was a sheriff and he knew. It wasn’t because of any outrage against the law that he wanted Slim but because he was afraid Slim might break forth again and do some bodily injury to some one.

“I thought Slim was too drunk to shoot,” he said. “I seen him fifteen minutes before he broke loose and he was hangin’ onto the bar with both hands.”

“Did he take his horse?” asked Soapy, who already knew that they had found the horse at the hitch-rack.

“No, he didn’t take it. He’s still in town.”

“Well, if we see him we’ll tell him that yuh want him.”

“I know yuh will, Soapy. He’ll have to work all the rest of his life to pay for the damage he done over there.”

The sheriff walked on and the two cowboys sat down on the sidewalk and chuckled joyfully. They heard Frenchy’s wagon rumbling along over on the side street and saw the dark bulk of it as Frenchy swung his team to the right and headed for the IS ranch.

“My God, wait’ll Slim wakes up!” laughed Soapy. “He’ll have to walk home.”

“And if Frenchy discovers him I’ll bet Frenchy will just about pile off that wagon and start runnin’,” choked Cling.

“I’ll betcha! Gosh, that was a good scheme, Cling! We shore got old Slim out of the clutches of the law that time. I hope he gives us credit when he finds out what happened.”

“Oh, he shore will! He don’t know it now but we’re the two best friends he’s got. Let’s go over to the Silver Streak and inspect the damage.”

Hashknife and Sleepy had been playing pool at the Chongo when Slim started shooting and there was so much noise in the place that they didn’t hear the shots at the Silver Streak, which was a block away. But as soon as they heard about the shooting they quit playing and went up to view the damages, which seemed very complete as far as the mirror was concerned. Things had quieted down, although the sheriff’s office was still on the trail of Slim Benito.

Hashknife and Sleepy left the Silver Streak and went to their room at about ten o’clock and at about two o’clock in the morning Fat Garnette hammered on their door.

“Somethin’ has gone wrong,” he told Hashknife. “Put on yore clothes, both of you, and come down, will yuh?”

“Now, what the hell has busted?” wondered Sleepy as he put on his boots. “This town shore does do things!”

“Looks thataway.”

On the sidewalk in front of the hotel they found the Sheriff, Weary and Yvonne LeClere.

“Sorry to get yuh out of bed,” said Fat apologetically, “but Yvonne just came in and she says her father started for here early this evenin’ and he ain’t never got home. We found out that he showed up at the doctor’s place to get Joe. But Joe ain’t so well, so he didn’t get him. The doctor says he left there all right—but where is he?”

“That’s queer,” mused Hashknife.

“It is queer,” agreed Yvonne nervously. “I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I saddled a horse and came down here.”

“Where could he go?” asked Sleepy.

There was plenty of activity at the Silver Streak and as they were talking Soapy and Cling came from the doorway. They stopped on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment but came on across the street, evidently curious about the little group in front of the hotel.

“Well, what kind of a meetin’ is this?” asked Soapy as soon as he recognized those of the group.

“Did you see anythin’ of Yvonne’s father tonight?” asked the sheriff.

“N-no, I—I—”

“We seen him pullin’ out,” said Cling. “At least we saw a team and wagon. What’s wrong?”

“Well, he never got home; that’s what’s wrong.”

“Never got home?” Soapy’s voice was hoarse. “What do yuh mean that he never got home?”

“My God, yo’re thick!” snorted Weary.

“Oh, yeah!” said Soapy as though it was all explained. He stepped in close to Cling and said hoarsely, “He never got home.”

“I heard he didn’t,” foolishly.

They were both thinking of Slim Benito in the bed of that wagon.

“What do yuh think we ought to do, Fat?” asked Hashknife.

“Go and hunt for him, I suppose. He can’t be on the IS road or Yvonne would have seen him. And I dunno where else he could possibly be. Dang it, yuh can’t lose a team and a wagon!”

“Yuh might lose one,” said Hashknife, “but you’d have a hard time misplacin’ one. We’ll get our horses, Fat.”

Soapy and Cling went across to get their horses at the hitch-rack and Yvonne walked down to the office with Fat and Weary to wait for them to saddle.

“What do yuh make of it, Soapy?” asked Cling seriously.

“My God, I don’t know! Slim was too drunk to do anythin’, wasn’t he? Yuh don’t suppose he took the team away from the old man and went to the AH, do yuh?”

Soapy put his foot in the stirrup before he answered.

“Don’t ask me to guess. I hope they’re all right.”

“Yuh couldn’t kill Slim—he was too drunk.”

They rode down to the office and in a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy joined them. As soon as Fat and Weary had their animals saddled the seven of them rode out of town toward the IS ranch. It was too dark for any investigation, but as the LeClere wagon had been the last one over the road it was easy, with the aid of lighted matches, to see that it had not turned off on the road to the mines or to the AH.

Their investigations showed that the wagon had been headed for the IS, and as that ranch was the end of that particular road that fact was conclusive evidence that somewhere between the AH fork and the IS ranch they should find the team and wagon.

North of the Silver River crossing the road climbed up along the side of a hill where the ground sloped for perhaps a quarter of a mile off to the left ending in a narrow ravine. At no place on the road was what might be termed a dangerous spot. From the top of this hill the road ran fairly level to the ranch.

They traveled slowly to the ranch-house, the dusty road giving them no clues as to whether the wagon was still ahead of them or not. But it was not at the ranch-house. They rode all around the premises and came back to the house where they dismounted and went inside.

“Wait until daylight,” advised Hashknife. “In a couple of hours it will be light enough to see what we’re doin’.”

“I think that is the thing to do,” agreed Yvonne. She was greatly worried but went to work in the kitchen making some coffee for the men.

“I’d rather be doing something,” she said when Hashknife begged her not to go to all that trouble. “And a cup of hot coffee will taste good.”

“Didja find out from the doctor how Joe was?” he asked.

“He was sleeping but still had fever. Oh, I don’t know!” she said helplessly. “It seems as though everything happens to us. Even if Joe does get well—”

“You forget that,” advised Hashknife. “He’ll get well and they’ll turn him loose.”

“I wish I thought so, Hashknife.”

By the time they had finished breakfast the dawn was showing in the east. Yvonne insisted on riding with them.

“I’m glad she’s goin’,” Weary whispered to Hashknife. “If there’s anythin’ wrong I’d be the one to have to pack the bad news to her. This way she’ll see it with us.”

“You shore think pleasant things, Weary.”

“I’m protectin’ my own feelin’s,” grinned Weary.

They mounted their horses and rode back toward town, watching both sides of the road to see if the wagon had left the ruts.

“What kind of a team was yore father drivin’?” asked Sleepy.

“Roan team,” said Yvonne.

“Gentle?”

“Not gentle, Sleepy, but well broke. Joe broke them and he likes speed.”

“Might run away?”

“Oh, if they had a good chance, I suppose! They never have run away though.”

It was at the top of the slope above the river that they found the wagon tracks. The iron-shod wheels had cut deeply where the wagon had swung off the road and there was a deep gash in the side of the hill where the vehicle had slewed around on the slope.

The hill was about fifteen per cent grade with clumps of greasewood and sage. The track of the wagon was plain, as it had nearly torn a big greasewood out by the roots and evidently carried it along.

They spurred off the road and scattered out. It was Weary who found Frenchy LeClere sprawled on his back half under a greasewood. Weary’s yell brought them to the spot and they lifted the old man out into the open.

He was alive, but badly hurt and unconscious. It was impossible for them to determine just how badly he was hurt, except for a nasty scalp wound which looked as though it might be more than skin-deep.

“Weary, you get the doctor as fast as yore bronc can run,” ordered Fat. “Soapy, you and Cling head back to the ranch and bring down the horse and buggy.”

Weary spurred back up the hill while Soapy and Cling mounted at a much slower gait. They didn’t want to go. They wanted to stay and look for Slim Benito but there was nothing for them to do now except to go after that buggy.

“I feel just like a murderer,” said Soapy as they rode swiftly back to the ranch.

“Same here! Why didn’t we let ’em put Slim in jail?”

“He’s prob’ly deader ’n hell.”

“Cinch! I’ll betcha the team up-ended plumb in the bottom of that cañon. Of course he’s dead. But keep yore mouth shut. Nobody knows we put him in that wagon.”

“But they’ll know we did,” wailed Soapy. “Murder will out—sure.”

“Well, it won’t out so damn quick if yuh keep yore mouth shut. Take a reef in yourself, Soapy, yo’re tremblin’!”

“I don’t feel well. Guess them eggs didn’t set well.”

“Well, they can’t cinch us for murder. We didn’t know the team was goin’ to run away.”

“A damn lawyer can make most anythin’ out against yuh, Cling. You ain’t got a chance in the world.”

“I’m all through doin’ good for folks.”

“Same here. From now on, I’m hard as hell.”

Sleepy rode down to the river and came back with the crown of his hat full of water which they used to bathe the old man’s face. Yvonne sat there in stony silence staring at her father who occasionally groaned softly.

“Maybe he ain’t hurt so bad,” said Hashknife hopefully.

“Nothin’ we can do until the doctor gets here.”

“Maybe we better take a look and see what happened to the team and wagon,” suggested Sleepy.

“Why don’t you fellers do that? No use of all of us stayin’ here.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode down through the greasewood, following the tracks of the wagon, which seemed to have come most of the distance on two wheels, judging from the deep rut.

Then they found where it had overturned, and from there to the bottom of the little cañon it had rolled over and over, finally smashing down between a tree and a ledge of rock.

Both horses were dead, piled up together fifty feet away from the wrecked wagon. There was no use going down the steep bank to examine them.

“Gee, that was a nasty wreck!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Mebby the old man went to sleep and the team ran away with him.”

“Looks thataway.”

They had turned their horses to start back up the hill when a querulous voice said:

“What in hell is goin’ on around here, anyway—I’d crave to know?”

There was no one in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy looked at each other, both wondering whether the other had heard.

“I’d crave to know what in hell is goin’ on,” said the voice distinctly. “It’s shore got me guessin’. And how in hell do yuh git out of a damn greasewood when yo’re upside down and all hung up. I don’t guess I’ve got anythin’ busted.”

“Where are yuh, pardner?” asked Hashknife.

“You start guessin’ and I’ll put in with yuh. All I can see is greasewood and a little sky. Damn little sky too.”

“He’s in that big greasewood,” said Sleepy. “There’s his hat.”

“I ain’t near no damn hat!”

“I’ve got him spotted,” said Hashknife, pointing at a particularly big greasewood.

They dismounted and between the two of them they were able to disentangle Slim Benito, who had evidently been pitched head first into the clump. His clothes were all torn and he flapped like a scarecrow in the breeze as he gravely considered Hashknife and Sleepy. His face was scratched and one eye badly discolored. He looked around at the landscape wonderingly.

“Yuh know,” he said slowly, “this is one of the queerest dreams I ever had. Funny how yuh dream! Now I never was even thinkin’ of you two fellers before I went to sleep. Soapy says that dreams come from a disordered liver. My God, the shape mine must be in!”

“You ain’t dreamin’,” said Hashknife.

“Thasso? Huh! Don’t tell me! What in hell am I doin’ out here, if I ain’t dreamin’? How’d I get here?”

“What in hell am I doin’ out here if I ain’t dreamin’?”

“You’ll probably be asked that same question.”

“Well, I hope somebody can answer it. I can’t!”

“It might refresh yore memory if I told yuh that old Frenchy LeClere is further up the hill badly hurt and in the bottom of the cañon just below us is a smashed wagon and a dead team of horses.”

Slim looked blankly at Hashknife.

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“I don’t know. I’m just tellin’ yuh.”

“Well, that’s all right.”

“You don’t know how yuh got here?” asked Sleepy.

“I don’t. And by God, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!”

“This is off the IS road north of the river crossin’.”

“Yea-a-ah?”

“Are you the cook from the AH ranch?” asked Hashknife.

“I was—the last recollection I had. Name was Benito.”

“You shot up the Silver Streak last night.”

“I did?” Slim’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, yea-a-ah!”

He shut both eyes and frowned heavily.

“I ’member somethin’ about that. Did I kill anybody?”

“I reckon not,” smiled Hashknife. “But it wasn’t yore fault that yuh didn’t. They tell me yuh handled that six-gun as though it was a hose.”

“I’m a rotten shot,” confessed Slim. “Drunk or sober, I can’t shoot straight. Tell me more about Frenchy LeClere.”

“I’ll let the sheriff tell yuh. He’s up there.”

“Well, that’s kind of yuh! Mebby he knows how I got out here. Yuh didn’t see my horse, didja?”

“I think he’s still at the hitch-rack where yuh left him.”

“Thasso? Well, I reckon I flewed out here.”

They found Fat and Yvonne beside Frenchy. Both of them stared foolishly at Slim, who sat down on the ground beside them holding his head in his hands. It had been a hard climb up the hill and he was not in first-class physical condition.

He made no comment, while Hashknife told them about finding Slim in the greasewood clump. Fat studied Slim for quite a while. Then:

“Was it you who scared LeClere’s team off the grade, Slim?”

“I dunno anythin’,” said Slim wearily. “All I know is that I woke up in that greasewood and started talkin’ to myself. Mebby I did scare the team. I won’t swear to anythin’, Fat.”

“Find out what time LeClere left the doctor’s house and what time Slim shot up the Silver Streak,” advised Hashknife. “He’d have to have a little time to get here.”

“Mebby that’s the best thing. Slim, where didja go after yuh shot up the saloon?”

“I don’t know. It’s all hazy and kinda faded out. I shore must have been awful drunk.”

“Well, we couldn’t find yuh, Slim. You shore disappeared in a hurry.”

The doctor arrived with Weary before the rig came from the IS ranch and made a swift examination.

“Bad cut on the scalp, broken collarbone and possible concussion. I think we better get him to town.”

Hashknife walked over the wagon tracks and looked the place over. From where Frenchy had lain to the road there were no greasewood of any size and no rocks. In fact the ground was rather soft. He examined the greasewood under which they had found Frenchy but there did not seem to be anything that would cause such a scalp wound.

Slim had stretched out on the ground paying no attention to what was going on around him and Yvonne and Fat were busy helping the doctor. Hashknife walked up to the road as Soapy and Cling came along. Cling was driving the buggy horse while Soapy rode his horse and led Cling’s mount.

Before either of them had a chance to ask any questions Hashknife said:

“We found Slim Benito, boys. It’s too bad yuh put him in that wagon last night.”

“My God!” exploded Soapy. “He—he ain’t dead, is he?”

“Almost. He said yuh put him in that wagon.”

“A-a-aw, we had to get him away,” wailed Soapy. “My God, we didn’t know that team was goin’ to run away.”

“Well, he’s all right,” grinned Hashknife. “He didn’t know how he got there, so I just made a guess. I had to know, yuh see?”

“I—I see,” faltered Soapy. “Yuh say he’ll get well? Didja say that, Hashknife? Didja?”

“He ain’t hurt; he’s sick. Too much liquor and standin’ on his head in a greasewood clump. You hold that horse, Cling, and we’ll bring the old man up to the buggy. Don’t look foolish, Soapy. I haven’t told anybody.”

Hashknife went back down the hill and helped carry the old man up to the buggy. Weary climbed in beside Soapy and held the old man in his arms while the rest of them mounted, after the doctor had invited Slim to ride back in his buggy.

Sleepy rode beside Yvonne while Hashknife and Fat lagged back to talk things over. Hashknife told him that Soapy and Cling had put Slim Benito in the wagon, which accounted for Slim being where they found him.

“So that’s the how of it, eh?” grunted Fat. “How didja find that out?”

“Told ’em they did and they admitted it. Never ask a man if he did somethin’—accuse him! Act as though yuh knew he did. They fell for it quick. So that’s that. Now what do yuh think of the runaway?”

“I guess the old man went to sleep or somethin’ scared the team off the grade. Once off that road, they couldn’t stop, Hashknife. That heavy wagon would crowd them too much.”

“You saw the condition of the old man, Fat?”

“Sure I did.”

“He’d been thrown clear of that wagon. The tracks are twenty feet from where he lay against that greasewood. There wasn’t any dirt in his hair. There ain’t a snag or a rock that would cut him that-away and there ain’t a sign of anythin’ that would show he had bumped that greasewood where we found him. What do yuh make of that?”

“I dunno what yuh mean,” blankly.

“Somebody tried to kill Joe in the jail, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, they—” Fat hesitated and stared at Hashknife.

“Do yuh mean—somebody smashed the old man?”

“Feelin’ sure that Joe was the man in the stretcher,” nodded Hashknife. “Thought they had killed the old man and tried to make it look like a runaway.”

“My God, do yuh think that, Hashknife?”

“Don’t it look thataway to you?”

“With you pointin’ things out like yuh have. Why, I never thought of such a thing!”

“Well, don’t mention it to anybody, Fat. Let ’em think it was a runaway.”

“But my God, we’ve got to stop such things, Hashknife!”

“If we knew why they were done we could stop ’em. Joe could tell but won’t. If Frenchy lives mebby he can tell who slugged him. You get hold of the doctor and have a talk with him. No matter how favorable things are for the old man, have the doctor circulate the report that he can’t possibly live, that he’ll never wake up. That old doctor is pretty square and I think he’ll do it for you. It’ll mean a lot. Yuh might tell Yvonne because there’s no use worryin’ her.”

“Sure!” nodded Fat. “Doc will do it, I reckon. He can easy keep anybody from seein’ the old man. I’ll see him as soon as we hit town. I don’t sabe yore game but I’m for yuh.”

“Here’s the game, Fat. If the folks who slugged the old man knew he’d recover—they’d high-tail out of the country. That is, if he recognized ’em. And we want to keep the population intact until we know.”

“Oh, that’s right! I never thought of that.”

“If I lived around you very long I’d consider myself a brainy man,” smiled Hashknife.

That kind of news travels fast and inside of twelve hours every one in the Silver River range knew that old Frenchy LeClere had been mortally injured in a runaway. Many of the old-timers came in to see him but the doctor refused them admittance.

He told them that nothing in the world could be done for him because of a double fracture of the skull and that it was only a question of time until he would pass out without regaining consciousness.

But Yvonne knew that her father had a fine chance of recovery and insisted on being at his side. Joe was better. Hashknife and Fat talked with him and told him what they thought had happened to his father.

“You think that somebody thought I was in that wagon?” he asked.

“That’s a cinch,” said Hashknife. “Now, Joe, we want you to tell us what yuh know.”

“I don’t know anythin’,” was all they could get out of him.

“He’s afraid to talk,” said Hashknife after they left the room.

“I don’t believe he knows anythin’ to talk about.”

“They tried to kill him to keep him from talkin’.”

“That’s just yore theory, Hashknife. Yo’re one of them jiggers who think they can’t be wrong. When I’m wrong I admit it.”

“Yeah—and it keeps yuh busy all the time.”

“Busy doin’ what?”

“Admittin’ it.”

Slim Benito kept away from Silver Streak after he got to town and headed for the ranch as soon as he found his horse. Soapy and Cling also went straight home that day. Neither Hashknife nor Fat told anybody how Benito had got out there in the greasewood, although Hayward tried hard to find out how it had happened. He was still bewailing his smashed mirror and glassware and swore that Slim would pay dearly for shooting up the place.

It was the second day after the runaway and Hashknife was sitting in the sheriff’s office when he suddenly got to his feet and walked outside. Fat and Weary stared after him but Sleepy smoked quietly, eyeing Hashknife through the open door.

“What stung him?” wondered Weary aloud.

“Moved awful quick,” grinned Fat. “What’s the matter with him, Sleepy? He ain’t spoke a word today.”

“He’s thataway sometimes,” said Sleepy slowly. He uncoiled from his chair and followed Hashknife outside.

Hashknife was leaning against a post staring at the ground. After a while he looked sideways at Sleepy and his eyes were smiling, although his mouth was grim.

“Sleepy, I’ve been a dumb fool,” he said softly. “What in hell has been the matter with me?”

“Ain’tcha feelin’ well, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

In answer Hashknife took the stub of a pencil from his pocket, drew out an old envelope and on it made a few cabalistic marks which looked very much like cattle brands. Then he moved his pencil slowly over one of them; a look of understanding came to Sleepy’s eyes and he grinned.

“Don’t talk about it,” said Hashknife softly and Sleepy nodded with complete understanding.

“C’mon!” said Hashknife.

They walked straight down to the doctor’s home and in through the old gate. They stopped at the front steps when they heard voices around at the little side porch. Yvonne was speaking and they thought she was talking to the doctor, but as they stepped around in range of the softly pitched voices they found that the other speaker was Soapy Weed.

Both men stopped short without being seen nor heard. Yvonne was talking and Hashknife touched Sleepy on the arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry about it all, Soapy!” she said. “I like you awful well but I can’t marry you. Don’t you see it is foolish to even think of such a thing? You’ll find plenty of girls, Soapy.”

“Don’t want ’em,” flatly. “Is it because I ain’t makin’ much money, Yvonne?”

“Money isn’t everything.”

“’Cause I got drunk?”

“You are not a drunkard, Soapy; you can quit.”

“I ain’t much to look at, Yvonne. Do yuh think I threw yuh all down on that O’Neil proposition?”

“No, Soapy. I think it was wonderful of you to do what you did for us. But I can’t think of marriage now. Joe sick in bed, accused of murder; Dad unconscious—and he may never get well. Can’t you see I—”

“I can’t think of marriage with Joe accused of murder. Can’t you see I—”

“Yeah, that’s right. Say, Yvonne—if Joe was cleared and yore dad was all well again would yuh talk it over with me again?”

“Soapy, I’d do most anything if that might happen.”

“Well,” sadly, “I wish I could do it. It would shore be worth a lot to me—worth everythin’. Mebby I could get Ace Hart to lemme have that place on Opal Creek, and if I could get somebody to lend me a few hundred dollars we could start a brand of our own. The old place would stand a lot of fixin’, I know. But I could shore fix it. I’ll ask him about it, Yvonne. Gee, I’d like to have you—and be a cattleman instead of just a common waddie! It’s a swell place over there. Yuh know I was christened Jim, don’tcha? We’d make it the JY place. Use our two initials and connect ’em.”

Yvonne laughed softly.

“Oh, don’t laugh, Yvonne! By golly, I can do it! I’d never drink nor play poker any more.”

“Would you take up knitting, Soapy?”

“Well, I might not do that. Say—you watch me, Yvonne! I—I wish somethin’ would happen to clear Joe.”

“I’ve been praying a long time,” said Yvonne softly.

Hashknife shoved Sleepy back along the walk almost to the gate and then they went around the house making plenty of noise. Both Yvonne and Soapy leaned out beyond the few vines as they came around the corner.

“Howdy, folks!” said Hashknife softly. “How’s yore pa, Yvonne?”

“Still unconscious, Hashknife. The doctor is out for a little while. Won’t you sit down and wait for him?”

Hashknife grinned at Soapy and shook his head.

“No, I don’t reckon we will, Yvonne. Me and Sleepy thought we’d make an early start into the hills in the mornin’ and I was wonderin’ if we might stay at yore ranch-house.”

“Well, you certainly may! It isn’t locked, so just make yourself at home out there.”

“You ain’t leavin’ the country, are yuh?” asked Soapy.

“Not exactly. How’s everythin’ at the AH, Soapy?”

“All right.”

“Yo’re a pretty capable boy,” said Hashknife seriously, “and I been wonderin’ why yuh didn’t figure out to start a little herd of yore own, Soapy. That’s the only way to do it. Yuh could start small and grow big. Yo’re young and this is a big range. Why don’tcha do somethin’ like that?”

Soapy blinked foolishly and looked at Yvonne who was not looking at him at all. His ears grew red and he shifted his feet uneasily.

“Well, I dunno,” he said vacantly. “Might be done.”

“They all start thataway, Soapy,” said Sleepy.

“Yeah, I know, but it takes a little money to start.”

“Not much. Think it over. Thanks for the house, Yvonne.”

“Oh, you are certainly welcome!”

“So-long, Soapy.”

“Sure! Same to you, Hashknife.”

Sleepy chuckled half-way down to the livery-stable but Hashknife was serious.

“He’ll think yo’re a mind-reader, Hashknife.”

“Let him think it. I believe in boostin’ a good idea. You go over and borrow a couple of rifles from Fat.”

The following morning before daylight Hashknife and Sleepy were riding away from the IS ranch, traveling in a northeast direction. Hashknife had sketched a map from the big one in the sheriff’s office, which gave a fairly good idea of the country.

They did not follow any of the marked trails but headed straight across country. For the first few miles they were able to make fairly good time but the character of the country soon changed and they were obliged to pick their way at a more leisurely pace.

The sun came up over the Chongo Creek hills flooding the valley with opal colors as they climbed higher into the rocky hills, heading for a spot between the Chongo Creek mines and the mouth of Dog Soldier Creek. They worked their way around old slides and up through thickets of jack-pines to the top of a big mesa where they stopped for a while to study the country.

“We’re too far north,” decided Hashknife. “I think that line of dark pines over there marks Dog Soldier. Chongo Creek mines are southeast of us. But I reckon we’re just as well off. We’ll swing off to the left a little and see what this mesa amounts to. Anyway, it’s easier goin’ than we’ve had.”

They gave their horses a breathing spell and continued on up the mesa where there was enough open country to give them a good view to the north and west.

Suddenly Sleepy spoke sharply to Hashknife and they drew up. Far to the northwest were two riders, silhouetted against the sky for possibly a minute before they disappeared.

“Goin’ west,” said Hashknife. “I wonder who that might be travelin’ so early up here! Might be a couple prospectors of course. Still it might pay us to foller.”

“That’s my idea,” agreed Sleepy.

They turned their horses and rode northwest, keeping a keen eye on the skyline above and beyond them. The riders were traveling west in a line which would bring them to a point well to the north of the IS ranch. Hashknife and Sleepy traveled slowly and it was fully half an hour before they saw the riders again.

This time they were swinging to the southwest traveling along the sloping side of a cañon among the jack-pines. They were still too far away for identification.

“Ridin’ painted broncs!” said Sleepy as they drew up in a clump of pines and watched the two riders cutting along the hillside.

“Black-and-white pintoes,” agreed Hashknife. “They circled the head of the cañon, leavin’ us high and dry. We’ll have to circle it too, I reckon, if we want to follow ’em.”

“Have you seen a pinto since we’ve been here?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Not a paint, Sleepy! We’ve got to circle the cañon because there’s slide-rock on each side. C’mon!”

It took them an hour to reach the spot where they had last seen the two riders, who had finally swung back to the top of the ridge traveling west again. It was useless to attempt to trail them, so it was just a case of hit or miss now.

“We’ll have to circle the cañon if we want to follow ’em”

They swung back higher in the hills, which would give them a chance to circle the heads of the cañons, and picked their way slowly along while the sun rose higher over the Silver River range. The cañons were plentiful and most of them were brushy. There were no cattle in that end of the range and trails were scarce.

Mule deer moved out of the thicket ahead of them, bounding a short distance away only to stop short and look at the riders who paid little attention to them. A little black bear, surprised in the act of digging for grubs, squalled like a baby and went up a steep bank throwing gravel with all four feet.

“And men go out to kill things like that!” said Hashknife as the little fellow up-ended over a log and out of sight in a berry thicket.

“And brag about it!” grinned Sleepy. “We ought to swing further south, pardner. This is pretty primitive up here.”

“I reckon it’s a wild-goose chase, Sleepy, but there’s no use goin’ back now. We’ll kinda prospect this part of the country and get back to the ranch before dark.”

For the next two hours they trailed through the hills, ready to give up the task as a hopeless one when they suddenly crossed a cattle trail running northeast and southwest. As far as they were able to determine the cattle had nearly all been traveling northeast. The trail led through thickets of jack-pines and they followed it to the summit where it spread into many smaller trails, all bearing in the same general direction.

“Don’t tell us much,” said Hashknife, “except that quite a few cows have headed for the higher ground where the grazin’ ain’t so good. Mebby they’ve gone on a diet.”

“Let’s see what the other end of the trail looks like,” suggested Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded in agreement and they rode back down the trail, which was plainly visible for about a mile beyond where they first picked it up, and ended at the bottom of a swale near an old water-hole spring.

“Might be that there’s a mesa up there where the feed is good and they travel back and forth to this water,” said Hashknife as they swung down and had a drink of the sweet cold water.

They were sitting on the grassy bank enjoying a cigaret when Hashknife’s attention was attracted by a glint of metal in the brush above the spring. He worked his way over to it and came back with a tin can in his hands. It was an old can which at one time had contained pears but at the bottom of which was a black gummy substance which proved to be paint. Hashknife dug some out with a stick and examined it closely.

“Paint or tar,” said Sleepy, sniffing in the can. “Looks like the stuff they brand sheep with.”

“Probably is,” agreed Hashknife and threw the can aside. “Well, I reckon we might as well travel along.”

They followed down the swale for a quarter of a mile until a granite outcropping forced them to turn to the left and came out of the swale onto a broken side hill where cloudbursts and erosion had cut deep fissures through the landscape. It was a hard place to travel around, so they rode down one of the narrow fissures, which towered high on each side and were so narrow that their knees scraped against the soft dirt of the sides.

The end of the fissure was partly blocked by a big greasewood, which forced them to turn sharply to the right hugging the bank. No trail was there and the ground was so soft that the tall gray, which was in the lead, had to maneuver its feet quickly to get a foothold. In doing so he dislodged a big stone which rolled a few feet and crashed into a clump of dry brush. Hashknife leaned heavily toward the bank to give the animal the advantage of his weight on that side, when a bullet smashed into the bank just over his twisting shoulder and the pinnacles echoed back the whip-like report of a thirty-thirty.

With a quick slash of his spurs Hashknife forced the gray to plunge ahead to the protection of a greasewood while Sleepy jerked his roan back and dismounted quickly, swinging the horse back into the fissure behind the big greasewood clump. Swiftly he drew his rifle from its scabbard and ran back to the mouth of the fissure.

In the meantime Hashknife had dismounted, taken his rifle and was crouched behind the brush peering down the hill.

“All right, pardner?” called Sleepy.

“Fit to be tied,” said Hashknife. “Watch ’em, cowboy.”

Another bullet crashed through the greasewood causing Hashknife to sag a little lower and a moment later Sleepy’s rifle sent more echoes across the broken country.

“I’ll betcha you’ll keep yore head down next time!” snorted Sleepy.

“Can yuh see anybody?” asked Hashknife.

“Not now. I shore sprayed dirt in that geezer’s face. Had him in the old notch, but this darn gun shoots low at that distance. Make it a hundred and fifty, Hashknife. Can yuh see their corral?”

“Can’t see anythin’. Is there a corral?”

“I can see part of it. Some cows down there.”

Hashknife snaked along behind the brush until he came to an outcropping of granite where he slid in close and got his first view of the country below. It was more like a pot-hole than a cañon, and Hashknife could see its value to a rustler as the country on three sides was very broken and from no place except on the very rim would it be possible for any one to see what was going on down there.

Just against the opposite side, using an angle of the bowl as two sides, was a brush and rope corral in which were eight or ten head of cattle. The rustlers were in the brush east of the corral as there was little cover on the west end.

As Hashknife sized up the place Sleepy shot twice in rapid succession and two shots smashed through the brush near him. Both sides were shooting smokeless powder but Hashknife had a fairly good idea where the men were, so he rested his rifle over the rock and sent three bullets searching through the tangle of brush in the pot-hole.

A yell of derision answered his third shot and a bullet mushroomed against the rock beside him.

“Give ’em hell!” yelled Sleepy. A moment later he shot again and swore roundly.

“Didja miss him?” asked Hashknife quickly.

“It was a horse. No, I didn’t miss. Thought it was a man.”

The rustlers were sore now. They opened up and sent bullet after bullet against Hashknife’s rock and through the brush over Sleepy’s head.

“Watch for ’em makin’ a break,” warned Hashknife.

“I’ll break ’em if they do,” replied Sleepy. “I’ve got one of ’em all fixed to walk home.”

“Didja kill a horse?”

“Unless they’ve trained a pinto to lay down when a shot is fired.”

After that it became a case of watchful waiting with neither side willing to expose themselves. Hashknife propped his sombrero on top of the rock but it remained there in perfect security for fifteen minutes.

“Are yuh sure they ain’t pulled out?” he asked Sleepy.

“Dead sure. They’ve got another horse in the brush but I can’t locate him. Stick tight! They know where we are.”

The advantage was with Hashknife and Sleepy because of their elevated position, but the brush was thick and there were at least two acres of it. They made themselves comfortable and watched the brush while the cattle bawled in the corral as they milled around.

Noon came and still there was no movement in the brush. They were patient waiters—these two drifting cowboys. Time meant nothing to them. Hashknife was in such a position that he could not take his horse away without exposing himself.

The sun traveled down across the sky and the shadows began stretching to the east.

“Do yuh reckon they’ve dodged us?” asked Hashknife.

“Don’t believe it. I’ve watched awful close. Their idea is to stick until dark, I reckon; then we will lose ’em.”

Sleepy wriggled back along the fissure to his horse where he untied the coat he had carried on his saddle. Then he came back and fitted a stick between the sleeves like a coat-hanger. He slipped the butt of his rifle between the collar and the stick, hooking the stick against the rear of the lever. Then he put his sombrero on the butt of the rifle and cautiously lifted this above the brush.

Whap! A bullet scarred the stock of the rifle between the sombrero and the coat collar and went splattering into the bank behind Sleepy.

“Still there!” laughed Sleepy. “And how that geezer can shoot! That bullet would have killed a man who wore as small as a number twelve collar.”

But Hashknife did not reply because he had cuddled the butt of his rifle against his lean cheek and his gray eye was notching the gold bead front sight against an indistinct object. Then came the spiteful crack of the rifle followed by a stirring movement in the brush. But before Hashknife could pump another shell into the chamber the object had disappeared.

“I nicked that jigger,” he told Sleepy. “At least I think I did. He shore moved away quick.”

Whether the shot nicked any one or not, it served to anger the men in the brush and they spewed lead at both Hashknife and Sleepy, who kept down until the fusillade was over.

Then followed an hour of inactivity. The sun was getting low in the west and it began to look as though the rustlers would be able to hold out until after dark when it would be a simple matter to get away.

“They know they’ve got us stuck,” said Sleepy. “We can’t get down to ’em—that’s a cinch!”

So there was nothing to do except to wait. Sleepy tried drawing their fire again with the dummy but they refused to rise to the bait. Time passed swiftly now and the sun sank below the western range.

Hashknife knew the period of twilight would be brief; that within an hour the rustlers would be able to leave the pot-hole in the hills without interference. He fumbled in his pockets for cigaret-papers but suddenly jerked his hands up and gripped the rifle.

Something was moving over by the farther side of the brush. It was a man, humped over low, moving slowly. As Hashknife lined up the sights the man ran swiftly across an open space of not over fifteen feet. Swiftly the muzzle of the gun turned and the report awoke the sleeping echoes. The man’s feet seemed to jerk from under him and he fell in the open, but with a rolling flop he was out of sight.

“One baby down!” exclaimed Hashknife.

“Didja wing one?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Legged him, Sleepy.”

“Good work.”

Fifteen minutes later Sleepy wailed, “Gettin’ so dark I can’t see to notch my sights.”

“Same here—but neither can they.”

“There they go!” yelled Sleepy. “Off to the right! Two on one bronc!”

Sleepy sprang to his feet and fired his rifle as rapidly as possible. But the light was bad and when his rifle clucked on the empty chamber the riders were out of sight. Hashknife came clawing his way back to Sleepy.

“They’re gone!” complained Sleepy. “I never knocked a feather out of ’em. Dang the light anyway!”

“Well, that settles the cat-hop!” sighed Hashknife. “Let’s go down and look at that horse.”

It was impossible for them to ride down into the pot-hole, so they left their horses where they were and went down on foot. Sleepy led the way to the dead horse which had been killed instantly. It looked like a black-and-white animal until a close examination disclosed the fact that it was a white horse with the black spots painted on.

“A reg’lar painted horse,” laughed Sleepy. “Look at the brand, will yuh?”

“An AH horse,” said Hashknife. “I expected that.”

The saddle was a well-worn, narrow fork affair without a distinguishing mark of any kind. The men went over to the corral and looked at the stock. There were six IS, two Box 88 and one AH animals in the corral. Sticks had been piled up for a branding fire but the rustlers had become alarmed before touching a match to it.

Hashknife opened the corral and let the animals out. He wanted to keep them there for evidence, but there was no feed or water, so he turned them loose. He and Sleepy went back to their horses, led Ghost along the treacherous side of the hill to the deep fissure, where they rode away on the back trail to the swale again.

It was dark by this time and there was no trail, but Hashknife led the way out of the swale near the spring and they headed down across the hills toward Chongo town.

Fat Garnette didn’t know where Hashknife and Sleepy had gone. He wasn’t at the office when Sleepy borrowed the two rifles from Weary without telling Weary what they intended doing.

“He jist borrowed ’em,” said Weary. “I supposed it was all right.”

“It’s all right,” said Fat. “Only I’d like to know where my rifles go.”

Later on that day Fat met Hayward, who asked him where Hashknife and Sleepy were.

“Dunno a thing about ’em. They borrowed my two best Winchesters yesterday evenin’ and Weary says they rode out of town. The danged fool never asked ’em where they were goin’.”

“Kind of a funny move, wasn’t it?”

“I s’pose it was. They do make funny moves—and tell yuh nothin’. Sometimes I get tired of it, Tuck. They’ve hung around my office ever since they’ve been here. Yuh can’t help likin’ ’em but I dunno why in hell they stay here. They seem to have money and they don’t ask any odds of anybody, so I reckon it’s their business.”

“Oh, shore! How’s Frenchy?”

“I’m just goin’ down there. Yuh know he can’t get well.”

“Do yuh think that’s a fact?”

“Doctor says so. He might be wrong. I’ll let yuh know how he is when I come back.”

Yvonne met the sheriff on the front porch and he could see that she was excited.

“He’s conscious,” she said joyfully. “And he isn’t suffering. The doctor says he’ll get well.”

“Gosh, I’m shore glad, Yvonne! I wonder if I could see him.”

“I think so.”

They found Frenchy LeClere, heavily bandaged, looking very weak. The doctor smiled at the sheriff and offered him a chair.

“He’s looking pretty good, eh?” smiled the doctor. “Regained consciousness ten minutes ago. No sign of concussion now.”

“That’s great! How are yuh feelin’, Mr. LeClere?”

“I don’t feel much,” he whispered.

“You’ll be fine. Do you know what happened?”

“I’m try to think. She’s like dream.”

“Sure yuh didn’t go to sleep and let the team run away?”

“Non! Two men she’s ride up beside me in de dark, one man on each side. I’m t’ink dey go for to pass me and I’m jus’ say ‘Hello,’ w’en one man mus’ have hit me with rifle. I’m seem to see rifle. Mebby first time she’s hit me on de shoulder. I feel h’awful pain and I’m theenk I’m fall off de wagon and den I don’t feel no-t’ing.”

“And you didn’t see who the men were?”

“Non. But I see one t’ing. One man she’s ride pinto. I’m see de spot. Other man I’m don’ know, biccause I’m not see him so good.”

“Ridin’ a pinto horse, eh?”

“Did you ever hear of such a thing?” exclaimed Yvonne. “Why, we all thought Dad had been hurt in the runaway!”

“Not all of us,” replied the sheriff. “Hashknife doped it all out right away. Comin’ in from out there he told me just what happened.”

“But how did he know?” asked the doctor quickly.

“Readin’ signs. The men who did it thought Joe was in the wagon. They wanted to kill him, so they thought they would kill him and make it look like a runaway. I guess they thought Joe would be killed in the runaway, or maybe the team ran away before they had a chance to investigate the contents of the wagon-box.”

Frenchy relaxed and closed his eyes. Yvonne was staring at the floor.

“De same men w’at shoot Joe in de jail?” whispered the old Frenchman.

“Must be! Doc, I reckon I better get a couple of men to stay down here.”

“You mean to guard the place?”

“Y’betcha. I’ll see if I can find two.”

“Soapy would come and maybe—” began Yvonne.

“Shore!” grinned Fat. “I’ll see him.”

Fat went back to the main street and crossed over to the Silver Streak where he met Tuck Hayward.

“The old man is still the same, Tuck,” he said.

“Still unconscious, eh?”

“Yeah. Say, Tuck, do you know anybody around here who rides a pinto horse?”

“Pinto?” Tuck motioned for the bartender. “No, I don’t, Fat. What do yuh want to know for?”

“Just wonderin’. I don’t know of a single one, do you?”

“Somebody wantin’ to buy one?”

Fat shook his head as he filled his glass.

“No-o-o, I don’t think so, Tuck. Here’s regards!”

They drank and turned from the bar.

“I haven’t seen any pinto horses around here,” said Tuck.

“Neither have I. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”

Hayward walked to the doorway and watched Fat cross the street. The big man’s face twisted thoughtfully and he shoved his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.

“Pinto horses, eh?” he muttered. “I wonder what in hell he meant.”

He walked back the length of the bar then stood and looked over the room. The livery-stable keeper was having a drink at the bar and nodded to Hayward.

“Seen Hartley today?” asked Hayward.

“Not today. Him and his pardner rode away last night—or rather yesterday evenin’.”

“Pullin’ out of the country?”

“Don’t think so. Anyway, they didn’t say anythin’ about pullin’ out. Packed a couple of rifles, I noticed. Hope they ain’t gone for good ’cause they owe me a few dollars’ feed bill.”

“Mebby they went huntin’,” suggested the bartender.

“Might have.”

Hayward frowned and lighted a cigar.

Fat found Weary and Chuck at the office and to them he confided what Frenchy LeClere had said. Fat also told them that Hashknife had advanced the same idea the day they had found Frenchy unconscious under the greasewood.

“How in hell did he know?” queried Chuck.

“Brains, you hard-head!” declared Weary. “Hashknife does a lot of thinkin’, I tell yuh. He’s smart.”

“Ain’t no smarter than the rest of us.”

“Ain’t he?”

“Well, if he is, why in hell don’t he find out who has done all the dirty work around here for the past year? Why don’t he pin the hornet on somebody, I’d ask yuh? If he’s so damn smart why don’t he tell me who petted me on the head that night? I’d pay to know.”

“How much would you pay? Four bits, I suppose.”

“I’d pay, y’betcha!”

“And then what would yuh use for money? And what good would it do yuh? You’d never go gunnin’ for nobody, Chuck. You’d jist about find out who done it and tell ’em that they done a hell of a good job. They did—only they didn’t hit hard enough.”

“The hell they didn’t! Hard enough to suit me.”

“Well,” said Fat moving in on the argument, “I wish they’d bring my Winchesters back. If they don’t come back I’ll make Weary pay for them two guns, y’betcha!”

“Oh, they’ll come back!” declared Weary. “I’ll bet they had a good reason for takin’ ’em. And what’s more, I don’t want that Hashknife notchin’ a sight on me. His eyes are too keen. By golly, I’m scared to think evil around him!”

“Oh, he ain’t no mind-reader, Weary,” said Chuck.

“Well, you better think clean around him, pardner.”

“Why? Who’s he to make me think clean? I can think jist as dirty as I want to.”

“You would!”

Fat laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“Guess I’ll separate you fellers. Weary, you get hold of Soapy Weed and see if he can get off the AH for a few days. If he can’t I’ll deputize him—and he’ll have to. I need a couple of men to guard the doctor’s place.”

“Guard it?” asked Weary. “What’s the idea?”

“There’s been two attempts to kill Joe and one attempt to kill his father. We don’t want it to happen again.”

“Yuh want me and Soapy?” asked Weary.

“Shore! If Soapy is willin’.”

“Willin’? Say! That bat-eared waddy would sell his soul to be near Yvonne.”

“All right; you find him.”

It was well after dark when Soapy and Cling rode in from the AH. A little later Weary found Soapy in a store and told him what Fat had said.

“Gee, that’ll be great!” exclaimed Soapy. “We better have Fat deputize me right away or old man Hart won’t stand for it. He says me and Cling are spendin’ too much time in town.”

“Fat’s eatin’ supper. You show up in an hour and he’ll deputize yuh, Soapy.”

“I’ll be there if I live.”

Soapy went across to the Silver Streak to find Cling and tell him the news. Cling was at the bar with Hayward and several other men, and Soapy told Cling, after drawing him aside. Cling had imbibed several drinks and was incredulous.

“Aw, yo’re crazy!” he blurted. “What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s place? I suppose you framed it up yourself.”

Cling had spoken loud enough for the men at the bar to hear.

“What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s place?” asked Hayward.

“Some fool idea of Soapy’s,” laughed Cling.

“No such a damn thing! Didn’t somebody try to kill Joe? And didn’t somebody try to kill Frenchy?”

“Frenchy was hurt in a runaway,” said Hayward.

“Rats!” snorted Soapy. “That’s all yuh know about it.”

“Well, he was hurt in a runaway,” declared Cling.

“He was, like hell!”

Soapy turned and walked out of the place.

“He’s crazy as a sheepherder,” laughed Cling.

“Is Frenchy conscious?” asked one of the men. “I heard he couldn’t live and that he never would speak again.”

“That’s what I heard,” said Hayward slowly. “I’m goin’ down and find out for myself.”

He walked away from the bar and went down to the doctor’s place and the old doctor met him at the front door.

“Hello, Doc!” said Hayward pleasantly. “I heard that LeClere had regained consciousness.”

“I heard that also,” smiled the doctor. “But I should be in a position to know the facts of the matter, don’t you think, Hayward?”

“I should think you would be, Doc. How is Joe?”

“Doing nicely. No fever now but very weak.”

“Well, that’s good. Thanks, Doc!”

“You are very welcome.”

Hayward walked half-way back to the saloon before he realized that the doctor had not denied that LeClere had regained consciousness.

“I’m a damn fool,” he told himself. “Why didn’t I ask him whether LeClere was conscious? He merely said that he was in a position to know the facts. And what are the facts?”

He went back to the saloon no wiser than he had been before.

Soapy could hardly wait to be deputized. Fat gave each man a sawed-off shotgun and sent them down to the doctor’s house to report on duty. It amused the doctor but he really was glad that the sheriff had taken such precautions.

Yvonne was visibly relieved. Two men with riot guns will give any place a sense of security. Soapy grinned and sat down with the gun across his lap.

“Bring on yore trouble,” he announced and after he and Yvonne were alone for a few moments he said:

“Gosh, this is the best job I ever had! Fat says we’ll be here until both yore dad and Joe are able to take care of themselves. That’ll be at least two weeks.”

“That will be fine, Soapy.”

“Say! I spoke to Hart about that place on Opal Creek.”

“What did he say?”

Soapy started to grin, smoothed his face and cleared his throat harshly.

“We won’t discuss that part of it, Yvonne. I told him he wanted to keep me down. But I’ll get it. Gee, just think of two weeks down here! This is my idea of a job.”

Fat came down to see how they were getting along.

“One of yuh stay in Frenchy’s room and the other in Joe’s room. Don’t let anybody in except Yvonne, the doctor or myself. And if either one of yuh goes to sleep I’ll can yuh off the job.”

“Suppose somebody tries to get in?” asked Soapy.

“Didja think I gave yuh that gun for a crutch?”

Yvonne questioned Fat about Hashknife and Sleepy but he knew nothing about them. She told him that they were to have stayed at the IS ranch the night before, but she didn’t know just what their reasons were for staying out there.

“I don’t pretend to know what the long-geared cowboy has under his hat,” said Fat soberly. “He shore gets under my hide sometimes. Well, I’ll see yuh later, folks. Yvonne, you see that Soapy sticks to his job. He can’t think of more than one thing at a time and that ain’t work.”

She promised to keep Soapy on the job and Fat went away with a grin on his face.

It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Chongo town and stabled their horses. They did not bother to take the rifles back to the sheriff’s office but went straight up the street to the Silver Streak where Sleepy planted himself near the front door while Hashknife went down to the doctor’s office.

The doctor answered the knock and Hashknife asked him to step outside.

“Ain’t been anybody here for yuh, has there, Doc?”

“Not today, Hartley. Is somebody sick?”

“Mebby. If anybody calls for yuh will yuh let me know before yuh go?”

“I don’t understand what you mean, Hartley, but I’ll do it.”

“That’s fine. How are the patients?”

“Getting along fine. Mr. LeClere is conscious but I’m a little afraid to have you talk with him. He talked with the sheriff today. Your theory was correct, Hartley. Two men came along that night, passing on each side of his wagon, and one of them struck him with a rifle barrel.”

“Did he recognize either of them?” anxiously.

“No, he didn’t. But he is sure that at least one of the men rode a pinto horse.”

“Gee, that’s fine! See yuh later, Doc; and I’m much obliged.”

Hashknife hurried back to Sleepy, told him the latest news and they went into the Silver Streak. Several of the games were running full blast and Tuck Hayward was dealing the stud game.

Quite a number of men were in from the mines spending their hard-earned wages over the green cloth. Several railroad men were there, a couple of cattle buyers and a number of the business men of the town. Cling Heffner was there playing roulette and they saw Johnny Colburn in a chuck-luck game, his hat in one hand, his nose beaded with perspiration. It was not often that Johnny was winner and the excitement was almost too much for him.

Hayward saw Hashknife and Sleepy come in and he looked at them curiously. Hashknife stood behind him. It made Hayward nervous. He twisted in his chair and gave other evidence that he did not like to have anybody stand behind him. Finally Hashknife moved away and Hayward shot a baleful glance in his direction.

The sheriff came in and seemed surprised to see Hashknife and Sleepy. He walked over to them and whispered what he had learned from Frenchy LeClere. Hashknife told him he had already talked with the doctor and listened while the sheriff told about posting the two guards at the doctor’s home.

“Fat, would you be all set for trouble if somethin’ broke tonight?” asked Hashknife softly.

The sheriff looked at him curiously but replied quickly, “Most anythin’, Hartley.”

“Fine! And don’t ask questions when it comes.”

“Well, what’s in the air? Gimme an idea, can’t yuh?”

“Not yet. Stay around here and act natural.”

“All right.”

Fat hitched up his belt, reached for his papers and began rolling a cigaret. That was his idea of acting natural.

Hashknife took a chair against the wall about midway of the room and relaxed. He was tired from the ride and the gun battle and he needed to relax for a while. There was nothing sure in his plans. He was playing a hunch again—“shooting at shadows,” he called it.

Sleepy wandered around the room watching the games while Fat appeared to grow interested in the roulette wheel where a small crowd of miners were losing their money. There was plenty of activity but nothing out of the ordinary. Men came and went but the crowd stayed about the same size all the time.

It was about ten o’clock when McLeod, foreman of the Box 88, came in. He had a drink at the bar, rolled a smoke and sized up the place.

Hashknife studied the man from under the brim of his big hat. McLeod needed a shave and a hair-cut badly. He bought another drink and engaged the bartender in conversation.

Hashknife glanced toward the door and saw Soapy Weed coming in. Soapy walked slowly past the bar, nodding casually to Fat, who gawped after him, inclined to reprimand him for leaving his post of duty.

After a slow survey of the room Soapy came over to Hashknife and spoke softly. Hashknife merely nodded.

Soapy sauntered away. He stopped to look at the games but finally went outside.

Hashknife glanced at Hayward, who was looking in his direction, and wondered whether Hayward had seen Soapy bring him a message.

A waiter started from the bar with a tray of glasses. McLeod said something to him. The man nodded and as he placed the glasses on the table spoke to Hayward, who said something in return, and then walked away with the empty tray. In a few moments another dealer came to the stud table and relieved Hayward.

Hayward yawned heavily, lighted a cigar and walked back to his private office where he went inside. McLeod turned from talking with the bartender and started for the door. In a moment Hashknife was on his feet signaling to Fat and the two walked out behind McLeod, who had stopped on the edge of the sidewalk.

The sheriff didn’t know what was to be done. His jaw sagged with surprise when Hashknife stepped in beside the big foreman of the Box 88, deftly removed McLeod’s gun from its holster and shoved it against the astonished cattleman’s ribs.

“What in hell is goin’ on here?” demanded McLeod hotly.

“Just this, McLeod. Yo’re under arrest. You take him to jail, Fat.”

“But—but—” faltered the sheriff.

“Give me back that gun, you damn fool!” snarled McLeod. “What’s all this talk about arrestin’ me? Make that damn fool give me back that gun, Fat.”

“Take him to jail, Fat,” begged Hashknife. “It’s no joke. My God, don’t hold up the game!”

“All right, Hashknife. Yo’re under arrest, McLeod. Give me his gun, will yuh?”

“Well, by God, somebody will smart for this!”

“You will, McLeod. Don’t take a chance with him, Fat. If he makes a break, shoot him.”

The arrest had been made so quietly that it had not attracted any attention. As McLeod started across the street with Fat Hashknife stepped to the right and went swiftly back through the alley, coming in behind the Silver Streak.

The light from Hayward’s office partly illuminated two saddle-horses which were standing a few yards from the building, the bridle reins dragging. Speaking softly to them, Hashknife stepped over and stripped off the bridles from both horses. He gave one of them a slap with the reins and both horses trotted away in the night.

Some one was yelling out on the street. Hashknife heard the sound of pounding feet as a man came running down the alley. Quickly he stepped in against the building as the man came into view and jerked to a stop, whirling around in the light from the window which was at Hashknife’s shoulder.

The man was McLeod, hatless, a gun in his hand. Recognition seemed mutual and the guns of the two men spat together, throwing a shower of sparks in the dark. From behind Hashknife came the crackle of broken glass as the heavy bullet bored through the window of Hayward’s office.

But McLeod was falling forward, pitching on his face in the dirt, arms outspread. It seemed as if he was still falling when Hashknife darted to the back door of the saloon, opened it quickly and stepped inside.

The saloon was in an uproar. The crash of the two shots had stopped all activities and to add to the climax Fat Garnette was staggering in, his face covered with blood and dirt. Down the middle of the room he staggered, looking for Hashknife to tell him that McLeod had had a concealed gun with which he had struck Fat over the head before he had escaped. But Hashknife was not paying any attention to the sheriff. He was still at that back door which was wide open.

Suddenly the door of Hayward’s office swung open and Mike Dalhart, the cowboy who had gone to Arizona, stepped out.

Dalhart was hunched forward, his hat pulled low over his eyes, a six-shooter in each hand. A trapped wolf would have been a nursing lamb beside Dalhart. The sheriff saw him and stopped short. The gun in Dalhart’s right hand jerked to his hip, covering the sheriff.

He jerked the gun to his hip, covering the sheriff

“Over here, Bitter River!”

Hashknife’s voice snapped like a whip and Dalhart whirled, both guns spouting flame, shooting too swiftly for deadly accuracy.

Hashknife’s gun thundered in response and as Sleepy’s gun spat flame from about the center of the room Dalhart jerked sideways, dropped the gun from his right hand, went back on his heels and fell against the door of the office, sliding to the floor in a heap.

Hashknife ran to him quickly and flung the office door open. Hayward was lying on the office floor, flat on his back with one arm flung across his face. Hashknife stepped back into the saloon as the crowd, panicky from the killing, surged forward, choking in the powder fumes.

Fat Garnette came forward, his face white where it wasn’t red from gore, and stopped near Hashknife, trying to ask questions with his hands.

Dalhart wasn’t dead. He tried to lift his head from the floor and cursed bitterly at Hashknife.

“Who shot Hayward?” asked Hashknife.

“Bullet through the window,” said Dalhart chokingly.

“McLeod got away,” said Fat hoarsely.

“He’s out behind here,” said Hashknife. “He shot at me and his bullet went through the window. I guess he killed Hayward. Some of yuh prop Dalhart up and give him a drink.”

Some one got a bottle at the bar, another man went after the doctor, while the rest stood dumbly in their tracks, shocked, staring with amazement at Hashknife, who was the coolest man in the place.

Dalhart managed to take a big drink of liquor but he knew as well as they that his minutes were numbered.

“Yore pardner’s out at the Box 88, ain’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“So it was you, eh?” whispered Dalhart. “We wasn’t sure. Yes, he’s out there with a broken leg. Damn him! If it hadn’t been for him—I came to get a doctor and to settle up with Hayward. I was goin’ to get out.”

“You killed McFee a year ago, Dalhart. It was you who killed O’Neil and it was you who shot Joe LeClere. I can understand why yuh killed McFee. He recognized yuh as Bitter River Belton. Yuh killed O’Neil because yuh found out he was a cattle detective, but I’ll be damned if I can figure out why yuh tried to kill Joe LeClere.”

“That fooled yuh, eh?” whispered Dalhart weakly. “I’m glad somethin’ fooled yuh. I think Joe knew I killed O’Neil and I was afraid he might tell at his trial. Hayward didn’t think so because he had the deadwood on Joe. It was Hayward who found out who O’Neil was. He furnished O’Neil a gun to kill Joe with that night, but Joe didn’t go home.

“That McFee job was funny.” Dalhart was getting so weak that they gave him another pull at the bottle.

“Joe almost had snakes. He started to town with McFee but he was so loco he went back. Me and Hayward made Joe believe he killed McFee and the damn fool still thinks so. That’s what Hayward had on Joe. He forced Joe to steal cattle from his father for Hayward.”

“Made him change the IS to a Box 88, eh?” asked Hashknife.

Dalhart nodded and closed his eyes.

“Yeah. And we done the same thing. We threw ’em into a box cañon off Dog Soldier and grazed ’em back there until the brands had healed. When we knocked old Frenchy off Hayward wanted us to make a big clean-up and we just got started when you showed up.”

“You stole a pair of white horses from the AH and painted black spots on ’em.”

Dalhart grinned and started to say something as the doctor came bustling in. He knelt at Dalhart’s side—Dalhart was still smiling. The examination was brief.

“I don’t see how he lived ten seconds,” said the doctor—and passed on in to look at Hayward.

McLeod was still alive. Some of the men carried him in. He cursed everybody and refused to commit himself in any way, even after he was told that Dalhart had confessed.

Soapy and Weary had deserted their post of duty and were outside the saloon with Yvonne when Hashknife and Sleepy came out. They had only heard snatches of information and they almost assaulted Hashknife.

“Joe is clear,” Hashknife told them. “There ain’t a thing they can hold him for. But I’ve got to have somethin’ else cleared up and Joe can do it. C’mon!”

“You say Joe is clear?” asked Yvonne, almost afraid that she had not heard correctly. “He isn’t guilty?”

“Not of murder. Oh, it’s all right, Yvonne! Don’t cry. For gosh sake, won’t somebody take that riot-gun away from Soapy and let him take care of Yvonne?”

They walked down to the doctor’s office and went in with Soapy and Yvonne far in the rear. Joe was half out of bed, trying to put on some clothes, but found himself too weak.

The man who had come for the doctor had blurted out some information that was of vital importance to Joe LeClere.

Hashknife lifted him back into the bed and Joe stared at them with frightened eyes.

“Lay down and listen to me,” said Hashknife. “To begin with, you didn’t kill Charley McFee.”

Joe opened his eyes wide and his mouth sagged for a moment. He tried to speak but merely swallowed and looked up at Hashknife.

“Dalhart killed him,” said Hashknife. “He confessed. And he killed O’Neil too. Didja know that, Joe?”

“I—I thought he did. But—but Hayward said he’d have me hung for murder if I told. It was Dalhart who tried to kill me.”

“We know that, Joe. He admitted that part of it. He said that they had the deadwood on you and Hayward made you steal cows from yore father. Is that the truth, Joe?”

Joe’s eyes shifted from face to face. Yvonne was leaning close to him and he looked square at her as he said:

“You think I’m a rustler, but I’m not. Hell, how I hated Hayward! But he could have had me hung. They thought I was stealin’ Dad’s cows but I wasn’t. I’d corral a lot of Box 88’s and rebrand ’em. Run the hot iron over the original brand and not do it too well and then turn the animals over to whoever was in charge of the work at the mines. They also kept the rebrands back on Dog Soldier. I swear to God that I never stole a cow from Dad.”

Tears were running down Yvonne’s cheeks as she turned to Hashknife. Joe was crying too, but most of his tears were from weakness and reaction.

“Oh, he isn’t guilty of anything!” she choked. “Don’t you see he is cleared of everything, Hashknife?”

“Yea-a-ah, I see he is,” said Hashknife seriously. “But if the chance ever comes, after he gets well, I’ll kick him a couple of times for my own satisfaction.”

“Why—what for?” asked Weary.

“For givin’ me the toughest problem I ever worked on. I’ve been here all this time tryin’ to figure out just what he was goin’ to do with them Box 88 cows we found him with that mornin’. There wasn’t a darn brand in this state he could make out of that Box 88—and I never once thought he might be double-crossin’ a thief.”

“If you wa-want to do the kickin’ right now I’ll let yuh,” said Joe seriously. “The rest of you folks get out because I’ve only got on one of Doc’s nightgowns.”

“And I’ve lost my good job,” sighed Soapy.

“You ain’t even started on yore good job,” said Hashknife. “Yvonne, go in and tell yore dad that the kid is all right. Yore dad knows all about them cows that Joe was goin’ to brand, but he don’t know why.”

“And you did it,” said Yvonne. She took hold of Hashknife’s sleeve and looked at him. “You did all of this just for us.”

And then she kissed him square—on the mouth—ducked aside and ran to her father’s room. Hashknife looked foolishly around and headed for the door.

“I could do the same thing to yuh,” said Soapy.

But Hashknife didn’t accept. He walked out followed by Sleepy and Weary, who was still walking around in a daze.

They went to the sheriff’s office where they found Fat and several other men. McLeod was not dangerously hurt. They had him on a cot in one of the cells while some more of the men were getting a rig at the livery-stable to go out to the Box 88 after Asher, who was out there waiting with Cornes for the doctor to come.

Fat had washed the blood off his face and head but he was far from presentable yet. McLeod had struck him over the head with a six-shooter, knocked him down but not quite out.

“I don’t understand it all yet,” complained Fat. “How didja figure all this out, Hashknife? I don’t get head nor tail out of it. You called him Bitter River, didn’t yuh? Wasn’t that the name in that telegram from Piney River?”

“That was the shadow I shot at,” smiled Hashknife. “McFee used to be a deputy sheriff down there. He was here two days and was murdered. The only time I ever met McFee he was chasin’ a man by that name—Bitter River Belton. I took a chance and the description fit Dalhart, except for the moles which I didn’t see. That established a killer for McFee.

“I knew that O’Neil was a detective. Rustlers will kill a detective, yuh know. LeClere was losin’ cattle, so I had to find out who was stealin’ ’em. Yuh can change an IS to a Box 88 by usin’ the I for part of the Box and makin’ the S into an eight and addin’ another eight. They both brand on the right shoulder. It took me a long time because I was workin’ on the wrong angle. I thought Joe LeClere was a crook and a cow-thief. Hayward said that Dalhart and Asher had pulled out for Arizona but I didn’t believe it. Then I heard about Hayward havin’ some claims on Dog Soldier and it struck me that Dog Soldier was the answer, but me and Sleepy never quite got there.

“We saw two men on pinto horses and later on we ran into ’em in a big pot-hole in the hills, where we spent the day swappin’ lead. Sleepy killed one of the pintoes and I got one rustler in the leg. But they got away from us just at dusk on one horse, and then we found that the dead pinto was an AH with the black spots painted on.

“I knew that one of the men was hurt, so I figured he would need a doctor. The rest of it was luck, I suppose. Soapy brought me word that McLeod asked the doctor to go to the Box 88 to see a sick man. McLeod tipped Hayward off that some one was in his private office, so I had Fat arrest McLeod while I handled the rest.”

“I’d say yuh shore handled it,” said Fat. “You’ve got plenty reward comin’ to yuh, Hashknife—but you earned it. Seven thousand is a nice stake.”

“I get two thousand of it—that’s all! Have yuh got a telegraph blank around here, Fat?”

“Sure. Top drawer of that desk.”

As Hashknife wrote the telegram, Ace Hart of the AH ranch came in. He had heard the story at the Silver Streak.

“I want to meet Hartley,” he said. “By grab, I want to meet the man who smoked up Chongo town! Never heard anythin’ like it. Where is he?”

Fat introduced them and they shook hands solemnly.

“Soapy and Cling talked a lot about yuh, Hartley.”

“Nice pair of boys,” said Hashknife.

“Nice, hell! Wilder ’n hawks!”

“Soapy told me you’ve got a place on Opal Creek.”

“He did, eh? Told me about it too. Damn fool! Had an idea I’d give it to him. Talked about startin’ a herd. Ain’t got a damn cent!”

“If he had about a thousand dollars would yuh feel like lettin’ him and his wife have the place?”

“Thousand—him and his wife? What-cha talkin’ about?”

“Would yuh, Hart?”

The old man cuffed his hat over on the side of his head and squinted at Hashknife.

“If he had a thousand and a wife—yeah.”

“Make out a deed tomorrow and I’ll speak to the preacher.”

“I don’t understand yuh, Hartley.”

“Are you still shootin’ at shadows?” asked Fat.

“Not if the county will pay that reward and if Yvonne LeClere will stick to her word.”

“Well, the county will pay it tomorrow, Hashknife. I can’t speak for the Association, but they’ll pay, I’m sure.”

“I’m sorry I can’t collect that end of it, Fat.”

He handed Fat the telegram, which was directed to the Secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association and read:

CLOSED CASE TONIGHT COMPLETE CONFESSION MURDER OF MCFEE AND SHIELDS BY BITTER RIVER BELTON ALIAS MIKE DALHART A KILLER FROM PINEY RIVER STOP ACCEPT OUR RESIGNATIONS AS THIS JOB KEEPS US TOO LONG ON ONE SIDE OF THE HILL

H. HARTLEY

Fat read the telegram through carefully and then looked quizzically at Hashknife.

“Cattle detectives, eh?”

“Were,” corrected Hashknife while Sleepy grinned widely.

“So that’s why yuh can’t collect the five thousand. Say! You ain’t goin’ to pull out of here, are yuh? This Silver River country needs yuh, Hartley—it sure does.”

“Not now, Fat. Yo’re all set for a peaceful existence. Read the last line of that telegram again.”

“This job keeps us too long on one side of the hill! I thought that was code, Hartley.”

“Our code, Fat.”

“Uh-huh. Well, yuh won’t leave before tomorrow, will yuh?”

“Can’t. Got to collect money, get a deed from Hart and talk to a preacher. By the way, if yuh see Soapy Weed tell him he’ll find us at the restaurant eatin’ our first meal of the day. So-long Fat.”

Weary found Soapy and Yvonne at the front gate of the doctor’s place and he said to Soapy:

“I dunno what it’s all about, Soapy, but Hashknife Hartley asked Ace Hart to let yuh have that place on Opal Creek and Ace said yuh could if yuh had a thousand dollars to buy stock with—and a wife. Hashknife said he’d furnish the money and the preacher. Him and Sleepy are at the Chink restaurant right now eatin’ a meal.”

Weary turned on his heel and headed back for the main street while Soapy and Yvonne stood there in the moonlight staring at each other.

“The place on Opal Creek and a thousand dollars,” muttered Soapy foolishly. “Hart said I could have it if I had—Yvonne, don’t you see what it means? Yore father will get well and Joe is cleared of everythin’. Hart gives me the place—Oh, don’tcha see what it means? Yvonne, all I’ve got to do now is to furnish the wife?”

Yvonne reached out and touched Soapy on the sleeve, and they both looked up at the full moon, high up over the Chongo Creek hills.

“There’s a road to the moon tonight, Soapy,” she said softly.

“That’s right, honey! It’ll take us all our life but we’ll travel her—if yuh want to go with me.”

“I’ve always wanted to see the moon,” she replied.

Somewhere a cowboy was singing:

But they didn’t hear him—and they were not looking at the moon.

The End

Transcriber’s Notes

This story appeared in the January, 1928 issue of McClure’s Magazine. This story is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Please note that copyright status may differ in other countries.

The cover image was produced by the transcriber and is released into the public domain.