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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78766 ***
+
+                           THE SHADOW SHOOTER
+
+                              W. C. Tuttle
+
+              Hashknife--Wise, Humorous Adventurer of the
+                 Open Range--Rides Over the Hill Again
+
+
+“H-e-e-y! What the hell is the matter with this here thing?”
+
+“Soapy” Weed’s voice began a deep bass, rising in a swift crescendo
+until it hit a note far above the range of anything below a soprano.
+
+Soapy stood in the middle of the AH bunk-house, full in the light of two
+oil lamps. Balanced on the edge of a table was a packing-case which bore
+the imprint of a popular mail-order house and at his feet was a smaller
+case of the same kind.
+
+Soapy’s stubby nose was beaded with perspiration and his blue eyes
+were filled with anxiety. He was of medium height, weighing possibly
+a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was of a sandy hue and just now
+it flared as though in a gale, attesting to the fact that Soapy had
+shortly emerged through the neck band of a white, stiff-bosom shirt,
+which was so new and so stiffly starched that the deed had only been
+accomplished by a supreme effort.
+
+Over the shirt he wore a glaringly new checked suit, the sleeves of
+which came far above his wrists and the shoulders were far too narrow.
+Both hands clutched with a death grip on the waist-band of the checked
+trousers, which were inches and inches too large around the waist.
+
+Seated on a bunk was “Cling” Heffner, a giant of a cowboy. He had
+been nicknamed “Clinging Vine,” but this had been shortened to plain
+“Cling.” He was slightly bald, square-faced, with a crooked nose and
+huge mouth surrounded at each end by deep grin wrinkles--like a gash
+in parenthesis.
+
+He surveyed Soapy critically.
+
+“Well--holee gee!” he breathed. “You don’t fit ’em, Soapy.”
+
+“And is that all yuh can say?” asked Soapy wearily.
+
+“It’s good-lookin’ cloth, Soapy. I never thought that there sample would
+ever make up--”
+
+“Oh, damn the cloth! Look at this, will yuh?”
+
+Soapy tried to cross his arms, but the effort was futile. And when he
+let loose of the waist-band his trousers fell to the floor. He leaned
+forward and glared at Cling, making no effort to recover the trousers.
+
+“Yuh need suspenders, Soapy.”
+
+“Yea-a-a-ah?”
+
+Soapy kicked the offending trousers against the door of the bunk-house,
+and Cling grinned widely.
+
+“You look like one of them there quail birds without any tail feathers,
+Soapy; honest yuh do.”
+
+“Do I?” Soapy was sarcastic. He leaned against the table and glared at
+Cling. “You measured me for that suit, feller.”
+
+[Illustration: “You measured me for that suit, feller, and yuh got them
+figures down wrong”]
+
+“I follered directions.”
+
+“You did, like hell! Here’s what yuh done. I wear a thirty-nine coat
+and a thirty-one waist-band. And dang you, Cling, yuh got them figures
+down on the wrong blanks. Thirty-one coat! My God, that wouldn’t fit a
+chickadee! And a horse ain’t over thirty-nine around the waist.”
+
+“Some horses are, Soapy. Aw, don’t git hot. Lemme see them pants,
+will yuh? I can take a tuck in the rear. What’s eight inches, anyway?
+’S far as that’s concerned, yuh can gather it up inside yore belt. I
+admit that the coat fits tight. Sa-a-ay! Eight inches will jist about
+make it. We’ll take eight inches out of them pants and set it between
+the shoulders of the coat. Git me a pair of shears and a needle.”
+
+“Na-aa-a-aw! For God’s sake, Cling! You can’t do it. What do you know
+about sewin’? I’m ruined.”
+
+“Howsa hat?” asked Cling.
+
+Soapy groaned and lifted a pearl-colored fedora from the smaller case,
+gazing at it critically.
+
+“Put her on, Soapy.”
+
+Carefully and with both hands Soapy lifted up the hat and placed it atop
+his head, where it sat without visible means of support, except gravity.
+
+“Pull her down,” said Cling.
+
+“Pull hell!” He reached up savagely, clutched the hat in his right hand
+and flung it as far as the confines of the bunk-house would permit.
+
+“I think you’ve swelled since we took yore measure,” said Cling
+solemnly. “But if that hat’s a seven and three-eighths, I’ll eat it.”
+
+Soapy sat down heavily on a bunk and held his head in his hands while
+Cling proceeded to dress himself in a fairly new suit of robin’s egg
+blue, which bagged so badly at the knees that it looked as though Cling
+was getting ready to do a broad jump.
+
+“You better shake a laig, Soapy,” said Cling, as he surveyed himself
+in the cracked mirror. “You’ve got to go out to the IS ranch, yuh must
+remember.”
+
+“Yeah, I remember,” said Soapy, lifting a doleful face. “I also remember
+that you took my measure for that dang suit, and yuh got me a thirty-one
+coat and thirty-nine pants. What kind of a figure do they think I’ve
+got? And a six and seven-eights hat! Cling, some day, I’m goin’ to kill
+you.”
+
+“I’m sorry,” drawled Cling sadly. “I’d hate to git killed by a friend,
+’specially when I’ve got so much to live for. There’s two things I want
+to do before I die, Soapy. One is to draw an inside royal flush, and the
+other is to smash Tuck Hayward right square in the beak.
+
+“I’ve done drawed about seven thousand dollars’ worth of them inside
+royals in my life, and none of ’em took. If yuh crave hard enough,
+I’ll let yuh wear that red necktie of mine, Soapy. It’s got soup on
+the lower aidge, but yuh can button yore vest over it. Aw, cheer up,
+pardner. Climb into yore raiment. Tell Yvonne that yore suit never
+showed up.”
+
+“She didn’t know I was gettin’ one.”
+
+“Well, that’s fine. You look like hell in a fedory hat, anyway. Ain’t it
+enough glory to take Yvonne LeClere to a dance, without addin’ a checked
+suit? My God, she’s a pretty girl! Why, I’d--I’d take her to a dance if
+I never had a thing to wear, Soapy.”
+
+Soapy sighed deeply and began putting on the suit he had worn for Sunday
+best for three years. Its original color had been black, but time and
+lack of proper care had changed it to a sickly green. However, Soapy
+retained the dress shirt and added a high collar, which caused him to
+act as though he had a stiff neck. Added to this was the red tie, with
+the soup spots on the lower “aidge.”
+
+The tie immediately climbed to the upper edge of the collar and stayed
+there, in spite of Soapy’s efforts to make it stay down.
+
+“I shore look like hell!” snorted Soapy.
+
+“Not as she has been propounded to me,” said Cling seriously. “Yuh look
+a little stiff around the neck--tha’sall. Don’t set down hard or you’ll
+slice yore ears off. Mebby after yuh sweat a little she’ll loosen up.
+C’mon, we better get goin’.”
+
+They went out to the stable and saddled their horses. Johnny Colburn and
+“Slim” Benito, the cook at the AH, had already gone to Chongo. Old “Ace”
+Hart, owner of the AH, was too old to care about attending a dance. It
+was payday on all the ranches, and the boys of the AH always said that
+Ace was so sorrowful on that day he must stay at home and hang crape on
+himself.
+
+Soapy and Cling mounted their horses and rode away toward Chongo town
+but separated at the forks, Cling riding south across Silver River to
+the town, while Soapy rode north to the IS ranch to bring Yvonne
+LeClere to the dance.
+
+The IS was located about four miles north of Chongo, while the AH was
+about the same distance from town, slightly north of east. Soapy was
+not in a good humor, due to the misfit of his new suit and hat. It had
+taken him quite a while to accumulate that forty dollars which they
+represented, as Soapy was not a frugal soul and forty a month does not
+allow for much saving.
+
+“She’s a total loss,” he told his horse. “Won’t even make good cleanin’
+rags for a six-gun. If old P. T. Barnum was alive he’d shore pay a
+whoppin’ salary to the man who could fit into that suit. Thirty-one coat
+and thirty-nine pants! And a hat fit for a peanut! But that’s what yuh
+get for lettin’ a waddy measure yuh.”
+
+And then Soapy’s thoughts drifted away from the suit and centered on
+Yvonne LeClere. He couldn’t for the life of him quite understand why
+Yvonne should accept his invitation to the dance; why he was favored
+above the rest. Soapy was not at all vain or egotistical. He could
+look at himself in a mirror and see himself as others might see him.
+He was neither handsome, graceful, intellectual nor wealthy; just a
+forty-a-month cowboy trying to get along. He had known Yvonne before
+her father sent her away to school, where she had stayed four years,
+but they had never been intimate friends. She had been sort of a
+wild kid, with big black eyes, red lips and a mop of unruly black
+hair. She rode like a wild thing; rode any horse she could mount,
+much to the amusement of old Frenchy LeClere, who swore great oaths
+that Yvonne could ride better than any puncher in Silver River
+Valley.
+
+Old Frenchy was proud of Yvonne. His eyes always snapped when her name
+was mentioned.
+
+“She’s de LeClere blood,” he would declare, striking himself on his
+broad chest. “Better man den Joe. Joe--well, she’s not so good. She’s
+not bad boy--Joe; jus’ wild.”
+
+Silver River Valley had its own opinion of Joe LeClere. Joe was five
+years older than Yvonne, who was barely twenty. He was dark, with
+black eyes and a cruel mouth. And he was wild, was Joe LeClere; wild
+rider, wild drinker, wild gambler. He trailed with a wild crowd.
+
+Frenchy LeClere did not remonstrate with Joe, because Joe was of age
+now. But one day when Joe was eighteen his father knocked him down with
+the neck-yoke of a wagon. After doctoring him back to consciousness he
+said:
+
+“W’en I say somet’ng, I mean no! No, she’s not yes. Nor she’s not
+maybee. Me, I’m not like strike child wit’ feest; so I’m tak’ neck-yoke
+and hit you so--hard, maybee you remember for t’ree year more that I am
+boss. After dat I’m don’ give hell. You can’ go way and say I’m don’
+raise you right, by God!”
+
+And Joe had remembered to the best of his ability. In spite of his wild
+blood, he had a lot of respect for his big, spade-bearded, white-haired
+father. The neck-yoke probably did much to gain this respect.
+
+Soapy rode in at the ranch-house and Frenchy LeClere met him at the
+doorway, his broad figure back-lighted by a huge lamp on the table.
+
+“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed rumblingly. “By gosh, ’ere’s de cowboy come
+for you, Yvonne! Shak’ leg! Come in, Soapee. H’all polish up, eh?” He
+slapped Soapy on the shoulder so hard that the cowboy half flinched.
+
+“Hyah, Mr. LeClere!” he grinned.
+
+The old man lifted his bushy brows and stared at Soapy.
+
+“So-o-o? Mistaire LeClere, eh?”
+
+“Gotta be polite,” grinned Soapy.
+
+“Biccause you tak’ my girl to de dance, eh? You never mind be polite to
+me; you be polite to her.”
+
+“Shore thing, I will,” said Soapy seriously.
+
+“Rest de feet, eh?” grinned Frenchy LeClere, indicating a chair.
+
+Soapy sat down on the edge of the seat, while the old man sat down in an
+ancient rocker, which creaked ominously under his weight.
+
+“Joe at home?” asked Soapy after a silent moment. The old man frowned
+slightly, but finally lifted his brows and looked at Soapy.
+
+“She’s not here--no. Joe she’s spend mos’ time in town. I dunno,” he
+shook his head sadly. “She’s h’all right biffore de railroad come to
+Chongo. Railroad bring de gambler, de women. Mak’ new building, too.
+Chongo grow beeg. I’m sorry. We ’ave de nice li’l town, h’everybody
+happy; now she’s h’all go to hell, I’m guess.”
+
+“I don’t like it myself,” said Soapy earnestly.
+
+“Bimeby comes de barb-wire, nester, mebby sheep.”
+
+“I’ll pull out ahead of that.”
+
+“You are yo’ng; you can go some place. But I am old and I mus’ stay. I’m
+t’ink Yvonne he’s coming now. You bring de buggy?”
+
+“By golly, I never thought of it! I ain’t never taken--”
+
+“Never min’; you tak’ my rig, Soapee. You talk wit’ Yvonne w’ile I’m
+hitch up de horse.”
+
+And before Soapy could protest against it, Frenchy went out through
+the rear of the house. A moment later Yvonne came in. She stopped just
+inside the room and smiled at the speechless Soapy.
+
+She was wearing a flame-colored silk dress which fit her perfectly,
+a black lace mantilla gracefully draped over her head and shoulders,
+causing her to look more Spanish than French. Her big eyes sparkled
+and her red lips parted to show a flash of white teeth as she smiled
+at the dumbfounded cowboy.
+
+“How do you like me?” she asked.
+
+“My God!” breathed Soapy. “You--well, I’ll--hello, Yvonne.” He smiled
+foolishly and blinked at her.
+
+“Oh, hello, Soapy.”
+
+“Gosh! I--say, I saw a picture once that looked just like you.”
+
+“Yes? Where’s Father?”
+
+“He’s--uh--say, Yvonne, I plumb forgot to bring a rig, and he--he’s gone
+out to hitch up one.”
+
+Yvonne laughed softly and crossed to an old mirror.
+
+“You are not used to taking ladies to dances, eh?” she said, not turning
+her head.
+
+“I shore ain’t. Gosh, that’s a pretty dress, Yvonne. You’ll have all
+them Chongo women green with envy. I--I--” he looked down at his
+suit--“I ain’t--yuh see, I got a new suit today. Had her shipped
+from Chicago. But Cling Heffner measured me for it and he shore got
+the figures shifted. They sent me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine
+pants. What you think of that?”
+
+Yvonne laughed with him and turned from the mirror.
+
+“Never mind clothes,” she said. “You look fine.”
+
+“I guess I don’t _look_ fine, but I shore feel fine. I reckon I know how
+Cling would feel if he ever drawed a royal flush in the middle.”
+
+“That’s luck,” she said.
+
+“Shore--so is this.”
+
+“What do you mean, Soapy?” She looked straight at him.
+
+“Why, me gettin’ a chance to take you to a dance. I’ll bet there’s men
+in Chongo that would give a leg to have my chance.”
+
+Her eyes clouded a trifle and she turned back to the mirror.
+
+“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “I--I didn’t want to go with any of the
+men from Chongo. This is my first dance here since I came from school,
+you know.”
+
+[Illustration: “This is my first dance since I came from school”]
+
+“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I shore had a horseshoe with me when I asked
+yuh to go, Yvonne. By golly, you shore do look fine. If that danged suit
+had only--”
+
+“That’s Dad yelling that the rig is ready,” interrupted Yvonne. “We’ll
+go out through the kitchen.”
+
+They found Frenchy LeClere out there with the single rig, and he held
+the horse while they got in the buggy.
+
+“I’ll leave my bronc here,” said Soapy. “Thank yuh a lot, Mr. LeClere.”
+
+“Have good time,” LeClere laughed as they drove away.
+
+It was moonlight, but Soapy held the horse down to a walk. He was
+conscious of the fact that he had eaten onions for his supper. The
+buggy seat was small, which forced them to sit close together.
+
+“I wish we was drivin’ to the moon,” said Soapy.
+
+“To the moon? My, my! That is a long way, Soapy. Why, it would take a
+million years to drive to the moon.”
+
+“Time jist don’t mean nothin’ to me, Yvonne; I wish there was a road up
+to it.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+For many years the town of Chongo had been a cow-town, drowsing away in
+Silver River Valley; nothing more or less than a one-street village,
+seemingly content to stay as it was, only growing more weather-beaten
+each year.
+
+Then came the railroad, a branch line, of course, to wind its way up
+Silver River to Chongo town. And with the railroad came a change in
+the county seat, bringing it to Chongo, which was in the center of
+the county.
+
+And simultaneous with the advent of the railroad came the silver
+strike on Chongo Creek, twelve miles northeast of the town. All these
+things caused Chongo to boom, and boom it did--to a certain point.
+Came more saloons, two big gambling houses, honkatonks. A race-track
+was built just outside the town, where the local cow-horses fought
+for quarter-mile honors each Sunday. The stakes were usually
+horse-for-horse, with betting as a side issue. In other words, the
+winning horse won all the rest of the horses in the race.
+
+Tuck Hayward was one of the big men of Chongo. He owned the Box 88
+cow-outfit and the Silver Streak saloon and gambling-house. The
+gambling-house had been built after the railroad started construction
+and after Tuck had received the contract to furnish meat to the
+railroad construction camps.
+
+Frenchy LeClere had tried hard for this contract, but he did not
+understand politics as well as Tuck; so Tuck got the contract and
+laughed at Frenchy LeClere. All of which did not please Frenchy, whose
+herds were dwindling slowly but surely from some unknown cause.
+
+“Fat” McAllister, the sheriff, scouted the idea that some one was
+stealing IS cattle, but the old man was insistent; and he thought he
+knew more about it than the sheriff did. Frenchy appealed to the
+Cattle Association and received considerable correspondence but no
+action.
+
+After the big silver strike on Chongo Creek Frenchy LeClere tried to get
+the contract to furnish meats to the mines but found that Tuck Hayward
+had already taken the contract and was killing his beef at the mines.
+
+Tuck Hayward was a big man physically, inclined to stoutness, although
+not yet forty years of age; cold-blooded in all his dealings, inclined
+to bluff his way through life, hampered somewhat by a high-pitched voice
+which did not blend well with the rest of his make-up.
+
+His crew consisted of “Dunk” McLeod, Hal Cornes, Len Asher, Mike
+Dalhart and “Kid” O’Neil. Asher and Cornes spent most of their time
+at the Chongo camps, handling the butchering.
+
+O’Neil was fairly new to Silver River Valley; a small, sinister-looking
+person with thin, dark face, keen eyes, sharp nose and a mop of coarse
+black hair. But the kid was a cow-hand of the first water, quiet and
+unassuming, until full of liquor, when he became both loquacious and
+dangerous. He had worked a while for Frenchy LeClere, but the old man
+had fired him, and he had gone to work for the AH, only to start trouble
+in a bunk-house poker-game and get fired again. Tuck Hayward took him on
+at the Box 88, where he seemed to be getting along all right, after two
+bad starts in the valley.
+
+In Tuck Hayward’s private office at the rear of the Silver Streak sat
+Hayward and Joe LeClere. It was a tiny office, barely large enough to
+contain an old roll-top desk, a small, fire-proof safe and a couple of
+chairs, besides Tuck’s big leather-covered swivel-chair.
+
+The desk top was littered with silver ore samples, a half-empty bottle
+of liquor and other odds and ends. Tuck was wearing a gray suit which
+fitted him to the bursting point, a blue shirt and a scarlet tie, looped
+through a huge ring, set with a five-carat yellow diamond.
+
+There was nothing gaudy about Joe LeClere. He wore a black shirt of
+coarse material, an old gray vest, over-alls tucked in the tops of his
+boots, and on his knee rested a well-worn black sombrero. His cartridge
+belt was studded with silver rivets, tarnished to blackness, and the
+butt of an old single-action Colt protruded from his scarred holster.
+
+Joe had been drinking but was not drunk, and his somber eyes studied the
+big face of Tuck Hayward closely.
+
+“Who’s bringin’ yore sister to the dance tonight, Joe?” asked Hayward.
+
+“I dunno,” indifferently.
+
+“Dunno, eh?”
+
+“She never told me.” Joe was still indifferent.
+
+“You knew I asked her to come with me?”
+
+“So did Kid O’Neil.”
+
+“The hell he did! How do yuh know that?”
+
+Joe rubbed his nose reflectively.
+
+“I heard him.”
+
+“Yea-a-ah? You heard him, eh? What did she say?”
+
+“’Bout the same thing she told you, I suppose.”
+
+Hayward spat viciously and helped himself to a cigar from a box on the
+desk. He did not offer one to Joe.
+
+“You couldn’t expect her to go with you, Tuck,” said Joe softly. “You
+and the old man--”
+
+“Oh, to hell with the old man!”
+
+“Well,” said Joe resignedly, and after a short reflection:
+
+“Yuh couldn’t expect her to go with O’Neil. He got drunk the day she
+came home from school and tried to kiss her. She slapped hell out of
+him and when she got through the old man pitched him out on his
+head.”
+
+“I didn’t expect her to go with Kid O’Neil,” coldly.
+
+“Did you expect her to go with you, Tuck?”
+
+“Why in hell do yuh suppose I asked her, you damn fool?”
+
+Joe laughed shortly and his right hand twitched just a trifle. Hayward
+rolled the cigar between his lips reflectively.
+
+“Joe, have you any idea how much money you owe me?”
+
+Joe started slightly.
+
+“I--I never figured on it much, Tuck.”
+
+“Uh-huh; I didn’t think yuh had.”
+
+Tuck reached in his desk and brought out a much-thumbed ledger, which
+he perused thoughtfully. Then he closed it and put it back in the desk.
+Joe’s eyes were uneasy and he began to realize that his credit had been
+too good at the Silver Streak.
+
+“You ain’t closin’ down on me, are yuh, Tuck?” he asked uneasily.
+
+“Not yet; but you’ve got to go easy.”
+
+“You can’t very well--” began Joe softly.
+
+“Drop that, Joe!” Tuck’s voice had a dangerous ring.
+
+“I didn’t mean to say that,” said Joe weakly.
+
+“Yo’re damn right yuh didn’t. Don’t never pull anything like that again
+on me. I’ll cut you off any old time I feel like it. You’d be a damn
+sight better off if I did. You drink too much rot-gut, Joe. Taper off,
+will yuh? I guess that’s all. Find out who brought yore sister to the
+dance.”
+
+“Oh, all right,” said Joe, getting to his feet. “I’ll let yuh know,
+Tuck.”
+
+He walked out into the gambling-room and came down past the long bar
+where two bartenders were filling the wants of those present. Cling
+Heffner was at the bar and Joe stopped beside him.
+
+“Goin’ to the dance?” asked Joe, accepting Cling’s invitation to have a
+drink.
+
+“Might wiggle a hoof or two,” grinned Cling, “if I can git some girl to
+dance with me.”
+
+“Didn’t you bring a pardner, Cling?”
+
+“Hell, no!”
+
+“Rest of the boys in from the AH?”
+
+“Johnny and Slim are around somewhere, I reckon. Soapy went out after
+yore sister.”
+
+“Soapy did?”
+
+“Yeah--the lucky devil.”
+
+Joe laughed shortly and motioned for the bartender to pass out the
+glasses again.
+
+“She’s shore an attractive girl,” said Cling.
+
+“Seems to be the general opinion. Well, here’s how.”
+
+Cling happened to be a fairly good two-fisted drinker; so they had
+several rounds of the potent bar-whisky, which, added to what Joe had
+already imbibed that evening, caused Joe to grow expansive.
+
+“You folks lost any cattle?” asked Joe.
+
+“Kind of a funny question, ain’t it?” inquired Cling.
+
+“Funny?”
+
+“Oh, I heard that the IS claims a steady loss. Fat Garnette was out and
+talked with Hart about it. Fat don’t believe it. He says yore old man’s
+full of prunes. Where would a rustler dispose of cattle? Yuh never could
+ship stolen cattle out of here. Brand inspection is too close. Even a
+butcher has got to produce a branded hide.”
+
+“I know all about that, Cling. Well, here’s luck.”
+
+As they finished their drink Kid O’Neil and Mike Dalhart came in,
+evidently coming from the dance hall, because neither of them wore a
+hat. They came to the bar and ordered their drinks, O’Neil standing
+next to Joe LeClere.
+
+“Aw, I’d forget it if I was you, Kid,” advised Dalhart, as he filled his
+glass to the brim.
+
+“Yeah, but I’m not goin’ to forget it,” growled the Kid. “I’m as good
+as Soapy Weed, by God! She turned me down for that screw-nosed waddy,
+didn’t she? And then she won’t dance with me. ‘Thank yuh kindly,’ says
+she. Huh! No damn Canuck female can make a fool out of me, I’ll tell
+yuh that, and I don’t care who knows it.”
+
+The Kid swallowed his liquor at one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar
+and turned toward Joe LeClere. He had spoken loud enough for Joe to
+hear every word and now he scowled at Joe, as much as to invite him to
+comment on his words.
+
+Joe’s right hand was hanging at his side, his left elbow on the bar,
+and without any shift of his body he brought up his fist in a sweeping
+smash, landing it full on Kid O’Neil’s nose. The Kid’s face seemed to
+flatten under the impact of the blow; then it jerked sideways, and Kid
+O’Neil struck his chin on the bar as he promptly went to his knees on
+the rail.
+
+Joe sprang back, his numbed right hand dropping to the butt of his gun,
+as Cling sprang between them, throwing one arm around Kid O’Neil’s
+shoulders while with the other he removed the Kid’s gun from inside the
+waist of his pants.
+
+The Kid struggled to his feet, his face bathed in gore, trying to find
+his gun, to stop the blood. The place was in an uproar for several
+moments until Tuck Hayward arrived and took charge of the situation.
+The bartender gave the Kid a towel. Hayward demanded an explanation of
+the trouble and Cling told him what the Kid had said.
+
+Hayward grunted angrily as Dalhart tried to alibi the Kid.
+
+“His nose is busted,” said one of the cowboys. “Better get a doctor,
+Tuck; he’s losin’ a lot of red ink.”
+
+Some one went for the doctor and Cling took Joe outside.
+
+“I could love yuh for pokin’ him, Joe,” said Cling, “but I’d honestly
+advise yuh to go home. Dalhart is ready to lie for the Kid and the rest
+of the Box 88 will back his play. I know you’ve got plenty nerve, Joe;
+but yo’re badly outnumbered. I’ll tell Soapy about it and he can do as
+he pleases.”
+
+“I won’t run,” said Joe stubbornly.
+
+“Nobody expects yuh to. Oh, do as yuh damn please about it, of course.
+I’m not yore guardian. Only, the Kid is a bad hombre and he won’t forget
+that punch.”
+
+“I guess I’m kind of a damn fool,” said Joe bitterly. “I’m much obliged
+to yuh, Cling, and I’m goin’ home. You tell Soapy I went home, will
+yuh?”
+
+“Shore, I’ll explain it all to him. I just want yuh to know I’ve got
+a lot more respect for yuh since yuh hit that geezer, Joe. If you’d
+cut loose from Tuck Hayward, yuh might do well before yuh die of old
+age.”
+
+“Well, I’ll see yuh later, Cling.”
+
+“Shore. Good night.”
+
+Cling went back to the saloon and gave the Kid’s gun to the bartender.
+They had taken the Kid to the rear of the room, and as Cling passed the
+gun across the bar the doctor came in. Some one directed him to the back
+of the room and Cling followed.
+
+Quite a crowd had gathered, but they made way for the doctor, who made
+an examination and declared the Kid’s nose was broken badly. Hayward and
+the doctor took the Kid to Tuck’s private office and locked the door.
+The Kid was mad enough to bite the doctor but gritted his teeth and let
+him bandage and tape until the doctor was satisfied that the nose would
+eventually assume its former shape, although just now it resembled a
+purple summer-squash, if there is such a vegetable.
+
+Tuck paid the doctor his fee and let him out of the office, while the
+Kid swore nasally and tried to smoke a cigaret.
+
+“I’ll ged hib for thad,” he declared. “No dabd Canug cad hid me ad ged
+away wid id.”
+
+“You talk a lot,” sneered Hayward.
+
+Some one knocked on the door. It was Dalhart, but Tuck did not let him
+in.
+
+“Joe pulled out for home,” said Dalhart.
+
+“All right,” replied Tuck. “Let him go.”
+
+“Pulled oud, eh?” grunted the Kid. He felt of his waist-band. “Where’s
+my gud?”
+
+Tuck reached inside the desk and drew out a Colt.
+
+“Here’s one, O’Neil.”
+
+“Thags.”
+
+“Much good it’ll do yuh, though.”
+
+“Thad so. You wadch. I’d goid oud and ged hib.”
+
+The Kid got to his feet, shoving the gun inside his waist, while Tuck
+opened the door. Nothing more was said. Tuck saw the Kid walk swiftly
+down through the crowded room and through the front doorway. Then he
+closed and locked the door again.
+
+In the meantime Cling had gone over to the dance-hall where he had found
+Soapy and told him what had happened. Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.
+
+“Let’s go over and finish the job,” he suggested. “No, I’m not exceptin’
+_all_ of the Box 88.”
+
+“Don’t cover too much territory,” grinned Cling. “Anyway, you ain’t got
+no war with the Box 88. It was natural for Dalhart to back the Kid.”
+
+“I suppose that’s right. C’mon over and ask Yvonne for a dance.”
+
+Yvonne laughed and shook hands with Cling, accepting his invitation to
+dance, while Soapy ducked away and headed for the Silver Streak. He was
+almost to the front of the place when Kid O’Neil came out. Several men
+were there, but Soapy paid no attention to them. He stepped in front of
+the Kid, who stopped short.
+
+“It was a lucky thing for you that it wasn’t me who heard what you said,
+O’Neil. You got enough to stop yuh, I guess; but I want you to get this
+straight. If you ever mention a certain lady again, I’ll pistol whip yuh
+into hell in a hurry. You don’t hear with yore nose; so I guess yuh got
+that straight. Yo’re a runty pup of a mangy coyote and if yuh wasn’t
+already crippled in the face, I’d bend yuh so badly you’d talk behind
+yore own back.”
+
+But the Kid did not reply. His nose was one big ache--and he had
+something else on his mind. So he turned and walked down toward the
+Silver Streak hitch-rack. Soapy watched him for several moments and
+then turned and went back to the dance-hall.
+
+Soapy didn’t go back to the saloon again. He talked the matter over with
+Cling and decided to follow Cling’s advice. Some of the Box 88 gang were
+dancing but none of them paid any attention to Soapy.
+
+An oyster supper was served in an adjoining hall at midnight and at
+about three o’clock in the morning Soapy took Yvonne home. The moon
+was low over the hills and a chill wind was blowing from the north.
+
+“Still want to ride to the moon, Soapy?” asked Yvonne.
+
+“Just as much as ever,” he laughed. “This shore has been my big night,
+Yvonne. I never danced so many times in my whole life.”
+
+“It has been a wonderful night. I hope Dad didn’t stay up to wait for
+us. He’s always worried when I’m out.”
+
+“Nothing could happen to yuh, Yvonne.”
+
+“I know. But Dad isn’t so trustful of folks. He said he was glad you
+were taking me to the dance.”
+
+“Gosh, I didn’t know he liked me.”
+
+“Maybe he don’t, Soapy, but he said you’d probably stay sober enough to
+drive the horse back home.”
+
+“Well, for gosh sake! Anyway, I never took a drink. Did you feel the
+same way about it, Yvonne?”
+
+“No, Soapy; I went with you because I wanted to.”
+
+“Well, that kinda takes the sting out of what yore Dad said. Anyway,”
+bravely, “I’m glad yuh let me go with yuh, no matter what the reason
+was. I’m satisfied, Yvonne.”
+
+“It’s nice of you to say that, Soapy.”
+
+“It wasn’t nice; it was true. Most folks have to lie to say nice things.
+And I meant what I said about the moon.”
+
+They drove through the ford at Silver River and over the long mesa which
+stretched far beyond the IS ranch. Half a mile from the ranch-house they
+drove along a line of old cottonwoods where the moonlight filtered
+through the foliage, silvering the hard-packed road.
+
+Soapy helped Yvonne down at the front door and told her good night
+before stabling the horse.
+
+“Come over again soon, won’t you?” she asked.
+
+“Try to keep me away, Yvonne.”
+
+He stabled the horse and found his own animal in one of the stalls, the
+saddle hanging on a convenient peg. In a few minutes he rode back past
+the ranch-house and waved at a lighted window.
+
+Soapy was in no hurry. He wanted to ride slowly and think it over;
+wanted to poke along and dream. He knew there would be no work at the
+AH that day. Old Ace Hart never expected any one to be on the job the
+day after pay-day.
+
+He was about half-way back along the cottonwoods when his roan horse
+snorted suddenly, its ears pricked forward, and stopped. Soapy sat up
+quickly, his eyes jerking to a focus, as he peered off to the right. It
+seemed as though he could see a horse, its head down, standing there in
+the shadow.
+
+Quickly he dismounted to investigate. There was a horse with the
+bridle-reins tangled about its feet. Soapy lighted a match and looked
+at the animal. It was a stubby sorrel, wearing a stock-saddle and
+bearing the Box 88 brand.
+
+“That’s kinda darned funny!” exclaimed Soapy aloud. “What’s a Box 88
+horse doin’ over here?”
+
+He untangled the reins, and without any warning the horse jerked away
+from him and went trotting down the road.
+
+“Well, go to hell, if yuh don’t like my company,” laughed Soapy.
+
+He started back to his horse, stumbled over something and almost fell
+headlong in the weeds. It was something that felt soft under the
+impact of his toe. Quickly he regained his balance and turned back.
+He scratched another match, half-kneeling down to look, and the match
+burned to his fingers.
+
+Finally he got back to his feet, his knees shaking. He took off his hat,
+put it back on--and took it off again.
+
+“Good God!” he said--and it was a prayer, not profanity. “Kid O’Neil,
+and he’s dead as a gimlet-handle. Somebody shot him from behind.”
+
+[Illustration: Dead as a gimlet handle--_and he was shot from behind!_”]
+
+Soapy walked back to his horse. He didn’t know what to do--he had never
+seen many dead men. With shaking knees he mounted his horse, intending
+to go and find the sheriff, but as he turned his head he saw the tiny
+glimmer of a light at the IS ranch.
+
+“He follered Joe LeClere,” said Soapy half-aloud. “Him and Joe fought it
+out, and--” Then Soapy realized that the Kid had been shot from behind.
+
+“My God, that’s plain murder! Joe LeClere--”
+
+Soapy swallowed heavily as his hands groped for his cigaret papers. He
+wanted inspiration and he wanted it badly. He knew that Kid O’Neil had
+followed Joe, probably with the intention of getting even with Joe for
+that smash in the nose. All of which was entirely ethical. An eye for
+an eye. If Kid O’Neil had followed Joe out there and they had shot out
+their grudge, leaving Joe as sole survivor, it would have been
+perfectly all right. No jury would hesitate on such a verdict--that
+is, no cow-town jury. But Kid O’Neil had been shot from behind!
+
+Soapy slid off his horse and went back to the body. The big Colt gun
+was still wedged between the Kid’s body and the waist of his pants.
+Soapy drew it out. Not a shot had been fired. Soapy felt his dislike
+for the Kid oozing away.
+
+“Never had a chance,” he muttered. “Shot down like a dog. This is
+shore a tough lay-out, and I wish Cling was here to tell me what to
+do. They’ll hang Joe just as sure as God made little apples--if they
+find the body here on the IS.”
+
+Soapy looked back toward the ranch-house, but there were no lights in
+it now. Suddenly he was filled with inspiration. He dropped the gun,
+went over to his horse and led the animal to the body. Luckily he was
+riding a gentle horse. Soapy didn’t usually ride gentle horses.
+
+Kid O’Neil had been a small man, but to Soapy he now seemed as big as
+the Cardiff Giant, and it was only through a supreme effort which left
+Soapy weak-kneed and gasping for breath that he was able to place the
+body across the saddle. He took his lariat and roped the body securely.
+Soapy wasn’t going to take any chances on having to put the body on the
+horse again.
+
+The moon had faded out now and in the eastern sky was a decided hint
+of the coming dawn. Soapy examined the lashings carefully and then
+swung up behind the saddle. He had made up his mind to dump the body
+along the road somewhere across Silver River and let the sheriff do
+a lot of guessing as to who had killed the Kid.
+
+But he reckoned without the roan, which had never been ridden double
+before. As Soapy’s spurs rattled in against its flanks the startled
+roan threw down its head, jerking the reins from Soapy’s hand, and
+began pitching in a most approved fashion, but hampered somewhat by
+the double burden.
+
+Soapy’s first thought was of the corpse, which had not been lashed on
+with the intention of withstanding a bucking contest, and at about
+the fifth jump he slid off, hoping to run the animal into the trees
+and get the reins again. But when Soapy hit the earth he stumbled and
+went end over end while the roan headed straight down the road toward
+Chongotown.
+
+Soapy got to his feet and began running awkwardly down the road,
+following the horse and its grisly burden. Soapy was not a fast runner
+and the high heels of his shoes bothered him to a great extent. For a
+while he ran on his toes and then he grabbed his hat in one hand and
+began to gallop. But the roan also galloped, and its gallop was faster
+than Soapy’s.
+
+And in this manner they reached the crossing of Silver River--the horse
+reaching there about a hundred yards ahead of Soapy and splashing
+straight through the ford, while Soapy flopped down on a rock, cursing
+the roan back to the first generation of all roan horses.
+
+There was a decided rise on the road a quarter of a mile beyond the
+river, and it was light enough for Soapy to see the roan top this rise,
+still hurrying toward Chongo town.
+
+“Soapy Weed, you shore raised hell,” wailed Soapy. “They say that dead
+men tell no tales, but this one is tied on my horse with my rope. I
+reckon I better walk home, pick up my thirty-thirty and head for the
+hills.”
+
+He limped up from the river and stopped at the top of the bank. The
+moon had paled, but there was still a faint indication of it left in
+the dawn.
+
+“Moon,” said Soapy whimsically, “yo’re a long ways away from here, but
+if there was a road up to yuh, I’d shore as hell start walkin’.”
+
+But, in the absence of such a road, he turned and limped on toward the
+AH ranch.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Fat” Garnette had been so nicknamed because he most certainly was not.
+He was over six feet tall, built like a bed-slat and swore he could hide
+behind a six-by-six scantling. He had a long nose, weary-looking eyes
+and a sense of humor. But his sense of humor did not include “Weary”
+McMillan, his deputy.
+
+Weary was fat, bow-legged and used hair-oil. Fat detested hair-oil while
+Weary reveled in it. Weary didn’t have enough hair to bother plastering
+it down, but plaster it he did. “Chuck” Haverty, the jailer, said that
+if Weary paid as much attention to the inside of his head as he did to
+the outside, he’d soon work himself up to a point where he’d be at least
+half-witted.
+
+Chuck Haverty was about sixty, with no hair at all, and did all his
+chewing on two teeth which didn’t meet.
+
+Weary had been to the dance and, inadvertently, to hear him tell it, had
+imbibed too much liquor. He didn’t need to tell Fat about it because he
+came in the rear of the office and proceeded to fall over Fat’s cot. The
+fall shook the office so hard that a picture of “Washington Crossing the
+Delaware” crashed down and the glass was shattered.
+
+“Who the hell told you to charge?” asked Fat, sitting up in the dark.
+Weary did not reply.
+
+“Why in hell don’tcha light the lamp?” Fat demanded.
+
+“Can’t,” gurgled Weary. “I’m layin’ on my hands. Whaz-zamatter, Fatty?”
+
+Fat got up, lighted the lamp and extricated Weary, who was really
+doubled up in such a way that he couldn’t use either hand. Weary sank
+down in a chair, made a few ineffectual attempts to remove a boot, gave
+up the idea with a gesture of despair and blinked owlishly at Fat, who
+had crawled into bed again.
+
+“Wha’ do yuh know ’bout Kid O’Neil gettin’ his nose busted?” asked
+Weary. “How’s that for good work?”
+
+“Suits me,” growled Fat, who knew all about it.
+
+“O-o-oh, me too. Fine! Didja hear ’bout Soapy Weed?”
+
+“What did he do?”
+
+“Declared war on O’Neil. Met him in front of the Silver Streak and
+told him if he ever spoke about Yvonne LeClere ag’in he’d fry his ears
+in axle-grease and feed ’em to the buzzards. Oh, Soapy shore waxed
+indign’t, as they say. Growed b’ligerent, in other words.”
+
+“What did the Kid say?”
+
+“He didn’t say. I reckon he had e-nough. Anyway, Tuck Hayward said that
+he went home to rest his nose. He’ll shore salivate Joe LeClere, I’ll
+betcha.”
+
+“Oh, go to bed and stop yawpin’, Weary.”
+
+“Oh, all right.”
+
+Weary sighed deeply, stretched out and began snoring. Fat got up, threw
+a blanket over him and went back to bed. It was daylight in Chongo town.
+Fat tried to turn over and go to sleep again, but he could hear a chorus
+of voices, argument, plenty of loud talk and profanity. The voices were
+coming nearer, and then a heavy fist beat upon the door.
+
+Fat rolled off his cot and went to the door, where he found Slim Benito,
+the cook at the AH, Mike Dalhart, of the Box 88, Barney Johnson, keeper
+of the Chongo livery-stable, Hansen, the blacksmith, and several others.
+
+“Slide into yore pants, Fat,” ordered Johnson. “Kid O’Neil has been
+murdered.”
+
+“Kid O’Neil? How do yuh know? Where did he--”
+
+“Yuh can’t come without no pants!” snorted Benito, shoving the sheriff
+back. “Put on p-a-n-t-s, sheriff.”
+
+“Oh, yea-a-ah. Jist a minute.”
+
+In a few moments Fat was with them. They led him down beside the
+livery-stable corral, where Soapy Weed’s roan was tied to the fence,
+still bearing the body of Kid O’Neil.
+
+“I found the horse there a few minutes ago,” said Johnson. “Nothin’ has
+been touched, except that I tied him to the fence.”
+
+Fat walked around the animal, examining the body. The roan was still
+muddy from river water and dust.
+
+“Soapy Weed’s roan, ain’t it?” asked Fat.
+
+“The one he most always rode,” said Benito. “I dunno what one he rode
+last night.”
+
+“He drove old Frenchy LeClere’s single rig to town last night,” offered
+Dalhart. “Probably left his roan at the IS.”
+
+“Might as well take the body down to the coroner’s office just
+thisaway,” decided Fat, beginning to untie the rope.
+
+“Yuh can see he’s been murdered, can’t yuh?” asked Johnson. “Bullet went
+in the back of his head and came out jist about the temple.”
+
+“I reckon we can all see that far,” said Fat grimly.
+
+They led the horse down to the coroner’s office and waited until one of
+the men went to the doctor’s home and routed him out.
+
+Old Doctor Plumley had been many years in the Silver River Valley and he
+gave his decisions in short, snappy sentences.
+
+“Killed instantly. Shot from behind. No question of its being murder.
+Hold inquest tomorrow morning. Bring him in the office. Sheriff, keep
+that horse, saddle and rope.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said Fat meekly, and led the animal back to his own stable
+where there happened to be an empty stall.
+
+Slim Benito went with the sheriff. He thought a lot of Soapy Weed and
+he wanted to find out what the sheriff thought about the matter. But
+the sheriff didn’t say.
+
+Frenchy LeClere came to town and was greeted with the news. Nobody had
+told him about the fight between Joe and Kid O’Neil until after he had
+been told several times of the murder. He went down to see the sheriff
+and to get a straight version of the whole trouble.
+
+LeClere had been awake when Soapy had brought Yvonne home, and he swore
+to the sheriff that he had heard no shots fired before or after Soapy
+had left. But the sheriff had nothing to say. Fat worked on the theory
+that it was better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you
+might be dumb than to talk too much and let them be sure of it.
+
+After LeClere left him the sheriff saddled his horse and headed for
+the AH ranch, wondering what alibi Soapy would have. He was possibly
+half a mile beyond the river ford when he met Soapy, who was coming
+toward town, riding a blaze-faced sorrel.
+
+The sheriff drew up and waited for Soapy, who tried to affect a
+nonchalant air but failed miserably.
+
+“I was just comin’ in to see yuh, Fat,” he said quickly.
+
+“Yeah?” drawled the sheriff, sitting sideways in his saddle, his eyes
+frankly curious now.
+
+“Oh, shore,” said Soapy earnestly. “Early this mornin’ I was comin’
+back from the IS ranch, headin’ back to town, and I found Kid O’Neil
+down there by the river--dead.”
+
+Soapy indicated “down there” by a sweep of his hand, which might have
+included the river from its source to its mouth.
+
+“You found him, eh?” queried the sheriff.
+
+“Y’betcha!” Soapy had more confidence now. “Well, like I just said, I
+found him down there on the rocks, dead as a gimlet-handle. I--I didn’t
+want to leave him there, yuh see; so I roped him onto my bronc and piled
+on behind him, but my roan wasn’t broke to ride double and I lit all
+folded up, as yuh might say, while the damn horse went across the river
+and headed for town.
+
+“I shore didn’t want to get wet all over; so I walked back to the ranch,
+got me a horse and was just comin’ in to tell yuh about it.”
+
+Soapy was all out of breath when he finished. Fat looked him over
+calmly.
+
+“You know just where yuh found him, Soapy?”
+
+“Oh, shore. It was--gosh, lemme see. It wasn’t daylight yet, but I--oh,
+shore, I can find the place.”
+
+“C’mon and show it to me.”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Soapy wet his lips. Now he realized that he had let himself in
+for something but he was game.
+
+They rode back, and the sheriff’s quizzical eyes watched Soapy trying
+to pick out the exact spot along a gravel bar. Finally Soapy decided
+that this was the place. The old boulders were bleached white and the
+gravel was clean.
+
+“Right here’s where he was layin’, Fat.”
+
+“Ain’t no blood around there,” said Fat.
+
+“By golly, that’s right! Not a drop. Well, I--I’ll tell yuh somethin’,
+Fat; he wasn’t bleedin’ when I found him.”
+
+“Wasn’t, eh? Do yuh see any fox-tail around there?”
+
+“Well, there ain’t any,” said Soapy wonderingly.
+
+“Nope; there ain’t. That’s what makes it look funny. Yuh see, Kid
+O’Neil’s clothes were stickin’ full of fox-tail tops. Looked like he
+had been rolled in it.”
+
+“Is that a fact?” Soapy had difficulty in clearing his throat. “Well,
+well! Where’d he pick that up, do yuh suppose? I didn’t see none of it
+on him at the time. Mebby the horse rolled with him.”
+
+“Not likely, Soapy. You knew he’d been murdered, didn’t yuh?”
+
+“I didn’t look very close, Fat.”
+
+“Uh-huh. When yuh found the body, why didn’t yuh leave it where it was
+and notify me?”
+
+“Well, I--yuh see, I wasn’t exactly sure he was dead. I said to myself
+that he ort to see a doctor; so I piled him on my bronc, and--”
+
+“A while ago yuh knew he was dead, Soapy.”
+
+“No, yuh see--but I was pretty well satisfied that he might be dead.”
+
+Fat laughed softly and shook his head.
+
+“Go ahead and tell the truth, Soapy.”
+
+“I’m tellin’ you the truth.”
+
+“Oh, all right. C’mon to town with me, Soapy; you’re under arrest. I’ll
+take yore gun, if yuh don’t mind. Butt first.”
+
+Soapy passed his gun to Fat and with a sinking heart he rode beside the
+tall sheriff.
+
+“You goin’ to slam me right into a cell?” asked Soapy as they rode in to
+Chongo town.
+
+“I’ve got to do it, Soapy; Kid O’Neil was murdered.”
+
+“Mebby he got what was comin’ to him.”
+
+“Mebby; but the law don’t allow for that.”
+
+They rode down to the jail and Soapy was locked in a cell, after which
+the sheriff stabled Soapy’s horse and went to visit the prosecuting
+attorney. Frenchy LeClere was still in town, but he rode home as soon
+as he heard of Soapy’s arrest. Before he left the coroner asked him to
+bring Yvonne and Joe to the inquest, as they would be asked to testify.
+
+After the sheriff and prosecutor had conferred over the matter the
+sheriff proceeded to find every one who had seen the fight between
+Joe and the Kid and all who had heard what Soapy had told the Kid,
+and notified them to attend the inquest.
+
+“Are you tryin’ to hang the murder on Soapy Weed?” asked Tuck Hayward
+ponderously.
+
+“I’m tryin’ to hang it on the guilty man,” retorted the sheriff. “And
+not only that--I expect everybody to tell the truth at that inquest.”
+
+“I’m not to testify, am I?”
+
+“You’ll tell what you know about it, Tuck.”
+
+“What I know won’t do yuh much good.”
+
+“It ain’t of any interest what yuh know--it’s how much of it yuh tell.”
+
+“I wonder just what yuh mean by that remark, Fat?”
+
+“Oh, I’m just tryin’ to be smart, I suppose. I never had a murder case
+before; so I’ve got to act smart.”
+
+But after he had gone away Tuck Hayward scratched his head and wondered
+just why the sheriff had said that.
+
+“Oh, I’ll tell the truth,” he muttered. “Why not; it’s nothin’ to me.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“We was just standin’ there at the bar havin’ a drink, and all to once
+Joe LeClere smashes O’Neil in the nose. There wasn’t no reason for--”
+
+“Yo’re a damn liar and you know it, Dalhart.”
+
+Cling Heffner stood up and shook an accusing finger at Mike Dalhart,
+who had been sworn as a witness. Dalhart got up from his chair, eyes
+snapping.
+
+“You can’t call me no liar, Heffner!”
+
+“I done called yuh one, Dalhart.”
+
+“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “You can’t fight in here. Set down,
+Cling. Dalhart is under oath.”
+
+“Lot of good that does him. That geezer would lie with a Bible in both
+hands and one in his mouth.”
+
+The coroner rapped sharply on his desk with a carpenter’s hammer.
+
+“Cease this wrangling. Let the witness proceed.”
+
+“Just a moment, if you please,” said the prosecuting attorney, getting
+to his feet. “Perhaps the witness does not know that there is such a
+thing as perjury. You have sworn to tell the truth, Dalhart. If you
+give false testimony and it can be proved, there is a severe penalty.”
+
+“I ain’t lyin’,” wailed Dalhart. “You make Heffner keep his mouth shut,
+will yuh? Or I’ll do it.”
+
+“You couldn’t shut nothin’,” said Cling disgustedly. “If you want
+trouble, just leave that chair and come on outside. Yore lyin’ testimony
+won’t help the case any; so yuh might as well quit.”
+
+“Sheriff, will you stop this bickering?” asked the coroner angrily.
+
+“Are you goin’ to quit it, Cling?” asked Fat.
+
+“When that ossified mud-cat quits lyin’--yes.”
+
+“Are you goin’ to quit lyin’, Dalhart?”
+
+“By God, I ain’t been lyin’!”
+
+“Go ahead and testify--and you better not lie.”
+
+The crowded court-room chuckled. It was a small room, crowded to
+suffocation and with only a few chairs. Soapy sat with the sheriff
+beside a table, at the end of which presided the coroner. The witness
+stand was an old rocking-chair which had lost its rockers.
+
+Frenchy LeClere, Joe and Yvonne were there. Some one had kindly provided
+LeClere and Yvonne with chairs. They were very serious over the inquest
+and kept their eyes on Soapy, who eyed Dalhart malevolently. The
+testimony up to this point had not implicated Soapy in any way, as it
+merely covered the trouble between Joe and Kid O’Neil.
+
+“Then you claim that Joe LeClere had no cause to strike Kid O’Neil?”
+asked the coroner.
+
+“I never heard anythin’ said that would give a reason.”
+
+“Tryin’ to alibi with his ears,” said Cling softly enough for every one
+to hear.
+
+Dalhart was dismissed and Tuck Hayward called to the stand.
+
+Tuck didn’t see the fight nor did he seem to know what had started it.
+He testified to the effect that he and the doctor took O’Neil to the
+Silver Streak office, where the doctor repaired O’Neil’s nose.
+
+“Did O’Neil tell you where he was goin’, when he left your office?”
+asked the coroner.
+
+“Yes,” said Hayward. “He said he was goin’ home.”
+
+The room was silent for several moments, and then the coroner said:
+
+“Did Kid O’Neil have a gun?”
+
+“I don’t know,” lied Hayward. “I suppose he did.”
+
+Cling was called to the stand and was able to remember just what O’Neil
+had said about Yvonne.
+
+“Did he mention her name, Heffner?”
+
+“No, he didn’t. But he said, ‘That damn Canuck girl.’”
+
+“You took O’Neil’s gun away, didn’t you?”
+
+“Sure--and gave it to the bartender.”
+
+“I’ve got the gun,” said the sheriff. “The bartender gave it to me
+today.”
+
+Cling was dismissed after testifying as to what time Soapy arrived at
+the AH ranch after the dance, and Yvonne was called to the stand.
+
+She knew nothing about the trouble between Joe and O’Neil nor that Soapy
+had spoken harshly to O’Neil that night. She said that Soapy took her
+home and she saw him ride away from the ranch-house.
+
+“Did Kid O’Neil ask to take you to the dance?” queried the coroner.
+
+Yvonne flushed quickly as she nodded her head.
+
+“Yes, he asked me several days ago.”
+
+“And you refused, of course?”
+
+“Certainly.”
+
+“Did any one else invite you to the dance?”
+
+“Mr. Hayward.”
+
+Tuck grinned sourly.
+
+“Was Kid O’Neil angry because you refused him?” asked the coroner.
+
+“I suppose he was.”
+
+Yvonne was much relieved to have the coroner excuse her.
+
+“Soapy Weed, do you wish to testify?” asked the coroner.
+
+“Shore.”
+
+“You are not obliged to testify, of course.”
+
+“Tha’sall right,” grinned Soapy. “If I tell the same story often enough
+I’ll get her down pat enough to believe it myself.”
+
+Everybody laughed, except the LeClere family and Soapy. His story was
+substantially the same that he had told the sheriff. He mentioned the
+fact of the Kid’s clothes being full of fox-tail grass and that the
+rocks did not have any blood on them.
+
+“Did you see any gun on the person of O’Neil?”
+
+“Nope. He was there in the tall grass and--”
+
+Soapy stopped short, staring straight ahead.
+
+“What _tall grass_?” asked the sheriff quickly.
+
+“Tall grass?” echoed the coroner.
+
+“I reckon that’s all my testimony,” said Soapy evenly.
+
+He got out of the chair and sat down at the table. He had made a
+dangerous slip, and as his eyes swept the faces in the room he realized
+it fully.
+
+The jury was out only about five minutes, and Soapy was led away to
+stand trial for the murder of Kid O’Neil.
+
+“Now, maybe you’ll tell the truth,” said the sheriff, as he snapped the
+cell door shut.
+
+“Damn it, I almost did!” snorted Soapy. “Didja ever hear the story of
+the Good Samaritan, Fat?”
+
+“No; what did he do?”
+
+“Minded somebody else’s business and got away with it--the lucky stiff.”
+
+“What’s that got to do with you, Soapy?”
+
+“Nothin’, except that it goes to prove that lightnin’ ain’t the only
+thing that don’t strike twice in the same place.”
+
+“Oh, I think yo’re a damn fool, Soapy Weed.”
+
+“_Think_ so? Hell, I know I am.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The county buried Kid O’Neil in the little Chongo cemetery about a mile
+from town, and there were no mourners. He had not been liked by anybody.
+The sheriff, coroner, minister and several boys from the Box 88 were the
+only ones at the cemetery.
+
+The machinery of the law moves slowly in Silver River Valley, and
+Soapy Weed would be obliged to languish in the jail for six weeks
+before coming to trial. The boys from the AH visited him every few
+days. Yvonne wanted to visit Soapy, but her father objected; so she
+sent messages by Cling, which cheered Soapy, although he was sure
+that those verbal messages were colored rather highly by Cling.
+
+The sheriff was dubious about the guilt of Soapy Weed. He had a feeling
+that Soapy knew something about the murder but was unwilling to tell.
+The sheriff was not a detective.
+
+This was the second murder since he had been elected; the first one
+having passed into the limbo of forgotten things, it seemed. A cowboy
+by the name of Charley McFee, working for the Box 88, had been found
+dead about half-way between the Box 88 and Chongo. He had been shot
+through the heart.
+
+McFee had only been with the Box 88 two days. Evidence proved that McFee
+had started for town alone. Dalhart, Cornes and McLeod had left the
+ranch earlier in the evening, leaving McFee, Hayward and Joe LeClere at
+the ranch. It seemed that Hayward and Joe had decided against going to
+town and McFee had started alone.
+
+Joe was not working for the Box 88, but had gone out there to sober up,
+after a particularly violent spell of drinking, because he didn’t want
+his father to find him. Hayward had just acquired the Silver Streak
+saloon, where Joe got all his liquor, and perhaps he had felt a certain
+responsibility.
+
+At any rate, there was nothing to connect any one with the killing; so
+it was forgotten, except to be recalled as a mystery when men talked of
+killings.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+About a week after the killing of Kid O’Neil two cowboys rode out of
+the north, where there was neither road nor trail. Below them stretched
+the valley of Silver River, a long, green strip of foliage marking the
+course of the river, the lower valley fading away to a cobalt haze in
+the far distance.
+
+The going was rough and they traveled slowly, threading their way among
+the greasewood and stunted firs. Finally they came out on a bare knoll
+where they drew rein and proceeded to roll smokes.
+
+One man was extremely tall, with rather a long face, lean cheek-bones,
+slightly hooked nose and a wide mouth.
+
+The other cowboy was much shorter, but wide of shoulder; his face was
+blocky of contour and deeply graved with wrinkles, and he had wide blue
+eyes which seemed to look upon the world with amusement.
+
+A damp lock of hair hung down his forehead, and he shoved it aside
+with his wrist as he leaned across to light his cigaret from the tall
+cowboy’s match. The tall cowboy removed his sombrero, disclosing the
+fact that he had slightly sandy hair and a pair of steady gray eyes.
+
+Both men were dressed in range clothes. Their shirts showed signs of
+many washings, the mufflers around their throats were mere strings
+and their bat-wing chaps had seen much service. They wore battered
+Stetsons, well-worn cartridge belts, sagging from the weight of heavy
+Colt guns, and tied behind the cantle of their saddles were their
+war-bags--the wardrobe trunks of the range country.
+
+These two were “Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy” Stevens, wanderers of
+the range; always looking for the other side of the next hill, finding
+adventure without looking for it.
+
+The tall one was Hashknife, christened “Henry” in his early infancy,
+when his father rode the Milk River ranges, bringing the Gospel to
+bunk-house and chuck-wagon; a range preacher who made it a life
+mission to fit men to live rather than to die.
+
+Sleepy hailed from Idaho. These two had met at the old Hashknife ranch,
+and the wanderlust had driven them out together to go up and down the
+land, sharing one another’s joys and woes. Always they had gone seeking
+peace and had found war. Fate seemed to have thrown them into troublous
+places and times, where they had ridden neck and neck with death,
+winning by the proverbial eyelash, at times--but winning.
+
+Together they had stepped out of smoke-fogged rooms, their ears dulled
+from the crash of guns, and looked at one another in amazement. Death
+had struck at them from beside the roads they had traveled, but always
+their proverbial luck had saved them until they had become confirmed
+fatalists.
+
+And now they were heading down into Silver River Valley, which was the
+other side of the hill they had just crossed. It was a strange country.
+They had heard of it, heard of Chongo town; and now they were going to
+include it among the places they had seen.
+
+Hashknife rode a tall gray horse which he called Ghost, and Sleepy rode
+a blue roan which he had lately acquired and which he had named Rattler,
+possibly because of its habit of striking back at his leg.
+
+“Big country down thataway,” observed Sleepy after they had smoked
+silently for a while.
+
+Hashknife nodded slowly.
+
+“Big country, Sleepy. Ain’t she blue down there where she fades out?
+Makes a feller kinda wonder what’s down there. It kinda reminds me of
+Twisted River. See that smoke away off there to the left? I reckon
+that’s the silver mines on Chongo Creek.”
+
+“Smoke from the concentrators, I reckon. Pretty big camp, if they employ
+around five hundred men.”
+
+“Four big plants, Sleepy. Well, I reckon we might as well head for town.
+Ought to be some roads down here if we keep goin’ long enough.”
+
+Sleepy nodded, ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the knee of
+his chaps and picked up his reins. Hashknife led the way down the side
+of a small ravine, avoiding the heavy brush. At the bottom of the ravine
+they struck a cowtrail, deeply rutted and ankle-deep in dust.
+
+The trail wound around through the brush as it dropped lower and lower.
+Suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse. They had come to the end of the
+trail, it seemed, as it stopped against a barrier of solid brush.
+
+“Brush corral,” said Hashknife, swinging his horse around to the left.
+
+Ahead of them a cow bawled softly. The brush was not so heavy here and
+the tall gray moved easily around the brush corral. Sleepy got a whiff
+of wood smoke and was about to speak to Hashknife when the gray stepped
+out through the brush into a small opening.
+
+Sleepy was close behind, the blue roan crowding against the rump of
+the gray, which had stopped short. Fifty feet ahead of Hashknife stood
+a man. He had been bending over a little brush fire when the gray came
+through the brush, but now he sprang across the fire, whirled and drew
+a revolver, shooting almost from his hip.
+
+It was so unexpected that Hashknife ducked as the bullet sang over
+his head. Now the man straightened his arm and his second bullet
+thudded into the swellfork of Hashknife’s saddle. Two inches higher
+and Hashknife would have been a first-class casualty.
+
+[Illustration: Two inches higher and Hashknife would have been a
+first-class casualty]
+
+Hashknife jerked sideways and drew his gun as the man whirled and darted
+for the protecting fringe of brush, and at the crack of Hashknife’s
+six-shooter the man went sprawling, his gun flying from his hand.
+
+Sleepy spurred into the opening, gun in hand, and rode down on the man,
+keeping him covered.
+
+It was Joe LeClere. He sat up, squinting painfully at Sleepy, who was a
+total stranger to him. Hashknife dismounted and picked up Joe’s gun.
+
+“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked Joe.
+
+“Aw, what the hell!” growled Joe sullenly.
+
+“Hard as a picnic egg,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he’s a killer in
+his own home town.”
+
+“Got yuh in the leg, eh?” said Hashknife, looking at Joe’s left leg,
+where the crimson stain showed through his overalls just above his
+boot-top. “Bone busted?”
+
+“I don’t think so,” growled Joe. “Damn bullet knocked my leg loose and
+tripped me.”
+
+“Good thing it did; I might have shot again.”
+
+Joe rubbed a wrist across his forehead reflectively. He was in a bad
+position. Hashknife walked over to the brush corral, where eight head
+of steers were slowly moving around. He read the brands on all of them
+and noted that they were all wearing the mark of the Box 88. He came
+back to the fire, where a short piece of half-inch iron rod lay beside
+an old pair of pliers.
+
+“Some artists use canvas and some use cow-hide,” said Hashknife. “This’n
+was a cow-hider. I’ll betcha he was goin’ to do some pyrography on them
+poor cows. How about it, feller?”
+
+“Aw, go to hell!” grunted Joe.
+
+“Run yore own errands,” said Hashknife bluntly. “Where’s yore bronco?”
+
+Joe pointed to the west end of the corral, where his sorrel drowsed in
+the shade. Joe’s rifle was there too, and Hashknife brought it back with
+the horse.
+
+“All set to do battle,” he grinned. “Can yuh get up?”
+
+Joe got to his feet, but was unable to walk well. The bullet had passed
+through the calf of his left leg and made a painful wound. He managed,
+however, to mount the horse. Hashknife tied up the reins and put a rope
+on the horse.
+
+“I can handle my own horse,” growled Joe.
+
+“Shore yuh can,” smiled Hashknife. “That’s why I ain’t goin’ to let yuh.
+I’ve got quite a hobby of collectin’ rustlers and I take no chances.”
+
+“I wasn’t rustlin’.”
+
+“I see yuh wasn’t; but mebby the owners of them cows might like to know
+what yuh really was doin’. Yo’re pretty young for this kinda work. And
+workin’ alone too. Which is the shortest way to Chongo?”
+
+Joe refused to offer any information. Hashknife mounted and led Joe’s
+horse while Sleepy brought up the rear. They followed cattle trails
+down across the hills for a couple of miles until they came in sight
+of the IS ranch.
+
+“This here jigger is losin’ plenty blood,” observed Sleepy. “We better
+stop at that ranch and fix him up.”
+
+“Yore motion carried unanimous,” nodded Hashknife, and swung in toward
+the old ranch-buildings.
+
+The loss of blood had weakened Joe to a point where he did not care to
+protest, and he was clinging with both hands to the saddle-horn when
+they pulled in past the corrals and rode up to the house.
+
+Hashknife dismounted and stepped up on the porch just as Yvonne opened
+the front door. He stopped short and looked at her in silence for
+several moments. Then--
+
+“Ma’am, we’re strangers here,” he said slowly. “We just had a run-in
+with a potential cow-thief and had to drill him a little; so we stopped
+to see if we can’t fix him up a little before we take him on to town.”
+
+Yvonne stared at him, frowning slightly. “A cow-thief?” she said.
+
+“Yes’m. Oh, he ain’t serious, but losin’ a little blood.”
+
+Yvonne stepped out on the porch and looked at Joe and Sleepy. Joe’s
+face was very white and he was not looking at her. She glanced quickly
+at Hashknife and in a flash he understood. Except for the mouth, they
+looked alike, Joe and Yvonne.
+
+She went slowly down the steps and up to Joe.
+
+“Joe, what is it?” she asked. “Tell me, Joe. My God, Joe, what have you
+done?”
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. Yvonne turned to
+Hashknife, tears in her eyes.
+
+“What happened?” she asked. “Oh, don’t be afraid to tell me.”
+
+Hashknife shut his lips tightly and walked past her to Joe.
+
+“Let me help yuh off, pardner,” he said. “We’ve got to fix up that leg.”
+
+He helped Joe off the saddle and half-carried him to the porch, where
+he let Joe sit down. Carefully he removed Joe’s boot while Yvonne stood
+over him, her hands clenched at her sides.
+
+“Tell me about it,” she begged. “What did you say about him stealing
+cows? Whose cows? Oh, can’t you talk? He’s my brother--don’t you
+understand?”
+
+“Will yuh get me some hot water and clean cloths?”
+
+“Yes, I--I--” Yvonne stepped to the porch level, but stopped, looking
+down the road. About two hundred yards away were a team and wagon,
+coming toward the house.
+
+“There’s Dad,” she said chokingly. “Oh, what will he say? Joe, can’t you
+prove--”
+
+“Put on some water,” said Hashknife, softly, “and let me do all the
+tellin’.”
+
+Joe groaned and leaned back on his elbows. Between his physical and
+mental sufferings he was about to collapse. Old Frenchy LeClere drove
+his team to the front of the house, sprang down and came quickly to
+the porch, looking intently at Joe. He looked sharply at Hashknife as
+he said:
+
+“Somet’ing she’s gone wrong?”
+
+Yvonne had come back to the doorway now.
+
+“Accident,” said Hashknife slowly. “He was gettin’ a drink at a spring
+back in the hills. He said he leaned his rifle against a rock and the
+horse knocked it down. Lucky for him that the bullet only went through
+his leg.”
+
+Joe was staring at Hashknife, his jaw sagging, while Sleepy’s mouth
+twisted to a grin and he began rolling a cigaret.
+
+“By gosh, Joe, you mus’ be more careful!” exclaimed the old man.
+
+He turned to Hashknife and held out his hand.
+
+“I am LeClere,” he said. “Mos’ everybody she’s call me Frenchy. Joe,
+she’s my son.”
+
+“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife. “Pardner’s name is Stevens.”
+
+“I’m glad you fin’ my boy,” LeClere told Hashknife thankfully. “You sure
+no bone busted, eh?”
+
+“No bones busted,” assured Hashknife.
+
+“By gosh, she’s look w’ite, eh? You need bandage pretty bad, eh? I’m
+hitch up de buggy and tak’ you to doctor.”
+
+“Yore daughter is gettin’ us some hot water and bandages,” said
+Hashknife. “We’ll fix him up and then take him to a doctor. It isn’t
+bleedin’ much now.”
+
+The old man hurried into the house.
+
+“Thank yuh,” said Joe weakly. “That was square of yuh.”
+
+“Try playin’ square yourself,” replied Hashknife. “You can’t beat that
+game. I’d like to take you down and turn yuh over to the sheriff, but--”
+Hashknife shook his head as Yvonne and the old man came out, bringing
+the water and bandages.
+
+Joe sagged back and shut his eyes while Hashknife cleaned the wound and
+bound it up. The old man hitched up the single rig and drove up to the
+porch as Hashknife finished.
+
+“I’ll take him down,” offered Yvonne. “I’ve got to go to town, anyway,
+Dad.”
+
+The old man finally agreed and they helped Joe into the buggy.
+
+“You come out see us sometime?” asked the old man.
+
+“Shore,” grinned Hashknife.
+
+“Good. Come soon. Yvonne, she’s a good cook.”
+
+“Thank yuh, Mr. LeClere.”
+
+Hashknife shook hands with him and he and Sleepy rode away beside the
+buggy, the old man waving at them from the porch. After they were out of
+sight he stabled Joe’s horse and came back to the porch, where Hashknife
+had left Joe’s rifle, a thirty-thirty carbine.
+
+He sat down on the porch, holding the gun in his hands. He had always
+been rather particular about the condition of his guns, while Joe never
+seemed to care what shape they were in. He levered out the cartridges,
+counting them over. The gun was fully loaded. It seemed rather strange
+that Joe should have put in a fresh cartridge after being shot. It
+wouldn’t be the natural thing to do.
+
+Then he threw open the action, stuffed the end of a white handkerchief
+inside the breech and peered down the barrel. The bore was as bright as
+polished silver. Slowly he put the handkerchief in his pocket and closed
+the gun. For a long time he sat there with the rifle across his lap, the
+cartridges in his closed right hand, which dangled over his knee, and
+his eyes almost closed under his shaggy eyebrows.
+
+“Somebody she’s lied,” he said half-aloud. “Yvonne she’s act funny; Joe
+she’s not say much. I’m wonder how Joe get shot, eh?”
+
+Finally he went into the house and put the gun away.
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the doctor’s office with Yvonne and
+Joe, but headed for the livery-stable, where they put up their horses.
+
+“Looks like a live town,” observed Sleepy, as they left the stable.
+
+“Ought to be, with the biggest building in town devoted to gamblin’,”
+said Hashknife.
+
+As they stopped in front of the Silver Streak McLeod and Dalhart came
+out. They merely glanced at the two strangers and went on up the street.
+Hashknife looked after them for several moments, but finally he followed
+Sleepy into the place.
+
+An alert bartender was ready to supply their wants, and Hashknife asked
+him whether he noticed the two men who had just gone out.
+
+“That was Dunk McLeod and Mike Dalhart, both from the Box 88. McLeod is
+the foreman for Hayward.”
+
+“Who is this Hayward?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Owner of the Box 88. Also owns this Silver Streak place.”
+
+“Oh, I see,” thoughtfully. More men came to be served; so the
+conversation was not renewed. Sleepy hooked his elbows over the bar
+and calmly surveyed the place.
+
+“Dalhart and McLeod,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Does either name
+sound familiar, Sleepy?”
+
+“Not to me. I knowed a Dalhart down in Texas and I knowed a McLeod in
+Idaho.”
+
+“Well, I didn’t know either of ’em, but there was somethin’ about one
+of them jiggers that was familiar. Probably mistaken, though. Quite a
+place, eh?”
+
+“Plenty de-vices for separation,” smiled Sleepy. “Roulette, chuck-luck,
+stud, draw, craps, black-jack and slot-machines.”
+
+Tuck Hayward and Fat Garnette came to the bar together. They were
+discussing Soapy Weed and neither of them paid any attention to
+Hashknife and Sleepy.
+
+“You think Soapy is merely coverin’ up somebody?” asked Tuck.
+
+“I shore do,” nodded the sheriff, and gave his order to the bartender.
+
+“Who, for instance, Fat?”
+
+“_Quien sabe?_”
+
+“Joe LeClere?”
+
+“I never said any names. Well, here’s down yore neck.”
+
+“’S a go. Well, I dunno. Of course, Joe busted the Kid’s nose that night
+and the Kid was crazy mad about it.”
+
+“The Kid got what was comin’ to him, Tuck.”
+
+“Sure, he did. And I’d hate to see Soapy hung for somethin’ he didn’t
+do.”
+
+“As far as that’s concerned, I don’t believe they can convict Soapy.
+The prosecutin’ attorney don’t think so either, but he’ll shore try
+hard. That coroner’s jury held him because his story went hay-wire.
+Soapy’s hardheaded. I’ve tried to get him to slip me the truth, but
+he won’t do it.”
+
+“Is the old Frenchman still yellin’ about stolen cows?”
+
+“Not lately,” smiled the sheriff.
+
+Hayward laughed and left the bar. The sheriff glanced sharply at
+Hashknife and Sleepy, realizing that they were strangers in Chongo.
+
+“Howdy,” he said, nodding shortly.
+
+“Pretty good,” said Hashknife. “Have a drink, sheriff?”
+
+“Smoke a see-gar, stranger.”
+
+He bit the end off a dried-out weed, tucked the end of it back beyond
+his wisdom teeth and waited for them to finish.
+
+“Just get in?” he inquired.
+
+“Fifteen minutes ago. Rode over from Keeling.”
+
+“Hell of a hard ride, wasn’t it?”
+
+“Somethin’ of about that denomination. Wasn’t that Hayward with you a
+few minutes ago?”
+
+“Yeah, that was him.”
+
+“Owns a big outfit?”
+
+“The Box 88 is a pretty fair layout.”
+
+“I wonder how he’s fixed for punchers?”
+
+“Never heard him say. He lost one a week ago.”
+
+“Quit?”
+
+“Murdered.”
+
+“Yeah?” Hashknife looked at the insignia of office on the sheriff’s
+vest. “Makes it kinda tough for you, eh?”
+
+“Oh, I dunno. We’re holdin’ a man for trial.”
+
+“But you don’t believe he’s guilty.”
+
+The sheriff looked keenly at Hashknife.
+
+“How do yuh know that?”
+
+“Heard yuh tell Hayward.”
+
+“Oh, yea-a-ah, I forgot about that. Well, I’ve got to be movin’. See yuh
+later.”
+
+“Shore; so-long.”
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they met
+Yvonne. She was carrying out some packages, and they helped her put
+them in the buggy.
+
+“How was the leg?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“The doctor said it wasn’t dangerous. I will pick Joe up and take him
+home on my way back. Oh, I don’t know how to thank you for lying about
+that.”
+
+Hashknife considered her gravely, but his gray eyes smiled as he said
+softly:
+
+“Ma’am, I’m not addicted to lyin’; so I just ask yuh to accept that as
+the truth.”
+
+“It is good of you,” she said. “You don’t know how good it was to hear
+you tell Dad what you told him out there. It may be a lesson to Joe.”
+
+“I shore hope so, ma’am.”
+
+“My name is Yvonne LeClere, Mr. Hartley. Everybody calls me Yvonne.”
+
+“That’s fine,” smiled the tall cowboy. “My friends call me Hashknife.”
+He indicated Sleepy. “Call him Sleepy. He thinks he’s handsome and
+bright, but he ain’t; so don’t take him seriously.”
+
+Yvonne laughed and picked up the lines.
+
+“I want to add to Dad’s invitation,” she said. “Come out to the ranch
+and see us.”
+
+“Yes’m, we shore will, Yvonne. Tell Joe to take care of the leg.”
+
+“I shall tell him many things,” she said soberly.
+
+“Not too much,” he warned. “This has been a hard day for him.”
+
+They watched her drive down toward the doctor’s office, and she waved at
+them as she turned the corner.
+
+“Mamma mine!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s _some_ girl.”
+
+Hashknife nodded slowly.
+
+“I reckon she’ll do, Sleepy. Let’s go and fold ourselves around some
+food and then get a room. I could sleep about ten hours and feel more
+like a man.”
+
+“Well, there won’t nobody have to rock me; that’s a cinch, Hashknife.
+I don’t see how any punchers can work diligently with a girl like her
+in the vicinity. I know I couldn’t.”
+
+“Somebody has probably had an option on her for a long time, Sleepy.”
+
+“I suppose,” sighed Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m not so hard-hit that I can’t
+eat and sleep; so let’s me and you find where henfruit and hawg-leg
+gets familiar. C’mon.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“And then he said--who played that jack? You, Soapy? Come to father.
+That gives me game. He said he leaned his gun against a rock and laid
+down to get a drink---- No, it’s Chuck’s deal. I dealt last time. He
+leaned his gun against the rock and when he laid down to get a drink,
+his horse---- You bid two? Betcha you’ve got the ace, deuce. Pass.
+
+“Well, the horse knocked the gun down and it went off and the bullet
+went plumb through his left leg. You bid three, Chuck? Bid ’em high
+and sleep in the street, eh?”
+
+Weary McMillan grinned and leaned back against the wall of the cell,
+waiting for Chuck Haverty, the jailer, to lead. The latter and Weary
+were having their daily game of pitch with Soapy Weed, and Weary had
+brought the news of Joe LeClere’s accident.
+
+“Who told yuh all this?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Doc Plumley. Yvonne brought Joe in yesterday to have his leg dressed.”
+
+“Didja see her, Weary?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Nope. Gimme low, game. You go back two-bits, Chuck. Don’t never depend
+on a five-spot bein’ low in a three-handed game, pardner. It was kinda
+luck for Joe that them two strange punchers came along and heard the
+shot. They helped Joe to the ranch. Didja see ’em, Chuck?”
+
+“I seen ’em,” nodded Chuck, digging up a quarter, which he placed under
+the cigar box containing their chips.
+
+“I got to talkin’ with the tall one,” said Weary. “Said his name was
+Hartley. I think the other is Stevens. Pretty salty-lookin’ pair of
+geezers, them two. If I was lookin’ for trouble, I don’t reckon I’d
+choose the tall one. Yore deal, Soapy. All I need is two points to
+take the _dinero_.”
+
+“Sluff to me, Chuck,” said Soapy.
+
+“Like hell!” wailed Chuck. “You only need two points. I’m the one to
+sluff to, ’cause I need five. You sluffed a ten to Weary that time,
+tryin’ to set me, when I’m low man. If you hadn’t been a prisoner,
+I’d ’a’ poked yuh in the snoot.”
+
+“There’s some advantage in bein’ a prisoner, Chuck. But I’d much rather
+be free and take a chance on you pokin’ me.”
+
+“Then why don’tcha tell the truth and get out?” asked Weary. “Yo’re an
+awful sucker, accordin’ to me. You never killed Kid O’Neil no more than
+I did.”
+
+“They’re goin’ to try me for it, Weary.”
+
+“Shore. And a damn fool cow-jury might hang yuh too.”
+
+“That kinda ruins my game, Weary. What are yuh biddin’?”
+
+“I’ll chance a couple.”
+
+“With the ace, deuce, probably,” sighed Chuck. “I’ll shoot the whole
+works--four.”
+
+“And get set higher than a kite,” grunted Soapy.
+
+“With the ace, king, jack, trey? Anybody got the deuce? No? There’s
+my four. I catch Soapy’s ten on the second swing--sabe? Gimme that
+_dinero_. Any old time yuh bid and make four yuh win the pot.”
+
+“If I was as lucky as you are, I’d be out of jail,” sighed Soapy. “That
+was my last two-bits.”
+
+[Illustration: “If I was as lucky as you, I’d be out of jail,” sighed
+the prisoner.]
+
+“I’ll stake yuh,” said Chuck.
+
+“Suppose they find me guilty?”
+
+“Game’s over,” said Chuck seriously. “I plumb forgot about the trial.”
+
+“I reckon yore name’s McHaverty,” said Soapy. “You shore act Scotch.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+That same morning Hashknife and Sleepy rode away from Chongo town,
+heading north. They did not stop at the LeClere ranch but swung in
+to the north of it. Hashknife had noted many landmarks on their trip
+into Silver River Valley and he had little difficulty in finding the
+spot where they had met Joe LeClere.
+
+But the Box 88 cattle were gone, the brush corral empty. Hashknife did
+not expect this. His idea in coming out there was to release those
+steers.
+
+“Do yuh think they busted loose?” asked Sleepy.
+
+Hashknife shook his head and pointed at the ash-heap where the fire
+had been built. A man had attempted to obliterate all indications of
+the fire and had left a heel mark deeply punched in the dirt.
+
+“We never touched that fire, Sleepy,” said Hashknife.
+
+“That’s right. I reckon Joe wasn’t workin’ alone, after all. I just been
+thinkin’ that this country might not be healthy for us. The geezer who
+came back here must know that we stopped Joe LeClere, don’tcha think?”
+
+“Kinda looks thataway.”
+
+They rode back down the valley and swung in at the IS ranch again.
+Yvonne was sweeping the front porch as they rode up and she came out
+to them, carrying her broom. She looked like a pretty Gipsy with her
+head bound in a scarlet bandanna.
+
+“How’s Joe?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“He’s still in bed,” she replied. “I guess his leg is pretty sore. He
+hasn’t much to say. Dad tried to question him last night.” She shook her
+head sadly. “I don’t believe Dad takes any stock in the story about Joe
+being shot accidentally.”
+
+“Why not?” asked Hashknife suddenly.
+
+“Well, he asked Joe how he happened to reload his rifle and who cleaned
+it after the shot.”
+
+Hashknife smiled sourly and looked at Sleepy.
+
+“We shore overlooked that point,” he admitted. “That’s too danged bad.
+What did Joe tell him?”
+
+“Nothing. Said he was too sick to talk about it. Dad went to town this
+morning. Won’t you come in a while? I was just finishing my work, you
+see.”
+
+They dismounted and sat in the shade of the porch.
+
+“Will you tell me all about what happened yesterday?” she asked.
+
+“No,” replied Hashknife. “You go ahead and believe I told yore Dad the
+truth.”
+
+“That lets you out of anythin’,” added Sleepy. “Yore Dad can’t prove
+that we lied, yuh see. If it comes to a show-down, I’ll swear I cleaned
+that gun and put in a cartridge.”
+
+“Dad wouldn’t believe that. He’s had so much trouble with Joe! He tries
+to believe in Joe; but Joe drinks hard all the time and gambles when he
+can get the money. It’s only been in the last year or so. Before that
+Joe was fine.”
+
+“We’ve heard quite a lot about this Kid O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “We
+didn’t like to ask questions, yuh see, but I’d kinda like to hear about
+him. We know they’ve got a man by the name of Soapy Weed in jail and
+that O’Neil was shot from behind. What was it about the body comin’ to
+town on Weed’s horse?”
+
+Yvonne told them the whole story as well as she could, including the
+evidence at the inquest. Hashknife questioned her about Kid O’Neil’s
+activities prior to the shooting, and she told him of how the Kid had
+hired out to her father when he first came into the Valley.
+
+“I wasn’t here when he came,” she said. “He had been here about a week
+when I came back from school. He got drunk and tried to kiss me and I
+slapped his face. When Dad found it out he kicked O’Neil off the ranch.
+
+“Then he went to work for the AH outfit, but they had some trouble over
+there and he lost his job. After that he went to work for the Box 88 and
+he was with them until he was killed.”
+
+“Kind of a tough _hombre_, eh?”
+
+“Yes, he was.”
+
+“Did you know McFee, the man who was murdered about a year or so ago
+near Chongo?”
+
+“No, I never met him. He was only in the valley a short time. Joe knew
+him, I think. I guess they never had any idea who killed him.”
+
+“Probably not. I wonder if we could see Joe?”
+
+“Why, sure.”
+
+They followed Yvonne into the house and found Joe in a bedroom that
+opened off the living-room. He was propped up in bed, smoking a
+cigaret, and did not seem overjoyed to see them. He admitted that the
+leg was very sore and that he had not slept well.
+
+“You remember a feller named McFee who was killed near Chongo?” asked
+Hashknife.
+
+Joe started suddenly and almost dropped his cigaret.
+
+McFee had been a cowboy on the Box 88 for only two days when the murder
+occurred. Nobody had known him and the mystery of his death had never
+been solved and he had been almost forgotten.
+
+“What about McFee?” Joe asked shortly.
+
+“I just wanted a description of him.”
+
+“Oh!” Joe puffed violently on his cigaret for several moments.
+
+“He was kinda chunky and broad-shouldered if I remember right. Dark eyes
+and a pug nose. Oh, yeah! He had a scar on his upper lip that kinda
+puckered the skin. Looked as though it might have been stitched.”
+
+Hashknife nodded slowly, his gray eyes thoughtful.
+
+“Yuh don’t know where he came from, do yuh?”
+
+“Nope; he never said. What do you know about him?”
+
+“Not a thing.”
+
+“What’s the idea of askin’ about him?”
+
+“I had a friend named McFee and I wondered if this was the same person.”
+
+“Was he?”
+
+“I guess not.”
+
+But this did not seem to satisfy Joe. He shot a sharp glance at Sleepy,
+whose innocent blue eyes told him nothing.
+
+“Did the doctor say how soon yuh could walk?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Nope. But I’ll be out in a day or so. What are you fellers doin’ over
+here? Expect to get jobs?”
+
+“Thought we might strike the Box 88 for jobs.”
+
+“Yea-a-ah?”
+
+“They lost a man the other day I understand.”
+
+Joe began rolling another cigaret. Finally he looked at Hashknife and
+said:
+
+“What are yuh goin’ to do about--what yuh discovered yesterday?”
+
+“What do yuh mean?”
+
+“You know ---- well what I mean!”
+
+“Oh, yeah! Nothin’. Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie
+yore horse away from it.”
+
+[Illustration: “Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie
+yore horse away from it”]
+
+Hashknife got up abruptly and walked out of the room with Sleepy
+following close on his heels. They went out on the porch where Yvonne
+joined them.
+
+“Won’t you let me apologize for Joe?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to
+understand that--that there isn’t some motive behind you protecting
+him this way. I--I guess he hasn’t much faith in humanity.”
+
+“He’s pretty young to lose faith in humanity,” said Hashknife slowly.
+“But you don’t need to apologize nor thank us. We didn’t do it with
+that idea in view.”
+
+“Oh, I know that. It was just the good in your heart.”
+
+“Mebby that’s it. Well, I reckon we’ll ramble along.”
+
+“Can’t you stay for supper?”
+
+“Not very well. Mebby some other day, but we thank yuh just the same.”
+
+“You are always more than welcome, Hashknife.”
+
+“That’s fine,” he smiled. “It’s great to be welcome and we appreciate it
+more than you know. We’ll probably see yuh again in a few days.”
+
+They mounted their horses and headed back for Chongo town over the dusty
+road.
+
+“Why did yuh ask about McFee?” queried Sleepy. “You didn’t never know
+him, didja?”
+
+“Not as McFee. See if yuh can’t remember a puncher with a scar on his
+upper lip. Kind of a puckered scar.”
+
+Sleepy rode along squinting his eyes against the glare from the yellow
+dust. Something stirred in his memory and he saw a heavy-set cowboy
+with a scarred upper lip. The man was squatting at a camp-fire drinking
+coffee from a tin cup and the firelight illuminated the scar.
+
+[Illustration: A scarred face illuminated by the firelight stirred in
+Sleepy’s memory]
+
+Sleepy lifted his head and looked at Hashknife.
+
+“McFee was his name,” he said as though they had discovered his
+identity. “He was workin’ as a deputy for the sheriff of Piney River
+and he stopped at our camp.”
+
+“Good boy!” exclaimed Hashknife. “That’s Charley McFee. It shore had
+me pawin’ my head. He was trailin’ a murderer that night. Thanks for
+the memory.”
+
+“Yo’re welcome,” grinned Sleepy. “But what good is it?”
+
+“Mebby it’s no good but it gives a place to start. McFee was a stranger
+here--almost.”
+
+“Why the almost, Hashknife?”
+
+“Somebody knew him. He wasn’t here long enough to cause an enmity that
+would end in murder. He was killed by the one man who knew him.”
+
+“What do yuh think of Joe LeClere?”
+
+“That’s hard to say. Joe was goin’ to alter the brands on them Box 88
+animals, I think. But Joe ain’t alone in the deal. I had an idea he
+was workin’ alone but I guess not. Somebody went up there and turned
+the steers out of that brush corral after we brought Joe home.”
+
+“I reckon Joe is a bad boy. He shore threw lead at you.”
+
+“Yeah and he danged near got me too. I’m glad I got him in the leg.”
+
+“Didn’t yuh shoot at his legs, Hashknife?”
+
+“Don’t be foolish. With a man tryin’ to kill me? I shot to stop him,
+tha’sall, Sleepy.”
+
+It was like Hashknife to depreciate his own ability with a gun. But
+neither of them claimed to be good shots. In their wanderings up and
+down the earth they had encountered split-second gunmen who when the
+showdown came failed to split the second.
+
+Hashknife had always said, “If yo’re in the right yuh don’t have to
+split a second; just shoot straight.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Just outside Chongo town they met Frenchy LeClere. He nodded pleasantly
+but did not stop his team. They stabled their horses and wandered down
+to the sheriff’s office where they found Weary and Chuck. Fat had ridden
+out to the Box 88.
+
+“I’m glad yuh came,” declared Weary. “I’m plumb tired of talkin’ with
+folks I know.”
+
+“Meanin’ me,” said Chuck sadly.
+
+“Meanin’ everybody in Chongo.”
+
+Hashknife laughed and stretched out in a broken-back chair; Sleepy
+squatted against the wall and rolled a cigaret.
+
+“We were out to the IS ranch,” offered Hashknife.
+
+“Thasso? How’s Joe?” asked Weary.
+
+“Gettin’ along all right, I reckon. They seem to think that somebody is
+stealin’ their cows.”
+
+“Seem to!” snorted Weary. “That’s all it amounts to. Old LeClere makes
+me laugh. He’s been kickin’ to us for a year. We investigated but didn’t
+find anythin’ to prove that his cows are fadin’ away.”
+
+“Has the Box 88 lost any?”
+
+“I sh’d say not. Nobody stealin’ cows around here. Where would they
+dispose of ’em if they did rustle a few? You’ve got to show the hides
+of every cow yuh kill. Every month we go out to the silver mines and
+inspect the hides that the Box 88 save. Every hide that’s shipped out
+of this here range must be inspected by the sheriff.”
+
+“The Box 88 has the meat contract for the mines?”
+
+“Sure. Hayward keeps two men out there all the time to handle the stock.
+They kill a lot of beef in a month and I reckon Tuck Hayward makes a
+mighty good profit. He used to ship a lot of beef east but not since the
+railroad built in here. Yuh see he furnished the railroad camps with
+meat too. Hell, he ain’t a cattleman no more; he’s a butcher.”
+
+“What kind of a lay-out is the AH?”
+
+“Fine. Old Ace Hart is a prince. He never gets anywhere, as far as
+money is concerned but he don’t care. Ace is one of the old-timers
+and he’s satisfied as long as he can make enough to pay off the boys
+and keep eatin’. Hayward is a money-getter. He makes plenty money on
+beef and he ain’t in the gamblin’ and liquor business for his health.
+Not that he don’t shoot square. I wouldn’t say that about Tuck. But
+the percentage is shore heavy.”
+
+“What’s yore opinion of the killin’ of Kid O’Neil?” asked Hashknife.
+
+Weary laughed and shook his head.
+
+“Search me. We’ve got a prisoner charged with the crime.”
+
+“Somethin’ like the killin’ of McFee, wasn’t it?”
+
+“Yo’re plumb full of questions, ain’t yuh?” grinned Chuck.
+
+Hashknife grinned back at him and nodded.
+
+“Yuh got to be if yo’re goin’ to know things, Haverty.”
+
+“If yo’re goin’ to damn sure,” said Chuck seriously.
+
+“Come to think of it, I reckon yo’re right,” said Weary. “McFee _was_
+shot in the back jist like O’Neil was.”
+
+“And he was workin’ for the Box 88 too--eh?”
+
+“Just what are you drivin’ at, Hartley?”
+
+“Did you know McFee?” asked Hashknife, ignoring Weary’s question.
+
+“I did not. Nobody seemed to. He rode in and took a job with the Box
+88. Never was here before. All we knew was that his name was Charley
+McFee; so we buried him out on the hill with the rest of the folks.
+He rode to town alone that night and never got here.”
+
+“Kinda funny, wasn’t it?” mused Hashknife. “I wonder if anybody knew he
+was ridin’ alone the night he was killed!”
+
+“I guess not. Hayward said that him and Joe LeClere was intendin’ to
+ride in with him but changed their minds. Joe was out there soberin’
+up. He dang near had snakes. Cornes, McLeod and Dalhart had come to
+town earlier in the evenin’. None of ’em saw McFee after they left
+the Box 88.”
+
+“Do yuh reckon somebody killed him for what money he might have had on
+him?”
+
+“Not a chance, Hartley. Hayward loaned him five dollars before he left
+the ranch and he still had it in his pocket when we searched the body.”
+
+“O’Neil wasn’t robbed, was he?”
+
+“He never had anythin’. Spent it faster than he made it.”
+
+Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, pondering over all this information.
+Chuck Haverty looked at Hashknife with amusement.
+
+“Run out of questions?” said Chuck softly. “Hartley, you’d make a good
+lawyer.”
+
+Hashknife smiled at Chuck, who was grinning.
+
+“I’m afraid not, Haverty,” said Hashknife. “I like to see everybody get
+a square deal.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+A little later they left the office and went to a Chinese café for
+their supper. Mike Dalhart and McLeod were at the rear of the café
+eating a meal and both of them glanced up at Hashknife and Sleepy as
+they came in. They sat down near the front of the room with Sleepy
+facing the rear.
+
+After a few minutes Dalhart said something to the waiter, who nodded,
+and Dalhart went out through the kitchen. McLeod waited a while and
+then came to the front of the room and paid for two meals.
+
+He then nodded shortly to Hashknife and Sleepy as men do to strangers
+and went out. McLeod was rather a big man with iron-gray hair, possibly
+fifty years of age. He stopped outside and looked around as though
+looking for Dalhart, who came through an alley and met him.
+
+Dalhart was of medium height, dark-skinned as an Indian, with small,
+close-set eyes and an aggressive chin. He was quick of movement and
+walked with a decided swagger. They went to the Silver Streak where
+McLeod sat down in a poker game. Dalhart stood around until Tuck
+Hayward showed up and they went to Tuck’s private office together.
+
+Tuck shut the door tightly and turned to Dalhart.
+
+“Well, what do yuh know, Mike?” he asked.
+
+“Not much. We stopped at the IS. Didn’t see Joe. Yvonne told us the
+same thing we heard here--that Joe shot himself accidentally or that
+the horse kicked over the rifle and shot him through the leg. I talked
+with the doctor and he said it was a clean wound. Yuh can’t tell me
+that a thirty-thirty, with a mushroom bullet--”
+
+“That ain’t what I want to know, Mike. Did she say anythin’ about these
+two strange punchers?”
+
+“She said they found Joe and helped him home. I’ll bet if Joe had been
+hit with a thirty-thirty he’d ’a’ lost his whole leg. Say, who in hell
+are these strange punchers?”
+
+“Said their names are Hartley and Stevens.”
+
+“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” Mike’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Where are
+they from?”
+
+“I dunno; never talked with ’em. You know ’em?”
+
+“Not me.”
+
+“How soon will Joe be out?”
+
+“The girl said in a couple of days. Say, she’s a dinger, Tuck. If she
+was my girl--”
+
+“Which she ain’t, Mike,” coldly.
+
+“No, that’s true as hell. Well, I reckon that’s all, Tuck.”
+
+“All right; thanks, Mike.”
+
+“Yo’re welcome.”
+
+Dalhart had a drink at the bar and then went out to his horse. He was
+riding out of town when Hashknife and Sleepy came from the café. He
+turned and looked at them but they were not looking in his direction.
+
+They did not stop at the Silver Streak but went on down to the Chongo
+Saloon where they found an unoccupied pool-table and started a game.
+It was their favorite relaxation.
+
+“Didja ever see this Dalhart person before?” asked Hashknife, squinting
+down the length of his cue when the game was well started.
+
+“I don’t reckon I have; have you, Hashknife?”
+
+“I’m just wonderin’ how good yore memory is.”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“Well--he’s Mike Dalhart of the Box 88 I reckon.”
+
+“You reckon?”
+
+“Yore bust,” smiled Hashknife.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was another week before Joe LeClere was able to get around. Even
+then he was unable to wear a boot. Hashknife and Sleepy had been out
+to the IS ranch several times but had not talked with him. Yvonne had
+never mentioned the cattle-stealing incident and Joe felt sure that
+his father had believed Hashknife’s lie as to how he had been hurt.
+Yet there was something wrong. He caught his father looking queerly
+at him several times.
+
+Did the old man suspect something? he wondered. Frenchy LeClere was
+keen-eyed in spite of his age. Joe tried to dismiss the thought but
+it persisted. His enforced stay at the ranch had cleansed his system
+of liquor and when the craving subsided at times he swore to himself
+that he was all through with the stuff.
+
+He cursed the stuff bitterly to himself. Twice within a year he had
+been on the verge of delirium tremens. So far gone in fact that he
+hadn’t remembered what he had done. It was like a nightmare. Hayward
+had warned him that if he got a third attack it would finish him. Joe
+had no desire to see any more little green devils with red hats. Next
+time he would drink moderately, he promised himself.
+
+Yvonne seemed changed too and Joe wondered whether it was because Soapy
+Weed was in jail. He couldn’t understand why Yvonne would choose Soapy,
+who had nothing in the world, when Tuck Hayward, who had everything,
+desired her.
+
+He sat on the porch of the ranch-house and smoked innumerable cigarets,
+wishing he was in Chongo town where there was something going on. Yvonne
+came out and sat on the steps near him. She was doing a small piece of
+embroidery work and he watched her needle going in and out.
+
+“Where’s Dad?” he asked. Yvonne shook her head but did not look at him.
+
+“He rode north this morning,” she said, “and he carried a rifle.”
+
+Joe blinked thoughtfully.
+
+“What about him carrying a rifle, Yvonne?”
+
+“I don’t know, Joe. He said he talked with the sheriff yesterday about
+losing cattle.”
+
+“And the sheriff didn’t believe him?”
+
+“I guess not. He said it was up to him to furnish evidence. I don’t know
+what evidence he needs. The last round-up shows that we have lost a good
+many head, Joe.” Yvonne turned her head and looked at him. “What were
+you doing with those cattle the day you were shot?”
+
+Joe smiled crookedly.
+
+“Not a thing. I was a fool to start anythin’.”
+
+“You must have been doing something, Joe.”
+
+“Do yuh think so? Well, I wasn’t. There wasn’t any evidence to show
+that I had done anythin’. What could I do to a Box 88 animal, even if
+they did find a runnin’-iron?”
+
+“Then why did you start trouble with them?”
+
+“Jumpy, I reckon,” grinned Joe and then sobered quickly. “Who are these
+two men anyway? What are they doin’ here?”
+
+Yvonne shook her head.
+
+“I don’t know, Joe. Nobody seems to know. They make friends with
+everybody. You can’t help liking them.”
+
+“Can’t, eh? I remember one of ’em shot me in the leg.”
+
+“But you shot at them first, didn’t you?”
+
+“Oh, sure! I don’t blame ’em.”
+
+Joe rubbed his leg carefully, squinting away from the smoke of his
+cigaret.
+
+“You ain’t never been in to see Soapy, have yuh, Yvonne?”
+
+“No,” softly.
+
+“Do you think he killed Kid O’Neil?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Then who did?”
+
+“Haven’t you any idea, Joe?”
+
+“What idea would I have?” quickly. “What are you drivin’ at, anyway?”
+
+“Joe, the night O’Neil was killed you wasn’t home. You came here after
+Soapy Weed left.”
+
+Joe dropped his cigaret as he leaned forward, his lips shut tightly for
+a moment. Then--
+
+“You ain’t tryin’ to put _that_ on me, are yuh?”
+
+Yvonne folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead.
+
+“I’m not trying to put anything on you, Joe. You are my brother and
+I--but Soapy didn’t kill him. He--Joe,” she turned and looked up at
+him--“I think Soapy Weed tried to protect you. He was taking the body
+away when his horse got away from him.”
+
+“Tried to protect me!” sneered Joe. “What the hell! I’m nothin’ to Soapy
+Weed.”
+
+“You never considered me, did you, Joe?”
+
+“Considered you? You mean that for you--is that yore idea of it? He was
+tryin’ to protect _you_?”
+
+“I wonder.”
+
+“Well, I’ll be damned! So you think yore brother murdered Kid O’Neil,
+eh? My God, you’ve got a lot of respect for me! Kill Kid O’Neil, eh? I
+busted his nose because he said things about you, didn’t I? Sa-a-ay!
+This ain’t somethin’--who else has this fool idea?”
+
+“I’m sure I don’t know, Joe. It was my idea.”
+
+“Well, that’s shore a sweet idea, I must say.”
+
+Joe leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigaret. His hands shook
+slightly and he gnawed at the corner of his lower lip.
+
+“Well, why don’t-cha go down and tell this to the sheriff? He might fall
+for it and let yore sweetheart loose. You can’t tell me that any man
+would be fool enough to stay in jail to protect his girl’s brother.”
+
+Yvonne got to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Joe,” she said, her voice
+shaking, “you have associated with that crowd around the Silver Streak
+until you haven’t a shred of common decency left. Now you take back
+what you just said.”
+
+“I ain’t got a thing to take back, kid. Go ahead and tell the sheriff.
+He’s fool enough to fall for anythin’. But if Soapy Weed ain’t guilty
+they’ll have a hell of a time tryin’ to put the deadwood on somebody
+else.”
+
+Yvonne walked past him and went into the house shaking with anger. Joe
+grinned crookedly as he lighted a cigaret. At least he had his sister’s
+opinion. Some one was coming up the road on horseback and he recognized
+Tuck Hayward.
+
+“Now, what the hell does he want?” wondered Joe.
+
+Tuck rode up and dismounted, dropping the reins. His tall bay was broke
+to stand to dropped reins. Tuck grinned as he came up to the porch
+carrying a paper-wrapped parcel.
+
+“Hello, Joe!” he grinned. “Able to be around, eh?”
+
+“Just about,” grunted Joe glancing back toward the open doorway. Tuck
+caught the signal and nodded as he handed Joe the parcel.
+
+“Thought yuh might be dry,” said Tuck. “Here’s a quart.”
+
+“Dry! My God, I’ve spit cotton for a week! Thanks, Tuck.”
+
+“Tha’sall right,” Tuck sat down ponderously on the step. “How’s the
+leg?”
+
+“Gettin’ good. Be ridin’ day after tomorrow.”
+
+“Good. I been intendin’ to come out and see yuh but I’ve been pretty
+busy. So the leg is almost healed, eh? Didja have a steeljacket bullet
+in that thirty-thirty?”
+
+Joe shot a keen glance at Hayward before he said:
+
+“Didn’t mushroom, I guess.”
+
+“I guess not,” said Hayward softly and Joe flushed angrily.
+
+“What are yuh drivin’ at, Tuck?”
+
+Tuck glanced at the doorway and shook his head.
+
+“Not a thing, Joe. Least said, soonest mended.”
+
+“Is that so? Did that Hartley--” Joe stopped short, and Hayward looked
+at him curiously for a moment before he asked:
+
+“What about Hartley?”
+
+“Nothin’.”
+
+Joe realized that he had made a slip. Hayward’s eyes bored into him and
+he turned away.
+
+“I heard that Hartley and Stevens found yuh,” said Tuck.
+
+“Yeah; they helped me home.”
+
+“What else do yuh know about ’em, Joe?”
+
+“Not a damn’ thing.”
+
+“Uh-huh! Well, I’m glad yo’re gettin’ better. Come down as soon as yuh
+can.”
+
+“I’ll be down in a day or so, Tuck. Thanks for the quart.”
+
+“That’s all right. Where’s the Old Man?”
+
+“Out in the hills. How’s all the gang?”
+
+“Same as ever. Well, I’ll be goin’. See yuh later.”
+
+Tuck mounted and rode away while Joe limped back into his bedroom where
+he locked the door and picked up a corkscrew. His good resolutions had
+vanished. He swore softly, filled a water-glass half-full of the amber
+liquid and sat down on the bed.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+During the week Hashknife had talked several times with Soapy Weed. In
+fact Hashknife had been included in the daily pitch game in Soapy’s cell
+and had come to the conclusion that Soapy was either innocent or a hard
+customer. He had stuck to his story of finding the body near the river
+with such persistency that Hashknife was inclined to believe him.
+
+Weary had told Hashknife about Soapy’s slip at the inquest in which he
+had mentioned finding the body in the weeds and Hashknife had talked it
+over with Fat Garnette.
+
+“I don’t sabe yore interest in this case, Hashknife,” said Fat.
+
+“Just a humane interest,” said Hashknife. “I don’t believe in soakin’ an
+innocent man.”
+
+“Neither do I. But what can yuh do with a young fool like Soapy?”
+
+“Do you suppose that Soapy is protectin’ Joe LeClere?”
+
+“How do yuh get that?” asked Fat.
+
+“Soapy Weed took Yvonne LeClere home from that dance. Joe had busted
+O’Neil’s nose that night and you all admit that O’Neil was a tough
+hombre. Suppose he followed Joe home and Joe laid for him. Suppose
+Soapy found the body, realized that it would incriminate the brother
+of his girl and decided to move it to a safer place.”
+
+“Ain’t it funny?” sighed Fat. “I’ve pictured it just that way but I
+was afraid to mention it. Joe LeClere murdered O’Neil and before he
+had time to get away with the body Soapy and Yvonne came along in
+the buggy; so Joe ducked. On the way back from the house Soapy finds
+the body and packs it on his horse. The horse gets away from Soapy
+and comes to town. By God, it’s as clear as anythin’!”
+
+“Clear to you,” grinned Hashknife. “But the thing to do is to get Soapy
+to admit where he found the body.”
+
+“Which he won’t.”
+
+“No, I suppose not. You say O’Neil had no gun?”
+
+“Wasn’t any on the body. The bartender at the Silver Streak had the
+Kid’s gun.”
+
+“Hm-m-m, that’s different. But would the Kid go after Joe LeClere
+without a gun?”
+
+“Not likely. But we’ve no proof that he did go after him. Tuck Hayward
+says he told the Kid to go home.”
+
+“The Kid was of age.”
+
+“Yea-a-ah--sure!”
+
+“Would Joe know that the Kid followed him?”
+
+“By God, you can find more things to talk about!” wailed Fat. “Build up
+a case and then tear it down.”
+
+“That’s the thing to do, Fat. Common-sense tells us that Soapy Weed
+would have no reason for killing the Kid unless the Kid attacked him.
+If Joe knew that the Kid was on his trail he might bushwhack him. Joe
+drinks heavy and he might not want to swap lead with the Kid, who was
+a gunman, accordin’ to local talk.”
+
+“I never seen him do any shootin’, Hashknife. Dang it, if Soapy would
+only tell where he found the body we might figure somethin’ out of it;
+but he won’t, darn him!”
+
+“Let’s me and you ride out to the IS, Fat. We might get a chance to talk
+with Joe and yuh never can tell what a man might let slip.”
+
+“Shore; I’ll ride out with yuh.”
+
+Sleepy was in a poker game at the Chongo Saloon; so the two rode away
+from town without him. Fat showed Hashknife the spot where Soapy claimed
+to have found the body and they examined it closely. No rain had fallen
+since that day but they were unable to find even a boot-print.
+
+“Was there any blood on Soapy’s saddle that mornin’?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Not a bit.”
+
+They rode on to the double line of trees which extended along the last
+half-mile of the road. Here the road was bordered on each side by a
+strip of grass and weeds possibly fifteen feet across.
+
+“Plenty weeds,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Dusty weeds. Plenty
+fox-tail, Fat.”
+
+“Weeds,” said Fat. “Yeah, there’s--by golly, do yuh suppose that this--”
+
+“Lots of ’em!” smiled Hashknife. “Never find anythin’ in all these.
+Still it’s worth a look. You ride down that side and I’ll ride down
+this. Cut about the center.”
+
+“But yuh never could find where a body laid this late in the game,”
+protested Fat. “Like huntin’ for a needle in a hay-stack.”
+
+“Just like it. But let’s see what we can find.”
+
+Each took a side of the weedy strip and rode slowly along, scanning the
+ground closely. The task seemed hopeless. The mass of timothy, fox-tail
+and various weeds was almost knee-deep to their horses; a harsh
+dust-covered tangle. They rode nearly to the ranch-house before turning
+back into the road.
+
+“No chance to find anythin’ there,” declared Fat.
+
+“Not even if yuh knew what yuh was lookin’ for, which I don’t.”
+
+“Well, we looked,” smiled Hashknife. “I’m always willin’ to look.”
+
+He turned in his saddle and looked back at the dusty strips of weeds
+along the trees.
+
+“Soapy mentioned weeds,” he said thoughtfully. “Deep weeds, didn’t he
+say? Well, there they are.”
+
+“Lotta good it does anybody,” grunted Fat. “There’s Joe on the porch.”
+
+Joe was leaning against a porch-post as they rode up and it did not
+require a keen eye to discover that he was as drunk as the proverbial
+boiled-owl. His eyes were shot with red streaks and his lips sagged in
+a derisive grin.
+
+“Whasha want?” he demanded belligerently.
+
+“Hello, Joe!” grinned Fat. “How’sa leg?”
+
+“None of yore damn’ business. Who’s yore long-geared friend, eh? Shorry
+I can’ give yuh a drink. I drunk it all. Tuck Hayward brought me quart
+t’day. He’s a frien’, I’ll tell yuh that! Whasha want, Fat Garnette?”
+
+“Set down; yo’re drunk!” grunted Fat disgustedly.
+
+“Set down when I damn please!”
+
+“Stand up then. Where’s Yvonne?”
+
+“Tha’s some more of my business,” owlishly. “’F yuh want to know so
+damn’ bad, she’s settin’ on the corral fence. She said I wasn’t fit
+to stay in the house with. Ain’t that a nice thing for a sister to
+shay?”
+
+[Illustration: Yvonne in disgust left the house and sat on the corral
+fence]
+
+“I reckon she knew what she was talkin’ about,” replied Fat while
+Joe staggered over to the corner of the porch where he could see the
+stable and a corner of the corral. He chuckled drunkenly and headed
+for the doorway.
+
+“Here’s my pup-paternal anchestor; so I guess I better hunt a li’l hole
+and crawl in.”
+
+He disappeared within the house as Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came from
+down by the corral talking earnestly. They caught sight of the sheriff
+and Hashknife.
+
+“Hello folks!” called Fat waving his hand.
+
+“By gosh, de sheriff!” exclaimed Frenchy. “And Meester Hart-lee! Well,
+well!”
+
+He glanced at the porch and seemed relieved to note that Joe was not
+in evidence. They all shook hands but Frenchy did not invite them to
+dismount. They knew why Yvonne seemed very quiet and had nothing to
+say.
+
+“Joe, she’s get along fine,” offered Frenchy. “I’m s’pose she’s lie down
+jus’ now and tak’ rest.”
+
+“We just rode past to see how he was comin’ along,” said Hashknife.
+“He’ll be out in a few days, won’t he?”
+
+“Oh, for sure!” replied Frenchy.
+
+They were visibly relieved when Hashknife suggested to Fat that they had
+better be going along and Fat accepted quickly.
+
+“Come out again, won’t you?” asked Yvonne. “Please do. We are glad to
+have you.”
+
+“Thank yuh, Yvonne,” smiled Hashknife. “We shore will.”
+
+As they rode away they noticed that Frenchy and Yvonne went quickly into
+the house.
+
+“Joe will get merry hell,” grinned Fat. “The Old Man has a terrible
+temper.”
+
+“He deserves it,” declared Hashknife. “Too much liquor. Tuck Hayward
+ought to get a good kick in the pants for bringing whisky out here to
+the boy.”
+
+“I reckon that’s right.”
+
+They rode along the strip of weeds but were making no attempt at a
+further search when suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse, turned him
+around and rode back a few steps. Quickly he dismounted and walked a
+short distance through the tangle of weeds where he picked up an
+object.
+
+“Whatcha find?” asked Fat, reining back through the weeds.
+
+Hashknife held it out to him--a heavy Colt revolver.
+
+“I got a flash of the sun on it,” he said.
+
+“Fully loaded!” said Fat. “Forty-five.”
+
+Hashknife was squatted on his heels examining the grass and Fat
+dismounted beside him.
+
+Together they looked the spot over and Hashknife found a mat of old
+leaves about as large as his hand apparently glued together. He examined
+it closely and got to his feet.
+
+“What is it?” asked Fat.
+
+“I think we found where Kid O’Neil went down and out. Unless I’m badly
+mistaken, that bunch of leaves is stuck together with gore.”
+
+“It ain’t red,” declared Fat.
+
+“Yuh didn’t expect it to stay red, did yuh? Plenty of fox-tail here too.
+Do yuh recognize that gun?”
+
+“No. Nothin’ on it to show who owned it, Hashknife.”
+
+Hashknife wrapped the leaves in a handkerchief and mounted his horse,
+while Fat put the gun in his pocket. They rode back to Chongo and
+turned the leaves over to Dr. Plumley, who confessed that he was not
+exactly a chemist but that he could determine whether it was blood or
+not.
+
+But Hashknife did not wait for an analysis. They went to the jail where
+they found Sleepy and Chuck Haverty in the cell with Soapy Weed, arguing
+over a seven-up game. They went in and Hashknife sat down beside Soapy.
+Hashknife had the gun, which he placed on the little table.
+
+“Didja ever see that gun before, Soapy?” he asked.
+
+Soapy examined it closely, shaking his head.
+
+“Never saw it before in my life. What about it?”
+
+“That’s the gun Kid O’Neil had when he was killed.”
+
+Soapy looked closely at Hashknife who was examining the gun again.
+
+“How do yuh know that?” asked Soapy wonderingly.
+
+“Because we found the spot where you found the body. It was just a
+little ways this side of the IS ranch-house, on the north side of the
+road. The weeds are deep there, Soapy. And it might interest yuh to
+know that Joe LeClere got drunk today and made things so unpleasant
+that Yvonne was obliged to go out and set on the corral fence.”
+
+Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.
+
+“That dirty bum! If he--” Soapy stopped.
+
+“Were you tryin’ to protect Joe LeClere?” asked Hashknife.
+
+Soapy settled back on the cot, his eyes thoughtful.
+
+“I reckon I might as well tell it all now. It had to come out sooner or
+later. I wasn’t tryin’ to protect Joe but I did want to protect Yvonne.
+She’s his sister, yuh know.”
+
+“You didn’t see Joe kill him, didja?” asked Fat quickly.
+
+“No. I was comin’ back from takin’ Yvonne home and I saw a horse. It had
+the reins tangled in its feet. It was a Box 88 horse. I untangled it and
+the darn thing broke away. Then I fell over the body. I didn’t know what
+to do. But I knew it would cinch Joe; so I put it on my horse and got on
+behind. The darn bronc bucked and I was scared of losin’ the body. Yuh
+see, it was a hell of a mean job gettin’ it on.
+
+“Well, I fell off and the bronc ran away. I chased him plumb to the
+river. It put me in a bad fix. When Fat arrested me I thought it would
+end at the inquest, but I made a fool break about that deep grass and
+they soaked me in here. I never shot O’Neil and I don’t know who did.”
+
+“But you felt sure that Joe LeClere did,” said Hashknife.
+
+“I was afraid he did,” amended Soapy.
+
+Hashknife stretched and began rolling a cigaret.
+
+“What’s the next move?” asked Fat anxiously. “Shall I arrest Joe
+LeClere, Hashknife?”
+
+“You better talk it over with the prosecutin’ attorney. Personally,
+I don’t think there’s a thing that they can put on Joe. It’s just
+circumstantial evidence. Joe’s rep would be against him. Probably a
+jury would convict him.”
+
+“What about me?” asked Soapy anxiously.
+
+“You’ll stay here until we get a better man to fill yore cell,” said
+Chuck.
+
+“I reckon that’s about the size of it,” agreed Fat.
+
+“Anyway they won’t hang me,” grinned Soapy.
+
+“They’ve never hung anybody around here for bein’ a damn fool,” declared
+Chuck.
+
+“That’s a lucky thing for the population, I suppose,” said Fat
+seriously.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife supposed that Fat would tell what the prosecuting attorney
+had to say about it, but he didn’t see anything of Fat until late that
+evening when Fat rode in with Joe LeClere and put him in jail.
+
+Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne came in shortly afterwards, rather dazed
+over the sudden turn of events. Joe was half-sober and in an evil frame
+of mind. He cursed Fat and everybody until Fat locked him in a cell and
+left him to sober up.
+
+The prosecuting attorney had talked with the judge, who advised turning
+Soapy loose, and as Soapy came from the jail free at last he came face
+to face with Frenchy LeClere and Yvonne. He stopped short and stared at
+Yvonne, who walked past him without a sign of recognition. Soapy almost
+fell down.
+
+“Well, what do yuh know about that?” he wailed to himself. “They turned
+me down like a white chip.”
+
+He headed for the Silver Streak where he found Hashknife and Sleepy.
+
+“Yo’re loose, eh?” grinned Hashknife.
+
+“Loose as hell!” snorted Soapy. He lowered his voice.
+
+“Met Frenchy and Yvonne and they never recognized me.”
+
+“That’s kinda funny, ain’t it?” queried Hashknife.
+
+“Mebby you think it is--I don’t! Do yuh reckon they blame me for Joe
+bein’ in jail?”
+
+“You didn’t put him there, Soapy.”
+
+“I shore didn’t. By golly, I’ve got to find Fat. If he lied about what I
+said I’ll salivate him.”
+
+And Soapy hurried across the street looking for Fat, who was in his
+office talking with Yvonne and her father. But Soapy didn’t go in. He
+walked past, looked through the open door and then sat down on the
+wooden sidewalk fifty feet past the office door.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fat was having rather a strenuous time.
+
+Frenchy wanted to know the reasons for everything and Fat was obliged
+to tell him that Joe had been under suspicion for quite a while but
+that they had needed a confession from Soapy as to where he had found
+the body before they could act.
+
+He told them about finding the evidence near the IS ranch-house.
+
+“I never hear no shot that night,” declared Frenchy. “I’m t’ink Joe come
+straight home that night.”
+
+“You _think_ he did?”
+
+“I’m don’ know for sure,” sighed Frenchy. “Well, I’m s’pose we mus’ do
+our bes’. No use to kick. When you have trial?”
+
+“I don’t know, LeClere. I suppose he’ll have to have a hearing and then
+be bound over to the superior court.”
+
+Yvonne had nothing to say. She knew that Joe was not in the house that
+night when Soapy took her home, because she saw him ride in at daylight.
+
+She and her father came from the office and went up the street together,
+going in the opposite direction from Soapy, who got to his feet and went
+to the office door. Fat glared at him because Fat was in a bad humor
+just then.
+
+“What the hell do you want?” asked Fat.
+
+“What did you tell ’em about me, Fat?”
+
+“I dunno what yuh mean.”
+
+“Oh, the hell yuh don’t! They never spoke to me.”
+
+“Didn’t, eh?”
+
+“No, they didn’t. They acted just as though I was a plumb stranger.
+Never even recognized me.”
+
+“Well, what in hell can yuh expect, with ten-days growth of whiskers on
+yore face? Go get a shave, you bo-hunk!”
+
+Soapy’s hand went slowly to his face, which had not felt a razor since
+the day before his arrest.
+
+“Well,” he said slowly, “thanks, Fat!”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Joe LeClere had his hearing the following day and quite a crowd
+assembled in the little court-room. Joe was sullen and eyed the crowd
+angrily. He glared at Hashknife as though he blamed Hashknife for his
+incarceration. Soapy Weed was sworn in and told exactly what happened
+that night as far as he was concerned. He admitted trying to shield
+Joe.
+
+The sheriff told of finding the spot where O’Neil had been killed and
+exhibited the gun as evidence. Following him came Doctor Plumley, who
+testified that the handful of leaves had been clotted together with
+blood. Quite a number of employees of the Silver Streak were present,
+including Tuck Hayward and McLeod, his ranch foreman.
+
+Joe refused to testify but he did get to his feet and single out
+Hashknife.
+
+“Yo’re the one that framed all this!” he shouted. “You put me in jail
+with yore damn meddlin’. Who in hell are you? You better keep yore damn
+long nose out of my business--or you’ll wish yuh had.”
+
+“Shut up!” snapped the sheriff, jerking Joe down in his chair. “If
+you’ve got anythin’ to say, be sworn and tell it under oath.”
+
+“I’ve got plenty to say!” snapped Joe. “When it comes down to cases I
+can say a hell of a lot.”
+
+His eyes roamed the room and he laughed harshly.
+
+And so the judge bound him over to the next term of court and the
+prosecuting attorney filed a charge of first degree murder against him.
+There was much speculation as to what Joe had meant about having plenty
+to say.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+In celebration of Soapy’s release he and Cling proceeded to imbibe
+plenty of hard liquor. They tried to get Chuck Haverty to join them but
+Chuck was duty bound to stay at the jail. It was only a small building,
+located about fifty feet behind the sheriff’s office, and a small room
+at the front was used as a home for the jailer.
+
+Soapy hugged Chuck, cried on his shoulder, told him he was the finest
+jailer on earth and that they owed him a real good time; but Chuck
+remained loyal to his job, although he hankered to join the two cowboys
+and cut loose.
+
+“He was jus’ like a father t’ me, Cling,” sobbed Soapy. “Jus’ like a
+father and mother t’ me. Oh, he’s lov’ble person, Cling! Shake hands
+with Chuck, will yuh? Oh, you’ll jist love him; he’s part Scotch--the
+finan’shl part!”
+
+“Shert’ly glad to meetcha,” said Cling solemnly. “So glad you were kind
+to our li’l soap weed. Won’t you come and let us buy you a snifter of
+demon rum?”
+
+“Aw, hell, I can’t leave here!”
+
+“Isn’t he profane?” applauded Soapy. “Didja ever hear a man use
+pr’fanity better ’n that, Clingin’-Vine? He’s a wunnerful pitch player.
+Oh, jus’ wunnerful! Ought to be a claim-agent. Claims everythin’; high,
+low, jack and the game.”
+
+“Go home and sober up,” growled Chuck.
+
+“There y’are!” exploded Soapy. “Tha’s one side of his nature I never
+rec’gnized. I judged him wrong. I thought he was a hail feller, well
+met; and the son of a horned-toad tells us to go home and shober up.
+C’mon! I’m shert’nly disappointed in him. But he’s good to his
+captives. Oh, my, he’s so good!”
+
+“Aw, go to hell!” snorted Chuck.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Soapy and Cling went to the Chongo Saloon where they essayed a duet.
+Soapy had a barber-shop tenor which strangled him badly at times, while
+Clingin’-Vine sang in a mournful baritone with many a quaver and jiggle
+in his voice.
+
+“Just break the news to Mother,” they sang tearfully, as they leaned
+against the bar.
+
+    Just tell her not to wait for me-e-e-e,
+    Fo-o-o-or, I’m not comin’ ho-o-o-ome.
+    Just say there is no-o-o-o other--
+
+Then they broke down and cried while the sleek-haired bartender
+snorted disgustedly and polished the bar with great vigor. He was also
+sentimental and that barber-shop chord was something he loved.
+
+“I can’t stand it,” sobbed Soapy. “My heart’s too full for shong.”
+
+“Yore stummick is, yuh mean,” said the bartender callously.
+
+“Tha’s a inshult,” declared Clingin’-Vine tearfully.
+
+And so they locked arms and weaved their way outside where they headed
+for the Silver Streak. The games were running full blast. They leaned
+against the bar, imbibed another drink and proceeded to regale the world
+with:
+
+    Out in thish wide worl’ alo-o-o-one;
+    Nothin’ but shorrow I shee-e-e-e.
+    I am nobody’s darling,
+    Nobody cares for me-e-e-e.
+
+It didn’t get over so well because the two-piece orchestra, consisting
+of a violin and a tin-panny piano, were playing “The Irish Washerwoman.”
+
+The singers realized that their efforts were spoiled; so they went back
+to the little orchestra platform where they sat down together. Several
+cowboys were dancing with the “girls” and after the dance was finished
+some one invited the orchestra to have drinks.
+
+The fiddler placed his instrument on the platform near Soapy and headed
+for the bar. A few moments later Soapy and Cling were out behind the
+saloon and Soapy had the fiddle and bow.
+
+“The ques’n is,” propounded Cling, “just what in hell did yuh steal that
+fiddle for, Soapy?”
+
+“The answer to yore overpowerin’ ques’n, Clingin’-Vine, is thish: We
+need ’companyment to our shong. I never re’lized it so much before.”
+
+“Well, tha’s great, Soapy! But why in hell didn’t you steal the fiddler
+too?”
+
+“Don’t need ’em.”
+
+“You can’t play no fiddle, Soapy.”
+
+“The hell, I can’t! Ee-magine that, will yuh? I can play anythin’ I can
+get m’ hands around. I took two lessons on one of these whine-boxes.
+C’mon!”
+
+They went around several buildings and finally emerged on the street
+below the Chongo Saloon where they sat down on the sidewalk. Soapy
+tucked the fiddle under his chin and proceeded to make a lot of
+wailing discords.
+
+“Rec’nize it, Clingin’-Vine?” he asked.
+
+“Not ’zactly, Soapy; what is she?”
+
+Soapy cuffed his hat over one ear and sang softly:
+
+    Oh, I kissed Josh and Josh kissed me,
+    As we went bobbin’ ’round.
+
+“Do yuh rec-nize it now, Cling?”
+
+“Well,” sighed Cling, “I’ll take yore word for it. But I will shay
+thish much; either yore voice or that damn fiddle is way to hell off
+the tune.”
+
+“It ain’t me, Cling--it’s you. Yore ears ain’t percolatin’ right f’r
+music.”
+
+“Pos’bly. Now what’ll we do?”
+
+“I jus’ got lovely insp’ration; let’s sherenade Chuck Haverty. Whatcha
+shay? Le’s give ’m a treat.”
+
+“Oh, lovely! C’mon.”
+
+It was with difficulty that they got to their feet. Soapy dropped the
+fiddle and they bumped together in trying to recover it. Soapy got a
+heel through the top of it but they didn’t mind that.
+
+“Prob’ly make it shound better to me,” said Cling.
+
+“Oh, always! Tha’s the firsth thing I’d do if I got me a new fid’l. The
+very bes’ musicians always step on a fid’l the firs’ thing. I ’member
+when I was playin’ with a big orc’restra--”
+
+“Big what?”
+
+“Orc-rest-ree.”
+
+“Where and when, Soapy?”
+
+“Tha’s the trouble with you,” sighed Soapy. “I wish I hadn’ brought up
+that subject. Look out! Didn’ you shee that hitch-rack? When you shee a
+hitch-rack comin’ toward yuh, don’ try to jump it. Duck under it like I
+did.”
+
+[Illustration: “When you shee a hitchrack comin’ toward yuh don’t jump
+it--duck it”]
+
+Soapy crawled around on his hands and knees, recovering the stolen
+fiddle, while Cling sat on the edge of the sidewalk and nursed his
+nose. They finally got on the sidewalk and went past the sheriff’s
+office to the alley which led around to the jail.
+
+They managed to reach the front steps of the jail where they sat down
+together. The fiddle had been all knocked out of tune but they didn’t
+mind. Soapy sawed dolefully on the loosened strings while both of them
+sang mournfully. It was a terrible musical effort.
+
+For possibly ten minutes they sawed and sang but nothing came of it.
+Their last few drinks had begun to take active effect and their final
+song was a series of squeaks and vocal discords.
+
+“Do you shuppose we shung him to sleep?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Tha’s about the shize of ’t. Let’s go and wake ’m up.”
+
+The door was unlocked, so they went in. But there was no sign of Chuck
+Haverty. Cling smashed the lamp in trying to light it and Soapy fell
+down across his fiddle, breaking the neck completely off it, and they
+ended their evening when Cling fell across Chuck’s bed and Soapy went
+to sleep with his head pillowed on the broken fiddle.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“No, the sheriff ain’t here. He went to the mines early this mornin’
+and he won’t be back before this afternoon. You say somebody stole yore
+fiddle? Well,” Weary braced one elbow against the side of the office
+doorway and rubbed his touseled hair vigorously, “I dunno nothin’ about
+it. Now, if it was a stolen cow or a horse--”
+
+“Well, it ain’t--it’s my fiddle.”
+
+The fiddler from the Silver Streak spat angrily and considered the
+sleepy deputy who stood barefooted in the doorway with only a pair of
+over-alls over his red underwear. He had just got out of bed.
+
+“Yeah, it’s yore fiddle,” admitted Weary. “After listenin’ to you
+playin’ it, Andy, I’d look for a deaf man if I was you. Nobody with
+two good ears would ever steal that fiddle.”
+
+“It cost me seven dollars and six bits.”
+
+“Which was pretty high for that kind of a fiddle.”
+
+“Who do yuh reckon would steal it, Weary?”
+
+“Somebody prob’ly played a joke on yuh. One of the boys prob’ly took
+it.”
+
+“Yeah, that might be. I went to take a drink last night and when I came
+back it was gone.”
+
+“Well, you’ll find it. A fiddle ain’t somethin’ yuh can get rid of.
+Ain’t very many fiddles in this country. Didja have yore initials cut
+in it or anythin’?”
+
+“Yuh don’t do things like that to a fiddle. Might ruin the tone.”
+
+“Aw, hell! You could shoot yore initials in that one with a buffalo-gun
+and never hurt the tone. But I’ll keep an ear cocked, Andy. I’d
+recognize that fiddle, y’ betcha!”
+
+“Thank yuh, Weary.”
+
+Weary watched him go up the street, shook his head and went back to
+dress.
+
+“This here country is goin’ to the dogs,” he told the four walls of the
+office. “When they start rustlin’ fiddles I’m all through. And that kind
+of a fiddle!”
+
+He buttoned up his shirt and drew on his boots. Weary wore boots a size
+too small and they gave him misery in the morning. He stomped around the
+office for a while, picked up his hat and went back to see Chuck. They
+usually ate breakfast together, after which Chuck carried a tray of food
+to the jail.
+
+Weary walked right in, stopped short and looked around. Cling Heffner
+was sprawled across Chuck’s bed while in the middle of the room was
+Soapy Weed, lying across the smashed fiddle. Just beside Soapy was
+the oil-lamp, just a pile of smashed glass now amid a huge ring of
+kerosene.
+
+Both men were snoring industriously. Weary rubbed his chin and
+considered them gravely. There was the missing fiddle--what was left
+of it. But there was no sign of Chuck. There was a half-barred door
+leading down the jail corridor which was always kept locked, but
+when Weary turned the knob the door swung open. There was no one in
+the corridor.
+
+“Chuck!” called Weary, but there was no response.
+
+Weary walked down the short corridor and leaned against the bars of Joe
+LeClere’s cage. Joe was lying in the middle of the floor, instead of on
+his cot. Weary snorted with indignation and walked back to Chuck’s room
+where he surveyed the wreckage and the two sleeping men.
+
+“Drunken lotta bums!” he snorted virtuously. “Slipped the bottle to our
+prisoner, didja? Gotta good notion to kick yuh both out in the alley
+where yuh belong. I suppose Chuck is over at some saloon cryin’ on the
+bartender’s shoulder.”
+
+Weary went outside, slammed the door shut and headed up the alley,
+telling himself that he was going to talk plenty strong to Chuck
+Haverty. Of course he wasn’t Chuck’s boss but that didn’t matter. The
+idea of making a barroom out of a perfectly respectable jail! Chuck
+would hear about it in plain language.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Chuck wasn’t in the Chongo Saloon. Nobody in there except a couple of
+swampers and a bartender. At the doorway of the Silver Streak he met
+Sleepy who had just come over from the hotel.
+
+“Seen anythin’ of Chuck?” asked Weary.
+
+“Not this mornin’, Weary.”
+
+“Ain’t in the Silver Streak?”
+
+“Wasn’t ten seconds ago. Yuh don’t mean to say you’ve lost yore jailer,
+do yuh?”
+
+“Kinda looks like it,” grunted Weary and proceeded to tell Sleepy about
+Cling and Soapy and the busted fiddle.
+
+Sleepy laughed at Weary’s description of the fiddler bewailing his loss.
+
+“I was here when he missed it,” chuckled Sleepy. “Accused everybody
+except Tuck Hayward of stealin’ it. I wondered who got it. Come to
+think of it, I did see Cling and Soapy over there by the orchestra
+but I never connected them with the disappearance of the fiddle. Did
+Fat say what time him and Hashknife would be back?”
+
+“Afternoon, I reckon. Fat was goin’ to check up on a shipment of hides
+from the Box 88 and Hashknife went with him.”
+
+“I know about that part of it. Yuh say Soapy and Cling slipped some
+liquor to Joe LeClere?”
+
+“Shore did! Fat will give Chuck hell for this, y’ betcha.”
+
+“Mebby we better get that fiddle and bury it before the owner of it
+finds out who got it.”
+
+“Aw, to hell with it! I hope he makes Soapy and Cling pay a month’s
+salary for bustin’ it. And that don’t mean the fiddler is any friend
+of mine either. Chuck would have been respectable if them two geezers
+had stayed away from him. They’d corrupt anybody.”
+
+They walked back across the street and sat down in the office to have a
+smoke.
+
+“Do yuh suppose Yvonne LeClere is stuck on Soapy?” asked Sleepy.
+
+Weary cocked one eye at Sleepy and grinned widely.
+
+“Not me!” laughed Sleepy. “I’m female proof.”
+
+“Me too!” sighed Weary. “I dunno about Soapy. He kinda had the inside
+track, it looked like t’ me. But yuh never can tell about a woman. I had
+a girl turn me down for a bat-eared shepherd once. Fact! Ever since then
+I’ve kinda steered away from ’em. Gee, he shore was bat-eared!”
+
+“Marry her?”
+
+“Shore did.”
+
+“Had money, eh?”
+
+“Had ten dollars I loaned him, if yuh call that money. It was so much
+he never paid me back. That was seven years ago and they’ve got two
+sets of twins and a couple singles. I’ve seen ’em all and every kid
+has got bat-ears.”
+
+“Marriage is a serious thing,” smiled Sleepy.
+
+“If yuh don’t think so jist take a look at them twins and singles. Six
+of ’em to feed and clothe! I’ll betcha it’s serious. It shore would
+crimp a salary like mine. But if I had ’em I’d pin back their ears
+while they was young. If a feller with ears like that ever moved to a
+windy country he’d have to carry a rudder.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+In the meantime Hashknife and Fat rode to the mines on Chongo Creek.
+Hayward had notified the sheriff that he was going to ship hides in a
+few days and they had to be inspected by the sheriff’s office.
+
+They found Cornes and Asher at the butchering corrals. Cornes had met
+Hashknife and now he introduced him to Asher, a skinny, long-nosed
+cowboy. The two went on about their work while Hashknife assisted Fat
+in checking over hides. It was not a long job and they found every
+hide branded with the Box 88. The sheriff tagged each bundle with an
+inspection card. Neither he nor Hashknife was interested in the mines;
+so they started back as soon as their work was finished.
+
+“Didja ever find anythin’ besides a Box 88 hide?” asked Hashknife
+curiously.
+
+“Twice,” replied Fat. “Once it was an AH and the other time it was
+an IS. They got in by mistake and were killed. But both owners were
+paid the market price and the hides were returned. Oh, Tuck Hayward
+is square as a dollar in his cow business! I dunno much about his
+gamblin’ games.”
+
+Hashknife was gravely thoughtful. He had examined every one of those
+hides and had noticed certain things that puzzled him greatly.
+LeClere swore that he was losing stock--and Hashknife believed him.
+But where were they going? And what was Joe LeClere going to do with
+the Box 88 stock he had in that brush corral? Why was he heating a
+running-iron? What in the world could he do with a running-iron on a
+Box 88? To change that brand to any other brand on the range would be
+impossible. If he boldly vented the brand and ran on another it would
+be a plain case of suicide. As far as Hashknife could find out, the
+IS had no vent-brand. That is, a brand to use in case an animal is
+vented, showing that the IS came by the animal legally.
+
+And apparently Tuck Hayward was a friend of Joe LeClere. Hashknife
+had puzzled over it ever since he had been in the country and he was
+no nearer to a solution now.
+
+“How do yuh account for LeClere losin’ cattle?” he asked the sheriff, as
+they rode back to town.
+
+“I don’t account for it, Hashknife. The old man is loco.”
+
+“His round-up tally has showed short twice now.”
+
+“_His_ tally, Hashknife. I know what his last tally showed and I’ll
+check up myself next round-up. I don’t believe he ever had any cows
+stolen. Nobody else has lost any.”
+
+“Mebby yo’re right. It looks that-away, Fat.”
+
+“I know I’m right.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+And while they rode back to Chongo town Soapy Weed opened his eyes and
+stared at the ceiling. His mouth was apparently full of ashes and there
+was a dull throb in the back of his head. After due deliberation he
+raised up and looked around.
+
+Beneath his left elbow were the remains of that fiddle and he squinted
+at them curiously. He looked at Cling’s feet dangling over the edge of
+the cot. His head turned and he looked at the half-open door where the
+sunlight glared through.
+
+He spat dryly and rubbed his eyes.
+
+“I must have fallen asleep,” he said huskily.
+
+“Ditto.”
+
+He turned and looked at Cling who was sitting up with a queer expression
+in his face.
+
+“Ditto, eh?” said Soapy.
+
+“Yeah--ditto. We both fell asleep. Lemme see--”
+
+“Where’d this damn fiddle come from, Cling?”
+
+“Don’tcha remember, Soapy? We stole it at the Silver Streak.”
+
+“That’s right. Oh, yeah, I remember now! What time is it?”
+
+“Forgot to wind m’ watch last night, and it stopped.”
+
+“Must be almost noon,” squinting at the sunlight.
+
+“Funny thing they ain’t found us,” yawned Cling. “Wonder where Chuck is?
+My God, did we upset that lamp, Soapy?”
+
+“Lamps,” said Soapy seriously, “don’t usually fall down and break
+themselves. My God, this fiddle is a wreck!”
+
+“So’m I. Oh, what a head! What did we drink, do yuh s’pose?”
+
+“We drank anythin’. I’m hungry.”
+
+“I’m not. Waugh!” Cling got to his feet and went over to the doorway.
+“No water close, I don’t reckon. My God, I’m ninety per cent dryer than
+Death Valley in July!”
+
+“C’mon,” sighed Soapy wearily. “No use stayin’ here.”
+
+He kicked the fiddle under the cot and led the way out through the
+narrow alley to the street. Weary was in the office door and looked
+them over pityingly,
+
+“Drunken bums!” he said solemnly. They stopped together and made wry
+faces at him. Sleepy came and stood beside Weary, a grin on his face.
+
+“Yo’re gonna get hell,” declared Weary. “Wait’ll Fat gets back.”
+
+“Since when did it become a penitentiary offense to get drunk in
+Chongo?” asked Soapy.
+
+“I suppose yuh got Chuck drunk and left him in an alley,” said Weary.
+
+“Yo’re crazy as hell! We never even seen him.”
+
+“Addin’ lies to his other crimes,” said Weary sadly.
+
+Soapy spat dryly and looked longingly across the street.
+
+“I need water,” said Cling. “Need lotsa water. Let’s go down to the
+livery-stable pump and drink her dry.”
+
+“Where’s Chuck?” asked Weary.
+
+“We never seen him,” said Soapy indignantly. “What’s all the fuss about
+anyway?”
+
+“I suppose you’ll deny that yuh slipped a bottle to Joe LeClere?”
+
+Soapy shut one eye and looked at Cling.
+
+“Remember anythin’ like that, Cling?”
+
+“Not me. My thinker ain’t so clear, but I’ll be damned if I remember any
+such a thing as that.”
+
+“Yuh remember stealin’ the fiddle, don’tcha?”
+
+“What fiddle?” asked Soapy innocently.
+
+“There yuh go,” wailed Weary. “What fiddle? Why, the one yuh was
+sleepin’ on.”
+
+“Didja see me on any fiddle, Cling?”
+
+“’F yuh ask me anythin’ about it I’d say that Weary is fit to herd
+sheep. C’mon, Soapy; this conversation makes me awful dry.”
+
+They wandered across the street and down to the livery-stable, where
+they took turns at pumping water over one another’s heads.
+
+“I know just how they feel,” grinned Sleepy, rolling a cigaret. “It
+don’t pay.”
+
+“It shore don’t,” agreed Weary. “Gosh, I wish Chuck would show up! He’s
+supposed to pack some food to the prisoner.”
+
+“Probably the prisoner don’t feel like food.”
+
+“Prob’ly not. Oh, I dunno! I guess it’s Chuck’s business.”
+
+“Chuck’s a good feller, Weary.”
+
+“Shore! But--well, mebby I better kinda clean up things. I’ll see if Joe
+is in any mood to eat. Want to go along?”
+
+They closed up the office and walked around to the jail. Chuck was
+not in evidence. Weary picked up the remains of the broken lamp and
+threw them outside. Sleepy examined the fiddle and declared that it
+was ruined forever.
+
+“We’ll hide it,” said Weary. “But, by golly, I’ll see that Soapy and
+Cling pay the fiddler for it!”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They walked back through the corridor and peered in Joe’s cell. Joe was
+lying in the same position as when Weary last saw him. It was still a
+little dark in the cell.
+
+“Wake up and pay for yore lodgin’!” yelled Weary. “Hey! Joe! Time to get
+up!”
+
+But Joe didn’t move. Weary looked at Sleepy, who was peering closely.
+
+“What’s the matter with the damn fool?”
+
+“Have you got a key to this cell, Weary?”
+
+“Chuck’s got ’em.”
+
+“This don’t look right to me,” said Sleepy seriously.
+
+“Yuh don’t think he’s hurt or sick, do yuh, Sleepy?”
+
+“He acts like a dead man.”
+
+“Well, that ain’t--hey? Joe! Wake up, can’tcha?”
+
+“Let’s see if we can’t find Chuck.”
+
+They went outside and looked around. Weary was visibly nervous.
+
+“I dunno where to look. Damn it, what do yuh reckon has gone wrong?”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Sleepy led the way over to the sheriff’s stable, which was large enough
+to take care of four horses. Two horses were still in the stalls. But
+Chuck was not there. At the rear of the stable was a small pole corral
+where the owners kept their hay. Sleepy shoved his way between the hay
+and the rear of the stable and there they found Chuck Haverty tightly
+bound and effectively gagged.
+
+[Illustration: There was blood on the gagged head, but the man was
+unconscious]
+
+There was blood on his face and neck from a bruise on the side of his
+head but he was conscious. Quickly they cut the gag loose and stripped
+off the ropes. Chuck made no effort to get up; so they braced him
+against the hay and waited for him to get his voice back again. The
+corners of his mouth had been bruised by the gag until they bled and
+it took him quite a while to articulate at all. He grimaced with agony
+as the returning circulation sent streamers of pain through his arms
+and legs. Five minutes passed before he was able to stagger back to
+the jail where Weary unearthed a small bottle of liquor Chuck emptied.
+
+“Can yuh talk now, Chuck?” asked Weary.
+
+“Can try it,” mumbled Chuck painfully. “What happened?”
+
+“You’ll have to tell us; we don’t know.”
+
+Chuck shook his head painfully.
+
+“I dunno. Somebody called to me, and I stuck my head out. I guess they
+sapped me on the head. I woke up out there in the hay.”
+
+“Was that last night, Chuck?”
+
+“About nine. I was goin’ to bed.”
+
+“Where are the keys to the cells?”
+
+“Under the mattress on my bunk.”
+
+Weary lifted the mattress and found the keys. Chuck sat down on the
+bunk and held his head in his hands while Weary and Sleepy went back
+and unlocked Joe’s cell.
+
+“My God, he’s been shot!” exclaimed Weary. “Look at the blood, will yuh?
+What the hell has been goin’ on, anyway?”
+
+“He ain’t dead,” said Sleepy, after they had turned Joe over. “Must
+have been shot quite a while ago, judgin’ from the dried gore on his
+shirt. Better get the doctor quick as yuh can.”
+
+“You stay here, will yuh, Sleepy?”
+
+“Shore thing. Get goin’.”
+
+Weary dashed out after the doctor and Sleepy went back to Chuck, who
+listened vacantly to what Sleepy told him.
+
+“I dunno,” wailed Chuck. “I’m sick as a fool. They busted me in the
+cranium, didn’t they? And they shot Joe? That’s a hell of a thing to
+do. Where’s Fat?”
+
+“Him and Hashknife are out at the mines, checkin’ hides. You say yuh
+heard somebody callin’ yore name, Chuck?”
+
+“Yeah. I thought it was some of you boys. But I didn’t see ’em. I stuck
+my head out, thasall.”
+
+Sleepy walked out on the little step and saw Hashknife and the sheriff
+riding up to the little stable. He called to them and they rode over.
+In a few words Sleepy told them what had happened, and while they were
+examining Joe Weary and the doctor came in.
+
+[Illustration: In a few minutes half the town was in front of the jail]
+
+They moved Joe to the front of the building for the doctor to make
+his examination and a few minutes later it seemed as though half the
+town of Chongo was in front of the building, trying to find out what
+had happened. Sleepy went out and told them what the trouble was all
+about. In the meantime the doctor had ordered Joe to be taken to his
+office. They put him on the cot and carried him down there, with
+Chuck trailing along to get his head fixed up.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Joe LeClere was badly hurt. A bullet had passed through his left side
+a few inches above his heart and the doctor was a bit dubious. Over a
+dozen hours had elapsed since the bullet had been fired.
+
+Hashknife found the bullet on the cell floor. It was a forty-five, with
+the nose only slightly battered. Doctor Plumley spent considerable time
+over the wound and after Joe was in bed he patched Chuck Haverty, who
+needed a couple of stitches in his scalp.
+
+Soapy and Cling lost no time in coming to the sheriff with their story.
+They admitted that they had gone to the jailer’s with the intention of
+serenading Chuck with the fiddle and that they hadn’t found Chuck. They
+had had no idea what time of night it was but they had been sure it was
+only a short time after they had stolen the fiddle.
+
+This would place the time of the shooting between nine and nine-thirty.
+No one had heard the shot fired but that was easily accounted for, as
+the corridor had probably been closed and the shot fired at close
+quarters. Outside the sound would probably have been only a jarring
+thud. And the shooting had been done while Chuck was still knocked out
+and probably in the hay and just a short time before the serenaders
+arrived.
+
+Soapy and Cling chipped in and paid the fiddler what the fiddle had cost
+him, after Weary had sworn to the price as told to him by the fiddler,
+Andy Elders.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fat was gloomy. It was rather a discredit to the sheriff’s office to
+have somebody knock out his jailer and shoot down a prisoner in his
+cell. It established a precedent which did not exactly suit Fat, who
+went around uneasily, his hands shoved down in his pockets, chewing
+an unlighted match.
+
+He sent Weary out to notify Joe’s father and sister and Weary cursed
+Fat all the way out to the ranch. The job wasn’t one to please Weary.
+Hashknife and Sleepy sat on the Silver Streak hitch-rack and smoked
+calmly while the rest of the town discussed the latest development in
+the local crime wave.
+
+“What do yuh know for sure?” asked Sleepy.
+
+“Don’t know a darn thing,” said Hashknife. “But I do know it’s goin’ to
+take more luck than brains to find out who shot Joe.”
+
+“Somebody wanted him out of the way, don’tcha think?”
+
+“Very evident,” dryly.
+
+“How many in the gang?”
+
+Hashknife smiled sourly.
+
+“I’m no mind-reader, Sleepy. We looked over all them hides and they
+belonged to Box 88. Of course the Box 88 wouldn’t make any fool
+moves. They’d be suckers to show a wrong hide. Fat thinks they’re on
+the square and I can’t find a thing to prove they’re not. If I only
+knew what Joe LeClere was goin’ to do with them Box 88 cows he had
+in that brush corral! Now Joe is pretty badly shot up and the doctor
+don’t think he’s got a chance to pull through. He’s the one who
+could put me on the right track. I’ll bet he knows who shot him. Or
+he’d know who might shoot him. It’s all a muddle, I tell yuh.”
+
+“And the man who pokes his nose into it is liable to get what Joe got,”
+said Sleepy.
+
+“He’s the third one,” said Hashknife. “Three times and out.”
+
+“You think there’s any connection between this shootin’ and the other
+two, Hashknife?”
+
+“I dunno. There might be. All three men were shot with a gun.”
+
+“You think yo’re pretty damn smart, don’tcha?”
+
+“No, I don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “I know I’m not.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy were down at the sheriff’s office when Frenchy
+LeClere and Yvonne came in. Weary had told them the whole story with
+embellishments.
+
+Frenchy had little to say but there was misery in his eyes. He loved
+Joe in spite of Joe’s wild ways. Hashknife shook hands with the old
+man and with Yvonne. Fat went with them to the doctor’s office. Joe
+was unconscious. The doctor seemed more hopeful than he had been at
+first.
+
+“It was a clean hole,” he told them. “Went through a thin shirt and I
+don’t think any of it went inside. He’s got a fighting chance.”
+
+“She’s look awful w’ite,” whispered Frenchy, shaking his head. “By gosh,
+I’m like to fin’ de man who shot her! You fix her up, Doc, eh? I’m like
+to take her home.”
+
+“Can’t move him now, Mr. LeClere. Might be fatal.”
+
+“I suppose not. You t’nk she’s get well?”
+
+“I hope he will.”
+
+“I’m hope so too, Doc. She’s good boy--jus’ wild. I’m hire good lawyer
+for her. If she’s die now--always Frenchy LeClere’s boy be murderer.”
+
+“He isn’t going to die, Dad,” whispered Yvonne hopefully.
+
+He patted her on the shoulder but there were tears in his eyes as they
+walked out. They met Tuck Hayward just at the doorway and the big man
+was sympathetic.
+
+“I just heard about it,” he told them. “Went out to the ranch last night
+and just got in. How is he?”
+
+“Mebby she’s live,” said Frenchy. “Pretty bad!”
+
+“Gosh, that’s tough! Joe’s a good boy. I’ll go in and have a talk with
+the doctor.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Frenchy and Yvonne walked up the street together to where their team was
+hitched. Frenchy went into a store to make some purchases and while he
+was there Soapy Weed came down the sidewalk. Yvonne smiled wistfully at
+Soapy and his heart missed a whole beat. He had expected her to turn him
+down.
+
+“Hello, Yvonne!” he said softly. “Gosh, I’m sorry about what happened!
+Didja see Joe? How is he?”
+
+“Not very good, Soapy. I didn’t know whether you’d speak to me or not,
+after I didn’t come to the jail to see you--and all that.”
+
+“Oh, that didn’t make no difference, Yvonne!”
+
+“I should have come, Soapy. I realized you were protecting Joe all the
+time--and me.”
+
+“I didn’t do very much good. It was all right until Hashknife and Fat
+found the gun. They had me cinched and I had to tell the truth. I was
+shore glad to get out, but it was tough on Joe. And now look what’s
+happened to him!”
+
+Yvonne nodded wearily.
+
+“If Joe dies they’ll never know who killed O’Neil.”
+
+“Do yuh reckon he knows?” asked Soapy quickly.
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Well, let’s hope he don’t die. I mean, we’ll shore pull for him to get
+well. Joe’s all right. Can’t I come out and see yuh, Yvonne? Gosh, I’d
+shore like to!”
+
+“Why don’t you, Soapy?”
+
+“Well, I am coming! Gosh!”
+
+“But don’t bring a fiddle.”
+
+Soapy’s ears turned scarlet. He tried to speak but his tongue refused.
+Then--
+
+“We--Weary told yuh? Oh, that ornery sheepherder!”
+
+Yvonne laughed softly.
+
+“He mentioned it,” she said.
+
+“He would! Well, I reckon I didn’t play it well.”
+
+“He said you didn’t.”
+
+Frenchy LeClere was coming from the store and Soapy was glad of the
+interruption. He wanted to tell Weary what he thought of him.
+
+“Hello, Soapee!” said Frenchy. “How you come, eh?”
+
+“Swell--elegant!” grinned Soapy.
+
+“You play de feedle now, eh? Feedle music ver’ good. Sometime you come
+out and play de feedle for de ol’ man, eh?”
+
+Soapy opened and shut his mouth several times. Then--
+
+“I’ll be out--sure!”
+
+Soapy headed straight for the sheriff’s office where he found Weary, Fat
+and Chuck. They were discussing the shooting of Joe LeClere and welcomed
+Soapy warmly.
+
+“I dunno nothin’ except what I’ve told yuh,” he declared, when they
+wanted him to repeat what had happened. “Ask Weary. He knows more about
+it than I do.”
+
+“I wasn’t there,” said Weary.
+
+“Well, you know all about it, judgin’ from what I heard. You shore
+spread that fiddle story around,” sneered Soapy. Weary’s face broke
+into a wide grin.
+
+“I never told anybody except Frenchy and Yvonne. I had to tell it all,
+yuh see. And I had to tell ’em about the fiddle.”
+
+“Yuh would! Things like that are a duty to you.”
+
+“All I told ’em was that you got drunk, stole a fiddle, tried to
+serenade Chuck and then fell down and used the fiddle for a piller.
+That ain’t much, is it?”
+
+“Well, I don’t know of a damn thing yuh left out.”
+
+“I forgot to tell ’em that you paid for the fiddle.”
+
+“You would! Any damn redeemin’ feature you’d leave out.”
+
+“That ain’t no redeemin’ feature,” laughed Weary. “You paid up when yuh
+was caught with the goods.”
+
+“That’s all right,” grinned Soapy. “Wait’ll I get a chance to deal you a
+bum hand!”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy were at a restaurant when an idea suddenly occurred
+to Hashknife. He laid down his knife and looked intently at Sleepy as he
+said:
+
+“You remembered the time we met McFee, didn’t yuh?”
+
+“Sure.”
+
+“He was deputy sheriff of Piney River and he was on the trail of a
+horse-thief.”
+
+“That was it. He said the man’s name was Welton or Holton or--”
+
+“Belton! ‘Bitter River’ Belton, he called him.”
+
+“That’s the baby!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s memory for yuh! But what
+good does that do us?”
+
+“_Quien sabe?_ as they say below the line.”
+
+They finished their meal and sauntered down to the depot where a
+tired-looking depot agent fought flies with an old palm-leaf fan and
+tried to amuse himself with an old magazine. Hashknife secured a
+telegraph blank and wrote out the following message:
+
+    SHERIFF OF PINEY RIVER WYOMING
+
+    IF POSSIBLE WIRE ME COMPLETE DESCRIPTION OF BITTER RIVER BELTON
+    WANTED BY YOUR COUNTY ABOUT TWO YEARS AGO STOP MUST BE COMPLETE
+    FOR IDENTIFICATION
+                                                   GARNETTE SHERIFF
+
+Hashknife paid for the wire and they went back up the street.
+
+“What in hell has Bitter River Belton got to do with this proposition?”
+queried Sleepy.
+
+“Not a thing, I’ll bet! Just a hunch, Sleepy. When yo’re stuck as solid
+as I am you’ll play hunches.”
+
+“I don’t see where Belton could figure--”
+
+“Neither do I, Sleepy. Go on and forget him. He’s just a name as far as
+we’re concerned--but don’t mention it.”
+
+“Oh, all right! I always travel in the dark in these things. I don’t
+know why yuh don’t never tell me anythin’.”
+
+“Life is just travelin’ in the dark, Sleepy. We all do. We don’t
+know what it’s all about. And when we’re dead--take yore pick of
+resurrection, reincarnation or the end of things. I knowed a feller
+who believed in reincarnation. He was sure he’d come back in a
+different form. And I’ll be a liar if I don’t believe he did. About
+five years after his death I met a polecat. Well--aw, go ahead and
+laugh! There’s lots of things we don’t know about.”
+
+“I feel better about it now,” laughed Sleepy.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next morning Joe LeClere was still alive and the doctor was still
+hopeful. Yvonne rode in early to see how Joe was getting along and
+Hashknife and Sleepy rode home with her. She tried to appear hopeful
+but it was no use.
+
+“Dad worries so much,” she said. “He’s afraid Joe will die and that he
+will never get cleared of that murder charge. Dad doesn’t believe Joe
+is guilty of course.”
+
+“Do you?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“I don’t believe he killed O’Neil but I believe he knows who did kill
+him. The morning O’Neil was killed Joe didn’t come home until daylight.
+He wasn’t home when I got back from that dance.”
+
+“Does the sheriff know this, Yvonne?” She shook her head quickly.
+
+“You are the only one I’ve told.”
+
+“Then he wasn’t at home when Soapy Weed found the body, eh? That looks
+bad. Where do yuh reckon he was?”
+
+“He didn’t say.”
+
+“Your father doesn’t know this?”
+
+“No. He would be the last person I’d ever tell. Oh, I want him to keep
+his faith in Joe!”
+
+“Yeah, I suppose that’s best. But why did you tell me all this, Yvonne?”
+
+“Because--well, I don’t just know, Hashknife. You played so square
+with me that day--the first time I ever saw you. You saved Dad a big
+heartache. If he had known that Joe was a rustler it would have killed
+him, I think.”
+
+“Thank yuh for the confidence, Yvonne. I’m doin’ everythin’ I can to
+save Joe. It’s one awful jumble though.”
+
+They rode in at the ranch and Hashknife unsaddled her horse while she
+went in the house. Frenchy came down to them and was questioning
+Hashknife about Joe when Yvonne came out on the porch and Sleepy went
+up to her, leading his horse.
+
+“I don’t know, Hart-lee,” sighed the old Frenchman. “Joe she’s not so
+very strong and she’s bad hurt.”
+
+“He’ll be all right, Mr. LeClere,” assured Hashknife. “You quit
+worryin’.”
+
+“I guess I worry all my life ’bout Joe,” wistfully.
+
+“Aw, Joe’s all right.”
+
+“It is nice from you to say good t’ing of Joe--when you know better.”
+
+Hashknife looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant.
+
+“You try to save de old man,” said Frenchy softly. “You tell me Joe
+she’s h’accidently shoot herself.”
+
+He lifted his eyes and looked at Hashknife.
+
+“You know it is not true, Hart-lee. I’m fin’ dat gonn has not been shoot
+and de mag’zine she’s full of shells.”
+
+“Oh, yeah!” sighed Hashknife, trying to think of a reasonable alibi.
+“Well, yuh see, we cleaned--”
+
+“_Non, non!_” the old man shook his head quickly. “I’m go back to de
+spring where Joe says she’s got shot. I’m h’examine spring ver’ close.
+Nobody she’s got shot dere. Bimeby I ride up de cañon and somet’ing led
+me to a brush corral. She’s full of Box 88 cows. I turn him loose. Now,
+w’at you say?”
+
+“Well, old-timer,” said Hashknife slowly, “I ain’t got a thing to say. I
+done what I thought was for the best.”
+
+“I know, Hart-lee. You are w’ite man. You never tell nobody ’bout my
+Joe. I’m glad to know man like you.”
+
+“Shucks!” said Hashknife. “It wasn’t none of my business. And anyway I
+shot him. He shot first of course.”
+
+“I know. I never h’ask Joe. I’m jus’ let it go. But I want you to know I
+’preciate w’at you do for me.”
+
+“Well, yo’re shore welcome, Mr. LeClere!”
+
+They walked up to the porch and talked with Yvonne a few minutes before
+they mounted and rode away. Hashknife told Sleepy what the old man had
+found out and Sleepy whistled softly.
+
+“He’s no fool, Hashknife. Yuh can tell by his eyes that he’s a smart
+man. But ain’t it hell to see the hurt in his eyes? When they get
+old--and get hurt--”
+
+“That’s the worst of it, Sleepy. I can see my old dad in most every
+white-haired man I find. He had his failings the same as every one.
+But he was awful human. Mother was human, too. My God, she had to be
+to raise a family like she did! They’re both gone now. I wasn’t there
+when they went away.”
+
+“That was my fix,” sighed Sleepy. “Where are we goin’?”
+
+“Out in the hills, just ridin’ I suppose. I get tired of town and I want
+to look at cows and horses.”
+
+They rode far back into the hills, just drifting along. At times they
+would draw up their horses to look at range stock, sometimes just to
+look at the panorama of the hills slumbering in the afternoon sun. They
+did little talking. Wild horses threw up their heads from afar and
+looked at the two riders until a suspicious stallion led them away on a
+wild chase farther back into the hills.
+
+Range cattle eyed them suspiciously but allowed them to ride in close.
+Hashknife was reading brands as they went along, the IS, AH and the Box
+88, of which the Box 88 predominated.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They had ridden out on a flat mesa, where several head of stock were
+crossing near them and Hashknife began taking down his rope.
+
+“Let’s take that roan steer, Sleepy,” he said, pointing to an animal
+which had just passed them.
+
+Sleepy shook out his rope, swinging to the right, as Hashknife, swinging
+a wide loop, rode to the left at a gallop. His first cast encircled the
+animal’s head and Ghost sat back quickly, whirling the surprised animal
+around. Sleepy, riding in close, deftly roped its hind legs and a moment
+later the big steer was stretched out on its side, bawling softly, while
+Hashknife dismounted and came along his rope. They had thrown the animal
+on its left side, exposing the Box 88 on its right shoulder.
+
+Hashknife leaned over the animal, examining the brand closely. It was a
+Box 88 but seemed to have been made rather recently. There were no other
+marks on the animal.
+
+“What did yuh find?” asked Sleepy.
+
+“Fresh brand on an old steer. Looks and feels all right.”
+
+Neither of them saw two riders come over the edge of the mesa behind
+them and neither was aware that another human was within miles until
+they heard McLeod of the Box 88 say:
+
+“What in hell is the big idea?”
+
+Hashknife straightened up suddenly. Within fifty feet of them sat McLeod
+and Asher, looking them over curiously. It was rather an embarrassing
+position for Hashknife and Sleepy.
+
+“Oh, hello!” said Hashknife easily.
+
+“That’s a Box 88, ain’t it?” queried McLeod coldly.
+
+“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.
+
+“Then what in hell are you two jaspers doin’ with him? I’d like to
+know.”
+
+Hashknife smiled softly.
+
+“We thought we knowed this critter,” he said slowly. “He was too shy for
+close inspection; so we used a rope.”
+
+“Sounds damn fishy to me.”
+
+“Don’tcha like fish, McLeod?”
+
+“Never you mind what I like; and I don’t like yore explanation,
+Hartley.”
+
+Hashknife walked over to McLeod, who eyed him angrily.
+
+“That’s the only explanation we’re usin’ today, McLeod.”
+
+“The hell it is!”
+
+“Just that--and no more.”
+
+“Oh, yea-a-ah!”
+
+McLeod looked Hashknife over closely. He intended telling this lanky
+cowpuncher what he thought of people who get free with their rope, but
+there was something in those level gray eyes which caused him to
+hesitate. He looked at Sleepy, who was lolling sideways in his saddle
+a half-smile on his face, resting his right hand on his hip just above
+the butt of his gun.
+
+“The sheriff might be interested in this,” said McLeod.
+
+“He might,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s shore soakin’ up all the information
+he can get.”
+
+“We been wonderin’ about you,” said McLeod meaningly.
+
+“Yeah?”
+
+“Wonderin’ what yo’re both doin’ around here.”
+
+“Found out anythin’ yet?”
+
+“Well, yuh can draw yore own conclusions. You’ll probably hear more
+about this later.”
+
+“If there’s anythin’ I can help yuh out on--don’t hesitate to speak
+about it.”
+
+McLeod grunted, turned his horse around and he and Asher rode away,
+disappearing over the edge of the mesa. Hashknife looked at Sleepy and
+they both laughed foolishly.
+
+“Hell of a situation!” snorted Hashknife as he removed the ropes and let
+the steer go its way.
+
+“A damn dangerous situation!” said Sleepy.
+
+“Mebby more than you think, cowboy! I reckon we better go back to town
+before we get into any more mischief.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They rode off the mesa and headed back for Chongo town while McLeod
+and Asher swung further to the east, forded the river about two miles
+above the town, taking a short-cut to the Box 88. McLeod was properly
+indignant. He told the wide world that he didn’t want strangers roping
+Box 88 cattle in the hills.
+
+“Why didn’t yuh bawl that tall puncher out good?” asked Asher
+innocently.
+
+“Didn’t I?”
+
+“Well, yuh didn’t scare him none, Mac. He don’t look like a person yuh
+could scare very easy.”
+
+“I reckon he’s salty,” agreed McLeod. “But he can’t get away with that
+kind of stuff, y’betcha.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They found Tuck Hayward at the ranch with Mike Dalhart and McLeod lost
+no time in telling Tuck what they had seen and what had been said.
+
+“What’s it all about?” queried Tuck.
+
+“I dunno. They had the steer tied down when we walked in on ’em.”
+
+“Why didn’t yuh smoke ’em up, the dirty thieves?” asked Dalhart.
+
+“Well, they hadn’t stole anythin’, Mike.”
+
+“What the hell kinda evidence do _you_ have to have?”
+
+“I’ll run my end of the business, Dalhart.”
+
+“You keep out of this, Mike,” ordered Hayward.
+
+“Oh, all right!”
+
+Dalhart and Asher went down to the bunk-house, leaving Hayward and
+McLeod to talk it over.
+
+“Just what did they seem to be doin’, Mac?” asked Tuck.
+
+“Stevens was on his horse and Hartley was lookin’ at the brand. I dunno
+what it was all about but they shore felt cheap when we moved in on
+’em.”
+
+“Scared ’em, eh?”
+
+“Like hell! You try to scare ’em, Tuck!”
+
+“You say they felt cheap?”
+
+“Well, you know what I mean. I reckon we better keep an eye on ’em.”
+
+“It was a Box 88 they was lookin’ at?”
+
+“Shore was!”
+
+“I wish I knew what the idea was, Mac. Well, I reckon there wasn’t any
+harm done; so we won’t say anythin’ about it. I may mention it to the
+sheriff. As long as they didn’t have no fire nor runnin’-iron--”
+
+“No, they didn’t, Tuck. But I don’t like their curiosity.”
+
+“Well, just forget it. Did the sheriff check over that bunch of hides at
+the mine?”
+
+“I reckon he did. Asher said that Hartley was out with Fat and they
+tagged all the hides.”
+
+“Hartley was out there, eh?”
+
+“That’s what Asher told me.”
+
+“Mm-m-m-m! Well, I’ve got to go back to town, Mac.”
+
+“How’s Joe LeClere?”
+
+“Still alive. Doctor said he had a fightin’ chance.”
+
+“Who the hell do yuh suppose shot him, Tuck?”
+
+“I haven’t the slightest idea,” laughed Hayward. “Queer proposition!
+Well, I’ll see yuh later, Mac.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife told Fat Garnette about the steer-roping incident as soon as
+he got back to town.
+
+Fat didn’t seem to see any reason why Hashknife should throw a Box 88
+steer until Hashknife explained that the brand looked too new.
+
+“You ain’t tryin’ to put anythin’ on the Box 88, are yuh?” Fat wanted to
+know.
+
+“Just curious,” smiled Hashknife.
+
+“Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know, don’t yuh?”
+
+“I’ve heard since that it didn’t. How’s Joe?”
+
+“Still alive.”
+
+Fat cuffed his sombrero over one ear and spat violently.
+
+“I can’t make head nor tail out of it. If there’s one more killin’
+I’ll be fit for the bug-house. What we need is a detective. As much
+as I hate the breed, I reckon we need one. I’ve been talkin’ to the
+prosecutin’ attorney for an hour or more and I’ll be damned if I
+don’t think they blame me for everythin’. The county commissioners
+had a meetin’--and they blame me.”
+
+“I don’t blame yuh, Fat. I’m as much at sea as you are.”
+
+“You? What the hell is it to you? Yo’re not a sheriff. They even wanted
+to know who you are. I couldn’t tell ’em. I tell yuh, I’m gettin’ so
+thin that my pants won’t stay up. Gotta wear suspenders, I suppose.
+Ain’t protectin’ society! I suppose they think I’m protectin’ murderers.
+By golly, I’ll resign--that’s what I’ll do! To hell with the job!”
+
+Hashknife laughed and slapped Fat on the shoulder.
+
+“Stay with ’em, pardner; you’ll win out.”
+
+“Yeah, I’ll worry myself into a grave.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Chuck Haverty had recovered from his busted scalp and he wanted revenge.
+
+“Show me the geezer that petted me on the head and I’ll give yuh a
+first-class corpse,” he declared.
+
+“Prob’ly stubbed yore toe and butted yore head against the door,” said
+the unfeeling Weary. “Yo’re a hell of a jailer.”
+
+“I suppose yuh think I shot Joe and then tied myself up.”
+
+“Wouldn’t put anythin’ past yuh, Chuck.”
+
+“Well, I didn’t. Weary, ain’t you got no idea who might have done it?
+My God, some of us ort to figure out who done it! Fat is goin’ around
+fightin’ his hat all the time. Mebby if we steal his hat he’ll start
+thinkin’. Where is he?”
+
+“I seen him and Hashknife together a while ago and they was headin’ for
+the Chongo Saloon.”
+
+Chuck started to walk toward the door when the tired-eyed depot agent
+came in, bringing a telegram.
+
+“A wire for the sheriff,” he said, handing it to Weary.
+
+“Don’t suppose there’s an answer but I’ll wait and see.”
+
+Weary tore it open and scanned the contents. It was from Evans, sheriff
+of Piney River, and said:
+
+  BITTER RIVER BELTON DARK SKINNED FIVE FEET TEN WEIGHT ABOUT
+  ONE FIFTY SMALL BROWN EYES THREE MOLES TOGETHER ON UPPER LEFT
+  WRIST AND A DEEP SCAR ON LEFT ELBOW STOP CONVICTED OF SECOND
+  DEGREE MURDER HERE BUT ESCAPED STOP ADVISE IF YOU HAVE HIM
+
+As Weary was puzzling over the telegram Tuck Hayward came in.
+
+“I don’t reckon there’s any answer,” said Weary. “Fat ain’t here now. If
+there’s an answer he’ll come up to send it.”
+
+The depot agent nodded and went out as Weary turned to Tuck with a grin.
+
+“Ever hear of Bitter River Belton, Tuck?”
+
+“Bitter River Belton? Don’t reckon I ever did, Weary.”
+
+“Neither did I. Listen to this.”
+
+Weary read the telegram to Hayward and Chuck.
+
+“I don’t sabe it,” declared Weary. “Sounds as though this here Piney
+River sheriff thought we had him.”
+
+“Does sound that way, Weary. Where’s Fat?”
+
+“Around town somewhere. I seen him and Hashknife headin’ for the Chongo
+a while ago.”
+
+“Oh, all right! I’ll see him later.”
+
+Hayward turned and walked from the office while Weary read the telegram
+over again.
+
+“Sounds loco to me,” said Chuck.
+
+“Shore it does! The Lord’s Prayer would sound loco to you.”
+
+“Well, do you make sense out of it?”
+
+“You mean this telegram?”
+
+“No, the prayer.”
+
+“Wait’ll I hear it, can’tcha? I’m goin’ to find Fat.”
+
+He found Fat and Hashknife at the Chongo Saloon and gave Fat the
+telegram. Hashknife got one look at it and smiled.
+
+“Answer to one I sent, Sheriff.”
+
+“One you sent?”
+
+“I signed yore name to it. Got action quicker. Lemme read it.”
+
+Hashknife read it carefully, tore it into small bits and threw them in a
+cuspidor.
+
+“What’s the idea?” asked Fat wonderingly. “I get a telegram and you tear
+it all to hell.”
+
+“Don’t worry!” smiled Hashknife. He turned to Weary.
+
+“Forget it, will yuh, Weary?”
+
+“Oh, sure!”
+
+“Yo’re the only one that seen it, Weary?”
+
+“Just me and Chuck and the depot agent and Tuck Hayward.”
+
+“My hell!” exploded Hashknife softly. “Why didn’t yuh paste it on the
+front door? Oh, that’s all right, Weary! It was my fault; I should have
+told yuh all about it.”
+
+“Well, what does it mean?” demanded Fat. He had only an indistinct
+memory of what it contained.
+
+“Shootin’ at shadows,” smiled Hashknife. “Playin’ a hunch. Don’t ask me
+any more, boys. Fat, I’ll play yuh that game of pool now.”
+
+“Make it three-handed and spot me half the string,” said Weary.
+
+“You go back in the office and keep Chuck from gettin’ killed,” ordered
+Fat. “And if there’s another murder before this game’s over write out my
+resignation and I’ll sign it.”
+
+“I’ll have three of ’em written out,” grunted Weary.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Well, I’m a fool-hen if this ain’t got me doin’ a whirligig!”
+
+Fat Garnette cuffed his sombrero so lustily that it flew across the
+room. On the table in front of him was a large envelope which he had
+just opened and the objects of his exclamation were scattered around
+the desk-top. These objects happened to be at least a dozen printed
+reward notices, all alike.
+
+Hashknife was tilted back in a chair near the door, looking over a copy
+of the state brand register. He shut the book and looked at Fat.
+
+“Another murder?” he asked.
+
+“Murder be damned! Look at this--will you?”
+
+He handed Hashknife a notice which stated that five thousand dollars’
+reward would be paid for the arrest and conviction of the man or men who
+murdered Jack Shields, alias Kid O’Neil. It was signed by the secretary
+of the Cattlemen’s Association.
+
+“What’s wrong about it?” asked Hashknife mildly.
+
+“Oh, nothin’ of course. Who in hell was Kid O’Neil to be worth five
+thousand? And this county is offerin’ two thousand for the scalp of
+the geezer who shot Joe LeClere. And Joe’s got to stand trial for
+killin’ O’Neil. Didja ever see such a mulligan? It’s damn’ evident
+that the Cattle Association don’t believe Joe killed the Kid.”
+
+“Not necessarily. Yuh see, it says for conviction.”
+
+“But who in hell was O’Neil? Was he a cattle detective?”
+
+“Looks thataway,” said Hashknife, scanning the notice.
+
+“Gosh, he was a wild one!”
+
+“If he was Jack Shields he was playin’ wild. I’ve heard about him, Fat.
+The poor devil played wild to get in on the inside of things.”
+
+“You knew him, Hashknife?”
+
+“Not personally; but I’ve heard about him.”
+
+“Uh-huh.” Fat recovered his sombrero and sat down. “I’ve been doin’ a
+lot of thinkin’ about that telegram yuh got day before yesterday. What
+was it all about, Hashknife?”
+
+“I can’t tell yuh yet. Maybe it don’t mean anythin’. It was just a
+shadow I shot at, thinkin’ there might be a man around here who made
+the shadow. Just a hunch, Fat.”
+
+“Yo’re a shadow shooter, eh?”
+
+“Somethin’ like that.”
+
+“Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “Well, it’s worth two thousand to find the man
+who shot Joe. And it’s worth five thousand more to find the man who shot
+O’Neil.”
+
+“Was there any reward for the killer of McFee?”
+
+“Nope. Wasn’t anybody much interested in him, I reckon.”
+
+“Did you say they were goin’ to move Joe out to the ranch?”
+
+“That’s what they say. It’s so hard to get a nurse and the doctor thinks
+he can stand the trip. He was conscious this mornin’ for a while but he
+don’t seem able to talk. Some of the boys are helpin’ Frenchy fix up
+sort of a stretcher to take him home on. I reckon he’s goin’ to get
+well, after all, and I’ve told the doctor to not let anybody question
+him. If Joe knows who shot him I want to know it first.”
+
+“That’s right--if he’ll tell.”
+
+“Why wouldn’t he tell?”
+
+“I dunno.”
+
+“Sometimes you make me tired, Hashknife.”
+
+“Sometimes I make myself tired,” smiled Hashknife.
+
+“I’ll betcha. Well, I suppose it’s up to me to post up these notices.”
+
+Fat dug in a desk drawer, bringing forth a broken-handled hammer and a
+box of carpet tacks.
+
+“Betcha this O’Neil notice will shock the folks, Hashknife.”
+
+“Prob’ly will. Might get a little action, though.”
+
+“Action hell! Make a lot of ’em laugh at me for puttin’ Joe LeClere in
+jail. Still he might be guilty, yuh know.”
+
+“Might be. How did it ever happen that Tuck Hayward didn’t get in on the
+silver mines, Fat? He’s quite progressive.”
+
+“Wasn’t lucky, I guess. He did have a claim back on Dog Soldier Creek.
+That’s a tributary to Chongo but a long ways from the big mines. He done
+quite a lot of work in there but it never panned out. Mebby he still
+owns it.”
+
+“Silver proposition?”
+
+“Shore. He had a crew of men in there for a while. They built cabins and
+all that kinda stuff. Dog Soldier is almost a box cañon back there. The
+creek don’t amount to much except in high-water.”
+
+“Rough country, eh?”
+
+“Y’betcha. Well, I’ve got to tack up these notices.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+That afternoon they took Joe home. The doctor assured the prosecuting
+attorney that Joe would not be in shape even to think of escaping from
+the law for at least a month; so the law was satisfied. Joe needed
+more nursing than the doctor could give him and there were no nurses
+in Chongo town.
+
+There was much speculation over the reward notices. The sheriff made it
+a point to tack both notices together in the saloons where they were
+much discussed; Hashknife made it a point to listen in on some of these
+conversations but was not enlightened to any extent.
+
+[Illustration: Hashknife made it a point to listen in on the
+speculations over the reward notices]
+
+Later in the evening he met Tuck Hayward in the Silver Streak and found
+the big man in a genial mood. He invited Hashknife to have a drink with
+him and they discussed the reward notices.
+
+“I don’t quite sabe that Association notice,” he told Hashknife. “It
+looks as though O’Neil had been a detective, and if he was he was a
+wild one. Fat tells me that you knew him.”
+
+“Only by reputation, Hayward. Jack Shields was a good man. He had
+handled a lot of tough cases for the Association.”
+
+“What do yuh suppose he was lookin’ for out here?”
+
+“I dunno.”
+
+“Kinda funny. Fat told me quite a while ago that you and Stevens
+were lookin’ for jobs. I was shy one man after O’Neil was killed but
+I figured to get along without him. Yesterday Dalhart and Asher quit
+me. They been wantin’ to head for Arizona for quite a while. Now I’m
+needin’ a couple of good men and if yuh want to go to work just say
+so. I need one at the ranch and one at the mine. Asher worked out
+there.”
+
+“I dunno,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We’ve got a notion to head for
+Arizona ourselves. The winters are kinda bad around here, they tell me.”
+
+[Illustration: “We’ve got a notion to head for Arizona ourselves,” said
+Hashknife. “The winters are bad here”]
+
+“Yeah, they are bad. If yuh don’t care for blizzards yuh wouldn’t like
+the winters here. It’s pretty high, yuh know.”
+
+“I been figurin’ on that,” said Hashknife. “But yuh never can tell about
+us. If we decide to stay we’ll take yuh up. What part did Dalhart and
+Asher head for?”
+
+“Down around Springerville, I think. They wasn’t sure.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+When Hashknife left the Silver Streak he met the sheriff near the
+saloon.
+
+“Want to go down and see Joe?” he asked. “Weary was just down there and
+he said that Joe was conscious. They’re not goin’ to take him home until
+tomorrow and I thought he might talk a little.”
+
+Hashknife went down with him and the doctor cautioned the sheriff
+against too much conversation. Joe looked very thin and weak, in spite
+of a heavy growth of black whiskers.
+
+“Glad to see yuh doin’ so well, Joe,” said the sheriff.
+
+“I’ll be fit to hang!” whispered Joe.
+
+“Forget that, Joe.”
+
+“Hard thing to forget, Fat.”
+
+“I know. Did you see the man who shot yuh?”
+
+“No,” whispered Joe weakly. “It was too dark. I thought it was Chuck
+when I came up to the bars.”
+
+“Why would any one want to kill yuh, Joe?”
+
+Joe shook his head on the pillow. Only once did his eyes shift to
+Hashknife and then merely for a second.
+
+Perhaps he knew Hashknife didn’t believe him.
+
+“Yuh might like to know that the Cattle Association is offerin’ five
+thousand for the man who killed O’Neil.”
+
+Joe’s eyes opened slightly.
+
+“His name was Shields,” said the sheriff. “He was a cattle detective.”
+
+“O’Neil was a cattle detective? I don’t believe it, Fat.”
+
+“Well, he was, Joe.”
+
+“I’ll be damned!”
+
+Hashknife smiled softly, realizing that Joe did not know before that
+O’Neil was a detective. He had been afraid that Joe knew O’Neil was a
+detective but Joe’s astonishment was painfully real.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“They’re offerin’ two thousand reward for the man who shot you,” said
+Hashknife.
+
+Joe frowned heavily as though not understanding.
+
+“Yuh know,” grinned Fat, “it’s quite a crime to break into a jail and
+shoot prisoners.”
+
+“Two thousand reward for the man who shot me!” said Joe slowly. “Can yuh
+imagine that?”
+
+“You might collect it, Joe,” suggested Hashknife.
+
+“No chance, Hartley. I don’t know who shot me.”
+
+“I think that is enough for today, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor. “We
+can’t take any chances, you know.”
+
+“Sure!” said the sheriff quickly. “Much obliged, Doc.” They left the
+place and sauntered up-town.
+
+“Well, that didn’t help much,” sighed the sheriff. “Joe don’t know any
+more than we do.”
+
+“Not much, I guess. Hayward offered me and Sleepy jobs today. Dalhart
+and Asher have quit the Box 88 and headed for Arizona.”
+
+“Thasso? Are yuh goin’ to accept the jobs?”
+
+“Don’t know. We may go to Arizona later on; can’t tell yet.”
+
+“Hayward is a good man to work for.”
+
+“Prob’ly a better man to work for than against.”
+
+“I don’t know what yuh mean, Hashknife.”
+
+“I don’t believe I do either,” smiled Hashknife.
+
+“Well, you say the funniest things!”
+
+“Yeah, I guess I do--but I’m the only one that ever gets much of a laugh
+out of ’em. They sound silly to other folks.”
+
+“Like shootin’ at shadows, eh?”
+
+“That ain’t funny; that’s pretty--serious.”
+
+“Well,” sighed Fat, “I can’t figure yuh out.”
+
+“Nobody can but me, Fat; I own the answer-book.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife drifted back to the Silver Streak and sat in on a game of draw
+where Hayward was playing. Hayward must have known that Hashknife went
+down to see Joe because he asked Hashknife how Joe was feeling.
+
+“He’s doin’ fine,” replied Hashknife easily. “We asked him whether
+he knew who shot him; but he didn’t. At least he says he don’t know.
+Personally I think he’s a liar. He’s afraid to tell.”
+
+Hayward looked sharply at Hashknife but made no comment.
+
+“Mebby he wants to get well and do his own killin’,” suggested Johnny
+Colburn of the AH.
+
+“That may be his idea,” smiled Hashknife. “Anyway, I’d bet better than
+even money that Joe knows who shot him.”
+
+“What gave yuh that hunch?” asked Hayward, examining his cards closely.
+
+“I dunno. Give me three cards.”
+
+“Two!” said Hayward. “Funny how yuh get a hunch of that kind. Pass the
+bet.”
+
+“Not so funny. Pass here.”
+
+Hashknife played out his chips and drew out of the game.
+
+“If yuh decide about them jobs let me know, will yuh?” asked Hayward.
+
+“Shore--thanks!”
+
+“Say!” said Johnny Colburn. “Do yuh think Joe would rather get hung than
+tell what he knows?”
+
+“Not little Joe,” laughed Hashknife. “He’ll talk when the time comes.
+Self-preservation is the first law of nature, yuh know. It’ll be worth
+while listenin’ to what he’ll tell.”
+
+“Be worth about seven thousand to the man who gets into action first,”
+grinned Johnny. “He’ll tell who killed O’Neil and who shot him. Seven
+thousand dollars’ worth of talk.”
+
+“Suppose he killed O’Neil himself?” said Hayward.
+
+“Well, he didn’t shoot himself--that’s a cinch, Tuck.”
+
+“And they can’t convict him of killin’ O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “As
+far as I can see there wasn’t enough evidence against him to hold him
+for trial. He whipped O’Neil, didn’t he? On the spur of the moment he
+busted O’Neil’s nose. He left town before O’Neil was patched up. He
+didn’t even know O’Neil was going to follow him. It was dark that
+night. I know there was a moon, but that wasn’t sufficient for Joe to
+have seen O’Neil comin’ and known who he was. You’ll say that O’Neil
+and Joe might have met and Joe shot O’Neil when his head was turned.
+Nothin’ of the kind. If O’Neil was mad enough to kill Joe--and he
+_was_ mad enough if he followed him--he wouldn’t talk it over and
+turn his head. If Joe had cause to fear a cattle detective he might
+have killed O’Neil--but Joe didn’t know O’Neil was a detective. Now
+where’s yore case?”
+
+“You should have been a lawyer--or a detective,” laughed Hayward. “Stick
+around and we’ll elect yuh sheriff next term. How would that job suit
+yuh?”
+
+“I might do that, Hayward,” seriously.
+
+“I’ve always wanted to wear a shinin’ star and have an office.”
+
+“Fat ain’t doin’ much for the county,” laughed Johnny. “All he does is
+walk in circles like a pup gettin’ ready to lay down; walk in circles
+and fight his hat. Chuck sets on the end of his spine and tells what
+he’ll do to the man who sapped him that night--and Weary cusses both
+of ’em.”
+
+“What else can they do?” queried Hayward. “There’s nothin’ to work on.
+Yore deal, Johnny.”
+
+“There’s always somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife.
+
+“Show me somethin’,” challenged Hayward.
+
+“You’d like to collect that seven thousand, eh?” laughed Hashknife. “No
+chance, Hayward!”
+
+“Well, I’ll bet _you_ won’t collect it either, Hashknife.”
+
+“Not all of it,” smiled Hashknife as he walked away.
+
+“Now what the hell did he mean by that?” queried Colburn.
+
+“Just a smart remark!” growled Hayward. “Yore deal, Andy.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The next day being Saturday Slim Benito, cook at the AH ranch, came to
+Chongo town. Slim didn’t come to town often because he was saving his
+money. Slim was short, fat and good-natured. He detested liquor in
+every form but like many other men he drank to be sociable. And Slim
+was sociable. After the second drink he became expansively sociable.
+He threw away his purse and put the money loose in his pocket where it
+would be handy.
+
+Slim didn’t come in early in the day, as he waited for Soapy and Cling
+who were going to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch. Frenchy had
+made a canvas sling for the wagon bed and had piled it deep with straw
+and blankets.
+
+The doctor had advised taking Joe back after sundown to escape the heat,
+and it was still an hour of sundown when the three AH boys came to town.
+Soapy and Cling were not averse to taking a few drinks, so they also
+grew sociable along with Slim.
+
+“I’m a whipper-will,” declared Slim, “and this is my night t’ sing. I
+feel loose and free like a wagon-wheel which has done slipped off the
+axle on a down grade.”
+
+“Yo’re a grand man,” agreed Soapy. “If yuh live long enough and have
+good luck yuh might be a grandfather. But if you keep this up, Slim,
+you’ll be drunk.”
+
+“I can hold as much liquor as any livin’ man,” declared Slim. “But I
+only drink to be sociable. I hate the stuff. I hate the stuff, I
+tell yuh! Wine is a mocker; so drink whisky. If it wasn’t for bein’
+sociable--sociable, yuh know--”
+
+“Do you have to be sociable?” asked Cling.
+
+“I’m accust’md--accust-um-dud--”
+
+“Oh, yo’re accustomed to bein’, eh?”
+
+“Oh, certn’ly!”
+
+“Well, you better coil up yore rope,” advised Soapy. “In three more
+drinks you’ll fold up like a blanket, Slim. Far be it from me to advise
+a friend--but go easy. We don’t want to have to carry yuh home.”
+
+“Is thasoo? Well, well! You’ll carry Misser Benito home? You? Shay,
+lemme tell yuh, par’ner--”
+
+“Listen, Slim!” begged Cling. “Me and Soapy have got to be goin’. Now
+have a pleasant evenin’ but keep sober.”
+
+They walked away, leavin’ Slim to goggle after them from beside the bar.
+Finally he turned to the bartender.
+
+“I bub-bought sheven or eight drinks,” he said thickly. “They never
+bought none, di’ they? And now they run out on me. Aw ri’! I’m a lone
+wolf fr’m now on. I hate liquor but I mus’ be shociable. Lets me and
+you have li’l drink.”
+
+“All right!” grinned the bartender. “But I’d advise yuh to quit long
+enough to get yore eyes in focus. You can’t see anythin’, Slim.”
+
+“You know how ol’ I am, barten’er? Don’tcha? I’m fifty. And any damn
+man who ain’t sheen a plenty by the time he’s fifty ain’t got no use
+f’r eyes anyway. Here’s my shincere regards. May you choke to death
+on a diamond!”
+
+“Why on a diamond, Slim?”
+
+“Oh, tha’s jus’ my idea of a firs’-class, high-tone death. Fill’m up and
+you think of one.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Soapy and Cling kept away from the Silver Streak. They had imbibed a
+sufficient amount to cause the world to have a rosy tinge, as it
+were. They lost a few dollars at the Chongo Saloon and then went to
+a restaurant where they met Chuck and Weary.
+
+“Didn’t recognize yuh without a fiddle,” said Chuck seriously. “What are
+yuh doin’--all in-cog-neeto, as it was?”
+
+“Go to hell, you iron-headed bastile-tender,” replied Soapy. “Hello,
+Weary! How’s crime?”
+
+“Seems to be doin’ well,” grinned Weary. “How come that you drunkards
+ain’t in the gutter before this?”
+
+“We’re not gutterin’,” grinned Cling. “Fact of the matter is this:
+Me and Soapy came in to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch this
+evenin’.”
+
+“You’ve got a swell chance,” grunted Weary, removing his elbows to give
+the waiter a chance at the table.
+
+“What’s the matter?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Joe had a re-lapse. Yep--this afternoon. Fever and chills. Guess he
+got well too fast. Anyway, the doctor won’t let nobody see him and
+it’s a cinch they can’t move him this evenin’, so yuh might as well
+go gutterin’.”
+
+“That’s kinda hard luck. Anyway, we’ll see Frenchy when he comes in, so
+he’ll know we kept our word.”
+
+“Prob’ly floor him,” said Chuck. “He won’t look for yuh.”
+
+“Oh, he’ll look for Soapy,” laughed Cling. “Soapy has to stand in with
+the old man.”
+
+They argued and laughed through their supper and it was dark when they
+finished. Then Soapy and Cling went down to the doctor’s place to see
+whether Frenchy had arrived yet. He was not there and the doctor told
+them that it would be impossible to move Joe. He refused to let them
+see Joe; so they went back.
+
+In the meantime Slim Benito had ceased to be a whippoorwill. After a
+crying spell, induced by the knowledge that he was a “lone wolf”
+without a friend in the world, he became a trifle savage, which is a
+wolf trait.
+
+Slim carried a heavy Colt gun inside the waist-band of his trousers
+and the bartender eyed this weapon with great disfavor. He had been
+a bartender for so many years that he was well able to read drunken
+character and he tabulated Slim as being dangerous. And when Slim
+decided to drink alone it looked worse than ever.
+
+“I’m wild,” he told the bartender seriously. “Come from a wild family.
+Never was a male Benito that wasn’t fit to be tied. We’re snappin’
+turtles.”
+
+“Sure,” agreed the bartender. “Tough family.”
+
+“Meaner ’n dirt.”
+
+“A lot meaner.”
+
+“Meaner ’n hell.”
+
+“Oh, yuh bet!”
+
+“Screamin’ mean,” Slim’s eyes flashed.
+
+“Fightin’ fools,” agreed the grinning bartender.
+
+“Gun-fighters, y’betcha!”
+
+Slim’s lips curled back at the mere suggestion and his right hand yanked
+the gun from his waist-band.
+
+Crash! The first shot struck squarely in the center of the back-bar
+mirror and the splintering of the big glass was almost as loud as the
+report of the gun. The bartender just let loose and went flat to the
+floor.
+
+Wham! The next shot swept through a pyramid of glassware, sending it
+skyward in a sparkling shower.
+
+“Yee-hoo-o-o-o-o!” screamed Slim.
+
+Bam! Another bullet smashed through a side case and into a stock of
+fancy liquor, including several bottles of champagne which exploded
+merrily.
+
+Then Slim whirled around, the gun at his hip. The saloon was in an
+uproar. Players ducked for any old kind of a shelter while Slim stood
+there in a fog of powder-smoke yelling at the top of his voice.
+
+Bam! A bullet ripped through the cloth of a roulette table.
+
+Crash! Another went accidentally and almost shot Slim in the foot.
+
+“Yee-ho-o-o-ow-ee-e-e-e!” screamed Slim and went weaving out through the
+open doorway swinging the smoking Colt in his right hand. He bumped into
+a porch-post, staggered sideways and would have fallen if Soapy and
+Cling hadn’t grabbed him.
+
+Soapy got the gun and they dragged Slim into an alley while men came
+running out of the saloon swearing, asking questions. Slim was
+speechless, helpless. He had gone through three stages of inebriation,
+the sociable, the maudlin and the fighting, and now he was unconscious.
+
+“Stick here with him,” whispered Soapy. “I’ll find out who he killed.”
+
+Soapy went around to the saloon where a crowd, including the sheriff,
+were examining the extent of Slim’s damage. The back-bar was a wreck,
+as was the big mirror.
+
+“This kind of stuff has got to quit,” declared Hayward. “By God, that
+mirror cost me a lot of money! And look at it! Look at them glasses!
+And he was shootin’ around at everybody. You put him in jail, Fat.”
+
+“I s’pose I’ll have to, Tuck. This place shore is a wreck. Where’d he
+go?”
+
+Nobody seemed to know. One man _thought_ he saw Slim go out through the
+front door but he wasn’t sure because he was down behind the pool-table.
+
+“I’ll find the damn fool,” declared Tuck.
+
+Soapy ducked back to Cling and Slim. Slim was propped against the wall
+snoring heavily.
+
+“We’ve got to keep him away from the sheriff,” declared Soapy. “All he
+done was to smash the mirror and wreck the back-bar, and they want to
+put him in jail.”
+
+“Yeah! And they’ll find us here--that’s a cinch! What’ll we do with him,
+Soapy? He can’t ride.”
+
+“C’mon!”
+
+They picked up the limp Slim and carried him through the alley, circled
+the rear of the Silver Streak and came in past the hitch-rack where some
+of the men were looking to see whether Slim had taken his horse.
+
+“Horse is still here,” declared a voice and the men went back toward the
+front of the saloon.
+
+“My God, this geezer weighs a ton!” panted Cling. “His feet ain’t
+draggin’, are they?”
+
+“Mine are,” grunted Soapy. “What’ll we do with him?”
+
+“Drop him somewhere in the dark.”
+
+But they kept on going, praying that they would not meet any one. Down a
+side street they went where the lighted window showed the doctor’s
+office. Just ahead of them was the black bulk of Frenchy LeClere’s wagon
+and team.
+
+“I’ve got a idea,” panted Soapy. “Here’s a hide-out.”
+
+Cautiously they went over to the wagon and with a supreme effort they
+dumped Slim over the side of the wagonbox and into the stretcher which
+had been made for Joe LeClere. They pulled the blankets from under him
+and covered him up completely.
+
+Frenchy and the doctor came outside, talking softly, and the two cowboys
+lost no time in making a sneak around the other side of the town, coming
+back to the street near the sheriff’s office.
+
+In front of a general merchandise store they met the sheriff.
+
+“Where yuh been?” he asked.
+
+“Do yuh mean all our lives?” asked Soapy innocently.
+
+“I mean just now.”
+
+“Oh, we was down to yore office, Fat. Somebody said yuh had captured
+Slim Benito.”
+
+“You knew I was lookin’ for him, eh?”
+
+“We heard yuh was. Didja find him?”
+
+“I didn’t. Where was you when he shot up the saloon?”
+
+“We was down at the Chongo. Yuh see we didn’t want to associate with
+Slim, so we went down there. Honest, he ought to be hung.”
+
+“Yeah,” growled Fat. “I s’pose so.”
+
+Fat wasn’t at all convinced that Soapy and Cling hadn’t had a hand
+in helping Slim to safety. Cowboys are notoriously faithful to their
+own outfit, even when in the wrong, and especially where the law is
+concerned.
+
+And down in his heart Fat didn’t blame them. He had been a cowboy before
+he was a sheriff and he knew. It wasn’t because of any outrage against
+the law that he wanted Slim but because he was afraid Slim might break
+forth again and do some bodily injury to some one.
+
+“I thought Slim was too drunk to shoot,” he said. “I seen him fifteen
+minutes before he broke loose and he was hangin’ onto the bar with both
+hands.”
+
+“Did he take his horse?” asked Soapy, who already knew that they had
+found the horse at the hitch-rack.
+
+“No, he didn’t take it. He’s still in town.”
+
+“Well, if we see him we’ll tell him that yuh want him.”
+
+“I know yuh will, Soapy. He’ll have to work all the rest of his life to
+pay for the damage he done over there.”
+
+The sheriff walked on and the two cowboys sat down on the sidewalk and
+chuckled joyfully. They heard Frenchy’s wagon rumbling along over on the
+side street and saw the dark bulk of it as Frenchy swung his team to the
+right and headed for the IS ranch.
+
+“My God, wait’ll Slim wakes up!” laughed Soapy. “He’ll have to walk
+home.”
+
+“And if Frenchy discovers him I’ll bet Frenchy will just about pile off
+that wagon and start runnin’,” choked Cling.
+
+“I’ll betcha! Gosh, that was a good scheme, Cling! We shore got old Slim
+out of the clutches of the law that time. I hope he gives us credit when
+he finds out what happened.”
+
+“Oh, he shore will! He don’t know it now but we’re the two best friends
+he’s got. Let’s go over to the Silver Streak and inspect the damage.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy had been playing pool at the Chongo when Slim
+started shooting and there was so much noise in the place that they
+didn’t hear the shots at the Silver Streak, which was a block away.
+But as soon as they heard about the shooting they quit playing and
+went up to view the damages, which seemed very complete as far as the
+mirror was concerned. Things had quieted down, although the sheriff’s
+office was still on the trail of Slim Benito.
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy left the Silver Streak and went to their room at
+about ten o’clock and at about two o’clock in the morning Fat Garnette
+hammered on their door.
+
+“Somethin’ has gone wrong,” he told Hashknife. “Put on yore clothes,
+both of you, and come down, will yuh?”
+
+“Now, what the hell has busted?” wondered Sleepy as he put on his boots.
+“This town shore does do things!”
+
+“Looks thataway.”
+
+On the sidewalk in front of the hotel they found the Sheriff, Weary and
+Yvonne LeClere.
+
+“Sorry to get yuh out of bed,” said Fat apologetically, “but Yvonne just
+came in and she says her father started for here early this evenin’ and
+he ain’t never got home. We found out that he showed up at the doctor’s
+place to get Joe. But Joe ain’t so well, so he didn’t get him. The
+doctor says he left there all right--but where is he?”
+
+“That’s queer,” mused Hashknife.
+
+“It is queer,” agreed Yvonne nervously. “I couldn’t stand it any longer,
+so I saddled a horse and came down here.”
+
+“Where could he go?” asked Sleepy.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+There was plenty of activity at the Silver Streak and as they were
+talking Soapy and Cling came from the doorway. They stopped on the edge
+of the sidewalk for a moment but came on across the street, evidently
+curious about the little group in front of the hotel.
+
+“Well, what kind of a meetin’ is this?” asked Soapy as soon as he
+recognized those of the group.
+
+“Did you see anythin’ of Yvonne’s father tonight?” asked the sheriff.
+
+“N-no, I--I--”
+
+“We seen him pullin’ out,” said Cling. “At least we saw a team and
+wagon. What’s wrong?”
+
+“Well, he never got home; that’s what’s wrong.”
+
+“Never got home?” Soapy’s voice was hoarse. “What do yuh mean that he
+never got home?”
+
+“My God, yo’re thick!” snorted Weary.
+
+“Oh, yeah!” said Soapy as though it was all explained. He stepped in
+close to Cling and said hoarsely, “He never got home.”
+
+“I heard he didn’t,” foolishly.
+
+They were both thinking of Slim Benito in the bed of that wagon.
+
+“What do yuh think we ought to do, Fat?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Go and hunt for him, I suppose. He can’t be on the IS road or Yvonne
+would have seen him. And I dunno where else he could possibly be. Dang
+it, yuh can’t lose a team and a wagon!”
+
+“Yuh might lose one,” said Hashknife, “but you’d have a hard time
+misplacin’ one. We’ll get our horses, Fat.”
+
+Soapy and Cling went across to get their horses at the hitch-rack and
+Yvonne walked down to the office with Fat and Weary to wait for them
+to saddle.
+
+“What do yuh make of it, Soapy?” asked Cling seriously.
+
+“My God, I don’t know! Slim was too drunk to do anythin’, wasn’t he? Yuh
+don’t suppose he took the team away from the old man and went to the AH,
+do yuh?”
+
+Soapy put his foot in the stirrup before he answered.
+
+“Don’t ask me to guess. I hope they’re all right.”
+
+“Yuh couldn’t kill Slim--he was too drunk.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They rode down to the office and in a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy
+joined them. As soon as Fat and Weary had their animals saddled the
+seven of them rode out of town toward the IS ranch. It was too dark for
+any investigation, but as the LeClere wagon had been the last one over
+the road it was easy, with the aid of lighted matches, to see that it
+had not turned off on the road to the mines or to the AH.
+
+Their investigations showed that the wagon had been headed for the IS,
+and as that ranch was the end of that particular road that fact was
+conclusive evidence that somewhere between the AH fork and the IS ranch
+they should find the team and wagon.
+
+North of the Silver River crossing the road climbed up along the side
+of a hill where the ground sloped for perhaps a quarter of a mile off
+to the left ending in a narrow ravine. At no place on the road was
+what might be termed a dangerous spot. From the top of this hill the
+road ran fairly level to the ranch.
+
+They traveled slowly to the ranch-house, the dusty road giving them
+no clues as to whether the wagon was still ahead of them or not. But
+it was not at the ranch-house. They rode all around the premises and
+came back to the house where they dismounted and went inside.
+
+“Wait until daylight,” advised Hashknife. “In a couple of hours it will
+be light enough to see what we’re doin’.”
+
+“I think that is the thing to do,” agreed Yvonne. She was greatly
+worried but went to work in the kitchen making some coffee for the men.
+
+“I’d rather be doing something,” she said when Hashknife begged her not
+to go to all that trouble. “And a cup of hot coffee will taste good.”
+
+“Didja find out from the doctor how Joe was?” he asked.
+
+“He was sleeping but still had fever. Oh, I don’t know!” she said
+helplessly. “It seems as though everything happens to us. Even if Joe
+does get well--”
+
+“You forget that,” advised Hashknife. “He’ll get well and they’ll turn
+him loose.”
+
+“I wish I thought so, Hashknife.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+By the time they had finished breakfast the dawn was showing in the
+east. Yvonne insisted on riding with them.
+
+“I’m glad she’s goin’,” Weary whispered to Hashknife. “If there’s
+anythin’ wrong I’d be the one to have to pack the bad news to her.
+This way she’ll see it with us.”
+
+“You shore think pleasant things, Weary.”
+
+“I’m protectin’ my own feelin’s,” grinned Weary.
+
+They mounted their horses and rode back toward town, watching both sides
+of the road to see if the wagon had left the ruts.
+
+“What kind of a team was yore father drivin’?” asked Sleepy.
+
+“Roan team,” said Yvonne.
+
+“Gentle?”
+
+“Not gentle, Sleepy, but well broke. Joe broke them and he likes speed.”
+
+“Might run away?”
+
+“Oh, if they had a good chance, I suppose! They never have run away
+though.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was at the top of the slope above the river that they found the wagon
+tracks. The iron-shod wheels had cut deeply where the wagon had swung
+off the road and there was a deep gash in the side of the hill where the
+vehicle had slewed around on the slope.
+
+The hill was about fifteen per cent grade with clumps of greasewood
+and sage. The track of the wagon was plain, as it had nearly torn a
+big greasewood out by the roots and evidently carried it along.
+
+They spurred off the road and scattered out. It was Weary who found
+Frenchy LeClere sprawled on his back half under a greasewood. Weary’s
+yell brought them to the spot and they lifted the old man out into the
+open.
+
+He was alive, but badly hurt and unconscious. It was impossible for them
+to determine just how badly he was hurt, except for a nasty scalp wound
+which looked as though it might be more than skin-deep.
+
+“Weary, you get the doctor as fast as yore bronc can run,” ordered Fat.
+“Soapy, you and Cling head back to the ranch and bring down the horse
+and buggy.”
+
+Weary spurred back up the hill while Soapy and Cling mounted at a much
+slower gait. They didn’t want to go. They wanted to stay and look for
+Slim Benito but there was nothing for them to do now except to go after
+that buggy.
+
+“I feel just like a murderer,” said Soapy as they rode swiftly back to
+the ranch.
+
+“Same here! Why didn’t we let ’em put Slim in jail?”
+
+“He’s prob’ly deader ’n hell.”
+
+“Cinch! I’ll betcha the team up-ended plumb in the bottom of that cañon.
+Of course he’s dead. But keep yore mouth shut. Nobody knows we put him
+in that wagon.”
+
+“But they’ll know we did,” wailed Soapy. “Murder will out--sure.”
+
+“Well, it won’t out so damn quick if yuh keep yore mouth shut. Take a
+reef in yourself, Soapy, yo’re tremblin’!”
+
+“I don’t feel well. Guess them eggs didn’t set well.”
+
+“Well, they can’t cinch us for murder. We didn’t know the team was goin’
+to run away.”
+
+“A damn lawyer can make most anythin’ out against yuh, Cling. You ain’t
+got a chance in the world.”
+
+“I’m all through doin’ good for folks.”
+
+“Same here. From now on, I’m hard as hell.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Sleepy rode down to the river and came back with the crown of his hat
+full of water which they used to bathe the old man’s face. Yvonne sat
+there in stony silence staring at her father who occasionally groaned
+softly.
+
+“Maybe he ain’t hurt so bad,” said Hashknife hopefully.
+
+“Nothin’ we can do until the doctor gets here.”
+
+“Maybe we better take a look and see what happened to the team and
+wagon,” suggested Sleepy.
+
+“Why don’t you fellers do that? No use of all of us stayin’ here.”
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode down through the
+greasewood, following the tracks of the wagon, which seemed to have
+come most of the distance on two wheels, judging from the deep rut.
+
+Then they found where it had overturned, and from there to the bottom
+of the little cañon it had rolled over and over, finally smashing down
+between a tree and a ledge of rock.
+
+Both horses were dead, piled up together fifty feet away from the
+wrecked wagon. There was no use going down the steep bank to examine
+them.
+
+“Gee, that was a nasty wreck!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Mebby the old man went
+to sleep and the team ran away with him.”
+
+“Looks thataway.”
+
+They had turned their horses to start back up the hill when a querulous
+voice said:
+
+“What in hell is goin’ on around here, anyway--I’d crave to know?”
+
+There was no one in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy looked at each other,
+both wondering whether the other had heard.
+
+“I’d crave to know what in hell is goin’ on,” said the voice distinctly.
+“It’s shore got me guessin’. And how in hell do yuh git out of a damn
+greasewood when yo’re upside down and all hung up. I don’t guess I’ve
+got anythin’ busted.”
+
+“Where are yuh, pardner?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“You start guessin’ and I’ll put in with yuh. All I can see is
+greasewood and a little sky. Damn little sky too.”
+
+“He’s in that big greasewood,” said Sleepy. “There’s his hat.”
+
+“I ain’t near no damn hat!”
+
+“I’ve got him spotted,” said Hashknife, pointing at a particularly big
+greasewood.
+
+They dismounted and between the two of them they were able to
+disentangle Slim Benito, who had evidently been pitched head first into
+the clump. His clothes were all torn and he flapped like a scarecrow in
+the breeze as he gravely considered Hashknife and Sleepy. His face was
+scratched and one eye badly discolored. He looked around at the
+landscape wonderingly.
+
+“Yuh know,” he said slowly, “this is one of the queerest dreams I
+ever had. Funny how yuh dream! Now I never was even thinkin’ of you
+two fellers before I went to sleep. Soapy says that dreams come from
+a disordered liver. My God, the shape mine must be in!”
+
+“You ain’t dreamin’,” said Hashknife.
+
+“Thasso? Huh! Don’t tell me! What in hell am I doin’ out here, if I
+ain’t dreamin’? How’d I get here?”
+
+[Illustration: “What in hell am I doin’ out here if I ain’t dreamin’?”]
+
+“You’ll probably be asked that same question.”
+
+“Well, I hope somebody can answer it. I can’t!”
+
+“It might refresh yore memory if I told yuh that old Frenchy LeClere is
+further up the hill badly hurt and in the bottom of the cañon just below
+us is a smashed wagon and a dead team of horses.”
+
+Slim looked blankly at Hashknife.
+
+“What’s that got to do with me?”
+
+“I don’t know. I’m just tellin’ yuh.”
+
+“Well, that’s all right.”
+
+“You don’t know how yuh got here?” asked Sleepy.
+
+“I don’t. And by God, I don’t even know where ‘here’ is!”
+
+“This is off the IS road north of the river crossin’.”
+
+“Yea-a-ah?”
+
+“Are you the cook from the AH ranch?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“I was--the last recollection I had. Name _was_ Benito.”
+
+“You shot up the Silver Streak last night.”
+
+“I did?” Slim’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, yea-a-ah!”
+
+He shut both eyes and frowned heavily.
+
+“I ’member somethin’ about _that_. Did I kill anybody?”
+
+“I reckon not,” smiled Hashknife. “But it wasn’t yore fault that yuh
+didn’t. They tell me yuh handled that six-gun as though it was a hose.”
+
+“I’m a rotten shot,” confessed Slim. “Drunk or sober, I can’t shoot
+straight. Tell me more about Frenchy LeClere.”
+
+“I’ll let the sheriff tell yuh. He’s up there.”
+
+“Well, that’s kind of yuh! Mebby he knows how I got out here. Yuh didn’t
+see my horse, didja?”
+
+“I think he’s still at the hitch-rack where yuh left him.”
+
+“Thasso? Well, I reckon I flewed out here.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They found Fat and Yvonne beside Frenchy. Both of them stared foolishly
+at Slim, who sat down on the ground beside them holding his head in his
+hands. It had been a hard climb up the hill and he was not in
+first-class physical condition.
+
+He made no comment, while Hashknife told them about finding Slim in the
+greasewood clump. Fat studied Slim for quite a while. Then:
+
+“Was it you who scared LeClere’s team off the grade, Slim?”
+
+“I dunno anythin’,” said Slim wearily. “All I know is that I woke up
+in that greasewood and started talkin’ to myself. Mebby I did scare
+the team. I won’t swear to anythin’, Fat.”
+
+“Find out what time LeClere left the doctor’s house and what time Slim
+shot up the Silver Streak,” advised Hashknife. “He’d have to have a
+little time to get here.”
+
+“Mebby that’s the best thing. Slim, where didja go after yuh shot up the
+saloon?”
+
+“I don’t know. It’s all hazy and kinda faded out. I shore must have been
+awful drunk.”
+
+“Well, we couldn’t find yuh, Slim. You shore disappeared in a hurry.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The doctor arrived with Weary before the rig came from the IS ranch and
+made a swift examination.
+
+“Bad cut on the scalp, broken collarbone and possible concussion. I
+think we better get him to town.”
+
+Hashknife walked over the wagon tracks and looked the place over. From
+where Frenchy had lain to the road there were no greasewood of any
+size and no rocks. In fact the ground was rather soft. He examined the
+greasewood under which they had found Frenchy but there did not seem
+to be anything that would cause such a scalp wound.
+
+Slim had stretched out on the ground paying no attention to what was
+going on around him and Yvonne and Fat were busy helping the doctor.
+Hashknife walked up to the road as Soapy and Cling came along. Cling
+was driving the buggy horse while Soapy rode his horse and led Cling’s
+mount.
+
+Before either of them had a chance to ask any questions Hashknife said:
+
+“We found Slim Benito, boys. It’s too bad yuh put him in that wagon last
+night.”
+
+“My God!” exploded Soapy. “He--he ain’t dead, is he?”
+
+“Almost. He said yuh put him in that wagon.”
+
+“A-a-aw, we had to get him away,” wailed Soapy. “My God, we didn’t know
+that team was goin’ to run away.”
+
+“Well, he’s all right,” grinned Hashknife. “He didn’t know how he got
+there, so I just made a guess. I had to know, yuh see?”
+
+“I--I see,” faltered Soapy. “Yuh say he’ll get well? Didja say that,
+Hashknife? Didja?”
+
+“He ain’t hurt; he’s sick. Too much liquor and standin’ on his head in a
+greasewood clump. You hold that horse, Cling, and we’ll bring the old
+man up to the buggy. Don’t look foolish, Soapy. I haven’t told anybody.”
+
+Hashknife went back down the hill and helped carry the old man up to
+the buggy. Weary climbed in beside Soapy and held the old man in his
+arms while the rest of them mounted, after the doctor had invited
+Slim to ride back in his buggy.
+
+Sleepy rode beside Yvonne while Hashknife and Fat lagged back to talk
+things over. Hashknife told him that Soapy and Cling had put Slim Benito
+in the wagon, which accounted for Slim being where they found him.
+
+“So that’s the how of it, eh?” grunted Fat. “How didja find that out?”
+
+“Told ’em they did and they admitted it. Never ask a man if he did
+somethin’--accuse him! Act as though yuh knew he did. They fell for
+it quick. So that’s that. Now what do yuh think of the runaway?”
+
+“I guess the old man went to sleep or somethin’ scared the team off the
+grade. Once off that road, they couldn’t stop, Hashknife. That heavy
+wagon would crowd them too much.”
+
+“You saw the condition of the old man, Fat?”
+
+“Sure I did.”
+
+“He’d been thrown clear of that wagon. The tracks are twenty feet
+from where he lay against that greasewood. There wasn’t any dirt in
+his hair. There ain’t a snag or a rock that would cut him that-away
+and there ain’t a sign of anythin’ that would show he had bumped that
+greasewood where we found him. What do yuh make of that?”
+
+“I dunno what yuh mean,” blankly.
+
+“Somebody tried to kill Joe in the jail, didn’t they?”
+
+“Yeah, they--” Fat hesitated and stared at Hashknife.
+
+“Do yuh mean--somebody smashed the old man?”
+
+“Feelin’ sure that Joe was the man in the stretcher,” nodded Hashknife.
+“Thought they had killed the old man and tried to make it look like a
+runaway.”
+
+“My God, do yuh think that, Hashknife?”
+
+“Don’t it look thataway to you?”
+
+“With you pointin’ things out like yuh have. Why, I never thought of
+such a thing!”
+
+“Well, don’t mention it to anybody, Fat. Let ’em think it was a
+runaway.”
+
+“But my God, we’ve got to stop such things, Hashknife!”
+
+“If we knew why they were done we could stop ’em. Joe could tell but
+won’t. If Frenchy lives mebby he can tell who slugged him. You get
+hold of the doctor and have a talk with him. No matter how favorable
+things are for the old man, have the doctor circulate the report that
+he can’t possibly live, that he’ll never wake up. That old doctor is
+pretty square and I think he’ll do it for you. It’ll mean a lot. Yuh
+might tell Yvonne because there’s no use worryin’ her.”
+
+“Sure!” nodded Fat. “Doc will do it, I reckon. He can easy keep anybody
+from seein’ the old man. I’ll see him as soon as we hit town. I don’t
+sabe yore game but I’m for yuh.”
+
+“Here’s the game, Fat. If the folks who slugged the old man knew he’d
+recover--they’d high-tail out of the country. That is, if he recognized
+’em. And we want to keep the population intact until we _know_.”
+
+“Oh, that’s right! I never thought of that.”
+
+“If I lived around you very long I’d consider myself a brainy man,”
+smiled Hashknife.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+That kind of news travels fast and inside of twelve hours every one in
+the Silver River range knew that old Frenchy LeClere had been mortally
+injured in a runaway. Many of the old-timers came in to see him but the
+doctor refused them admittance.
+
+He told them that nothing in the world could be done for him because
+of a double fracture of the skull and that it was only a question of
+time until he would pass out without regaining consciousness.
+
+But Yvonne knew that her father had a fine chance of recovery and
+insisted on being at his side. Joe was better. Hashknife and Fat talked
+with him and told him what they thought had happened to his father.
+
+“You think that somebody thought I was in that wagon?” he asked.
+
+“That’s a cinch,” said Hashknife. “Now, Joe, we want you to tell us what
+yuh know.”
+
+“I don’t know anythin’,” was all they could get out of him.
+
+“He’s afraid to talk,” said Hashknife after they left the room.
+
+“I don’t believe he knows anythin’ to talk about.”
+
+“They tried to kill him to keep him from talkin’.”
+
+“That’s just yore theory, Hashknife. Yo’re one of them jiggers who think
+they can’t be wrong. When I’m wrong I admit it.”
+
+“Yeah--and it keeps yuh busy all the time.”
+
+“Busy doin’ what?”
+
+“Admittin’ it.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Slim Benito kept away from Silver Streak after he got to town and headed
+for the ranch as soon as he found his horse. Soapy and Cling also went
+straight home that day. Neither Hashknife nor Fat told anybody how
+Benito had got out there in the greasewood, although Hayward tried hard
+to find out how it had happened. He was still bewailing his smashed
+mirror and glassware and swore that Slim would pay dearly for shooting
+up the place.
+
+It was the second day after the runaway and Hashknife was sitting in
+the sheriff’s office when he suddenly got to his feet and walked
+outside. Fat and Weary stared after him but Sleepy smoked quietly,
+eyeing Hashknife through the open door.
+
+“What stung him?” wondered Weary aloud.
+
+“Moved awful quick,” grinned Fat. “What’s the matter with him, Sleepy?
+He ain’t spoke a word today.”
+
+“He’s thataway sometimes,” said Sleepy slowly. He uncoiled from his
+chair and followed Hashknife outside.
+
+Hashknife was leaning against a post staring at the ground. After a
+while he looked sideways at Sleepy and his eyes were smiling, although
+his mouth was grim.
+
+“Sleepy, I’ve been a dumb fool,” he said softly. “What in hell has been
+the matter with me?”
+
+“Ain’tcha feelin’ well, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.
+
+In answer Hashknife took the stub of a pencil from his pocket, drew out
+an old envelope and on it made a few cabalistic marks which looked very
+much like cattle brands. Then he moved his pencil slowly over one of
+them; a look of understanding came to Sleepy’s eyes and he grinned.
+
+“Don’t talk about it,” said Hashknife softly and Sleepy nodded with
+complete understanding.
+
+“C’mon!” said Hashknife.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They walked straight down to the doctor’s home and in through the old
+gate. They stopped at the front steps when they heard voices around
+at the little side porch. Yvonne was speaking and they thought she
+was talking to the doctor, but as they stepped around in range of the
+softly pitched voices they found that the other speaker was Soapy
+Weed.
+
+Both men stopped short without being seen nor heard. Yvonne was talking
+and Hashknife touched Sleepy on the arm.
+
+“Oh, I’m sorry about it all, Soapy!” she said. “I like you awful well
+but I can’t marry you. Don’t you see it is foolish to even think of
+such a thing? You’ll find plenty of girls, Soapy.”
+
+“Don’t want ’em,” flatly. “Is it because I ain’t makin’ much money,
+Yvonne?”
+
+“Money isn’t everything.”
+
+“’Cause I got drunk?”
+
+“You are not a drunkard, Soapy; you can quit.”
+
+“I ain’t much to look at, Yvonne. Do yuh think I threw yuh all down on
+that O’Neil proposition?”
+
+“No, Soapy. I think it was wonderful of you to do what you did for us.
+But I can’t think of marriage now. Joe sick in bed, accused of murder;
+Dad unconscious--and he may never get well. Can’t you see I--”
+
+[Illustration: “I can’t think of marriage with Joe accused of murder.
+Can’t you see I--”]
+
+“Yeah, that’s right. Say, Yvonne--if Joe was cleared and yore dad was
+all well again would yuh talk it over with me again?”
+
+“Soapy, I’d do most anything if that might happen.”
+
+“Well,” sadly, “I wish I could do it. It would shore be worth a lot
+to me--worth everythin’. Mebby I could get Ace Hart to lemme have
+that place on Opal Creek, and if I could get somebody to lend me a
+few hundred dollars we could start a brand of our own. The old place
+would stand a lot of fixin’, I know. But I could shore fix it. I’ll
+ask him about it, Yvonne. Gee, I’d like to have you--and be a
+cattleman instead of just a common waddie! It’s a swell place over
+there. Yuh know I was christened Jim, don’tcha? We’d make it the JY
+place. Use our two initials and connect ’em.”
+
+Yvonne laughed softly.
+
+“Oh, don’t laugh, Yvonne! By golly, I can do it! I’d never drink nor
+play poker any more.”
+
+“Would you take up knitting, Soapy?”
+
+“Well, I might not do that. Say--you watch me, Yvonne! I--I wish
+somethin’ would happen to clear Joe.”
+
+“I’ve been praying a long time,” said Yvonne softly.
+
+Hashknife shoved Sleepy back along the walk almost to the gate and then
+they went around the house making plenty of noise. Both Yvonne and Soapy
+leaned out beyond the few vines as they came around the corner.
+
+“Howdy, folks!” said Hashknife softly. “How’s yore pa, Yvonne?”
+
+“Still unconscious, Hashknife. The doctor is out for a little while.
+Won’t you sit down and wait for him?”
+
+Hashknife grinned at Soapy and shook his head.
+
+“No, I don’t reckon we will, Yvonne. Me and Sleepy thought we’d make
+an early start into the hills in the mornin’ and I was wonderin’ if
+we might stay at yore ranch-house.”
+
+“Well, you certainly may! It isn’t locked, so just make yourself at home
+out there.”
+
+“You ain’t leavin’ the country, are yuh?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Not exactly. How’s everythin’ at the AH, Soapy?”
+
+“All right.”
+
+“Yo’re a pretty capable boy,” said Hashknife seriously, “and I been
+wonderin’ why yuh didn’t figure out to start a little herd of yore
+own, Soapy. That’s the only way to do it. Yuh could start small and
+grow big. Yo’re young and this is a big range. Why don’tcha do
+somethin’ like that?”
+
+Soapy blinked foolishly and looked at Yvonne who was not looking at him
+at all. His ears grew red and he shifted his feet uneasily.
+
+“Well, I dunno,” he said vacantly. “Might be done.”
+
+“They all start thataway, Soapy,” said Sleepy.
+
+“Yeah, I know, but it takes a little money to start.”
+
+“Not much. Think it over. Thanks for the house, Yvonne.”
+
+“Oh, you are certainly welcome!”
+
+“So-long, Soapy.”
+
+“Sure! Same to you, Hashknife.”
+
+Sleepy chuckled half-way down to the livery-stable but Hashknife was
+serious.
+
+“He’ll think yo’re a mind-reader, Hashknife.”
+
+“Let him think it. I believe in boostin’ a good idea. You go over and
+borrow a couple of rifles from Fat.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The following morning before daylight Hashknife and Sleepy were riding
+away from the IS ranch, traveling in a northeast direction. Hashknife
+had sketched a map from the big one in the sheriff’s office, which gave
+a fairly good idea of the country.
+
+They did not follow any of the marked trails but headed straight across
+country. For the first few miles they were able to make fairly good time
+but the character of the country soon changed and they were obliged to
+pick their way at a more leisurely pace.
+
+The sun came up over the Chongo Creek hills flooding the valley with
+opal colors as they climbed higher into the rocky hills, heading for a
+spot between the Chongo Creek mines and the mouth of Dog Soldier
+Creek. They worked their way around old slides and up through thickets
+of jack-pines to the top of a big mesa where they stopped for a while
+to study the country.
+
+“We’re too far north,” decided Hashknife. “I think that line of dark
+pines over there marks Dog Soldier. Chongo Creek mines are southeast
+of us. But I reckon we’re just as well off. We’ll swing off to the
+left a little and see what this mesa amounts to. Anyway, it’s easier
+goin’ than we’ve had.”
+
+They gave their horses a breathing spell and continued on up the mesa
+where there was enough open country to give them a good view to the
+north and west.
+
+Suddenly Sleepy spoke sharply to Hashknife and they drew up. Far to the
+northwest were two riders, silhouetted against the sky for possibly a
+minute before they disappeared.
+
+“Goin’ west,” said Hashknife. “I wonder who that might be travelin’ so
+early up here! Might be a couple prospectors of course. Still it might
+pay us to foller.”
+
+“That’s my idea,” agreed Sleepy.
+
+They turned their horses and rode northwest, keeping a keen eye on
+the skyline above and beyond them. The riders were traveling west in
+a line which would bring them to a point well to the north of the IS
+ranch. Hashknife and Sleepy traveled slowly and it was fully half an
+hour before they saw the riders again.
+
+This time they were swinging to the southwest traveling along the
+sloping side of a cañon among the jack-pines. They were still too far
+away for identification.
+
+“Ridin’ painted broncs!” said Sleepy as they drew up in a clump of pines
+and watched the two riders cutting along the hillside.
+
+“Black-and-white pintoes,” agreed Hashknife. “They circled the head
+of the cañon, leavin’ us high and dry. We’ll have to circle it too, I
+reckon, if we want to follow ’em.”
+
+“Have you seen a pinto since we’ve been here?”
+
+Hashknife shook his head.
+
+“Not a paint, Sleepy! We’ve got to circle the cañon because there’s
+slide-rock on each side. C’mon!”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It took them an hour to reach the spot where they had last seen the two
+riders, who had finally swung back to the top of the ridge traveling
+west again. It was useless to attempt to trail them, so it was just a
+case of hit or miss now.
+
+[Illustration: “We’ll have to circle the cañon if we want to follow
+’em”]
+
+They swung back higher in the hills, which would give them a chance
+to circle the heads of the cañons, and picked their way slowly along
+while the sun rose higher over the Silver River range. The cañons
+were plentiful and most of them were brushy. There were no cattle in
+that end of the range and trails were scarce.
+
+Mule deer moved out of the thicket ahead of them, bounding a short
+distance away only to stop short and look at the riders who paid little
+attention to them. A little black bear, surprised in the act of digging
+for grubs, squalled like a baby and went up a steep bank throwing gravel
+with all four feet.
+
+“And men go out to kill things like that!” said Hashknife as the little
+fellow up-ended over a log and out of sight in a berry thicket.
+
+“And brag about it!” grinned Sleepy. “We ought to swing further south,
+pardner. This is pretty primitive up here.”
+
+“I reckon it’s a wild-goose chase, Sleepy, but there’s no use goin’
+back now. We’ll kinda prospect this part of the country and get back
+to the ranch before dark.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+For the next two hours they trailed through the hills, ready to give
+up the task as a hopeless one when they suddenly crossed a cattle
+trail running northeast and southwest. As far as they were able to
+determine the cattle had nearly all been traveling northeast. The
+trail led through thickets of jack-pines and they followed it to the
+summit where it spread into many smaller trails, all bearing in the
+same general direction.
+
+“Don’t tell us much,” said Hashknife, “except that quite a few cows
+have headed for the higher ground where the grazin’ ain’t so good.
+Mebby they’ve gone on a diet.”
+
+“Let’s see what the other end of the trail looks like,” suggested
+Sleepy.
+
+Hashknife nodded in agreement and they rode back down the trail, which
+was plainly visible for about a mile beyond where they first picked it
+up, and ended at the bottom of a swale near an old water-hole spring.
+
+“Might be that there’s a mesa up there where the feed is good and they
+travel back and forth to this water,” said Hashknife as they swung down
+and had a drink of the sweet cold water.
+
+They were sitting on the grassy bank enjoying a cigaret when Hashknife’s
+attention was attracted by a glint of metal in the brush above the
+spring. He worked his way over to it and came back with a tin can in his
+hands. It was an old can which at one time had contained pears but at
+the bottom of which was a black gummy substance which proved to be
+paint. Hashknife dug some out with a stick and examined it closely.
+
+“Paint or tar,” said Sleepy, sniffing in the can. “Looks like the stuff
+they brand sheep with.”
+
+“Probably is,” agreed Hashknife and threw the can aside. “Well, I reckon
+we might as well travel along.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They followed down the swale for a quarter of a mile until a granite
+outcropping forced them to turn to the left and came out of the swale
+onto a broken side hill where cloudbursts and erosion had cut deep
+fissures through the landscape. It was a hard place to travel around,
+so they rode down one of the narrow fissures, which towered high on
+each side and were so narrow that their knees scraped against the
+soft dirt of the sides.
+
+The end of the fissure was partly blocked by a big greasewood, which
+forced them to turn sharply to the right hugging the bank. No trail
+was there and the ground was so soft that the tall gray, which was in
+the lead, had to maneuver its feet quickly to get a foothold. In
+doing so he dislodged a big stone which rolled a few feet and crashed
+into a clump of dry brush. Hashknife leaned heavily toward the bank
+to give the animal the advantage of his weight on that side, when a
+bullet smashed into the bank just over his twisting shoulder and the
+pinnacles echoed back the whip-like report of a thirty-thirty.
+
+With a quick slash of his spurs Hashknife forced the gray to plunge
+ahead to the protection of a greasewood while Sleepy jerked his roan
+back and dismounted quickly, swinging the horse back into the fissure
+behind the big greasewood clump. Swiftly he drew his rifle from its
+scabbard and ran back to the mouth of the fissure.
+
+In the meantime Hashknife had dismounted, taken his rifle and was
+crouched behind the brush peering down the hill.
+
+“All right, pardner?” called Sleepy.
+
+“Fit to be tied,” said Hashknife. “Watch ’em, cowboy.”
+
+Another bullet crashed through the greasewood causing Hashknife to sag a
+little lower and a moment later Sleepy’s rifle sent more echoes across
+the broken country.
+
+“I’ll betcha you’ll keep yore head down next time!” snorted Sleepy.
+
+“Can yuh see anybody?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Not now. I shore sprayed dirt in that geezer’s face. Had him in the old
+notch, but this darn gun shoots low at that distance. Make it a hundred
+and fifty, Hashknife. Can yuh see their corral?”
+
+“Can’t see anythin’. Is there a corral?”
+
+“I can see part of it. Some cows down there.”
+
+Hashknife snaked along behind the brush until he came to an outcropping
+of granite where he slid in close and got his first view of the country
+below. It was more like a pot-hole than a cañon, and Hashknife could see
+its value to a rustler as the country on three sides was very broken and
+from no place except on the very rim would it be possible for any one to
+see what was going on down there.
+
+Just against the opposite side, using an angle of the bowl as two sides,
+was a brush and rope corral in which were eight or ten head of cattle.
+The rustlers were in the brush east of the corral as there was little
+cover on the west end.
+
+As Hashknife sized up the place Sleepy shot twice in rapid succession
+and two shots smashed through the brush near him. Both sides were
+shooting smokeless powder but Hashknife had a fairly good idea where
+the men were, so he rested his rifle over the rock and sent three
+bullets searching through the tangle of brush in the pot-hole.
+
+A yell of derision answered his third shot and a bullet mushroomed
+against the rock beside him.
+
+“Give ’em hell!” yelled Sleepy. A moment later he shot again and swore
+roundly.
+
+“Didja miss him?” asked Hashknife quickly.
+
+“It was a horse. No, I didn’t miss. Thought it was a man.”
+
+The rustlers were sore now. They opened up and sent bullet after bullet
+against Hashknife’s rock and through the brush over Sleepy’s head.
+
+“Watch for ’em makin’ a break,” warned Hashknife.
+
+“I’ll break ’em if they do,” replied Sleepy. “I’ve got one of ’em all
+fixed to walk home.”
+
+“Didja kill a horse?”
+
+“Unless they’ve trained a pinto to lay down when a shot is fired.”
+
+After that it became a case of watchful waiting with neither side
+willing to expose themselves. Hashknife propped his sombrero on top
+of the rock but it remained there in perfect security for fifteen
+minutes.
+
+“Are yuh sure they ain’t pulled out?” he asked Sleepy.
+
+“Dead sure. They’ve got another horse in the brush but I can’t locate
+him. Stick tight! They know where we are.”
+
+The advantage was with Hashknife and Sleepy because of their elevated
+position, but the brush was thick and there were at least two acres of
+it. They made themselves comfortable and watched the brush while the
+cattle bawled in the corral as they milled around.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Noon came and still there was no movement in the brush. They were
+patient waiters--these two drifting cowboys. Time meant nothing to
+them. Hashknife was in such a position that he could not take his
+horse away without exposing himself.
+
+The sun traveled down across the sky and the shadows began stretching to
+the east.
+
+“Do yuh reckon they’ve dodged us?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Don’t believe it. I’ve watched awful close. Their idea is to stick
+until dark, I reckon; then we _will_ lose ’em.”
+
+Sleepy wriggled back along the fissure to his horse where he untied
+the coat he had carried on his saddle. Then he came back and fitted a
+stick between the sleeves like a coat-hanger. He slipped the butt of
+his rifle between the collar and the stick, hooking the stick against
+the rear of the lever. Then he put his sombrero on the butt of the
+rifle and cautiously lifted this above the brush.
+
+Whap! A bullet scarred the stock of the rifle between the sombrero and
+the coat collar and went splattering into the bank behind Sleepy.
+
+“Still there!” laughed Sleepy. “And how that geezer can shoot! That
+bullet would have killed a man who wore as small as a number twelve
+collar.”
+
+But Hashknife did not reply because he had cuddled the butt of his rifle
+against his lean cheek and his gray eye was notching the gold bead front
+sight against an indistinct object. Then came the spiteful crack of the
+rifle followed by a stirring movement in the brush. But before Hashknife
+could pump another shell into the chamber the object had disappeared.
+
+“I nicked that jigger,” he told Sleepy. “At least I think I did. He
+shore moved away quick.”
+
+Whether the shot nicked any one or not, it served to anger the men in
+the brush and they spewed lead at both Hashknife and Sleepy, who kept
+down until the fusillade was over.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then followed an hour of inactivity. The sun was getting low in the west
+and it began to look as though the rustlers would be able to hold out
+until after dark when it would be a simple matter to get away.
+
+“They know they’ve got us stuck,” said Sleepy. “We can’t get down to
+’em--that’s a cinch!”
+
+So there was nothing to do except to wait. Sleepy tried drawing their
+fire again with the dummy but they refused to rise to the bait. Time
+passed swiftly now and the sun sank below the western range.
+
+Hashknife knew the period of twilight would be brief; that within an
+hour the rustlers would be able to leave the pot-hole in the hills
+without interference. He fumbled in his pockets for cigaret-papers
+but suddenly jerked his hands up and gripped the rifle.
+
+Something was moving over by the farther side of the brush. It was a
+man, humped over low, moving slowly. As Hashknife lined up the
+sights the man ran swiftly across an open space of not over fifteen
+feet. Swiftly the muzzle of the gun turned and the report awoke the
+sleeping echoes. The man’s feet seemed to jerk from under him and he
+fell in the open, but with a rolling flop he was out of sight.
+
+“One baby down!” exclaimed Hashknife.
+
+“Didja wing one?” asked Sleepy anxiously.
+
+“Legged him, Sleepy.”
+
+“Good work.”
+
+Fifteen minutes later Sleepy wailed, “Gettin’ so dark I can’t see to
+notch my sights.”
+
+“Same here--but neither can they.”
+
+“There they go!” yelled Sleepy. “Off to the right! Two on one bronc!”
+
+Sleepy sprang to his feet and fired his rifle as rapidly as possible.
+But the light was bad and when his rifle clucked on the empty chamber
+the riders were out of sight. Hashknife came clawing his way back to
+Sleepy.
+
+“They’re gone!” complained Sleepy. “I never knocked a feather out of
+’em. Dang the light anyway!”
+
+“Well, that settles the cat-hop!” sighed Hashknife. “Let’s go down and
+look at that horse.”
+
+It was impossible for them to ride down into the pot-hole, so they
+left their horses where they were and went down on foot. Sleepy led
+the way to the dead horse which had been killed instantly. It looked
+like a black-and-white animal until a close examination disclosed the
+fact that it was a white horse with the black spots painted on.
+
+“A reg’lar painted horse,” laughed Sleepy. “Look at the brand, will
+yuh?”
+
+“An AH horse,” said Hashknife. “I expected that.”
+
+The saddle was a well-worn, narrow fork affair without a distinguishing
+mark of any kind. The men went over to the corral and looked at the
+stock. There were six IS, two Box 88 and one AH animals in the corral.
+Sticks had been piled up for a branding fire but the rustlers had become
+alarmed before touching a match to it.
+
+Hashknife opened the corral and let the animals out. He wanted to keep
+them there for evidence, but there was no feed or water, so he turned
+them loose. He and Sleepy went back to their horses, led Ghost along
+the treacherous side of the hill to the deep fissure, where they rode
+away on the back trail to the swale again.
+
+It was dark by this time and there was no trail, but Hashknife led the
+way out of the swale near the spring and they headed down across the
+hills toward Chongo town.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fat Garnette didn’t know where Hashknife and Sleepy had gone. He wasn’t
+at the office when Sleepy borrowed the two rifles from Weary without
+telling Weary what they intended doing.
+
+“He jist borrowed ’em,” said Weary. “I supposed it was all right.”
+
+“It’s all right,” said Fat. “Only I’d like to know where my rifles go.”
+
+Later on that day Fat met Hayward, who asked him where Hashknife and
+Sleepy were.
+
+“Dunno a thing about ’em. They borrowed my two best Winchesters
+yesterday evenin’ and Weary says they rode out of town. The danged
+fool never asked ’em where they were goin’.”
+
+“Kind of a funny move, wasn’t it?”
+
+“I s’pose it was. They do make funny moves--and tell yuh nothin’.
+Sometimes I get tired of it, Tuck. They’ve hung around my office ever
+since they’ve been here. Yuh can’t help likin’ ’em but I dunno why in
+hell they stay here. They seem to have money and they don’t ask any
+odds of anybody, so I reckon it’s their business.”
+
+“Oh, shore! How’s Frenchy?”
+
+“I’m just goin’ down there. Yuh know he can’t get well.”
+
+“Do yuh think that’s a fact?”
+
+“Doctor says so. He might be wrong. I’ll let yuh know how he is when I
+come back.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Yvonne met the sheriff on the front porch and he could see that she was
+excited.
+
+“He’s conscious,” she said joyfully. “And he isn’t suffering. The doctor
+says he’ll get well.”
+
+“Gosh, I’m shore glad, Yvonne! I wonder if I could see him.”
+
+“I think so.”
+
+They found Frenchy LeClere, heavily bandaged, looking very weak. The
+doctor smiled at the sheriff and offered him a chair.
+
+“He’s looking pretty good, eh?” smiled the doctor. “Regained
+consciousness ten minutes ago. No sign of concussion now.”
+
+“That’s great! How are yuh feelin’, Mr. LeClere?”
+
+“I don’t feel much,” he whispered.
+
+“You’ll be fine. Do you know what happened?”
+
+“I’m try to think. She’s like dream.”
+
+“Sure yuh didn’t go to sleep and let the team run away?”
+
+“_Non!_ Two men she’s ride up beside me in de dark, one man on each
+side. I’m t’ink dey go for to pass me and I’m jus’ say ‘Hello,’ w’en one
+man mus’ have hit me with rifle. I’m seem to see rifle. Mebby first time
+she’s hit me on de shoulder. I feel h’awful pain and I’m theenk I’m fall
+off de wagon and den I don’t feel no-t’ing.”
+
+“And you didn’t see who the men were?”
+
+“_Non._ But I see one t’ing. One man she’s ride pinto. I’m see de spot.
+Other man I’m don’ know, biccause I’m not see him so good.”
+
+“Ridin’ a pinto horse, eh?”
+
+“Did you ever hear of such a thing?” exclaimed Yvonne. “Why, we all
+thought Dad had been hurt in the runaway!”
+
+“Not all of us,” replied the sheriff. “Hashknife doped it all out right
+away. Comin’ in from out there he told me just what happened.”
+
+“But how did he know?” asked the doctor quickly.
+
+“Readin’ signs. The men who did it thought Joe was in the wagon. They
+wanted to kill him, so they thought they would kill him and make it look
+like a runaway. I guess they thought Joe would be killed in the runaway,
+or maybe the team ran away before they had a chance to investigate the
+contents of the wagon-box.”
+
+Frenchy relaxed and closed his eyes. Yvonne was staring at the floor.
+
+“De same men w’at shoot Joe in de jail?” whispered the old Frenchman.
+
+“Must be! Doc, I reckon I better get a couple of men to stay down here.”
+
+“You mean to guard the place?”
+
+“Y’betcha. I’ll see if I can find two.”
+
+“Soapy would come and maybe--” began Yvonne.
+
+“Shore!” grinned Fat. “I’ll see him.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fat went back to the main street and crossed over to the Silver Streak
+where he met Tuck Hayward.
+
+“The old man is still the same, Tuck,” he said.
+
+“Still unconscious, eh?”
+
+“Yeah. Say, Tuck, do you know anybody around here who rides a pinto
+horse?”
+
+“Pinto?” Tuck motioned for the bartender. “No, I don’t, Fat. What do yuh
+want to know for?”
+
+“Just wonderin’. I don’t know of a single one, do you?”
+
+“Somebody wantin’ to buy one?”
+
+Fat shook his head as he filled his glass.
+
+“No-o-o, I don’t think so, Tuck. Here’s regards!”
+
+They drank and turned from the bar.
+
+“I haven’t seen any pinto horses around here,” said Tuck.
+
+“Neither have I. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”
+
+Hayward walked to the doorway and watched Fat cross the street. The
+big man’s face twisted thoughtfully and he shoved his hands deep in
+his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
+
+“Pinto horses, eh?” he muttered. “I wonder what in hell he meant.”
+
+He walked back the length of the bar then stood and looked over the
+room. The livery-stable keeper was having a drink at the bar and nodded
+to Hayward.
+
+“Seen Hartley today?” asked Hayward.
+
+“Not today. Him and his pardner rode away last night--or rather
+yesterday evenin’.”
+
+“Pullin’ out of the country?”
+
+“Don’t think so. Anyway, they didn’t say anythin’ about pullin’ out.
+Packed a couple of rifles, I noticed. Hope they ain’t gone for good
+’cause they owe me a few dollars’ feed bill.”
+
+“Mebby they went huntin’,” suggested the bartender.
+
+“Might have.”
+
+Hayward frowned and lighted a cigar.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Fat found Weary and Chuck at the office and to them he confided what
+Frenchy LeClere had said. Fat also told them that Hashknife had
+advanced the same idea the day they had found Frenchy unconscious
+under the greasewood.
+
+“How in hell did he know?” queried Chuck.
+
+“Brains, you hard-head!” declared Weary. “Hashknife does a lot of
+thinkin’, I tell yuh. He’s smart.”
+
+“Ain’t no smarter than the rest of us.”
+
+“Ain’t he?”
+
+“Well, if he is, why in hell don’t he find out who has done all the
+dirty work around here for the past year? Why don’t he pin the hornet
+on somebody, I’d ask yuh? If he’s so damn smart why don’t he tell me
+who petted me on the head that night? I’d _pay_ to know.”
+
+“How much would you pay? Four bits, I suppose.”
+
+“I’d pay, y’betcha!”
+
+“And then what would yuh use for money? And what good would it do yuh?
+You’d never go gunnin’ for nobody, Chuck. You’d jist about find out who
+done it and tell ’em that they done a hell of a good job. They did--only
+they didn’t hit hard enough.”
+
+“The hell they didn’t! Hard enough to suit me.”
+
+“Well,” said Fat moving in on the argument, “I wish they’d bring my
+Winchesters back. If they don’t come back I’ll make Weary pay for them
+two guns, y’betcha!”
+
+“Oh, they’ll come back!” declared Weary. “I’ll bet they had a good
+reason for takin’ ’em. And what’s more, I don’t want that Hashknife
+notchin’ a sight on me. His eyes are too keen. By golly, I’m scared
+to _think_ evil around him!”
+
+“Oh, he ain’t no mind-reader, Weary,” said Chuck.
+
+“Well, you better think clean around him, pardner.”
+
+“Why? Who’s he to make me think clean? I can think jist as dirty as I
+want to.”
+
+“You would!”
+
+Fat laughed and leaned back in his chair.
+
+“Guess I’ll separate you fellers. Weary, you get hold of Soapy Weed and
+see if he can get off the AH for a few days. If he can’t I’ll deputize
+him--and he’ll have to. I need a couple of men to guard the doctor’s
+place.”
+
+“Guard it?” asked Weary. “What’s the idea?”
+
+“There’s been two attempts to kill Joe and one attempt to kill his
+father. We don’t want it to happen again.”
+
+“Yuh want me and Soapy?” asked Weary.
+
+“Shore! If Soapy is willin’.”
+
+“Willin’? Say! That bat-eared waddy would sell his soul to be near
+Yvonne.”
+
+“All right; you find him.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was well after dark when Soapy and Cling rode in from the AH. A
+little later Weary found Soapy in a store and told him what Fat had
+said.
+
+“Gee, that’ll be great!” exclaimed Soapy. “We better have Fat deputize
+me right away or old man Hart won’t stand for it. He says me and Cling
+are spendin’ too much time in town.”
+
+“Fat’s eatin’ supper. You show up in an hour and he’ll deputize yuh,
+Soapy.”
+
+“I’ll be there if I live.”
+
+Soapy went across to the Silver Streak to find Cling and tell him the
+news. Cling was at the bar with Hayward and several other men, and
+Soapy told Cling, after drawing him aside. Cling had imbibed several
+drinks and was incredulous.
+
+“Aw, yo’re crazy!” he blurted. “What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s
+place? I suppose you framed it up yourself.”
+
+Cling had spoken loud enough for the men at the bar to hear.
+
+“What’s the idea of guardin’ the doctor’s place?” asked Hayward.
+
+“Some fool idea of Soapy’s,” laughed Cling.
+
+“No such a damn thing! Didn’t somebody try to kill Joe? And didn’t
+somebody try to kill Frenchy?”
+
+“Frenchy was hurt in a runaway,” said Hayward.
+
+“Rats!” snorted Soapy. “That’s all yuh know about it.”
+
+“Well, he _was_ hurt in a runaway,” declared Cling.
+
+“He was, like hell!”
+
+Soapy turned and walked out of the place.
+
+“He’s crazy as a sheepherder,” laughed Cling.
+
+“Is Frenchy conscious?” asked one of the men. “I heard he couldn’t live
+and that he never would speak again.”
+
+“That’s what I heard,” said Hayward slowly. “I’m goin’ down and find out
+for myself.”
+
+He walked away from the bar and went down to the doctor’s place and the
+old doctor met him at the front door.
+
+“Hello, Doc!” said Hayward pleasantly. “I heard that LeClere had
+regained consciousness.”
+
+“I heard that also,” smiled the doctor. “But I should be in a position
+to know the facts of the matter, don’t you think, Hayward?”
+
+“I should think you would be, Doc. How is Joe?”
+
+“Doing nicely. No fever now but very weak.”
+
+“Well, that’s good. Thanks, Doc!”
+
+“You are very welcome.”
+
+Hayward walked half-way back to the saloon before he realized that the
+doctor had not denied that LeClere had regained consciousness.
+
+“I’m a damn fool,” he told himself. “Why didn’t I ask him whether
+LeClere was conscious? He merely said that he was in a position to
+know the facts. And what are the facts?”
+
+He went back to the saloon no wiser than he had been before.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Soapy could hardly wait to be deputized. Fat gave each man a sawed-off
+shotgun and sent them down to the doctor’s house to report on duty. It
+amused the doctor but he really was glad that the sheriff had taken
+such precautions.
+
+Yvonne was visibly relieved. Two men with riot guns will give any place
+a sense of security. Soapy grinned and sat down with the gun across his
+lap.
+
+“Bring on yore trouble,” he announced and after he and Yvonne were alone
+for a few moments he said:
+
+“Gosh, this is the best job I ever had! Fat says we’ll be here until
+both yore dad and Joe are able to take care of themselves. That’ll be
+at least two weeks.”
+
+“That will be fine, Soapy.”
+
+“Say! I spoke to Hart about that place on Opal Creek.”
+
+“What did he say?”
+
+Soapy started to grin, smoothed his face and cleared his throat harshly.
+
+“We won’t discuss that part of it, Yvonne. I told him he wanted to keep
+me down. But I’ll get it. Gee, just think of two weeks down here! This
+is my idea of a _job_.”
+
+Fat came down to see how they were getting along.
+
+“One of yuh stay in Frenchy’s room and the other in Joe’s room. Don’t
+let anybody in except Yvonne, the doctor or myself. And if either one
+of yuh goes to sleep I’ll can yuh off the job.”
+
+“Suppose somebody tries to get in?” asked Soapy.
+
+“Didja think I gave yuh that gun for a crutch?”
+
+Yvonne questioned Fat about Hashknife and Sleepy but he knew nothing
+about them. She told him that they were to have stayed at the IS ranch
+the night before, but she didn’t know just what their reasons were for
+staying out there.
+
+“I don’t pretend to know what the long-geared cowboy has under his hat,”
+said Fat soberly. “He shore gets under my hide sometimes. Well, I’ll see
+yuh later, folks. Yvonne, you see that Soapy sticks to his job. He can’t
+think of more than one thing at a time and that ain’t work.”
+
+She promised to keep Soapy on the job and Fat went away with a grin on
+his face.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Chongo
+town and stabled their horses. They did not bother to take the rifles
+back to the sheriff’s office but went straight up the street to the
+Silver Streak where Sleepy planted himself near the front door while
+Hashknife went down to the doctor’s office.
+
+The doctor answered the knock and Hashknife asked him to step outside.
+
+“Ain’t been anybody here for yuh, has there, Doc?”
+
+“Not today, Hartley. Is somebody sick?”
+
+“Mebby. If anybody calls for yuh will yuh let me know before yuh go?”
+
+“I don’t understand what you mean, Hartley, but I’ll do it.”
+
+“That’s fine. How are the patients?”
+
+“Getting along fine. Mr. LeClere is conscious but I’m a little afraid
+to have you talk with him. He talked with the sheriff today. Your
+theory was correct, Hartley. Two men came along that night, passing
+on each side of his wagon, and one of them struck him with a rifle
+barrel.”
+
+“Did he recognize either of them?” anxiously.
+
+“No, he didn’t. But he is sure that at least one of the men rode a pinto
+horse.”
+
+“Gee, that’s fine! See yuh later, Doc; and I’m much obliged.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Hashknife hurried back to Sleepy, told him the latest news and they went
+into the Silver Streak. Several of the games were running full blast and
+Tuck Hayward was dealing the stud game.
+
+Quite a number of men were in from the mines spending their hard-earned
+wages over the green cloth. Several railroad men were there, a couple of
+cattle buyers and a number of the business men of the town. Cling
+Heffner was there playing roulette and they saw Johnny Colburn in a
+chuck-luck game, his hat in one hand, his nose beaded with perspiration.
+It was not often that Johnny was winner and the excitement was almost
+too much for him.
+
+Hayward saw Hashknife and Sleepy come in and he looked at them
+curiously. Hashknife stood behind him. It made Hayward nervous. He
+twisted in his chair and gave other evidence that he did not like to
+have anybody stand behind him. Finally Hashknife moved away and
+Hayward shot a baleful glance in his direction.
+
+The sheriff came in and seemed surprised to see Hashknife and Sleepy.
+He walked over to them and whispered what he had learned from Frenchy
+LeClere. Hashknife told him he had already talked with the doctor and
+listened while the sheriff told about posting the two guards at the
+doctor’s home.
+
+“Fat, would you be all set for trouble if somethin’ broke tonight?”
+asked Hashknife softly.
+
+The sheriff looked at him curiously but replied quickly, “Most anythin’,
+Hartley.”
+
+“Fine! And don’t ask questions when it comes.”
+
+“Well, what’s in the air? Gimme an idea, can’t yuh?”
+
+“Not yet. Stay around here and act natural.”
+
+“All right.”
+
+Fat hitched up his belt, reached for his papers and began rolling a
+cigaret. That was his idea of acting natural.
+
+Hashknife took a chair against the wall about midway of the room and
+relaxed. He was tired from the ride and the gun battle and he needed
+to relax for a while. There was nothing sure in his plans. He was
+playing a hunch again--“shooting at shadows,” he called it.
+
+Sleepy wandered around the room watching the games while Fat appeared to
+grow interested in the roulette wheel where a small crowd of miners were
+losing their money. There was plenty of activity but nothing out of the
+ordinary. Men came and went but the crowd stayed about the same size all
+the time.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+It was about ten o’clock when McLeod, foreman of the Box 88, came in. He
+had a drink at the bar, rolled a smoke and sized up the place.
+
+Hashknife studied the man from under the brim of his big hat. McLeod
+needed a shave and a hair-cut badly. He bought another drink and engaged
+the bartender in conversation.
+
+Hashknife glanced toward the door and saw Soapy Weed coming in. Soapy
+walked slowly past the bar, nodding casually to Fat, who gawped after
+him, inclined to reprimand him for leaving his post of duty.
+
+After a slow survey of the room Soapy came over to Hashknife and spoke
+softly. Hashknife merely nodded.
+
+Soapy sauntered away. He stopped to look at the games but finally went
+outside.
+
+Hashknife glanced at Hayward, who was looking in his direction, and
+wondered whether Hayward had seen Soapy bring him a message.
+
+A waiter started from the bar with a tray of glasses. McLeod said
+something to him. The man nodded and as he placed the glasses on the
+table spoke to Hayward, who said something in return, and then walked
+away with the empty tray. In a few moments another dealer came to the
+stud table and relieved Hayward.
+
+Hayward yawned heavily, lighted a cigar and walked back to his
+private office where he went inside. McLeod turned from talking with
+the bartender and started for the door. In a moment Hashknife was on
+his feet signaling to Fat and the two walked out behind McLeod, who
+had stopped on the edge of the sidewalk.
+
+The sheriff didn’t know what was to be done. His jaw sagged with
+surprise when Hashknife stepped in beside the big foreman of the Box
+88, deftly removed McLeod’s gun from its holster and shoved it against
+the astonished cattleman’s ribs.
+
+“What in hell is goin’ on here?” demanded McLeod hotly.
+
+“Just this, McLeod. Yo’re under arrest. You take him to jail, Fat.”
+
+“But--but--” faltered the sheriff.
+
+“Give me back that gun, you damn fool!” snarled McLeod. “What’s all
+this talk about arrestin’ me? Make that damn fool give me back that
+gun, Fat.”
+
+“Take him to jail, Fat,” begged Hashknife. “It’s no joke. My God, don’t
+hold up the game!”
+
+“All right, Hashknife. Yo’re under arrest, McLeod. Give me his gun, will
+yuh?”
+
+“Well, by God, somebody will smart for this!”
+
+“You will, McLeod. Don’t take a chance with him, Fat. If he makes a
+break, shoot him.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+The arrest had been made so quietly that it had not attracted any
+attention. As McLeod started across the street with Fat Hashknife
+stepped to the right and went swiftly back through the alley, coming
+in behind the Silver Streak.
+
+The light from Hayward’s office partly illuminated two saddle-horses
+which were standing a few yards from the building, the bridle reins
+dragging. Speaking softly to them, Hashknife stepped over and stripped
+off the bridles from both horses. He gave one of them a slap with the
+reins and both horses trotted away in the night.
+
+Some one was yelling out on the street. Hashknife heard the sound of
+pounding feet as a man came running down the alley. Quickly he stepped
+in against the building as the man came into view and jerked to a stop,
+whirling around in the light from the window which was at Hashknife’s
+shoulder.
+
+The man was McLeod, hatless, a gun in his hand. Recognition seemed
+mutual and the guns of the two men spat together, throwing a shower of
+sparks in the dark. From behind Hashknife came the crackle of broken
+glass as the heavy bullet bored through the window of Hayward’s office.
+
+But McLeod was falling forward, pitching on his face in the dirt, arms
+outspread. It seemed as if he was still falling when Hashknife darted
+to the back door of the saloon, opened it quickly and stepped inside.
+
+The saloon was in an uproar. The crash of the two shots had stopped
+all activities and to add to the climax Fat Garnette was staggering
+in, his face covered with blood and dirt. Down the middle of the room
+he staggered, looking for Hashknife to tell him that McLeod had had a
+concealed gun with which he had struck Fat over the head before he had
+escaped. But Hashknife was not paying any attention to the sheriff. He
+was still at that back door which was wide open.
+
+Suddenly the door of Hayward’s office swung open and Mike Dalhart, the
+cowboy who had gone to Arizona, stepped out.
+
+Dalhart was hunched forward, his hat pulled low over his eyes, a
+six-shooter in each hand. A trapped wolf would have been a nursing
+lamb beside Dalhart. The sheriff saw him and stopped short. The gun
+in Dalhart’s right hand jerked to his hip, covering the sheriff.
+
+[Illustration: He jerked the gun to his hip, covering the sheriff]
+
+“Over here, Bitter River!”
+
+Hashknife’s voice snapped like a whip and Dalhart whirled, both guns
+spouting flame, shooting too swiftly for deadly accuracy.
+
+Hashknife’s gun thundered in response and as Sleepy’s gun spat flame
+from about the center of the room Dalhart jerked sideways, dropped
+the gun from his right hand, went back on his heels and fell against
+the door of the office, sliding to the floor in a heap.
+
+Hashknife ran to him quickly and flung the office door open. Hayward was
+lying on the office floor, flat on his back with one arm flung across
+his face. Hashknife stepped back into the saloon as the crowd, panicky
+from the killing, surged forward, choking in the powder fumes.
+
+Fat Garnette came forward, his face white where it wasn’t red from gore,
+and stopped near Hashknife, trying to ask questions with his hands.
+
+Dalhart wasn’t dead. He tried to lift his head from the floor and cursed
+bitterly at Hashknife.
+
+“Who shot Hayward?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“Bullet through the window,” said Dalhart chokingly.
+
+“McLeod got away,” said Fat hoarsely.
+
+“He’s out behind here,” said Hashknife. “He shot at me and his bullet
+went through the window. I guess he killed Hayward. Some of yuh prop
+Dalhart up and give him a drink.”
+
+Some one got a bottle at the bar, another man went after the doctor,
+while the rest stood dumbly in their tracks, shocked, staring with
+amazement at Hashknife, who was the coolest man in the place.
+
+Dalhart managed to take a big drink of liquor but he knew as well as
+they that his minutes were numbered.
+
+“Yore pardner’s out at the Box 88, ain’t he?” asked Hashknife.
+
+“So it was you, eh?” whispered Dalhart. “We wasn’t sure. Yes, he’s out
+there with a broken leg. Damn him! If it hadn’t been for him--I came to
+get a doctor and to settle up with Hayward. I was goin’ to get out.”
+
+“You killed McFee a year ago, Dalhart. It was you who killed O’Neil and
+it was you who shot Joe LeClere. I can understand why yuh killed McFee.
+He recognized yuh as Bitter River Belton. Yuh killed O’Neil because yuh
+found out he was a cattle detective, but I’ll be damned if I can figure
+out why yuh tried to kill Joe LeClere.”
+
+“That fooled yuh, eh?” whispered Dalhart weakly. “I’m glad somethin’
+fooled yuh. I think Joe knew I killed O’Neil and I was afraid he might
+tell at his trial. Hayward didn’t think so because he had the deadwood
+on Joe. It was Hayward who found out who O’Neil was. He furnished
+O’Neil a gun to kill Joe with that night, but Joe didn’t go home.
+
+“That McFee job was funny.” Dalhart was getting so weak that they gave
+him another pull at the bottle.
+
+“Joe almost had snakes. He started to town with McFee but he was so loco
+he went back. Me and Hayward made Joe believe he killed McFee and the
+damn fool still thinks so. That’s what Hayward had on Joe. He forced Joe
+to steal cattle from his father for Hayward.”
+
+“Made him change the IS to a Box 88, eh?” asked Hashknife.
+
+Dalhart nodded and closed his eyes.
+
+“Yeah. And we done the same thing. We threw ’em into a box cañon off Dog
+Soldier and grazed ’em back there until the brands had healed. When we
+knocked old Frenchy off Hayward wanted us to make a big clean-up and we
+just got started when you showed up.”
+
+“You stole a pair of white horses from the AH and painted black spots on
+’em.”
+
+Dalhart grinned and started to say something as the doctor came
+bustling in. He knelt at Dalhart’s side--Dalhart was still smiling.
+The examination was brief.
+
+“I don’t see how he lived ten seconds,” said the doctor--and passed on
+in to look at Hayward.
+
+McLeod was still alive. Some of the men carried him in. He cursed
+everybody and refused to commit himself in any way, even after he was
+told that Dalhart had confessed.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Soapy and Weary had deserted their post of duty and were outside the
+saloon with Yvonne when Hashknife and Sleepy came out. They had only
+heard snatches of information and they almost assaulted Hashknife.
+
+“Joe is clear,” Hashknife told them. “There ain’t a thing they can hold
+him for. But I’ve got to have somethin’ else cleared up and Joe can do
+it. C’mon!”
+
+“You say Joe is clear?” asked Yvonne, almost afraid that she had not
+heard correctly. “He isn’t guilty?”
+
+“Not of murder. Oh, it’s all right, Yvonne! Don’t cry. For gosh sake,
+won’t somebody take that riot-gun away from Soapy and let him take care
+of Yvonne?”
+
+They walked down to the doctor’s office and went in with Soapy and
+Yvonne far in the rear. Joe was half out of bed, trying to put on some
+clothes, but found himself too weak.
+
+The man who had come for the doctor had blurted out some information
+that was of vital importance to Joe LeClere.
+
+Hashknife lifted him back into the bed and Joe stared at them with
+frightened eyes.
+
+“Lay down and listen to me,” said Hashknife. “To begin with, you didn’t
+kill Charley McFee.”
+
+Joe opened his eyes wide and his mouth sagged for a moment. He tried to
+speak but merely swallowed and looked up at Hashknife.
+
+“Dalhart killed him,” said Hashknife. “He confessed. And he killed
+O’Neil too. Didja know that, Joe?”
+
+“I--I thought he did. But--but Hayward said he’d have me hung for murder
+if I told. It was Dalhart who tried to kill me.”
+
+“We know that, Joe. He admitted that part of it. He said that they had
+the deadwood on you and Hayward made you steal cows from yore father.
+Is that the truth, Joe?”
+
+Joe’s eyes shifted from face to face. Yvonne was leaning close to him
+and he looked square at her as he said:
+
+“You think I’m a rustler, but I’m not. Hell, how I hated Hayward! But
+he could have had me hung. They thought I was stealin’ Dad’s cows but
+I wasn’t. I’d corral a lot of Box 88’s and rebrand ’em. Run the hot
+iron over the original brand and not do it too well and then turn the
+animals over to whoever was in charge of the work at the mines. They
+also kept the rebrands back on Dog Soldier. I swear to God that I
+never stole a cow from Dad.”
+
+Tears were running down Yvonne’s cheeks as she turned to Hashknife. Joe
+was crying too, but most of his tears were from weakness and reaction.
+
+“Oh, he isn’t guilty of anything!” she choked. “Don’t you see he is
+cleared of everything, Hashknife?”
+
+“Yea-a-ah, I see he is,” said Hashknife seriously. “But if the chance
+ever comes, after he gets well, I’ll kick him a couple of times for my
+own satisfaction.”
+
+“Why--what for?” asked Weary.
+
+“For givin’ me the toughest problem I ever worked on. I’ve been here all
+this time tryin’ to figure out just what he was goin’ to do with them
+Box 88 cows we found him with that mornin’. There wasn’t a darn brand in
+this state he could make out of that Box 88--and I never once thought he
+might be double-crossin’ a thief.”
+
+“If you wa-want to do the kickin’ right now I’ll let yuh,” said Joe
+seriously. “The rest of you folks get out because I’ve only got on one
+of Doc’s nightgowns.”
+
+“And I’ve lost my good job,” sighed Soapy.
+
+“You ain’t even started on yore _good_ job,” said Hashknife. “Yvonne, go
+in and tell yore dad that the kid is all right. Yore dad knows all about
+them cows that Joe was goin’ to brand, but he don’t know why.”
+
+“And you did it,” said Yvonne. She took hold of Hashknife’s sleeve and
+looked at him. “You did all of this just for us.”
+
+And then she kissed him square--on the mouth--ducked aside and ran to
+her father’s room. Hashknife looked foolishly around and headed for the
+door.
+
+“I could do the same thing to yuh,” said Soapy.
+
+But Hashknife didn’t accept. He walked out followed by Sleepy and Weary,
+who was still walking around in a daze.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+They went to the sheriff’s office where they found Fat and several
+other men. McLeod was not dangerously hurt. They had him on a cot in
+one of the cells while some more of the men were getting a rig at the
+livery-stable to go out to the Box 88 after Asher, who was out there
+waiting with Cornes for the doctor to come.
+
+Fat had washed the blood off his face and head but he was far from
+presentable yet. McLeod had struck him over the head with a six-shooter,
+knocked him down but not quite out.
+
+“I don’t understand it all yet,” complained Fat. “How didja figure all
+this out, Hashknife? I don’t get head nor tail out of it. You called
+him Bitter River, didn’t yuh? Wasn’t that the name in that telegram
+from Piney River?”
+
+“That was the shadow I shot at,” smiled Hashknife. “McFee used to be a
+deputy sheriff down there. He was here two days and was murdered. The
+only time I ever met McFee he was chasin’ a man by that name--Bitter
+River Belton. I took a chance and the description fit Dalhart, except
+for the moles which I didn’t see. That established a killer for McFee.
+
+“I knew that O’Neil was a detective. Rustlers will kill a detective,
+yuh know. LeClere was losin’ cattle, so I had to find out who was
+stealin’ ’em. Yuh can change an IS to a Box 88 by usin’ the I for
+part of the Box and makin’ the S into an eight and addin’ another
+eight. They both brand on the right shoulder. It took me a long time
+because I was workin’ on the wrong angle. I thought Joe LeClere was
+a crook and a cow-thief. Hayward said that Dalhart and Asher had
+pulled out for Arizona but I didn’t believe it. Then I heard about
+Hayward havin’ some claims on Dog Soldier and it struck me that Dog
+Soldier was the answer, but me and Sleepy never quite got there.
+
+“We saw two men on pinto horses and later on we ran into ’em in a big
+pot-hole in the hills, where we spent the day swappin’ lead. Sleepy
+killed one of the pintoes and I got one rustler in the leg. But they
+got away from us just at dusk on one horse, and then we found that the
+dead pinto was an AH with the black spots painted on.
+
+“I knew that one of the men was hurt, so I figured he would need a
+doctor. The rest of it was luck, I suppose. Soapy brought me word that
+McLeod asked the doctor to go to the Box 88 to see a sick man. McLeod
+tipped Hayward off that some one was in his private office, so I had
+Fat arrest McLeod while I handled the rest.”
+
+“I’d say yuh shore handled it,” said Fat. “You’ve got plenty reward
+comin’ to yuh, Hashknife--but you earned it. Seven thousand is a nice
+stake.”
+
+“I get two thousand of it--that’s all! Have yuh got a telegraph blank
+around here, Fat?”
+
+“Sure. Top drawer of that desk.”
+
+As Hashknife wrote the telegram, Ace Hart of the AH ranch came in. He
+had heard the story at the Silver Streak.
+
+“I want to meet Hartley,” he said. “By grab, I want to meet the man who
+smoked up Chongo town! Never heard anythin’ like it. Where is he?”
+
+Fat introduced them and they shook hands solemnly.
+
+“Soapy and Cling talked a lot about yuh, Hartley.”
+
+“Nice pair of boys,” said Hashknife.
+
+“Nice, hell! Wilder ’n hawks!”
+
+“Soapy told me you’ve got a place on Opal Creek.”
+
+“He did, eh? Told me about it too. Damn fool! Had an idea I’d give it to
+him. Talked about startin’ a herd. Ain’t got a damn cent!”
+
+“If he had about a thousand dollars would yuh feel like lettin’ him and
+his wife have the place?”
+
+“Thousand--him and _his_ wife? What-cha talkin’ about?”
+
+“Would yuh, Hart?”
+
+The old man cuffed his hat over on the side of his head and squinted at
+Hashknife.
+
+“If he had a thousand and a wife--yeah.”
+
+“Make out a deed tomorrow and I’ll speak to the preacher.”
+
+“I don’t understand yuh, Hartley.”
+
+“Are you still shootin’ at shadows?” asked Fat.
+
+“Not if the county will pay that reward and if Yvonne LeClere will stick
+to her word.”
+
+“Well, the county will pay it tomorrow, Hashknife. I can’t speak for the
+Association, but they’ll pay, I’m sure.”
+
+“I’m sorry I can’t collect that end of it, Fat.”
+
+He handed Fat the telegram, which was directed to the Secretary of the
+Cattlemen’s Association and read:
+
+    CLOSED CASE TONIGHT COMPLETE CONFESSION MURDER OF MCFEE
+    AND SHIELDS BY BITTER RIVER BELTON ALIAS MIKE DALHART
+    A KILLER FROM PINEY RIVER STOP ACCEPT OUR RESIGNATIONS
+    AS THIS JOB KEEPS US TOO LONG ON ONE SIDE OF THE HILL
+
+                                                H. HARTLEY
+
+Fat read the telegram through carefully and then looked quizzically at
+Hashknife.
+
+“Cattle detectives, eh?”
+
+“Were,” corrected Hashknife while Sleepy grinned widely.
+
+“So that’s why yuh can’t collect the five thousand. Say! You ain’t
+goin’ to pull out of here, are yuh? This Silver River country needs
+yuh, Hartley--it sure does.”
+
+“Not now, Fat. Yo’re all set for a peaceful existence. Read the last
+line of that telegram again.”
+
+“This job keeps us too long on one side of the hill! I thought that was
+code, Hartley.”
+
+“Our code, Fat.”
+
+“Uh-huh. Well, yuh won’t leave before tomorrow, will yuh?”
+
+“Can’t. Got to collect money, get a deed from Hart and talk to a
+preacher. By the way, if yuh see Soapy Weed tell him he’ll find us at
+the restaurant eatin’ our first meal of the day. So-long Fat.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Weary found Soapy and Yvonne at the front gate of the doctor’s place and
+he said to Soapy:
+
+“I dunno what it’s all about, Soapy, but Hashknife Hartley asked Ace
+Hart to let yuh have that place on Opal Creek and Ace said yuh could if
+yuh had a thousand dollars to buy stock with--and a wife. Hashknife said
+he’d furnish the money and the preacher. Him and Sleepy are at the Chink
+restaurant right now eatin’ a meal.”
+
+Weary turned on his heel and headed back for the main street while Soapy
+and Yvonne stood there in the moonlight staring at each other.
+
+“The place on Opal Creek and a thousand dollars,” muttered Soapy
+foolishly. “Hart said I could have it if I had--Yvonne, don’t you
+see what it means? Yore father will get well and Joe is cleared of
+everythin’. Hart gives me the place--Oh, don’tcha see what it means?
+Yvonne, all I’ve got to do now is to furnish the wife?”
+
+Yvonne reached out and touched Soapy on the sleeve, and they both looked
+up at the full moon, high up over the Chongo Creek hills.
+
+“There’s a road to the moon tonight, Soapy,” she said softly.
+
+“That’s right, honey! It’ll take us all our life but we’ll travel
+her--if yuh want to go with me.”
+
+“I’ve always wanted to see the moon,” she replied.
+
+Somewhere a cowboy was singing:
+
+    Love me love a lit-tul longer,
+    Till my wings get a lit-tul stronger.
+
+But they didn’t hear him--and they were _not_ looking at the moon.
+
+                               The End
+
+
+-----------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+                         Transcriber’s Note
+
+This story appeared in the January, 1928 issue of McClure’s Magazine.
+This story is believed to be in the public domain in the United States.
+Please note that copyright status may differ in other countries.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78766 ***