Front matter

Hashknife—Wise, Humorous Adventurer of the Open Range—Rides Over the Hill Again

“H-e-e-y! What the hell is the matter with this here thing?”

“Soapy” Weed’s voice began a deep bass, rising in a swift crescendo until it hit a note far above the range of anything below a soprano.

Soapy stood in the middle of the AH bunk-house, full in the light of two oil lamps. Balanced on the edge of a table was a packing-case which bore the imprint of a popular mail-order house and at his feet was a smaller case of the same kind.

Soapy’s stubby nose was beaded with perspiration and his blue eyes were filled with anxiety. He was of medium height, weighing possibly a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was of a sandy hue and just now it flared as though in a gale, attesting to the fact that Soapy had shortly emerged through the neck band of a white, stiff-bosom shirt, which was so new and so stiffly starched that the deed had only been accomplished by a supreme effort.

Over the shirt he wore a glaringly new checked suit, the sleeves of which came far above his wrists and the shoulders were far too narrow. Both hands clutched with a death grip on the waist-band of the checked trousers, which were inches and inches too large around the waist.

Seated on a bunk was “Cling” Heffner, a giant of a cowboy. He had been nicknamed “Clinging Vine,” but this had been shortened to plain “Cling.” He was slightly bald, square-faced, with a crooked nose and huge mouth surrounded at each end by deep grin wrinkles—like a gash in parenthesis.

He surveyed Soapy critically.

“Well—holee gee!” he breathed. “You don’t fit ’em, Soapy.”

“And is that all yuh can say?” asked Soapy wearily.

“It’s good-lookin’ cloth, Soapy. I never thought that there sample would ever make up—”

“Oh, damn the cloth! Look at this, will yuh?”

Soapy tried to cross his arms, but the effort was futile. And when he let loose of the waist-band his trousers fell to the floor. He leaned forward and glared at Cling, making no effort to recover the trousers.

“Yuh need suspenders, Soapy.”

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

Soapy kicked the offending trousers against the door of the bunk-house, and Cling grinned widely.

“You look like one of them there quail birds without any tail feathers, Soapy; honest yuh do.”

“Do I?” Soapy was sarcastic. He leaned against the table and glared at Cling. “You measured me for that suit, feller.”

“You measured me for that suit, feller, and yuh got them figures down wrong”

“I follered directions.”

“You did, like hell! Here’s what yuh done. I wear a thirty-nine coat and a thirty-one waist-band. And dang you, Cling, yuh got them figures down on the wrong blanks. Thirty-one coat! My God, that wouldn’t fit a chickadee! And a horse ain’t over thirty-nine around the waist.”

“Some horses are, Soapy. Aw, don’t git hot. Lemme see them pants, will yuh? I can take a tuck in the rear. What’s eight inches, anyway? ’S far as that’s concerned, yuh can gather it up inside yore belt. I admit that the coat fits tight. Sa-a-ay! Eight inches will jist about make it. We’ll take eight inches out of them pants and set it between the shoulders of the coat. Git me a pair of shears and a needle.”

“Na-aa-a-aw! For God’s sake, Cling! You can’t do it. What do you know about sewin’? I’m ruined.”

“Howsa hat?” asked Cling.

Soapy groaned and lifted a pearl-colored fedora from the smaller case, gazing at it critically.

“Put her on, Soapy.”

Carefully and with both hands Soapy lifted up the hat and placed it atop his head, where it sat without visible means of support, except gravity.

“Pull her down,” said Cling.

“Pull hell!” He reached up savagely, clutched the hat in his right hand and flung it as far as the confines of the bunk-house would permit.

“I think you’ve swelled since we took yore measure,” said Cling solemnly. “But if that hat’s a seven and three-eighths, I’ll eat it.”

Soapy sat down heavily on a bunk and held his head in his hands while Cling proceeded to dress himself in a fairly new suit of robin’s egg blue, which bagged so badly at the knees that it looked as though Cling was getting ready to do a broad jump.

“You better shake a laig, Soapy,” said Cling, as he surveyed himself in the cracked mirror. “You’ve got to go out to the IS ranch, yuh must remember.”

“Yeah, I remember,” said Soapy, lifting a doleful face. “I also remember that you took my measure for that dang suit, and yuh got me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants. What kind of a figure do they think I’ve got? And a six and seven-eights hat! Cling, some day, I’m goin’ to kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” drawled Cling sadly. “I’d hate to git killed by a friend, ’specially when I’ve got so much to live for. There’s two things I want to do before I die, Soapy. One is to draw an inside royal flush, and the other is to smash Tuck Hayward right square in the beak.

“I’ve done drawed about seven thousand dollars’ worth of them inside royals in my life, and none of ’em took. If yuh crave hard enough, I’ll let yuh wear that red necktie of mine, Soapy. It’s got soup on the lower aidge, but yuh can button yore vest over it. Aw, cheer up, pardner. Climb into yore raiment. Tell Yvonne that yore suit never showed up.”

“She didn’t know I was gettin’ one.”

“Well, that’s fine. You look like hell in a fedory hat, anyway. Ain’t it enough glory to take Yvonne LeClere to a dance, without addin’ a checked suit? My God, she’s a pretty girl! Why, I’d—I’d take her to a dance if I never had a thing to wear, Soapy.”

Soapy sighed deeply and began putting on the suit he had worn for Sunday best for three years. Its original color had been black, but time and lack of proper care had changed it to a sickly green. However, Soapy retained the dress shirt and added a high collar, which caused him to act as though he had a stiff neck. Added to this was the red tie, with the soup spots on the lower “aidge.”

The tie immediately climbed to the upper edge of the collar and stayed there, in spite of Soapy’s efforts to make it stay down.

“I shore look like hell!” snorted Soapy.

“Not as she has been propounded to me,” said Cling seriously. “Yuh look a little stiff around the neck—tha’sall. Don’t set down hard or you’ll slice yore ears off. Mebby after yuh sweat a little she’ll loosen up. C’mon, we better get goin’.”

They went out to the stable and saddled their horses. Johnny Colburn and “Slim” Benito, the cook at the AH, had already gone to Chongo. Old “Ace” Hart, owner of the AH, was too old to care about attending a dance. It was payday on all the ranches, and the boys of the AH always said that Ace was so sorrowful on that day he must stay at home and hang crape on himself.

Soapy and Cling mounted their horses and rode away toward Chongo town but separated at the forks, Cling riding south across Silver River to the town, while Soapy rode north to the IS ranch to bring Yvonne LeClere to the dance.

The IS was located about four miles north of Chongo, while the AH was about the same distance from town, slightly north of east. Soapy was not in a good humor, due to the misfit of his new suit and hat. It had taken him quite a while to accumulate that forty dollars which they represented, as Soapy was not a frugal soul and forty a month does not allow for much saving.

“She’s a total loss,” he told his horse. “Won’t even make good cleanin’ rags for a six-gun. If old P. T. Barnum was alive he’d shore pay a whoppin’ salary to the man who could fit into that suit. Thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants! And a hat fit for a peanut! But that’s what yuh get for lettin’ a waddy measure yuh.”

And then Soapy’s thoughts drifted away from the suit and centered on Yvonne LeClere. He couldn’t for the life of him quite understand why Yvonne should accept his invitation to the dance; why he was favored above the rest. Soapy was not at all vain or egotistical. He could look at himself in a mirror and see himself as others might see him. He was neither handsome, graceful, intellectual nor wealthy; just a forty-a-month cowboy trying to get along. He had known Yvonne before her father sent her away to school, where she had stayed four years, but they had never been intimate friends. She had been sort of a wild kid, with big black eyes, red lips and a mop of unruly black hair. She rode like a wild thing; rode any horse she could mount, much to the amusement of old Frenchy LeClere, who swore great oaths that Yvonne could ride better than any puncher in Silver River Valley.

Old Frenchy was proud of Yvonne. His eyes always snapped when her name was mentioned.

“She’s de LeClere blood,” he would declare, striking himself on his broad chest. “Better man den Joe. Joe—well, she’s not so good. She’s not bad boy—Joe; jus’ wild.”

Silver River Valley had its own opinion of Joe LeClere. Joe was five years older than Yvonne, who was barely twenty. He was dark, with black eyes and a cruel mouth. And he was wild, was Joe LeClere; wild rider, wild drinker, wild gambler. He trailed with a wild crowd.

Frenchy LeClere did not remonstrate with Joe, because Joe was of age now. But one day when Joe was eighteen his father knocked him down with the neck-yoke of a wagon. After doctoring him back to consciousness he said:

“W’en I say somet’ng, I mean no! No, she’s not yes. Nor she’s not maybee. Me, I’m not like strike child wit’ feest; so I’m tak’ neck-yoke and hit you so—hard, maybee you remember for t’ree year more that I am boss. After dat I’m don’ give hell. You can’ go way and say I’m don’ raise you right, by God!”

And Joe had remembered to the best of his ability. In spite of his wild blood, he had a lot of respect for his big, spade-bearded, white-haired father. The neck-yoke probably did much to gain this respect.

Soapy rode in at the ranch-house and Frenchy LeClere met him at the doorway, his broad figure back-lighted by a huge lamp on the table.

“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed rumblingly. “By gosh, ’ere’s de cowboy come for you, Yvonne! Shak’ leg! Come in, Soapee. H’all polish up, eh?” He slapped Soapy on the shoulder so hard that the cowboy half flinched.

“Hyah, Mr. LeClere!” he grinned.

The old man lifted his bushy brows and stared at Soapy.

“So-o-o? Mistaire LeClere, eh?”

“Gotta be polite,” grinned Soapy.

“Biccause you tak’ my girl to de dance, eh? You never mind be polite to me; you be polite to her.”

“Shore thing, I will,” said Soapy seriously.

“Rest de feet, eh?” grinned Frenchy LeClere, indicating a chair.

Soapy sat down on the edge of the seat, while the old man sat down in an ancient rocker, which creaked ominously under his weight.

“Joe at home?” asked Soapy after a silent moment. The old man frowned slightly, but finally lifted his brows and looked at Soapy.

“She’s not here—no. Joe she’s spend mos’ time in town. I dunno,” he shook his head sadly. “She’s h’all right biffore de railroad come to Chongo. Railroad bring de gambler, de women. Mak’ new building, too. Chongo grow beeg. I’m sorry. We ’ave de nice li’l town, h’everybody happy; now she’s h’all go to hell, I’m guess.”

“I don’t like it myself,” said Soapy earnestly.

“Bimeby comes de barb-wire, nester, mebby sheep.”

“I’ll pull out ahead of that.”

“You are yo’ng; you can go some place. But I am old and I mus’ stay. I’m t’ink Yvonne he’s coming now. You bring de buggy?”

“By golly, I never thought of it! I ain’t never taken—”

“Never min’; you tak’ my rig, Soapee. You talk wit’ Yvonne w’ile I’m hitch up de horse.”

And before Soapy could protest against it, Frenchy went out through the rear of the house. A moment later Yvonne came in. She stopped just inside the room and smiled at the speechless Soapy.

She was wearing a flame-colored silk dress which fit her perfectly, a black lace mantilla gracefully draped over her head and shoulders, causing her to look more Spanish than French. Her big eyes sparkled and her red lips parted to show a flash of white teeth as she smiled at the dumbfounded cowboy.

“How do you like me?” she asked.

“My God!” breathed Soapy. “You—well, I’ll—hello, Yvonne.” He smiled foolishly and blinked at her.

“Oh, hello, Soapy.”

“Gosh! I—say, I saw a picture once that looked just like you.”

“Yes? Where’s Father?”

“He’s—uh—say, Yvonne, I plumb forgot to bring a rig, and he—he’s gone out to hitch up one.”

Yvonne laughed softly and crossed to an old mirror.

“You are not used to taking ladies to dances, eh?” she said, not turning her head.

“I shore ain’t. Gosh, that’s a pretty dress, Yvonne. You’ll have all them Chongo women green with envy. I—I—” he looked down at his suit—“I ain’t—yuh see, I got a new suit today. Had her shipped from Chicago. But Cling Heffner measured me for it and he shore got the figures shifted. They sent me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants. What you think of that?”

Yvonne laughed with him and turned from the mirror.

“Never mind clothes,” she said. “You look fine.”

“I guess I don’t look fine, but I shore feel fine. I reckon I know how Cling would feel if he ever drawed a royal flush in the middle.”

“That’s luck,” she said.

“Shore—so is this.”

“What do you mean, Soapy?” She looked straight at him.

“Why, me gettin’ a chance to take you to a dance. I’ll bet there’s men in Chongo that would give a leg to have my chance.”

Her eyes clouded a trifle and she turned back to the mirror.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “I—I didn’t want to go with any of the men from Chongo. This is my first dance here since I came from school, you know.”

“This is my first dance since I came from school”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I shore had a horseshoe with me when I asked yuh to go, Yvonne. By golly, you shore do look fine. If that danged suit had only—”

“That’s Dad yelling that the rig is ready,” interrupted Yvonne. “We’ll go out through the kitchen.”

They found Frenchy LeClere out there with the single rig, and he held the horse while they got in the buggy.

“I’ll leave my bronc here,” said Soapy. “Thank yuh a lot, Mr. LeClere.”

“Have good time,” LeClere laughed as they drove away.

It was moonlight, but Soapy held the horse down to a walk. He was conscious of the fact that he had eaten onions for his supper. The buggy seat was small, which forced them to sit close together.

“I wish we was drivin’ to the moon,” said Soapy.

“To the moon? My, my! That is a long way, Soapy. Why, it would take a million years to drive to the moon.”

“Time jist don’t mean nothin’ to me, Yvonne; I wish there was a road up to it.”

For many years the town of Chongo had been a cow-town, drowsing away in Silver River Valley; nothing more or less than a one-street village, seemingly content to stay as it was, only growing more weather-beaten each year.

Then came the railroad, a branch line, of course, to wind its way up Silver River to Chongo town. And with the railroad came a change in the county seat, bringing it to Chongo, which was in the center of the county.

And simultaneous with the advent of the railroad came the silver strike on Chongo Creek, twelve miles northeast of the town. All these things caused Chongo to boom, and boom it did—to a certain point. Came more saloons, two big gambling houses, honkatonks. A race-track was built just outside the town, where the local cow-horses fought for quarter-mile honors each Sunday. The stakes were usually horse-for-horse, with betting as a side issue. In other words, the winning horse won all the rest of the horses in the race.

Tuck Hayward was one of the big men of Chongo. He owned the Box 88 cow-outfit and the Silver Streak saloon and gambling-house. The gambling-house had been built after the railroad started construction and after Tuck had received the contract to furnish meat to the railroad construction camps.

Frenchy LeClere had tried hard for this contract, but he did not understand politics as well as Tuck; so Tuck got the contract and laughed at Frenchy LeClere. All of which did not please Frenchy, whose herds were dwindling slowly but surely from some unknown cause.

“Fat” McAllister, the sheriff, scouted the idea that some one was stealing IS cattle, but the old man was insistent; and he thought he knew more about it than the sheriff did. Frenchy appealed to the Cattle Association and received considerable correspondence but no action.

After the big silver strike on Chongo Creek Frenchy LeClere tried to get the contract to furnish meats to the mines but found that Tuck Hayward had already taken the contract and was killing his beef at the mines.

Tuck Hayward was a big man physically, inclined to stoutness, although not yet forty years of age; cold-blooded in all his dealings, inclined to bluff his way through life, hampered somewhat by a high-pitched voice which did not blend well with the rest of his make-up.

His crew consisted of “Dunk” McLeod, Hal Cornes, Len Asher, Mike Dalhart and “Kid” O’Neil. Asher and Cornes spent most of their time at the Chongo camps, handling the butchering.

O’Neil was fairly new to Silver River Valley; a small, sinister-looking person with thin, dark face, keen eyes, sharp nose and a mop of coarse black hair. But the kid was a cow-hand of the first water, quiet and unassuming, until full of liquor, when he became both loquacious and dangerous. He had worked a while for Frenchy LeClere, but the old man had fired him, and he had gone to work for the AH, only to start trouble in a bunk-house poker-game and get fired again. Tuck Hayward took him on at the Box 88, where he seemed to be getting along all right, after two bad starts in the valley.

In Tuck Hayward’s private office at the rear of the Silver Streak sat Hayward and Joe LeClere. It was a tiny office, barely large enough to contain an old roll-top desk, a small, fire-proof safe and a couple of chairs, besides Tuck’s big leather-covered swivel-chair.

The desk top was littered with silver ore samples, a half-empty bottle of liquor and other odds and ends. Tuck was wearing a gray suit which fitted him to the bursting point, a blue shirt and a scarlet tie, looped through a huge ring, set with a five-carat yellow diamond.

There was nothing gaudy about Joe LeClere. He wore a black shirt of coarse material, an old gray vest, over-alls tucked in the tops of his boots, and on his knee rested a well-worn black sombrero. His cartridge belt was studded with silver rivets, tarnished to blackness, and the butt of an old single-action Colt protruded from his scarred holster.

Joe had been drinking but was not drunk, and his somber eyes studied the big face of Tuck Hayward closely.

“Who’s bringin’ yore sister to the dance tonight, Joe?” asked Hayward.

“I dunno,” indifferently.

“Dunno, eh?”

“She never told me.” Joe was still indifferent.

“You knew I asked her to come with me?”

“So did Kid O’Neil.”

“The hell he did! How do yuh know that?”

Joe rubbed his nose reflectively.

“I heard him.”

“Yea-a-ah? You heard him, eh? What did she say?”

“’Bout the same thing she told you, I suppose.”

Hayward spat viciously and helped himself to a cigar from a box on the desk. He did not offer one to Joe.

“You couldn’t expect her to go with you, Tuck,” said Joe softly. “You and the old man—”

“Oh, to hell with the old man!”

“Well,” said Joe resignedly, and after a short reflection:

“Yuh couldn’t expect her to go with O’Neil. He got drunk the day she came home from school and tried to kiss her. She slapped hell out of him and when she got through the old man pitched him out on his head.”

“I didn’t expect her to go with Kid O’Neil,” coldly.

“Did you expect her to go with you, Tuck?”

“Why in hell do yuh suppose I asked her, you damn fool?”

Joe laughed shortly and his right hand twitched just a trifle. Hayward rolled the cigar between his lips reflectively.

“Joe, have you any idea how much money you owe me?”

Joe started slightly.

“I—I never figured on it much, Tuck.”

“Uh-huh; I didn’t think yuh had.”

Tuck reached in his desk and brought out a much-thumbed ledger, which he perused thoughtfully. Then he closed it and put it back in the desk. Joe’s eyes were uneasy and he began to realize that his credit had been too good at the Silver Streak.

“You ain’t closin’ down on me, are yuh, Tuck?” he asked uneasily.

“Not yet; but you’ve got to go easy.”

“You can’t very well—” began Joe softly.

“Drop that, Joe!” Tuck’s voice had a dangerous ring.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” said Joe weakly.

“Yo’re damn right yuh didn’t. Don’t never pull anything like that again on me. I’ll cut you off any old time I feel like it. You’d be a damn sight better off if I did. You drink too much rot-gut, Joe. Taper off, will yuh? I guess that’s all. Find out who brought yore sister to the dance.”

“Oh, all right,” said Joe, getting to his feet. “I’ll let yuh know, Tuck.”

He walked out into the gambling-room and came down past the long bar where two bartenders were filling the wants of those present. Cling Heffner was at the bar and Joe stopped beside him.

“Goin’ to the dance?” asked Joe, accepting Cling’s invitation to have a drink.

“Might wiggle a hoof or two,” grinned Cling, “if I can git some girl to dance with me.”

“Didn’t you bring a pardner, Cling?”

“Hell, no!”

“Rest of the boys in from the AH?”

“Johnny and Slim are around somewhere, I reckon. Soapy went out after yore sister.”

“Soapy did?”

“Yeah—the lucky devil.”

Joe laughed shortly and motioned for the bartender to pass out the glasses again.

“She’s shore an attractive girl,” said Cling.

“Seems to be the general opinion. Well, here’s how.”

Cling happened to be a fairly good two-fisted drinker; so they had several rounds of the potent bar-whisky, which, added to what Joe had already imbibed that evening, caused Joe to grow expansive.

“You folks lost any cattle?” asked Joe.

“Kind of a funny question, ain’t it?” inquired Cling.

“Funny?”

“Oh, I heard that the IS claims a steady loss. Fat Garnette was out and talked with Hart about it. Fat don’t believe it. He says yore old man’s full of prunes. Where would a rustler dispose of cattle? Yuh never could ship stolen cattle out of here. Brand inspection is too close. Even a butcher has got to produce a branded hide.”

“I know all about that, Cling. Well, here’s luck.”

As they finished their drink Kid O’Neil and Mike Dalhart came in, evidently coming from the dance hall, because neither of them wore a hat. They came to the bar and ordered their drinks, O’Neil standing next to Joe LeClere.

“Aw, I’d forget it if I was you, Kid,” advised Dalhart, as he filled his glass to the brim.

“Yeah, but I’m not goin’ to forget it,” growled the Kid. “I’m as good as Soapy Weed, by God! She turned me down for that screw-nosed waddy, didn’t she? And then she won’t dance with me. ‘Thank yuh kindly,’ says she. Huh! No damn Canuck female can make a fool out of me, I’ll tell yuh that, and I don’t care who knows it.”

The Kid swallowed his liquor at one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar and turned toward Joe LeClere. He had spoken loud enough for Joe to hear every word and now he scowled at Joe, as much as to invite him to comment on his words.

Joe’s right hand was hanging at his side, his left elbow on the bar, and without any shift of his body he brought up his fist in a sweeping smash, landing it full on Kid O’Neil’s nose. The Kid’s face seemed to flatten under the impact of the blow; then it jerked sideways, and Kid O’Neil struck his chin on the bar as he promptly went to his knees on the rail.

Joe sprang back, his numbed right hand dropping to the butt of his gun, as Cling sprang between them, throwing one arm around Kid O’Neil’s shoulders while with the other he removed the Kid’s gun from inside the waist of his pants.

The Kid struggled to his feet, his face bathed in gore, trying to find his gun, to stop the blood. The place was in an uproar for several moments until Tuck Hayward arrived and took charge of the situation. The bartender gave the Kid a towel. Hayward demanded an explanation of the trouble and Cling told him what the Kid had said.

Hayward grunted angrily as Dalhart tried to alibi the Kid.

“His nose is busted,” said one of the cowboys. “Better get a doctor, Tuck; he’s losin’ a lot of red ink.”

Some one went for the doctor and Cling took Joe outside.

“I could love yuh for pokin’ him, Joe,” said Cling, “but I’d honestly advise yuh to go home. Dalhart is ready to lie for the Kid and the rest of the Box 88 will back his play. I know you’ve got plenty nerve, Joe; but yo’re badly outnumbered. I’ll tell Soapy about it and he can do as he pleases.”

“I won’t run,” said Joe stubbornly.

“Nobody expects yuh to. Oh, do as yuh damn please about it, of course. I’m not yore guardian. Only, the Kid is a bad hombre and he won’t forget that punch.”

“I guess I’m kind of a damn fool,” said Joe bitterly. “I’m much obliged to yuh, Cling, and I’m goin’ home. You tell Soapy I went home, will yuh?”

“Shore, I’ll explain it all to him. I just want yuh to know I’ve got a lot more respect for yuh since yuh hit that geezer, Joe. If you’d cut loose from Tuck Hayward, yuh might do well before yuh die of old age.”

“Well, I’ll see yuh later, Cling.”

“Shore. Good night.”

Cling went back to the saloon and gave the Kid’s gun to the bartender. They had taken the Kid to the rear of the room, and as Cling passed the gun across the bar the doctor came in. Some one directed him to the back of the room and Cling followed.

Quite a crowd had gathered, but they made way for the doctor, who made an examination and declared the Kid’s nose was broken badly. Hayward and the doctor took the Kid to Tuck’s private office and locked the door. The Kid was mad enough to bite the doctor but gritted his teeth and let him bandage and tape until the doctor was satisfied that the nose would eventually assume its former shape, although just now it resembled a purple summer-squash, if there is such a vegetable.

Tuck paid the doctor his fee and let him out of the office, while the Kid swore nasally and tried to smoke a cigaret.

“I’ll ged hib for thad,” he declared. “No dabd Canug cad hid me ad ged away wid id.”

“You talk a lot,” sneered Hayward.

Some one knocked on the door. It was Dalhart, but Tuck did not let him in.

“Joe pulled out for home,” said Dalhart.

“All right,” replied Tuck. “Let him go.”

“Pulled oud, eh?” grunted the Kid. He felt of his waist-band. “Where’s my gud?”

Tuck reached inside the desk and drew out a Colt.

“Here’s one, O’Neil.”

“Thags.”

“Much good it’ll do yuh, though.”

“Thad so. You wadch. I’d goid oud and ged hib.”

The Kid got to his feet, shoving the gun inside his waist, while Tuck opened the door. Nothing more was said. Tuck saw the Kid walk swiftly down through the crowded room and through the front doorway. Then he closed and locked the door again.

In the meantime Cling had gone over to the dance-hall where he had found Soapy and told him what had happened. Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.

“Let’s go over and finish the job,” he suggested. “No, I’m not exceptin’ all of the Box 88.”

“Don’t cover too much territory,” grinned Cling. “Anyway, you ain’t got no war with the Box 88. It was natural for Dalhart to back the Kid.”

“I suppose that’s right. C’mon over and ask Yvonne for a dance.”

Yvonne laughed and shook hands with Cling, accepting his invitation to dance, while Soapy ducked away and headed for the Silver Streak. He was almost to the front of the place when Kid O’Neil came out. Several men were there, but Soapy paid no attention to them. He stepped in front of the Kid, who stopped short.

“It was a lucky thing for you that it wasn’t me who heard what you said, O’Neil. You got enough to stop yuh, I guess; but I want you to get this straight. If you ever mention a certain lady again, I’ll pistol whip yuh into hell in a hurry. You don’t hear with yore nose; so I guess yuh got that straight. Yo’re a runty pup of a mangy coyote and if yuh wasn’t already crippled in the face, I’d bend yuh so badly you’d talk behind yore own back.”

But the Kid did not reply. His nose was one big ache—and he had something else on his mind. So he turned and walked down toward the Silver Streak hitch-rack. Soapy watched him for several moments and then turned and went back to the dance-hall.

Soapy didn’t go back to the saloon again. He talked the matter over with Cling and decided to follow Cling’s advice. Some of the Box 88 gang were dancing but none of them paid any attention to Soapy.

An oyster supper was served in an adjoining hall at midnight and at about three o’clock in the morning Soapy took Yvonne home. The moon was low over the hills and a chill wind was blowing from the north.

“Still want to ride to the moon, Soapy?” asked Yvonne.

“Just as much as ever,” he laughed. “This shore has been my big night, Yvonne. I never danced so many times in my whole life.”

“It has been a wonderful night. I hope Dad didn’t stay up to wait for us. He’s always worried when I’m out.”

“Nothing could happen to yuh, Yvonne.”

“I know. But Dad isn’t so trustful of folks. He said he was glad you were taking me to the dance.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know he liked me.”

“Maybe he don’t, Soapy, but he said you’d probably stay sober enough to drive the horse back home.”

“Well, for gosh sake! Anyway, I never took a drink. Did you feel the same way about it, Yvonne?”

“No, Soapy; I went with you because I wanted to.”

“Well, that kinda takes the sting out of what yore Dad said. Anyway,” bravely, “I’m glad yuh let me go with yuh, no matter what the reason was. I’m satisfied, Yvonne.”

“It’s nice of you to say that, Soapy.”

“It wasn’t nice; it was true. Most folks have to lie to say nice things. And I meant what I said about the moon.”

They drove through the ford at Silver River and over the long mesa which stretched far beyond the IS ranch. Half a mile from the ranch-house they drove along a line of old cottonwoods where the moonlight filtered through the foliage, silvering the hard-packed road.

Soapy helped Yvonne down at the front door and told her good night before stabling the horse.

“Come over again soon, won’t you?” she asked.

“Try to keep me away, Yvonne.”

He stabled the horse and found his own animal in one of the stalls, the saddle hanging on a convenient peg. In a few minutes he rode back past the ranch-house and waved at a lighted window.

Soapy was in no hurry. He wanted to ride slowly and think it over; wanted to poke along and dream. He knew there would be no work at the AH that day. Old Ace Hart never expected any one to be on the job the day after pay-day.

He was about half-way back along the cottonwoods when his roan horse snorted suddenly, its ears pricked forward, and stopped. Soapy sat up quickly, his eyes jerking to a focus, as he peered off to the right. It seemed as though he could see a horse, its head down, standing there in the shadow.

Quickly he dismounted to investigate. There was a horse with the bridle-reins tangled about its feet. Soapy lighted a match and looked at the animal. It was a stubby sorrel, wearing a stock-saddle and bearing the Box 88 brand.

“That’s kinda darned funny!” exclaimed Soapy aloud. “What’s a Box 88 horse doin’ over here?”

He untangled the reins, and without any warning the horse jerked away from him and went trotting down the road.

“Well, go to hell, if yuh don’t like my company,” laughed Soapy.

He started back to his horse, stumbled over something and almost fell headlong in the weeds. It was something that felt soft under the impact of his toe. Quickly he regained his balance and turned back. He scratched another match, half-kneeling down to look, and the match burned to his fingers.

Finally he got back to his feet, his knees shaking. He took off his hat, put it back on—and took it off again.

“Good God!” he said—and it was a prayer, not profanity. “Kid O’Neil, and he’s dead as a gimlet-handle. Somebody shot him from behind.”

“Dead as a gimlet handle—and he was shot from behind!”

Soapy walked back to his horse. He didn’t know what to do—he had never seen many dead men. With shaking knees he mounted his horse, intending to go and find the sheriff, but as he turned his head he saw the tiny glimmer of a light at the IS ranch.

“He follered Joe LeClere,” said Soapy half-aloud. “Him and Joe fought it out, and—” Then Soapy realized that the Kid had been shot from behind.

“My God, that’s plain murder! Joe LeClere—”

Soapy swallowed heavily as his hands groped for his cigaret papers. He wanted inspiration and he wanted it badly. He knew that Kid O’Neil had followed Joe, probably with the intention of getting even with Joe for that smash in the nose. All of which was entirely ethical. An eye for an eye. If Kid O’Neil had followed Joe out there and they had shot out their grudge, leaving Joe as sole survivor, it would have been perfectly all right. No jury would hesitate on such a verdict—that is, no cow-town jury. But Kid O’Neil had been shot from behind!

Soapy slid off his horse and went back to the body. The big Colt gun was still wedged between the Kid’s body and the waist of his pants. Soapy drew it out. Not a shot had been fired. Soapy felt his dislike for the Kid oozing away.

“Never had a chance,” he muttered. “Shot down like a dog. This is shore a tough lay-out, and I wish Cling was here to tell me what to do. They’ll hang Joe just as sure as God made little apples—if they find the body here on the IS.”

Soapy looked back toward the ranch-house, but there were no lights in it now. Suddenly he was filled with inspiration. He dropped the gun, went over to his horse and led the animal to the body. Luckily he was riding a gentle horse. Soapy didn’t usually ride gentle horses.

Kid O’Neil had been a small man, but to Soapy he now seemed as big as the Cardiff Giant, and it was only through a supreme effort which left Soapy weak-kneed and gasping for breath that he was able to place the body across the saddle. He took his lariat and roped the body securely. Soapy wasn’t going to take any chances on having to put the body on the horse again.

The moon had faded out now and in the eastern sky was a decided hint of the coming dawn. Soapy examined the lashings carefully and then swung up behind the saddle. He had made up his mind to dump the body along the road somewhere across Silver River and let the sheriff do a lot of guessing as to who had killed the Kid.

But he reckoned without the roan, which had never been ridden double before. As Soapy’s spurs rattled in against its flanks the startled roan threw down its head, jerking the reins from Soapy’s hand, and began pitching in a most approved fashion, but hampered somewhat by the double burden.

Soapy’s first thought was of the corpse, which had not been lashed on with the intention of withstanding a bucking contest, and at about the fifth jump he slid off, hoping to run the animal into the trees and get the reins again. But when Soapy hit the earth he stumbled and went end over end while the roan headed straight down the road toward Chongotown.

Soapy got to his feet and began running awkwardly down the road, following the horse and its grisly burden. Soapy was not a fast runner and the high heels of his shoes bothered him to a great extent. For a while he ran on his toes and then he grabbed his hat in one hand and began to gallop. But the roan also galloped, and its gallop was faster than Soapy’s.

And in this manner they reached the crossing of Silver River—the horse reaching there about a hundred yards ahead of Soapy and splashing straight through the ford, while Soapy flopped down on a rock, cursing the roan back to the first generation of all roan horses.

There was a decided rise on the road a quarter of a mile beyond the river, and it was light enough for Soapy to see the roan top this rise, still hurrying toward Chongo town.

“Soapy Weed, you shore raised hell,” wailed Soapy. “They say that dead men tell no tales, but this one is tied on my horse with my rope. I reckon I better walk home, pick up my thirty-thirty and head for the hills.”

He limped up from the river and stopped at the top of the bank. The moon had paled, but there was still a faint indication of it left in the dawn.

“Moon,” said Soapy whimsically, “yo’re a long ways away from here, but if there was a road up to yuh, I’d shore as hell start walkin’.”

But, in the absence of such a road, he turned and limped on toward the AH ranch.

“Fat” Garnette had been so nicknamed because he most certainly was not. He was over six feet tall, built like a bed-slat and swore he could hide behind a six-by-six scantling. He had a long nose, weary-looking eyes and a sense of humor. But his sense of humor did not include “Weary” McMillan, his deputy.

Weary was fat, bow-legged and used hair-oil. Fat detested hair-oil while Weary reveled in it. Weary didn’t have enough hair to bother plastering it down, but plaster it he did. “Chuck” Haverty, the jailer, said that if Weary paid as much attention to the inside of his head as he did to the outside, he’d soon work himself up to a point where he’d be at least half-witted.

Chuck Haverty was about sixty, with no hair at all, and did all his chewing on two teeth which didn’t meet.

Weary had been to the dance and, inadvertently, to hear him tell it, had imbibed too much liquor. He didn’t need to tell Fat about it because he came in the rear of the office and proceeded to fall over Fat’s cot. The fall shook the office so hard that a picture of “Washington Crossing the Delaware” crashed down and the glass was shattered.

“Who the hell told you to charge?” asked Fat, sitting up in the dark. Weary did not reply.

“Why in hell don’tcha light the lamp?” Fat demanded.

“Can’t,” gurgled Weary. “I’m layin’ on my hands. Whaz-zamatter, Fatty?”

Fat got up, lighted the lamp and extricated Weary, who was really doubled up in such a way that he couldn’t use either hand. Weary sank down in a chair, made a few ineffectual attempts to remove a boot, gave up the idea with a gesture of despair and blinked owlishly at Fat, who had crawled into bed again.

“Wha’ do yuh know ’bout Kid O’Neil gettin’ his nose busted?” asked Weary. “How’s that for good work?”

“Suits me,” growled Fat, who knew all about it.

“O-o-oh, me too. Fine! Didja hear ’bout Soapy Weed?”

“What did he do?”

“Declared war on O’Neil. Met him in front of the Silver Streak and told him if he ever spoke about Yvonne LeClere ag’in he’d fry his ears in axle-grease and feed ’em to the buzzards. Oh, Soapy shore waxed indign’t, as they say. Growed b’ligerent, in other words.”

“What did the Kid say?”

“He didn’t say. I reckon he had e-nough. Anyway, Tuck Hayward said that he went home to rest his nose. He’ll shore salivate Joe LeClere, I’ll betcha.”

“Oh, go to bed and stop yawpin’, Weary.”

“Oh, all right.”

Weary sighed deeply, stretched out and began snoring. Fat got up, threw a blanket over him and went back to bed. It was daylight in Chongo town. Fat tried to turn over and go to sleep again, but he could hear a chorus of voices, argument, plenty of loud talk and profanity. The voices were coming nearer, and then a heavy fist beat upon the door.

Fat rolled off his cot and went to the door, where he found Slim Benito, the cook at the AH, Mike Dalhart, of the Box 88, Barney Johnson, keeper of the Chongo livery-stable, Hansen, the blacksmith, and several others.

“Slide into yore pants, Fat,” ordered Johnson. “Kid O’Neil has been murdered.”

“Kid O’Neil? How do yuh know? Where did he—”

“Yuh can’t come without no pants!” snorted Benito, shoving the sheriff back. “Put on p-a-n-t-s, sheriff.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah. Jist a minute.”

In a few moments Fat was with them. They led him down beside the livery-stable corral, where Soapy Weed’s roan was tied to the fence, still bearing the body of Kid O’Neil.

“I found the horse there a few minutes ago,” said Johnson. “Nothin’ has been touched, except that I tied him to the fence.”

Fat walked around the animal, examining the body. The roan was still muddy from river water and dust.

“Soapy Weed’s roan, ain’t it?” asked Fat.

“The one he most always rode,” said Benito. “I dunno what one he rode last night.”

“He drove old Frenchy LeClere’s single rig to town last night,” offered Dalhart. “Probably left his roan at the IS.”

“Might as well take the body down to the coroner’s office just thisaway,” decided Fat, beginning to untie the rope.

“Yuh can see he’s been murdered, can’t yuh?” asked Johnson. “Bullet went in the back of his head and came out jist about the temple.”

“I reckon we can all see that far,” said Fat grimly.

They led the horse down to the coroner’s office and waited until one of the men went to the doctor’s home and routed him out.

Old Doctor Plumley had been many years in the Silver River Valley and he gave his decisions in short, snappy sentences.

“Killed instantly. Shot from behind. No question of its being murder. Hold inquest tomorrow morning. Bring him in the office. Sheriff, keep that horse, saddle and rope.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fat meekly, and led the animal back to his own stable where there happened to be an empty stall.

Slim Benito went with the sheriff. He thought a lot of Soapy Weed and he wanted to find out what the sheriff thought about the matter. But the sheriff didn’t say.

Frenchy LeClere came to town and was greeted with the news. Nobody had told him about the fight between Joe and Kid O’Neil until after he had been told several times of the murder. He went down to see the sheriff and to get a straight version of the whole trouble.

LeClere had been awake when Soapy had brought Yvonne home, and he swore to the sheriff that he had heard no shots fired before or after Soapy had left. But the sheriff had nothing to say. Fat worked on the theory that it was better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you might be dumb than to talk too much and let them be sure of it.

After LeClere left him the sheriff saddled his horse and headed for the AH ranch, wondering what alibi Soapy would have. He was possibly half a mile beyond the river ford when he met Soapy, who was coming toward town, riding a blaze-faced sorrel.

The sheriff drew up and waited for Soapy, who tried to affect a nonchalant air but failed miserably.

“I was just comin’ in to see yuh, Fat,” he said quickly.

“Yeah?” drawled the sheriff, sitting sideways in his saddle, his eyes frankly curious now.

“Oh, shore,” said Soapy earnestly. “Early this mornin’ I was comin’ back from the IS ranch, headin’ back to town, and I found Kid O’Neil down there by the river—dead.”

Soapy indicated “down there” by a sweep of his hand, which might have included the river from its source to its mouth.

“You found him, eh?” queried the sheriff.

“Y’betcha!” Soapy had more confidence now. “Well, like I just said, I found him down there on the rocks, dead as a gimlet-handle. I—I didn’t want to leave him there, yuh see; so I roped him onto my bronc and piled on behind him, but my roan wasn’t broke to ride double and I lit all folded up, as yuh might say, while the damn horse went across the river and headed for town.

“I shore didn’t want to get wet all over; so I walked back to the ranch, got me a horse and was just comin’ in to tell yuh about it.”

Soapy was all out of breath when he finished. Fat looked him over calmly.

“You know just where yuh found him, Soapy?”

“Oh, shore. It was—gosh, lemme see. It wasn’t daylight yet, but I—oh, shore, I can find the place.”

“C’mon and show it to me.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy wet his lips. Now he realized that he had let himself in for something but he was game.

They rode back, and the sheriff’s quizzical eyes watched Soapy trying to pick out the exact spot along a gravel bar. Finally Soapy decided that this was the place. The old boulders were bleached white and the gravel was clean.

“Right here’s where he was layin’, Fat.”

“Ain’t no blood around there,” said Fat.

“By golly, that’s right! Not a drop. Well, I—I’ll tell yuh somethin’, Fat; he wasn’t bleedin’ when I found him.”

“Wasn’t, eh? Do yuh see any fox-tail around there?”

“Well, there ain’t any,” said Soapy wonderingly.

“Nope; there ain’t. That’s what makes it look funny. Yuh see, Kid O’Neil’s clothes were stickin’ full of fox-tail tops. Looked like he had been rolled in it.”

“Is that a fact?” Soapy had difficulty in clearing his throat. “Well, well! Where’d he pick that up, do yuh suppose? I didn’t see none of it on him at the time. Mebby the horse rolled with him.”

“Not likely, Soapy. You knew he’d been murdered, didn’t yuh?”

“I didn’t look very close, Fat.”

“Uh-huh. When yuh found the body, why didn’t yuh leave it where it was and notify me?”

“Well, I—yuh see, I wasn’t exactly sure he was dead. I said to myself that he ort to see a doctor; so I piled him on my bronc, and—”

“A while ago yuh knew he was dead, Soapy.”

“No, yuh see—but I was pretty well satisfied that he might be dead.”

Fat laughed softly and shook his head.

“Go ahead and tell the truth, Soapy.”

“I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

“Oh, all right. C’mon to town with me, Soapy; you’re under arrest. I’ll take yore gun, if yuh don’t mind. Butt first.”

Soapy passed his gun to Fat and with a sinking heart he rode beside the tall sheriff.

“You goin’ to slam me right into a cell?” asked Soapy as they rode in to Chongo town.

“I’ve got to do it, Soapy; Kid O’Neil was murdered.”

“Mebby he got what was comin’ to him.”

“Mebby; but the law don’t allow for that.”

They rode down to the jail and Soapy was locked in a cell, after which the sheriff stabled Soapy’s horse and went to visit the prosecuting attorney. Frenchy LeClere was still in town, but he rode home as soon as he heard of Soapy’s arrest. Before he left the coroner asked him to bring Yvonne and Joe to the inquest, as they would be asked to testify.

After the sheriff and prosecutor had conferred over the matter the sheriff proceeded to find every one who had seen the fight between Joe and the Kid and all who had heard what Soapy had told the Kid, and notified them to attend the inquest.

“Are you tryin’ to hang the murder on Soapy Weed?” asked Tuck Hayward ponderously.

“I’m tryin’ to hang it on the guilty man,” retorted the sheriff. “And not only that—I expect everybody to tell the truth at that inquest.”

“I’m not to testify, am I?”

“You’ll tell what you know about it, Tuck.”

“What I know won’t do yuh much good.”

“It ain’t of any interest what yuh know—it’s how much of it yuh tell.”

“I wonder just what yuh mean by that remark, Fat?”

“Oh, I’m just tryin’ to be smart, I suppose. I never had a murder case before; so I’ve got to act smart.”

But after he had gone away Tuck Hayward scratched his head and wondered just why the sheriff had said that.

“Oh, I’ll tell the truth,” he muttered. “Why not; it’s nothin’ to me.”

“We was just standin’ there at the bar havin’ a drink, and all to once Joe LeClere smashes O’Neil in the nose. There wasn’t no reason for—”

“Yo’re a damn liar and you know it, Dalhart.”

Cling Heffner stood up and shook an accusing finger at Mike Dalhart, who had been sworn as a witness. Dalhart got up from his chair, eyes snapping.

“You can’t call me no liar, Heffner!”

“I done called yuh one, Dalhart.”

“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “You can’t fight in here. Set down, Cling. Dalhart is under oath.”

“Lot of good that does him. That geezer would lie with a Bible in both hands and one in his mouth.”

The coroner rapped sharply on his desk with a carpenter’s hammer.

“Cease this wrangling. Let the witness proceed.”

“Just a moment, if you please,” said the prosecuting attorney, getting to his feet. “Perhaps the witness does not know that there is such a thing as perjury. You have sworn to tell the truth, Dalhart. If you give false testimony and it can be proved, there is a severe penalty.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” wailed Dalhart. “You make Heffner keep his mouth shut, will yuh? Or I’ll do it.”

“You couldn’t shut nothin’,” said Cling disgustedly. “If you want trouble, just leave that chair and come on outside. Yore lyin’ testimony won’t help the case any; so yuh might as well quit.”

“Sheriff, will you stop this bickering?” asked the coroner angrily.

“Are you goin’ to quit it, Cling?” asked Fat.

“When that ossified mud-cat quits lyin’—yes.”

“Are you goin’ to quit lyin’, Dalhart?”

“By God, I ain’t been lyin’!”

“Go ahead and testify—and you better not lie.”

The crowded court-room chuckled. It was a small room, crowded to suffocation and with only a few chairs. Soapy sat with the sheriff beside a table, at the end of which presided the coroner. The witness stand was an old rocking-chair which had lost its rockers.

Frenchy LeClere, Joe and Yvonne were there. Some one had kindly provided LeClere and Yvonne with chairs. They were very serious over the inquest and kept their eyes on Soapy, who eyed Dalhart malevolently. The testimony up to this point had not implicated Soapy in any way, as it merely covered the trouble between Joe and Kid O’Neil.

“Then you claim that Joe LeClere had no cause to strike Kid O’Neil?” asked the coroner.

“I never heard anythin’ said that would give a reason.”

“Tryin’ to alibi with his ears,” said Cling softly enough for every one to hear.

Dalhart was dismissed and Tuck Hayward called to the stand.

Tuck didn’t see the fight nor did he seem to know what had started it. He testified to the effect that he and the doctor took O’Neil to the Silver Streak office, where the doctor repaired O’Neil’s nose.

“Did O’Neil tell you where he was goin’, when he left your office?” asked the coroner.

“Yes,” said Hayward. “He said he was goin’ home.”

The room was silent for several moments, and then the coroner said:

“Did Kid O’Neil have a gun?”

“I don’t know,” lied Hayward. “I suppose he did.”

Cling was called to the stand and was able to remember just what O’Neil had said about Yvonne.

“Did he mention her name, Heffner?”

“No, he didn’t. But he said, ‘That damn Canuck girl.’”

“You took O’Neil’s gun away, didn’t you?”

“Sure—and gave it to the bartender.”

“I’ve got the gun,” said the sheriff. “The bartender gave it to me today.”

Cling was dismissed after testifying as to what time Soapy arrived at the AH ranch after the dance, and Yvonne was called to the stand.

She knew nothing about the trouble between Joe and O’Neil nor that Soapy had spoken harshly to O’Neil that night. She said that Soapy took her home and she saw him ride away from the ranch-house.

“Did Kid O’Neil ask to take you to the dance?” queried the coroner.

Yvonne flushed quickly as she nodded her head.

“Yes, he asked me several days ago.”

“And you refused, of course?”

“Certainly.”

“Did any one else invite you to the dance?”

“Mr. Hayward.”

Tuck grinned sourly.

“Was Kid O’Neil angry because you refused him?” asked the coroner.

“I suppose he was.”

Yvonne was much relieved to have the coroner excuse her.

“Soapy Weed, do you wish to testify?” asked the coroner.

“Shore.”

“You are not obliged to testify, of course.”

“Tha’sall right,” grinned Soapy. “If I tell the same story often enough I’ll get her down pat enough to believe it myself.”

Everybody laughed, except the LeClere family and Soapy. His story was substantially the same that he had told the sheriff. He mentioned the fact of the Kid’s clothes being full of fox-tail grass and that the rocks did not have any blood on them.

“Did you see any gun on the person of O’Neil?”

“Nope. He was there in the tall grass and—”

Soapy stopped short, staring straight ahead.

“What tall grass?” asked the sheriff quickly.

“Tall grass?” echoed the coroner.

“I reckon that’s all my testimony,” said Soapy evenly.

He got out of the chair and sat down at the table. He had made a dangerous slip, and as his eyes swept the faces in the room he realized it fully.

The jury was out only about five minutes, and Soapy was led away to stand trial for the murder of Kid O’Neil.

“Now, maybe you’ll tell the truth,” said the sheriff, as he snapped the cell door shut.

“Damn it, I almost did!” snorted Soapy. “Didja ever hear the story of the Good Samaritan, Fat?”

“No; what did he do?”

“Minded somebody else’s business and got away with it—the lucky stiff.”

“What’s that got to do with you, Soapy?”

“Nothin’, except that it goes to prove that lightnin’ ain’t the only thing that don’t strike twice in the same place.”

“Oh, I think yo’re a damn fool, Soapy Weed.”

“Think so? Hell, I know I am.”

The county buried Kid O’Neil in the little Chongo cemetery about a mile from town, and there were no mourners. He had not been liked by anybody. The sheriff, coroner, minister and several boys from the Box 88 were the only ones at the cemetery.

The machinery of the law moves slowly in Silver River Valley, and Soapy Weed would be obliged to languish in the jail for six weeks before coming to trial. The boys from the AH visited him every few days. Yvonne wanted to visit Soapy, but her father objected; so she sent messages by Cling, which cheered Soapy, although he was sure that those verbal messages were colored rather highly by Cling.

The sheriff was dubious about the guilt of Soapy Weed. He had a feeling that Soapy knew something about the murder but was unwilling to tell. The sheriff was not a detective.

This was the second murder since he had been elected; the first one having passed into the limbo of forgotten things, it seemed. A cowboy by the name of Charley McFee, working for the Box 88, had been found dead about half-way between the Box 88 and Chongo. He had been shot through the heart.

McFee had only been with the Box 88 two days. Evidence proved that McFee had started for town alone. Dalhart, Cornes and McLeod had left the ranch earlier in the evening, leaving McFee, Hayward and Joe LeClere at the ranch. It seemed that Hayward and Joe had decided against going to town and McFee had started alone.

Joe was not working for the Box 88, but had gone out there to sober up, after a particularly violent spell of drinking, because he didn’t want his father to find him. Hayward had just acquired the Silver Streak saloon, where Joe got all his liquor, and perhaps he had felt a certain responsibility.

At any rate, there was nothing to connect any one with the killing; so it was forgotten, except to be recalled as a mystery when men talked of killings.

About a week after the killing of Kid O’Neil two cowboys rode out of the north, where there was neither road nor trail. Below them stretched the valley of Silver River, a long, green strip of foliage marking the course of the river, the lower valley fading away to a cobalt haze in the far distance.

The going was rough and they traveled slowly, threading their way among the greasewood and stunted firs. Finally they came out on a bare knoll where they drew rein and proceeded to roll smokes.

One man was extremely tall, with rather a long face, lean cheek-bones, slightly hooked nose and a wide mouth.

The other cowboy was much shorter, but wide of shoulder; his face was blocky of contour and deeply graved with wrinkles, and he had wide blue eyes which seemed to look upon the world with amusement.

A damp lock of hair hung down his forehead, and he shoved it aside with his wrist as he leaned across to light his cigaret from the tall cowboy’s match. The tall cowboy removed his sombrero, disclosing the fact that he had slightly sandy hair and a pair of steady gray eyes.

Both men were dressed in range clothes. Their shirts showed signs of many washings, the mufflers around their throats were mere strings and their bat-wing chaps had seen much service. They wore battered Stetsons, well-worn cartridge belts, sagging from the weight of heavy Colt guns, and tied behind the cantle of their saddles were their war-bags—the wardrobe trunks of the range country.

These two were “Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy” Stevens, wanderers of the range; always looking for the other side of the next hill, finding adventure without looking for it.

The tall one was Hashknife, christened “Henry” in his early infancy, when his father rode the Milk River ranges, bringing the Gospel to bunk-house and chuck-wagon; a range preacher who made it a life mission to fit men to live rather than to die.

Sleepy hailed from Idaho. These two had met at the old Hashknife ranch, and the wanderlust had driven them out together to go up and down the land, sharing one another’s joys and woes. Always they had gone seeking peace and had found war. Fate seemed to have thrown them into troublous places and times, where they had ridden neck and neck with death, winning by the proverbial eyelash, at times—but winning.

Together they had stepped out of smoke-fogged rooms, their ears dulled from the crash of guns, and looked at one another in amazement. Death had struck at them from beside the roads they had traveled, but always their proverbial luck had saved them until they had become confirmed fatalists.

And now they were heading down into Silver River Valley, which was the other side of the hill they had just crossed. It was a strange country. They had heard of it, heard of Chongo town; and now they were going to include it among the places they had seen.

Hashknife rode a tall gray horse which he called Ghost, and Sleepy rode a blue roan which he had lately acquired and which he had named Rattler, possibly because of its habit of striking back at his leg.

“Big country down thataway,” observed Sleepy after they had smoked silently for a while.

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“Big country, Sleepy. Ain’t she blue down there where she fades out? Makes a feller kinda wonder what’s down there. It kinda reminds me of Twisted River. See that smoke away off there to the left? I reckon that’s the silver mines on Chongo Creek.”

“Smoke from the concentrators, I reckon. Pretty big camp, if they employ around five hundred men.”

“Four big plants, Sleepy. Well, I reckon we might as well head for town. Ought to be some roads down here if we keep goin’ long enough.”

Sleepy nodded, ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the knee of his chaps and picked up his reins. Hashknife led the way down the side of a small ravine, avoiding the heavy brush. At the bottom of the ravine they struck a cowtrail, deeply rutted and ankle-deep in dust.

The trail wound around through the brush as it dropped lower and lower. Suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse. They had come to the end of the trail, it seemed, as it stopped against a barrier of solid brush.

“Brush corral,” said Hashknife, swinging his horse around to the left.

Ahead of them a cow bawled softly. The brush was not so heavy here and the tall gray moved easily around the brush corral. Sleepy got a whiff of wood smoke and was about to speak to Hashknife when the gray stepped out through the brush into a small opening.

Sleepy was close behind, the blue roan crowding against the rump of the gray, which had stopped short. Fifty feet ahead of Hashknife stood a man. He had been bending over a little brush fire when the gray came through the brush, but now he sprang across the fire, whirled and drew a revolver, shooting almost from his hip.

It was so unexpected that Hashknife ducked as the bullet sang over his head. Now the man straightened his arm and his second bullet thudded into the swellfork of Hashknife’s saddle. Two inches higher and Hashknife would have been a first-class casualty.

Two inches higher and Hashknife would have been a first-class casualty

Hashknife jerked sideways and drew his gun as the man whirled and darted for the protecting fringe of brush, and at the crack of Hashknife’s six-shooter the man went sprawling, his gun flying from his hand.

Sleepy spurred into the opening, gun in hand, and rode down on the man, keeping him covered.

It was Joe LeClere. He sat up, squinting painfully at Sleepy, who was a total stranger to him. Hashknife dismounted and picked up Joe’s gun.

“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked Joe.

“Aw, what the hell!” growled Joe sullenly.

“Hard as a picnic egg,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he’s a killer in his own home town.”

“Got yuh in the leg, eh?” said Hashknife, looking at Joe’s left leg, where the crimson stain showed through his overalls just above his boot-top. “Bone busted?”

“I don’t think so,” growled Joe. “Damn bullet knocked my leg loose and tripped me.”

“Good thing it did; I might have shot again.”

Joe rubbed a wrist across his forehead reflectively. He was in a bad position. Hashknife walked over to the brush corral, where eight head of steers were slowly moving around. He read the brands on all of them and noted that they were all wearing the mark of the Box 88. He came back to the fire, where a short piece of half-inch iron rod lay beside an old pair of pliers.

“Some artists use canvas and some use cow-hide,” said Hashknife. “This’n was a cow-hider. I’ll betcha he was goin’ to do some pyrography on them poor cows. How about it, feller?”

“Aw, go to hell!” grunted Joe.

“Run yore own errands,” said Hashknife bluntly. “Where’s yore bronco?”

Joe pointed to the west end of the corral, where his sorrel drowsed in the shade. Joe’s rifle was there too, and Hashknife brought it back with the horse.

“All set to do battle,” he grinned. “Can yuh get up?”

Joe got to his feet, but was unable to walk well. The bullet had passed through the calf of his left leg and made a painful wound. He managed, however, to mount the horse. Hashknife tied up the reins and put a rope on the horse.

“I can handle my own horse,” growled Joe.

“Shore yuh can,” smiled Hashknife. “That’s why I ain’t goin’ to let yuh. I’ve got quite a hobby of collectin’ rustlers and I take no chances.”

“I wasn’t rustlin’.”

“I see yuh wasn’t; but mebby the owners of them cows might like to know what yuh really was doin’. Yo’re pretty young for this kinda work. And workin’ alone too. Which is the shortest way to Chongo?”

Joe refused to offer any information. Hashknife mounted and led Joe’s horse while Sleepy brought up the rear. They followed cattle trails down across the hills for a couple of miles until they came in sight of the IS ranch.

“This here jigger is losin’ plenty blood,” observed Sleepy. “We better stop at that ranch and fix him up.”

“Yore motion carried unanimous,” nodded Hashknife, and swung in toward the old ranch-buildings.

The loss of blood had weakened Joe to a point where he did not care to protest, and he was clinging with both hands to the saddle-horn when they pulled in past the corrals and rode up to the house.

Hashknife dismounted and stepped up on the porch just as Yvonne opened the front door. He stopped short and looked at her in silence for several moments. Then—

“Ma’am, we’re strangers here,” he said slowly. “We just had a run-in with a potential cow-thief and had to drill him a little; so we stopped to see if we can’t fix him up a little before we take him on to town.”

Yvonne stared at him, frowning slightly. “A cow-thief?” she said.

“Yes’m. Oh, he ain’t serious, but losin’ a little blood.”

Yvonne stepped out on the porch and looked at Joe and Sleepy. Joe’s face was very white and he was not looking at her. She glanced quickly at Hashknife and in a flash he understood. Except for the mouth, they looked alike, Joe and Yvonne.

She went slowly down the steps and up to Joe.

“Joe, what is it?” she asked. “Tell me, Joe. My God, Joe, what have you done?”

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. Yvonne turned to Hashknife, tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked. “Oh, don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Hashknife shut his lips tightly and walked past her to Joe.

“Let me help yuh off, pardner,” he said. “We’ve got to fix up that leg.”

He helped Joe off the saddle and half-carried him to the porch, where he let Joe sit down. Carefully he removed Joe’s boot while Yvonne stood over him, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Tell me about it,” she begged. “What did you say about him stealing cows? Whose cows? Oh, can’t you talk? He’s my brother—don’t you understand?”

“Will yuh get me some hot water and clean cloths?”

“Yes, I—I—” Yvonne stepped to the porch level, but stopped, looking down the road. About two hundred yards away were a team and wagon, coming toward the house.

“There’s Dad,” she said chokingly. “Oh, what will he say? Joe, can’t you prove—”

“Put on some water,” said Hashknife, softly, “and let me do all the tellin’.”

Joe groaned and leaned back on his elbows. Between his physical and mental sufferings he was about to collapse. Old Frenchy LeClere drove his team to the front of the house, sprang down and came quickly to the porch, looking intently at Joe. He looked sharply at Hashknife as he said:

“Somet’ing she’s gone wrong?”

Yvonne had come back to the doorway now.

“Accident,” said Hashknife slowly. “He was gettin’ a drink at a spring back in the hills. He said he leaned his rifle against a rock and the horse knocked it down. Lucky for him that the bullet only went through his leg.”

Joe was staring at Hashknife, his jaw sagging, while Sleepy’s mouth twisted to a grin and he began rolling a cigaret.

“By gosh, Joe, you mus’ be more careful!” exclaimed the old man.

He turned to Hashknife and held out his hand.

“I am LeClere,” he said. “Mos’ everybody she’s call me Frenchy. Joe, she’s my son.”

“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife. “Pardner’s name is Stevens.”

“I’m glad you fin’ my boy,” LeClere told Hashknife thankfully. “You sure no bone busted, eh?”

“No bones busted,” assured Hashknife.

“By gosh, she’s look w’ite, eh? You need bandage pretty bad, eh? I’m hitch up de buggy and tak’ you to doctor.”

“Yore daughter is gettin’ us some hot water and bandages,” said Hashknife. “We’ll fix him up and then take him to a doctor. It isn’t bleedin’ much now.”

The old man hurried into the house.

“Thank yuh,” said Joe weakly. “That was square of yuh.”

“Try playin’ square yourself,” replied Hashknife. “You can’t beat that game. I’d like to take you down and turn yuh over to the sheriff, but—” Hashknife shook his head as Yvonne and the old man came out, bringing the water and bandages.

Joe sagged back and shut his eyes while Hashknife cleaned the wound and bound it up. The old man hitched up the single rig and drove up to the porch as Hashknife finished.

“I’ll take him down,” offered Yvonne. “I’ve got to go to town, anyway, Dad.”

The old man finally agreed and they helped Joe into the buggy.

“You come out see us sometime?” asked the old man.

“Shore,” grinned Hashknife.

“Good. Come soon. Yvonne, she’s a good cook.”

“Thank yuh, Mr. LeClere.”

Hashknife shook hands with him and he and Sleepy rode away beside the buggy, the old man waving at them from the porch. After they were out of sight he stabled Joe’s horse and came back to the porch, where Hashknife had left Joe’s rifle, a thirty-thirty carbine.

He sat down on the porch, holding the gun in his hands. He had always been rather particular about the condition of his guns, while Joe never seemed to care what shape they were in. He levered out the cartridges, counting them over. The gun was fully loaded. It seemed rather strange that Joe should have put in a fresh cartridge after being shot. It wouldn’t be the natural thing to do.

Then he threw open the action, stuffed the end of a white handkerchief inside the breech and peered down the barrel. The bore was as bright as polished silver. Slowly he put the handkerchief in his pocket and closed the gun. For a long time he sat there with the rifle across his lap, the cartridges in his closed right hand, which dangled over his knee, and his eyes almost closed under his shaggy eyebrows.

“Somebody she’s lied,” he said half-aloud. “Yvonne she’s act funny; Joe she’s not say much. I’m wonder how Joe get shot, eh?”

Finally he went into the house and put the gun away.

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the doctor’s office with Yvonne and Joe, but headed for the livery-stable, where they put up their horses.

“Looks like a live town,” observed Sleepy, as they left the stable.

“Ought to be, with the biggest building in town devoted to gamblin’,” said Hashknife.

As they stopped in front of the Silver Streak McLeod and Dalhart came out. They merely glanced at the two strangers and went on up the street. Hashknife looked after them for several moments, but finally he followed Sleepy into the place.

An alert bartender was ready to supply their wants, and Hashknife asked him whether he noticed the two men who had just gone out.

“That was Dunk McLeod and Mike Dalhart, both from the Box 88. McLeod is the foreman for Hayward.”

“Who is this Hayward?” asked Hashknife.

“Owner of the Box 88. Also owns this Silver Streak place.”

“Oh, I see,” thoughtfully. More men came to be served; so the conversation was not renewed. Sleepy hooked his elbows over the bar and calmly surveyed the place.

“Dalhart and McLeod,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Does either name sound familiar, Sleepy?”

“Not to me. I knowed a Dalhart down in Texas and I knowed a McLeod in Idaho.”

“Well, I didn’t know either of ’em, but there was somethin’ about one of them jiggers that was familiar. Probably mistaken, though. Quite a place, eh?”

“Plenty de-vices for separation,” smiled Sleepy. “Roulette, chuck-luck, stud, draw, craps, black-jack and slot-machines.”

Tuck Hayward and Fat Garnette came to the bar together. They were discussing Soapy Weed and neither of them paid any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“You think Soapy is merely coverin’ up somebody?” asked Tuck.

“I shore do,” nodded the sheriff, and gave his order to the bartender.

“Who, for instance, Fat?”

“Quien sabe?”

“Joe LeClere?”

“I never said any names. Well, here’s down yore neck.”

“’S a go. Well, I dunno. Of course, Joe busted the Kid’s nose that night and the Kid was crazy mad about it.”

“The Kid got what was comin’ to him, Tuck.”

“Sure, he did. And I’d hate to see Soapy hung for somethin’ he didn’t do.”

“As far as that’s concerned, I don’t believe they can convict Soapy. The prosecutin’ attorney don’t think so either, but he’ll shore try hard. That coroner’s jury held him because his story went hay-wire. Soapy’s hardheaded. I’ve tried to get him to slip me the truth, but he won’t do it.”

“Is the old Frenchman still yellin’ about stolen cows?”

“Not lately,” smiled the sheriff.

Hayward laughed and left the bar. The sheriff glanced sharply at Hashknife and Sleepy, realizing that they were strangers in Chongo.

“Howdy,” he said, nodding shortly.

“Pretty good,” said Hashknife. “Have a drink, sheriff?”

“Smoke a see-gar, stranger.”

He bit the end off a dried-out weed, tucked the end of it back beyond his wisdom teeth and waited for them to finish.

“Just get in?” he inquired.

“Fifteen minutes ago. Rode over from Keeling.”

“Hell of a hard ride, wasn’t it?”

“Somethin’ of about that denomination. Wasn’t that Hayward with you a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah, that was him.”

“Owns a big outfit?”

“The Box 88 is a pretty fair layout.”

“I wonder how he’s fixed for punchers?”

“Never heard him say. He lost one a week ago.”

“Quit?”

“Murdered.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife looked at the insignia of office on the sheriff’s vest. “Makes it kinda tough for you, eh?”

“Oh, I dunno. We’re holdin’ a man for trial.”

“But you don’t believe he’s guilty.”

The sheriff looked keenly at Hashknife.

“How do yuh know that?”

“Heard yuh tell Hayward.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah, I forgot about that. Well, I’ve got to be movin’. See yuh later.”

“Shore; so-long.”

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they met Yvonne. She was carrying out some packages, and they helped her put them in the buggy.

“How was the leg?” asked Hashknife.

“The doctor said it wasn’t dangerous. I will pick Joe up and take him home on my way back. Oh, I don’t know how to thank you for lying about that.”

Hashknife considered her gravely, but his gray eyes smiled as he said softly:

“Ma’am, I’m not addicted to lyin’; so I just ask yuh to accept that as the truth.”

“It is good of you,” she said. “You don’t know how good it was to hear you tell Dad what you told him out there. It may be a lesson to Joe.”

“I shore hope so, ma’am.”

“My name is Yvonne LeClere, Mr. Hartley. Everybody calls me Yvonne.”

“That’s fine,” smiled the tall cowboy. “My friends call me Hashknife.” He indicated Sleepy. “Call him Sleepy. He thinks he’s handsome and bright, but he ain’t; so don’t take him seriously.”

Yvonne laughed and picked up the lines.

“I want to add to Dad’s invitation,” she said. “Come out to the ranch and see us.”

“Yes’m, we shore will, Yvonne. Tell Joe to take care of the leg.”

“I shall tell him many things,” she said soberly.

“Not too much,” he warned. “This has been a hard day for him.”

They watched her drive down toward the doctor’s office, and she waved at them as she turned the corner.

“Mamma mine!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s some girl.”

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“I reckon she’ll do, Sleepy. Let’s go and fold ourselves around some food and then get a room. I could sleep about ten hours and feel more like a man.”

“Well, there won’t nobody have to rock me; that’s a cinch, Hashknife. I don’t see how any punchers can work diligently with a girl like her in the vicinity. I know I couldn’t.”

“Somebody has probably had an option on her for a long time, Sleepy.”

“I suppose,” sighed Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m not so hard-hit that I can’t eat and sleep; so let’s me and you find where henfruit and hawg-leg gets familiar. C’mon.”

“And then he said—who played that jack? You, Soapy? Come to father. That gives me game. He said he leaned his gun against a rock and laid down to get a drink—— No, it’s Chuck’s deal. I dealt last time. He leaned his gun against the rock and when he laid down to get a drink, his horse—— You bid two? Betcha you’ve got the ace, deuce. Pass.

“Well, the horse knocked the gun down and it went off and the bullet went plumb through his left leg. You bid three, Chuck? Bid ’em high and sleep in the street, eh?”

Weary McMillan grinned and leaned back against the wall of the cell, waiting for Chuck Haverty, the jailer, to lead. The latter and Weary were having their daily game of pitch with Soapy Weed, and Weary had brought the news of Joe LeClere’s accident.

“Who told yuh all this?” asked Soapy.

“Doc Plumley. Yvonne brought Joe in yesterday to have his leg dressed.”

“Didja see her, Weary?” asked Soapy.

“Nope. Gimme low, game. You go back two-bits, Chuck. Don’t never depend on a five-spot bein’ low in a three-handed game, pardner. It was kinda luck for Joe that them two strange punchers came along and heard the shot. They helped Joe to the ranch. Didja see ’em, Chuck?”

“I seen ’em,” nodded Chuck, digging up a quarter, which he placed under the cigar box containing their chips.

“I got to talkin’ with the tall one,” said Weary. “Said his name was Hartley. I think the other is Stevens. Pretty salty-lookin’ pair of geezers, them two. If I was lookin’ for trouble, I don’t reckon I’d choose the tall one. Yore deal, Soapy. All I need is two points to take the dinero.”

“Sluff to me, Chuck,” said Soapy.

“Like hell!” wailed Chuck. “You only need two points. I’m the one to sluff to, ’cause I need five. You sluffed a ten to Weary that time, tryin’ to set me, when I’m low man. If you hadn’t been a prisoner, I’d ’a’ poked yuh in the snoot.”

“There’s some advantage in bein’ a prisoner, Chuck. But I’d much rather be free and take a chance on you pokin’ me.”

“Then why don’tcha tell the truth and get out?” asked Weary. “Yo’re an awful sucker, accordin’ to me. You never killed Kid O’Neil no more than I did.”

“They’re goin’ to try me for it, Weary.”

“Shore. And a damn fool cow-jury might hang yuh too.”

“That kinda ruins my game, Weary. What are yuh biddin’?”

“I’ll chance a couple.”

“With the ace, deuce, probably,” sighed Chuck. “I’ll shoot the whole works—four.”

“And get set higher than a kite,” grunted Soapy.

“With the ace, king, jack, trey? Anybody got the deuce? No? There’s my four. I catch Soapy’s ten on the second swing—sabe? Gimme that dinero. Any old time yuh bid and make four yuh win the pot.”

“If I was as lucky as you are, I’d be out of jail,” sighed Soapy. “That was my last two-bits.”

“If I was as lucky as you, I’d be out of jail,” sighed the prisoner.

“I’ll stake yuh,” said Chuck.

“Suppose they find me guilty?”

“Game’s over,” said Chuck seriously. “I plumb forgot about the trial.”

“I reckon yore name’s McHaverty,” said Soapy. “You shore act Scotch.”

That same morning Hashknife and Sleepy rode away from Chongo town, heading north. They did not stop at the LeClere ranch but swung in to the north of it. Hashknife had noted many landmarks on their trip into Silver River Valley and he had little difficulty in finding the spot where they had met Joe LeClere.

But the Box 88 cattle were gone, the brush corral empty. Hashknife did not expect this. His idea in coming out there was to release those steers.

“Do yuh think they busted loose?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and pointed at the ash-heap where the fire had been built. A man had attempted to obliterate all indications of the fire and had left a heel mark deeply punched in the dirt.

“We never touched that fire, Sleepy,” said Hashknife.

“That’s right. I reckon Joe wasn’t workin’ alone, after all. I just been thinkin’ that this country might not be healthy for us. The geezer who came back here must know that we stopped Joe LeClere, don’tcha think?”

“Kinda looks thataway.”

They rode back down the valley and swung in at the IS ranch again. Yvonne was sweeping the front porch as they rode up and she came out to them, carrying her broom. She looked like a pretty Gipsy with her head bound in a scarlet bandanna.

“How’s Joe?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s still in bed,” she replied. “I guess his leg is pretty sore. He hasn’t much to say. Dad tried to question him last night.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t believe Dad takes any stock in the story about Joe being shot accidentally.”

“Why not?” asked Hashknife suddenly.

“Well, he asked Joe how he happened to reload his rifle and who cleaned it after the shot.”

Hashknife smiled sourly and looked at Sleepy.

“We shore overlooked that point,” he admitted. “That’s too danged bad. What did Joe tell him?”

“Nothing. Said he was too sick to talk about it. Dad went to town this morning. Won’t you come in a while? I was just finishing my work, you see.”

They dismounted and sat in the shade of the porch.

“Will you tell me all about what happened yesterday?” she asked.

“No,” replied Hashknife. “You go ahead and believe I told yore Dad the truth.”

“That lets you out of anythin’,” added Sleepy. “Yore Dad can’t prove that we lied, yuh see. If it comes to a show-down, I’ll swear I cleaned that gun and put in a cartridge.”

“Dad wouldn’t believe that. He’s had so much trouble with Joe! He tries to believe in Joe; but Joe drinks hard all the time and gambles when he can get the money. It’s only been in the last year or so. Before that Joe was fine.”

“We’ve heard quite a lot about this Kid O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “We didn’t like to ask questions, yuh see, but I’d kinda like to hear about him. We know they’ve got a man by the name of Soapy Weed in jail and that O’Neil was shot from behind. What was it about the body comin’ to town on Weed’s horse?”

Yvonne told them the whole story as well as she could, including the evidence at the inquest. Hashknife questioned her about Kid O’Neil’s activities prior to the shooting, and she told him of how the Kid had hired out to her father when he first came into the Valley.

“I wasn’t here when he came,” she said. “He had been here about a week when I came back from school. He got drunk and tried to kiss me and I slapped his face. When Dad found it out he kicked O’Neil off the ranch.

“Then he went to work for the AH outfit, but they had some trouble over there and he lost his job. After that he went to work for the Box 88 and he was with them until he was killed.”

“Kind of a tough hombre, eh?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did you know McFee, the man who was murdered about a year or so ago near Chongo?”

“No, I never met him. He was only in the valley a short time. Joe knew him, I think. I guess they never had any idea who killed him.”

“Probably not. I wonder if we could see Joe?”

“Why, sure.”

They followed Yvonne into the house and found Joe in a bedroom that opened off the living-room. He was propped up in bed, smoking a cigaret, and did not seem overjoyed to see them. He admitted that the leg was very sore and that he had not slept well.

“You remember a feller named McFee who was killed near Chongo?” asked Hashknife.

Joe started suddenly and almost dropped his cigaret.

McFee had been a cowboy on the Box 88 for only two days when the murder occurred. Nobody had known him and the mystery of his death had never been solved and he had been almost forgotten.

“What about McFee?” Joe asked shortly.

“I just wanted a description of him.”

“Oh!” Joe puffed violently on his cigaret for several moments.

“He was kinda chunky and broad-shouldered if I remember right. Dark eyes and a pug nose. Oh, yeah! He had a scar on his upper lip that kinda puckered the skin. Looked as though it might have been stitched.”

Hashknife nodded slowly, his gray eyes thoughtful.

“Yuh don’t know where he came from, do yuh?”

“Nope; he never said. What do you know about him?”

“Not a thing.”

“What’s the idea of askin’ about him?”

“I had a friend named McFee and I wondered if this was the same person.”

“Was he?”

“I guess not.”

But this did not seem to satisfy Joe. He shot a sharp glance at Sleepy, whose innocent blue eyes told him nothing.

“Did the doctor say how soon yuh could walk?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope. But I’ll be out in a day or so. What are you fellers doin’ over here? Expect to get jobs?”

“Thought we might strike the Box 88 for jobs.”

“Yea-a-ah?”

“They lost a man the other day I understand.”

Joe began rolling another cigaret. Finally he looked at Hashknife and said:

“What are yuh goin’ to do about—what yuh discovered yesterday?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“You know —— well what I mean!”

“Oh, yeah! Nothin’. Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie yore horse away from it.”

“Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie yore horse away from it”

Hashknife got up abruptly and walked out of the room with Sleepy following close on his heels. They went out on the porch where Yvonne joined them.

“Won’t you let me apologize for Joe?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to understand that—that there isn’t some motive behind you protecting him this way. I—I guess he hasn’t much faith in humanity.”

“He’s pretty young to lose faith in humanity,” said Hashknife slowly. “But you don’t need to apologize nor thank us. We didn’t do it with that idea in view.”

“Oh, I know that. It was just the good in your heart.”

“Mebby that’s it. Well, I reckon we’ll ramble along.”

“Can’t you stay for supper?”

“Not very well. Mebby some other day, but we thank yuh just the same.”

“You are always more than welcome, Hashknife.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled. “It’s great to be welcome and we appreciate it more than you know. We’ll probably see yuh again in a few days.”

They mounted their horses and headed back for Chongo town over the dusty road.

“Why did yuh ask about McFee?” queried Sleepy. “You didn’t never know him, didja?”

“Not as McFee. See if yuh can’t remember a puncher with a scar on his upper lip. Kind of a puckered scar.”

Sleepy rode along squinting his eyes against the glare from the yellow dust. Something stirred in his memory and he saw a heavy-set cowboy with a scarred upper lip. The man was squatting at a camp-fire drinking coffee from a tin cup and the firelight illuminated the scar.

A scarred face illuminated by the firelight stirred in Sleepy’s memory

Sleepy lifted his head and looked at Hashknife.

“McFee was his name,” he said as though they had discovered his identity. “He was workin’ as a deputy for the sheriff of Piney River and he stopped at our camp.”

“Good boy!” exclaimed Hashknife. “That’s Charley McFee. It shore had me pawin’ my head. He was trailin’ a murderer that night. Thanks for the memory.”

“Yo’re welcome,” grinned Sleepy. “But what good is it?”

“Mebby it’s no good but it gives a place to start. McFee was a stranger here—almost.”

“Why the almost, Hashknife?”

“Somebody knew him. He wasn’t here long enough to cause an enmity that would end in murder. He was killed by the one man who knew him.”

“What do yuh think of Joe LeClere?”

“That’s hard to say. Joe was goin’ to alter the brands on them Box 88 animals, I think. But Joe ain’t alone in the deal. I had an idea he was workin’ alone but I guess not. Somebody went up there and turned the steers out of that brush corral after we brought Joe home.”

“I reckon Joe is a bad boy. He shore threw lead at you.”

“Yeah and he danged near got me too. I’m glad I got him in the leg.”

“Didn’t yuh shoot at his legs, Hashknife?”

“Don’t be foolish. With a man tryin’ to kill me? I shot to stop him, tha’sall, Sleepy.”

It was like Hashknife to depreciate his own ability with a gun. But neither of them claimed to be good shots. In their wanderings up and down the earth they had encountered split-second gunmen who when the showdown came failed to split the second.

Hashknife had always said, “If yo’re in the right yuh don’t have to split a second; just shoot straight.”

Just outside Chongo town they met Frenchy LeClere. He nodded pleasantly but did not stop his team. They stabled their horses and wandered down to the sheriff’s office where they found Weary and Chuck. Fat had ridden out to the Box 88.

“I’m glad yuh came,” declared Weary. “I’m plumb tired of talkin’ with folks I know.”

“Meanin’ me,” said Chuck sadly.

“Meanin’ everybody in Chongo.”

Hashknife laughed and stretched out in a broken-back chair; Sleepy squatted against the wall and rolled a cigaret.

“We were out to the IS ranch,” offered Hashknife.

“Thasso? How’s Joe?” asked Weary.

“Gettin’ along all right, I reckon. They seem to think that somebody is stealin’ their cows.”

“Seem to!” snorted Weary. “That’s all it amounts to. Old LeClere makes me laugh. He’s been kickin’ to us for a year. We investigated but didn’t find anythin’ to prove that his cows are fadin’ away.”

“Has the Box 88 lost any?”

“I sh’d say not. Nobody stealin’ cows around here. Where would they dispose of ’em if they did rustle a few? You’ve got to show the hides of every cow yuh kill. Every month we go out to the silver mines and inspect the hides that the Box 88 save. Every hide that’s shipped out of this here range must be inspected by the sheriff.”

“The Box 88 has the meat contract for the mines?”

“Sure. Hayward keeps two men out there all the time to handle the stock. They kill a lot of beef in a month and I reckon Tuck Hayward makes a mighty good profit. He used to ship a lot of beef east but not since the railroad built in here. Yuh see he furnished the railroad camps with meat too. Hell, he ain’t a cattleman no more; he’s a butcher.”

“What kind of a lay-out is the AH?”

“Fine. Old Ace Hart is a prince. He never gets anywhere, as far as money is concerned but he don’t care. Ace is one of the old-timers and he’s satisfied as long as he can make enough to pay off the boys and keep eatin’. Hayward is a money-getter. He makes plenty money on beef and he ain’t in the gamblin’ and liquor business for his health. Not that he don’t shoot square. I wouldn’t say that about Tuck. But the percentage is shore heavy.”

“What’s yore opinion of the killin’ of Kid O’Neil?” asked Hashknife.

Weary laughed and shook his head.