Front matter (continued 2)

“Well, he made a clean getaway,” declared Farley gloomily.

“We went out through the back and all around,” said Hashknife, “but naturally he wouldn’t be there.”

“Not likely,” agreed Farley, and Hashknife felt sure that they had not discovered the scattered jewelry.

“You fellers were lookin’ for Cliff, wasn’t yuh?” asked Buck, and Hashknife felt that there was a hidden meaning in the question.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife easily. “He was home when we got there. Harmony said he came a little while after we left.”

“Drunk?” queried Buck.

“As a goat,” nodded Hashknife, leaving it to their imagination as to how drunk a goat might get.

“Well,” concluded Farley, “there’s no use huntin’ in the dark; so we might as well close up the place.”

Hashknife drifted over to the Cheyenne and mingled with the crowd. There was a fairly heavy play, and a number of couples were dancing. On the far side of the room, the Countess and Blackie Dahl were sitting at a table. She seemed greatly interested in what he was saying, although Hashknife could see that he was maudlin drunk.

As the dance finished she left Blackie and went to the platform. Slim Cole walked in beside Hashknife and took him by the arm.

“Back again, eh?” he laughed. “They sure do come back. When she finishes her song I’ll introduce yuh. Stay here, where I can find yuh before she gets back to Blackie. He’s as jealous as ——”

Hashknife grinned and nodded. Vincent Roche passed him and went up close to the platform, but the Countess merely glanced at him, as she started her song, which was a music-hall ditty and not at all what Hashknife wanted to hear her sing.

As she came down off the platform, Slim Cole hurried him across to her before she could reach Blackie’s table.

“Countess, I want yuh to meet Mr. Hartley,” said Slim, grinning widely.

She looked keenly at Hashknife for a moment and held out her hand.

“I am very glad to meet you,” she said slowly. “I noticed you in here today.”

“I didn’t s’pose yuh would,” smiled Hashknife. “I sure did enjoy yore singin’, but I didn’t care much for yore last song.”

She smiled softly.

“Do you like the old love songs, Mr. Hartley?”

“Love songs don’t ever get old, do they?”

“No, I suppose not. You are a stranger in Oxbow?”

“Yeah, we’ve only been here a little while. We’re workin’ at the Maverick ranch—Parker’s place.”

“Oh, I see.” She looked away.

“You’ve been here long, ma’am?”

“Almost a month.”

“Well, I hope to see yuh ag’in, ma’am.”

“Thank you—I hope so too.”

She walked on to where Blackie sat glowering at Hashknife’s back, as he crossed the hall and went into the bar-room, where he found Slim Cole.

“How did yuh like her?” grinned Slim. “Ain’t she a dinger?”

“Very nice,” admitted Hashknife. “And just for that, I’ll buy a drink.”

The jewel robbery had become generally known by this time and was the main topic of conversation.

“When did this Trey of Spades start operatin’?” asked Hashknife.

“The first time was about four months ago, Hartley. In that length of time he has pulled off eight jobs. His first job was to stick up the Crow Creek stage out of Silverbend. The next one was to blow the post-office safe at Silverbend and grab a lot of registered mail. Since then he has robbed the Snake River Hill stage, out of Cottonwoods, the little bank at Cottonwoods, the store at Weston, the express office, Cheyenne saloon and now the jewelry store here in Oxbow.”

“And he always left his card, eh?”

“Every time. Whoever he is, he’s gettin’ rich. It’s a payin’ proposition, as far as he’s gone.”

Several other men came up to the bar, engaging Slim in conversation, and Hashknife drifted away. He crossed the street and glanced in the Rodeo restaurant, where Jud Farley and Buck were eating their delayed supper. Then he circled the jewelry store and came in behind it, moving carefully. This time he did not light a match, but he did grunt delightedly as he found what he was looking for. Then he swung around behind the Rodeo, went back to the street and untied his horse.

He rode swiftly back over the moonlit road and stabled his horse. There were no lights showing in the ranch house, but he could see a dim light in the bunkhouse. Sleepy was in bed, reading an old magazine, while Cliff slept soundly in a bunk across the room.

“How’s the little birds?” grinned Sleepy, tossing the magazine aside and reaching for his tobacco.

“They’re fine, Sleepy,” Hashknife sat down and began removing his boots. “The sheriff hasn’t found that jewelry yet.”

“Didja meet the Countess?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Sleepy lighted his cigarette thoughtfully. “Well, I ain’t no hand to chide a man as old as you are, Hashknife; but, personally, I think you’re seven kinds of —— fool. You go plumb back there to meet a dance-hall female. And you ain’t even ashamed of yourself, are yuh?”

“No-o-o-o, I can’t say that I am, Sleepy.”

“I’m ashamed for yuh, cowboy.”

“Thanks, Sleepy. You sure are considerate.”

Hashknife yawned, reached inside his shirt and drew out a flattened sombrero. He looked at it, looked around the place and threw it under the bunk. Sleepy leaned down and looked under the bunk, while Hashknife removed the rest of his clothes.

“What’s the idea of the hat, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.

“Cliff’s hat,” said Hashknife softly, as he blew out the lamp. “We forgot about it, Sleepy. I went back after it.”

Hashknife crawled into bed and adjusted himself to a comfortable position.

“I apologize to the little birdies,” said Sleepy meaningly.

“They accept it,” drawled Hashknife, “but they’re still singin’ their little song.”

Dad Parker was up early the next morning. He had spent a sleepless night, trying to decide just what to do, but was no nearer a solution than he had been the night before. His mind was haunted by the picture of his son, lying on the bunkhouse floor, bound and gagged, with a white, blood-streaked face and dazed, wondering eyes.

Down in his heart he thanked Hashknife and Sleepy for doing what they had done to save Cliff from the law. There was no doubt in his mind that Cliff was the Trey of Spades, and he wondered just what restitution he could make and still save his son from the penitentiary.

He walked slowly around to the front of the house, where Dorothy Clement stood on the porch, gazing across the hills. She was a pretty little thing, with wide, wistful eyes that matched in color her soft blue morning gown. She smiled at Dad and indicated the hills with a sweep of her hand.

“I’ve been looking far back into the hills, Dad,” she said slowly. “Milly said that Cliff might come this morning, and I wanted to be the first to see him.”

The old man shaded his eyes and stared at the hills, with their rose-tinted crests and cool blue shadows in the morning light. Then he dropped his hand and looked up at her.

“I’ll let you do the lookin’, Dorothy,” he told her wearily. “My old eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”

He turned and started toward the rear of the house, when a joyful exclamation caused him to turn. Dorothy was looking down the road, where a lone rider was coming toward them.

“Oh, that must be Cliff!” exclaimed the girl. “Why doesn’t he hurry?”

Dad squinted at the rider and his lips shut in a thin line. He had recognized the horse. Milly came out onto the porch and Dorothy threw one arm around her waist.

“Isn’t that Cliff coming?” she asked.

Dad looked at Milly, who turned from a glance at the on-coming rider, and their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. The rider swung in at the gate and came slowly up to them. It was Jud Farley, the sheriff, riding his white-faced sorrel.

“Howdy, folks,” the sheriff smiled as he drew up near the porch and dismounted.

“Good mornin’, Jud,” said Dad Parker. “Glad to see you.”

Farley looked closely at Dorothy, and a wide grin wreathed his face.

“Well, by golly, if it ain’t little Miss Clement!” he exclaimed. “Say, I’m sure glad to see yuh, little lady.”

“And I am very glad to see you, Mr. Farley,” smiled Dorothy, as they shook hands. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Well,” Farley grinned at her, “you have. You’re gettin’ prettier every year.”

Dorothy blushed, and this amused Farley greatly.

“Paints her own cheeks, too, by golly. Ho hum-m-m! I wish I was twenty years younger. Hartley told me somethin’ about bein’ at the train to meet somebody, but I was too busy to pay any attention to the name. You goin’ to stay a while?”

“If they don’t get tired of me.”

“Tired of yuh? Say, you’ll be here a long time,” Farley laughed. “Suits me if yuh never go away. This country sure does need somethin’ for sore eyes. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Have you had breakfast?” asked Milly.

“Hm-m-m, kinda. I can always eat, though. You know me, Milly.”

“I’ll tell Harmony that you are here.”

“Tell me what he says,” laughed Farley. “It does us good to know what other folks think about us once in a while.”

The two girls went into the house, and a moment later Hashknife came out of the bunkhouse door and started toward the stable.

“I want to see Hartley,” said Farley, and turned abruptly away from Dad Parker, following Hashknife. The old man looked after him, his heart filled with apprehension. Did it mean that the sheriff knew something of what had happened the night before, he wondered?

He knew that Farley would suspect something, if he saw Cliff in his present condition. Perhaps, he thought, Farley already had evidence against Cliff. He could see Hashknife at the stable door, waiting for Farley to reach him. They stood there for a minute or two, talking, and then moved over by the corral, where they sat down on a pile of old poles.

Hashknife was a little puzzled at the early morning appearance of the sheriff. He tried to think of something they had overlooked; something that might be a clue for the sheriff to fasten the guilt upon Cliff.

“Out kinda early, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

Farley smiled thoughtfully. “Mebbe. Let’s set down and talk a little.”

They walked over by the corral and sat down on the pile of poles.

“We got back most of that jewelry,” said Farley. “It was scattered around the yard back of that store.”

“Tha’sso?” Hashknife feigned surprise.

“Yeah.” Dryly.

“The jeweler was lucky, don’tcha think?”

“Uh-huh.” Farley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised to know that some of the birdshot hit the Trey of Spades.”

“It might, at that. A shotgun sure scatters a lot.”

“Yeah. We found blood alongside that fence out there, and we found the mask he wore.”

“Blood, eh? By golly, he must ’a’ been hit.”

“And,” said Farley looking straight into Hashknife’s eyes, “there was a little blood here and there. In fact we was able to foller the trail from there plumb around to the hitch-rack beyond the old feed store.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully.

“Is that so? Then he didn’t leave town, eh?”

“Mebbe he did, and mebbe he didn’t.”

“Yeah, that might be true,” Hashknife knew that Farley suspected that he knew more about it than he was willing to tell.

“He was there at the hitch-rack quite a while,” stated Farley. “There was more blood at that spot.”

“Uh-huh. He prob’ly was quite badly hurt and it took him a little while to untie his horse.”

“Mebbe,” Farley smiled softly.

Milly and Dorothy came around the house, walking with an arm around each other. They stopped at the kitchen door and talked with Harmony.

“Awful nice little girl, that Clement girl,” observed Farley.

“Finer than silk,” agreed Hashknife softly. “She’s goin’ to marry Cliff Parker.”

Farley glanced sharply at Hashknife.

“Yuh say she is?”

“It ain’t a secret, Farley.”

“Well,” Farley frowned heavily, “it may not be a secret, but it’s a —— shame.”

“She thinks a lot of him, Farley.”

“Um-m-m. Where’s Cliff?”

“In Oxbow, I suppose. He spends most of his time there, don’t he?”

“He was here last night, wasn’t he?”

“Not when I got back. He said somethin’ to Sleepy about goin’ over to the Diamond V ranch. Him and Roche are good pals, I reckon.”

“Over to the Diamond V, eh?”

Hashknife nodded quickly, but with a fear that Farley knew that he was lying. Came the musical jangling of Harmony’s big steel triangle, calling them to breakfast, and Hashknife was very thankful for the interruption. As they started for the house, Sleepy came out of the bunkhouse and joined them.

Hashknife told him about the recovery of the jewelry, and Sleepy’s surprise was almost overdone. At the doorway, Hashknife turned back.

“Got to have a coat,” he grinned. “Plumb forgot that we have company. Be with yuh in a minute.”

He hurried down to the bunkhouse and went inside. Cliff was sitting up in his bunk, feeling of his bandages. He scowled at Hashknife and waited for him to explain.

“Get into your clothes,” ordered Hashknife. “You’ve been about all the different kinds of —— fools that there is runnin’ loose, Parker; and you’ve got to work fast. Have you got a horse and saddle here?”

“What the —— are you talkin’ about?” demanded Cliff.

“Somethin’ about your future. Dorothy Clement is up at the house, waitin’ for you to ride in out of the hills. The sheriff is also up there, kinda hankerin’ for a chance to look yuh over. You spin into your clothes, grab a horse and saddle and slide into the hills.

“As soon as the sheriff rides away, you ride in; sabe? Don’t ask a lot of fool questions! You ain’t got a lot of time. Now start movin’, while the time is right.”

“Dorothy up there?” Cliff scowled as well as he could with his bandages.

“Came last night. We’ve lied all we could. Get goin’.”

“And the sheriff, too, eh? What in —— does he want?”

“Listen,” Hashknife stopped at the door, pulling on his coat, “you do as I say, Parker; unless you want to cool the soles of your boots on a penitentiary floor for the next ten or twenty years.”

“Is that so?”

“Be a —— fool about this, and see if it ain’t,” replied Hashknife, shutting the door.

He went swiftly up to the house and took his place at the breakfast table. The atmosphere seemed a trifle tense, and the conversation strained. There was none of the usual good-natured banter of a cow ranch breakfast table. Farley noticed this.

“Kinda like a Quaker meetin’,” he observed.

“Dorothy and I talked half the night,” said Milly quickly. “We are all talked out.”

Farley told them about the robbery in Oxbow and how he had found the stolen jewelry that morning.

“Oh, I think that the Trey of Spades is just too romantic!” exclaimed Dorothy. “He is like Robin Hood.”

“He’s romantic all right,” grinned Farley. “I’ll betcha he ain’t so romantic this mornin’, ’cause he got some of old man Freeland’s birdshot in his anatomy. If I can find the man who is sufferin’ from a duck-load, I’ll have the Trey of Spades.”

“Well, I hope you don’t find him,” declared Dorothy.

“I’ll do my best,” smiled Farley, as he got up from the table. “I’ve sure earned him, little lady.”

Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside with Farley, who mounted his horse.

“You goin’ back to Oxbow?” asked Hashknife.

“I s’pose,” Farley grinned thoughtfully. “I’ve got to kinda keep movin’ and try to find the jigger that got hit with that shotgun. From the amount of blood he lost, I’m wonderin’ if it all come from a few birdshot.”

“Might ’a’ pinched his hand in the door when he was goin’ out,” reflected Hashknife aloud.

“Oh, yeah,” Farley’s nose wrinkled in affected seriousness. “That could sure cut him up a lot. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”

They watched him ride away and turned back to the bunkhouse. Cliff was not there. Dad Parker came down and Hashknife told him what he had ordered Cliff to do. The old man seemed to breathe a little easier, but was still dubious.

“Jud Farley suspects him,” he declared. “Jud is no fool. He has some evidence against Cliff, that is a sure thing.”

“All right, Dad.” Hashknife slapped the old man on the shoulder. “Let him suspect. He ain’t got enough evidence to make an arrest—or he’d make it. If we can keep Cliff under cover until his wounds heal, it’ll be a cinch.”

“Yes, we might evade the law, Hartley; but we can’t evade our own knowledge. Milly knows—or suspects. She will have to know the truth.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to tell her, Dad.”

“And what right have you two to help compound a felony? You know that my son is guilty. It is your duty to notify the sheriff—not to block justice.”

Hashknife smiled softly and shook his head.

“Dad, do you read the Bible?”

“What has the Bible to do with this?” Bitterly.

“‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Who are we to judge your son, Dad? Why should we send him to prison? Are we so danged much better than he is that we must see the law punish him?”

“You are law-abiding, aren’t you, Hartley?”

“Perhaps. There are no sheriffs after us—now.”

“You are breaking the law right now.”

“Sure thing. And what is more, Dad, we always will—or until the law starts writin’ in more ‘do’s’ and less ‘don’ts.’ It is always a ‘don’t.’ Me and Sleepy stay within the law—or as far as our conscience will allow.”

“There comes Cliff,” said Sleepy, who was near the door.

They looked out. Cliff was riding in at the front gate, bareheaded, bandaged. Dorothy and Milly had come out on the porch, and now they went running down to him. Cliff dismounted, as they reached him, and Dad Parker left the doorway, going toward them.

Hashknife and Sleepy went back into the bunkhouse and sat down.

“He never wore his hat,” observed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he never seen it down there under the bunk.”

“He’s got a lot of lyin’ to do now,” grinned Hashknife. “I’d sure hate to be in his shoes. And he’s got to lie before Dad and Milly, who know danged well he’s lyin’. It sure is one swell situation.”

“And it’s none of our business,” said Sleepy seriously. “We ain’t got nothin’ to do with it a-tall, Hashknife. There used to be a time when me and you would be hornin’ into this here Trey of Spades thing—but that time has passed.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Hashknife sighed deeply and began rolling a cigarette. “I feel sorry for Dad and Milly. He’s a dinger, Sleepy. Dad ain’t makin’ no —— of a fuss, but down deep in his heart it’s hurtin’. Milly don’t know it all yet. It’ll kinda jar her, I reckon.”

“And it’ll jar Miss Clement, too, Hashknife.”

“Oh, sure. She thinks that Cliff is a little tin god.”

“Speakin’ of tin gods,” Sleepy tilted back on his bunk and squinted at the ceiling. “How about the Countess?”

“Kinda tinny,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Hm-m-m. Didja see her ag’in?”

“Yeah—talked with her, Sleepy. She’s a pretty danged nice sort of a girl—for her kind.”

“For her kind,” echoed Sleepy. “But yuh got to remember that Cliff turned thief to buy things for her.”

“He did, like ——!” Hashknife fairly exploded.

“Well, dear me!” Sleepy sat up quickly. “He didn’t?”

“No, Sleepy. The Trey of Spades was doin’ a land-office business before she ever came to Oxbow. I found out how long she has been there.”

“That’s a different colored horse,” grunted Sleepy.

Hashknife cleared the table and began playing solitaire, while Sleepy watched him indifferently. It was about thirty minutes after Cliff’s arrival at the house when he opened the door of the bunkhouse and came inside. The two cowboys waited for him to speak.

His face was slightly flushed and he had the appearance of a man who was badly in need of a stimulant.

“Well,” he said hoarsely, looking at Hashknife, “what next?”

“Next what?” Hashknife shoved back from the table.

“Next order.” He came closer and stared at Hashknife. “You seem to be runnin’ things around here, Hartley.”

There was a distinct threat in Cliff’s attitude; so Hashknife got to his feet, leaning across the table.

“Don’t be a fool, Parker,” Hashknife spoke softly. “You’ve got past so far—now be careful.”

“Yeah?” Cliff spat dryly, thoughtfully. “What’s the big idea?”

“The big idea is to keep you out of the penitentiary. Mebbe you don’t appreciate it, but yo’re edgin’ in pretty close to the big stone corral, young feller.”

“The —— I am!” snorted Cliff angrily. “Let me tell you——”

The door opened behind him and Dad Parker came in. Cliff turned and looked at his father, who came up close to him, leaving the door open. The old man’s eyes were stony cold and his jaw was set, as he faced his son.

“More trouble, eh?” said Cliff angrily.

“No, not trouble,” Dad Parker shook his head. “It is just a showdown, Cliff. You told your story very well, and I think that Dorothy believes you, but I know better and I’ve told Milly the truth.”

“Well,” Cliff frowned heavily, “that’s all right.”

“All right with you, Cliff. Perhaps you will have time to get out of the country, if you don’t waste too much time in starting. The sheriff is suspicious of you, and when he sees you his suspicions will be confirmed. These two men have saved you from the consequences of your crimes, but there is little that they can do now.”

“Huh!” Cliff rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his dry lips. For several moments he stared at the floor, as though trying to concentrate his thoughts. Then he lifted his head and looked at his father.

“Dad,” his voice broke slightly, “what in —— is this all about?”

“All about?” The old man laughed bitterly. “You would dare to stand there and ask me that question? Cliff, I’ve been afraid of this for several days. Last night you were brought here, suffering from an injury which was inflicted at the time you held up and robbed Freeland’s jewelry store in Oxbow.

“Your face was filled with birdshot from Freeland’s shotgun. Hartley and Stevens found you just after the holdup, where you had accidentally injured yourself in the dark. The jewelry was all scattered around, where it had fallen. Your mask was beside you. Now, can you stand there and deny that you are the Trey of Spades?”

Cliff was staring at his father, his face gone white under the accusations. Hashknife’s eyes shifted from the two men and looked at the doorway, where the minister stood, a puzzled expression on his face. None of them knew how long he had been there, but he had surely been there long enough to have heard Dad Parker’s accusation of his son.

Cliff shook his head and started to speak, but Hashknife forestalled anything further by saying:

“Here’s the preacher who rides on his church.”

Dad Parker and Cliff turned quickly.

“Pardon me,” smiled the minister. “I was going past; so I stopped for a minute or two.”

“Oh, yes,” Dad Parker’s voice was barely a whisper. “You ju-just stopped. Well, won’t you go up to the house?”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker.” He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, turned and walked slowly toward the house. Hashknife walked to the door, leaning on the casing, watching the minister go into the house. Then, without turning his head, he said:

“Dad, I’m afraid he heard everythin’ yuh said.”

“Well, suppose he did,” Cliff laughed harshly. “It don’t seem to be any secret.”

“There are only four of us, except you,” said Sleepy.

Dad Parker turned away and started for the door. His anger had burned out, and with it had burned several years of his life. His hand groped uncertainly at the doorway as he went out and walked toward the house, like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Cliff stared after him and his face softened as he turned to Hashknife.

“It—it looks like they’ve got the deadwood on me, don’t it, Hartley?”

“The law hasn’t—yet.”

“It’s a funny thing.” Cliff sighed deeply and shook his head. “I feel like I’ve missed a few months out of my life.”

“Don’t remember doin’ these things?”

“No. I reckon—say, what day and month is this?”

Hashknife pointed to a calendar on the wall, and Cliff walked closer to examine it. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. Lapse of memory had already been established as a point of defense, and they felt that Cliff might be going to claim such a condition.

But he turned away from the calendar and sat down on a bunk, thinking deeply.

“How much time have you forgot?” queried Hashknife.

“Not a —— day.”

“Then you remember everythin’, eh?”

“Well,” Cliff smiled wryly, “not what Dad accuses me of, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“All right. Then how do yuh account for bein’ where we found yuh last night, flat on your back, with jewels scattered all around yuh and yore face punctured with birdshot?”

Cliff held his head in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the floor.

“I can’t tell yuh, Hartley. It’s all too hazy.”

He got to his feet and moved toward the door.

“I’m goin’ to town, if anybody asks about me.”

“Don’t be a fool!” exploded Hashknife. “The sheriff is lookin’ for a shot-marked man, and your face looks like you’ve had the small-pox.”

“I’ve got to have a drink,” declared Cliff. “There ain’t a drink on the ranch, and if I don’t get a shot of whisky pretty soon, I’ll kill somebody—or myself. I—I—” he snapped his fingers nervously—“I’ve just got to have it. To —— with the sheriff and the law.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s up to you,” said Hashknife. He picked the hat from under the bunk and tossed it to Cliff.

“If you’ve got to go, don’t go bareheaded. Here’s yore hat.”

Cliff straightened out the sombrero, looked inside it and threw it back onto the table.

“That ain’t my hat.”

“It ain’t your hat?” Hashknife gasped at him.

“—— no! Mine’s a perfectly good Stetson, and she’s got my initials in the sweat-band.”

He whirled and went outside, leaving Hashknife and Sleepy staring at the hat which Hashknife had brought from the scene of the crime. Hashknife turned the hat slowly in his fingers. There were several tiny holes in the top of the crown, where some of the old jeweler’s birdshot had penetrated the felt, and along the brim were several pencil-like marks where the tiny pellets of lead had scraped.

“It ain’t his hat,” said Hashknife, half to himself. “His hat has his initials in the sweat-band. And I’ll betcha a hundred-to-one that Jud Farley had that hat. Sleepy, we’ve got somebody’s old discard.”

“We haven’t,” stated Sleepy. “You have. Don’t blame it onto me, cowboy.”

And while Hashknife and Sleepy wondered, “Hat, hat, who’s got the hat,” the Reverend Mr. Jones sat in the living-room of the Maverick ranch house and tried to make conversation with Milly and Dad Parker. Dorothy was in her room, changing her dress, making herself more beautiful for Cliff’s sake, while he was riding wildly back toward town, with his soul shrieking for whisky.

“I am making wonderful progress with my church,” offered the minister. “Mr. Cole is giving me every assistance in fixing up the old building, and it will not be long until we have a suitable place of worship.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” Milly awoke from her abstraction long enough to know that some reply was necessary. Dad Parker sat in stony silence.

“And I think that it will be a very good thing for this country.” The minister persisted in talking. “There has been a need for religious revival in Thunder county. It is really a shame—almost a heathenish—if I may use that word—condition.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Milly slowly. “We need something, that is a sure thing.”

She got to her feet and walked to the front door. If the minister would only go away it would relieve the situation to some extent, she thought. She did not want to talk with him—nor to any one else for that matter. Since her father had told her what he knew about Cliff, she had been in a daze.

He got up and walked over to her. Dad Parker looked at him, wondering how much he had heard at the bunkhouse. Milly moved out onto the porch and the minister came out beside her.

“Milly,” he said softly, “you are in trouble. I know that. In fact I overheard a conversation between your father and brother, which was—well, enough to make me understand the situation.”

“You heard?” Milly stared at him.

“Yes. I know that your brother is the Trey of Spades, Milly.”

She turned away and stared blankly. This was worse than she had imagined.

“It is too bad,” he said slowly, “and I want you to know how sorry I feel.”

“And,” he continued after a moment, “I want you to understand that this does not affect my respect for your father nor my—er—feelings toward you, Milly.”

“Toward me?” Milly turned and looked at him.

“Yes,” he admitted, half-bashfully. “I am not afraid to tell you that I think you are the finest girl I have ever met. It is difficult for folks to imagine that a minister might fall in love with a girl; but that is just what I have done.”

“But—but you mustn’t do that.” Milly was half-crying with nervousness. “Don’t you see I can’t talk with you? Everything is wrong—everything!”

“Not everything, Milly. I love you.”

“Well, I don’t love you, don’t you see? I—I like you, but—but I don’t love anybody.”

“You don’t mean that, Milly. When you calm down you will feel differently about it.”

“No, I won’t!” Milly shook her head violently. “Please go away, won’t you?”

The minister turned slowly away, his eyes hardening slightly, and started down the steps toward his horse, while Milly turned and went back into the house. He stopped at the foot of the steps and looked back toward the empty porch, before he mounted his horse.

As he rode toward the gate, Hashknife walked over from the bunkhouse and intercepted him. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Then Hashknife said:

“How much of it did you hear?”

“About all of it, I think.” The minister’s voice was crisp and hard. Hashknife squinted curiously at him.

“About all of it, eh? Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “And how much of it are yuh goin’ to tell?”

“How much am I going to tell? What makes you think I am going to tell any of it?”

“Because,” Hashknife’s grin was aimed to take off some of the sting, “yuh don’t look like a man I’d trust with a secret.”

“Really?” The minister straightened in his saddle at the direct insult. “That is not very complimentary, Hartley.”

“——, I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“No?”

“No-o-o. Yuh see, they taught me in Sunday school to tell the truth. If my talk offends yuh—blame religion. If so much of my Sunday school teacher’s talk hadn’t stuck to my brain, I’d prob’ly lie to you like other folks do.”

“A paragon, eh?”

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife, after a moment, “it’s a good thing I don’t sabe that word.”

“Possibly. Now just where are we getting to in this conversation?”

“Right back to where we started, Deacon. You heard Dad Parker accuse Cliff of being the Trey of Spades. Cliff didn’t deny it. The question is this—are yuh goin’ to tell what yuh heard?”

“Why should I?”

“And there yuh are,” Hashknife flapped his arms wearily. “I’d just as soon argue with an old woman as a preacher. They always say ‘because,’ or ‘why.’ My ——, do yuh think I want to ask questions and answer ’em myself?”

The minister smiled at Hashknife’s serious expression.

“Would it be a Christian thing to do, Hartley—to tell?”

“What do I know about Christian things?”

“We seem to be deadlocked again.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“We sure are, pardner.”

“Are you trying to coerce the church, Hartley?”

“I ain’t sure. I’ve got a hazy idea what that word means, but I do know this: We’ve got a sheriff to chase criminals, and we’ve got a preacher to chase the devil. The sheriff ain’t got nothin’ on the devil, and the minister hadn’t ought to chase criminals. It ’pears to me that they’d both do pretty well if they minded their own business, as far as they are personally concerned.”

“That is not a bad philosophy, Hartley.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones picked up his reins, laughing softly. “I think it can be carried out—as far as the preacher is concerned.”

“That’s fine,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll answer for the sheriff. If he monkeys with yore Gospel, let me know, will yuh?”

“I will, Hartley. As soon as my church is inhabitable, I would like to see you in the congregation.”

“Yuh might, at that,” laughed Hashknife. “So-long, compadre.”

“Good-by.”

Cliff lost no time in getting to Oxbow, and his horse was dripping with sweat when he drew up at the Cheyenne hitch-rack. Jud Farley had seen Cliff ride into town, and there was considerable of a pucker between the sheriff’s eyes as he speculated upon things.

He watched Cliff hurry into the saloon, and his conclusions were that Cliff was badly in need of a drink. After a short wait he sauntered over to the Cheyenne and eased himself inside.

Cliff was at the bar, leaning on his elbows and looking at his reflection in the backbar mirror.

His body tensed slightly as he saw the sheriff’s face reflected in the glass, but he did not turn.

“Howdy, Cliff,” said the sheriff pleasantly as he moved in beside him. “Have a little drink?”

“Thank yuh, Jud; I’ve had enough for now.”

Cliff turned and they looked at each other. The sheriff’s eyes flashed to the bandage, but he did not remark about it.

“Bronc throwed me off in a mesquite,” said Cliff slowly. “I was back in the hills. That —— mesquite sure punches yuh full of holes.”

The sheriff nodded thoughtfully.

“It’s mean stuff, Cliff. Lost yore hat, too, eh?”

“Uh-huh. Got to get me a new one. I was kinda knocked out and went away without it. Mebbe I could find the place, but it’s doubtful.”

“Bronc throwed yuh, yuh say?”

“Yeah—not my bronc though. He’s in the stable here in town. I was kinda wobbly; so I went to the ranch in the wagon. I was ridin’ another bronc when I got throwed.”

“Uh-huh,” Farley smiled, because he knew that Cliff’s horse was still in the livery stable, and he decided that Cliff was a first-class liar. Then it suddenly struck him that Cliff had not lied about it all. That Maverick ranch wagon had been in town the night before, and had gone back to the ranch while he and Buck were trying to pick up the trail of the bandit.

“I was out to the ranch this mornin’,” offered Farley. “I seen Dorothy Clement. By golly, she’s a nice girl, Cliff.”

“Yeah,” said Cliff thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I was out in the hills and didn’t get to meet her at the train.”

“Yeah, it was too bad.”

Farley knew that Cliff hadn’t been in the hills. He had seen Cliff in Oxbow that afternoon, and Cliff was in no condition to ride a horse. And Cliff knew that Farley did not believe him.

“You heard about the jewel robbery, didn’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.

“They talked about it at the ranch,” said Cliff easily. “Didn’t amount to much as long as the jeweler got his stuff all back. That Trey of Spades has sure got nerve.”

“Yeah, but he’s careless.”

“Thasso?” Cliff’s eyes studied a framed picture on the opposite wall. “Well, I suppose they all get careless. Wouldn’t be much use for jails, if they didn’t. Let’s have a drink, Jud.”

They drank and turned away from the bar. Vincent Roche came swinging through the front door but stopped suddenly at sight of Cliff’s bandaged head.

“What hit you?” he asked.

Cliff explained about being thrown off his horse in the hills. Roche listened closely, a half-smile on his face. He knew that Cliff had not been in condition to ride into the hills, but he felt that Cliff had a good reason for lying about it in the presence of the sheriff.

“I was over to the ranch to see yuh,” said Roche, anxious to change the subject. “I met the Reverend Jones, who had also been there.”

“Had he?” Cliff smiled grimly. “Some day——”

“You let the preacher alone,” advised the sheriff dryly. “He’s needed around here.”

“Then keep him around here,” retorted Cliff. “We don’t need him out at the Maverick,” and then to Roche, “Did yuh go out to the ranch, Vint?”

Roche shook his head.

“No. The sky-pilot told me that you had pulled out for town; so I rode back here with him. He invited me to church.”

Farley smiled and walked away. He knew that there was nothing further to be gained from talking to Cliff. They watched him disappear.

“You went out in the hills and got bucked off in a mesquite,” said Roche slowly. “That’s fine. Dorothy showed up; so you better brace up and behave yourself. Now tell me somethin’ about those two new punchers at the Maverick.”

“What do yuh want to know about ’em, Vint?”

“Are they just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, or are they here to try and find the Trey of Spades?”

Cliff squinted thoughtfully. Then, “Just cowpunchers, Vint.”

“Are yuh sure?”

“Well, I’m as sure as death or taxes. What do you want to know for?”

“Just curious, tha’sall. Let’s go and take a whirl at the old wheel.”

“I’ll look on,” grinned Cliff. “I’m sure lookin’ for cheap amusement.”

The sheriff went back to his office, where Buck was asleep on a cot, and sat down to try and plan just what to do. Buck awoke in a bad humor, as usual, but grew interested when the sheriff told him about Cliff’s injuries.

“Looks kinda bad for Cliff,” agreed Buck. “I wonder why the blasted fool came back thataway.”

“Got thirsty, I reckon.”

“You didn’t have much luck with that feller Hartley, did yuh?” queried Buck.

Farley shook his head.

“Not what you’d notice.”

Buck cleared his throat raspingly and shifted his position.

“I’m suspicious of them two, Jud. I tell yuh, they’re laughin’ at us all the time. Dang ’em, they know too much t’ suit me.”

“Aw, ——, they couldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Well, suppose it ain’t Cliff? Who’s the next bet?”

“I’m not bettin’, Buck. If it ain’t Cliff—I’ll eat my old shirt.”

“Then why in —— don’tcha arrest him?”

“And have Hartley, Stevens, Dad Parker and Milly prove an alibi for him, eh?”

“That’s the —— of it!” snorted Buck disgustedly. “Every hand is agin’ us, Jud. ’Pears to me that the law ain’t pop’lar no more. I’m sure glad we’re goin’ to have a church. If a lot of these jiggers would git the Ten Commandments drilled into ’em, me and you would have an easier job.”

“How many of ’em do you know, Buck?”

“——, I don’t have to know ’em.”

“You’re pure, are yuh?”

“Jist like the driven snow,” said Buck savagely. “And I git poorer and poorer every year. Pure and poverty-stricken. Them two words fit together jist like meanness and money.”

The rest of the day was uneventful. Several times the sheriff went to the Cheyenne and found Vincent Roche bucking the roulette wheel. Cliff was not playing; so the sheriff decided that Cliff was either broke or afraid to show too much money.

It was after dark when Buck joined him and they went to the Rodeo restaurant. Blackie Dahl was there, sitting moodily at a table, alone. He had been drinking steadily all day.

“Prob’ly got turned down by the Countess,” said Buck. “That’s kind of specialty with her—turnin’ ’em down. But I don’t blame her for ditchin’ Blackie. My —— he’s a awful specimen of humanity.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” advised the sheriff. “Blackie’s in a bad humor.”

“Aw, ——! We’ll have to kill him sometime, Jud; so it might as well be one time as another.”

Jud grinned and attacked his food. In a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy came in and sat down at the nearest table. Buck glowered at them, but the sheriff seemed pleased. As soon as he finished his meal he went over and took a vacant chair beside Hashknife.

“Well, what’s new?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ new,” The sheriff rested his elbows on the table and chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick.

Hashknife and Sleepy finished their meal and got up from the table. Buck went out ahead of them and crossed the street, but the sheriff waited for them to pay their check and met them outside.

“I don’t want to seem to be ridin’ you fellers, but I’d sure like to trade talk with yuh.” The sheriff was apologetic.

“Trade talk?” Hashknife grinned.

“Yeah. I want yuh to understand that I ain’t jumpin’ at no conclusions; sabe? With what I already know I could make a lot of grief for somebody; but I ain’t hangin’ crape on doorways until I’ve got the old deadwood planted.”

“That’s sure square of yuh, Farley; and I might trade on that basis—if you talk first.”

“All right. Come down to my office, will yuh?”

They walked down the street and went into the office. The sheriff lighted the oil lamp, closed the door, and the three of them sat down beside his desk.

“I’m goin’ to play my cards face up,” stated the sheriff. “Beatin’ around the bush ain’t goin’ to get me nothin’ with you two. Cliff Parker held up that jewelry store last night, got hurt and was taken to the ranch by you fellers.”

Hashknife and Sleepy squinted at each other.

“I’m playin’ ’em in sight,” warned the sheriff. “You two went into that back yard, while me and Buck went ridin’. There’s blood on the ground where the robber laid, and it wasn’t hard to trail him to the hitch-rack. Cliff’s got his head all bandaged up today and there’s shot marks on his face. He got enough shot to make him blunder into that fence, where he bumped himself. The plunder flew out of his hands. All this was dead easy to read. Now, I’m askin’ you to talk a little.”

“But why do yuh say it was Cliff Parker?” grinned Hashknife. “You only know that Cliff has been hurt. He said he got throwed into a mesquite bush.”

“Mesquite, ——! I’ll show yuh how I know.”

The sheriff hitched over to his desk and drew open one of the drawers. He scowled deeply, and reached for the lamp with his other hand. After a close inspection, while the two cowboys watched him closely, he lifted his hand from the drawer and tossed a playing card on to the table, face up. It was the trey of spades.

The sheriff looked searchingly at the two men, and poked at the card with his finger.

“Two hours ago Cliff Parker’s hat was in that drawer,” he said slowly. “It ain’t there now.”

“Turned into the trey of spades, eh?” queried Hashknife seriously.

Farley’s eyes hardened and his lips drew into a straight, level line.

“I didn’t ask yuh for much help, Hartley,” he said coldly, “but I do ask yuh not to interfere with the law.”

Hashknife leaned across the desk and squinted in the sheriff’s face.

“Do yuh mean to say that we stole the hat?”

Farley’s eyes shifted under Hashknife’s steady gaze and he looked at the card.

“We didn’t, Farley,” said Hashknife. “I figured that you had the hat, and I’d ’a’ stole it, if I had the chance.”

The sheriff sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, there’s no evidence left, that’s a cinch. I was a fool to leave it in that drawer.”

Hashknife picked up the card and examined it. The back of it was an intricate design, printed in blue. It had never been used, because it was as white and crisp as a card from a new deck.

“Are all his cards like this?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff rummaged in another drawer and took out another trey of spades with the same colored back.

“That’s the one he left at the jeweler’s place.”

“Can I take this one?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. I dunno what good it’ll do yuh, though.”

Hashknife pocketed it and they went over to the Cheyenne. Blackie Dahl was at the bar, and he glared at them, but did not speak. His eyes were almost crossed from excessive drinking but he did not stagger. They went into the gambling room and looked over the games. Cliff was humped in a look-out chair, with a glass of liquor in his hand, watching the play.

“He ain’t been playin’ today,” observed the sheriff.

“Prob’ly broke,” said Hashknife.

“Prob’ly not,” replied the sheriff dryly. “I wonder where Roche is?”

Blackie passed them, going toward the dance-hall, and Slim Cole met them at the entrance. He glanced at Blackie and grinned widely.

“Blackie’s workin’ up a grudge,” he said. “Vint Roche has been talkin’ with the Countess for an hour, and Blackie has been wanderin’ around like a lost duck.”

They moved into the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and gained a position near the orchestra. About half-way down, on the opposite side, sat Vincent Roche and the Countess in close conversation.

“Roche hit the wheel for a lot of money today,” said Slim. “He must have cashed in about two thousand dollars.”

“Not so good for you, eh?” said Hashknife.

“Aw, I’ll get it all back.”

“With interest,” added the sheriff.

“That’s the beauty of this business,” laughed Slim. “It’s like makin’ a loan. Once in a while yuh find a man who is wise enough to keep what he wins, but the majority of ’em can’t forget how easy it was to get.”

Blackie Dahl had been bumped by several dancers, which did not increase his humor to any extent. He moved closer to Roche, although trying to appear indifferent. It amused Slim Cole, but not so Jud Farley.

“Blackie is drunk enough to be dangerous,” said Jud. “If Roche is wise he’ll watch that son-of-a-gun.”

Suddenly a dancing couple collided with Blackie, knocking him almost into Roche, who looked up at Blackie and said something. A moment later Blackie had flung the table aside and stepped back, reaching for his gun.

But whisky had slowed Blackie’s speed, and before he could use the gun Roche smashed him full in the face, knocking him half-way across the hall, where he sprawled full-length on the floor. The orchestra stopped with a crash and the dancers scattered.

Instinct had caused Blackie to cling to his gun, in spite of the blow, but before he could recover sufficiently to use it, Roche’s right foot was on it, crushing it out of his hand. Jud Farley crossed to them and helped Blackie to his feet.

The punch had loosened all of Blackie’s front teeth and had driven the whisky from his brain. He looked weakly around, as if wondering what it was all about.

“You go home and sober up,” advised the sheriff.

“That’s good advice,” agreed Roche, examining his skinned knuckles. “And next time you start to draw on me—look out, Blackie.”

“Yeah?” Blackie spat painfully, turned on his heel and went out of the place.

“Whipped,” declared a cowboy.

“Not whipped,” said the sheriff. “Yuh can’t whip this kind.”

Roche went back, straightened the table and sat down again.

“He’s no milk-fed infant himself,” said Sleepy. “He sure cooled Mister Dahl with one punch.”

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted back through the gambling room. Cliff was still in the look-out chair, joking with the players.

“We might as well go home,” said Hashknife. Sleepy nodded and they went back to their horses.

“Cliff ain’t as big a fool as I thought he was,” observed Sleepy, as they rode back to the ranch.

“And the funny part of it is,” laughed Hashknife, “Jud Farley didn’t get any trade talk out of us. He told us all he knew, Sleepy. I was sure he had that hat, and I didn’t lie when I told him I would have stolen it.”

“Yeah, I suppose yuh would, Hashknife. Didn’t we agree to keep out of other people’s business?”

“Well, yeah, we did. I ain’t hornin’ into anything, Sleepy. We won’t get any deeper into this thing. Cliff is clear, as far as the law is concerned.”

“Yeah—as far as the law is concerned.”

“Well, that’s as far as we can go, Sleepy. I know how Dad and Milly must feel about it. It’s a —— of a jolt. But it kinda looks like folks were put on this earth to suffer. For every whisky glass full of joy there’s a five-gallon demijohn of bitter misery for a chaser.”

“That’s true, Hashknife. Still, me and you ain’t never been so danged unhappy.”

“Because we don’t mind our own business, I suppose. We’ve been so busy foolin’ with other people’s troubles that we ain’t never had time to have any for ourselves.”

They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. As they walked back toward the bunkhouse, Milly came to meet them.

“Where is Cliff?” she asked.

“He’s still in Oxbow,” said Hashknife.

“Drinking?”

“N-not an awful lot,” Hashknife hesitated.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” said Milly wearily. “Dorothy knows that something is wrong, but I can’t tell her the truth. She has been crying all the evening. She—she thinks that Cliff don’t love her any more. I’d rather have her think that than to know the real truth of the matter.”

“Prob’ly be better.”

“What about the sheriff?”

“Don’tcha worry about him, Milly. He had Cliff’s hat; found it out back of the jewelry store. But he ain’t got it now.”

“Oh, did you get it, Hashknife?”

“No-o-o, we didn’t, Milly. There was a trey of spades in its place.”

“Oh!”

“How’s Dad?” asked Sleepy.

“Dad?” Milly looked back at the yellow lights from a window. “Dad is reading.”

“Readin’?”

“Yes—the Bible.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Prob’ly do him good,” observed Hashknife softly.

“I don’t know how much it will do him,” Milly laughed wearily. “You see, he never read it before.”

“Well, he’s old enough to know what it’s about,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Is there anything we can do, Milly?”

“Not a thing. I wish Cliff would come home. If he don’t come pretty soon I’ll be tempted to tell Dorothy the whole thing and let her faint dead away. And she probably will, too.”

“Might be a good stunt,” said Sleepy. “She’ll be better off, if she knows the whole thing.”

“No, she won’t,” declared Hashknife. “She thinks Cliff is all right. There’s been many a brand snatched from the burnin’, as the preacher said. We’re takin’ a lot for granted.”

“What do you mean by that?” queried Milly anxiously. “You don’t mean that there’s a possible chance of Cliff not being guilty, do you?”

“He’s guilty of bein’ a fool. He’s guilty of drinkin’ too much hooch and all that, Milly.”

“And of falling in love with a honkatonk girl,” added Milly.

“Well,” Hashknife chuckled slightly, “there’s a few things yuh might excuse him for.”

“Hashknife met her,” laughed Sleepy. “But thank gosh she’s too fickle to rope him for long. She shifted from Cliff to Blackie Dahl, and now she’s got Vincent Roche roped and hog-tied.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Milly softly. “Vincent Roche.”

Sleepy knew that he had talked too much, but it was too late to retract it now. Milly turned away without another word and went back toward the house. Hashknife swore softly, as they went on into the bunkhouse and lighted the lamp.

“You sure talked too much,” said Hashknife sadly.

“I know it. I didn’t stop t’ think about Roche bein’ a regular visitor. I reckon I’ve just added to her misery, Hashknife.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigarette making.

“Yeah, I s’pose so. And old Dad up there readin’ the Bible; tryin’ to get some comfort for his soul: Oh, ——!” Hashknife got to his feet and paced the length of the bunkhouse. It was not often that he exhibited anger, and Sleepy squinted at him closely, wondering what was coming next. Hashknife stopped at the table and looked down at Sleepy.

“Cowboy, we’ve got to foller out our natural inclinations.”

“Meanin’ which?” Seriously.

“Up there in the house is an old man, tryin’ to find out in the Bible that his son still has a chance, Sleepy. There’s a girl up there cryin’ her heart out because she thinks that her feller don’t love her no more. And there’s a game little sister up there, tryin’ to keep a stiff upper-lip through it all.

“And down here in the bunkhouse are two —— fool cowpunchers who ain’t got no business of their own, and have sworn to mind it. Now, you can do as you —— please, Sleepy. Stick to yore pledge, cowboy, if yuh want to; but I hereby bust —— out of mine; sabe?”

“Well,” Sleepy grinned softly and stretched out his legs comfortably, “I been wonderin’ how long we could stand for our own affairs. Just which end of this affair do we start gnawin’ on, Hashknife?”

“The first end we run into. By golly, I feel like a feller who hears the dentist say, ‘Well, it’s out.’”

Sleepy yawned and began pulling off his boots.

“This is our land of milk and honey, Hashknife,” he bantered. “A land where the coyote files off his teeth and eats grass with the cows. We came huntin’ peace and it didn’t taste good.”

Hashknife merely grinned widely. He knew that Sleepy was anxious for action, and was only talking for effect. They went to bed, and in about an hour Cliff came in. He was half-drunk, but was careful to not disturb them.

Feigning sleep Hashknife watched him take a quantity of money out of his pocket and stuff it under his pillow. It was impossible to estimate the amount, but it looked sufficient to excite Hashknife’s curiosity. Cliff seemed to be in good spirits, whistling softly to himself as he undressed. He knocked the chimney off the lamp, trying to extinguish it, and mumbled an apology as he crawled into his bunk.

“I tell yuh I’m about through.” Harmony leaned against the kitchen doorway and delivered his ultimatum. “By ——, I don’t mind a little gloom, but I draws the line at too much of it. Won’t nobody eat. They set down at the table, look like they’re goin’ to bawl about somethin’, and then plumb ignore my cookin’. I tell yuh, it’s too —— solemn to suit me.”

Hashknife looked up from the washbasin, his face dripping, and reached for the towel.

“Is it as bad as that, Harmony?” he asked.

“As bad? ——, I ain’t got el-o-cution enough to express m’self. Cliff comes up here early and he runs into Dorothy. She’s cried until there ain’t no moisture left in her system. Yes, sir, she’s been cryin’ over that —— fool half-baked kid; weepin’ over the fact that he don’t love her no more. My, ——, if she had any sense she’d be wavin’ a flag and cheerin’.

“And does she fall into his arms? Does she? Like —— she does. She turns him down as cold as old man January. Whooee! I hears him say, ‘Dot, what is the matter?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Him down at Oxbow lappin’ up liquor, and her up here bawlin’ ’cause he don’t come home—and he wants to know what’s the matter.

“Well, she don’t tell him what’s the matter; so he follers her into the house, tryin’ to find out. Ain’t a man in love a awful —— fool. I’m just about makin’ up my mind to stay single, I’ll tell yuh that. Gloom? Whooee!”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed at Harmony’s disgusted expression. Cliff had awoke and left the bunkhouse ahead of them, and they were curious to know about his reception.

“How’s Dad Parker?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Him?” Harmony spat explosively and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his overalls. “Well, sir, I dunno. I like the old man. I’ve been with him quite a while, and I thought I knew him kinda well.” Harmony shook his head sadly, “I don’t know him a-tall.”

“Of course he feels bad about Cliff. It’s plumb natural for a pa to feel bad when his offspring de-parts from the strait and narrer and goes bumpety-bump toward ——; but if I ever git married and have a son that gits bogged down, I’ll spit on my hands, load up the old six-gun and find out who in —— threw the switch on him—and not read any Bible!

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ that the Bible ain’t good readin’, yuh understand. It’s jist like a cook-book or an almanac—all right for what it’s intended—but in a case like this, action speaks a —— sight stronger than printed words. Now, if you jaspers want to eat—say so. I’ll throw a flock of ham and aigs together for yuh in a minute, and I’m the best cook between here and there, but I ain’t cookin’ for somebody to sigh over.”

“About four eggs for me, Harmony,” said Hashknife, “and not more than that many for Sleepy. And if yuh cut that ham thin, I’ll measure yuh for a harp. Make the coffee for grown men; sabe?”

“My ——, there still is joy in the world!” Harmony fairly skidded into the kitchen and began rattling the pans.

They squatted on their heels against the house and waited for Harmony to call them. Cliff came around from the front of the house, walking with his head down, and almost ran into them.

His face was a trifle drawn and in the harsh light of day he looked much older than his years.

“Mornin’, Cliff,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “Yuh kinda beat us out of bed this mornin’.”

Cliff nodded, but did not speak. It was evident that he was not interested. Milly came out through the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. She looked tired, weary, and did not speak to Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few moments Dorothy came out behind her.

It was evident that Dorothy had spent a sleepless night and an unpleasant morning.

She seemed on the verge of crying, but at sight of Cliff she braced up and tried to appear indifferent.

“Yore breakfast is ready, you two punchers!” sang out Harmony. “Come and git it!”

They got to their feet and started past the two girls, when Milly said:

“I wonder who this is?”

They turned and looked down the road, where a lone horseman was coming. He swung in at the gate and rode straight up to them. It was Buck Hardy. He lifted his hat and eased himself in the saddle, as he spoke directly to Cliff.

“When did you see Vincent Roche last, Cliff?”

“Vincent Roche?” Cliff squinted at Buck. “Why, Buck?”

“Somebody shot him last night.”

“Shot him?” It was Milly’s voice, almost a croak.

“Yeah—shot him. He had a lot of money with him, so Slim Cole says. He didn’t have any when we found him.”

Hashknife put a hand on Milly’s shoulder to steady her. She was staring into space, her hands clenched tightly.

“Sid Franklin found him,” continued Buck. “He was at the forks of the road. And stickin’ in his bosom was a trey of spades.”

“Was he dead?” asked Hashknife.

“Danged near it. I dunno whether he’s got a chance or not. The doctor’s workin’ on him.”

Hashknife grasped Milly by both shoulders.

“Brace up,” he whispered. “He’s still alive.”

She nodded dumbly. Cliff was staring at the ground, trying to think.

“How much money did Roche have, Cliff?” asked Buck.

“I don’t know!” Cliff threw up his head defiantly. “I’m not his banker. Slim Cole ought to know how much Vint won yesterday.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s right,” said Buck slowly. “Somebody seems to have the idea that you and Roche rode away together last night.”

“Somebody, eh? Who said we did?”

“Just somebody, Cliff.”

“Yeah? Do you think you can fasten this onto me?”

“Not me,” Buck shook his head. “I ain’t tryin’ to fasten it onto anybody, Cliff. I just wanted to know, tha’sall.”

“Well, you’ve found out.”

Cliff swung away from the house and headed for the stable. Buck looked after him thoughtfully. Milly and Dorothy had gone into the house, and Harmony was standing in the doorway, holding a pan in his hand. Buck turned back to Hashknife and Sleepy, and a look of understanding passed between them.

“Well, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ back to Oxbow,” said Buck.

“Wait until we saddle up and we’ll ride with yuh,” offered Hashknife. “Come on, Sleepy.”

They saddled quickly and rode away with Buck. Cliff watched them ride away, a puzzled expression in his eyes, while in the kitchen door stood Harmony, his head bowed in thought. Suddenly he looked around, stepped to the stove and picked up a frying-pan. He strode to the door, and with a flip of his hand, sent eight fried eggs spinning out into the yard.

“I’m just about through,” he told them. “It’s gittin’ so that they don’t even set down at the table.”

Buck showed Hashknife and Sleepy where Roche had been found, lying beside the road, near where the Diamond V road intersected with the county highway.

“Jud told me about losin’ that hat,” said Buck meaningly, as they rode on toward town.

“I reckon he still blames us,” grinned Hashknife. “But he’s all wrong, Hardy. We would have swiped it if we had a chance.”

“That’s what Jud said. I dunno why somebody is always tryin’ to block the law. This is the first killin’ that the Trey of Spades has done, and yuh bet it’ll go hard with him when he’s caught. Thunder county is plumb tired of that whippoorwill.”

“Who do yuh think it is?” queried Hashknife.

“Who?” Buck grinned sourly. “Well, figure it out for yourself, Hartley.”

“Cliff and Roche were the best of friends.”

“Yeah—sure. And Cliff needed money. Roche had over two thousand dollars when he left the Cheyenne last night.”

“If Cliff is the Trey of Spades—did he need money?”

Buck frowned at this new angle. It had never occurred to him that the Trey of Spades must have accumulated considerable money in a few months.

“Somethin’ to that,” he admitted. “Still, a couple of thousand is quite a argument agin’ it, Hartley.”

Hashknife knew that Buck’s argument was logical, and he also knew that Cliff had money when he came home. It looked bad for Cliff. They rode into town and found Farley at his office.

“He’s still alive,” said Farley in answer to their questions. “He’s badly hurt and the doctor don’t hold out much hope for him. Shot twice.”

“From behind?” asked Hashknife.

“What made yuh think that?” asked Farley quickly.

“The reasonable thing to do. Roche is a gunman. The Trey of Spades would know that, Farley.”

Farley nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I s’pose that’s true. Anyway, Roche was shot from behind with a rifle.”

“Where did they find his horse?”

“It came to the ranch. That’s why Franklin went lookin’ for Roche early this mornin’. There was blood all over the saddle.”

“All over it, eh?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the saddle here in the back room.”

“I want to see it later,” said Hashknife. “Buck said there was a trey of spades.”

Farley took it from his pocket and handed it to him. It was not a new card and was of the brand known as “Steamboats.” Hashknife examined it closely and gave it back to Farley. They went to the rear room and looked at Roche’s saddle. It was an expensive thing, studded with silver; but just now it looked as if it had been dragged through a slaughter-house.

“Franklin brought the horse and saddle with him,” said Farley. “The horse is in the livery stable.”

“What’s your theory?” asked Hashknife.

Farley’s grunt was very expressive. They went back to the front office and out into the street.

“How about Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.

“Not enough brains,” Farley shook his head. “Blackie is just a cold-blooded snake, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades has got more sense than an ordinary outlaw.”

“Roche knocked him down last night,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s true. But yore pardner shot a gun out of his hand and made him look cheap; and yore pardner is still alive.”

“I reckon you’ve got the right hunch.”

As they stood together, thinking it over, the minister came from the livery stable where he had just stabled his horse. He came up to them, with a smile on his dusty face.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them pleasantly.

Farley shook hands with him.

“I reckon we’re goin’ to need yuh, Jones.”

“Need me?” The smile faded, as he studied the serious face of the sheriff. “What is the matter, Sheriff?”

“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche last night, and he prob’ly won’t get well.”

“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?” The minister was thoroughly shocked.

“Yeah. Shot him and stole somethin’ over two thousand.”

The Reverend Jones removed his hat and brushed back his hair nervously.

“Tell me more about this, Sheriff?”

In a few words Farley told him what they knew about the affair.

“Shot him in the back,” said the minister bitterly, “and left the Trey of Spades on his bosom. Has the doctor any hopes for him?”

“Just about one chance in a hundred.”

“Not very great. You say he is at the doctor’s home? I will go there at once and see what I can do to help.”

He nodded shortly and hurried on up the street.

“That’s my type of preacher,” said Farley. “He don’t try to act like he was so —— much better than everybody else.”

“Pleasant sort of a jigger,” admitted Hashknife. “What kind of a sermon does he preach?”

“Never heard him yet. He’s been here quite a while, but yuh see he ain’t had no place to preach. He rides from one place to another, kinda makin’ the rounds. I’ll betcha he’ll sure have a crowd when he does preach.”

“I’d like to hear him,” said Hashknife.

“Yuh might get the chance. They’re fixin’ over that old saloon for him to use as a church, and it ought to be ready in a week or so.”

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over to the Cheyenne. The shooting of Vincent Roche was the main topic of conversation and there was none of the usual hilarity. Slim Cole met them with a grave smile, and with his usual invitation to have a drink; but they declined.

Blackie Dahl was there, sitting alone at a card-table. He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, a bit of a sarcastic smile on his thin lips. He seemed entirely sober, watchful; more dangerous sober than drunk. He must have known that men were hinting that he might have shot Vincent Roche to revenge the blow, but he did not seem afraid.

Buck Hardy came in and joined them near the bar.

“Just been down to the doctor’s place,” he said. “Roche has a fightin’ chance. The minister is down there with him now.”

“It’s too bad we don’t know who shot him,” said Slim. “This shootin’ was too mean to be left to the law.”

That seemed to be the general opinion of the cattlemen, as they rode into town and talked about the shooting. It was Saturday, and by the middle of the afternoon the hitch-racks were well filled with saddle-horses and vehicles of every description.

Hashknife and Sleepy sat around, listening to the talk. It was entertaining to listen to the different theories regarding the Trey of Spades. Buck Hardy was drinking heavily. It was not often that Buck looked upon the wine when it was red, but just now he had declared a holiday and was imbibing more than was good for him.

It was almost dinner time when Cliff Parker rode into town and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. There was nothing jovial about him as he strode into the Cheyenne and encountered Buck Hardy.

“C’mon and have a drink,” said Buck thickly, indicating the bar with a sweep of his arm, which almost overbalanced him.

Cliff squinted at Buck and shook his head slowly.

“I don’t want any drink,” he said gruffly.

“Is zasso? Don’t want no drink, eh? Zasso? My, my!”

There was quite a crowd at the bar and they were in the right mood to enjoy trouble. Cliff started on, but Buck grasped him by the arm. For a moment it appeared that Cliff was about to strike Buck, but he merely jerked his arm away. The sheriff elbowed his way in, but did not interfere in any way. Hashknife and Sleepy were near Cliff, as he almost jerked Buck off his feet.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” queried Buck angrily. “Think yo’re too good to drink with me? By ——, you ain’t too good. If somebody hadn’t stole that hat, you’d be in jail right now.”

Cliff did not move a muscle, but his eyes narrowed. Buck laughed shortly and turned to the crowd.

“He lost his hat the night he robbed the jewelry store, but somebody stole that hat from the sheriff. Gen’lemen, I introduce to you—the Trey of Spades.”

Buck tried to bow and almost lost his balance. Cliff swayed forward, his right hand sweeping downward to his gun. Came the soft slap, as hand met pistol-butt; but before he could draw Hashknife was into him, fairly picking him off the floor and going toward the door with a headlong rush.

So unexpected was the move that men stepped back to give him room. But Jud Farley, the sheriff, knew. Swiftly he went out behind Hashknife and Cliff, while behind him came Sleepy, blocking the crowd long enough to give Hashknife and the sheriff time to rush Cliff across the street.

Men’s voices broke into excited argument, as they realized Buck’s accusation. It meant that Cliff Parker was the man who had shot Vincent Roche.

“Jud Farley knew!” cried a cowboy, back in the crowd. “We’re wastin’ time here.”

“Aw, ——! He’s got him in jail by now!” snorted another.

“Don’t be a lot of —— fools!” roared Slim Cole, trying to make himself heard. “If Cliff is guilty, the law will take care of him.”

Some one had procured a lariat, which they tossed toward the ceiling, and the half-drunk, reckless gang fell onto it like a pack of wolves and surged out through the door. Sleepy ran across the street, where Hashknife was standing in the doorway waiting for him. They went inside and barred the door. The jail cells were built into the rear half of the building, but had not been constructed to withstand any great assault. Jud Farley lifted a Winchester rifle and a sawed-off shotgun from pegs in the wall and laid them on his desk, while he took a supply of cartridges from his desk and spilled them into a pile.

“—— Buck!” he grumbled. “That’s what whisky does to yuh. Buck will be ready to cut out his tongue when he sobers up. That crowd is half-drunk and they’re willin’ to take Buck’s drunken talk for Gospel truth.”

“What’ll this place stand?” asked Hashknife, looking it over.

“A hard wind.”

The sheriff stuffed the Winchester full of cartridges, while Sleepy examined the double-barrel shotgun.

“You got Cliff in a cell?” queried Sleepy. But before he got a reply, some one hammered sharply on the door.

“Go ahead and talk,” said the sheriff.

“This is Franklin,” said the man outside.

“All right, Franklin.”

“We want Cliff Parker, Jud.”

“Thasso? And then what?”

Several voices mumbled softly, as if they were conferring on their next reply.

“We’ve got enough men to take this building apart,” said Franklin. “You haven’t shot square with us, Jud. You knew that Cliff Parker was the guilty man, but you let him keep on goin’. Now—we want him; sabe?”

“Folks don’t always get what they want,” replied the sheriff. “And I wouldn’t advise yuh to try takin’ this shack apart. I’ve got two good men in here with me, and we’re well heeled. If it comes to a showdown I’ll hand Cliff a gun and let him defend his own life.”

“You know your own business, Jud. And you know us, too. We’ll give you one minute to open that door.”

“All right!” The sheriff’s voice rang coldly, as he moved closer to the door. “Let me tell you somethin’. That door is thin. I don’t reckon it’s a inch thick in any place, and it ain’t hardwood. Right now there’s sixteen buckshot squintin’ at that door, and if you snake-hunters don’t break ranks right now——”

Came the sudden scrape of boot soles, as the crowd faded away from in front of the door. They knew the evil effects of buckshot, backed by three and one-half drams of powder, and they were not taking chances.

The sheriff laughed gleefully. It was getting dark in the room, but he did not want to light a lamp. There was a hum of voices outside, as the crowd debated.

“Prob’ly havin’ another drink,” grinned Farley.

A moment later a rock smashed through one of the front windows, half tearing away the heavy curtain. Sleepy did not stand on ceremony. The rock had barely crashed to the floor, when Sleepy sent a charge of buckshot screaming out through the curtain.

The concussion shook the house and the shot ripped the curtain into shreds, but the crowd had anticipated just such a move and had acted accordingly. The sheriff grabbed a blanket off a cot and ran to the window, quickly fastening it over the ruined one.

“Yuh can see we mean business, can’tcha?” yelled a voice.

“That sounds like Blackie Dahl,” said Farley. “Don’t pay no attention to ’em. That back door is solid oak and has a bar across it. They can’t hurt us from that direction.”

Some one outside fired a shot and the bullet splintered through the upper part of the front door.

“Bluffin’,” declared Farley. “They know —— well we ain’t up that high.”

They sat down to wait for the next move. There was no more conversation. They knew that the crowd would not quit that easy. Suddenly a heavy weight crashed against the door lock, splintering the panel of the door.

“Look out!” snorted Farley. “Another like that and the door is open.”

He threw up his rifle and sent three bullets through the wall to the right of the door, trying to drive the assault away from that quarter. His answer came in the shape of two bullets, which hummed through the door and splatted over their heads against the wall.

“Gittin’ serious,” said Farley thoughtfully, as they moved farther out of line with the door. The room was filled with powder smoke, which tickled their throats.

“Tough travelin’,” said Sleepy, trying to suppress a sneeze. “I’ve seen places where I’d rather be than this. Let’s kick the door open and give ’em ——. This —— idea of shootin’ from a fort don’t appeal to me. Dang it, yuh ain’t even got their address.”

Just then another blow crashed against the lock and the door creaked open, pieces of the lock spinning across the room.

“Flat down!” exclaimed the sheriff. “They’ve got us cold!”

Several voices yelped with triumph, while others warned against being too quick to assault.

“Bring him out, Jud!” yelled a voice. “We’ve got yuh now! Don’t be a —— fool. Your life is worth more than the life of a dirty murderer, ain’t it? We’ll give yuh ten seconds to come out and hand over your guns.”

“What’ll we do?” queried the sheriff softly.

“Nobody ever counted me out yet,” said Hashknife.

The man outside was counting slowly, drawling the numerals—

“Wun-n-n-n—two-o-o-o-o-o—three-e-e-e—”

Came the clatter of footsteps, a muttered exclamation from the crowd outside, and a man stepped to the doorway of the office, silhouetted against the lights across the street. Three guns were trained on him from inside the building; some one outside swore viciously.

“This is a fine thing for a civilized community to do,” said the man in the doorway. It was the Reverend Mr. Jones, hatless and coatless.

“Git to —— out of the door!” yelled a voice.

“It’s the preacher,” called one of them. “What does he want here?”

“A square deal,” said the minister. “If you would stop to think this over, I would not have to ask for a square deal, friends.”

“You better git out of the doorway,” cautioned a voice.

The minister laughed.

“No, I do not think so. If I stand here long enough, perhaps you savages will realize that you are all wrong. You want to hang Cliff Parker—or think you do. My advice to you is: go back where you came from and let the law handle it. What right have you to hang a man?”

“The —— law won’t do it!” yelled some one.

“How do you know it won’t? Give it a chance. The sheriff doesn’t serve hangman’s knots with his warrants. And what right have you to judge Cliff Parker? The careless remark of a drunken man isn’t sufficient evidence. Go home before the sheriff has cause to arrest all of you for assault with deadly weapons.”

“He’d have a —— of a time gittin’ a jury to convict us.” Thus some wit, who knew that such a thing would be impossible.

“Are we goin’ to argue or do what we came here to do?” demanded one of them. “We’ve got the door open.”

“He deserves hangin’,” said another.

“Who—the preacher?” The wit again. Several men laughed.

“I am glad to hear that laugh,” said the minister. “It proves that some of you are human enough to see the humor of hanging a minister. Now let’s all go home, or back to the Cheyenne, and let the sheriff handle this. Anyway, it is not a hanging matter. Vincent Roche is still alive.”

The crowd mumbled and argued, but their ardor was dampened, and they followed the minister’s advice.

“——!” snorted a disgusted voice. “I got the top-half of my ear shot off with a buckshot, and now I ain’t goin’ to git even with nobody. Preachers and civilization sure do rise —— with the country.”

“And thus endeth that chapter,” said Hashknife wearily, and they moved over to the door. “I thought it was goin’ to be a reg’lar fight and it wasn’t nothin’ but a speech.”

The minister had followed the crowd, without waiting for the sheriff to thank him.

“They won’t come back again tonight,” said the sheriff. “It was kind of a half-cocked proposition, anyway; but it might ’a’ been bad pickin’ if the preacher hadn’t showed up. I’ll have to build me a new door, I reckon.”

“I’m goin’ to have a talk with Cliff,” said Hashknife. “You two stay here, in case they decide to come back.”

He went through the connecting door and down to the cell, where Cliff stood behind the bars trying to find out what was going on.

“It’s all over,” said Hashknife. “The minister stopped ’em.”

Cliff swore softly.

“The minister, eh? It’s a —— of a wonder he didn’t head the mob.”

“Well, he sure done you a good turn. We couldn’t ’a’ stopped all of ’em. Now, I want to ask you a few questions, Cliff. You can lie, if yuh want to—but I hope yuh won’t. What do you know about that jewelry store robbery?”

“Not a —— thing.”

“Wrong answer. Remember, I carried yuh away from behind that store.”

“All right.”

“What was you doin’ there?”

“I dunno.”

“You ain’t goin’ to pass in yore studies, young feller.”

“Oh, ——! What’s all this about, anyway, Hartley? Who are you?”

“One of yore pa’s hired men.”

“You better stick with your job and let me alone.”

“Thasso? You’ll have to tell it to a judge. If yuh tell it to me first, I’ll kinda figure it out, and between us we might be able to fool a jury.”

“Figurin’ that I’m guilty, eh?”

“Of bein’ a hard-headed —— fool—yes.”

Cliff was silent for several moments. Then:

“Vincent Roche was a friend of mine, Hartley. I never shot him.”

“We was speakin’ about that jewelry store holdup.”

“All right. I told you I didn’t know anythin’ about it, and I don’t lie. I guess I was pretty drunk that night. I remember that the bartender at the Cheyenne told me I’d have delirium tremens, if I wasn’t careful.

“I went to the Rodeo restaurant to eat. I can remember it a little. The food made me sick, and I went out the rear door. I remember that I sat down out there. There was a cool wind blowing and it made me feel good. I was kinda trembly all over and I wanted to lie down, but was afraid.

“I think I got up and tried to find my way back to the street, but I bumped into things. I was wandering around like a lost pup, when all to once I got a flash of light in my eyes, and something stung my face. I can kinda remember hearin’ a gun go off, but I won’t swear to that.

“Anyway, something or somebody bumped into me, almost knocking me down, and a moment later somethin’ landed on my head. The next thing I remember was wakin’ up in the bunkhouse at the ranch. It was like a fool dream—even the next mornin’, when you made me ride into the part of a queer dream—somethin’ I had to do.”

“Yo’re liable to git a di-plomay,” said Hashknife softly. “Now, tell me about last night, Cliff. Did yuh leave there with Roche?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t very drunk last night. Roche won a pile of money, but I didn’t play, ’cause I was broke. We rode away together, late last night. We talked things over and he gave me a wad of money. He kinda blamed himself for me bein’ broke; so he gave me a poker stake.”

“That was it, eh?” Hashknife nodded slowly. It was dark in there, but Hashknife did not need to see Cliff’s face to know he was telling the truth.

“Where did you leave Roche?”

“Where the road forks. We talked a few minutes. He asked me to sober up and behave myself. I—I told him I would.”

“Will yuh, Cliff?”

“I was goin’ to. Now, I dunno what’ll happen.”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen. Your story might not be much good in court, but it’s good with me.”

“Dad thinks I’m guilty.”

“What about Milly?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Does Miss Clement know?”

“Part of it. She thinks that I turned her down for another girl.”

“Didn’t yuh, Cliff?”

“By ——, I reckon I tried to, Hartley. Oh, I’m no good. I’ve rode ’em wild for the last few months, and I’m right where a lot of folks said I’d be. I had a start—once. Dad helped me out. He’s a good old dad. Milly’s a peach. But I don’t know why I act like I have. Mebbe I’m a throw-back.”

“Are yuh still engaged to Miss Clement?”

“I—I don’t know. Not if she’s got good sense.”

“She prob’ly hasn’t. Girls are kinda funny thataway—about fellers they like a lot.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I want to thank yuh for blockin’ my draw tonight. I suppose I might have killed Buck. And they’d ’a’ hung me, if you hadn’t rushed me out. Oh, I was sore at yuh, Hartley. But bein’ here behind these bars, with a drunken mob wantin’ to hang me—well, I kinda seen things different.”

“If yuh get out of this mess—will yuh be good?”

“Well,” Cliff hesitated for a moment, “I dunno. Human nature is a queer thing, Hartley. I don’t want to lie to you; so I’ll just say that, lookin’ at it now, I sure as —— will. Once I get outside—I dunno.”

“I’m glad you’re a human bein’,” said Hashknife slowly. “I like folks that know somethin’ about themselves. So many men only know what they can see of themselves in a mirror. They never get deeper into their own mind than the root of their hair. You set down and enjoy yore surroundin’s, while I try to find out a few things.”

“You’ll tell ’em—at the ranch, won’t yuh?”

“They’ll have to know, Cliff.”

“Well, you tell ’em, Hartley. They’ll believe you.”

Hashknife went back to the front office, where Sleepy and the sheriff were repairing the front door.

“What did yuh find out?” asked the sheriff.

“Quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “Let me take that card yuh found on Roche, will yuh?”

“Y’betcha.” The sheriff gave him the card. “What good will the card do yuh, Hartley?”

“I dunno. C’mon, Sleepy. We’ll see yuh later, Farley.”

They crossed the street to the Cheyenne and went inside. The place was thronged with cattlemen. Many of them knew that Hashknife and Sleepy had been with the sheriff, but bore them no ill-will. In the gambling room they found Slim Cole, who greeted them with an expansive grin.

“The preacher sure saved you jiggers,” he declared.

“We appreciate that part of it,” replied Hashknife. “It was a fool idea, Slim. Whisky makes a mob forget that they’re human. But even if the preacher hadn’t showed up, there would have been plenty of crape hangin’ to Thunder County doorknobs tomorrow.”

“And that’s no dream,” agreed Slim slowly. “Well, I suppose they’ll let the law make the rest of the mistakes.”

“You don’t think that Cliff is guilty?”

“Do you?”

Hashknife grinned and took a playing card from his vest-pocket.

“Do you use this brand in here, Slim?”

Slim squinted at the card, examined it closely and shook his head.

“Nope, we don’t use ’em. That’s a high-grade card, Hartley. No gamblin’ house ever furnishes them kind.”

“How about this one?” Hashknife handed him the card which had been found on Vincent Roche.

“That’s the kind we use,” nodded Slim.

Hashknife pocketed the cards and looked around the room. In the dance-hall the orchestra was playing furiously, while half-drunk cowpunchers swung dizzily through the rapid-fire two-step.

“Is the Countess in there?” asked Hashknife.

Slim grinned widely, as he shook his head.

“She ain’t, Hartley. But if yuh really want to know where she is, I’ll impart the information that she’s down at the doctor’s place.”

“Interested in Roche, eh?”

“Well,” grinned Slim, “it might be the old doctor. He’s past sixty and homely as ——; but yuh can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the Countess. She sure does switch brands often.”

“How’s our friend Blackie Dahl?”

“That reptile!” Slim looked around. “He was here about the time the mob decided to rub yuh out, but he ain’t been in since.”

Slim moved away to a group around a faro game.

“You stick around here, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “I’m goin’ down to see how Roche is comin’ along.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sleepy was a trifle sarcastic. “Well, just remember the little birdies, Hashknife.”

Hashknife grinned and elbowed his way through the mob. The doctor’s house was on the outskirts of the town, tucked away in a clump of stunted cottonwoods. As he went through the gate and started up the narrow walk, the door opened and the Countess came out. She was dressed in black, with the exception of a filmy white scarf.

She recognized Hashknife in the light from a window.

“Good evening, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“You were going to see the doctor?”

“No-o-o, I reckon I was comin’ to see you.”

“To see me? How flattering! Really, I never expected to have you coming to see me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you seem too sensible.”

“I’m much obliged,” laughed Hashknife. “I wish Sleepy could hear yuh say that. Sleepy thinks I’m the big he-fool of ’em all.”

“No,” she said slowly, “you are not a fool, Mr. Man.”

“But I’m liable to be—most any time, ma’am.”

They moved down closer to the gate in the heavy shadows of the cottonwoods, where they leaned against the fence. From there they could hear the Cheyenne orchestra, the music softened by distance. Somewhere a half-drunk cowboy was trying to sing.

“Why did you wish to see me?” asked the Countess.

“To tell yuh a few things, ma’am. You’ll prob’ly tell me that it ain’t none of my business. Mebbe it ain’t. The fact is, I can’t mind my own business. You know what happened tonight, don’tcha?”

“The arrest of Cliff Parker—yes.”

“I work for his dad. He’s a fine old man. Cliff’s got a sister that’s awful nice and sweet, ma’am. She’s as game as they make ’em. And then there’s a little lady who came here to marry Cliff. She’s out there at the Maverick ranch, cryin’ her eyes out.

“She don’t know that Cliff is suspected of being a criminal, but she does know that Cliff got stuck on a girl here in town, and she thinks he don’t care for her no more.”

The Countess was silent for a while. Then she put her hand on Hashknife’s arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” she said softly. “Awful sorry.”

“And there’s Milly—the sister. Yuh see, her and Vincent Roche was kinda engaged, I reckon. She found out that Vincent Roche was kinda takin’ a lot of interest in some girl in town, too.”

“Vincent Roche.” The Countess spoke softly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Man. I didn’t know, don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see. But bein’ sorry don’t help ’em out. I’m not blamin’ you. Good gosh, it’s all in yore business. But I thought I’d kinda let yuh know about it, ma’am.”

“Do you blame them—Cliff Parker and Vincent Roche?” There was a hint of laughter in her voice. Hashknife shifted uneasily.

“Well, I s’pose not,” he faltered. “I dunno just what to say, in a case like this. They’re human, ma’am.”

“And being human, they fall from grace and into love with a dance-hall jade.”

“Somethin’ like that, I s’pose. Still, you didn’t keep ’em trailin’ yuh forever.” Hashknife laughed softly. “You kinda look ’em over, don’tcha? I was just wonderin’ if yo’re lookin’ for a certain kind of a person, and discardin’ them that don’t measure up to what yuh want.”

“Perhaps.” She laughed softly. “Who knows? I may have designs on you.”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon yuh have, ma’am. I ain’t worth investigatin’. The fact of the matter is, yuh can look right at me and tell what I am.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Well, that’s good. Yuh saw a homely, long-legged puncher, who don’t amount to anythin’, and decided to let him alone. I looked at you and seen a new type of dance-hall girl. But honest Injun, ma’am, yuh hadn’t ought to waste yore voice in a place like the Cheyenne. Yo’re young, pretty, and you’ve sure got one dinger of a voice.”

“Do you like to hear me sing, Mr. Man?”

“Somethin’ like that song yuh sung the first day I seen yuh.”

“‘The Sweetest Story Ever Told’?”

“I dunno the name—but it sure was sweet. Well, I reckon I’ve taken up enough of yore time. If yuh don’t get back to the Cheyenne you’ll be losin’ yore job.”

“I suppose so.” Her voice was a trifle weary. “Was this all you wanted to tell me? Just warn me to keep away from Cliff and Vincent?”

“Not warn yuh, ma’am. Lord love yuh, that’s yore business. I just wanted to tell yuh what it means to others. If you don’t want ’em—I know who does.”

The Countess laughed and moved through the gate.

“Then you have no interest beyond trying to help your friends?”

“Ain’t that enough interest, ma’am?”

“Yes, I think that is enough. Do you believe that Cliff shot Vincent?”

“I know danged well he didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“Remains to be seen, as the undertaker said.”

A rider was coming toward them from the rear of the south side of town, a shapeless blot in the dark, traveling slowly. It appeared that he was coming to the doctor’s home, but swung north and passed them. It was impossible to distinguish the color of the horse. The blot faded into the night, with only the soft thud of slow moving hoofs and the creak of saddle-leather to tell of its passing.

“Some cowpuncher goin’ home,” said Hashknife softly.

“It is wonderful here at night,” said the Countess. “The day brings out nature at her worst. It is like turning a spotlight onto the face of a miser. But at night, under the blue of the moonlight, or under the yellow lamp-light, the roughness is all gone, like an out-of-focus picture. I hate reality, but love mystery, the moonlight, blurred figures.

“I have watched them ride into town, a blotch of ink-like, shapeless things, which blends with more blots at the hitch-racks. Then they come clumping along on foot toward the lighted windows, which throw long, grotesque shadows behind them, until they suddenly take the shape of men under the lights. Then the mystery is gone. They are only human beings, laughing, talking, swearing in their friendly way. But I would rather see them in the night, goblin-like hulks, with their spur-chains rattling, saddles creaking.”

“I like it thataway,” said Hashknife softly. “I like the camp-fire in the hills, cattle trailin’ along in the moonlight, when the world is all silver and blue. Why, ma’am, even the bark of a coyote sounds like a welcome to me.”

“I love it, too, Mr. Man. It seems that we love the same things, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “I wouldn’t go quite that far, ma’am. Yuh see, I ain’t got much use for Blackie Dahl.”

For a moment the Countess was silent, and then she laughed chokingly, almost hysterically. It was quite a while before she recovered her composure.

“I think I will go now,” she said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “I don’t know whether you meant that or not—but it sounded like it. Good-by, Mr. Man.”

She went swiftly back toward the street, while Hashknife leaned on the gate and watched her disappear. He grinned to himself, as he rolled a cigarette.

“Birdies singin’?” he muttered to himself. “No-o-o, I don’t think so. But she’s danged nice—too nice to be singin’ songs in a honkatonk and mixin’ with folks like Blackie Dahl.”