Front matter

Author of “The Dead-Line,” “Just for a Laugh,” etc.

“This looks like the place, ‘Sleepy.’ In all my years, this is the first time I ever seen just the place to settle down. Look at the wide places, cowboy. Away over there is the river, cuttin’ almost down the center of it. Them green cañons are showing plenty of water, and look at the feed.”

“Hashknife” Hartley lifted his lean head, as he swung one long arm in an arc, encompassing the length and breadth of the Thunder rangeland. Sleepy Stevens, his companion, humped in his saddle, rolling a cigarette.

“Feast yore eyes upon her, cowboy,” urged Hashknife seriously. “She’s the range of our dreams. No fences and danged few ranches. If it was made to order it couldn’t hit closer to what we’ve wanted.”

“Gimme a match,” said Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife fumbled for a match, but did not take his eyes off the panorama before him. Behind them and on both sides stretched the Thunder Mountains, half-encompassing a rolling range that only ended in a hazy distance—hundreds of square miles of rolling hills, small valleys, dotted with cottonwoods and live-oaks; an ideal cattle range. Far away, in the middle distance, the Bitter River pursued its irregular course; a green thread that split the land in twain.

“Yuh ought to give me a match with a head on it,” complained Sleepy. Hashknife turned in his saddle and squinted at him. There was a hint of reproach in Hashknife’s thin face, as he produced another match and handed it to Sleepy.

They were unlike, these two. Hashknife was well over six feet in height, bony, angular, with long arms and generous-sized feet. His face was bony, nose long, mouth large. The hair that showed from under his back-tilted sombrero was of the neutral shade. His eyes were gray-blue and set in a network of wrinkles.

Sleepy was of medium height, rather heavy of build. His face was blocky, and wrinkled from the weather and an over-developed sense of humor. Both men were dressed in well-worn cowboy clothes. Their horses looked weary, thankful for the siesta in the shade of the cliffs behind them.

“They don’t put enough —— on their matches these days,” complained Sleepy as he barely managed to ignite his cigarette and puffed contentedly.

“Yuh ought to be glad we can find somethin’ without too much —— on it,” grinned Hashknife, turning back to his survey of the landscape.

“I reckon that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Kinda pretty view from here, ain’t it?”

“Kinda!” Hashknife snorted aloud and turned his head. “My gosh, that’s the place we’ve been dreamin’ about——”

“Who’s been dreamin’ about?” demanded Sleepy indignantly. “Don’tcha mix me up in that dream, Hashknife. The only ones I ever have are a dream about me bein’ at a dance without nothin’ on but a pair of socks. Huh! By golly, I’m the only danged view that ever shows up in my dreams.”

“You ain’t got no imagination, Sleepy.”

“The —— I ain’t! Don’t it take imagination to think yo’re at a dance without nothin’ on but——”

“I don’t mean that kind of imagination, Sleepy.”

“Oh, you mean the mild kind, eh? Well, I dunno about me. Prob’ly I do go a little too strong. The last dream I had——”

“Sleepy, I feel that this is the place we’ve hankered for. Right here is the place where we can speak about, when folks asks us where our home is. There’s peace down there, cowboy.”

Hashknife’s eyes were soft and speculative as he turned to Sleepy and motioned toward the country below them.

“God A’mighty made that country for cowpunchers, Sleepy. He sure knowed what they needed. And if they ever bring barb-wire into that paradise it’ll make the angels weep. Me and you will go down into her and we’ll find a little spot for ourselves.

“Mebbe we can buy out a small brand down there. We don’t need much, do we? We’ll start small, cowboy—and we’ll never get so big that we’ll forget that we stopped here to live peaceful. We’ve got enough money to give us a start.”

Sleepy squinted at Hashknife and turned away to look out over the sun-swept hills. He slowly cleared his throat, shifted in his saddle and looked at Hashknife.

“Me and you never had a home, Hashknife,” Sleepy’s voice was wistful. “We never had a place to speak about when folks asked us where we was from. All our lives we’ve just been driftin’ along, singin’ our song. And it ain’t always been easy travelin’, cowboy. The old boy with the scythe has just barely missed us on several occasions, and it sure seems like he’s swingin’ closer every time.

“Down there it looks good, Hashknife. It sure looks like a land of milk and honey; a land that’s so filled with peace that the coyotes have filed off their teeth and learned to eat grass. It looks like all of that, and more—but any old time yuh think it’s like it looks—yo’re cockeyed and crazy.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled softly.

“Thasso?” mimicked Sleepy. “Yo’re danged right it’s so. Me and you have always looked for a peaceful range. Hashknife, it’s like lookin’ for the end of the rainbow. There ain’t no such animile. No range is peaceful.”

“I dunno about that,” Hashknife shifted in his saddle and picked up his reins. “Anyway, a man can make his own peace.”

“Even if he has to make it with a six-gun, eh?”

“All peace is brought about through battle, Sleepy.”

“Sounds fine,” Sleepy gathered up his reins and settled in his saddle. “I’ll make yuh a proposition, Hashknife. We’ll go down into this country, find us the right kind of a place, if we can, and settle down.

“If there ain’t no ready-made peace, we’ll make some for ourselves. But right here and now, we’ll both agree to let other people’s troubles alone. To —— with the whole gang, eh? We’ll fight for our own from now on. Is that a go?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “that’s a good idea. It won’t hurt us none to agree to mind our own business. I’m in favor of it. All my life I’ve been hornin’ into other people’s business, and it’ll be kind of a relief to know that I’m handlin’ my own troubles.”

Sleepy grinned softly, as they rode off down the ridge, heading for the lower ranges, going into an unknown land. Far beyond the green ribbon of the Bitter River a tiny thread of smoke showed the passing of a railroad train, heading toward Oxbow, the county seat.

Lower and lower they went down across the rolling hills. Range cattle stared wide-eyed at them, or raced away through the brushy coulées, wild as deer.

“Fat as butter,” observed Hashknife. “Box M brand, mostly.”

“Betcha it gets colder’n —— in the winter,” said the pessimistic Sleepy.

“Mebbe we can buy us some skates,” suggested Hashknife.

They both laughed as they swung around the head of a brushy coulée and angled down through a thicket of greasewood. Hashknife, who was in the lead, suddenly drew rein. A horseman had ridden across the coulée below them, riding low in his saddle and flogging his horse at a stiff gallop.

It was only a glimpse and the rider was gone.

“What do yuh make of that?” wondered Hashknife. “I’ll say that he was hurryin’.”

“Kinda racin’ for a train or trainin’ for a race,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe he was cuttin’ around some stock. That brush is so tall that yuh couldn’t see his horse.”

“Couldn’t even see much of the man,” smiled Hashknife, as he urged his horse ahead.

The heavier growth of greasewood forced them to swing lower into the coulée, and they managed to angle their way to the left at a point approximately where the rider had entered the coulée. An overhanging branch swept Sleepy’s hat off his head and he swore softly as he dismounted to recover it.

Hashknife rode on slowly to the edge of the thicket, where he drew rein and turned to look back at Sleepy. A moment later something struck the fork of his saddle a terrific blow. The horse swung sidewise and from beyond them came the spang of a high-powered rifle.

Hashknife flung himself sidewise out of the saddle and crashed down into the greasewood.

Sleepy had not mounted, and now he came running low in the cover, six-shooter in his hand.

“Hashknife!” he called softly. “Hashknife, you —— fool, why don’tcha answer me?”

“Gimme a chance,” grunted Hashknife. “I’m all tangled up in this darned brush.”

“What did it hit?” asked Sleepy, his voice showing relief. “I heard the bullet hit somethin’, Hashknife.”

“Hit my saddle, I reckon. Can yuh see anybody?”

“Yuh don’t hear me shootin’, do yuh? Which way did it come from?”

“The way we was pointin’. Keep yore danged head down, can’tcha? I’ve got seven feet of greasewood up one leg of my pants, dang the luck. How in —— am I goin’ to get loose, Sleepy? I can’t bend her over so I can slide loose from it.”

“Jump seven feet in the air,” chuckled Sleepy.

“I’ll prob’ly do that, if the bushwhacker discovers me in this condition.”

“Take yore knife and slit the leg of yore pants, Hashknife.”

“Yeah—and I ain’t got no other pants.”

Came a burst of soft profanity and a sigh of relief. After several moments:

“Cut it off with my knife.”

“Yore leg?”

“Naw—the greasewood. Seen anybody yet?”

“No such luck. My trigger-finger has gone to sleep. C’mon and help me look for ’em. This is yore peaceful land, Hashknife. Milk and honey!”

Hashknife came crawling out of the brush. His face was badly scratched in several places and one sleeve of his shirt was ripped from cuff to shoulder, but otherwise he was all right. His horse had swung around and moved to lower ground, where it managed to tangle the reins in a bush.

Hashknife examined his six-shooter carefully and squinted speculatively at the brush around them.

“Goin’ to set here and wait for ’em?” queried Sleepy, who wanted action.

“Debatable question, Sleepy. I figure that they thought they were shootin’ at the gent we seen foggin’ across the coulée. If we had showed any sense a-tall we wouldn’t ’a’ crossed his trail. The question is this: Was he right or wrong?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Just wonderin’ whether we ought to help him or not. Question of persecution or prosecution.”

Sleepy wrinkled his nose disgustedly.

“There yuh go,” he declared. “A while ago we agreed to let the troubles of others alone.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “I suppose we ought to sneak out and get away the best we can regardless.”

“They dang near killed yuh,” reminded Sleepy, who did not like the idea of sneaking away from trouble.

They had been talking softly, but their ears had been alert for the least noise. There was nothing foolhardy about either of them, neither were they the least excited over the fact that a bullet had narrowly missed killing one of them.

The fact that it had missed was sufficient for them. Several years in the worst ranges of the west and southwest had made them confirmed fatalists; caused them to look upon death as something that would not come to them until their “time” had arrived, and resolved to meet it with a grin.

Just beyond them and to the left the hill was covered with a growth of greasewood, showing here and there a cropping of granite. A loose rock bumped down through the brush, dislodged by some one or something. They looked quickly at each other and Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Too careless,” he whispered. “Watch the other side.”

They snuggled lower, paying little attention to the side of the hill, and were rewarded by seeing the stealthy approach of a man, who was worming his way through the greasewood with the skill of a savage.

He was going slowly, weaving his way along. The heavy thicket behind which they crouched prevented him from seeing them. Now another rock came rolling down the side of the hill, but this time they heard the unmistakable sound of the rock being thrown onto the hillside from a distance.

Hashknife grinned and held his gun in a position to cover the approach of the man, who was almost into them now, while Sleepy kept an eye on a possible approach from the hillside. Then the man crawled into the opening, about ten feet from them, and turned his head to look into the muzzle of Hashknife’s gun.

The man was of medium height and weight, grizzled, with a heavily lined, bronzed face and a pair of steady gray eyes. In his right hand he held a heavy Colt revolver. For a moment his eyes held a startled expression, which quickly changed to one of evident relief. His hand relaxed from around his gun and he lifted himself to a sitting position.

“Kinda nice weather for this time of year,” said Hashknife pleasantly.

The man nodded and glanced back on his trail.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He lifted his left hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There seems to have been a mistake made.”

“Does kinda seem thataway,” agreed Hashknife. “At least it had us wonderin’ what it was all about.”

“Um-m-m.” The man’s face widened into a grin.

“Yuh might as well call the rest of ’em in,” said Hashknife. “They’ll get sore arms from throwin’ rocks onto that side hill.”

The man turned, disclosing a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his vest, and called loudly:

“Hey! Buck! Come on in!”

“Aw-w right,” called a voice. “Comin’ right along, Jud.”

“Yo’re the sheriff, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. My name’s Farley—Jud Farley.”

“Mine’s Hartley,” grinned Hashknife. “This here curio with me is Sleepy Stevens. My friends call me Hashknife.”

“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Farley, as a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired man came clawing his way through to them. He looked at Farley and glanced quickly at Hashknife, who still held his gun in position. Farley’s gun was lying on the ground, and this seemed to greatly concern the newcomer.

“Tha’sall right, Buck,” assured Farley. “My hand got tired. Buck, meet Mister Hartley and Mister Stevens. Folks, this is Buck Hardy, my deputy. Buck, do yore little bow.”

“Aw, what the ——!” growled Buck.

Hashknife laughed and shoved his gun back into its holster. This action seemed to relieve Buck, who almost smiled as he put away his own gun and reached for the makings of a cigarette.

“One of you fellers almost got me,” declared Hashknife. “The bullet tore half of my saddle-fork loose.”

“That was me,” said Buck slowly. “I dunno what’s got into me lately. ’Pears like I’m shootin’ too low all the time.”

He said it with such sincerity that Hashknife laughed outright, and Farley’s eyes twinkled with laughter.

“Buck’s a good shot,” offered Farley.

“I used to be,” admitted Buck.

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I’m glad it happened now instead of the used-to-was. That shootin’ was too good to suit me. But you haven’t said just why yuh shot at me.”

“Yuh didn’t happen to be gunnin’ after the jasper that rode through here a while ago, did yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Did you see him?” Thus Farley quickly.

“Just about. He wasn’t paradin’ to any extent.”

“What color horse was he ridin’?”

“We didn’t see,” said Hashknife. “We were up the coulée a little ways and just got a glimpse. This brush hid the horse, and the man didn’t go slow enough for us to see what he did look like.”

“He was the whippoorwill we were after,” stated Farley, and added disconsolately, “By this time he’s erased himself plumb off the map.”

“Who was he?” asked Sleepy.

Farley smiled sadly and shook his head.

“Pardner, I’d sure give a lot to know.”

“He’s a —— fool!” snorted Buck indignantly. “Any man that does what he’s done and wants folks to know that he’s the jigger that done it—he’s plumb crazy, tha’sall.”

“We call him ‘The Trey of Spades,’” said Farley slowly. “That’s his trade-mark.”

“Trade-mark?” queried Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. He’s a lone bandit—and a slick one, Hartley. This is the nearest we’ve come to gettin’ him. About four o’clock this mornin’ he went into the Cheyenne gambling room in Oxbow and stuck up the crowd. There was only seven men in there. He sure cleaned up a nice piece of change.

“He backed out of there, but at the doorway he took a playin’-card out of his pocket and flipped it back at ’em. It was the trey of spades. Me and Buck was just ridin’ in from a trip to Snake Creek, and we hit Oxbow just about the time that this was goin’ on.

“We seen this feller break for his horse. Somebody yelps that the Cheyenne has been held up; so me and Buck takes out after this feller. It was bright moonlight, and we sure runs him ragged, but we can’t stop him. Can’t tell the color of his horse either. Back about two miles from here he holes up in the brush and we think we’ve got him dead to rights, but he foxes us and gets away.

“Buck gets a glimpse of him foggin’ out; so we slides right after him. We’re pretty close behind him, and we’ve got a hunch that he hived up here again; so yuh can’t hardly blame us for takin’ a shot at yuh.”

“Sure looked to me like he was lookin’ over his back-track,” said Buck. “I dunno what’s wrong with me, anyway. By golly, I used to be able to hit a tomatter-can at that distance. Gotta fix them sights, I reckon.”

“Yuh don’t need to on my account,” grinned Hashknife.

Farley picked up his gun and shoved it into his holster.

“Well, Buck, I reckon we might as well ride along and see what we can see,” he observed. “This is just another time when we didn’t get the game.”

“I s’pose so—dang the luck.” Buck yawned widely.

“Which way is the town from here?” asked Hashknife.

Farley pointed west:

“Out thataway about ten miles, I reckon. About three miles from here you’ll hit the road that leads past Maverick ranch. Keep goin’ straight ahead and you’ll hit Oxbow.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted and rode out past where the sheriff and deputy were preparing to circle the coulée. Buck looked with gloomy eyes upon the havoc caused by his bullet upon Hashknife’s saddle.

“Mebbe,” he said hopefully, “that bullet hit a limb and was deflected. It could happen, yuh know.”

“Anybody would think that yo’re sorry to miss me,” observed Hashknife.

“No-o-o, it ain’t so much that as it is gittin’ to feel that yore shootin’ is gittin’ bad. I used to shoot pretty good.”

“C’mon, Buck,” laughed Farley, and then to Hashknife, “Hope we’ll see yuh ag’in, Hartley—both of yuh.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll be around here for a while, I reckon.”

“This here land of milk and honey,” scoffed Sleepy, as they rode away. “A land of peace, Hashknife. I’ll bet there’s more real —— to the square inch around here than any place we’ve ever hit.”

“Well, it won’t affect us,” laughed Hashknife. “Yuh must remember that we’re goin’ to mind our own business from now on.”

Old “Dad” Parker sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house and looked with gloomy eyes at the rider who was coming past the house, heading toward the bunkhouse. The rider was Cliff Parker, Dad’s twenty-seven year old son, a wild young blade.

Just now his clothes were disheveled, dusty, and his seat in the saddle was none too secure. In fact, Cliff Parker was drunk—disgracefully drunk. He half-fell from his horse in front of the bunkhouse, staggered inside and slammed the door.

Old Dad shook his head painfully and squinted off across the hills, his old eyes misty with sorrow. In his younger days, Dad Parker had been a powerful man, but now he was a gaunt, old man, with a mop of white hair, a deeply-lined face; an old, old man at sixty.

As he settled back in his chair a girl came to the doorway. She was a slender, capable-looking girl, attractive of features and with a wealth of soft, brown hair. There was a smudge of charcoal dust on her cheek, and her arms, bare to the elbow, bore evidences of contact with the flour barrel.

“I’ve been making some doughnuts, Dad,” she offered, with a smile. “Harmony said they wouldn’t be worth anything, but they look good.”

The old man nodded without looking at her. She studied him for several moments, her eyes shifting toward the bunkhouse, where Cliff’s horse stood.

“Cliff came home?” she asked softly, but he did not reply. Slowly she shook her head and a look of unutterable sadness came into her fine eyes, as she stepped out behind old Dad and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Some day he will quit it, Dad,” she said softly. “Cliff’s only a kid.”

“He’s almost thirty, Milly.” Dad Parker’s voice was husky. “He’s old enough to know better. Every time he goes to town he gets drunk. He’s gettin’ a bad reputation for drinkin’ and gamblin’.”

“Yes, that is true,” nodded the girl. “He loses more than is good for him.”

“His cattle are all gone,” said the old man. “He sold the last ten head a week ago, and I suppose the money is all gone.”

The girl turned away. She knew that Cliff had also sold four horses during the past week, which left him with only one, his favorite riding horse. Mildred Parker was not at all like her brother. Their mother was of French descent, impulsive, hot-blooded; and Cliff had inherited his wild traits from her side of the family. Mildred was twenty-three.

As she turned away she saw two strange horsemen swing off the main road and ride toward the house. It was Hashknife and Sleepy. Dad Parker watched them indifferently, as they rode up close to the porch and lifted their hats to the girl.

Their smile was contagious and Mildred found herself smiling back at them.

“We just stopped,” said Hashknife rather lamely. “We might say we stopped for a drink of water, or to ask the way to Oxbow—but we know the way, and we ain’t dry. We stopped, tha’sall.”

Mildred laughed with them. There was something so straightforward about the lean-faced cowpuncher that she liked him instinctively.

“This is the Maverick ranch, ain’t it?” queried Sleepy.

“This is the Maverick ranch,” replied Dad Parker. “Get off and rest your feet, gentlemen.”

“We didn’t aim to stop,” protested Hashknife, “and I don’t reckon we will.” But he was half-way off his horse as he finished. They dropped their reins and came up the steps.

“My name is Parker.” The old man had got to his feet and held out his hand. “Folks call me Dad. This is my daughter.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and Mildred brought some chairs from the living-room.

“We just can’t stay long enough to set down,” protested Hashknife. “No, ma’am—honest to gosh.”

“Running away from some one?” asked Dad, a twinkle in his eye.

Hashknife laughed and fumbled for the makings of a smoke.

“No, not that. We’re kinda stubborn when it comes to runnin’ away. Nope, we just didn’t want to bother yuh.”

“You haven’t had any dinner, have you?” asked Mildred.

“Dinner?” Hashknife looked up quickly.

“Yes, ma’am. We couldn’t eat a thing, thankin’ yuh just the same.”

Hashknife turned to the old man and Mildred looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who stared at her for a moment. It was a look of understanding, but to make it more expressive, Sleepy reached down and cinched up his belt another notch.

Mildred laughed softly and turned into the house, while Sleepy wrinkled his nose joyously and rolled a cigarette. He was hungry, and he knew that Hashknife was half-starved.

“This is the first time we ever got into this range,” offered Hashknife. “It sure looks good.”

“It is good,” declared the old man. “It’s hard to beat the old Thunder range, Hartley. We’ve got everythin’ here.”

“Even to sheriffs that shoot on sight,” said Sleepy.

Dad Parker turned and stared at Sleepy.

“I didn’t quite get that.”

“Well, they do,” declared Sleepy. “One took a shot at Hashknife and tore half the fork off his saddle.”

Hashknife laughed and hastened to explain the incident. Dad Parker listened closely until Hashknife had finished.

“That was a close call, Hartley,” he said slowly. “And it was not a pleasant introduction to our country. You say this bandit held up the crowd in the Cheyenne this mornin’?”

“That’s what the sheriff told us.”

“And sooner or later Jud Farley will get him,” declared Dad Parker. “Farley is a good man. This bandit will leave his card once too often.”

“Is he a rustler, too?” queried Hashknife.

“Not yet. He confines his robberies to hard cash. As yet he has made no big hauls, but he seems to have nerve enough to pull off any kind of a job.”

“Any suspicion of who he is?”

“No. He laughs behind his mask, talks like a man suffering from a heavy cold, and rides like the ——. He has never been seen in the daylight; so no one knows the color of his horse.”

“Kinda interestin’,” mused Hashknife aloud. “I like his idea of identifyin’ himself with a playin’-card. It’s like somethin’ yuh read about.”

“He probably read about it.” Thus Dad Parker dryly. “There’s a washbench around by the kitchen door, if you feel like takin’ a wash. I think that ‘Harmony’ has about prepared the dinner.”

“A little wash won’t hurt us,” laughed Hashknife, getting to his feet. A rider was turning in from the road, and as he neared the porch he waved at the old man, who motioned for Hashknife and Sleepy to wait.

The man rode up and dismounted. He was a man of possibly forty years of age, with a pale, esthetic face, deeply set, dark eyes and a sensitive mouth. From his garb it was plain to see that he was of the clergy, although he wore a sombrero hat and high-heeled boots.

As he removed his sombrero he disclosed a partly bald head above his high forehead. His horse was a decrepit gray, which had long ago outlived its usefulness on a cattle range, and his riding rig was of the poorest.

“Get down, minister,” said Dad Parker pleasantly. “You are just in time for dinner.”

“Perhaps,” the minister smiled, “perhaps I timed it, Mr. Parker.”

Dad laughed and indicated Hashknife and Sleepy.

“This is Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens, two newcomers to this country. Gentlemen, shake hands with the Reverend Jones, the man who rides on his church.”

Hashknife laughed as he shook hands with the minister.

“I never knowed one to ride a church before,” said Hashknife.

“Perhaps Mr. Parker is right, at that,” said the minister. “In this country a horse is more valuable than a pulpit.”

He shook hands with Sleepy, who made a wry face after the minister had turned away. Mildred came out and greeted the minister warmly.

“We will set another place at the table,” she said, as she turned and went back into the house.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the washbench near the kitchen door and began their ablutions. Mildred was in the kitchen, talking to some one, whose voice immediately rose to a higher pitch.

“Well, my ——, who next! What do they think this is—a caf-fay? Preacher, eh? Ten Commandments and an appetite! Mebbe he’ll expect a yaller-legged hen, won’t he? By grab, I don’t do nothin’ around here, except work. Somebody always showin’ up at meal time. I wisht I had a job herdin’ sheep!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Thus Mildred’s voice sorrowfully.

“Yuh don’t need to! Don’t waste sympathy on a cook. They’re the lowest order of humanity. Put a plug hat on one and he’s still so low he could walk under a snake. What does he drink—except liquor?”

“Tea, I think.” Laughing.

“Tea? Aw right. Give’m skim milk. I know that jigger. He’ll want to ask the blessin’, won’t he? Thank the Lord for somethin’ that I cooked, eh? That’s all the thanks I git. If I saved his life he’d thank me through somebody else, I s’pose.”

Came the banging of pans, as the cook vented his further displeasure on the utensils. Hashknife laughed joyously.

“That’s Harmony.”

“A human bein’,” Sleepy spluttered through the towel. “I’m for Harmony. Didja notice that preacher’s grip? Just like takin’ hold of a dead fish. By golly, I was afraid to let go of his hand for fear it would fall in the dirt.”

The cook came outside and looked at them. He was a short, heavily built man, with grizzled hair, wrinkled face and a walrus mustache. He glared balefully at the two cowpunchers for several moments before a grin overspread his face.

“Jist tryin’ to figure out which one of yuh was a preacher,” he said huskily. “Milly said we had comp’ny, but didn’t say how many, yuh see. Then she edged in on me and said that the preacher had arrived.”

“Yo’re Harmony, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Harmony spat viciously. “I’m the best —— cook in the county. Harmony Hobbs, that’s me. A disciple of peace and a promoter of brotherly love. I’ll have harmony, if I have to bang —— out of everythin’ and everybody to git it. Howdy!”

They shook hands gravely and Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy.

“Hashknife Hartley, eh? Didja git that name from the old Hashknife outfit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“By ——! Say, it’s a small world, Hartley. Didja ever know ‘Saleratus’ Smalley, who used to cook for that outfit?”

“I sure did,” laughed Hashknife. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I knowed a man that did. It’s sure a small world, ain’t it.”

“Yeah, it ain’t very big,” laughed Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Well, well! You sneak around to the front and come in with the main herd, gents. Dinner is get-at-able, right now. And don’t forget to bow yore heads.”

They laughed and went around to the porch, where the minister was talking to Mildred and Dad Parker. Harmony’s gong sounded its announcement and Dad Parker motioned them all into the dining room, where they sat down at the big table.

Harmony bustled around, placing food on the table, while they all waited for the minister to begin. Even Harmony stopped at the doorway, obeying some hereditary impulse, in spite of the fact that he outwardly detested ministers.

As they bowed their heads and the minister’s voice began in sonorous tones to invoke a blessing upon the food, there came the scrape of a boot heel on the threshold of the dining room and a soft laugh of derision.

Every one looked up quickly. Half-way inside the doorway stood Cliff Parker, a dark, thin-faced youth, handsome in spite of his lines of dissipation. His black, curly hair was in disorder, and there was a smear of blood on his cheek from a recent cut. Around his throat was a scarlet muffler, the ends swaying down over the front of an ornamented vest. He was still wearing a pair of heavy, bat-winged, beautifully stamped chaps, and around his waist was a heavy belt and holstered gun. His feet were encased in a pair of high-priced, extra-high-heeled boots.

He was still half-drunk, wholly sarcastic, reckless. As he encountered his father’s rebuking glance he laughed softly and glanced around the table. Harmony swore softly to himself, but it was audible to every one.

“More Sunday school, eh?” Cliff’s voice was as vibrant as a harp string. “The Reverend Jones is with us again. This makes three times in a little over a week, don’t it?”

“Cliff!” Dad Parker started to his feet. “What is the matter with you, son?”

Cliff laughed nastily and rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. The minister was looking at him wonderingly, and Hashknife was inclined to feel sorry for him.

“—— psalm singer!” sneered Cliff angrily. “Ridin’ all over the country, preachin’ hell-fire and brimstone—and gettin’ free meals. I suppose it’s a fair trade, though.”

“Cliff, be still!” warned his father hoarsely. “Don’t forget what you are and where you are. The minister is my guest.”

“You can have him,” Cliff laughed and leaned back against the wall. “You think he’s comin’ here to save our souls, don’t yuh? Souls, ——! He’s got a different reason than that, Dad.”

The minister’s face had gone a shade more pale and his eyes shot sidewise at Mildred, who was gripping the table-cloth as she stared at her brother. It was a plain inference that the minister was coming there to see Mildred, and Hashknife knew from the minister’s actions that Cliff was not far wrong in his suspicions.

“What do you mean, Cliff?” Dad Parker spoke softly now. He knew that there was no use antagonizing Cliff in his present frame of mind.

“Mean?” Cliff laughed. “Do you think that the sky-pilot is droppin’ in here so often just to see you—or me? Do yuh think that our souls mean anythin’ to him? Mebbe you can stand for a Gospel shark in the family, but I can’t.”

“Cliff!” Mildred’s face flushed angrily, as she got to her feet. “Cliff, you have no right to say such things!”

“Is that so?” Cliff turned angrily on her. “If you don’t sabe him—you’re kinda dense, Milly. I figured him out a long time ago.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones got slowly to his feet and turned to Cliff. He had recovered his composure now.

“I am sorry you feel as you do,” he said slowly. “There is no use in telling you that you are mistaken, because you have made up your mind as to certain things.” He turned to Dad Parker. “Mr. Parker, I am more sorry than I can say, and I sincerely hope that this will not affect our friendship.”

“No, don’t go—yet,” begged the old man. “This is not a thing that can——”

“Please.” The minister gave a gesture of impatience. “It is only an unpleasant situation that might be relieved by my absence. I will say good afternoon, and be on my way.”

He nodded to those at the table, turned and went out through the open door, leaving Dad Parker facing his erring son.

“Well, go ahead and explode, Dad,” said Cliff airily.

“Explode?” Dad Parker considered his offspring. “No,” he said slowly. “I am not goin’ to explode.”

“That’s good,” Cliff turned his head and looked at Harmony, whose mustache was jerking spasmodically. “What are you cryin’ about, Harmony?”

“Huh?” Harmony looked up quickly, “Who the ——’s cryin’?”

“Then yuh was laughin’,” declared Cliff. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself—laughin’ at a preacher.”

“Cliff, we still have guests—strangers,” warned Mildred.

“I seen ’em,” nodded Cliff, shifting his eyes to Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’m not apologizing to anybody today. Anyway, they don’t look like the kind of people yuh can apologize to and make ’em believe it; so I won’t try.”

“We’re not askin’ for an apology,” said Hashknife.

“That’s thoughtful of yuh,” said Cliff sarcastically, as he turned and walked out of the room. They heard him clump down the porch steps and walk away from the house.

“I don’t know just what to say,” Dad Parker turned back to his chair and looked at his guests.

“Then don’t try,” said Hashknife softly. “Whether yore son is right or wrong, he spoke his little piece in public. Now, let’s forget it.”

“I’m goin’ to thank you for that, Hartley,” said the old man, as he sat down. “I can’t understand Cliff.”

“Well, he had no right to say what he did,” declared Mildred warmly. “I think he owes me an apology.”

“I think these are among the best biscuits I ever ate,” said Hashknife seriously, “and that coffee would make any man leave home and hunt for a job on the Maverick ranch.”

Mildred was forced to smile at Harmony who beamed upon Hashknife and hurried away for another supply of biscuits and more coffee.

“I dunno why yuh specify any certain thing on this table,” stated Sleepy. “’S far as I can see, it’s the best line-up of reg’lar food we’ve surrounded in a long time.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Mildred.

“Like it,” grinned Sleepy, “——, I love it!”

Sleepy’s inelegant compliment brought a general laugh and the former unpleasant incident was shelved for the time. They finished their meal and went out on to the porch. Cliff was in front of the bunkhouse, talking to another man who was sitting on the steps, holding the reins of his horse. The animal was a tall bay horse of racy build, and the sun sparkled on an ornate saddle of black leather and silver.

“Fancy lookin’ outfit,” observed Sleepy, as they sat down to enjoy a smoke.

Dad Parker frowned slightly, as he nodded and said:

“That is Vincent Roche, owner of the Diamond V ranch. His place is about twelve miles west of here.”

“Rides a runnin’ horse,” observed Hashknife admiringly.

“Yes, he is a little particular,” agreed Dad. “That saddle was made for him in Mexico City, and the horse cost a big sum. Roche is a plunger. I can’t admire his style, but there is no question of his nerve or ability.”

“Mebbe yore son is tryin’ to imitate him,” suggested Hashknife.

“That is the whole trouble,” said the old man sadly. “Roche and Cliff are altogether too friendly. Here he comes now.”

Hashknife and Sleepy studied the man as he walked up toward them. He was well dressed, athletic looking, with a free swing to his stride. Except for a weak chin, Vincent Roche was a handsome man. His eyes were cool, calculating, widely spaced; his forehead was broad. His ears seemed to be fitted snugly to the sides of his head, and there was a well-groomed look to his closely-cropped brown hair.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” he called pleasantly, as he came up to them and held out his hand.

“Hello, Vincent.”

The old man was cordial enough, as they shook hands. He introduced Hashknife and Sleepy, and Roche accepted the introduction in an indifferent manner.

“Hear the old Cheyenne was held up this mornin’,” said Roche, smiling. “The Trey of Spades keeps up his deadly work, it seems.”

“They’ll get him one of these days,” declared Dad Parker. “He can only last so long, Vincent.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Roche seemed thoughtful. “I suppose it all depends on how long he keeps workin’, but you can’t expect him to quit, as long as things come easy.”

“Easy come, easy go,” quoted the old man. “He will keep it up too long, Vincent. They always do.”

“Well,” Roche laughed, “I suppose it is unlawful to say so, but I hope he keeps goin’ for a while. He’s a sport. It takes a lot of nerve to stick up a saloonful of men. And I kinda like his idea of a trade-mark, it keeps him from being identified with the common herd. Is Mildred in the house?”

Without waiting for an answer Roche brushed past them and went into the house, where he began talking to Mildred. Dad Parker sat down and they resumed their smoking.

“This is a pretty big range, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes, pretty big,” replied Parker. “Lots of beef shipped out of here. Oxbow is the big shipping point. Quite a lot of horses shipped out of here, too; and they’re worth money now.”

“I wonder where we might get jobs,” said Hashknife. “It looks like a good range, and we’d kinda like to work a while and look it over.”

“With an idea of going into the business?”

“Possibly.”

“I don’t know. There’s the Box M southeast of here. They run a lot of cattle. Old ‘Flint’ Moore owns the place. Feller by the name of Delaney is foreman. There’s ranches scattered all across the county, and any of ’em might need a good man or two.”

“I—” he hesitated for a moment—“I might use a couple myself.”

“You mean that you need two men?” asked Sleepy quickly.

“I might.”

“Dad, I reckon you’ve had two punchers move right in on yuh.” Thus Hashknife seriously.

“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” Dad Parker grew thoughtful. “I really can use two men. I’ve only used one extra man up to this time. ‘Honey’ Davis quit me to go to work for Roche the other day. I ain’t worth nothin’ in the saddle any more, and Cliff—well, you see how it is. Yes, I guess you are hired, if you want the jobs.”

“And all the time you’ve been talkin’, we’ve been on yore payroll,” said Sleepy wonderingly. “Hashknife, we better hit for Oxbow and load up on tobacco, ’cause we’ve got a job.”

“Forty a month and food,” said the old man.

“The forty don’t interest me,” grinned Sleepy, “but the food does. C’mon, Hashknife. We don’t want to be late for supper.”

The sheriff and his deputy gave up the chase after an hour more of searching for further trace of the bandit, and rode back to Oxbow. The sheriff, in spite of several failures, was confident of ultimately putting the Trey of Spades behind the cell doors of his little jail.

But Buck, the deputy, was not so optimistic.

“My shootin’ is goin’ back on me,” he complained. “Can’t make out why I didn’t salivate that skinny jigger. I’ve got to do better than that, Jud.”

“Oh shut up!” snapped Farley. “Be danged glad yuh don’t have the blood of an innocent man on yore hands.”

“How do I know he’s innocent, Jud?”

“Hm-m-m!” Jud Farley wrinkled his brow in thought.

“There ain’t nothin’ to show that one of ’em ain’t the Trey of Spades,” continued Buck. “We don’t know ’em. They sure showed up there at a queer time, dontcha know it? How do we know that the Trey of Spades ain’t a stranger in this country? We don’t. By grab, mebbe I missed nailin’ him to the mast.”

“I don’t think so, Buck,” replied Farley.

“That horse never showed any signs of runnin’.”

“Thasso? Say, didja ever stop to think we didn’t get a look at the other horse—not close to? That animal was back there in the brush. By golly, you’ve got to use yore brains in this kind of a job.”

“Foresight, not hindsight, Buck,” smiled Farley. “The time to have thought of that was when we were there. It’s too late now.”

“Well, gimme credit for thinkin’ when I did,” requested Buck.

“All right. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“I ain’t supposed to do it all,” muttered Buck. “I’m only the deputy, yuh must remember.”

“You try rememberin’ it, too,” retorted Farley dryly, and Buck was squelched sufficiently to keep still for a while.

Oxbow was mildly interested in the return of the sheriff, although no one was surprised to see him come back without a prisoner. “Slim” Cole, owner of the Cheyenne, was volubly profane. The Trey of Spades had taken about five hundred dollars from Slim and he was very peevish.

In fact he was so peevish that he kicked Shy, the three-legged black cat, which was supposed to be the mascot of the Cheyenne gambling house.

“You’re goin’ to have bad luck for that, Slim,” declared “Sufferin’” Stockton, who dealt faro for the house. He was so nicknamed because of the many ailments that beset him, most of them being caused from perusing a medical book.

“The —— I am!” snorted Slim. “Goin’ to have, am I? Say, Sufferin’, you’re about ten hours late on your prognosticatin’. I’ve had my hard luck.”

“Kickin’ a three-legged cat won’t help yuh none, that’s a dead immortal cinch.”

Slim glared across the table at Sufferin’ and said—

“Just where abouts in —— do you feel bad?”

“Liver. Spots in front of my eyes, short breath. Kinda ——”

“Yesterday yuh had symptoms of tuberculosis. The day before that yuh had an ulcerated tooth and a double-headed carbuncle.”

“All right—” Sufferin’ grew sad—“mebbe I did. By grab, yuh don’t get no sympathy, no matter what yuh get, around here.”

“Know what you’ll have tomorrow, Sufferin’?”

“Feller never knows from one day to the other, Slim.”

“You’re goin’ to have blisters on your feet—from runnin’—if yuh don’t quit diagnosin’ yourself. You make me sick.”

“Your liver is out of kilter, too,” declared Sufferin’. “Late hours and liquor.”

“Hey! You gamblin’-house dudes! C’mon up and have a drink of yore own liquor.”

“Blackie” Dahl had come in during Slim and Sufferin’s argument and yelped at them from the bar. Blackie was a regular contributor to the Cheyenne’s exchequer, and too wild-eyed in his actions to brook a refusal to drink.

Blackie was wild, irresponsible, quick to anger. He owned the D Bar outfit and a chronic thirst. His was one of those little “starve-to-death” places, as they were known, and it was hinted that Blackie’s herd was composed of, and supported by, mavericks—unbranded calves.

Blackie was well named. His hair was as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, and he wore it long. His face was thin, evil, and his brown eyes were always bloodshot. There was nothing refined about Blackie Dahl. He boasted that his loop was wide.

“It’s all grist that comes to my mill,” he declared. “If it ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle—let ’em stop me.”

The inhabitants of the Cheyenne responded with alacrity and Blackie snorted contentedly, as they lined up at the bar.

“What’s all this talk about the Trey of Spades?” he asked Slim, who explained about the holdup.

“After I left here, eh? Knew too much to show up while I was here. I’d ’a’ sure shot the rest of the deck loose from him. Roche was here, wasn’t he?”

“He left here about two o’clock,” volunteered Sufferin’.

“Loser, as usual, eh?”

“Roche broke about even last night,” said Slim. “Cliff Parker lost about two hundred. I reckon he left about an hour after Roche left.”

“And the Trey of Spades comes along and takes the whole pot, eh?” Blackie laughed delightedly. “That whippoorwill is a dinger. I’m for him, by——!”

“Wait’ll he nicks you for a wad,” said Sufferin’.

“Me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Wait’ll he does, Sufferin’. He knows who to fool with. What did he look like?”

“Had two legs, two arms,” said Sufferin’, checking them off on his fingers.

“Yeah, and he had a head, too!” snorted Blackie angrily. “You jug-heads didn’t even take a good look at him. It was like takin’ candy from a baby!”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker were coming in and those at the bar ceased their conversation. Dad Parker had decided to ride to town with them. He spoke to those at the bar.

“C’mon and have a drink, Parker,” invited Blackie.

“Thanks, Dahl,” smiled Dad, “but you know I neither drink nor smoke.”

“Yuh don’t, eh?” Blackie’s lips curled in a sneer. He knew that Dad Parker did not drink, and that it was through no ill-feeling that he declined, but Blackie’s brain was slightly warped from too much liquor. “C’mon and have a drink, I said!” he snorted angrily, as the old man started toward the rear of the room. Dad Parker turned and looked at Blackie, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you just the same, Blackie—I do not drink.”

“You just think yuh don’t,” Blackie surged away from the bar and advanced toward the old man, grasping him by the lapel of his coat. “When I say ‘drink’, they drink, Parker. C’mon!”

“Aw, he don’t drink, Blackie,” said Slim, crossing to them and trying to persuade Blackie to desist. “Don’t do that. He’s an old man.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Blackie whirled on Slim, his eyes blazing. “Where do you git in on this, Slim? You mind yore own —— business, will yuh? I asked him to drink with me, and he’ll sure drink. C’mon, you old bible-back!”

“He don’t drink, pardner.” Hashknife spoke clearly, a half-smile on his lips.

Blackie whirled and looked at Hashknife closely. For several moments he considered these two strange cowpunchers, as if wondering that any one would interrupt his pleasure. Then he came slowly toward Hashknife, squinting quizzically at him.

Hashknife’s lips smiled, but his eyes were serious. He did not retreat; so Blackie stopped a few feet away, where he glanced questioningly around at those at the bar. His gaze came back to Hashknife and he licked his lips delightedly as he said—

“I didn’t quite git what you said, feller.”

Hashknife looked steadily into Blackie’s eyes, which wavered slightly.

“Yo’re a liar,” said Hashknife softly.

Blackie’s right hand jerked nervously, but he did not reach for his gun. There was something in those level eyes that told him to wait a while.

“That’s a fightin’ word,” he said hoarsely.

“That’s why I used it.”

“Oh!” It was more than Blackie could understand. He shifted his feet nervously.

“That’s why you used it, eh?”

“Yeah, I thought you was lookin’ for trouble.”

“Thought so, didja?”

“At first. Now, I know you want a chance to run.”

“Oh, the —— I do?” Blackie fairly bristled.

“Right now you wish I wasn’t here.”

“Well, you’ve got some —— queer ideas, feller.”

“Mebbe I have. I’ve met yore kind before. Yo’re all kinda hard to insult. In fact I don’t think it can be done.”

“Yeah? Are you tryin’ to insult me?”

“Spit on his boots,” advised Sleepy dryly. “Mebbe he’ll sabe that.”

“Who the —— are you?” growled Blackie.

“I’m the guy that cleans up the mess after the big feller gets through,” grinned Sleepy.

“Tough hombres, eh?” Blackie laughed. “If you came to Oxbow lookin’ for trouble, I reckon yuh can find it.”

“I don’t think so.” Hashknife shook his head and half-turned toward the bar. As he turned away Blackie’s right hand flashed to his gun, which seemed to fairly hop from the holster to meet him. But before it could swing level, Sleepy’s gun jarred the whole room and Blackie staggered sidewise, his gun falling to the floor.

Blackie stumbled into a table, caught himself with one hand and swore viciously as he tried to find out how badly he was hurt. The bullet had ripped across the front of his chaps and smashed against his six-shooter between the cylinder and the butt. It had taken a chunk out of Blackie’s second finger and the shock had numbed his hand and wrist.

“You dirty coyote!” Sleepy walked over to Blackie, who cringed back against the table. “I’ve got a good notion to bend this gun over yore empty head and collect bounty on yore ears. You’d be a bad man—behind a bush.”

“That was a dirty trick,” agreed Slim. “And I think that Blackie got off cheap. By golly, that was straight shootin’ if anybody stops to ask yuh.”

Blackie scowled and stepped away from the table. He had nothing to say. He was shocked sober now. His finger was bleeding badly and he looked curiously at it.

“Better bind it up,” advised Hashknife. “The bone ain’t busted, is it?”

Blackie shook his head.

“No, it’s all right.”

Jud Farley and Buck Hardy came cautiously into the place and looked around.

“Heard some shootin’,” stated Farley, squinting at Blackie’s bleeding finger. “Didn’t know but mebbe the Trey of Spades had showed up again.”

“That’s a question,” said Hashknife slowly.

Blackie turned and shot a malevolent glance at Hashknife as he walked outside without saying a word. Farley watched him go out through the door and turned to Hashknife.

“What happened, Hartley?”

“Lemme tell it,” begged Sufferin’. “My ——, don’t let a story like that git ruined in the tellin’.”

“Go ahead,” grinned Farley. “You won’t dare to lie, ’cause a lot of yuh all seen the same thing.”

Sufferin’ grinned and launched into his story, which lost nothing in the telling. Farley listened closely, thoughtfully. He knew Blackie Dahl fairly well. In fact he had tried at odd times to catch Blackie stealing cattle, but failed.

“He’s a bad boy,” agreed Farley, after Sufferin’ had finished. “Also it isn’t good policy to merely disarm a man like Blackie. It’s like takin’ a fang out of a rattler.”

“I hardly ever kill a man, unless I have to,” said Sleepy dryly. “Of course, sometimes yuh have to work on ’em the second time, but that’s all right. It kinda makes yuh feel that yuh didn’t act too hasty.”

“Um-m-m!” Farley squinted at Sleepy, whose face was as innocent of guile as that of a year-old baby.

“I’ll buy a drink,” stated Slim Cole. “By golly, I will. And I’ll buy a lemonade for Dad Parker.”

“Well,” laughed Dad, “I might have taken a lemonade with Blackie and saved all this trouble. But I won’t quarrel with you, Slim.”

“Don’tcha try it,” said Slim seriously. “I’m no fool.”

“I’ll do my best,” laughed the bartender. “I know that yuh put lemons and water in it. These here fancy drinks sure do puzzle me.”

“Cliff didn’t come in, did he?” asked Slim. Dad Parker shook his head.

“He prob’ly don’t know we had a holdup,” grinned Slim. “He pulled out about an hour too soon.”

“Did he?” The old man squinted thoughtfully at the backbar. “What time was the holdup, Slim?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Vint Roche missed it, too,” offered Sufferin’. “He left ahead of Cliff. Vint was ahead of the game, but Cliff had his reg’lar luck. If Vint had stayed the Trey of Spades would have been a couple hundred better off.”

“Here’s the lemonade,” grinned the bartender. “Them lemons has been here a year or so, but I s’pose they’re all right.”

“Thanks,” muttered the old man. He was more interested in wondering where Cliff had been from three o’clock in the morning until about eleven.

“Didja hear about our church?” asked Sufferin’.

“What church?” queried Buck.

“The old Chuck Luck saloon is to be reformed,” laughed Slim. “Lot of the old jiggers around here was tryin’ to take up a collection to build a church; so I—yeah, they came to me first. They always come to a saloon to get money to build a church—so I thought I’d get off cheaper by lettin’ ’em have the old saloon building.

“They’re fixin’ it up. I let ’em have some chairs and donated enough to buy song books. That preacher Jones ain’t such a bad sort of a jigger. He lets my soul alone. He wanted to make a deacon out of me.” Slim laughed. “I offered to put in a roulette wheel and give him a percentage. We’re still deadlocked on our trade.”

“What denomination is he?” asked Hashknife.

“What does that mean?” queried Sufferin’.

“Is he Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, or what?”

“I dunno,” said Sufferin’ seriously. “He packs a Bible, if that’s anythin’ to go on.”

“And he sure can read it,” declared “Hunky” Smith. “I heard him rasslin’ with it over at the Box M. They had quite a meetin’ over there. Jimmy Delaney sung a song. By golly, that feller sure can sing. He married old Flint Moore’s daughter, yuh know.”

“The minister is all right,” said Dad Parker softly. “We need him in the Thunder range. I’m glad we’re goin’ to have a church in Oxbow, Slim. A little Gospel won’t hurt any of us.”

“A little won’t,” admitted Sufferin’. “It’s like delirium tremens, Dad. A little shot of it will make yuh look at things different; but too much is plumb liable to collywobble yuh.”

“Where did you get that idea, Sufferin’?” asked Dad.

“From my Pa.” Sufferin’s nose twitched violently. “Pa was a good man, I’d have yuh know. When he drank whisky he kept two distilleries workin’ nights; when he fought, he never knowed when he was licked; and when he got religion, he got all there was. And when he died—” Sufferin’ wiped away a tear—“they found a Bible inside his shirt-front. There was three bullets stickin’ into that Bible.”

“Was he in the war?” asked Hunky.

“A private one,” nodded Sufferin’. “It was him agin’ three deputy sheriffs and a U. S. marshal. Yuh see, Pa was always tryin’ things out. He didn’t believe everythin’ he heard or read.

“He wanted to prove things for himself. A preacher told him that anybody would suffer if they broke the Ten Commandments. Pa wanted to be sure about this; so he picked out the eighth one and broke it all to thunder. From the looks of Pa when they brought him in, the preacher had the right hunch.”

Sufferin’ was so serious that his listeners did not smile, although several of them, including Hashknife and Sleepy, had very moist eyes and aching belt-lines.

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker crossed to the store and made their purchases. There was no sign of Blackie Dahl. The old man was very thoughtful on the way back to the ranch.

“Blackie is a bad man,” he told them. “It seems that he has pretty much had his own way, and this incident is not going to set well on his mind. Just be as careful as you can.”

“Dontcha worry about him,” smiled Hashknife. “He won’t be so cocky next time. Shootin’ that six-gun out of his hand made us kinda ace-high with him.” Hashknife turned and looked at Sleepy. “Just where did yuh aim to hit him, Sleepy?”

“Somewhere between the belt and the chin,” chuckled Sleepy. “I come dang near pullin’ what yuh call a ‘fox-pass.’ I’m like Buck—I’m shootin’ low.”

“Do you mean to say that you did not deliberately shoot that gun out of his hand?” demanded Dad Parker.

“Give me more credit than that,” laughed Sleepy. “There wasn’t no time for fancy work. I aimed to cut him off about at the lower vest-pocket. Any old time I shoot, yuh can bet all yore roll that I’m shootin’ to kill.”

“Blackie ain’t noways slow on gettin’ his gun,” observed Hashknife. “I didn’t look for him to do it, but yuh never can tell about his type. And he ain’t exactly a coward. Peculiar sort of a jasper, I’d say. Didja notice the look he gave me when I kinda connected him with the Trey of Spades?”

“I did,” nodded Sleepy. “He sure throwed a lot of hate into that look. Mebbe he is the Trey of Spades, at that.”

“What kind of a feller is the sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“Salt of the earth,” replied Dad Parker. “Jud Farley is one white man. Buck Hardy is pretty much of a danged fool, but he’s as honest as the day is long. They’re both old timers in the Thunder country. Jud isn’t what you’d call a thinkin’ sheriff, but he tries as hard as the next man.”

“Have you any idea who the Trey of Spades is?”

“Not the slightest. From his work, I would say that he is an experienced hand at the game. He has never made a false move yet. His hauls have not been big, but big enough to make folks uneasy. No, I do not think it is any one who belongs around here.”

“Prob’ly don’t,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “I sure hope not, anyway.”

“Why do you say that, Hartley?”

“’Cause it ain’t nice to think of home folks runnin’ their neck into a noose.”

They rode on to the Maverick ranch, put up their horses and were shown their bunkhouse quarters by Harmony.

“Yuh won’t have much chance to loaf around,” informed Harmony. “Nothin’ but work around here. Seems like I have it all to do, too. Some day I’m goin’ to start right off across the hills and not quit runnin’ ’till I git so —— far away from a cow ranch that all I’ll ever see of a cow is a pitcher of one on a condensed milk can.”

“Ain’t this a good outfit to work for?” laughed Hashknife.

“Good? Is any of ’em good, I ask yuh? I s’pose that Dad Parker is as good as any to work for. It don’t make much difference who yuh cook for. You’ve got a —— of a job anyway yuh look at it.”

“Miss Parker helps yuh, don’t she?”

“Milly? Help? Yeah.” Harmony spat dryly and turned to the door. “She makes doughnuts. Vincent Roche likes doughnuts. I’ll be —— if I’d make ’em for him.”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I think we’re goin’ to like it around here. It’s quiet, harmless and the food is fair.”

“Fair, eh? Quiet, harmless, ——! Say, how did you fellers happen to come along and land jobs here?”

“Just happened.” Hashknife stretched out on a bunk and squinted up at the ceiling.

“Uh-huh. I heard Cliff talkin’ to Milly after yuh left. He kinda opined that mebbe yuh was sent in here.”

“Sent in here? What for, Harmony?”

“Well, the sheriff ain’t been able to catch the Trey of Spades.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head violently.

“Nothin’ like that, Harmony. We’re just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades don’t bother us, and as long as he lets us alone, we’ll let him alone.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to pump yuh,” reminded Harmony.

“You got any idea who he is?” asked Sleepy.

“Prob’ly.” Harmony grinned and hitched up his belt. “I mostly always do have an idea on things—wrong ideas. If I ever do hit it right I’ll quit cookin’ and buy me a tin star. I seen in a magazine where I can become a detective for a dollar and six-bits, includin’ star. All I’ve got to have is a gun and a clever mind.”

“Yuh could buy a second-hand gun,” grinned Sleepy.

“That’d make me mechanically perfect,” sighed Harmony. “But I’d still be a —— of a good cook.”

For the next few days Hashknife and Sleepy were busy. The home corrals were in a bad state of repair and the line fences had been neglected for months. Dad Parker gave them a free hand. Cliff gave them no assistance. In fact he spent little time at the ranch, and it was hinted that Cliff was “stuck” on a dance-hall girl in Oxbow, who was known as the “Countess.”

“And if that ain’t ——, I’ll eat m’ shirt,” declared Harmony confidentially. “Cliff’s fi-nan-seer is comin’ to visit the ranch in a few days. She’s a dinger of a girl, too. Name’s Dorothy Clement.

“She was here last summer for a couple months. Her and Milly used to go to school together. Cliff got stuck on her last summer and Milly told me that they was goin’ to git married this fall. That’s why Dad helped Cliff to git a start. Done him a —— of a lot of good, didn’t it? Blowed in everythin’ he owned, and now he’s stuck on a dance-hall skirt. Life’s a —— of a queer deal, any old way yuh look at it.”

“We’re all queer,” declared Hashknife.

“Well, I run kinda true to form,” stated Harmony seriously. “I’m a —— fool all the time.”

“Yo’re just a human bein’,” laughed Hashknife. “Mebbe yo’re a little more human than some of ’em, Harmony. What kind of a feller is this Vincent Roche?”

“That’s a question, Hartley. Vint is a wild ridin’, high-rollin’ sort of a jigger. The Diamond V ain’t makin’ no money, but Vint is sure spendin’ a-plenty. His dad left the ranch to him, and he’s made a monkey out of it.

“I’m plumb scared to death that Milly is goin’ to marry him. He’s one of them doughnut eaters and wears plenty of vi’let perfume. But don’tcha ever get the idea that Vint ain’t hard-boiled. Cliff was all right until he got to trailin’ with Vint. ’Course he wasn’t no mamma’s angel child before—but tryin’ to keep up with Vint—” Harmony shook his head sadly. “Well, Cliff is seven kinds of a —— fool, tha’sall.”

“I ain’t seen the preacher around here since Cliff bawled him out,” observed Sleepy.

“Aw, that egg!” Harmony’s nose wrinkled disgustedly. “He’s stuck on Milly, too. I’ve seen that comin’ on for quite a while, but it wasn’t none of my business. He may go to heaven when he dies, but he won’t git far on this earth.”

“Do you know Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.

“Yuh danged right! He’s a tough jigger, Blackie is. Dad told me what happened down at the Cheyenne, and I can say that you was plumb lucky. Blackie’s sudden, y’betcha. And you take my advice—look out fer him.”

Hashknife promised that they would follow his advice, and started for the bunkhouse when Mildred called to them from the front porch. Dad had just come in with the mail, but was not with her.

“Somethin’ we can do, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.

“Come and sit down here on the porch,” said Mildred, and they accepted her invitation. She had a letter in her hand which she had been reading, and there was a worried expression on her face. She hesitated about opening the conversation.

“I just had a letter.” She indicated the one she held. “Dad just brought it from Oxbow, and it is from the girl that Cliff is engaged to marry. She is coming here to spend a month—and Cliff is in town, drunk. Dad tried to get him to come home, but it was no use.

“Dorothy Clements—that is her name—will arrive in Oxbow about five o’clock today, and she expects Cliff to meet her at the train. She thinks that Cliff is an angel.”

Mildred got to her feet and walked to the edge of the porch with the letter clutched tightly in both hands.

“Oh, it is just too bad! Dorothy is a lovely girl. I can’t bear to tell her what has happened to Cliff—but she will have to know. Dad is all broke up over it. Cliff is killing Dad by inches, but Dad says nothing.”

“Yeah, it sure is too bad,” agreed Hashknife softly. “But it might all come out in the wash, ma’am. Do yuh want us to go down and bring her in from Oxbow?”

“Would you?” Quickly. “Dad and I could go, but there is too much danger of us running into Cliff. You know what he is like when he is drunk. He would be sure to suspect that Dorothy was coming in tonight, because he knows that she is coming soon.”

“Won’t it look kinda queer to her to not see any of the family there to meet her?”

“Yes, I suppose it will. But I—I——”

“You go along with us,” suggested Hashknife. “We can give Cliff a bum steer. Leave it to me and Sleepy, will yuh, ma’am?”

“Yes, I will, mister,” mimicking Hashknife’s expression. “Why don’t you call me Milly, like everyone else does? I hate to be called ‘ma’am.’ I won’t mind calling you Hashknife and Sleepy. Harmony told me that you were a couple of non-pa-reels. I don’t know what he meant, but it was quite a lot for Harmony to say about anyone.”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed as they got to their feet.

“All right, Milly,” said Hashknife seriously. “The carriage will be ready any old time yuh say. We’ll hitch that roan team to the spring-wagon, and I’ll betcha Miss Dorothy won’t miss anybody until she gets her breath back ag’in.”

“All right, Hashknife. Better put in some robes, because it will be cool riding home.”

An hour later they drove the half-wild team up to the front of the house, and Sleepy swung to their bits until Mildred was into the seat. Then he swung them around and managed to climb into the rear of the wagon as Hashknife drove them through the gate on the run, swinging into the main road on two wheels, and heading for Oxbow in a cloud of dust.

Cliff Parker’s future had assumed an indigo tint. There was a sour taste of liquor in his mouth, as he leaned against the Cheyenne bar and considered everything in general. The aproned bartender was openly sympathetic and also philosophic.

“They’re all alike,” he told Cliff. “The Countess wasn’t no exception, son. She accepted your money, loved yuh accordingly and then transferred her attentions. I dunno what she can see about Blackie Dahl—but wimmin are queer cattle. Aw, cheer up, Cliff. There’s lots of wimmin’. I’ve been in love lotsa times.”

“Oh, go to ——!” groaned Cliff.

“Hit hard,” observed the bartender to himself, and then to Cliff: “Why don’tcha go home and sober up? You’ve been drunk for a week. Next thing yuh know you’ll be seein’ little red devils with green hats and goggle-eyes. Grab on to yourself.”

Cliff shoved away from the bar, spat viciously and searched his pockets for tobacco and cigarette papers.

“You hadn’t ought to hold no bad feelin’s toward Blackie.” Thus the bartender thoughtfully. “He never took her away from yuh—she just went.”

“Yeah, she just went,” nodded Cliff dryly. “She’s straight as a string, but she didn’t play square. I don’t sabe her. She don’t drink, smoke nor swear.”

“But she sure can sing,” said the bartender. “That’s all Slim hired her for. By golly, she sure don’t have nothin’ to do with anybody, unless she wants to. Next thing we know she’ll be snaggin’ the preacher. Ha, ha, ha! I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Aw, shut up!” Cliff resented this accusation. He hated the minister.

“She’s over in the Rodeo restaurant, eatin’ with Blackie,” continued the bartender. “Prob’ly fried oysters.” That was the bartender’s idea of something out of the ordinary.

Cliff walked outside and leaned against the doorway. It had been an effort for him to keep his hands off the loquacious bartender. He realized for the first time that he was making a fool of himself, bringing disgrace upon his father and sister.

It seemed weeks since he had been home and he wondered, in a detached sort of a way, if every one was all right. His mouth was dry and his throat ached.

“I’m in awful shape,” he told himself. “Kinda jiggly all over. I wonder if that bartender—aw, to —— with the red devils!”

He squinted across the street at the Rodeo restaurant. What was it the bartender had said, he wondered? Wasn’t it something about fried oysters?

“When did I eat last?” he asked himself. He couldn’t remember.

Then he swung away from the building and crossed the street toward the restaurant. As he stepped up on the wooden sidewalk the Countess came out, followed by Blackie Dahl.

The Countess was not of the approved type of dance-hall girl. She was slightly above medium height, slender, graceful. Her face was well modeled, and chemicals had had nothing to do with the tinting of her dark auburn hair.

She was well dressed, with none of the artificial colors and bangles of the honkatonk, and there were no lines of dissipation in her creamy complexion. There was a half-smile on her lips, as she listened to Blackie Dahl who was shutting the door behind them.

Cliff glanced at her, in a detached sort of a way, and almost bumped into Blackie, who tried to step around Cliff to join her. But he did not watch his step, and stumbled over Cliff’s foot, taking a header square into a porch post.

He threw out both hands to save himself, but his head hit the post a resounding whack. An ordinary man would have been knocked unconscious, but Blackie Dahl was no ordinary man—so far as thickness of skull was concerned.

He swore dazedly, got to his feet quickly, and, with only one instinct left—to walk—he strode boldly into a hitch-rack, a few feet away, and was knocked flat on his back.

The Countess did not look at Cliff, who leaned against the café door and gazed seriously upon Blackie’s acrobatics, but there were tears on her cheeks, as she started across the street alone.

Blackie managed to get to his feet, but he was too dazed to understand what had happened to him. He could see the Countess going away from him; so he followed her, or as near as he could, with his erratic course.

“If he was tryin’ to entertain her, he’s loco,” declared Cliff to himself. “She didn’t even wait to see if he got up.”

Then he turned and went into the restaurant.

Five miles of dirt road had taken most of the ambition out of the roan team, and they were willing to stop at a side-street hitch-rack. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the depot with Mildred, where they found that the train was several hours late.

“Isn’t that bad luck!” exclaimed Mildred impatiently. “If we stay here very long, Cliff will surely find us or see that team.”

“Don’t yuh worry about that,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll take care of Cliff for yuh.”

The depot agent came back to the window and looked out at them. He had been in charge of the Oxbow station for years and knew every one.

“Miss Parker, why don’tcha go upstairs and visit with my wife until train time?” he asked. “She don’t have a lot of company, and she’ll be tickled to have you. Supper is almost ready, I think.”

“Oh, that would be just lovely,” agreed Mildred.

“You bet it would,” agreed the agent, laughing. “Come on and I’ll go up with you.”

“That’s sure a swell idea,” grinned Hashknife, patting her on the shoulder. “You go ahead and don’t worry about anythin’. Me and Sleepy will be here when the train comes.”

They left the depot and walked up the street to the Cheyenne, where they ran into Blackie Dahl. Blackie was cold sober, and one of his eyes had assumed a purple shade. He merely nodded to them and walked away. The bartender grinned covertly and set out the glasses.

“I dunno who done it to him, but I think it was Cliff Parker.”

“What did they fight over?” grinned Hashknife.

“Mebbe it was the Countess, I dunno. Cliff left here and I think he went over to the Rodeo restaurant, where Blackie and the Countess was eatin’ oysters, prob’ly. Anyway, it was only a little while until the Countess comes in and goes back toward the dance-hall, with Blackie trailin’ her. He’s sure owl-eyed.”

“Where is Cliff now?” asked Hashknife.

“Gosh, I dunno.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Not so very. He’s kinda got a hang-over. If he don’t brace up he’s goin’ to see things, don’tcha know it? A young feller like him can’t gurgle hooch forever without annexin’ a few queer animals. But he ain’t the kind yuh can advise. Have another on the house—the boss ain’t here.”

They accepted the invitation and strolled around the place. The Cheyenne was quite an institution. The bar-room was about fifty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, adjoining the gambling room, which was of the same proportions, with a wide, arched doorway connecting the two rooms. At the rear was the dance-hall, which was about fifty by thirty, with a small stage built across the right-hand end. Wide doorways opened from both the bar-room and the gambling room.

The appointments were not elegant, but they were substantial. Slim Cole drew the business of Thunder range, and his games were on the square. Over the bar was this caption:

WE ARE NOT IN THIS BUSINESS FOR YOUR HEALTH

And in a huge frame in the gambling room was this statement:

YOUR HOME AND BUSINESS FIRST

We don’t Want Money with Tear Drops on its Trail

“Slim Cole is honest, anyway,” mused Hashknife, as they looked at the framed warning. “‘Tear drops on its trail.’ By golly, there’s a lot of it, Sleepy.”

Some one was playing the piano in the dance-hall, and as they strolled over there a woman began singing. They halted in the big doorway and listened. It was the Countess. A lanky, pasty-faced young man was at the piano, playing her accompaniment.

“She can sing,” muttered Hashknife. “That ain’t no honkatonk voice, Sleepy.”

Slim Cole had come through the gambling room and halted beside them.

“That’s the Countess,” he said softly. “Her stuff is too danged good for these half-drunk punchers. The rest of the girls just whoop or screech their songs, and they make a big hit.”

“She’s pretty, too,” declared Sleepy.

“Yeah, she sure is,” grinned Slim. “But don’t never get the idea that she’s anythin’ but a singer.”

“She kinda hooked Cliff Parker, didn’t she?” queried Hashknife.

“He blew a lot of money on her, if that means anythin’. She keeps ’em off at arm-length and they blow all their money on her. Of course,” Slim grinned, “she’s an asset to my business, even if she does call me Mister Cole.”

“I s’pose,” said Hashknife softly. “Listen!”

The piano was playing softly, and the clear contralto voice was lifted in an old love song, “The Sweetest Story Ever Told.”

The place was silent now, except for the soft voice of the singer.

The singer’s voice died away. Again came the whirr of the roulette wheel, the soft clatter of poker-chips. Hashknife and Sleepy turned away and walked back toward the bar with Slim Cole.

“When it comes to women—I pass,” said Hashknife softly. “That one has the voice of an angel. I’m kinda hard-boiled myself, but she had me takin’ a deep breath. She’s broke Cliff Parker and a lot more, I reckon. A gold digger with a voice of gold. A honkatonk singer, when she might be—well, anythin’.”

“Yore loop’s draggin’,” warned Sleepy softly.

“Yeah, that’s a fact,” admitted Hashknife, and Slim laughed.

“I reckon a woman wouldn’t fool you much, Hartley.”

“One of ’em fooled Adam,” smiled Hashknife. “I don’t know anythin’ about ’em, Slim. Mebbe I’d be the biggest fool in the world—if I tried to find out somethin’ about ’em.”

“Everybody is,” said Sleepy quickly. “The best thing to do is to forget ’em. That’s what I’ve always done.”

“It’s a good idea, I suppose,” agreed Hashknife. “But the good God made us rational critters, and why shouldn’t we hanker for a mate at times. Why even the birds——”

“I’ll remind yuh of this,” interrupted Sleepy seriously. “Next time you tell me that my loop is draggin’, I’ll speak my little piece about the birdies.”

They laughed and moved to the bar, but Hashknife’s face was serious. Slim Cole noticed it with amusement.

“I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do,” he suggested softly. “I’ll take yuh back and introduce yuh to her, Hartley.”

“And he’ll leave his money with me when he does,” declared Sleepy quickly.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, thanks, Slim. It ain’t that serious. Have yuh seen Cliff Parker lately?”

“Not for quite a while. Mebbe he went home.”

“That might be,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll take a look around town.”

They crossed to the Rodeo restaurant and sat down at a table. It was growing dark and the lamps had already been lighted. They asked the waiter if he had seen Cliff Parker, and he took the question under advisement.

“Yeah, he was here just a while ago. I served him with a meal, but he didn’t eat all of it. I’m not sure, but I think he went out the back door.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No-o-o, I don’t think so. He acted sober enough.”

They finished their meal and went out again. It was half an hour before the train would be in.

“We’ll take another look around the Cheyenne,” said Hashknife. “If we don’t find him there, he’s likely gone back to the ranch.”

Before they reached the door they ran into Jud Farley and Buck Hardy.

“Well, how’s the Maverick ranch?” asked Farley, shaking hands with them.

“Fine,” laughed Hashknife. “We haven’t had time to vent many brands yet, but the year is young. How’s crime?”

“Kinda slow. Goin’ in?”

They started in through the doorway, when there came the unmistakable sound of a shot, or an explosion: It was muffled, like a shot fired inside a building, but there was nothing to show them its location.

“That sure sounded like a shot,” said Farley anxiously. “Where did it seem to come from?”

“That’s kinda hard to tell,” replied Hashknife, walking back into the street.

To the left of the Rodeo restaurant was a general store, a vacant building, and next to that was a small jewelry store, in which a single oil lamp gave a poor illumination. It was after closing hours.

Suddenly a man came out of the jewelry store, slammed the door shut behind him and came running across the street. It was the proprietor, a little, fat man, with gray hair and spectacles.

He was so short of breath that he was unable to speak for several seconds. Then he panted:

“I’ve been robbed!”

“Robbed?” blurted Farley. “Held up, yuh mean?”

“Yes, yes! He came in the back door, with a mask on his face. I—I was alone—putting my jewelry into the safe. He held me up and took it all with him. Diamonds——”

“Wait a minute,” begged Farley. “What did he look like, Mr. Freeland?”

“Look like? I don’t know. Ju-just a man, with a mask on his face and a gun in his hand.”

“And he took a shot at yuh, did he?”

“No, he didn’t shoot.”

“There was a shot fired.”

“Tha-that was me. I—I have a shotgun under the counter. As he shut the door, I grasped this gun and fired both barrels at the door, just as it was closing.”

“Think yuh hit him?”

“No, I—I don’t know.”

“Loaded with buckshot?” asked Hashknife.

“No, it wasn’t buckshot; it was birdshot.”

“Was you expecting to be held up by a duck?”

“Probably had a horse out back of the store,” said Farley quickly. “Our horses are here at the rack; so we’ll just see if we can cut his trail. C’mon, Buck.”

They raced for the hitch-rack, mounted and went pounding away in opposite directions, circling that side of the town, while Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the store with the excited owner.

“He was slick,” explained the old man. “Not much talk. Just scooped up everything into his pockets.”

“Here’s his callin’ card,” observed Hashknife, picking it off a show-case and handing it to Freeland. “It’s the Trey of Spades’ trade-mark.”

“And they won’t get him,” wailed the jeweler. “He’s too slick for anything. See where I shot at the door?”

They went back and examined the jeweler’s marksmanship. The two loads of birdshot had plentifully sprinkled the door, but the distance was too great for it to have injured the bandit to any extent, even if part of the pattern had struck him.

“Small shot don’t do very well in a sawed-off gun,” observed Hashknife, as the jeweler exhibited his weapon. “You ought to use buckshot, pardner.”

“I should have kept that back door locked.”

“Nailed,” said Sleepy. “Very few robbers carry claw-hammers.”

“Let’s take a little look around, Sleepy,” suggested Hashknife, and they went out the back door, leaving the jeweler to try and figure out just how much he had lost.

It was quite dark out there and the ground was strewn with the usual litter found at the rear of business houses in small towns; broken boxes, odd pieces of lumber, tin cans. To the right was a low, tight-board fence, which enclosed the rear of the vacant building.

Hashknife scratched a match and cupped it in his palms for a more direct illumination, and as he glanced down at the litter-strewn ground, he whistled softly.

“Come here, Sleepy!” he called softly, as he scratched another match.

Together they bent down, picking up a miscellaneous assortment of jewelry, which seemed to have been strewn broadcast.

“By golly!” exclaimed Sleepy. “He sure must ’a’ been scared to lose all this.”

A groan echoed Sleepy’s exclamation, and they both sprang to their feet. With a couple of long strides Hashknife reached the fence and knelt down again.

“Light another match, Sleepy. Here’s a wounded man.”

Sleepy scratched the match and they looked down into the pale face of Cliff Parker. There was an open cut above his temple which was bleeding freely, and several more tiny spots of blood on his face. The match burned out in Sleepy’s fingers, and he swore softly.

Another match was lighted. A few feet from where Cliff lay was the black mask, lying where it had fallen or been thrown.

“There’s the Trey of Spades, Hashknife,” said Sleepy sadly. “The deadwood is upon him, that’s a cinch.”

“Yeah, that’s so,” agreed Hashknife. “He got some of the shot in his face, too. He probably got stung and dropped some of his loot, and it kinda looks like he ran into the fence and busted his head. A fine finish, Sleepy.”

“Fine for old Dad and Milly.”

Hashknife lifted his head and listened closely. From far away came the sound of a locomotive whistle. He sprang to his feet and grasped Sleepy by the arm.

“You beat it for the depot, Sleepy. Milly won’t think anythin’ of havin’ to walk back to the wagon. She won’t even ask where I am, ’cause she’ll think I’m tryin’ to keep Cliff from findin’ out anythin’; sabe?”

“But what—” began Sleepy.

“Never mind about this end of it, Sleepy. You better rattle yore hocks, cowboy.”

Sleepy grunted softly and circled the store. He knew that Hashknife would do the best thing in regard to Cliff Parker. There was no question in his mind that Cliff Parker was the Trey of Spades, and his heart sank when he thought what it would mean to Dad Parker and Milly.

About midway between the store and the depot he ran into Blackie Dahl, standing in front of a store, but neither of them spoke. Milly had come downstairs and was standing on the depot platform, talking to a man who turned out to be the minister. He spoke to Sleepy, who was panting from his hurried trip. The headlight of the train was already in sight, and they moved back as it approached.

As the train drew to a stop, Milly ran to a car platform and threw her arms around a girl, who was coming down with the assistance of the conductor. Sleepy kept in the background while the two girls finished their greeting, and then secured Miss Clement’s two valises.

“Sleepy, I want you to meet Miss Clement,” said Milly. “Dorothy, this is Mr. Stevens, known as Sleepy.”

“I’m sure pleased to meet yuh,” grinned Sleepy, as they shook hands. “How’s all yore folks?”

“Where is Cliff?” Miss Clement ignored Sleepy’s question.

“Oh, Cliff’s out on the range,” said Milly quickly. “You see, he didn’t know you were to arrive today. He was gone when your last letter reached us, Dorothy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It just seems ages and ages since I saw him.”

“Well, it won’t be long,” assured Milly. “I know he will be greatly put out when he finds out that you arrived when he was away.”

“Put out is just what he will be, that’s a cinch,” said Sleepy to himself. “He was sure ‘out’ when she arrived.”

“We’ll walk to the wagon,” said Sleepy, leading the way. “We was kinda afraid to bring that team up here near the train.”

“That’s all right,” said Milly. “It is such a short distance.”

They found Hashknife sitting on the driver’s seat, but he sprang down at their approach and shook hands with Miss Clement. The two girls occupied the rear seat, and had little chance for conversation on the way to the ranch as the team was inclined to make the greatest possible speed, and Hashknife made little effort to slow them down.

Dad Parker and Harmony met them at the porch and escorted the visitor inside, while Hashknife and Sleepy drove down to the stable and unhooked the team.

“What did yuh do with Cliff?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

Hashknife did not reply. They stabled the horses and came back to the wagon, where Hashknife lifted off the rear seat and climbed into the wagon.

“We’ll slide him out the end, Sleepy. We’ve got to get him into the bunkhouse before anybody sees us.”

“You mean to say——”

“Sure. He’s all wrapped up in robes, and I reckon them two girls had their feet on him all the way back.”

Together they lifted out the robe-wrapped bundle and carried it into the bunkhouse. Hashknife lighted the lamp and they proceeded to remove the robes, disclosing Cliff Parker, with his arms and legs tied and a gag in his mouth. He stared at them, but without recognition.

“I had to make a mummy of him,” explained Hashknife, “so I took a tie-rope. I gagged him, too.”

They removed the ropes, and Hashknife was just starting to investigate the knots in the handkerchief gag, when the door opened and in came Dad Parker. Hashknife groaned softly and stepped aside, while the old man stared at Cliff wonderingly.

He came slowly forward, looking down at his son’s bloody face. His eyes shifted to the loose ropes and he looked at Hashknife, as if begging for an explanation.

“It’s kinda hard luck, Dad,” said Hashknife slowly. “We was tryin’ to fix him up and put him to bed before yuh had a chance to see him.”

“But what does it all mean?” asked Dad hoarsely. “Why is my son in this condition? Why was he bound and gagged?”

Cliff was trying to sit up, and Hashknife swiftly removed the gag. He tried to get to his feet, but was unable to do so alone; so Sleepy helped him onto a bunk, where he flopped full-length.

“Won’t either of you tell me what it means?” asked Dad.

“I’ll tell yuh about it, Dad,” offered Hashknife. “It ain’t somethin’ nice to tell a man about his son, but I reckon you’ve got to know it. It’ll hurt to beat ——, old timer.”

“I want to know about it, Hashknife.”

“All right, Dad.”

And in a few words Hashknife told him about the holdup and of how they had found Cliff with loose jewelry scattered all around him. He told just why he had bound and gagged Cliff, and how they had brought him home without any one suspecting that they had even discovered a clew to the bandit.

“And this means that Cliff is the Trey of Spades?” Dad’s voice broke badly. “Is that it, Hashknife?”

“It sure looks thataway, Dad. Any jury on earth would convict him in a minute.”

The old man bowed his head for several moments, his gnarled hands clutching at his knees. Then he looked up, shaking his head.

“I—I was afraid of this,” he faltered. “The morning that the Cheyenne was held up, Cliff left there at three o’clock. He did not get here until about eleven. What is there left to do, except to turn him over to the sheriff?”

“Think it over quite a lot,” replied Hashknife slowly. “We’ll have to let Harmony in on it, I reckon. Sleepy will go up there and get some hot water and rags. We’ll prob’ly have to find some tweezers and a razor, ’cause we’ve got to get them shot out of his face. Mebbe Harmony’s got what we need, Sleepy.”

Cliff made no objections to having Hashknife remove his clothes and put him to bed. He was in a dazed condition, but did not seem to be suffering greatly.

Dad picked up his soiled coat and felt in a pocket. His hand came out, holding a jewel case, which he opened under the light of the lamp. It contained a string of imitation pearls, which would cost about fifty dollars.

Hashknife squinted at them thoughtfully.

“Hide ’em, Dad,” he advised. “They’re evidence against him.”

“I’ve never broken the law yet,” said Dad firmly.

“All right,” Hashknife reached over and took the case. “You won’t be breakin’ any law by keepin’ your mouth shut, will yuh?”

“No, I—I suppose not. But you can’t evade——”

“It has been done,” interrupted Hashknife. “Do you realize what this means, Dad? Do you know what it would mean for Milly?”

Before the old man could reply, Sleepy and Harmony came in, carrying a kettle of hot water, some rags and a towel. Sleepy had told Harmony part of the story, or at least enough to keep him from asking too many questions.

“Harmony had some tweezers,” said Sleepy, “and there’s a razor here. We brought some of that stickum-tape, too.”

With the able assistance of Sleepy, Hashknife managed to clean out Cliff’s wound, bind it up; and by dint of perseverance he succeeded in taking the six birdshot out of his cheeks and forehead. Several more left scratches, which would soon heal.

The pain of the crude surgery had revived Cliff, who looked at them wonderingly.

“What in —— is goin’ on around here?” he muttered, trying to sit up.

“Better stay where yuh are, Cliff,” advised Harmony.

“Huh?” Cliff felt of his bandaged head. “Must have got hit, eh? How did I get home?”

“You try sleepin’ for a while,” advised Hashknife. “In the mornin’ we’ll answer questions.”

He slumped back on his pillow, squinting painfully at the ceiling. Dad Parker turned wearily to the door and Hashknife walked out with him.

“Don’t worry about this, Dad,” he advised. “Let me and Sleepy handle it for yuh. If we can keep Cliff under cover for a few days he’ll be as good as new. Nobody suspects him, don’tcha see?”

“I see,” Dad Parker sighed deeply, turned and went slowly to the house.

Hashknife watched him enter the house. Silhouetted against one of the windows were the two girls, talking. Their shadows turned away at the entrance of the old man. Overhead a star-jeweled sky lighted up the hills, and on the jagged top of the Thunder range, a silvery crescent moon seemed to balance on one tip.

Hashknife breathed deeply and turned back to the bunkhouse where he found Harmony and Sleepy talking softly. Cliff was asleep.

“You fellers take care of him,” said Hashknife softly. “I’m goin’ back to town and see what the sheriff found out.”

He picked up his hat and turned to the door.

“Why, even the birds—” Thus Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife squinted at him, and a grin flashed across his lips.

“Yeah, even the little birds, Sleepy.”

He shut the door softly behind him and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and rode swiftly away toward town. He had no clear conception of just how he was going to keep Cliff under cover until his face was healed. Hashknife was not in the habit of trying to defeat justice; rather he had upheld the law during most of his career.

“The Trey of Spades will disappear, it will be a lesson to Cliff, and everybody will be happy—I hope,” he told himself.

He found the sheriff at his office, talking with Buck and the jeweler. Their ride had been in vain.

“We wondered what had become of you, Hartley,” said Farley.

Hashknife told them of the arrival of Miss Clement, and that he had hurried as fast as possible to get back to town.