Front matter (continued 3)

“Howdy, Henry,” greeted Hashknife. “Goin’ to town?”

Henry nodded and rode in beside them. Hashknife looked curiously at the rifle sticking out from beneath the right saddle fender and at Henry’s low-swung Colt.

“Kinda loaded for bear, ain’t yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Coyote,” corrected Henry shortly.

Hashknife whistled softly. This was a different Henry from him whom they had known at the Diamond-S, and he wondered what had happened. But neither of them questioned him further. If he was gunning for some one it was none of their business, and the less they knew about it the better for all concerned.

“How’s things at the ranch?” asked Sleepy.

“Aw right,” grunted Henry, never taking his eyes off the road.

“Hangin’ on to his nerve,” thought Hashknife. “Don’t want to talk for fear of gettin’ off the main idea.”

By mutual consent they swept into a gallop riding knee to knee. Hashknife noted the set angle of Henry’s lower jaw; it rather belied the rest of his bony angular body. Still there was force in that body. The smash he had delivered on Joe Wicks’ jaw proved that. All Henry had lacked was nerve, and Hashknife wondered if something had happened to cause Henry to find himself.

About a mile out of town another rider came down off the hills and into the road going toward Moon Flats. It was Mary O’Hara. She glanced back anxiously as they rode up to her and they noticed that there were tear-streaks on her dusty cheeks.

“They caught Shell Romaine!” she blurted. “Cal Severn and Jim Searles are taking him to Moon Flats.”

“Well, whatcha know about that?” grunted Hashknife. “Tell us about it, will yuh, Miss O’Hara?”

In a few words Mary described the capture; how she had unwittingly led them to him. She seemed to blame herself for everything.

“Yuh can’t beat that, can yuh?” said Hashknife sadly. “I reckon we better mosey on to town and kinda find out all the latest news.”

As they started on Hashknife drew in beside Mary.

“How’s all the sick folks at yore house?”

“Splinter’s fever is bad and Mort Lee has never been conscious except for a few minutes at a time. He talks all the time, but the doctor says he will get well.”

“Talks all the time—kinda crazy-like?”

Mary nodded and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.

“Yes. He raves about old man Romaine’s shirt sleeve. Isn’t that queer?”

“Yeah, it is—kinda,” admitted Hashknife. “Funny thing to talk about, y’betcha. And what else seems to bother him?”

Mary smiled and shook her head.

“It’s mostly the shirt sleeve, but sometimes he rambles about a suit that he did not see. It bothers him a lot, it seems.”

“Black suit?” queried Hashknife quickly.

“Yes—a black suit. Uncle Pat has tried to make head or tail out of his conversation, but is unable to get it connected enough to make sense.”

Hashknife grinned widely and shifted himself in his saddle.

“Let’s shake ’em up a little, folks. I’ve got a hunch that somebody is settin’ on about a ton of dynamite and the fuse is gettin’ short.”

The four horses broke into a gallop down the dusty road with Hashknife slightly in the lead, frowning deeply as he contemplated just what to do.

Into Moon Flats they came at a stiff gallop. In front of Bill Eagles’ store was a crowd of men, some mounted but most of them on foot. There seemed to be a heated argument in progress. Several small groups of men had seemingly drawn away from the main crowd, and were holding their own arguments.

The four riders drew up at the edge of the sidewalk, but no one gave them any heed. Looking over the heads of the crowd they could see Shell Romaine, still bound, leaning up against the wall, while near him were Cal Severn, Jim Searles and Bill Eagles. Bill was arguing with voice and arms.

Hashknife leaned down and tapped a cowboy on the shoulder.

“What’s the trouble?” queried Hashknife.

The excited cowboy grasped a porch-post and jerked his head toward the center of the group.

“They captured Shell Romaine a while ago.”

“Why don’t they put him in jail?”

“Splinter See died an hour ago, and Pat Haley ain’t in town. I reckon they’re goin’ to lynch Romaine.”

Hashknife turned in his saddle and put his hand on Mary’s arm.

“Get away from here, miss,” he ordered. “You better go home, I think.”

“But they can’t lynch him!” hoarsely. “They wouldn’t dare do that.”

“Will yuh go away?” queried Hashknife sharply. “You can’t help him, and yo’re in the way if somethin’ busts.”

Something in Hashknife’s homely face told her that her interests would be well protected, and with a half-sob she spurred her horse away from the crowd and went slowly down the street.

Bill Eagles was still arguing mightily, and it appeared that he was in favor of waiting for the law. But his arguments seemed only to bring a laugh of derision. A man came out of the store carrying a length of new rope and handed it to Severn.

“I don’t sabe the right kind of a knot,” said Severn, holding the rope out to the crowd.

Maldeen shoved his way in and took the rope.

“I know how to make it,” he stated, and began making the loop.

Shell Romaine watched him coldly. There was no hint of fear in his eyes. Hashknife deliberately turned his horse around and rode it on to the board sidewalk, almost riding over those on the outskirts of the crowd, who broke away at the clattering hoofs, giving him an opening to the center.

All eyes shifted from the main point of interest and centered upon Hashknife, towering above them.

“Get that bronc to —— out of here!” snarled Severn.

Maldeen stopped looping his rope and stepped back as if afraid Hashknife was going to ride straight over him.

“Right sweet little party yuh got here,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep right on makin’ that knot, Maldeen; we’ll likely need it.”

“What you hornin’ in fer?” queried a grizzled cowman who had moved aside. “This any funeral of yours?”

“Brother, yuh never can tell,” grinned Hashknife. “Fate is a queer jasper; don’tcha know it?”

Henry Horsecollar had pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard and was holding it in the crook of his elbow.

“Henry Horsecollar’s got a gun!” grunted a cowboy wonderingly.

Severn’s eyes snapped to Henry and found his hired man’s eyes looking directly at him. He started to say something, but there was something about Henry’s expression that caused him to withhold his words.

“You aimin’ to hang Shell Romaine, ain’tcha?” queried Hashknife softly.

“That ain’t none of yore —— business!” snapped Jim Searles angrily, while the crowd shifted.

They knew the temper of Searles, and it had begun to appear that trouble was brewing.

“Yo’re Jim Searles, ain’tcha?”

Hashknife did not seem to resent Searles’ rebuke.

“Yo’re the jasper that identified Shell Romaine in that Sula bank robbery. Now what I want to know is how much did they pay yuh for identifyin’ Shell Romaine?”

“What in —— do you mean?” rasped Searles.

“Think it over, Searles,” grinned Hashknife. “Talkin’ real fast and tellin’ the truth might help yuh out.”

“I dunno what in —— yuh mean,” faltered Searles; but a hunted look had come into his eyes.

He tried to keep his eyes upon Hashknife, but they grew watery, as if he had strained them badly, and he turned away.

“What’s all this about, pardner?” queried Bill Eagles.

“A lot of things. Me and my pardner came here for the purpose of tryin’ to find where Shell Romaine planted his share of that Sula robbery. They had him let out on parole and sent us in to trail him.

“Things kinda broke bad for our purpose, yuh know, and we just pesticated around, lookin’ over things. I got to wonderin’ if things were just like folks thought they was. Funny what a feller will find out if he keeps his eyes and ears open.”

“Say, let’s get this job over,” snorted Severn. “This ain’t no time to listen to a long-winded lecture.”

“This ain’t goin’ to be so awful long,” said Hashknife, “and I’d kinda like to talk it over, if yuh don’t mind.”

“Pardner, yo’re talkin’,” said Bill Eagles. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“It’s a scheme to delay things, by ——!” declared Maldeen. “He’s tryin’ to stall until Haley gets back.”

“Go ahead and talk, feller,” said the grizzled old cowman. “Get her down to brass tacks.”

“Thank yuh kindly,” said Hashknife. “I won’t make it long, but I’m bettin’ it’ll be interestin’. Now about the stage holdup. Maldeen, you was there, wasn’t yuh?”

“You know —— well I was!” snapped Maldeen.

“You and Jim Searles drove down from Sula, didn’t yuh?”

“Yes.”

“What time did yuh leave there, Maldeen?”

“I dunno. I reckon it was the usual leavin’ time; wasn’t it, Jim?”

Jim Searles glanced at Maldeen and at Hashknife, but did not speak. His mind was beginning to run in circles.

“Then yuh got held up at Medicine Creek,” continued Hashknife, and added, “by the Black Rider.”

Maldeen nodded, but did not speak.

“He came out of the brush and tried to stop yuh, but Searles got the drop on him. Searles got down and went over to where the old man was lyin’ in the brush with one hand and arm stickin’ up, didn’t he?”

Maldeen squinted blankly, but nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right; but I don’t see——”

“And then Mort Lee came down the creek trail and busted right in on yuh. Searles was on the ground with the shotgun in his hands. He had looked at the old man and was comin’ back to the stage when Mort rode into yuh.”

Maldeen half-smiled and cleared his throat.

“You sure got a good description of it, feller.”

“Mort Lee didn’t go over and look at the old man. You and Searles explained it all to him and told him to ride like —— to Moon Flats and tell the sheriff that they had killed the Black Rider. Ain’t that right?”

Maldeen and Searles exchanged glances before Maldeen nodded.

“I wanted to get that all straight,” grinned Hashknife. “And now I want to tell yuh that old man Romaine rode a horse down to within a couple of hundred yards of that spot, where the horse broke its leg in a gopher-hole and the old man had to shoot it.”

This was something new, and it seemed to interest every one. Even Shell Romaine leaned forward and stared at Hashknife.

“How do yuh know it was his horse?” queried Eagles.

“Still got his saddle and bridle on, and the horse is branded on the right hip with a Box-R.”

“I dunno where that means anythin’,” sneered Severn. “Suppose he did have a horse—what about it?”

“The Black Rider was supposed to be right smart, wasn’t he? Would a smart man shoot his horse and go right ahead and pull a holdup?”

“That’s a —— of an argument!” laughed Maldeen. “Who knows what a man will do in a case like that?”

“Yeah, I’ll admit that human bein’s ain’t built to run to form,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s another little point to be covered; Mort Lee only seen the hand and arm of old Rim-Fire Romaine, but that arm was not clad in a black coat sleeve.

“Mort Lee told yuh that, didn’t he, Severn?” queried Hashknife as the crowd fell silent. “Wasn’t that why yuh kicked his hat?”

“By ——, I don’t know what yuh mean,” replied Severn, and his voice was almost a whine.

“Mort Lee wanted to find Shell Romaine and tell him about it,” said Hashknife, guessing real fast. “He had to tell somebody, and when he couldn’t find Shell he came out to the Diamond-S, sampled your whisky and talked to you about it, Severn.”

Severn took a half-step ahead, and his right hand fell to his side.

“I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about, Hartley. You talk like a —— fool!”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I am. Anyway I’m only telling what Lee told yuh, and he got shot over a seven-up game. Now we know that old man Romaine wasn’t wearin’ that black suit when he was shot.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Bill Eagles wonderingly. “Lemme get that straight, will yuh? If old Romaine——”

“That’s —— foolishness!” roared Searles.

“Y’betcha!” snapped Hashknife. “Keep on listenin’. Me and my pardner went down to Romaine’s ranch-house and got bushwhacked. I got peeled on the shoulder, and both of our horses got shot. I’m goin’ to ask Cal Severn where he was at that time. That was the day we hired out to yuh, Severn.”

“Where was I?”

Severn tried to appear at ease.

“Why, I was there at my ranch.”

“Then how did yuh know that Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine on the narrow trail at the head of Broken Gulch?”

Severn’s teeth shut with a click, and he leaned forward, his face filled with righteous wrath.

“You keep her name out of this!”

“That don’t answer my question, does it? You never stopped to think that you put yoreself in bad when yuh accused her of meetin’ Shell Romaine.”

Hashknife grinned pityingly and shook his head as his eyes shifted from the crowd and saw the bartender standing in behind two other men.

“Soapy’s lookin’ on,” observed Hashknife. “I thought that Maldeen was just a ordinary tin-horn gambler until I seen who his bartender was. Birds of a feather.”

“Now is that all yuh got to say?” demanded Searles.

“Shucks, I’m just startin’; and I want to say right now that any nervous hands annoy me. When I see fingers itchin’ to pull a gun—I scratch ’em.”

“I’ve heard about all I care to from you!” snarled Maldeen. “I don’t know where yuh got all these fool ideas, and I don’t care. You’ve gone far enough.”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife seemed hurt.

“Why, I ain’t no more than scratched the surface, Maldeen; and you know it as well as I do.”

“I don’t know a —— thing about it!”

“Then listen.”

Hashknife’s smile faded, and he leaned forward in his saddle.

“It kinda looked like Shell Romaine was the one that killed our horses, didn’t it? All right. We wasn’t so far from the shooter that he couldn’t have seen that we were strangers. He had no reason for shootin’ us.

“Shell Romaine did not know that me and my pardner were over here to try and put the deadwood on him and get back that money. There were only two men beside me and my pardner who did know, and Pat Haley was here in Moon Flats. Cal Severn knew——”

“What in —— are yuh drivin’ at!” yelled Severn. “Don’tcha try to hang anythin’——”

“Don’t incriminate yoreself,” interrupted Hashknife. “Who knew that we were goin’ back there after our saddles? Pat Haley and Splinter See came huntin’ for Shell Romaine, and See got shot. Shell Romaine did not fire those shots. Not by a —— sight! Splinter See is about my size——”

Severn’s face was black with rage, but his eyes shifted from side to side, like a trapped animal looking for an exit.

“Keep goin’, pardner!” panted Bill Eagles.

“That’s a lie, —— yuh!” snarled Severn. “You’re tryin’ to stall until Pat Haley gets here, thassall.”

“About thirteen months ago you needed money, Severn,” continued Hashknife. “You wanted a certain girl, and you heard that she was engaged to a certain young man. You had a fight with him and he whipped yuh. Then you framed to send him to the penitentiary and to get a lot of money for yoreself.

“Don’t get sore, Severn. You’ve got your misdeeds to face God with anyway, so yuh might as well face men.”

Maldeen moved a step away from Severn as if giving him plenty of room, forgetting that he was included in the accusations. Searles swayed on his feet like a drunken man, fingering his belt with nervous hands.

“Now about that express robbery,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “That was kinda clever. The robber got off near Clevis Creek and went across to the main road. He kept his black suit. He packed a valise to hold his extra clothes and the money.

“The stage came along, and he got on. That part of it was all fixed, but the meetin’ with old Romaine wasn’t part of the scheme. The old man’s horse broke its leg and had to be shot. The old man knowed that the stage was about due, so he waited for it, intendin’ to ride home.”

Maldeen stared at Hashknife, mouth half-open. In fact, the whole crowd seemed bereft of motion or speech.

“That poker game was a clever scheme to give Cal Severn his share of the express robbery, and nobody would wonder where he got so much money. Maldeen was the Black Rider, and you and him robbed the Sula bank over a year ago, and——”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Severn, and his hand snapped to his gun; but Shell Romaine, bound as he was, toppled into him, knocking him half-way to his knees, and his wide-flung gun went off almost against Jim Searles.

Maldeen flung himself backward into the crowd, drawing a gun from under his long coat, while men collided with each other in a mad rush to get out of danger.

From behind Hashknife came the roar of a revolver, and he saw the soap-painting bartender stumble into the street and fall flat on his face, his gun spinning out of his hand. Sleepy was not overlooking any details.

Maldeen’s first shot knocked the hat off the grizzled old cowman, and the second one went into the top of the porch. Hashknife was unable to shoot for fear of hitting a bystander, and Maldeen was unable to shoot accurately on account of them.

Searles was down on his hands and knees, paying no attention to any one, a smudge of smoke coming from his shirt, where Severn’s accidental shot had set it on fire.

Severn had recovered his balance, flung Shell Romaine aside, and without firing a shot whirled and darted into the open door of the store. Came the crash of boots on the sidewalk as Henry Horsecollar vaulted from his horse, and a moment later he darted through the cross-fire between Hashknife and Maldeen and dived into the open door after Cal Severn.

It was all happening in a few short seconds—a fraction of the time taken in the telling. Maldeen’s backward rush had taken him to the wall beside a narrow alley, and Sleepy smashed a bullet into the wall beside his ear. As he whirled to return the fire, Hashknife fired his first shot.

Maldeen jerked back from the shock of the heavy bullet, spun around and stumbled into the alley, just as Sleepy darted across the sidewalk and dived into him, like a football player making a flying tackle. Together they crashed down out of sight.

Men were running away from the shooting, never realizing that the danger was all over. Searles was still on his hands and knees, and near him, sitting on the sidewalk, braced against his bound elbows, was Shell Romaine.

Sleepy backed out of the alley and stumbled toward Hashknife, panting triumphantly—

“He ain’t goin’ no place, Hashknife!”

Pat Haley was coming up the street, running in his queer, bow-legged way, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, while behind him came Mary O’Hara.

“My Gawd, what happened!” he gasped. “Ah!”

He looked at the bartender, lying flat on his face in the street, and at Searles. He gave Romaine a quick glance and turned to Hashknife.

“Maldeen’s in the alley,” said Sleepy wearily, “and he’s still wearin’ his boots.”

“Where’s Severn?”

Searles dropped on one elbow and looked at them with lack-luster eyes.

“He shot me, didn’t he? I knew he would some day. Where are you, Hartley?”

He tried to grin, but only his lips responded.

“I can’t see yuh very plain, Hartley, but I want yuh to know that your story was all true, except that the killin’ of old Romaine was a accident. It fit our plans fine though.”

Searles licked his dry lips and took a deep breath.

“Mort Lee told Severn about not seeing—that—black—suit. Shell—Romaine—and—his—old—man—never—done—nothin’.”

“He died clean,” breathed Haley. “Clean.”

Came the sound of some one stumbling down the alley, and Henry Horsecollar came into view. He waved out to them, almost falling over the body of Jim Searles. His hair was matted with blood, and his shirt was completely torn from his body, which was bruised and cut in many places.

He shoved the gory mop of hair out of his eyes, stared at them for a moment and then stumbled out into the street, where his horse was standing on the bridle-reins.

Men came out and stood around him as he tried to mount, but Henry did not mind having an audience. Hashknife went out and took him by the arm.

“Where’s Severn?”

Henry blinked and shook his head drunkenly.

“I can’t prove nothin’ by him now,” he muttered. “He lied to Marie about me, and now I can’t prove—that—he—lied—not—by—him.”

Henry drew a hand across his bloody face and began to cry bitterly. Hashknife flung one arm across his shoulders and patted him on the back.

“Cheer up, Henry. By golly, I’ll tell her, and I’ll bet she’ll believe me.”

“Will yuh?”

Henry lifted his head and peered into Hashknife’s eyes. He stared at the crowd, but they meant nothing to him.

“If yuh will, Hartley, there’s a chance that she will believe it, ’cause yuh sure can talk and make it sound true.”

Hashknife grinned and turned to Haley.

“Yuh can turn Shell Romaine loose, Pat, and shift all this crime where it belonged. I dunno how much the bank will recover, but that don’t interest me right now.”

Pat Haley, with only part understanding, went over with Mary O’Hara and cut the bonds from Shell Romaine. He and Mary looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and both turned to Hashknife.

“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ I can say to yuh that would fit the case, Hartley,” said Romaine slowly. “It ain’t somethin’ that a feller can put into words.”

“Tell it to Mary,” said Hashknife seriously. “And I’d like to see yuh both grin.”

Mary turned away, her eyes filling with tears. Shell Romaine tried to speak; but his throat contracted, and he turned away. Then they started down the street hand in hand, going to Mary’s home.

“Looky!” said Sleepy hoarsely.

Henry Horsecollar had mounted and was riding slowly up the street, going back to Marie Wicks.

They stood there, watching Mary and Romaine going one way and Henry going the other.

Pat Haley was standing near them, starting to roll a cigaret; his eyes blinking suspiciously fast. Perhaps some flakes of tobacco had blown into his eyes. Hashknife grinned softly, and Pat Haley lifted his head. He glanced down the street, where Mary and Romaine were turning in at the gate, and in the opposite direction, where Henry Horsecollar was fading out down the dusty road, and shook his head slowly.

Then he squinted at Hashknife and said:

“Hartley, ye’re a wonder, so ye are. Ye have done a world of good for deservin’ folks.

“Tramp cowboys, I’ve heard them call ye. If ye are, the title is an honor. Ye have done much for the Mission range, so ye have, and I’m wonderin’ if ye’d do somethin’ for me.”

“Yo’re danged right we will, Pat!” exclaimed Hashknife seriously. “What is it?”

“Will ye roll me a cigaret?”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 28, 1923 issue of Adventure magazine.