Front matter (continued 2)

Hashknife drew up at the rim and scanned the country beyond, but there was no one in sight. The gulch was heavily timbered and extended far beyond him. He hesitated only for a moment and then rode slowly down through the trees, watching closely. The timber was so thick that he knew the man’s rifle would be of little advantage.

At the bottom was a deeply rutted cattle-trail, and a small trickle of water showed the presence of a spring farther up the gulch. He stopped in a thicket beside the trail and waited.

From the top of a dead cottonwood a mourning dove called softly, monotonously. Farther up the gulch a family of magpies started an argument, and Hashknife smiled at the great similarity to human voices. The old trail was deep with dust, which would muffle the sound of passing hoofs.

Suddenly a jack-rabbit flashed into sight, bounding along the trail like a gray shadow. It passed out of sight, leaving a faint cloud of dust in its wake.

Hashknife hunched lower in his saddle. Something had frightened the rabbit and that something was probably coming up the trail.

Then came the muffled plop, plop of a horse walking in deep dust, and out of the brush-lined trail came a horse and rider. Hashknife leaned forward and lowered his gun. It was Mary O’Hara!

Her sorrel horse was streaked with sweat and dust and appeared so weary that it did not even sense the presence of Hashknife’s mount, passing within twenty feet and fading out in the brush beyond.

Hashknife made no move until a full minute after she had passed; then he rode out of the heavy thicket and went down the trail, wondering what it all meant. What was Mary O’Hara doing there? Had she met the man who had done the shooting?

He watched closely as he followed the trail, but there was no sign of any one in the gulch. It was impossible to distinguish tracks in the deep dust; even the tracks of Mary’s mount were but hillocks of dust. He rode out at the forks and swung wide of the brush to circle Romaine’s fence.

He rode over to the ranch-house porch, where Sleepy was sitting. Four horses were tied to the porch-posts, and lying on the porch was a man, his head bolstered on a folded coat.

“See anythin’ more of him?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and dismounted. The man was unconscious, mumbling incoherently.

“Splinter See,” said Sleepy. “Got hit in the shoulder. Pat Haley’s gone after a doctor and a rig to take him to town in.”

“Was that Haley?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. He got his eyes full of sand from a 30-30 bullet and can’t see very well, but it didn’t stop him from doin’ a complete job of cussin’.”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret as he considered Mary O’Hara. She had known that Pat Haley was coming after Shell Romaine, and apparently had cut across the hills to warn Shell.

“Hurt kinda bad, ain’t he?” queried Hashknife.

“I betcha. Me and Pat looked him over, but it’s a job for a doctor. Didn’tcha see nobody, Hashknife?”

“Seen Mary O’Hara.”

Sleepy looked blankly at Hashknife.

“Mary O’Hara?”

Hashknife explained where he had seen her, and Sleepy swore softly.

“Goin’ to tell Pat Haley?”

“Nope. I figure that she knew that Pat was comin’ over here after Shell; so she packed a warnin’ to him, and he stayed long enough to do some shootin’.”

“And now the whole —— country’ll be on his trail,” declared Sleepy. “He didn’t use no judgment.”

“I don’t sabe him,” admitted Hashknife. “There’s a lot of things around this range that I don’t sabe.”

“Well,” observed Sleepy, “things must be in a —— of a muddle when you’ll plead ignorance, cowboy.”

It was about an hour later when Pat Haley arrived. He was ably assisted by several of Moon Flats’ leading citizens, among which were Maldeen and Jim Searles. The doctor was not available, so they did not wait for him.

The men were vociferous in the denunciation of Shell Romaine, and assured each other that his demise was but a question of a short time. They loaded the injured deputy into the wagon-box and trooped back toward town. Hashknife asked Haley to take back the livery horses, and after they were on their way Hashknife and Sleepy secured their saddles and bridles.

“I reckon that Shell Romaine is kinda up against it,” said Sleepy as they mounted.

“Sure looks thataway,” grinned Hashknife. “Everybody seems to be goin’ after him.”

“Kinda spikes our job,” complained Sleepy. “About the only thing we can do is to set around and look on.”

“Well, we sure can do that, can’t we?” grinned Hashknife.

“Lotsa worse things than settin’ around. Let’s go back and see if Joe Wicks has thought up any new cuss words.”

They went back across the hills and dropped down into Joe Wicks’ road, where they ran into old Joe astride a moth-eaten gray horse. He was heading toward home, so they swung in beside him. Joe was just as dirty and unkempt as before, but he was painfully sober.

“What the —— yo’ want?” Joe’s inevitable question.

“How is the little girl, Joe?” asked Hashknife.

Joe squinted at Hashknife but did not answer.

“Rock didn’t hurt her much, did it?”

Joe shook his head. He was evidently not in any mood for conversation.

“Is Henry Dryden goin’ to marry her?” asked Sleepy.

“No, by ——!”

Joe woke up explosively.

“Henry’s a good feller,” said Hashknife.

“——fool!” grunted Joe. “My girl too good for him, by ——!”

“He probably wants her to marry a king,” grinned Sleepy.

They rode out of the willows and up the slope to the house. A tall roan horse was tied to the porch, and Joe Wicks swore fluently, hammering his old gray into a trot. He dropped off before reaching the porch and ran the rest of the way. Hashknife and Sleepy rode up, but did not get off their horses.

Inside the house, Joe Wicks was discoloring the air with profanity, and a moment later Henry Horsecollar came backing out of the door, followed by Joe. Henry did not see the two men beside the porch.

“Yo’ go to —— out of here!” yelped Joe, waving his arms wildly. “You le’ my Marie alone! Hyak klatawa!”

“Klatawa your own self, you —— breed!” snorted Henry. “Keep yore dirty paws off me or I’ll knock yuh plumb into the Happy Huntin’-Ground!”

“Yo’ go ’way, —— quick!” shrilled Joe. “Yo’ not marry my girl, yo’ —— right!”

Just then Marie came out of the door and Joe shoved her aside.

“Yo’ keep to —— out of this!”

“You keep your paws off her!” howled Henry. “Leggo her, Joe!”

“Yeh?”

Joe leered at Henry.

“Yo’ make me, eh? Huh!”

Joe whirled Marie toward him and slapped her across the cheek—probably to show Henry Horsecollar that Marie was his property to do with as he pleased.

Marie jerked back, throwing Joe off his balance, and in that fraction of a second Henry Horsecollar sprang in and smashed Joe flush in the face. It was a terrific punch, which started back about two feet behind Henry’s right hip, described the arc of a circle and connected perfectly with the head of Joseph Wicks.

And the said Joe Wicks seemed to lift off the floor, straightened out to an angle of forty-five degrees and floated off the porch, where he fell limply among his colony of mongrel dogs.

Henry blew on his sore knuckles and stared at Marie, who was looking at Hashknife and Sleepy. He turned and looked foolishly at them.

“Henry, you sure can hit,” applauded Sleepy.

“Uh-huh,” admitted Henry. “Y’betcha I can.”

They watched Joe Wicks get to his feet and look around. He was very dignified and very erect. Twice he turned around as if surveying the country, and then started out toward his corral, weaving like a drunken man with his whole pack of dogs barking at his heels. The running-gears of an old buggy barred his trail; but he walked into it, fell down and went to sleep while the dogs all sat down around him and barked at each other.

Marie turned and walked into the house, and after a moment’s hesitation Henry followed her in.

“Yuh gotta hand it to Henry for bein’ a Romeo,” said Hashknife. “A father-in-law don’t mean nothin’ to him.”

“He’ll likely come out, draggin’ her by the hair,” grinned Sleepy, but he was wrong.

Henry came out alone, rather sad of face, and mounted his horse.

“Goin’ back to the ranch?” queried Hashknife.

“Uh-huh.”

They rode down past Joe Wicks, but he paid no attention to them.

“He’ll likely beat that girl after he wakes up,” said Hashknife.

Henry started to go back, but changed his mind and rode on with them.

“Prob’ly will,” he agreed sadly. “Mebbe he’ll beat some sense into her—I dunno.”

“Ain’t she got no sense?” queried Sleepy. “She says she can’t marry me.”

“Mebbe she don’t love yuh, Henry,” offered Hashknife.

“My ——!” exclaimed Henry seriously. “Now I never thought of that!”

“Didn’t yuh ever ask her if she loved yuh?”

“No-o-o, I never did. By gosh, mebbe that’s why she can’t marry me. Whatcha know about that?”

“And,” declared Sleepy, “all that hammerin’ on her pa’s head ain’t goin’ to git yuh no votes from her.”

“Huh!”

Henry squinted both eyes and rubbed his right ear thoughtfully.

“Love’s a —— of a thing, ain’t it?”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife.

The shooting of Splinter See and the open defiance of Shell Romaine furnished food for conversation in the Mission rangeland. Splinter was still alive, but badly injured. Ma Haley was a more than willing nurse, and old Dr. Goodsell was thankful for her assistance.

“When do ye look for a crisis?” inquired Pat.

“Crisis ——!” exploded the old doctor. “When you get hit with a 30-30, that’s the crisis—right then. If you survive the shock you’ll get well—maybe.”

Contrary to expectations Pat Haley did not swear in a big posse of men and go hunting for Shell Romaine. The county offered a thousand dollars for his arrest, and the express company offered two thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the conviction of the bandit who robbed the express-car near Clevis Creek.

To many folk it was a foregone conclusion that Shell Romaine had robbed the train, and his early appearance in Moon Flats was but a part of his defiance of the law. Since Splinter was shot, cowboys rode the range with rifles handy—partly for protection, partly to try and collect the reward.

Mary O’Hara went softly about her work, taking little interest in things, paying little attention to those who came to see Ma Haley’s patient. But Cal Severn did not come again, and Ma Haley shook her head sadly.

She knew that Mary was unhappy, but was unable to decide whether it was from the fact that Cal did not come any more, or— Ma Haley sighed deeply and reminded herself that the heart of a maid is a queer machine, so it is.

And Cal Severn seemed very unhappy, morose. He had little to say to Hashknife and Sleepy, but vented his spleen on Henry Horsecollar, whose hide was so thick that sarcasm and insult failed to penetrate.

“If I was you, I’d bulldog that hombre,” declared Sleepy, disgusted at Henry’s indifference to Severn’s vitriolic tongue.

“He’s hard to comb,” replied Henry. “Fightin’ whelp, that feller is, y’betcha.”

“Then why not pistol-whip him?”

“And be out of a job, eh?”

“——!” breathed Sleepy. “You can’t beat humanity.”

Mort Lee came out to the Diamond-S and talked with Severn. It was a lengthy conversation, and when Mort Lee left the ranch he was so drunk that he lost his hat as he mounted his horse, and did not go back after it. Severn seemed to be cold sober. He studied the hat for a while, kicked it aside and went back in the house.

Hashknife was perched on the corral fence and observed all this. There was nothing strange that Mort Lee should come to see Cal Severn; nothing strange that Mort Lee should get drunk and lose his hat; but it caused Hashknife to think deeply. He wondered whether Mort Lee had seen Shell Romaine, and just why he had been looking for Romaine the day that they had been ambushed at the Romaine ranch.

Why had Cal Severn appeared friendly to Mort Lee, and then kicked so savagely at Mort’s hat after Mort had ridden away? That trifling act whispered to Hashknife that Cal Severn was not friendly to Mort Lee.

Sleepy came from the bunk-house and climbed up on the fence.

“Whatcha worryin’ about?” he demanded of Hashknife. “Yore nose is plumb tied in a knot.”

Hashknife continued to squint thoughtfully.

“The Great Stone Face,” observed Sleepy, “has puzzled scientists for a million years. What is it thinkin’ about? Say, I reckon I talked Henry Horsecollar into stickin’ up for himself, Hashknife.”

Hashknife merely grunted and glanced toward the house, where Cal Severn was standing on the porch. He was looking down toward the bunk-house, and in a moment he left the house and walked down that way. He showed no effects of drink, except that he walked a trifle more erect than ever.

He went into the bunk-house and shut the door behind him.

“Henry’s in for another bawlin’-out,” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno how he stands it, Hashknife.”

“Henry’s a danged jelly-fish,” grunted Hashknife. “He might fight like he did over at Joe Wicks’ place—kinda like an animal protectin’ its mate; but nobody can insult him and make him fight. He’s just about fool-proof.”

“He sure is. Did Mort Lee go back?”

“Uh-huh. Drunker than a whangdoodle. Lost his hat when he forked his bronc, and after he was gone, Severn kicked —— out of the poor old hat.”

Sleepy grinned and began the manufacture of a cigaret. The bunk-house door banged open, and Cal Severn came out, kicked the door shut and went down to the barn, where he began saddling his horse.

“Look!” gasped Sleepy, pointing at the bunk-house.

Henry Horsecollar was standing in the doorway, dangling to the sides of the door with both hands, while he carefully felt for the one step with his foot. Then he came out, looked all around and weaved slowly toward the corral.

Cal Severn mounted and rode past him, but Henry Horsecollar did not look at him; neither did Severn even give Henry a passing glance. Henry came up to the corral fence and looked up at Hashknife and Sleepy. Henry’s two eyes were swollen almost shut, his upper lip stuck out like a duck’s bill and the two front teeth in his lower jaw were missing.

“You—you—give me thom good advith, like ——!” lisped Henry painfully.

“My gosh, what happened to you?” gasped Hashknife.

“Well,” mumbled Henry, caressing his swollen lip and trying to open his eyes wide enough to see his listeners, “well, I told you he wath a fightin’ thon-of-a-gun, didn’t I? He asked me to thaddle his horth and I thought it wath a good time to atthert my independenth.”

Henry twisted his face and spat painfully.

“I told him to go to ——.”

“And he didn’t want to go?” queried Hashknife.

“He didn’t thay.”

Henry shook his head.

“Anyway he didn’t go thoon enough. By ——, I’m all through taking advith, and that’s a thinch. I’m got thom brains now, y’betcha.”

“Then you ain’t so much loser, after all,” said Hashknife. “Swellin’ will go down, but brains remain.”

“Better go and ask the cook for some beefsteak,” advised Sleepy. “That’ll take out the swellin’.”

“More advith?” queried Henry seriously.

“I’m advisin’ yuh what to do to take out the swellin’, thassall!”

“Thankth.”

Henry squinted painfully toward the ranch-house, squared away and went seeking raw meat.

“He sure stuck up for himself,” observed Hashknife.

“Yeah,” sadly. “I sure feel sorry for Henry. Severn has got him buffaloed for fair. Somebody told Henry that Severn was a —— of a fighter, and Henry believed it.”

“Lookin’ at Henry,” said Hashknife, “I’d be kinda inclined to think that Henry heard a lot of truth. Let’s go to Moon Flats and see if there is any late scandal.”

Mary O’Hara was standing in the kitchen door, looking off across the hazy hills, when Hashknife and Sleepy rode up and tied their horses to the fence. She smiled wistfully as they came up to her.

“Yo’re lookin’ mighty pretty t’day,” grinned Sleepy.

“Why emphasize ‘t’day?’” asked Hashknife reprovingly, and Sleepy blushed bashfully.

“Pat out huntin’ bushwhackers?” asked Sleepy.

Mary’s smile faded, and Hashknife scowled at Sleepy, who fingered his hat and tried to think of something to say that would mend matters. Ma Haley spied them and came bustling out.

“Why do ye come sneakin’ in the back way?” she asked. “Ain’t the front way wide enough, or—” she glanced at Mary and smiled knowingly—“was there an attraction?”

“There was,” nodded Hashknife. “How is the sick man t’day?”

“Cranky as the ——, if ye please. I think he’s gettin’ well too fast. Won’t ye come in? Pat’s out in the hills today.”

“Sleepy will go in,” said Hashknife. “He likes to talk to you about nursin’; don’t yuh, Sleepy?”

Sleepy squinted closely at Hashknife and was about to protest, but nodded understandingly and followed Ma Haley into the house. Mary watched them go inside and turned to Hashknife as if wondering why he sent them away.

“I wanted to talk to yuh,” said Hashknife softly.

“Yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife examined the palm of his right hand for a space of time as if wondering just where to begin.

“Things ain’t just right around this country,” he observed. “’Pears to be a lot of unhappiness. Mebbe it ain’t nothin’ I can mend, but I’d sure like to try.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Hartley?”

“I like to see folks smile, Miss Mary. Me and Sleepy are just a pair of common old range tramps—not much good for anythin’, never havin’ anythin’ except the smiles we’ve helped to bring to humanity.”

“I don’t think I understand,” said Mary softly, wonderingly.

“Nobody does,” admitted Hashknife, “until after the smile comes—then they know.”

“But what do you want of me, Mr. Hartley?”

“Well—” Hashknife hesitated—“I’m goin’ to ask yuh a personal question. I don’t reckon you’ll care to answer it, but nobody ever gets real smart without askin’ questions. What did you and Cal Severn quarrel about?”

Mary was staring at him; but her lips shut tight, and she turned away. Hashknife reshaped his sombrero while he waited for Mary to consider the question.

“Why do you ask me that question?”

“Just—kinda—wantin’ to know, miss.”

“Oh!” softly. “Why should you be interested?”

“Well, I can’t just come out and tell yuh, but it ain’t just curiosity. I reckon I know how yuh feel about things. I’m a lot older than you, Mary O’Hara; and I ain’t makin’ love to yuh.”

Hashknife’s homely grin brought a smile to Mary’s serious face.

“But just the same,” continued Hashknife, “I don’t reckon that age ever stops a man from lovin’ a sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” smiled Mary. “I shall remember that.”

They were both silent for a few moments, and then Mary smiled sadly and said:

“I don’t know why you want to know what happened between Cal Severn and me, but I feel that it is not just curiosity; so I will tell you. He accused me of meeting Shell Romaine in the hills.”

She flushed hotly and shut her lips.

“Thank you, miss,” nodded Hashknife. “Thassall. I reckon I’ll go in and see the sick man.”

As he started in through the door he met Sleepy.

“Patient’s asleep,” whispered Sleepy, “and Ma’s in there fannin’ the flies off him. By grab, it’s a cinch to be sick around here.”

“I reckon we’ll drift up-town then,” stated Hashknife. “And don’t forget the smiles, Mary O’Hara.”

“I’ll try to remember them,” she assured him.

“What’s goin’ on around here?” grinned Sleepy as they rode toward the street. “You tryin’ to make a mash on the fair lady?”

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife absently.

They tied their horses to the Moon Flats saloon hitch-rack and went inside. There were several horses at the rack, and among them was Cal Severn’s horse and Mort Lee’s brown mare.

Maldeen, Severn, Monte Barnes, Newt Bowie and another cowboy were playing poker. It was too early in the day for a heavy play, and the rest of the games were deserted. Jim Searles was sitting behind Severn, watching his play.

The bartender had moved all the glassware from the back-bar and was industriously painting a soap picture on the bar mirror, while in front of the bar a couple of the dance-hall girls offered frank criticism of his skill.

The men at the poker game looked up as Hashknife and Sleepy came in, but none of them spoke. The girls moved away from the bar and went to the rear of the room, while Hashknife and Sleepy made known their wants to the bartender.

Hashknife studied the soap picture. It was well drawn, and depicted a bucking horse almost unseating its rider. Hashknife frowned and bent his head over his glass, but in a moment he shot a searching glance at the bartender and said, with a grin—

“‘Soapy’ Evans, I had a hard time rememberin’ you.”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed perceptibly as he stared at Hashknife and said coldly:

“You got the name wrong, pardner; my name’s Hill.”

“Thassall right,” nodded Hashknife. “Hill’s as good as Evans. You can’t hardly help paintin’ soap pictures, can yuh? Remember the one you painted on the lookin’-glass in Bill Bird’s place in Elkton?”

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about,” growled the bartender. “I never was in Elkton.”

“My mistake,” said Hashknife quickly. “It was in Bearpaw.”

The argument had been loud enough for those at the poker table to hear it, and Hashknife turned to see Maldeen looking closely at him.

“What’s the argument?” asked Maldeen.

“I called yore bartender Soapy Evans, and he kicked about it.”

Maldeen laughed.

“His name is Hill. He’s been working for me almost two years.”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If two years’ work will change a man’s name from E to H—mine’s Zachariah.”

Maldeen snorted and turned back to his cards, and after a moment Hashknife and Sleepy rattled their spurs out of the front door.

“Where in —— did you ever know anybody by the name of Soapy Evans?” demanded Sleepy as they sat down on the edge of the sidewalk away from the Moon Flats saloon.

“Never did know him,” grinned Hashknife. “About two years ago I dropped in at the Cross-in-a-Box outfit in Wyoming for a few days. One of the punchers was tellin’ us about Soapy Evans. Seems that he knowed Soapy for a long time, but kinda lost track of him.

“One night a gamblin’-house in a town near there was robbed—safe blowed open. Whoever done the job knocked a watchman on the head and finished up the job by paintin’ a picture in soap on the mirror.

“This puncher said he knowed danged well that Soapy done the job on account of the good drawin’ on that mirror, but he never told on Soapy. I reckon it was partly because he was a friend of Soapy’s and partly because he was afraid Soapy might find it out and come callin’.”

“I betcha this is the same whippoorwill,” declared Sleepy. “He sure acted guilty as ——; don’tcha know he did? And he’s been with Maldeen for two years.”

“Let’s get some information,” suggested Hashknife, and led the way over to Bill Eagles’ merchandise store.

Mort Lee was in there, or rather was just coming out as they went in. Mort was still half-drunk and in a rather hilarious mood. He was wearing a new hat which did not fit him very well, and this fact seemed to amuse him greatly.

He went weaving toward the Moon Flats, taking up much more than his share of the street. Hashknife went up to the counter and replenished his stock of tobacco. Bill Eagles was a squat-figured, dark-faced man with keen brown eyes and a wide-mouthed smile.

“Mort lost his hat,” he volunteered. “Mostly allus does lose his hat when he gets drunk.

“You fellers are working for Cal Severn, ain’t yuh? Thought yuh was. How’s Henry Horsecollar these days? Ain’t seen him lately. Saw Pat Haley ride past a while ago, but he didn’t have no prisoner.

“I jist got some fresh sardines and a barrel of crackers in if you fellers are hongry. Got a lot of nice canned peaches, too. Thirty-five cents a can. Ain’t such big cans, but them peaches are dingers.

“Got two kinds of sardines this time. One kind is in big cans and all kinda gooied up with mustard. Fat Kahler ate two cans and they made him kinda sick. I been wonderin’ if they’re all right.”

Bill Eagles stopped for breath and handed some tobacco to Hashknife.

“How long has Maldeen owned the Moon Flats?” queried Hashknife.

“How long? Hm-m-m—lemme see. Why, I reckon about two years. He bought out——”

“How long has Hill been tendin’ bar for him?”

“Hill? Lemme see. Why, he came here with Maldeen. I allus figured that Hill owned an interest in the Moon Flats.”

“Didja ever see any of Hill’s soap pictures on the saloon mirror?”

Bill Eagles looked blank and shook his head.

“I never seen none. Ain’t sure I know what yuh mean.”

“Pictures painted with soap on a lookin’-glass.”

“No, I never see any.”

“All right; give us some of them mustard-soaked sardines and some crackers.”

“Yuh heard what I said about them peaches, didn’t yuh?”

Bill Eagles did not want them to overlook their dessert.

“And some peaches,” agreed Hashknife, sitting up on the counter.

Bill Eagles spread a piece of paper on the counter and laid out the lunch, keeping up a rapid-fire of comment on range happenings, asking questions and never waiting for an answer.

About fifteen minutes later Monte Barnes and Newt Bowie came into the store. Hashknife invited them to dine, and they lost no time complying. Bill Eagles opened another can of sardines and more peaches and invited himself into the feed without an invitation.

“Game busted up,” Newt informed them with his mouth filled. “Me and Monte won six dollars and forty cents. Severn said it wasn’t interesting to play four-bits-a-stack; so we cashed in and busted up the game. Say, what was you kiddin’ Hill about?”

“Mistook him for another feller,” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah?”

Monte squinted at Hashknife.

“He got mad and wiped out that soap horse after you left. Gosh, that feller sure can draw! Maldeen said it was a —— of a thing to put on a lookin’-glass, and Hill rubbed it out.”

The conversation turned to Shell Romaine and the express-car robbery.

“Shell came to Moon Flats that mornin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Newt. “Me and Monte run into him early in the mornin’.”

“Wonder where he is now,” said Hashknife.

“I betcha he’s up in the Sulphur Cliff country,” said Monte. “That’s about the only place a feller could hide out around here unless he hived up in the breaks between this place and Mission River, which ain’t noways likely.”

“Where are the Sulphur Cliffs?” asked Hashknife.

“Back on Clevis Creek about ten or twelve miles from here.”

“But why should he stay around here?” queried Hashknife. “Ain’t nothin’ to keep him from pullin’ out of this country, is there?”

“I been wonderin’ about that myself,” declared Monte, “and she kinda looks to me like he was hangin’ around until he finds the old man’s cache. Yuh see, the old man must ’a’ lifted a fortune.”

“Yeah; but Shell must ’a’ had some of that thirty thousand dollars he helped steal from the bank at Sula,” argued Bill Eagles. “What more would he want? My ——, if I had thirty thousand dollars—uh-uh-h-h-h!”

Came the unmistakable thud of a pistol-shot. At the moment Monte was holding half-a-can of sardines, which fell from his hand, caromed from his toe and landed upside down on the none too clean floor.

“Somebody’s shootin’!” exclaimed Bill Eagles.

“Nervous, like old wimmin!” complained Newt. “Actin’ like a pistol-shot was somethin’ unheard of.”

Nevertheless they all moved toward the front of the store and looked out. Doc Maldeen and Jim Searles came out of the Moon Flats, and Searles started for the hitch-rack; but Maldeen called sharply to him, and he stopped. After a short conversation Searles turned and started down the street toward the sheriff’s office.

Hashknife flung open the door and started across the street, with the others strung out behind him. Maldeen looked across at them and went hurriedly back into the saloon.

Inside the saloon they found Mort Lee lying half-under the poker table, flat on his face with both arms flung wide. The elbow of his right arm was resting on a Colt revolver. Cal Severn was standing at the end of the bar, leaning on one elbow, while Maldeen stood near the card-table. The bartender was leaning on the bar with his chin cupped in his hands, looking down at Mort Lee. The air was still acrid from powder-smoke.

The men from the store stopped just inside the door and considered the tragedy.

“He tried to shoot Searles,” volunteered Maldeen, “but Jim beat him on the draw.”

“What was the row about?” queried Bill Eagles.

“Just a fool thing.”

Maldeen shook his head.

“Mort wanted to play Jim a game of seven-up for the drinks. They both had six, don’tcha see, and Jim, who was dealing, turned a jack. Mort swore that Jim cheated. That’s where it started.”

“Jim went to give himself up.” This from Severn.

“Is he dead?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Maldeen nodded. “Drilled plumb center.”

“How in —— do you know?” flashed Hashknife. “Did yuh turn him over after he was shot?”

Maldeen was flustered for a moment and groped for a reply; but at that instant footsteps sounded outside the door, and Pat Haley came in with Searles. Pat glanced around the room and went straight to Lee. He shoved the table away and knelt down.

“Help me turn him over, somebody.”

Maldeen assisted him, and they placed Lee on his back. Lee’s face was ashen, and the breast of his faded shirt was sloppy with blood. Pat grasped his limp wrist for a moment and looked up at the circle of faces.

“Somebody rustle around and find Dr. Goodsell while we take this feller down to my place. He sure ain’t dead yet. Get a blanket for a stretcher.”

Some one found a blanket; and Hashknife, Sleepy, Monte Barnes and Pat Haley carried Lee down to Haley’s home, where Ma Haley welcomed them with open arms. The doctor was ready for the job when they arrived, and his swift diagnosis showed that Mort Lee had a fighting chance.

Pat Haley singled out Cal Severn and asked him about the shooting. Severn’s evidence was the same as that given by Maldeen—exonerating Searles. Mort Lee was drunk, quarrelsome, but not too drunk to draw a gun. It was a simple case of self-defense.

But Hashknife was dissatisfied, and did not conceal his feelings. Why didn’t some one stop Mort Lee from starting the quarrel? He was drunk and irresponsible; probably fumbled considerably, trying to draw a gun. Why did three other men stand aside and let it end in powder-smoke?

It was in the Moon Flats that Hashknife sounded his queries, which only brought blank or black looks from the witnesses to the affair. Only Maldeen resented it openly, and his resentment took the form of sarcasm.

“Some of these tramp cowpunchers wear kinda long horns,” he observed to Severn, who did not reply, but half-smiled in agreement.

“And some of ’em kinda hookum-cow,” remarked Hashknife meaningly.

Maldeen leaned against the bar and studied Hashknife. There was no doubt in Maldeen’s mind that this lanky cowboy was well able to take care of himself. The wide holster and heavy gun, hanging low on his hip, were too well-worn for ornaments.

“Well, mebbe it was kinda foolish of us,” admitted Maldeen, “but it all happened so quick, don’tcha see?”

Maldeen’s inventory of Hashknife had caused him to assume a conciliatory tone, but Hashknife was not to be won over by soft words.

“Quick, ——! Didn’t they argue over the turnin’ of that jack? They must ’a’ been standin’ up when they was arguin’, or Mort Lee wouldn’t ’a’ fell under the table in that position.”

“Yo’re quite a detective, ain’tcha?” sneered Maldeen.

“No, but I’ve got sense enough to smell a frame-up that’s as raw as this one.”

“What do yuh mean by that?”

Severn whirled on Hashknife, his face black with anger.

“You better take that back!”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife laughed in Severn’s face and shook his head.

“Them are my sentiments, pardner, and I’ll hang on to ’em until Mort Lee gets well enough to tell me I was wrong.”

“‘Tend to yore own knittin’, Hashknife,” said Sleepy. “I’m estimatin’ the rest of the crowd.”

Sleepy had backed against the bar, where he could keep an eye on every one, and he did not want Hashknife to worry about outside-interference.

Just then came the scrape of a boot on the threshold, and Pat Haley came bustling in. He stopped and looked at Hashknife and Cal Severn, facing each other in the middle of the room, and his eyes shifted around the place.

“The doctor,” he said distinctly, “says that Mort Lee will pull through. And I want ye to distinctly understand that the next cripple will have to be shipped to a hospital, ’cause Ma Haley’s extra beds are all full.”

Severn turned and walked away. The tension of the room relaxed, and Maldeen offered to set up drinks; but Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, where they mounted and rode out of town.

“Do you think that was a smart thing to do?” queried Sleepy as they swung into the Diamond-S road.

“What do yuh mean—callin’ ’em on that frame-up?”

“Are yuh sure it was a frame-up, Hashknife?”

“I think so, Sleepy. Anyway I sure got a rise out of Cal Severn. He’ll fight, that’s a cinch.”

“That’s a —— of a lot of satisfaction,” dryly. “Didja ever stop to think that we came here for a purpose, Hashknife? We didn’t come here to do battle with the natives.”

“No-o-o, that’s right,” admitted Hashknife; “but in the course of human events it become necessary to horn in and show some folks their errors. Mort Lee don’t mean anythin’ to me or you, except that I’d sure like to know why Mort Lee was looking for Shell Romaine, and why Cal Severn kicked his hat.”

“That don’t mean nothin’,” declared Sleepy. “Yo’re allus makin’ a mountain out of a mole-hill, cowboy.”

“Sleepy—” Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and considered his companion seriously—“tell me just how you figure things up to date? Lookin’ at it from yore angle, what does all this shootin’ amount to?”

“Well, I dunno,” faltered Sleepy. “Kinda looks like Shell Romaine was makin’ good, don’t it? The Black Rider is under the sod; Shell Romaine is holed up. Mebbe he mistook me and you for the sheriff and deputy and took some shots at us. The next time he don’t make no mistake, but we put the run on him.

“I figure that Mary O’Hara knowed that Haley was goin’ after Romaine; so she packed a warnin’ to him. It’s a cinch that she likes Shell Romaine—or did like him. It’s a mixed-up deal, Hashknife, but that’s my opinion.”

“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Why did Jim Searles shoot Mort Lee?”

“Drunken row. Searles is a gun-man, that’s a cinch. He got old man Romaine.”

“Jim Searles was the one that identified Cal Severn as bein’ the Sula bank bandit. Then he kills old Rim-Fire Romaine, the Black Rider, and this last time he smokes up Mort Lee, who was the one that packed the news of old Romaine’s killin’. Mort said that he danged near got killed by Searles.

“That part of it was all right. I can imagine that Searles was kinda jumpy over it, and when Mort Lee came bustin’ out of the brush Searles didn’t know but what it was somebody workin’ with the old man.”

Hashknife grinned as he visualized the scene. Mort Lee had said that the twisted cañon and the running stream would effectually cut off the report of a gun from him, and it was a wonder that Searles did not take a shot at the man who appeared there at the moment.

“At that, it was kinda lucky for Searles that Maldeen was with him,” said Sleepy. “There was a reward offered for the Black Rider, and Jim Searles wouldn’t mind collectin’ it—on any promising carcass.”

They were at the forks of the road, where one road led across the river to the Diamond-S and the other to Sula, thirty-five miles away. Hashknife drew rein and considered both roads, while Sleepy looked curiously at him.

“Let’s go this way,” said Hashknife, pointing up the Sula road. “We ain’t never been to Sula, and we ain’t goin’ to be none too welcome at the Diamond-S after what happened today.”

“I dunno why we’re goin’,” declared Sleepy, “but yo’re handlin’ the rudder of this ship, cowboy.”

“I dunno anythin’ about Sula,” confessed Hashknife, “but I might find somebody to answer a civil question.”

They swung into an easy gallop, heading toward the purple haze of the Mission range; following a white ribbon of road, broken by the long, late-afternoon shadows; two tramp cowboys, going out of their way to help some one or to satisfy their own curiosity—or souls.

The departure of Hashknife and Sleepy did not bring any sadness to the Moon Flats saloon. Cal Severn was sore over the accusation that there was anything crooked over the shooting of Mort Lee, but talked little. Searles was told of Hashknife’s insinuations and grew indignant.

“Who in —— are these two short-horns?” he demanded of Cal Severn. “If I was you, I’d fire ’em bodily off the Diamond-S.”

“The long one,” said Pat Haley slowly, “might not take kindly to it. The small one—ye can’t tell about. Be the hang of his gun, I’d say they’re a pair, them two.”

“Well, they’re headin’ into trouble.”

Thus Maldeen prophetically.

“A man is skatin’ on thin ice,” he added, “when he accuses folks of a frame-up shootin’ scrape. Why should Jim Searles want to kill Mort Lee, I ask yuh?”

“I wish I could tell ye, Doc,” said Pat Haley, “but it’s beyond me, so it is. Mebbe Mort Lee can tell—if he lives and keeps his voice.”

“The doctor thinks he’ll live, does he?” queried Jim.

“That’s what he says,” replied Pat; “but ye never can tell. The doctor has no powers over life or death, except to do what other doctors has done.”

Pat Haley finished his drink and went back home, leaving Maldeen, Severn and Searles alone beside the bar. Jim Searles was ill at ease and helped himself several times from the bar-bottle.

“If I was you, Jim,” said Maldeen. “I’d pull out, while the pullin’-out is real good.”

“Yuh would, eh?”

Searles scowled and rested his elbows on the bar; after which he reached for the bottle again.

“Don’t be a fool,” grunted the bartender. “You can’t afford to get a skinful of hooch, Jim.”

“The —— I can’t!” indignantly. “Whose skin is this that I’m wrapped up in, I’d like to know?”

He turned and leered at Cal Severn.

“You jaspers are full of advice, ain’tcha? I notice that the long, grin-faced puncher run his li’l blazer on you, Severn. He didn’t take back anythin’ he said, did he? Hah!”

Severn’s brows lifted a trifle.

“Do as yuh like, Jim; only I’d be away from the Mission range when Mort Lee got his voice back if I was you.”

“To —— with him and his voice!”

Searles was working himself into a rage.

“You and Maldeen were here and seen it all. It’s three ag’in’ one, ain’t it?”

“Don’t get to yelpin’,” advised Maldeen. “Yo’re howlin’ loud enough to be heard all over town. There ain’t nobody goin’ to give you the worst of it, Jim. If you want to stay here—stay.”

“Yo’re —— right I’ll stay! I ain’t never collected the reward for the Black Rider yet.”

“And yuh likely never will,” said Maldeen. “The county commissioners say that there is not sufficient evidence to prove that it was the Black Rider. They contend that old man Romaine might have tried to imitate the Black Rider, and that the real Black Rider is liable to show up any old time.”

Maldeen laughed and ordered the bartender to serve more drinks.

“That’s a —— of a way to look at it,” grumbled Searles. “I reckon the only way I can grab off a reward is to go out and catch Shell Romaine.”

“Why catch him?” queried Maldeen.

Searles shook his head and shot a side glance at Severn, who was moodily looking into his glass.

“If he’d ’a’ stole my girl—” began Searles; but the next instant he received the contents of Severn’s glass in his eyes, which was followed up by a terrific smash in the face.

The blow knocked Searles down, but did not knock him out. He spat out blood and profanity and tried to draw his gun, but Severn sprang into him, kicked the gun loose from his hand and flung it across the room. Searles’ face was still swollen from Shell Romaine’s fist, and Severn’s blow did not tend to increase his beauty.

He got slowly to his feet, scowling at Severn, but did not speak; and without looking for his gun he went out of the door.

“That,” said Maldeen slowly, “was a bad move, Cal.”

“Yeah?”

Severn’s face was white with passion.

“Because,” continued Maldeen. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could toss a steer by the tail.”

Severn looked down at his skinned knuckles, flexing his fingers slowly.

“He’d be a fool to hang himself, doc.”

“There’s been a lot of fools hung,” said Maldeen, “and they’re still bein’ born every day.”

Hashknife and Sleepy knew the country through which they were riding only from description; but a weather-beaten sign marked the trail up Medicine Creek. They drew rein and looked over the scene of the killing of the Black Rider.

The road sloped sharply to the crossing with fairly heavy foliage on either side and a box cañon on the right, through which Medicine Creek came brawling its way over rock and drift. Beyond this to the left the country was more open, although fairly well covered with brush.

“She was a good place for a holdup,” said Hashknife as they rode on, “with everythin’ in the favor of the bandit.”

Fifty yards farther on he stopped his horse. There was a slight breeze from the northwest, and Hashknife wrinkled his long nose like a hunting-dog.

“Somethin’ unclean in the world,” stated Sleepy. “Prob’ly a dead cow.”

“Prob’ly,” admitted Hashknife, but swung his horse off into the brush and tried to follow the scent.

Sleepy growled a malediction upon any cowboy that would search for a deceased cow-critter, but followed. About a hundred yards from the road Hashknife dismounted at the side of a dead horse, which still bore a saddle and bridle. The animal had been dead for several days, and was already half-eaten by coyotes and magpies. They examined it closely, silently. The saddle was almost new, but already discolored and warped.

“Horse wears a Box-R brand, and has been shot square in the forehead,” said Hashknife.

“Must ’a’ been shot kinda close,” observed Sleepy, “’cause it’s been powder-burned. Whatcha make of it?”

“Take a look,” said Hashknife, pointing at the front leg of the animal. “Busted half-way between ankle and knee. Somebody had to shoot it.”

“That part’s all right, Hashknife; but why didn’t they take their saddle and bridle?”

Hashknife rolled and lighted a cigaret before he replied.

“Cowboy, that’s the horse that old man Romaine was ridin’ the mornin’ he was killed.”

“Thasso? There wasn’t no horse mentioned in the story.”

Hashknife squatted on his heels and chuckled to himself. It seemed to amuse him greatly.

“Where’s the joke?” grumbled Sleepy. “Settin’ there chucklin’ at a dead horse!”

Hashknife sighed with evident satisfaction and got back on his horse.

“Cowboy, she’s workin’ out,” he declared joyfully. “A dead horse ain’t nothin’, but when yuh find one that is saddled and bridled and left to the coyotes she sure means a lot to old man Hartley’s fav’rite offspring.”

“I’m just with yuh,” complained Sleepy. “I reckon I’m supposed to chuckle with glee and applaud yuh for havin’ a wonderful brain, ain’t I? Yo’re sure a wonder, Hashknife. My ——, I dunno how any human bein’ can have a brain like you got!

“She’s workin’ out, is she? Y’betcha she is, and the sooner we get out of the wind from yore latest find, the better it’ll suit yore silent pardner.”

“Yuh still got faith in me, ain’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously. “Yuh ain’t doubtin’ me, Sleepy Stevens?”

“Can yuh ask a question like that, Hashknife?”

“Uh-huh-h-h-h.”

“Then guess the answer,” retorted Sleepy. “Let’s go to Sula.”

While Hashknife and Sleepy headed for Sula, Jim Searles mounted his horse and left Moon Flats, smarting from his injuries. Searles was usually cold-blooded, but now he was hot with rage against Cal Severn. He was not a man to take a knockdown without repaying it, and just now his mind was working overtime on plans for revenge.

But Searles was no fool. He knew the temper of both Severn and Maldeen. Curiously enough he held no grudge against Shell Romaine for the knock-down in the stage-office, in which he had lost both teeth and prestige.

He had no destination in view when he left Moon Flats, and suddenly realized that he was nearing the forks of the road, which led to Sula and the Diamond-S.

He checked his horse to a slow walk as he rode down through a wooded swale. Suddenly a man stepped out of the brush beside the road, causing Searles’ horse to plunge sidewise with fright, almost unseating its rider. Searles whirled the horse back into the road and met Shell Romaine face to face.

Romaine was watching Searles closely, coldly, with his hand covering the butt of his heavy Colt revolver, and Searles instinctively lifted both hands even with his shoulders. He knew that Romaine was lightning fast with a gun, and was taking no chances on being misunderstood.

“Whatcha want, Shell?” he asked, and his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

The ghost of a smile crossed Romaine’s face as he said casually—

“Yo’re kinda gettin’ in the habit of havin’ yore face busted, ain’t yuh, Jim?”

Searles’ hand went to his bruised face, feeling tenderly of his swollen lips as he nodded.

“Some friend of yours, Jim?”

“No, by ——!” emphatically.

“I’m kinda lookin’ for news,” said Romaine; “but I expect yuh to lie to me, Searles.”

Searles said nothing, and Romaine considered the remote possibility of a truthful answer. Then he said—

“Is the sheriff huntin’ me?”

Searles shook his head.

“May or may not be the truth,” reflected Romaine out loud. “Who are those two punchers who are workin’ for the Diamond-S?”

“Couple of —— fools that don’t mind their own business.”

Romaine laughed. There was no possibility that Searles was not telling the truth this time, he was so earnest.

“The tall one ran a blazer on Cal Severn,” volunteered Searles.

“What for?”

Searles refused to say. He caressed his face and wished he was far away from there. He did not care to answer some questions.

“Goin’ out to the Diamond-S?” asked Romaine.

Searles considered the question. He had not intended going there, but he did not care to tell Romaine that he was just riding around; so he nodded.

“Will yuh pack a message to Cal Severn?”

Searles shut his lips tight. He was about to explode a curse at the mention of Severn’s name, but thought better of it, and said—

“Yeah, I’ll pack a message to him, Shell.”

“Then tell him for me—” Romaine spoke very distinctly—“that if he don’t keep away from Marie Wicks I’m goin’ to send him to the undertaker. That’s all.”

Searles stared blankly at Romaine. So Cal Severn was hanging around the breed girl! Searles knew her; knew that she was pretty, and he also knew that she was Henry Horsecollar’s girl. He had no idea of carrying that message to Cal Severn, but there was no harm in agreeing to do so.

“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll sure tell him, Shell.”

“Much obliged, Jim. And yuh might also tell him that it’s ag’in’ the law to furnish liquor to Injuns.”

Searles grinned.

“You sabe quite a lot about things, don’tcha? Yo’re takin’ a lot of chances hangin’ around so close to civilization when there’s rewards out for yuh.”

“I’m not the one that’s takin’ the big chances.”

Searles considered this statement. It might mean a whole lot, or little. Romaine stepped back against the fringe of brush.

“You can go now, Jim.”

Searles picked up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.

“All right, Shell; s’long.”

Romaine did not reply. At a turn in the road Searles looked back, but there was no sign of Romaine. The size of the reward almost tempted Searles to go back and try to take Romaine, but he thought better of it, and rode on.

In fact he rode faster now. He was going to the Diamond-S ranch, and he did not want to be there when Cal Severn came home. He wondered why Shell Romaine did not shoot him on sight. He had sent Romaine to the penitentiary, had killed Romaine’s father, and still Romaine did not seem to seek personal revenge. Searles could hardly understand Romaine.

He rode in through the Diamond-S gate and up to the bunk-house, where Henry Horsecollar was humped up on a box, busily greasing a set of buggy harness. There was a smear of grease across his upper lip, and his bare arms were greasy to the elbow. He spat dryly and looked up at Searles.

“How yuh comin’, Henry?” greeted Searles.

Henry squinted closer and grinned a toothless grin that almost matched Searles’.

“Somebody give you some bum advice, too?” he asked.

Searles felt of his face. He and Henry were both alike in facial disfigurements.

“Nobody gave me any advice,” grunted Searles.

“Mebbe they forgot to, and that’s how yuh got yours.”

Henry laughed as he poured some oil on his hand and applied it to the harness, but Searles did not see the humor of the thing. He squinted back down the road, being sure that Severn was not coming in behind him, and then watched Henry a few moments before he said—

“Man sent a message to Cal Severn.”

“Thasso?”

Henry showed little interest.

“Cal’s in town, I reckon.”

“Well, I ain’t goin’ plumb back there to deliver it to him. I reckon you can tell him, Henry.”

“Shoot.”

Henry wiped his hands on his overalls and leaned back to receive the message.

“A man told me to tell him that he’d better keep away from Marie Wicks, or he’d fill him full of lead.”

Henry did not say anything for several moments. He stared past Searles, looking blankly into space. Then he wiped a greasy hand across his lips and looked up.

“Tell me that ag’in’, will yuh, Jim?”

Searles repeated the message, and Henry’s greasy lips opened and shut as if repeating it after Searles.

“I—reckon—I—heard—yuh—right,” said Henry slowly; and then quickly. “Who sent that message?”

“Shell Romaine.”

“Shell——”

Henry gawped widely.

“Where’d you see him?” he asked.

“Ne’ mind where I seen him.”

Searles grinned knowingly.

“Well—” Henry bent over his harness and fingered at a buckle—“I’ll tell him, Jim. Kinda hot t’day; ain’t it?”

“Yeah, ’tis, Henry. Well, I gotta be movin’. S’long.”

Henry watched him ride out through the gate, where he swung into the hills instead of going back on the road. He blended into the gray of the hills, and Henry turned back to his work.

“S’long,” he muttered, never giving thought to the fact that Jim Searles was a mile away by this time. “I’ll tell him what yuh said.”

For a long time Henry bent over his work, polishing a buckle with the ball of his thumb, a queer tightness about his throat. Shell Romaine had sent that message to Cal Severn. Why did Shell Romaine send the message? Did Shell Romaine want her, too?

He knew now why Cal Severn had ordered him to stay at the ranch. It was to give him a chance to make love to Marie.

“Feller that’d do that won’t play square with a girl,” declared Henry softly. “I’ve gotta buck Romaine and Severn. I ain’t scared of Romaine, but Severn’s got money. Money! No!”

Henry shoved the harness aside and upset the oil-can, but did not pick it up.

“I ain’t no —— gun-man, and I ain’t got no money; but I’m playin’ square with the girl.”

He got to his feet and leaned against the bunk-house door; a pathetic, lanky figure in his ill-fitting range clothes, his lips set tight with determination. After a while he shook his head slowly, shoved his hands down deep in his overalls and said out loud:

“The only —— girl I ever had was Injun; and I couldn’t keep her. I’m a —— of a lover all right.”

Then he stumbled back into the bunk-house.

But Jim Searles was not through yet. He circled the hills, arriving at Moon Flats just before dark and going straight to Pat Haley’s home. Pat was sitting on the porch smoking his pipe, and he looked curiously at Searles, who dismounted at the gate and strode briskly up the gravel walk.

Mary O’Hara came to the door to call Pat to supper, but hesitated as she saw Jim Searles coming up to the porch.

“Hyah, Pat,” said Searles and tipped his sombrero to Mary.

Pat grunted and removed the pipe from his mouth, while his keen eyes studied Searles’ battered face.

“I wanted to see yuh,” said Searles slowly, “’cause I thought yuh might like to know that I seen Shell Romaine today.”

“Ye did?”

Pat stared at him quizzically and shoved the pipe-stem between his teeth.

“Where did ye see him?”

“Back in the hills.”

Searles glanced at Mary, who was leaning against the door, trying to appear at ease.

“Which covers a lot of territory,” remarked Haley. “Would ye mind bein’ more specific, Searles?”

“Well, along the road between here and the river. He stopped me, and we talked a while.”

“Hm-m-m.”

Pat Haley grew curious.

“And why didn’t ye bring him back with ye?”

Searles grinned and shook his head.

“I’m no officer.”

“So ye came to tell me where to find him, eh?”

“Well, I thought yuh might like to know he was still in the country.”

“Which I would,” nodded Pat. “What did he have to say?”

Searles grinned widely.

“He sent a message to Cal Severn, but I don’t jist sabe the meanin’ of it, Pat. He told me to tell Cal to quit makin’ love to Marie Wicks or he’d fill him full of holes.”

For a moment there was complete silence. Searles glanced at Mary’s face, which had gone gray as ashes. Pat heaved himself to his feet, gripping his pipe so tightly that his teeth snapped through the amber stem. Came Ma Haley’s voice just inside the door—

“Have ye no appetites, or do ye think I’m runnin’ a short-order caffay?”

She came out of the door and looked at every one.

“Now, what the ——?” she began, but stopped as Pat stepped off the porch and grasped Searles by the shoulder.

“Who told ye to come here and say that?” he demanded. “Did Shell Romaine tell ye to say that before Mary?”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Searles, yanking away from Haley. “What’s all the fuss about? I was just tellin’ yuh what Romaine told me to tell Cal Severn.”

“And he knowed you’d tell everybody else, eh?”

“Don’t say that,” begged Mary. “Shell Romaine may be an outlaw, but he wouldn’t hurt me. He knew I was engaged to Cal Severn, and he wished—us—luck.”

Pat turned from Mary and glared at Searles.

“What do you know about Cal Severn and Marie Wicks?”

“Not a thing, Pat. I didn’t know I was goin’ to start an explosion, or I’d ’a’ kept my mouth shut.”

“What was it?” demanded Ma Haley. “What about Cal Severn and the Injun lass?”

“We’ll not repeat it,” declared Pat firmly as he turned toward the door. “Good evenin’ to ye, Searles.”

Searles turned and went back to the gate, while Mary O’Hara went softly back into the house. Pat shook his head slowly and stared down at the ground. Ma Haley had heard enough to know that it affected Mary O’Hara and coupled the names of Cal Severn and Marie Wicks. Then Pat said softly, bitterly—

“Sure, it’s broke square in two, Ma.”

“Mary O’Hara’s heart, Pat?”

“No—me good old pipe,” pointing down where it had fallen after the stem had snapped.

“Aw, to the —— wid yer old pipe!” exploded Ma Haley, and whirled back into the house.

“Aye,” muttered Pat, “to the —— it is, sure enough. Now I’ll have to buy me some cigy-reet papers and burn a hole in the middle of me mustache. And they’re a poor counterbalance for the lower jaw of a man, so they are.”

He shook his head sadly over the remains of his pipe and went slowly in through the open door.

The following morning in the little town of Sula, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the hotel dining-room and looked over the one long street. Sula was a mining community, although partly supported by the northern end of the Mission cattle range. In front of the stage-station a pack-train of burros were being loaded, and a number of men had congregated there to offer useless advice.

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over there and watched operations until the departure of the pack-train, after which they loitered around the stage-station. The keeper of the station, a little, dried-up-looking person, wearing a badly warped pair of glasses, asked them what he could do for them.

“Not a thing, pardner,” grinned Hashknife. “We’re strangers here. Got in last night after dark, and we’re just kinda lookin’ around.”

“Well—” the man adjusted his glasses and rubbed the palms of his hands on his overall-clad thighs—“you can almost see Sula at a glance.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” grinned Hashknife. “The old-timers just built along the pack-trail. Anythin’ excitin’ ever happen around here?”

The man looked curiously at Hashknife and shook his head.

“No, I can’t say there is. Things are about the same every day. On pay-day the boys come in and kinda razoo the old town, but most of the time she’s like you see her right now.”

“We came here from Moon Flats,” explained Hashknife. “Do yuh know anybody down there?”

“No, not many. They don’t usually come up this far.”

“Know Doc Maldeen?”

“Runs the Moon Flats saloon, don’t he? Yeah, I know him when I see him, but not pers’nally.”

“Been here lately?”

The man squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Not for a month or two. Used to come up here on pay-day. Town’s pretty good for gamblers at that time.”

“What do yuh think about the killin’ of the Black Rider?”

“I dunno. It ain’t been exactly proved that it was the Black Rider, has it? I ain’t seen Searles since that day. Yuh see, he was only drivin’ for about a month, and that was his last trip.”

“Did the Black Rider hold him up any time?”

“Nope. He just tried it once. Wasn’t no use anyway, ’cause we never sent any money on the stage. That mornin’ I was talkin’ to Searles about the Black Rider. It’s a long ways to ride alone, and I don’t blame him for not liking the job.”

“Where did Maldeen do most of his playin’ up here?”

“Up at the Cinnibar saloon mostly. I expect he’ll be up here ag’in about the twentieth of the month—pay-day.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went back up the sidewalk and over to the Cinnibar saloon, where they leaned their elbows on the bar. The bartender, a smooth-haired, silk-shirted individual, greeted them warmly.

“Came in from Moon Flats,” volunteered Hashknife. “Got in late last night, and we’re still clogged with dust.”

“Yeah? How’s my old friend Doc Maldeen?”

“Doc’s fine as frawg-hair. Probably be up here on pay-day.”

“I betcha.”

The bartender examined the part of his hair in the fly-specked mirror, and, finding it perfect, turned back.

“Doc swears that Sula is the best town in the State,” the bartender remarked, “but he never comes to see us except on pay-day.”

“Ain’t he been here since last month?” casually.

“Naw. He waits for the money to come in. He’s some card-player, y’betcha.”

“Lost ten thousand in one hand to Cal Severn the other day—and dealt it himself.”

The bartender grinned widely.

“Brother, don’tcha try to make me swaller that; I know this country too well.”

“She’s a fact,” declared Hashknife. “There’s a number of folks seen the play and seen Maldeen hand out the dinero.”

“Well—” the bartender set out the bottle and motioned for them to help themselves—“I don’t doubt but what you fellers are tellin’ me the truth, but I’ll bet the feller that told you lied like ——. Ten thousand! Say, have you got any idea of how much money that is? Ten thousand dollars, ——!”

“I’m sorry to upset yuh thataway,” consoled Hashknife. “Bothered with asthma, aint’cha? Yuh kinda wheeze like yuh was. Keep away from wild flowers and don’t rub a cat’s back any more than yuh have to. C’mon, Sleepy.”

They went out of the Cinnibar, leaving the bartender leaning across the bar and trying to figure out just what Hashknife meant. He finally swept the glasses into the wash-tub beneath the bar, swore softly to himself and examined his hair again.

Hashknife and Sleepy went down to the little hotel and paid their bill to a grouchy old individual, who seemed to be soured on the world and all therein.

“Goin’ away, are yuh?” he asked. “Dag-gone it, seems like nobody stays here any longer than they have to. Which way yuh goin’?”

“North,” said Hashknife, which was untrue. “I was just wonderin’ if I could leave a note with you for Doc Maldeen. Know him, don’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

He turned to an old calendar back of his desk and studied it closely.

“He won’t be here for about ten days.”

“Don’t he never come here except on pay-day?”

“Well, I don’t say he won’t, but I will say that he never has. If yuh leave a note I’ll——”

“Ne’ mind—I’ll likely see him before that. Much obliged, old-timer. S’long.”

They went to the livery stable and got their horses. Sleepy had not spoken a dozen words since breakfast, but when they rode out of town, heading back toward Moon Flats, he said:

“Yuh came thirty-five miles to find an honest man and picked on a stage-station boss, a bartender and a grouchy old hotelkeeper. What did yuh find?”

“Three honest men, Sleepy. I never seen such an honest town in my life.”

“Yuh kinda lied a little yourself, didn’t yuh, Hashknife?” reprovingly.

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, when yo’re lookin’ for truth in yore feller men, Sleepy, yuh may have to lie to get ’em to tell the truth.”

“Mebbe,” admitted Sleepy; “but yuh still got me fightin’ my head, cowboy.”

“That’s a good part of yuh to fight—it’s so hard that yuh can’t never do it no permanent injury, Sleepy.”

Cal Severn did not go out to the ranch that night. He was in no mood to meet Hashknife Hartley, and he was under the impression that the two punchers had gone back to the ranch. He was troubled about Jim Searles too, and was sorry that he had knocked him down.

Searles had not showed up again at the Moon Flats, and Severn wondered where he had gone. The next morning he ran face to face with Mary O’Hara, who was coming out of Bill Eagles’ store. She tried to go past him, but he blocked her way.

“Wait a minute, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk with you.”

“I do not think it interests me at all,” replied Mary coldly. “Will you please stand aside, Mr. Severn?”

“Aw, shucks!”

Severn stepped aside, but walked beside her down the sidewalk.

“Mary, I want to apologize for what I said the other day. Dog-gone it, won’t yuh accept an apology? I was a darned fool, and I didn’t have no right to say what I did.”

“I am glad you realize that part of it,” said Mary coldly, “and I don’t really think you had better go any further with me.”

Severn laughed, but there was little mirth in it. “Now, listen, Mary. I’ve apologized and admitted that I was a darned fool, haven’t I? What more can I do?”

“You can turn around and stop annoying me.”

“Thasso? Aw, what’s the matter with you, anyway? Lemme have a talk with yuh, Mary.”

Severn’s voice was low and pleading, but it had no effect on Mary O’Hara.

He followed her in through the gate and up to the porch, where they met Pat Haley, who was coming out of the house. Without a word Mary stepped around him and went in through the open door, while Pat Haley blocked the passage to Cal Severn.

“What’s the big idea?” asked Severn wonderingly.

“Ye’re not welcome here, Severn,” replied Pat easily.

“Not welcome?”

Severn frowned thoughtfully.

“What do yuh mean, Pat? What’s gone wrong?”

“Come away from the house and I’ll talk to ye.”

They walked down to the gate, which Pat opened and motioned Severn outside. Wonderingly he obeyed and turned, facing Pat.

“Now tell me what in —— is the matter with you, will yuh?”

Severn’s voice was trembling slightly.

“I will,” nodded Pat. “It has been told to us that ye have been makin’ love to Marie Wicks, the Injun girl.”

Severn’s face flushed hotly, and then the color drained out, leaving it a gray tinge. He gripped the top of the gate and leaned closer to Pat Haley.

“Who packed you that —— lie?” he rasped. “Tell me who told yuh that and I’ll shoot his —— heart out!”

“Which wouldn’t disprove the statement,” said Pat softly.

“——! Do yuh believe a lie like that, Pat Haley?”

“Can ye prove it’s a lie, Severn?”

Pat’s gray eyes bored into Severn’s soul.

“Prove it? My ——, do I have to prove a thing like that?”

“Ye do—unless ye don’t care to, Severn.”

Severn relaxed a trifle and began the manufacture of a cigaret. His hands trembled slightly, and he spilled half a sack of tobacco on the ground.

“Did Hartley and his pardner pack that talk to yuh?”

“I’ll name no names,” declared Pat. “It was not told to me in confidence, but I’ll not say who told it. In fact, the man was carryin’ the same message to you—to keep away from Marie Wicks.”

“I don’t getcha.”

Severn squinted away from the match as he lit his cigaret.

“Do yuh mean to say that this —— liar said he was bringin’ me a message like that from somebody else?”

“Ye have a complete understandin’,” said Pat.

“Well—” Severn hitched up his cartridge-belt and sighed deeply—“if you won’t tell me who it was—how can I prove that it’s a lie?”

“I’m not askin’ ye to prove it.”

“You’d rather go on believin’ it, eh?” harshly. “You know why I hired Hartley and Stevens. It wasn’t because I needed ’em, Haley. I seen that lanky Hartley lookin’ at Mary O’Hara, like a —— coyote lookin’ at a lamb. Well, if yuh want to believe him—go ahead.”

“We’ll leave her name out of it, if ye please.”

Pat’s voice cut like a knife.

“Oh, all right.”

Severn turned and started away, but stopped after a few steps.

“I just wanted to tell yuh that the way yo’re runnin’ yore office don’t make no hit with folks around here, and they’re wonderin’ why you ain’t makin’ no effort to find Shell Romaine. Some of them say yo’re afraid and others kinda suggest that it’s kind of a family affair.”

Severn turned on his heel and went back up the street, while Pat Haley lifted his right hand from near the butt of his gun and gripped the gate.

“Ye unspeakable pup!” he breathed. “Ye have unfurled yer flag to me, and the colors are yellow.”

Pat turned wearily away from the gate and went slowly back to the house. He saw Mary saddling her horse near the rear gate and watched her ride away toward the hills. He went back to the porch steps and sat down heavily, his mind mixed with strange emotions. Then he took out a book of cigaret-papers and a sack of flake tobacco.

“Until Bill Eagles gets a shipment of pipes I’ve got to do this,” he muttered, his lips set in a thin line of determination, “and ’t’s goin’ to be the ——’s own job to make one unless there’s some tougher papers in this package than there were in the last bunch I wore out.”

Cal Severn went back to the Moon Flats saloon, where he drank straight whisky, filling the glass to the brim four times and drinking at a single gulp. Maldeen was at a card-table, studying a solitaire layout, but stopped his game to watch Severn.

Searles was sitting across from Maldeen, watching his play, but out of the corner of his eye he noted the feverish way in which Severn bolted his liquor. Something seemed to tell him that Severn had received a hard jolt, and he felt that Shell Romaine’s message had been delivered.

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Severn knew who had delivered the message. Perhaps Severn was getting up courage enough to start trouble.

Searles reached down slowly and slid his holster over the top of his leg and loosened the Colt six-shooter a trifle. Being prepared had saved Searles several times, and he thoroughly believed in the law of self-preservation.

Severn turned and leaned back against the bar, looking calmly around. His half-shut eyes dwelt for a moment on Maldeen and Searles, but the set expression of his face did not change as he said—

“C’m and have a drink, you two.”

It was an order, but neither man resented it. They walked to the bar, and Severn turned around with them.

“How yuh comin’, Cal?” asked Maldeen.

Severn did not reply until he had imbibed another full glass of raw liquor. He turned his head and looked curiously at Maldeen. Severn was not a drinker, and the successive jolts of bad whisky had taken effect already.

After looking at Maldeen he turned back to the bar and called for more liquor.

“Take it easy, Cal,” advised Maldeen. “You’ve had too much already.”

“Yeah?” snarled Severn. “When did you get the right to preach to me? Have a drink, yuh tin-horn.”

Maldeen knew that Severn was drunk in the head, but that his nerve and body was cold sober; so he accepted another drink and the rebuke in silence. Searles held his glass in his left hand, while his right hung close to the butt of his gun; but Severn paid no attention to him until after the drink was finished.

Several other men had come into the place, and Maldeen shifted around uneasily. Severn was just in the right mood to start trouble, but he merely looked drunkenly at the men and took Maldeen by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Doc,” seriously. “You and Jim Searles. C’mon.”

Maldeen led the way back to his private room, and Searles, filled with misgivings, trod close to Severn. He was all set for anything that might happen. They went into the room, and Maldeen locked the door. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a table, littered with papers, ore samples and an empty bottle. The rough walls were speckled with old photographs and pictures cut from sporting magazines and papers.

Severn sat down heavily on the couch, flung his hat across the room and leaned back wearily against the wall. Maldeen sat down beside the table, but Searles remained standing just inside the door. Maldeen waved him to a chair, but he shook his head and leaned against the wall.

“Nobody’s goin’ t’ hurt yuh, yuh —— fool!” snorted Severn drunkenly.

“I know it, Cal,” grinned Searles, but did not sit down.

“Nobody can hear us talkin’ in here, can they?” asked Severn, and Maldeen shook his head.

“Either one of you seen them two strange cow-punchers today?” he asked.

“Not today,” said Maldeen. “They left town right after you and the long one almost had trouble.”

“I don’t think they’ve been back since,” added Searles.

“I hope to —— that they never come back!” exploded Severn. “But they will, —— ’em!”

Maldeen was interested now.

“What’s the idea, Cal?”

“One of ’em went to Pat Haley and said that I was makin’ love to Marie Wicks.”

Searles jerked visibly and burned himself on his cigaret. This was interesting news to him.

Maldeen half-smiled.

“Tryin’ to queer yuh with Mary O’Hara, eh?”

“Oh, go to ——!” blurted Severn. “He said that somebody sent the message to me to let her alone.”

Searles inhaled deeply and studied Severn closely. It might be a scheme to allay his fears, but he was not going to be caught napping.

“Somebody, eh?”

Thus Maldeen.

“Tryin’ to pass the buck to somebody else, eh?”

“Yeah,” snarled Severn blackly, but leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I never told anybody who them two punchers are, doc. Me and Pat Haley are the only ones who know about ’em; so I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to tell anybody, ’cause it might not look good, comin’ from me; sabe?”

“Thasso?”

Maldeen hitched forward in his chair.

“Shell Romaine’s out on parole, which yuh probably know,” continued Severn. “He was sent up for five years and got out in one year. Didja ever wonder how he got paroled in one year? Yuh didn’t? There was thirty thousand dollars lifted in that robbery, and not a cent of it ever recovered.

“The mornin’ that Shell Romaine showed up here them two punchers rode in and asked for a job. I didn’t want to hire anybody but Hartley handed me a letter which showed who they were—and I hired ’em.

“I reckon it was sort of a political pull that the bank directors had, but anyway they got Shell paroled in a year thinkin’ that he’d come back here and lift his cache. Hartley and Stevens were workin’ for the Cattlemen’s Association and they were selected to come here and watch Shell Romaine. The bank wants that thirty thousand dollars.”

“I see,” said Maldeen softly, wonderingly, while Jim Searles whistled softly and sat down in the empty chair.

“Well they ain’t been trailin’ Shell Romaine, that’s a cinch,” declared Searles.

“How could they?” queried Maldeen. “Things broke against ’em. Anyway they don’t look like they had the sense of a shepherd.”

“Thasso?”

Severn seemed to wake up out of a trance.

“Don’tcha fool yoreselves. What about that shootin’ scrape yesterday? Don’t tell me that they ain’t got no sense.”

“Well, whatcha want to do?” asked Searles.

“I don’t want to do a —— thing,” declared Severn; “but I’d give a thousand dollars if somethin’ would happen to wipe out the both of ’em. One thousand cold dollars.”

“Apiece?” queried Searles softly.

“Yeah,” said Maldeen meaningly.

Jim Searles burned himself again on his cigaret and flung it quickly aside as he got to his feet.

“Well, what’s all the delay?” he grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ more to talk about, is there? Let’s go.”

“Nobody settin’ on yore shirt tail is there?” queried Maldeen. “Go ahead.”

“Cal’s goin’ with me,” explained Searles.

“Where?” asked Severn vacantly.

“Out to the Diamond-S.”

“What for?”

“To git the two thousand dollars f’r one thing.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Well,” said Searles, yawning widely. “I may be a fool, but I ain’t no —— fool. On a job like this I git paid in advance.”

“Oh, yuh do?”

Severn spat dryly.

“You must think I’m somewhat of a fool myself.”

“Thinkin’ ain’t goin’ to git us nowhere,” declared Searles. “I ain’t doin’ no credit business with my gun, y’betcha.”

Severn heaved himself off the couch and secured his sombrero. He was a trifle unsteady on his legs now. He motioned Searles out of the door. Maldeen followed them out into the saloon, but Severn did not stop at the bar. He and Searles went straight to the stable, saddled their horses and rode out of town.

Pat Haley, from the porch of his home, saw them ride away and wondered what would have happened to Searles if Severn knew he was the tale-bearer. Then Pat Haley looked down at the steps littered with bits of torn cigaret-papers and at the folds in his shirt bosom, which were filled with loose tobacco, and shook his head.

“Smokin’ cigy-reets is not a habit—it’s a accomplishment,” he declared wearily.

Severn and Searles rode slowly along the edge of the low hills, saying little. Severn’s mind was deeply engaged in trying to puzzle out who would send that kind of a message to him, while Searles was also doing quite a lot of wondering himself. Somehow he could not shake the feeling that Severn knew who delivered that message, and that Severn was keeping still until he—Searles—had finished the job of getting rid of Hashknife and Sleepy.

Searles was a gunman whose ability in that direction was for sale, but he cared a lot for his own skin and meant to keep it intact. He had formed no plans for getting rid of the two offensive cowpunchers; but Jim Searles was not brainy enough to plan out any mode of procedure.

They were passing the mouth of the gulch which led up to Romaine’s ranch when Severn whirled his horse aside and shoved Searles’ horse into the brush beside the road, where they both stopped.

A horse and rider were coming in from the south, and they were able to identify the rider as Mary O’Hara. She crossed the road and stopped, while she looked over the country. It took her perhaps five minutes to satisfy herself that no one was in sight; then she went on up the road that led to Romaine’s place.

Cal Severn laughed aloud and swung back into the road.

“Where’s she goin’?” queried Searles.

“To meet Shell Romaine,” grinned Severn, “and we’re goin’ to be there at the meetin’.”

“And get a .30-30 bullet in our ribs,” protested Searles, shaking his head. “Anyway she couldn’t ’a’ had no appointment with Shell Romaine. Why, he likely ain’t in this country, Severn.”

“Yo’re crazy!” grunted Severn. “I betcha she meets him at the ranch-house.”

“All right, let her meet him.”

Searles evidently did not care to run into Shell Romaine. Neither did he want Severn to know that he had met Romaine the day before.

“How about the reward?” grinned Severn. “Can’t yuh use half of it?”

“Yeah, I could use the money—if Romaine didn’t see me first.”

“Yellow, eh?” sneered Severn. “Well, come along, and I’ll take chances on takin’ him. I’ll get some satisfaction out of it anyway.”

They turned off the road and went slowly up the gulch, taking plenty of time, because the road wound through the brush and they were unable to see any distance ahead. Severn realized that they were taking big chances, but he had a desire to catch Mary O’Hara with Shell Romaine.

They came at last to the fringe of the timber and stopped to watch the ranch-house. There was no sign of Mary O’Hara’s horse, but they knew she would not leave it in sight. There was no possible way to sneak up on the house; so Severn decided to go boldly up, taking a chance on being seen. Searles demurred. He did not want a soft-nose bullet mixed up in his carcass; but when Severn started for the house, Searles rode up behind him.

They dismounted at the rickety porch and stood still. There was a soft murmur of voices coming from the rear of the house, and Severn grinned widely as he heard Mary’s voice. He knew that there was sort of a lean-to at the rear, and it was likely that this was where Mary had taken her horse.

He motioned to Searles for silence and led the way around the house, flattening themselves against the wall, with guns ready. Near the door of the lean-to they stopped. The voices were clearer now and Mary was saying—

“—said he met you; so I came.”

“Yes,” said Romaine. “I sent that message, Mary. I knew that you loved Cal Severn, and I was going to see that he played fair with you as far as I was able.”

Severn’s lips curled in a sneer. Now he knew who had sent the message.

“But it doesn’t matter now,” said Mary. “I am not going to marry Cal Severn. I had made up my mind not to, and that message only strengthened my resolve. He accused me of meeting you in the hills that day, Shell.”

“Did he? Where was he, Mary?”

“I don’t know. Do you remember seeing those two strange cowboys with him? One of them asked me what Cal and I quarreled about, and he asked it in such a way that I just had to tell him.”

“Who are they, Mary?”

“Hartley and Stevens. The tall one, who looks like he was just going to laugh, told me that they didn’t do much except to make smiles come where smiles belong.”

“Well, that’s kinda funny,” observed Shell Romaine. “It ain’t such a bad business either if yuh stop to think it over.”

“I can’t stay long,” said Mary. “It took me quite a while to get here, because I went around through the hills.”

“It sure was mighty good of yuh,” said Shell; “but I’m afraid somebody’ll see yuh and look at it all wrong. Mebbe yuh better not come ag’in’.”

They stepped out of the lean-to, and Shell Romaine looked square into the muzzle of Cal Severn’s six-shooter. Searles stepped around and covered him with his gun while he took Romaine’s gun from his holster.

“The pitcher went too often to the well,” grinned Severn. “Much obliged to yuh, Mary. Yuh sure kept him interested.”

Romaine turned and looked searchingly at Mary, who was staring at Severn.

“Never trust a woman,” advised Severn. “They sure make a fool out of yuh, Romaine.”

“Did you lead them to me, Mary?”

Romaine’s lips were white at the very thought of being trapped through the girl.

“My God—no!” gasped Mary. “Lead Cal Severn?”

“You can stop yore lyin’, Severn,” said Romaine. “I’m takin’ her word for it.”

Severn laughed.

“All right, Shell. I didn’t say that we framed on yuh, did I? No, we just followed her, thassall.”

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?”

“Take yuh to Moon Flats and hand yuh to the sheriff. He ain’t got guts enough to take yuh, but he may be able to keep yuh in jail.”

“Bring the horses,” ordered Severn, “and hog-tie this gentleman, Searles.”

It took Searles only a short time to rope Romaine to the saddle of Severn’s horse. Searles’ horse was not broke to ride double. Mary stood aside and watched the operation. She was sick at heart over it all, and blamed herself for Romaine’s capture.

“You ain’t to blame, Mary,” Romaine assured her, ignoring Severn and Searles. “You forget that part of it. I knew they’d get me some day, but I hoped it wouldn’t be for a while.”

“Why did yuh hope that?” queried Severn, testing the ropes with a vicious yank.

“That,” said Romaine slowly, “is none of your business, you coyote!”

Severn laughed up at him mockingly.

“Sore because yuh thought I was cuttin’ in on yore Injun girl, eh?”

Romaine’s eyes flashed to Mary, seeking to find what she thought of Severn’s accusation, but she had turned her back on them and was mounting her horse. Severn swung on behind Romaine, turned the horse around and rode away, with Searles bringing up the rear. At the fringe of the brush they looked back, but Mary O’Hara was not following them; she was taking the shorter cut across the hills toward the river.

“You’ve butted in on my game about all yo’re goin’ to, Romaine,” stated Severn. “I reckon yo’re goin’ to make a long trip and stay quite a while.”

“Does kinda look thataway,” admitted Romaine, and turned his head toward Searles. “I reckon you delivered my message, Jim. Much obliged.”

“Message?”

Severn looked at Searles wonderingly. He did not know just what Romaine was talking about at first, but it suddenly flashed through his mind that Jim Searles was the one who had told Mary and Pat Haley.

Searles’ right hand had dropped to his thigh and was still concealed, although his right elbow was bent almost at right-angles. Severn noted all this, and that Searles was watching him closely.

“So you was the one that brought the message, eh?”

“Yeah, I brought it.”

“Well,” easily, “it don’t make no difference, but yuh might ’a’ told me instead of Pat Haley.”

“Well, I didn’t know you was still in town,” defended Searles, “and I knowed that Pat would be glad to hear that Romaine was still around here.”

“Let it drop,” advised Severn, “and that other proposition still stands.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded Searles.

Henry Horsecollar Dryden had gone dumbly about his work after Searles had left the Diamond-S. Never before had he realized just how much he did think of Marie Wicks, and his soul was filled with sadness and self-pity. He was not mad at Severn for taking advantage of him, but he was mad at himself for being weak enough to let Severn keep him at home, while Severn himself courted Marie.

And Severn had one girl already. Wasn’t one girl enough?

Later on Henry saddled his horse and rode down to the hill above Wicks’ ranch-house. It was dark in the hills, but there was a light in the ranch-house. For a long time Henry debated over going down, but finally turned around and went back to the ranch, where he talked with Mrs. Wicks.

“Is Cal Severn going to marry Marie?” he asked in the Nez Percé tongue.

“He has said it,” replied the old squaw. “We will have many ponies and much to eat in the Winter.”

“He is going to marry a girl in Moon Flats.”

“That is a lie. A white man can have only one squaw.”

“He may have many sweethearts.”

For a long time the old squaw deliberated. This was a new angle, which she had never considered. Then—

“The girl in Moon Flats will be the sweetheart.”

“Since when did a white man marry a squaw and leave a white sweetheart?”

“You lie in your heart!” grated the squaw, knowing that Henry spoke the truth.

“Cal Severn brings whisky to Joe Wicks to steal away his sight,” declared Henry. “Since when could a drunken man tell right from wrong? Cal Severn hired you to cook for him because he knew that you would not drink whisky and forget to look. Ask your own heart if I lie.”

The old squaw looked intently into Henry’s face as if trying to read the reasons for this disclosure, but he did not turn away under her stare. She stared down at her gnarled hands for a full minute, like a bronze statue under the yellow light from the oil lamp. Then she got to her feet, flung a shawl around her shoulders and went out.

Henry went to the door and watched her going down the white ribbon of road in the misty light, a blurred figure that faded out and was gone. For a long time he stood in the doorway, gazing off across the shadowy hills, listening to the calling of a sleepy bird. From back in the trees an owl hooted softly.

“Funny thing,” mused Henry aloud. “I never knowed I was so smart until I got to talkin’ Nez Percé to the old squaw. I sure know a lot of things—and mebbe some of ’em is goin’ to get me killed off. I reckon I’ll go to bed.”

But Henry did not sleep. For once in his life his mind was too active to woo slumber, and he marveled at the things he could think about, and by thinking he built up a great anger against Cal Severn. It was like starting a small snowball at the top of a hill; it grew until it was a force to be reckoned with.

He unearthed a Winchester rifle from beneath his bunk and put in an hour cleaning and oiling it. His six-shooter received the same treatment. He filled his belt with ammunition for both guns.

Daylight came, and Henry cooked his own breakfast with a six-shooter hanging at his hip and the rifle lying across the kitchen table. He wondered what had become of Hashknife and Sleepy, but always his mind reverted back to Marie Wicks.

He waited until afternoon, but Cal Severn did not show up; so he saddled his horse, slung the rifle in a scabbard under his right leg, and rode toward Wicks’ ranch. Something seemed to tell Henry that trouble was brewing, but he did not mind.

He rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted. Joe Wicks was sitting on the steps, dirty, disheveled, but apparently sober.

“Hyah, Joe,” said Henry.

“Yo’ go to ——!” grunted Joe without looking at him.

Joe’s face still bore the marks of Henry’s fist.

Mrs. Wicks came to the door and looked at Henry, who nodded to her.

“W’at yo’ want?” asked Joe.

“Nothin’ from you,” said Henry, and then to the squaw. “Can I see Marie?”

“She is very sad,” replied the squaw in her own tongue.

She could speak a little English, but it was much easier to talk in her own language.

“Yo’ go ’way,” growled Joe. “This place no good for yo’; yo’ —— right.”

“Be still!” hissed the old squaw. “Whisky has stolen away your brains, and you are like an old dog without teeth and without sense; a dog that can only bark at its own shadow or howl at the moon.”

“I reckon that’ll hold yuh,” said Henry, but without a trace of humor in his voice.

“She is very sad and does not believe,” continued Mrs. Wicks. “We have not slept.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me,” declared Henry. “Cal Severn did not come home. The other two are still away.”

“They are good men,” said Mrs. Wicks.

“I am only a squaw, but they are to me like to one of my own color.”

“Yeah, they’re all right,” admitted Henry; “but they gave me some bad advice.”

“W’at’s the matter with yo’?” growled Joe. “Nobody ask yo’ to come here.”

Henry ignored him and looked appealingly at the squaw.

“Can’t I see Marie?”

For a moment she hesitated and then pointed toward the rear of the house.

“Yo’ —— right yo’ can’t see Marie!” grunted Joe; but Henry shoved him back on the steps.

“You horn into my business and I’ll bend a gun over yore head,” threatened Henry, and walked around the corner.

Joe relapsed back to his former position and said nothing, while the old squaw sat down beside him with her hands in her lap, staring into space.

Marie was sitting on the ground against an old cottonwood-tree when Henry came around the house, and started to get to her feet; but Henry motioned for her to sit down. He came up to her and leaned against the tree.

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

“I had to come,” he replied.

“Why?”

“I wanted to ask yuh a question, Marie. Did Cal Severn ever ask yuh to marry him?”

Marie dropped her eyes and began fingering her faded apron.

“No,” she said after several moments of silence.

“Didn’t he make love to yuh?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said defiantly.

“Don’tcha?” softly. “I’m kinda sorry, ’cause I sure want to talk to you, Marie.”

“You lie,” she said wearily. “You talk nice to me and then laugh about me to other people.”

“What do yuh mean?” demanded Henry.

“You know what I mean. You laugh and say I am jus’ an Injun girl to play with. You not care for me, you say.”

Henry’s lips tightened and he looked down at the top of her head.

“Marie, did Cal Severn say that?”

“Yes.”

“Good God!” exploded Henry. “Looky here! Do yuh think I’d say that? Do yuh? Am I that kind of a coyote?”

“You are a white man; I am an Indian girl.”

“That ain’t no answer. Do yuh love Cal Severn?”

“I don’ know what I love. Everybody lie to me.”

Marie threw out both arms.

“I believe nobody now.”

“Marie, will yuh marry me?”

Henry leaned closer and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I never lied to yuh.”

“How do I know?” she asked, looking up at him.

“That’s right.”

Henry straightened up and shoved himself away from the tree.

“My word ain’t no better than Cal Severn’s now, but mebbe I can make it better. Yuh don’t hate me, do yuh, Marie?”

“I don’t hate nobody—jus’ sorry.”

“Somebody is goin’ to be with yuh on that sorry idea,” declared Henry, and walked back to his horse.

Joe Wicks glared at him, but said nothing. Mrs. Wicks nodded solemnly, and Henry tipped his wide hat to her as he turned his horse and galloped down the road.

Back at the cottonwood-tree Marie turned her head and watched him ride away. He had asked her to marry him, but had never given her a chance to accept or reject the proposal. White people were queer folks, she thought, and many of them were liars.

Hashknife and Sleepy came straight back from Sula, but did not turn on to the Diamond-S road. For once in his life Hashknife rode for miles in silence, his forehead puckered in a heavy frown in the shade of his sombrero.

Sleepy was content with silence. He knew that there was no use in questioning Hashknife, and gentle sarcasm failed to bring a retort from the tall cowboy.

Where the road from Joe Wicks’ place joined the main road they met Henry Horsecollar, who came at a swift gallop out of the brush-lined road. They noted the display of firearms and wondered what had struck Henry.