TRAMPS OF THE RANGE

By W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Flames of the Storm,”
“The Ranch of the Tombstones,” etc.

The first faint flush of dawn was creeping over the Mission River hills, as the Overland train drew to a stop at the little town of Moon Flats. It was only a moment’s pause, but in that length of time a man had dropped off the rods of the baggage-car, crept between the trucks and walked slowly down the main street.

The town was deserted at this time in the morning, and the man seemed to study the dimly outlined, false-fronted buildings as if he had been there before.

Moon Flats was a cow town—nothing more nor less. It was a shipping-point for the Mission River ranges, which also made it an outfitting point. Like the majority of the old cow towns it had one street, narrow wooden sidewalks, the tops of which were never securely nailed down, long hitch-racks and a pavement of deep, yellow dust in the Summer and a quagmire of mud and slush in the Winter.

As the light grew stronger it illuminated the faded and battered signs of the Moon Flats Gambling House, Buck Franey’s Place, Bill Eagle’s General Merchandise, Jakie Dick’s Élite Café and Restaurant, Trail End Gambling House, Mission River Stage-Office and General Post-Office.

The stronger light also illuminated the features of the man who studied them—a young face, although deeply lined and with a slight pallor, as if from sickness.

His eyes were dark, and his black hair showed slightly silvered at the temple, as if lightly brushed with a white powder. His nose was slightly hooked, and his lips seemed molded into a thin line above a strong chin.

He was slightly above the average in height, but just a trifle stooped. His garb was nondescript, dirty and greasy from travel. As he studied the signs a half-smile passed across his face and he sat down on the sidewalk in front of the Moon Flats Gambling House. By turning a pocket inside out, he managed to collect enough tobacco to roll a thin cigaret, which burned with the unmistakable odor of lint, but the man did not seem to mind.

Across the street, in the two-story, ramshackle Cattlemen’s Hotel, an alarm-clock started its tin-panny whirr, and in a moment a man’s voice was raised in sleepy profanity. The man on the sidewalk smiled.

There was silence for a few minutes, and again the clock shattered the silence. A moment later the cheap curtains were flung aside, an arm described an outward arc and the faithful despoiler of slumber splintered on the sidewalk.

This time the man on the sidewalk laughed softly. It was all so human—and he was unused to human things. And as if the splintering of the clock was a signal, Moon Flats began to wake up. From behind the Élite Café came the sounds of some one splitting kindling, and over at the livery stable the sliding doors creaked as the stable man came out and looked around. Doors slammed in the hotel.

A sleepy-eyed, uncombed cowboy came around a corner from a corral, leading two horses which he watered at the livery stable watering trough. He paid no attention to the man on the sidewalk as he went past, but on his return trip he stared hard and rubbed his ear with a rope end, as if wondering or thinking. The man on the sidewalk spat dryly.

The door behind him opened and a man came out, carrying two wooden buckets, while another lounged in the doorway, holding a broom in both hands. They were swampers, getting ready to clean out the place. The man with the buckets crossed to the pump beside the stable, where he filled the buckets, accompanied by much creaking protest from the old pump.

In a few minutes the two cowboys came out of the hotel, yawned widely and started across the street, arguing.

“I never done no such a —— thing!” declared one of them. “All I done was wind it.”

“Whatcha want to wind it fer?” queried the other. “It wasn’t your clock, Newt. My gosh! What did you care ’f it run down? Wakin’ us up at five o’clock! I s’pose you thought it was scientific, didn’t yuh? Knowed that clocks would wind up; so yuh wanted to do the right thing by it, eh?”

“Tha’s it, Monte,” agreed the other. “Let her go at that, can’t cha? You’d holler if yuh was goin’ to be sent to the——”

He stopped abruptly as he looked at the man on the sidewalk and squinted sharply, as if not believing his own eyes.

The man on the sidewalk looked them over coldly—a half-amused expression about his thin lips.

“Shell Romaine!” blurted the one called Newt.

“Yeah,” nodded the man on the sidewalk. “Shelby Romaine.”

“Well, I’m ——!”

Newt Bowie rubbed his chin and looked at Monte Barnes, who was pursing his lips as if trying to whistle, though no sound came forth.

“Moon Flats ain’t changed much in a year,” observed Romaine dryly.

“No-o-o, she ain’t—for sure,” agreed Newt, looking around as if considering the unprogressiveness of Moon Flats. “She ain’t growed much, Shell.”

“When didja come back?” queried Monte.

“Just before yore alarm went off.”

“Oh, that —— thing!”

Monte glanced back at the hotel.

“Newt, the danged fool, went and ——”

“Aw, let up on the poor old clock,” interrupted Newt. “Anybody’d think you’d been abused, cowboy. You ain’t seen a sunrise f’r so long that you don’t know it ever comes up.”

Newt and Monte sat down on the steps and relaxed. It was not difficult for either of them to relax, and their shoulder-blades were calloused from half-reclining against corral posts or tree-trunks.

“Goin’ t’ be here f’r a while, Shell?” asked Newt.

“Mebbe.”

“Uh-huh.”

Newt wanted information, but did not feel like asking pointblank for it.

Slightly over a year before, Shelby Romaine had been sent to the penitentiary for five years. Two men had held up the Mission County Bank at Sula, stolen thirty thousand dollars and shot the cashier. The cashier was crippled for life.

Jim Searles, a cowboy, who was an eyewitness of the robbers’ getaway, swore that he recognized one of them as being Shell Romaine. The Romaines, father and son, were of rather bad reputation, and it was not difficult to secure a conviction.

Old “Rim-Fire” Romaine, the father, battled mightily for his son. He was an old, lean-faced, white-mustached range man; quick-tempered, bitter of tongue, and reputed to be fast with a gun. The defense was weak, but there still remained—circumstantial evidence.

Shell Romaine refused to tell where the money was hidden, nor would he implicate any one else. The prosecution was also weak, but the jury brought in a verdict of guilty, and the judge sentenced Shelby Romaine to serve five years in Deer Park prison.

Old Rim-Fire Romaine cursed the judge and jury bitterly, and only through the intervention of the defense attorney was Rim-Fire prevented from filling the courtroom with powder smoke. Old Rim-Fire had gone back to his little ranch-house, fairly sizzling with anger, while Shelby, linked to Undersheriff “Splinter” See, had gone to prison.

Many folk were of the opinion that Shell Romaine should have received a heavier sentence, but the State was satisfied. He was reputed to be a hard-riding, wild sort of a ——, who respected no one; and the Mission range-folks breathed easier after he was gone.

But now he was back, looking like a tramp; a little leaner, slightly more white about the temples, but still keen of eye. The prison pallor still showed in his face, but a few days of sun would wipe that away.

“Seen anythin’ of my old dad?”

Shell’s voice was low.

“Yeah, I seen him the other day,” replied Newt. “Same old feller. Know yo’re out, Shell?”

“No. Is he still runnin’ the ranch?”

“Yeah.”

Shell watched Newt roll and light a cigaret before he said—

“Anythin’ new goin’ on around here?”

Newt inhaled deeply and blew the ash off his cigaret.

“No-o-o, nothin’ much, except the feller they calls the ‘Black Rider.’”

“He’s a-plenty,” grunted Monte seriously.

“Black Rider?”

“Uh-huh.”

Newt nodded and puffed slowly.

“Some jasper is liftin’ treasure-boxes, robbin’ banks, et cetery, and he dresses all in black. He’s sure a dinger, that feller; and he’s got the sheriff pawin’ his head.”

Shell stared at the toes of his worn shoes for a moment, and a bitter smile twisted his lips as he looked at Newt.

“It’s a wonder they don’t say it’s the man who helped me do that Mission Bank job.”

“That’s what they’re sayin’,” nodded Newt.

Shell laughed shortly.

“He must be smarter than I am.”

“He’s smart as ——,” agreed Monte quickly. “He’s about ten thousand dollars ahead of the game now.”

“Includin’ his half of the thirty thousand we stole, makes him kinda rich,” mused Shell.

“Yeah, that’s a fact,” grinned Newt. “’F he’s real cute, he’ll quit while the quittin’ is good.”

“Takes brains, I reckon,” sighed Shell. “A —— fool never knows when to quit. Pat Haley’s still sheriff, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, Pat is still lookin’ for suspects.”

“Pat’s all right—good sheriff,” nodded Shell. “Just ’cause he shipped me to the pen, don’t make me sore at him. He treated me right. No—” Shell shook his head—“I ain’t sore at none of them judges, lawyers nor jury. They done their dangdest, I reckon.”

“Jim Searles is still around here,” volunteered Monte.

“Thasso?”

Shell was too indifferent to this.

“Yeah, he’s still around here.”

“Lemme have yore Durham,” said Shell, holding out his hand to Newt. “I ain’t had nothin’ but pocket-scrapin’s for quite a while.”

“He’p yoreself, pardner, and then we’ll have a little mornin’ snifter.”

“Much obliged for the smoke, but I ain’t drinkin’—thank yuh kindly, Newt. I’ve been away from it a year, and I’m kinda sanitary and antiseptic, I reckon. I kinda get a kick outa settin’ here and lookin’ at the old town.”

“She ain’t much t’ look upon,” grinned Monte.

“It’s home,” said Shell softly as he lowered his head to lick the edge of his cigaret paper, “and I’ve been away for a good many lifetimes.”

That same morning Cal Severn stood on the spacious veranda of the Diamond-S ranch-house, leaning against the railing as he moodily smoked a cigaret, his somber eyes taking in the wide vista of rolling hills and the sun-tinted Mission range beyond.

Just beyond the huddle of barns and shelter-sheds a long line of cottonwoods and willows marked the twisting course of Whispering Creek. To the south lay mile upon mile of broken, rolling hills, an ideal cattle range.

The Diamond-S was the largest, and reputed to be the richest, cattle outfit in the Mission River range; owned for years by the Severn family, of which Cal Severn was the last of his line. Square-shooting, upstanding folks were the old Severns, proud, perhaps arrogant.

Cal Severn was barely thirty years of age, well-built, bronzed as an Indian. His face was lean but well proportioned, and his dusky-gray eyes remained indifferent, dreaming, even when his lips laughed. Like all of the Severns, he was quick of temper, slow to forgive; and Cal Severn was a fighter—a hard-riding fighter of the old rangeland.

Two men rode in at the big gate and halted at the corral, where they talked with two of the Diamond-S cowboys, who were saddling their horses. Cal Severn watched these two men turn their horses and ride toward him. They were strangers in the Mission River range; cowboys, by their garb.

One of them was tall, swarthy, with a heavy mustache and a hawk-like face; the other shorter, wiry of build, and with a face filled with grin-wrinkles. The tall one, in spite of his serious mien, appeared ready to laugh at any time.

They drew rein and nodded to Cal Severn.

“Lookin’ for work,” announced the tall one. “Me ’n’ him,” indicating his companion.

Severn shook his head.

“Not taking in any hands now.”

He shifted his position and tossed away his cigaret.

“Fact of the matter is, I’m laying off all, but one, of my boys today.”

“Thasso?”

The tall one seemed sympathetic. For a moment he considered Severn, and then his eyes swept around the confines of the Diamond-S as he reached to an inside pocket of his vest and took out a folded paper.

“Mind readin’ this?” he asked, handing the paper out to Severn, who took it and unfolded it slowly.

His eyes grew even more sober, and his lips settled into a harsh line as he scanned the typewritten page.

His eyes came up from the letter, and he stared off across the hills, thinking deeply.

“Yuh sabe the idea, don’t yuh?” queried the tall one.

Cal Severn seemed to jerk back to the present, and after a few moments he nodded slowly and handed the letter back to its owner.

“Yeah, I reckon I understand,” he said. “You’ll find bunks down there—” pointing toward the bunk-house—“and just make yourselves to home. Henry Horsecollar’ll fix yuh up.”

“I’m Hartley,” said the tall one. “Folks calls me ‘Hashknife.’ This wide-awake pardner of mine was christened Geor-gh, but answers to ‘Sleepy.’ How far is it to town?”

“Six miles,” shortly.

Cal Severn turned and walked back into the house, while Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens rode down to the bunk-house and dismounted. A tired-looking individual came around the corner and looked them over.

“Want t’ see somebody?” he asked.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o, I reckon not. We’ve just hired out to the Diamond-S.”

“Thasso? Huh!”

The man rubbed his ear violently.

“Kinda funny, seems like. Boss said he was cuttin’ down the crew, and he let Newt Bowie and Monte Barnes go yesterday.”

“He hired us,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe he knows two danged good men when he sees ’em, pardner.”

“Mebbe,” dryly. “M’name’s Dryden; first name’s Henry and m’ middle name’s Harrison. H. H. Dryden.”

“They sure branded yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m Hartley, and my pardner’s name is Stevens. Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens.”

“T’ meetcha,” bowed Dryden. “Howsa folks?”

“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “would be pryin’ into our private lives.”

“Ex-cuse me plumb to ——!” exclaimed Dryden, very apologetic and also very serious. “I’ll kinda he’p yuh git settled in the bunk-house.”

He led them inside the spacious bunk-house and allotted each of them a bunk. The room was large enough to accommodate twelve men, and as the Diamond-S force had been cut down they were able to select their own sleeping-places.

“Strangers around here?” queried Dryden.

“Uh-huh,” admitted Hashknife. “Tee-to-tally.”

“I sure know her from stem t’ gudgeon.”

Dryden smiled over his superior knowledge. It was not often that Dryden, known as “Henry Horsecollar,” was able to get any one to listen.

“I know this here country jist like a book,” he went on. “I know everything about her. There ain’t a cañon nor a wash-out that I ain’t fa-mil-yer with. By cripes, I sure know it well.”

“That’s sure fine,” applauded Hashknife, looking up from his bed-roll. “Anythin’ startling ever happen here?”

“Now yo’re talkin’,” said Henry. “There sure is. Ain’tcha never heard of the Black Rider?”

“Go ahead,” grinned Sleepy. “We’ll bite, Henry.”

“Aw-w-w-w, it ain’t no joke. Nossir.” Henry shook his head violently.

“That there Black Rider sure ain’t no joke. He’s a lone rider, that feller is, and he’s sure he’pin’ himself t’things around this neck of the timber.”

“Rustler?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he’s rustlin’ any; but he’s sure makin’ money off the stages and banks. Rides a black horse and dresses in black. Aw-w-w, yuh don’t have t’ believe me; yuh can ask anybody around here.”

“Henry Horsecollar, we believe yuh,” grinned Hashknife. “Who do yuh reckon it is?”

“’F I knowed I’d sure go after him—mebbe.”

Henry was not committing himself.

“Outlawin’ must be a good business around here,” observed Sleepy.

“While she lasts,” agreed Henry; “but she don’t always last long. Look at Shell Romaine. He sure grabbed off a lot of money from the bank at Sula; but they put the deadwood on him, and he’s bustin’ rocks at Deer Park for five years. His old man owns a little outfit between here and Moon Flats—off to the right-hand side as yuh go from here. They calls him ‘Rim-Fire’ Romaine.

“Bitter? Beside him quinine would taste kinda sickish-sweet. Hates everybody. Got a few dogey cows and some horses.”

“What’s he sore about?” asked Hashknife.

“Eve’ything.”

Henry spread his hands to indicate the entire universe.

“Hates eve’ything.”

“Did they ever get the money back?” asked Sleepy.

“Git it? ——, no! Shell wouldn’t tell ’em nothin’. It was thirty thousand dollars. There was three weeks that not a danged cowboy on this range would work. Nossir; they was all treasure-hunters; but nobody ever found it.”

“Did you hunt for it?”

“Yuh danged well right I did! I was workin’ for the X Bar X outfit at the time and when I got back I found out I didn’t have no job; so I beat the Diamond-S outfit over here and got a job from Cal Severn. Cal was sore as —— at his own crew.”

“Good feller to work for?” asked Hashknife.

“Fine and dandy. He don’t pay much attention; but say—” Henry lowered his voice—“this ranch ain’t no money-maker. They tell me that old man Severn was a humdinger, but Cal sure ain’t. ——, he’s a dreamin’ son-of-a-gun, and yuh can’t run a cow-ranch thataway. He’s hot-headed sometimes, and he’d fight a circle-saw, but he ain’t got no idea of business.”

“He ought to make you the foreman,” said Hashknife.

“Yeah.”

Henry shifted his tobacco and spat accurately at a sawdust-filled box beside the stove.

“Yeah, that’s what I been thinkin’. I could sure make this a reg’lar ranch, y’betcha. Mebbe Cal Severn don’t think it takes brains t’ run a ranch like this, but ’f I had a chance I’d sure show him what a li’l head-work would do.”

“What’s yore job around here now?” queried Hashknife.

“Aw, I kinda work around—keepin’ things tidy-like.”

Just at that moment, Cal Severn came to the door and looked inside.

“Henry fix yuh up?” he asked.

“Yeah,” grinned Hashknife. “We’re all set.”

“Yuh spoke about goin’ to town,” remarked Severn. “I’m ridin’ down right away.”

“And we’ll ride right along with yuh,” nodded Hashknife.

Cal Severn saddled a horse and the three men rode away, while Henry Horsecollar stood in the doorway, chewing rapidly. He heartily approved of the new men. Since they were strangers, he would be able to talk about many things that the natives would not listen to nor believe.

“Quite a character,” observed Hashknife, jerking his head in the direction of the bunk-house.

“Henry Horsecollar?” grinned Severn. “Yeah, he sure is. Did he retail all the range gossip?”

“Well, he got a runnin’ start,” laughed Hashknife. “Told us about the Black Rider.”

Severn laughed.

“That’s a pet piece of gossip for Henry, and if he talks long enough about it he’ll tell you who the Black Rider is and where to find him.”

“Is it Henry’s imagination, or is there a Black Rider?”

“There is,” declared Severn, “and he’s makin’ things bad for the money interests. Somebody named him the Black Rider because he wore black clothes, I reckon.”

“Got any idea who it might be?”

Severn shook his head.

“No, but I wish I did. There’s an aggregate of ten thousand dollars reward for him—and I could sure use ten thousand dollars right now.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me, pardner,” assured Hashknife. “I never could count that much, but they could short-change me and never make me sore.”

Shell Romaine stirred the curiosity of Moon Flats, and many were the conjectures over his appearance; but he made no explanation of why he was out four years ahead of his sentence. Pat Haley got word of it and lost no time in meeting Romaine.

Pat was hard-faced, prone to hew to the line of duty, but with a soft heart inside his deep chest; and it was with a smile that he approached Shell Romaine.

“Shell, me lad, I heard ye was in town.”

“Hyah, Pat,” grinned Shell. “Howsa jail since I left?”

They shook hands earnestly, like two old friends meeting after a long separation.

“The jail is still intact,” stated Pat, “and little used.”

“She’s a good strong jail,” admitted Shell, “or I’d ’a’ bored out, y’betcha. How’s the good wife?”

“She’s fine, Shell. Did they treat ye right at the big corral?”

Shell smiled grimly.

“Did any one ever go there expectin’ good treatment, Pat?”

“’Tis not the primary object of the thing,” agreed Pat slowly, “and I suppose that even Moon Flats looks good to ye now, Shell.”

“Uh-huh,” slowly.

“Will ye be stayin’ hereabouts?”

Pat Haley wanted some information, but did not want to come right out and ask for it.

“I dunno.”

Shell shook his head.

“It all depends, Pat.”

“I suppose so.”

Pat fidgeted with his belt-buckle.

“Have ye been out long, Shell?”

“Not very long.”

“Uh-huh. Well, have ye seen the old man yet?”

“No.”

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully.

Evidently Shell Romaine was not going to explain anything. They stood together on the edge of the board sidewalk in front of the Élite Café and considered the street while Cal Severn, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens rode in and tied their horses at the hitch-rack in front of Buck Franey’s place.

Haley noticed that there were two new punchers with Severn and also noted that their horses were branded with the Hashknife brand, which was a big outfit many miles to the South. Shell Romaine watched Severn until he disappeared inside Franey’s Place, and then he turned to Haley.

“How’s Cal Severn gettin’ along these days, Pat?”

“Fine.”

Some one called out from across the way, and they turned to see a man riding swiftly down the street. He jerked his mount to a stop at the door of the Moon Flats saloon and sprang to the ground. Several men gathered around him as he talked excitedly, and one of them pointed across the street in the direction of the sheriff and Romaine.

“Somethin’ must ’a’ happened,” observed Haley. “There’s Mort Lee. C’m on.”

They crossed the street, where the crowd was gathering, and the excited rider turned to the sheriff. The man was a stranger to Romaine.

“They got the Black Rider!” he exclaimed. “He tried to stop the Mission River stage at Medicine Creek, and Jim Searles got him cold.”

“What do ye know about that?” grunted the sheriff. “Do ye know who he was, Mort?”

“Old man Romaine!”

The sheriff shot a quick glance at Shell Romaine, whose body had stiffened under the shock of his father’s death. Some one in the crowd who knew Shell tried to interrupt the speaker, who continued:

“Doc Maldeen was with Searles when the old man tried to stick ’em up; but Searles was lookin’ for somethin’ like that, and he started shootin’. They’ll be here in a little while.”

The man laughed nervously as he added:

“I come dang near gettin’ shot m’self. I was ridin’ down the creek trail and busted right into it after it was all over. Thought I heard a shot just before that, but the creek makes so much noise and the twisted cañon kinda cuts off sounds. Searles lined up on me before he recognized who I was.”

Nearly all the men in the crowd knew Shell Romaine, and they watched him curiously as he turned away and went into the Moon Flats saloon.

“You —— fool!”

One of the cowboys grasped the excited informer by the arm. “That feller is Shell Romaine, the old man’s son!”

“Well, how’d I know?” he whined. “I never seen him before.”

Cal Severn, Hashknife and Sleepy had joined the group in time to hear it all. There were no expressions of satisfaction over the passing of the Black Rider, although he had been a menace to the country. Both father and son bore bad reputations, but these grave-faced men around the sheriff did not comment upon the passing of one nor the appearance of the other.

One of the crowd moved over to the doorway of the saloon and peered inside, coming back in a moment to state softly that Shell Romaine was at the bar, drinking whisky.

“I don’t blame him,” stated the sheriff. “I dunno what I’d do in a case like that, so I don’t.”

A man came up the sidewalk, surveyed the group for a moment and called to the sheriff. The man was dressed in “store clothes,” bareheaded and in his shirt sleeves. He handed a folded yellow paper to the sheriff and watched him as he read:

EXPRESS MESSENGER OF OVERLAND FOUND BOUND AND GAGGED WHEN TRAIN REACHED WHEELOCK THIS MORNING. SAFE BLOWN AND BIG AMOUNT REPORTED STOLEN. MESSENGER SAYS ROBBER LEFT TRAIN BETWEEN CLEVIS CREEK AND MOON FLATS.

(Signed) CLAVERING.

Sheriff Haley squinted closely at the message as some of the more inquisitive moved in close to see what it was about. Haley folded up the message and turned to the crowd.

“A lone bandit blew the Overland safe this mornin’ and got off between here and Clevis Creek, accordin’ to this telegram from Clavering, the marshal at Wheelock.”

“By ——, this is gittin’ to be a reg’lar country!” exclaimed an old grizzled cowman. “If it ain’t one thing, it’s two.”

Haley nodded, and his eyes squinted thoughtfully as he remembered that Shell Romaine had just reached town. It was only three miles to Clevis Creek by the road, although it was much farther by rail and over a heavy grade, where a train barely crawled.

“If the Black Rider hadn’t been killed they’d blame it on to him,” declared another.

“The Overland hits there before daylight,” said another, “and the stage don’t hit Medicine Creek before eleven o’clock or later—and it’s only seven miles from Medicine Creek crossin’ to Clevis Creek railroad bridge.”

Haley glanced around the crowd, and his eyes stopped at Hashknife, who was looking at him. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were strangers—and this was not exactly a nice day for strangers in Moon Flats; not unless they could furnish a good alibi.

Several others took notice of Hashknife and Sleepy, but the coming of the stage precluded any questions. It drew up at the stage-office, and thither went the crowd.

Jim Searles, the driver, was a lanky, raw-boned, long-mustached person with pouchy eyes and red-veined cheeks. Doc Maldeen, the other occupant of the driver’s seat, was a man of about forty years of age, black-haired, keen of features and with a long, flowing black mustache. He was slightly overdressed, and one might expect him momentarily to produce a stock of cure-alls, made by some famous Indian medicine-man, and which would cure any and all ills of mankind.

But Jim Searles was no less the showman in spite of his appearance. Without visible emotion but feeling that his prowess had been well advertised by Mort Lee, Searles looked the crowd over coldly, triumphantly. Then he handed the lines to Maldeen, got slowly down over the wheel and with a quick motion of his arm jerked the stage door open.

Lying on the floor of the stage, half-reclining against a seat, was the body of old Rim-Fire Romaine.

“There,” said Searles dramatically, “is yore Black Rider!”

As Searles’ eyes came back to the crowd he looked straight into the face of Shell Romaine, the man he had helped send to the penitentiary. Searles’ eyes widened and he swayed back against the wheel as if trying to get farther away.

Shell’s eyes were half-closed as he leaned forward and looked inside the stage. He had drunk considerable whisky, but was far from being drunk. The sheriff stepped in beside Searles and motioned for two of the men to help him remove the body, but Shell shoved one of them aside and took his place.

They carried the body into the stage-office and placed it on the floor. The old man was dressed in an old suit of rusty, badly fitting black clothes, nondescript shirt, black slouch hat and well-worn, high-heeled boots. The sheriff, after a cursory examination, stepped back. The old man had been killed with a buckshot load from a sawed-off shotgun—the upper part of his body being riddled.

Shell Romaine still stood beside the body, his shoulders hunched as he stared down at what had been his father, while the crowd watched him in silence. Then he lifted his eyes and looked straight at Jim Searles. It was not a look of anger; rather it appeared that Shell was trying to read Searles’ innermost thoughts—and Searles turned away.

“Mind tellin’ us about it, doc?” asked the sheriff of Maldeen. “Mort Lee told us some of it, but he was kinda excited.”

“There’s not much to tell,” stated Maldeen. “We came to Medicine Creek, and Romaine stepped out of the brush just in front of us. He threw up his hand, trying to stop us, I think—and Searles shot him.

“He fell back into the brush. I held the team while Jim went over there and found out that he had killed old man Romaine. As he came back Mort Lee rode out of the brush and Jim almost shot him. Mort found out what had happened and then came on in ahead to tell about it.”

“Had a gun, did he?” queried the sheriff.

Searles stepped forward and handed him a long-barreled .44 Colt pistol.

“This here’s his gun, sheriff.”

The sheriff looked at the gun and dropped it into his pocket as he said—

“It kinda looks like Searles was right; so there won’t be no inquest.”

“How about that reward, Pat?” asked Searles.

He had moved in closer to Shell Romaine as he spoke to the sheriff, and the words had barely left his lips when Shell whirled, stepped across the body of his father and smashed Searles flush in the mouth with a terrific right-hand swing.

Searles went backward almost out of the doorway, where he collapsed, half-knocked out and spitting broken teeth through his cut lips. Shell tried to follow up his blow, but Hashknife Hartley blocked him.

“Take her easy, pardner,” begged Hashknife. “You can’t hurt him any more until he gets partly over that punch.”

Shell’s face was white, and his eyes were a mere, dark-colored line, so tightly were they drawn, but he did not try to force his way past the tall cowpuncher. Searles crawled to his hands and knees and managed to get to his feet.

“I’d druther be kicked by a mule,” observed one of the crowd seriously. “Jim Searles’ll be eatin’ his meals through Doc Hansen’s stummick-pump, I’ll betcha.”

But Searles made no comment. He clapped one hand over his mouth and staggered outside, without asking further about the reward. That punch had driven all monetary considerations from his mind.

Shell Romaine turned to the sheriff.

“If there ain’t goin’ to be no inquest, can’t I take him home, sheriff?”

His voice was pitched low, and his sudden flash of resentment had passed now.

“There ain’t nothin’ yuh want of him—now, is there?”

Pat Haley did not know just what to say. He looked at Shell and around at the crowd as if seeking guidance in this matter. Then he said:

“Well, I dunno, Shell. Why don’t ye let us bury him all regular-like and——”

“Knowin’ that he was an outlaw, Pat? What does Moon Flats care about old man Romaine? My God, he was the only person on earth who cared for me! Me and him were a lot alike, sheriff; carin’ for each other—kinda; and if it ain’t against the law I’d like to take him—home.”

Shell turned his head and looked down at the body, while Pat Haley bit his lower lip and had trouble adjusting his cartridge-belt. It was annoying him greatly; and several moments elapsed before he looked at Shell Romaine.

“Shell—ahem-m-m—it may be irregular as ——, but there ain’t any of us too regular. You go right ahead, will ye?”

“Thanks, Pat. I suppose I can hire a team and a wagon.”

“Yuh can borry mine,” stated the man who had declared that Searles was due to take nourishment through a stomach-pump. “It’s over in front of the store.”

“Thanks,” nodded Shell, and walked out past the crowd.

Severn, Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside to the edge of the sidewalk, where they were joined in a moment by the sheriff, who looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Do yuh think that Romaine was the Black Rider, Pat?” asked Severn.

The sheriff spat dryly and looked at Hashknife.

“We’re strangers,” explained Hashknife, “and I know how yuh feel, sheriff. I’m Hashknife Hartley and my pardner’s name is Stevens.”

Names meant nothing to Pat Haley, and he merely nodded.

Hashknife produced the same paper he had shown to Cal Severn and handed it to the sheriff, who perused it slowly, pursing his lips over the words. Finally he folded it carefully and handed it back to Hashknife.

“Ah-ha-a-a!” he grunted. “So that’s it, eh?”

“Kinda looks thataway,” smiled Hashknife.

“Well, I wish ye luck.”

Shell Romaine drove up and crowded the team close to the edge of the sidewalk, while four men brought out the body and placed it in the wagon-box. And without a word to any one Shell Romaine kicked off the brake and drove slowly down the street—going home.

“May the —— fly away wid me!” muttered Pat Haley. “I may be violatin’ the law and me own duty in doin’ this thing, but I’ve somethin’ inside of me besides liver and lights, so I have.”

“Do yuh think that Shell Romaine had anythin’ to do with the Overland robbery?” asked Severn.

Pat Haley bit off a generous chew of tobacco and hitched up his cartridge-belt.

“Ye’ll never find out by askin’ me today, and if ye asked Shell—he’d likely lie about it.”

Hashknife grinned in appreciation of the answer, but Cal Severn turned on his heel and walked away.

“The Spanish cavalee-e-e-er stood in his retreat and on his guit-ar-r-r-r played a tune, de-e-e-ear.”

Henry Horsecollar’s voice, if it might be called a voice, wailed dismally as he stood, razor in hand, and surveyed his half-shaven features in the dingy bunk-house mirror.

Hashknife Hartley sat up in his blankets and blinked sleepily at Henry, after which he reached down and picked up one of his boots. Henry twisted his face sidewise so as to afford a medium smooth surface for the dull razor, and from that cramped facial angle continued—

“The mu-u-u-usic so-o-o-o swee-e-e-t——”

Blam! The boot crashed into the wall beside the mirror and drove all the music from Henry’s soul. He turned and glared at Hashknife.

“Ex-cuse me,” apologized Hashknife seriously.

“Why for did yuh throw the boot at me?” demanded Henry.

“Honest to gosh, I thought yuh was sufferin’,” declared Hashknife, “and I can’t bear to see sufferin’.”

Sleepy kicked himself loose from his blankets and sat up.

“This is Sunday, don’tcha know it?” queried Henry.

“And you woke us up this early!” growled Sleepy. “What kind of a ranch is this anyway? Does everybody get up early and go to church?”

“I betcha Henry Horsecollar has got a sweetheart,” grinned Hashknife, and Henry’s ears got very red.

He turned and washed his face violently in cold water, while Hashknife and Sleepy winked at each other and began dressing.

“What does the boss do on Sunday?” queried Hashknife.

“Goes to see his girl,” replied Henry.

“This must be a reg’lar Romeo ranch,” laughed Sleepy. “We’ll have to fall in love with somebody, Hashknife.”

Henry wiped his face and sat down on the edge of his bunk. His face was badly cross-hatched from the dull razor, but shone from much scrubbing with soap—that is, the part which had been scrubbed. Henry was a lot like the average small boy, who never washes farther back than a line drawn from temple to angle of jaw-bone.

“Who is Cal Severn’s girl?” asked Hashknife.

“Mary O’Hara.”

“Swede?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno. She’s Pat Haley’s niece, that’s all I know.”

“Visitin’ here?”

Hashknife seemed anxious for information.

“No, I don’t reckon you’d call it that. She’s been with Pat and his wife for a couple of years!”

“Pretty girl?”

Henry Horsecollar scratched his chin and seemed to take the question under advisement.

“Well, she ain’t my idea of beauty. I never did care for yallerish-red hair and blue eyes; and I betcha she powders, ’cause no danged human female has got skin as white as her skin is, and—Well, I ain’t sayin’ she ain’t pretty, but to my way of thinkin’, she ain’t.”

“Young?”

“Yuh can’t tell—with all that powder; but mebbe she ain’t more ’n twenty-one. I reckon she’s a nice girl, but if she wasn’t, Henry H. Dryden would be the last one to hold it ag’in’ her.”

“Yo’re sure broad-minded, Henry,” applauded Hashknife. “Did yuh know Shell Romaine?”

“Dang right!”

Henry grew thoughtful.

“I wonder why they turned him loose and what he’s goin’ to do. I had a hunch that Rim-Fire Romaine was the Black Rider. I kinda git hunches, don’tcha know it?”

“You look like yuh might,” agreed Sleepy meaningly.

“It don’t look right t’ me for a man t’ take his own father home and bury him.”

Henry shook his head.

“Things like that ought t’ be all fixed up by a preacher.”

“Do yuh think that it makes any difference to God Almighty?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, if yo’re goin’ that deep into the matter, I’ll pass. The old man was a tough old pelican; hated —— out of everybody, ’specially after Shell got sent to the pen.”

“Shell is a hard man to whip, ain’t he?” asked Sleepy.

“Yo’re danged well right he is!”

Henry laughed and caressed his scratched chin.

“He licked Cal Severn, and when yuh lick Cal yo’re some scrapper.”

“What did they fight over?”

Hashknife grew serious.

“I dunno. That was over a year ago, and I don’t reckon I ever knowed what started it. Anyway they curried each other right on the main street of Moon Flats, and Shell jist knocked —— out of Cal. They both had guns on ’em, but neither one offered to do any shootin’.”

“Probably just a friendly fight,” observed Hashknife. “Let’s see if the cook’s got anythin’ to eat.”

A middle-aged half-breed woman was doing the cooking. Henry Horsecollar called her “Mrs. Wicks,” and then talked to her in the Nez Percé tongue, which they both spoke fluently. Henry scowled over some information and shot questions at the woman, who only repeated her statement.

“I’m goin’ to git me a new job!” declared Henry heatedly. “By gosh, I’m tired of bein’ bossed allatime. Sunday is supposed t’ be a day of rest, and here the boss goes an’ passes me an order t’ stay here at the ranch.”

“Can’t yuh rest here?” asked Sleepy.

“Rest, ——!” exploded Henry. “There ain’t no reason for it, by gosh!”

He turned and spoke to Mrs. Wicks, who repeated her former statement. Henry sighed—

“I don’t reckon she’s mistaken, ’cause she’s told me the same darned thing three times hand-runnin’.”

After breakfast Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses, while Henry Horsecollar looked on disconsolate. He wanted to go and see his girl, but a job meant a lot to Henry and he did not want to displease Cal Severn.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode toward Moon Flats, twisting in and out of the low hills to a rickety old bridge which spanned the swift-running Mission River. Beyond this the road skirted the hills. There were a few cattle in evidence, but the better feed was farther back in the range.

“What do yuh think of this layout?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno,” grunted Hashknife. “’Pears like we’ve run into somethin’, Sleepy.”

Hashknife drew rein near the mouth of a gulch, up which was an old road, showing little travel.

“I wonder if this is the road that leads to Romaine’s ranch.”

“Kinda looks like she might be,” agreed Sleepy, and they turned and rode up the side of the hill, ignoring the road, which angled up the gentle slope of the dry cañon.

A mile farther on they cut back to the rim of the cañon and stopped in a clump of jackpines. Below them in the bottom of the gulch was a tumble-down shanty and barn. Behind this was a rickety old corral. An old roan horse browsed around the corral, and a few chickens roamed around the dusty yard.

There did not seem to be any sign of life about the place. Suddenly their attention was arrested by a flash of color farther up the cañon, where a large clump of cottonwoods grew around a spring. A man and a woman were standing there close together, but at that distance it was impossible to identify them. There was a saddle-horse tied to a tree, but the shadows hid its color.

“I reckon this ain’t the place we’re lookin’ for,” observed Hashknife, “but we’ll ride down and kinda find out whose place she is, Sleepy.”

“Might as well,” agreed Sleepy, and they rode straight down the side of the hill to the flat below.

Half a dozen mongrel dogs came out of the house at their approach, and each one tried to outdo the other in dog language.

As they rode up to the door a disheveled-looking character came on to the porch and stared at them. The man was a half-breed, bleary of eye and slovenly dressed. He was without boots, and his socks were half off his feet.

Several loose rocks were on the porch, and one of these he hurled at the barking dogs, sending them ki-yiing away. Then he drew himself up in mock dignity and said—

“What in —— you want here?”

“What yuh got?” asked Hashknife seriously.

“Ugh!”

The man leaned against a post and put one foot on top of the other, while he wiped his lips with a none too clean hand.

“This yore ranch?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah—my ranch; yo’ —— right!”

“What’s yore name?”

“Me Joe Wicks, by ——!”

“Must be the lovin’ husband of the cook,” grinned Sleepy. “No wonder she hires out.”

Joe Wicks bobbed his head drunkenly and reached for another rock; but the dogs knew what was coming and fled down toward the barn, where they proceeded to pull off a free-for-all fight.

“How far is it to the Romaine ranch?” asked Hashknife.

Joe Wicks considered this a while, slobbering just a trifle and keeping one eye on a spotted dog, which was coming toward the porch, but on an angle which would take it just beyond the corner.

A moment later came the slither of gravel, and Joe hurled his rock at the corner just in time to hit a girl who was turning toward the porch. Without a sound she crumpled up, while the dog, which had gone up to meet her, went yapping back toward the fighting crew at the barn.

“My Gawd!” gasped Hashknife, sliding out of his saddle and almost colliding with Sleepy.

They picked the girl up and placed her on the porch. The rock had hit her on the head, but too high up to do her any permanent injury.

Joe Wicks looked drunkenly on as Hashknife parted her hair and examined the bruise. She was dressed in a plain calico dress, badly made, and was undeniably part Indian, but her features were pretty. She was not over eighteen and had not begun to acquire the shapeless figure which her kind are heir to after the bloom of youth has faded.

After a minute her eyes opened and she looked around.

“Got eyes like a young doe,” grunted Sleepy, and blushed to think that he had spoken his thoughts.

“What was it?” she asked softly.

“You got hit with a rock,” explained Hashknife. “Better lay still for a few minutes.”

Her hand went up to her head, and she felt tenderly of the bruise. Hashknife pointed at Joe Wicks and said—

“He throwed a rock at the dog and you walked into it.”

“—— dogs!” grunted Joe. “Too —— much dogs!”

She sat up, blinked her eyes dizzily for a moment and got to her feet with Hashknife’s assistance.

“Thank you,” she said with that peculiar, half-hiss of an Indian speaking a strange tongue, and went into the house without speaking to Joe Wicks.

“My girl,” said Joe. “Marie Wicks, by ——!”

“Your daughter?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah—my papoose; yo’ —— right!”

Hashknife considered Joe, and his mind flashed back to the squat figure of Mrs. Wicks. Marie was pretty, graceful; but still she was the offspring of these two. Joe’s socks bothered him considerably; so he yanked them off and threw them aside.

“Yo’ have drink whisky?” he grunted.

“Where did you get whisky?” demanded Hashknife quickly.

Joe licked his lips and his eyes narrowed, but he did not say. Hashknife knew it was of no use to ask an Indian where he got liquor; so he did not repeat his question.

“Let’s go,” suggested Hashknife, getting back into his saddle. “We’ll cut across the hills toward town, and we’ll likely find the Romaine ranch.”

Sleepy mounted, and they started toward the opposite side of the cañon. Joe Wicks watched them through narrowed eyes, and called after them—

“Yo’ go to ——!”

Hashknife nodded as if accepting good advice, while Joe Wicks spat dryly and went into the house.

“Can yuh ’magine that girl bein’ a daughter of them two? Can yuh?”

Sleepy’s questions were explosive.

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “she sure don’t take after her folks, Sleepy.”

They rode on across the sage-covered hills, angling back toward the road, riding silently; both men thinking deeply. Their course led down the sharp side of a hill and on to a flat, where they passed a heavy growth of timber and drew up at an old rail fence which enclosed a ranch-house, little better kept than that belonging to Joe Wicks.

There was no human being in sight, and an air of lonesomeness seemed to pervade the old place. The roofs of the house and barn were sway-backed from age and neglect, and everything seemed neglected, forgotten.

Hashknife opened a broken-hinged gate, and they rode up to the house. The door was closed and locked with a heavy padlock. Just out in the yard was a fresh mound of dirt; mute evidence that Shell Romaine had buried his own father.

Hashknife shook his head sadly.

“Dang it all, yuh got to feel sorry for Romaine. Mebbe he ain’t no good—I dunno.”

“He’s got guts anyway,” declared Sleepy. “He didn’t lay down and wail about it, Hashknife.”

“No,” agreed Hashknife; “he sure didn’t; and I like the way he pasted the stage-driver. Man, he sure can hit. Well, I don’t reckon there’s any use foolin’ around here.”

They turned and rode out of the yard, heading down the road, which would connect with the main highway to Moon Flats. Just at the edge of the clearing, where the road twisted between a tall outcropping of granite and a big clump of brush, Hashknife suddenly jerked sidewise in his saddle, almost falling across his horse’s neck; while from back somewhere near the house came the sharp snap of a high-power rifle.

With a sharp slash of his spurs Sleepy whirled his horse sidewise, throwing Hashknife’s mount off the road and into the brush, where both horses raced ahead several jumps before Sleepy stopped them. Hashknife was humped in the saddle, apparently badly jarred. Sleepy slid to the ground and went to Hashknife’s assistance, but the tall cowboy had already dismounted and was fumbling with his holster.

“Where did it git yuh?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Take a look,” grunted Hashknife, turning his back to Sleepy.

The bullet had torn Hashknife’s shirt from the center of his back to a point high up on the shoulder, cutting an ugly gash but not going deep enough for any permanent injury.

Sleepy started to examine it more closely; but another bullet struck a sapling just behind them, and they both dropped low in the brush.

“Kinda jagged me, didn’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Cultivated yore shoulder,” grunted Sleepy. “If that danged fool don’t quit he’ll hit a horse.”

“Yeah—if he don’t quit he’ll grab a harp,” gritted Hashknife, flexing his right arm.

Another bullet flipped above them, sending a shower of leaves down upon their sombrero hats, but they were so low that the shooter could not see them now, and he was evidently shooting by guess.

“Wish we had a Winchester,” grumbled Hashknife. “Can’t do much with a six-shooter at this range, but I can sure make one awful stab at it.”

“Aw-w-w, look at them —— horses!” wailed Sleepy.

The two horses had left the brush and were working out into the open. One of them had the reins looped around its foot and was moving along head down, when the rifle cracked again, and the horse pitched headlong, kicked wildly and lay still.

Sleepy sprang to his feet, but Hashknife yanked him down.

“Stay down, yuh danged fool! Don’tcha know he was tryin’ to hoodle yuh into starting somethin’?”

The rifle cracked again, and the other horse floundered back into the brush, ran a few jumps and crashed down.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “we’re due to walk now.”

“I reckon we better be glad that we’re able to walk,” observed Sleepy. “That jasper is a good shot, and you just happened to turn far enough to miss bein’ hit plumb center. Hurtin’ yuh much?”

“Not half as much as my feet will before we get to town, Sleepy. My boots are kinda tight.”

“Danged dude,” sarcastically. “Tryin’ to pinch a pair of number tens into nines. Next thing I know you’ll be usin’ cornstarch on yore nose to take off the shine.”

“Well,” mournfully, “I’ll still be yore little friend. No matter what happens, I won’t turn yuh down because yuh ain’t got no sense, Sleepy.”

Sleepy grunted explosively and peered through the brush. There was no sign of the shooter. A magpie, dipping and sailing across the clearing, twisted sharply and came to rest on the apex of the ranch-house roof. A minute later another of the same species came in from the opposite direction and perched near the first one, where they both chattered volubly, arguing in almost human voices.

“Either that bushwhacker is danged well hid or he’s pulled out,” declared Hashknife. “Them magpies ain’t even cautious, and yuh can’t hardly fool a magpie.”

Cautiously they crawled toward the edge of the clearing, taking plenty of time and watching closely. An exposed sombrero failed to draw a shot. Hashknife snaked himself in behind a cottonwood bole and assumed an upright position. The sharp eyes of the magpies discovered him, and they flitted swiftly away, calling a warning to all of their kind.

Hashknife gripped his gun, flung himself away from the tree and ran to the dead horse, where he dropped flat on the ground. Still there was no shot to break the stillness. He sat up, taking a long chance, but no shot came.

Sleepy walked over, and they examined the horses, both of which had been almost instantly killed. They stripped off the saddles and bridles and hung them up in a tree. Neither of the men complained nor swore dire revenge upon the man who had deprived them of their mounts.

“That there roan was a danged good horse,” declared Sleepy.

“Such as he was,” admitted Hashknife; “but he didn’t noways compare with my gray hawse.”

“Both of ’em bein’ dead, it sure makes a fifty-fifty argument,” grinned Sleepy. “That little roan bronc was all horse. Fifty miles a day——”

“Yuh mean, a week,” interrupted Hashknife.

“Lemme finish, won’t yuh? Jumpin’ at conclusions thataway, Hashknife, makes me weary of yore company. I was goin’ to say that fifty miles a day would kill that roan—dead. Want me to doctor that shoulder?”

“Naw. It kinda burns a little, and it’s sore as ——; but yore kind of doctorin’ wouldn’t help it none. Let’s go to Moon Flats. Can’t be more than a couple of miles.”

Sleepy nodded.

“All right, cowboy. I hope they don’t cuss us nor shoot at us down there. I never did see such a —— uncivilized country in my life. Who do yuh reckon shot at us?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“I dunno. Likely mistook us for some one else and pulled out as soon as they found out their mistake.”

Sleepy shook his head and squinted at Hashknife.

“Now, you don’t even start to think thataway. They’d ’a’ found that out before they shot our horses, wouldn’t they? They never got a look at us after that.”

“Mebbe they got scared and shot the horses to keep us from followin’ ’em, Sleepy.”

“All right, all right. Mebbe this and mebby that, and all the time——”

“We’re delayin’ the blisters on our heels,” finished Hashknife. “C’mon, old pessimist.”

And they started off down the road, walking with the stiff-legged gait of a cowboy whose boots are high-heeled and altogether too tight; walking with elbows bent and hardly swaying from the head to the waist.

Just before they reached the forks of the road a rider swung on to Romaine’s road and eyed them curiously. It was Mort Lee, the cowboy who had brought news of the Romaine killing to Moon Flats. Hashknife grinned at him, and after a moment Mort Lee grinned widely.

“Takin’ our daily exercise,” stated Hashknife seriously.

“Yeah?”

Mort Lee did not seem convinced.

“Keeps a feller in good shape,” added Sleepy, shaking the perspiration off his nose.

“I betcha,” agreed Mort, and added, “’Specially in ridin’-boots.”

“That fit tight,” added Hashknife painfully.

Mort Lee nodded, and his eyes invited explanations which did not come. Finally he said—

“Been up to Romaine’s place?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shell at home?”

“I dunno,” said Hashknife. “We didn’t see him.”

“Oh.”

Mort Lee pursed his lips and squinted at the sun.

“We-e-ell, I reckon I’ll be moseyin’ on, gents. Yuh won’t find the main road much better walkin’ than this.”

He spurred his horse and went away in a whirl of dust.

“If they don’t cuss yuh or shoot at yuh, they hang crape,” complained Sleepy. “—— such a country!”

“Country’s all right,” argued Hashknife. “It’s the folks in it that make it bad. These people need purifyin’—that’s all it needs, Sleepy.”

“That’s all —— needs,” retorted Sleepy sadly.

About the time that Hashknife and Sleepy reached the main road, a crowd of men gathered around a poker table in the Moon Flats gambling house. Cal Severn had challenged Doc Maldeen to a single-handed game of stud poker. Severn seldom played poker, but when he did it was for big money, and the men around the table grinned in anticipation of large stakes.

There was no money in sight, Severn merely requesting five thousand dollars worth of chips. The cowboys around the table gasped audibly. Five thousand dollars! But Maldeen did not even blink as he slid five stacks of white chips across the table to Severn.

“Hundred dollar chips big enough?” he asked casually, and Severn nodded as he stacked them up in two piles of twenty-five chips each.

They cut for deal, and Maldeen won. Both men shoved in an ante of two hundred dollars after getting their hole-card. Then Severn drew an ace and Maldeen a seven spot. Severn bet two hundred and Maldeen stayed. The third card around showed another ace for Severn and a king for Maldeen.

This time Severn bet two hundred, and, after calm consideration, Maldeen tossed in seven chips.

“Tiltin’ it five hundred, eh?” Severn half-smiled, as he called the raise.

The fourth card showed a jack for Severn and another king for Maldeen. Severn studied Maldeen’s cards. He had Maldeen beaten in sight, but the five hundred dollar raise made it appear that Maldeen had a king buried. Severn passed the bet and Maldeen shoved in five chips. Severn fingered his chips for quite a while, but finally tossed five into the pot.

Maldeen dealt slowly, placing the next card carefully beside Severn’s hand. It was another jack. This gave Severn aces and jacks in sight. Maldeen flipped over his own card—another king. Three kings against two pair—in sight. It was Maldeen’s first “say” in the pot, and he quickly estimated Severn’s chips before shoving ten chips into the center.

Severn seemed to hesitate. He was beaten in sight, and Maldeen held a hard hand to bluff. Severn was already in eleven hundred dollars. Then he slowly picked up the rest of his chips and slid them to the center. Maldeen smiled and shook his head.

“Cal, that’s cold-blooded poker, but I feel that yo’re out on a limb.”

He swiftly counted out his chips and slid them to the center, and his pile totaled one more chip than what Cal Severn had bet.

“Raisin’ a hundred?” queried Severn softly.

“Thassall,” smiled Maldeen.

Severn hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat.

“Give me five thousand more, doc.”

Maldeen seemed about to refuse, but counted out the required amount. Severn was good for that amount, just on the strength of the Diamond-S ranch. He did not stack his chips this time, but shoved them all to the center.

“Boostin’ it forty-nine hundred,” he stated.

A gasp went up from dry throats around the table. It was the largest bet they had ever seen made. Maldeen studied Severn’s cards as if seeking to discover whether Severn was bluffing or had filled his hand. He squinted at Severn’s face, but the young cattleman was slowly puffing on his cigaret and looking at the fortune in the center of the table.

“I call,” said Maldeen, tossing in his chips. Severn flipped over his hole-card—an ace. “Ace full!” gasped a cowboy, almost overcome from the suspense.

Maldeen smiled grimly and turned his card. It was another seven.

“King full!” exploded another cowboy. “Two full houses!”

For a few moments Cal Severn did not say anything. He shoved the chips across to Maldeen and leaned back in his chair.

“The god of luck was with me, doc; I’m through.”

Maldeen got slowly to his feet and went back to his private room, where he kept a small safe. In a few moments he came back with ten thousand dollars in gold and currency. After he had counted it out he turned to the crowd and said—

“The house buys a drink, gents.”

And the “gents” took their drink, gulping it down wolfishly, as if seeking solace from the reaction of that big bet.

“Never saw nothin’ like it before,” declared a cowboy earnestly. “That’s goin’ to spoil me for any of this four-bits-a-stack game. I used to git a thrill out of a five-dollar bet, but—Forty-nine hundred—whoo-o-ee!”

Severn laughed softly and leaned on the bar.

“That ten thousand will kinda help to pay up some of my debts, doc.”

Maldeen grimaced.

“It won’t help mine, Cal. That’s a hard jolt for the old Moon Flats, if anybody asks yuh.”

Severn shrugged his shoulders.

“You dealt ’em to me, doc.”

“I’m a —— of a dealer,” admitted Maldeen, and the crowd laughed boisterously.

They appreciated a good loser, and Maldeen was not kicking.

And that same morning Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine in the hills; but the meeting was not planned. Mary rode the hills nearly every day astride a wiry little sorrel horse, riding as recklessly as any cowboy; but today she was not in the mood for a wild gallop, and was poking slowly along a narrow trail when her horse suddenly stopped, and she looked up at Shell Romaine, whose horse blocked the trail.

For several moments they looked at each other, and then Shell swung his horse on to the down-hill side, giving her plenty of room to pass. He had removed his hat, but did not speak. He had changed from the dilapidated suit of the day before, and was now wearing a black sombrero, faded blue shirt and bat-winged, silver-trimmed chaps. Around his neck was a scarlet silk muffler, while around his waist was a wide, silver-trimmed cartridge-belt, and swinging low on his thigh was a holstered pistol.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” asked Mary O’Hara.

Shell looked closely at her and dropped his eyes to the pommel of his saddle, where the palm of his right hand was tightly clenched.

“I didn’t reckon you’d care to have me,” he replied.

“Did you make that up out of your own head, Shell?”

“Well—” Shell lifted his head defiantly—“I don’t know why yuh should want to speak to me.”

Mary sighed and examined her well-worn gauntlets.

“Nobody wants to speak to a horse-thief, bank-robber, killer,” he continued; but there was no bitterness in his voice. “I reckon everybody knows that my old man was the Black Rider.”

“Shell, I’m sorry—for—you. It is hard luck, but——”

“I don’t want sympathy,” interrupted Shell, “and I’m not blamin’ luck for what happened. I reckon I’ll try to sell out the old place and leave the Mission country. It was hard to make a livin’—before; it’ll be impossible now.”

Mary nodded slowly. Shell twisted in his saddle and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Mary, I want to tell yuh somethin’ and ask yuh to forgive me for doin’ it—if yuh can.”

“If I can?”

“Yeah. Before that bank robbery—” Shell paused a moment—“mebbe it was a week or so before that, I got drunk in Moon Flats, and I got to braggin’ to some of the boys. You was crossin’ the street and I told them that me and you was engaged to marry.”

Mary looked curiously at him and shook her head.

“No one ever told me that, Shell.”

“Well, I said it, Mary. I dunno why I lied like that, but I did, and I’m glad it never came to you.”

Suddenly Mary smiled.

“Shell, it did, too; but not that you had said it. Quite a while after you went away Cal Severn asked me if I was engaged to you. I told him I was not, and he laughed it off. I did not ask him where he got the idea.”

“I reckon some of the boys told him,” said Shell slowly; and then, “Are you goin’ to marry Cal Severn, Mary O’Hara?”

Mary flushed and reached down to pat the shoulder of her horse, but did not reply.

“I wish yuh a lot of luck,” said Shell. “A lot of luck.”

Mary lifted her head, her eyes filled with tears.

“Shell, I must tell you something. You heard that the Overland was robbed yesterday morning between Moon Flats and Clevis Creek bridge, didn’t you?”

Shell nodded his head.

“Uncle Pat was notified yesterday morning. It was done by a lone robber, who tied up the messenger and blew the safe. There was a lot of money taken. The messenger was discovered at Wheelock, and he was unable to give a good description of the robber, but said he was dressed in dark-colored clothes.”

Shell turned his head and stared off across the purple sage, his mind working fast. He had been on that train.

“Did Pat find any clews, Mary?” he asked.

“No. But, Shell, they want to know where you were at that time, don’t you see? Some say it was done by the Black Rider, but others point out the fact that you came into town early. Newt Bowie and Monte Barnes say that you were in Moon Flats at daylight.”

Shell smiled bitterly.

“Is there a warrant out for me?”

“Uncle Pat did not say, but I know he has worried a lot about it, Shell.”

“Has he? I suppose I ought to go to town and prove that I had nothin’ to do with it, or give myself up to the law; but one I can’t do and the other—I’ve had a taste of, Mary. Oh, I know what the Mission range thinks of me, and I know how much chance I’d have in their courts. I’m already convicted, in their minds.”

Mary nodded. She knew that Shell’s past reputation was all against him, and she knew that many folks in Moon Flats had already declared that Shell Romaine had robbed the train. Hadn’t he been convicted of robbery before? Hadn’t his own father been the Black Rider and got killed in the act of holding up a stage?

“Couldn’t you prove your innocence, Shell?” asked Mary.

“Prove nothin’!” bitterly. “What proof could a paroled convict bring to a court of law?”

“Paroled?”

“Yeah—paroled, Mary. I’m not free—not in the right way. I’ve got to report to the sheriff every so often, and any old time I even look cross-eyed—back I go to the pen.”

“Will you report to Uncle Pat?”

“No!”

Shell gathered up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.

“I’m an outlaw. I haven’t got a chance in the world to prove anythin’, and I’m not goin’ back to the penitentiary. If they got me for this robbery I’d go in for twenty years, don’tcha know it?

“They’re all primed to get me, I reckon. I ain’t got a friend left—if I ever did have any; and from now on I’m goin’ to get the game as well as the fame. You tell Pat Haley, will yuh, Mary? Tell him he can declare open season on the last of the Romaines. I like Old Pat, and the Lord never made a better woman than ‘Ma’ Haley. I don’t want to harm them, but you tell Pat that I’m not comin’ in—not on my own feet.”

Shell turned his horse down the hill, riding straight down the steep slope to the bottom, where he swung around on to a hog-backed ridge and disappeared in the timber.

For several minutes after Shell had disappeared, Mary continued to watch after him. He had wished her lots of luck in her marriage to Cal Severn. She had liked Shell Romaine, but had never thought seriously about him. He was a wild sort of person, willing to fight at the drop of a hat—and drop it himself—while Cal Severn was more settled, substantial.

She turned her horse and rode slowly back toward town, secretly glad that Shell Romaine was not going to give himself up to the law. She knew that it would be Pat Haley’s duty either to arrest or kill him; knew that the men of the Mission River ranges would comb the hills for him. Turning outlaw would be proof conclusive that he was guilty, but for some reason Mary was glad that Shell Romaine was no quitter.

Hashknife and Sleepy came into Moon Flats tired, dusty and limping from sore feet. They headed for the horse-trough beside the livery stable, where they took off their boots and immersed their aching feet in the water.

“—— hath no fury like a busted blister,” declared Sleepy, wiggling his cramped toes. “I wish I had the power to bring a curse upon the man who slew our chargers.”

“Go ahead,” groaned Hashknife, “and I’ll do my dangdest to make it come true. The man that made my boots never knowed that a human bein’ had more’n one toe.”

“You will be a dude,” observed Sleepy. “Bend yore feet all out of shape to make ’em look dainty.”

Sleepy looked up and shoved his bare foot against Hashknife’s ankle. Cal Severn was coming down toward them, leading his horse.

“What’s the idea of the foot-bath?” he asked as he came up to them.

“Gettin’ sanitary,” grinned Hashknife, reaching for his cigaret-makings. “Washin’ feet helps clear yore mind.”

“Thasso?”

Cal Severn seemed amused.

“And what is the real reason?”

“Hot feet,” grunted Hashknife, and then proceeded to tell Severn what had happened to them.

“You ain’t kiddin’ me, are yuh?” he asked when Hashknife finished.

“Go and look in Romaine’s front yard and you’ll find two perfectly good dead horses,” declared Hashknife.

Severn shook his head.

“No, I’ll take yore word for it and keep away from Romaine’s place.”

“Scared of him?” queried Hashknife, lighting his smoke.

Severn grinned.

“If yuh want to look at it that way. I don’t care to be shot at, Hartley. But—” Severn grew more serious—“why should Shell Romaine shoot at you two?”

“Who in —— said he shot at us?” demanded Hashknife.

“Well, you—uh— Didn’t you just tell me——”

“I said we was shot at,” corrected Hashknife.

“I getcha. But who would shoot at you? You are strangers around here. Maybe it was a mistake.”

“I dunno about that.”

Hashknife proceeded to pull on his socks carefully.

“Anyway—” looking up with a grin—“we know —— well that we wasn’t welcome around there.”

“Kinda looks that way,” admitted Severn seriously, and then, “Get a couple of horses from the stable to ride out to the ranch today.”

Severn started to lead his horse into the stable, but turned.

“I reckon I can fix up some saddles for yuh out at the ranch.”

“Ne’ mind,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go out tomorrow and get our own rigs.”

“Out to Romaine’s?”

“Perzactly!” grunted Hashknife, kicking a boot-heel against the trough, trying to drive his swollen foot into close quarters.

Severn nodded and led his horse inside.

“I wonder what kinda whippoorwills he thought we are?” queried Sleepy. “Think we’d give up them there good saddles?”

“Didn’t know he had hired two brave men,” grinned Hashknife, but grimaced with pain as he took a step. “—— it! I thought my shoulder was sore, but these two feet of mine ain’t feet a-tall; they’re —— in a pinch.”

Hobbling along, they headed for the Moon Flats saloon, where several cowboys, including Monte Barnes, were standing on the porch. The cowboys looked curiously at them, but said nothing.

“I’ll buy a drink,” announced Hashknife. “I bet my pardner the drinks that I could beat him to town from the Diamond-S, but I calculated wrong; so I’ll buy a drink for everybody.”

“Walk?” gasped Monte.

“Not all the way,” said Hashknife, standing on one foot. “Part of the way we ran. C’m on in.”

They all went inside and lined up at the bar. Maldeen was not there, and the conversation turned to the poker game, which had been played a short time before.

“Severn won ten thousand dollars in one hand,” explained Barnes. “Game of stud. Both men filled. Never seen anythin’ like it in my life.”

“Prob’ly won’t never ag’in,” declared another.

Hashknife squinted at his drink and looked around the room. Finally he turned to Barnes.

“Ten thousand is a lot of money.”

“More ’n I ever seen before,” declared Barnes. “It’s plumb easy to speak about it, but when yuh see it all on the table—whoo-o-o-ee!”

“And Maldeen done the dealin’,” added another. “He sure deals a straight game.”

“Severn must be a plunger,” observed Sleepy.

“I never seen him play big before,” stated Barnes. “He plays poker once in a while, but I think that most of his gamblin’ is done in the East.”

“Goes East to gamble?”

Hashknife squinted at Barnes.

“Naw—the stock markets. Yuh know what I mean—gamblin’ in wheat and oats and that kinda gamblin’. We took a train of beef back there two years ago and Cal studied market stuff. Ever since then he’s gambled thataway, and I reckon he didn’t get as square a deal as he got today.”

“They kinda hook yuh, I reckon,” observed Hashknife.

“Dang right! They sure hookum-cow. Man ain’t got no chance to bluff; don’t even get time to study his cards. I’ll takem mine over the poker table, y’betcha.”

“What happened to yore back and shoulder?” asked one of the cowboys, pointing at Hashknife’s back, where the bullet had ripped the shirt.

The wound had bled considerably, discoloring his shirt.

“Oh, that?”

Hashknife tried to twist his head and look over his own shoulder.

“Well, sir, I was kinda hurryin’ along and snagged m’self on a barb-wire fence.”

The cowboys glanced at each other, but did not dispute the explanation. That it was not done by a barbed wire was very certain, but they knew better than to inquire too deeply into something that was really none of their business.

After the round of drinks Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon, leaving a bunch of cowboys trying to figure out why two sore-footed cowboys had walked into town and why one of them had a bullet-scrape across his shoulder.

Jim Searles was standing in front of Bill Eagle’s general merchandise store, and from him Hashknife found out where Pat Haley lived. Searles scowled at them and hitched up his belt. Searles was an evil-looking gentleman, short of body, but long of face.

“Whatcha want him fer?” he asked after directing them.

“Want him to say a prayer,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Who fer?” quickly.

“I dunno—yet,” grinned Hashknife and turned away.

Pat Haley lived in a home-like frame cottage just at the edge of town. Two great cottonwoods almost concealed the house, and the front yard was a mass of rosebushes. A sorrel horse, saddled, was tied to the rear gate, and voices were audible through the open front door.

The two cowboys went up to the door and were about to knock, when Pat Haley came into the short hall. He glanced quickly at them and grinned with his pipe clenched between his big teeth.

“Come in and rest your feet,” he greeted them. “Sure, it’s cooler in the house, and me wife has just made a gallon of limminade wit’ ice. Come on in.”

They followed him into the living-room, where he introduced them to Ma Haley and Mary O’Hara.

“Me niece,” explained Haley. “She’s one-half of the Haley family, and me and Ma are the other half.”

Hashknife and Sleepy sat down awkwardly on the sofa and fondled their hats. Hashknife winced from the jerk of his shirt as he sat down, and Ma Haley divined that something was wrong.

“Did ye get hurt?” she asked abruptly, getting out of her chair.

“Now, it ain’t nothin’,” declared Hashknife. “I just got scratched with a bullet, thassall.”

“All?”

Ma Haley came straight to him and made him bend his back.

“Heavens above!” she exclaimed. “Why, the poor boy has been badly hurt! Mary, get some hot water and car-r-bolic-acid bottle—quick!”

“Aw-w-w-w!” begged Hashknife. “It ain’t nothin’.”

“You’re in a —— of a fix,” laughed Pat Haley. “When Ma finds a cut or a bruise she niver lets up until she doctors it. But who shot ye, Har-r-tley?”

“I dunno. You tell him, Sleepy—I’m in the hospital.”

“You’ve got to take off that shirt,” declared Mrs. Haley, “I never do things by halves, me boy.”

“Come out on the porch and I’ll tell yuh,” laughed Sleepy. “I’d get to laughin’ if I ever seen Hashknife Hartley in the rough.”

They went outside, leaving Hashknife groaning mentally.

Mary came in with the water and bottle of acid, and Hashknife prayed that she would go out again; but Ma Haley spoiled his prayer by saying:

“I want you to help me, Mary. Every girl should know how to doctor a cut, bruise or a gun-shot wound, and this is a bad one to star-r-rt on,” and then to Hashknife, “Shall I cut the shirt off, or can ye stand to have it pulled off?”

Hashknife hesitated.

“Bring me the shears, Mary.”

“——!” breathed Hashknife. “I suppose there ain’t no way out of it; so I might as well save the shirt,” and he began to take it off.

He glanced at Mary O’Hara, who was trying to suppress a laugh, and at Ma Haley’s serious face. It was too much for Hashknife. He bared his back and prayed that it might not take long.

From out on the porch came the droning of Sleepy’s voice as he explained things to Pat Haley, while Ma Haley bathed the wound tenderly and explained the dangers of infection to Mary O’Hara.

For lack of adhesive Ma Haley was compelled to wind the bandages around Hashknife’s chest and over his shoulder, which forced him to sit up and face them, bared to the waist. He was bronzed from the sun, and the long muscles rippled like those of an athlete.

“Ye are no weakling,” declared Ma Haley, and Hashknife blushed like a girl.

“Would ye tell me where ye were when ye got shot?”

“In Romaine’s front yard,” replied Hashknife.

Crash! Mary dropped the pan of water upside down on the carpet, and it flooded Ma Haley’s shoes. She sprang aside and stared at Mary, who was staring at Hashknife.

“In Romaine’s front yard?” breathed Mary. “At the Romaine ranch?”

Hashknife nodded and looked down at the wet carpet. Just at that moment Pat Haley and Sleepy came in from the porch and stared at the tableau.

“What went wrong?” asked Pat.

“Mary fumbled the pan,” said Mrs. Haley gently. “Sure, the antiseptic water should be good for the carpet.”

Sleepy laughed and leaned against the wall.

“Hashknife, yo’re all packed up and ready for shipment.”

Hashknife merely glanced at Sleepy, but turned his eyes back to Mary O’Hara, wondering why she dropped the pan of water. Why was she startled when he mentioned the place where the horses were killed? Pat Haley was talking now, and so was Ma Haley; one about the shooting, the other about supplying Hashknife with a clean shirt while she washed the torn one.

Hashknife agreed with both sides and Ma Haley bustled away to get one of Pat’s shirts, while Pat sat down on the sofa beside Hashknife. Mary picked up the pan and went to the kitchen just as some one knocked on the front door and Cal Severn’s voice called a greeting from the porch.

Without waiting for any one to answer his hail, he came down the hall and into the doorway, where he stopped and stared at the three men.

“Excuse me,” he grinned. “I didn’t know yuh had company, Pat. Where’s Mary?”

“Out in the kitchen.”

Severn walked through the kitchen door, and a moment later he and Mary were in conversation.

“She goin’ to marry Severn?” asked Hashknife.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Pat. “That’s the idea, I reckon.”

“Severn just won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen.”

Pat took his pipe from his mouth and looked closely at it for a moment. He squinted at Hashknife curiously.

“Would ye say that ag’in?”

Hashknife repeated the statement and added that it was won on a single hand in which both men held full houses.

“Well, well!”

Pat blinked rapidly.

“I’ve an idea that ten thousand is a lot of money. And ye say it was a single hand? Ten thousand dollars! I’m thinkin’ that Doc Maldeen will face a lean year.”

Mrs. Haley came in with one of Pat’s shirts and gave it to Hashknife.

“I’ll wash and mend the other one,” she stated, “and I’ll also go out while ye put this one on.”

“Yo’re a wonder, Mrs. Haley,” declared Hashknife. “My shoulder feels better than it did before it was hurt.”

“A little lyin’ directly from the heart hurts no one,” grinned Ma Haley.

Hashknife put on the shirt and rolled a cigaret, while Pat Haley puffed slowly, thoughtfully.

“Sleepy told yuh all about what happened, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife, and Pat nodded.

“He did. I can’t for the life of me de-duct why ye were shot at, though. If it was Shell Romaine, why would he wish to kill either of you?”

“If he knowed why we are here he might,” said Hashknife softly.

“Aye, but he don’t know. Cal Severn and meself are the only ones who know. I have not told him, and I’m sure that Cal has not.”

Hashknife studied the tip of his cigaret for a moment, and then—

“What do yuh know about Joe Wicks?”

“The half-breed? He’s just Injun—no good. Got a shack in a gulch over beyond the Romaine place. His woman cooks for Severn.”

“Yeah, I know she does,” nodded Hashknife. “We rode up to his place today. Joe was half-drunk—more than half, ’cause he asked us to have a drink with him. His girl was there.”

“Marie,” nodded Pat.—“Pretty Injun girl. She’s been to the Injun school, and they tell me that she’s smart. Mary has taken a likin’ to her.”

Pat laughed and shook his head as he added—

“Henry Horsecollar Dryden is stuck on Marie and wants to marry her, so Mary says.”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife grew interested; but just then Cal Severn came in from the kitchen, barely nodded to them and went out the front door.

“Well, that’s leavin’ in a hurry,” observed Pat.

From the kitchen came the sounds of argument between Mrs. Haley and Mary, and Pat grinned widely.

“Sure, there’s been a battle,” he whispered. “Ma’s out there tryin’ to pour water on the powder.”

A moment later Ma Haley came into the room, her eyes serious as she went to the front window and looked out. Then she turned to Pat.

“Mary’s cryin’ her heart out, and Cal’s headin’ back toward the ranch.”

“Well, now, isn’t that the usual thing to do, Ma?”

Pat seemed surprised at her distress.

“I mind the time that you bawled——”

“I never bawled, Pat Haley! If you’d ’a’ hurt my feelin’s before we were married—we wouldn’t ’a’ married.”

“Ma, ye’re startin’ an argument with me,” warned Pat. “I have never won an argument with ye yet, but I’m givin’ ye fair warnin’. I’ll win some day, so I will.”

“Ye will, will ye? Well, if it wasn’t for our guests I’d make ye wish ye’d never made the statement.”

Pat Haley grinned delightedly and was about to continue when Mary came in. She had been crying, but her mind seemed to have been made up and she spoke directly to Pat Haley.

“I did not want to tell you this, but I think I must. I met Shell Romaine this morning—in the hills. It was an accidental meeting. We talked for a while about things, and he told me that everything and every one was against him and for me to tell you that he was not going to come in and report to you. He said that he was turning outlaw and that he was going to get the game along with the fame.”

Pat took his pipe from between his teeth and polished the bowl on his palm while the others waited for him to speak. Finally he laid the pipe aside and smiled softly.

“I believe I’m not surprised. What time was it, Mary, and where did ye meet him?”

“It was about ten o’clock, and I met him on that narrow trail around the head of Broken Gulch.”

Pat turned to Hashknife.

“About what time was it that you were shot at, Hartley?”

“It must have been later than that. Mebbe it was ten-thirty or a little later.”

Pat nodded and rubbed his knees.

“From that spot it is about two miles to the Romaine ranch.”

He frowned for a moment and looked at Mary.

“I’m sorry, but it looks like Shell Romaine had started real quickly to make good his threat.”

Mary’s eyes blinked back the tears, and she turned and went back into the kitchen. Pat squinted after her and turned to Ma Haley, speaking softly,

“And what was the row about—between her and Cal?”

“She would not say, Pat. Does a girl blab about the troubles between her and her sweetheart?”

Pat grinned at Ma Haley’s serious expression and turned to Hashknife.

“It appears that Shell Romaine has challenged the law, does it not? I hate like the —— to accept, but me sworn duty says for me to bring him to task.”

“If he’s the one what shot at us, yo’re welcome,” said Sleepy. “That jasper sure can shoot.”

“Aye, he can that, and it will be a grand battle.”

Hashknife got to his feet and shook hands with Ma Haley, thanking her for dressing his wounds.

“Come and see us,” she urged. “Ye have not been well entertained because things are kinda upset; but drop in any time.”

Hashknife turned and walked to the kitchen door. Mary was standing at a rear window, looking out, but turned as Hashknife came up to her, holding out his hand.

“I—I am pleased to meet you,” she faltered.

“Yes’m, I suppose yuh are, but yuh ain’t had much pleasure since I’ve been here. I hope to see yuh again—smilin’.”

He turned and walked on to the porch, where Pat and Sleepy were waiting for him, and with a hearty handshake they left the warm-hearted sheriff of Moon Flats.

Severn had spoken to the livery stable keeper, and two horses were saddled for them. The man volunteered the information that Severn had gone back to the ranch. He dilated on the fact that Severn had won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen, and was still marveling over it as they rode out of earshot.

Hashknife was very thoughtful, shaking his head as he debated things with himself. Finally he said—

“Mary O’Hara is a danged pretty girl.”

“Yeah?”

Sleepy grinned.

“Think she is, do yuh? Henry Horsecollar didn’t think so.”

“He likes ’em dark.”

Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and squinted at Sleepy.

“I’ve got a hunch that Mary likes Shell Romaine.”

“Yo’re dense as —— if it took yuh that long to find it out,” grinned Sleepy. “Didja notice that her and Cal Severn had a quarrel?”

“Yeah, and I’d give a lot to know what it was about, Sleepy.”

“What good would that do yuh?”

“I dunno—no good, mebbe.”

They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. Henry Horsecollar squinted at their mounts and rubbed his chin.

“Didja trade with the livery stable?” he asked.

“Rented ’em,” said Hashknife. “Somebody shot both of our horses.”

“M’ ——! Shot ’em? Where?”

Sleepy sketched out their experience, and Henry listened in open-mouthed amazement.

“Well, sir,” he declared, “it’s a caution what folks will do. Cal Severn came home a while ago, swore at me and almost jarred the winders out of the house when he slammed the door.”

“He won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen today,” stated Hashknife.

Henry half-opened his mouth and leaned weakly against the corral.

“Ten— Aw-w-w, yo’re kiddin’ me, ain’tcha?”

“In one hand of stud poker,” said Sleepy.

Henry rubbed his chin slowly.

“Well, sir, I reckon he wasn’t mad a-tall—he was crazy. The shock of winnin’ that money kinda insaned him, don’tcha s’pose?”

“It would me,” grinned Hashknife, and then sobered suddenly, as he said, “I seen yore girl today, Henry.”

“My girl—Marie?”

Hashknife explained their mistake in thinking it was Romaine’s place, and then he told of how Joe Wicks had hit Marie with a rock. Henry listened calmly enough, but his lips tightened over the recital.

“Drunk, was he?”

“Drunk enough to ask us to drink with him.”

“That’s pretty drunk,” admitted Henry.

“I dunno where he gets his whisky—wish I did.”

He sighed and leaned against the fence.

“I never had no girl before. Mebbe folks will look down on me for carin’ for an Indian girl, but it’s my own business. I’m shootin’ square with her.”

“Then we’re with yuh, Henry,” said Hashknife softly.

“We’re with anybody that shoots square. Me and Sleepy ain’t no plaster saints, but we sure do admire folks that shoot straight.”

“I ain’t no saint either.”

Henry shook his head.

“I’ve mavericked cows and been two jumps ahead of the sheriff; I’ve done a lot of wrong things, but I’m square with Marie.”

“Kinda wipes out the rest of the charges,” nodded Sleepy, and added, “We met Mary O’Hara today.”

“Yeah? She’s goin’ to marry Cal Severn, I reckon. Anyway folks say she is. Didja hear anythin’ more about the train-robbery?”

“Not much,” said Hashknife. “They’re thinkin’ that Shell Romaine pulled that job.”

Henry grinned and shook his head.

“I don’t believe that. I betcha Shell Romaine came back here to dig up his half of that thirty thousand dollars he stole a year ago, and he ain’t takin’ no chances till he gets it.”

“There may be a hunk of truth in that,” admitted Hashknife.

“Yo’re danged well right there is truth in it. I’ve felt that all along. His old man has got a cache somewhere that’s a dinger. Mebbe Shell will find that, too. Mort Lee came past here today and asked me if I’d seen Shell. I wonder what Mort wants him for.”

“Mort’s the cowpuncher that brought in the news of old Romaine’s killin’,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“We met him, too. What kind of a feller is he, Henry?”

“Mort Lee? Well, I’ll tell yuh about me: If I can’t say somethin’ good about a man, I won’t say anythin’. Mort Lee is jist so-so, if yuh know what I mean.”

“What about Jim Searles?”

“That or’nary pup? Sa-a-ay——”

Henry shook his head.

“Words fails me when I even think of Jim Searles.”

“That’s good,” said Hashknife. “Let’s see if Minnehaha has got any food for the stummick.”

Cal Severn was not friendly the following morning, but the boys put that down to the fact that the quarrel between him and Mary O’Hara still ruffled him. He came down to the bunk-house after breakfast, leading a saddled horse.

“Goin’ after your saddles today?” he asked.

“Pretty quick,” said Hashknife. “We’ll lead a couple of your horses so we can return the livery stock.”

“All right. Henry’ll show yuh the ridin’ stock.”

“Reckon I’ll ride in, too,” said Henry; but Severn shook his head.

“No; I want you to ride that upper fence today,” he said.

Severn swung into his saddle and turned.

“I’m goin’ up the east side of the river if anybody wants to know.”

He rode away while Henry Horsecollar swore under his breath.

“I dunno who in —— cares!” he snorted. “Make me stay here all day Sunday and then send me out to fix a —— old fence!”

“When yo’re foreman, yuh can do as yuh please,” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah, and when ——’s froze over I can skate, too!” retorted Henry heatedly.

Hashknife and Sleepy led two of the Diamond-S horses and rode the livery horses across the hills toward the Romaine ranch. They did not follow the road beyond Mission River, but swung back into the hills, circled Joe Wicks’ place and swung around the heads of the gulches which led down to the Romaine place.

Just above the Romaine ranch-house the gulch forked like the letter Y, and Hashknife and Sleepy circled both forks, which brought them out on to the side-hill on the west side of the ranch. It gave them a clear view of the place. The ranch-house was about four hundred yards away and below them, as they rode into a thicket of jackpines and stopped.

There was no one in sight about the place, but both men studied it closely. They were going to be very sure that no one was there to ambush them again. Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, never taking his eyes off the clearing below them.

“She’s plumb deserted,” declared Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded in agreement, but his eyes continued to search the tangle of timber and brush north of the buildings.

“Look down the road!” grunted Sleepy, lifting himself in his stirrups.

Two riders were coming up the narrow, winding road, heading toward the ranch. They were plainly visible to Hashknife and Sleepy, who were far above them, but they were still concealed from the ranch-house.

“Who do yuh reckon it is?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno,” admitted Hashknife. “I ain’t familiar enough with folks around here to tell who it is.”

The riders came on, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust, swung into the clearing and headed for the house. Then one of the riders seemed to jerk sidewise and fell off his horse, which whirled and ran back toward the brush, while the clear air was shattered by the whip-like pop! of a rifle.

The other rider sprang from his horse and dropped flat on the ground, while the horse whirled and followed the other one back toward the brush. There was silence for several moments, and then the rifle cracked again. A splatter of gravel lifted in front of the man on the ground, who rolled rapidly aside as if trying to get the ranch-house between himself and the shooter.

Hashknife and Sleepy were watching closely, and now Hashknife drew his six-shooter.

“I think I see him, Sleepy. He’s shootin’ smokeless powder, but—watch that heavy clump of willers.”

As Hashknife spoke he lifted his gun and fired—once—twice. It was long range for a .45 pistol, but Hashknife guessed the elevation perfectly, and a man got up from among the willows and began running up the gulch. He was partly screened by the brush, which made it impossible for either Hashknife or Sleepy to tell how he was dressed or even to estimate his physical proportions.

It was only about fifty yards from the heavy willow clump to the forks of the gulch, and both Hashknife and Sleepy emptied their guns at him, but at that range it was impossible to tell where the bullets were striking.

At the forks of the gulch the man stopped in a screen of cottonwoods, and a moment later a bullet splatted into the dirt under Hashknife’s horse. Quickly they swung their horses back into the heavier thicket, but another bullet hummed past their heads, cutting the plume off the top of a jack-pine.

“Dang the luck!” swore Hashknife. “If we only had a rifle!”

He was shoving cartridges into his revolver as he spoke, and after filling the chambers he dropped it back into its holster and turned to Sleepy.

“You go down and help with that wounded man. I’m goin’ to try and snag that smart jasper.”

Sleepy nodded quickly, and Hashknife spurred out of the thicket and galloped off along the slope of the hill. His only chance was to circle the heads of both gulches and try to head off the man’s escape; but if the other had a horse close at hand he would have a decided advantage. Hashknife could have ridden straight down the hill to the bottom of the gulch and followed the man, but it would mean that he would have to ride in the open in the face of rifle-fire; and this man had demonstrated his ability with a rifle.

Sleepy took the two lead-ropes and poked off down the hill, while Hashknife circled the west fork of the gulch, riding recklessly but watching the country. Between the two gulches was a wide stretch of open country, where a rider would be plainly visible; but on the east side of the main gulch were miles of broken hills, where a man might hide away for months.

Hashknife circled around the head of the west fork and galloped straight across this wide flat, heading swiftly for the rim of the main gulch, over a mile away. Instead of going toward the junction of the two forks he swung to the left, cutting across to the main fork, with the intention of striking it about half a mile from the forks. He felt sure that the shooter, realizing that he had more than one person to contend with, would retreat; and there was a bare possibility that he would follow the gulch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was that Haley?” queried Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

“Seen Mary O’Hara.”

Sleepy looked blankly at Hashknife.

“Mary O’Hara?”

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

“Goin’ to tell Pat Haley?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joe squinted at Hashknife but did not answer.

“Rock didn’t hurt her much, did it?”

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

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

“No, by ——!”

Joe woke up explosively.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yo’ keep to —— out of this!”

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

“Yeh?”

Joe leered at Henry.

“Yo’ make me, eh? Huh!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh!”

Henry squinted both eyes and rubbed his right ear thoughtfully.

“Love’s a —— of a thing, ain’t it?”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then why not pistol-whip him?”

“And be out of a job, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hashknife continued to squint thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

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

“He sure is. Did Mort Lee go back?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Henry twisted his face and spat painfully.

“I told him to go to ——.”

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

“He didn’t thay.”

Henry shook his head.

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

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

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

“More advith?” queried Henry seriously.

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

“Thankth.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Pat out huntin’ bushwhackers?” asked Sleepy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

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

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

“What do you mean, Mr. Hartley?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why do you ask me that question?”

“Just—kinda—wantin’ to know, miss.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She flushed hotly and shut her lips.

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

As he started in through the door he met Sleepy.

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

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

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

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

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife absently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What’s the argument?” asked Maldeen.

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

Maldeen laughed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bill Eagles looked blank and shook his head.

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

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

“No, I never see any.”

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

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

Bill Eagles did not want them to overlook their dessert.

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

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

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

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

“Mistook him for another feller,” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah?”

Monte squinted at Hashknife.

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

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

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

“Wonder where he is now,” said Hashknife.

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

“Where are the Sulphur Cliffs?” asked Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just a fool thing.”

Maldeen shook his head.

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

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

“Is he dead?” asked Hashknife.

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

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

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

“Help me turn him over, somebody.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What do yuh mean by that?”

Severn whirled on Hashknife, his face black with anger.

“You better take that back!”

“Thasso?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well, they’re headin’ into trouble.”

Thus Maldeen prophetically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yuh would, eh?”

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

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

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

He turned and leered at Cal Severn.

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

Severn’s brows lifted a trifle.

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

“To —— with him and his voice!”

Searles was working himself into a rage.

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

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

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

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

Maldeen laughed and ordered the bartender to serve more drinks.

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

“Why catch him?” queried Maldeen.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

Severn’s face was white with passion.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hashknife rolled and lighted a cigaret before he replied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Uh-huh-h-h-h.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Some friend of yours, Jim?”

“No, by ——!” emphatically.

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

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

“Is the sheriff huntin’ me?”

Searles shook his head.

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

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

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

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

“What for?”

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

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

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

“Will yuh pack a message to Cal Severn?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Searles grinned.

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

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

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

“You can go now, Jim.”

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

“All right, Shell; s’long.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nobody gave me any advice,” grunted Searles.

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

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

“Man sent a message to Cal Severn.”

“Thasso?”

Henry showed little interest.

“Cal’s in town, I reckon.”

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

“Shoot.”

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

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

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

“Tell me that ag’in’, will yuh, Jim?”

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

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

“Shell Romaine.”

“Shell——”

Henry gawped widely.

“Where’d you see him?” he asked.

“Ne’ mind where I seen him.”

Searles grinned knowingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he stumbled back into the bunk-house.

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

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

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

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

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

“Ye did?”

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

“Where did ye see him?”

“Back in the hills.”

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

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

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

“Hm-m-m.”

Pat Haley grew curious.

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

Searles grinned and shook his head.

“I’m no officer.”

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

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

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

Searles grinned widely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pat turned from Mary and glared at Searles.

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure, it’s broke square in two, Ma.”

“Mary O’Hara’s heart, Pat?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man looked curiously at Hashknife and shook his head.

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

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

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

“Know Doc Maldeen?”

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

“Been here lately?”

The man squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I betcha.”

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

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

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

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

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

The bartender grinned widely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I know him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aw, shucks!”

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

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

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

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

“You can turn around and stop annoying me.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Not welcome?”

Severn frowned thoughtfully.

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

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

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

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

Severn’s voice was trembling slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

“Can ye prove it’s a lie, Severn?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t getcha.”

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

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

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

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

“I’m not askin’ ye to prove it.”

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

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

Pat’s voice cut like a knife.

“Oh, all right.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“C’m and have a drink, you two.”

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

“How yuh comin’, Cal?” asked Maldeen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maldeen was interested now.

“What’s the idea, Cal?”

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

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

Maldeen half-smiled.

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

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

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

“Somebody, eh?”

Thus Maldeen.

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

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

“Thasso?”

Maldeen hitched forward in his chair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thasso?”

Severn seemed to wake up out of a trance.

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

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

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

“Apiece?” queried Searles softly.

“Yeah,” said Maldeen meaningly.

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

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

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

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

“Where?” asked Severn vacantly.

“Out to the Diamond-S.”

“What for?”

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

“Whatcha mean?”

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

“Oh, yuh do?”

Severn spat dryly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cal Severn laughed aloud and swung back into the road.

“Where’s she goin’?” queried Searles.

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

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

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

“All right, let her meet him.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“—said he met you; so I came.”

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

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

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

“Did he? Where was he, Mary?”

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

“Who are they, Mary?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you lead them to me, Mary?”

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

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

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

Severn laughed.

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

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Severn laughed up at him mockingly.

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

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

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

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

“Message?”

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

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

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

“Yeah, I brought it.”

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

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

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

“Y’betcha,” nodded Searles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He may have many sweethearts.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hyah, Joe,” said Henry.

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

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

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

“W’at yo’ want?” asked Joe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They are good men,” said Mrs. Wicks.

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

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

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

Henry ignored him and looked appealingly at the squaw.

“Can’t I see Marie?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

“I had to come,” he replied.

“Why?”

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

Marie dropped her eyes and began fingering her faded apron.

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

“Didn’t he make love to yuh?”

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

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

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

“What do yuh mean?” demanded Henry.

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

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

“Marie, did Cal Severn say that?”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

Marie threw out both arms.

“I believe nobody now.”

“Marie, will yuh marry me?”

Henry leaned closer and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I never lied to yuh.”

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

“That’s right.”

Henry straightened up and shoved himself away from the tree.

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

“I don’t hate nobody—jus’ sorry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coyote,” corrected Henry shortly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

As they started on Hashknife drew in beside Mary.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mary smiled and shook her head.

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

“Black suit?” queried Hashknife quickly.

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

Hashknife grinned widely and shifted himself in his saddle.

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

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

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

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

Hashknife leaned down and tapped a cowboy on the shoulder.

“What’s the trouble?” queried Hashknife.

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

“They captured Shell Romaine a while ago.”

“Why don’t they put him in jail?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maldeen shoved his way in and took the rope.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yo’re Jim Searles, ain’tcha?”

Hashknife did not seem to resent Searles’ rebuke.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“What time did yuh leave there, Maldeen?”

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

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

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

Maldeen nodded, but did not speak.

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

Maldeen squinted blankly, but nodded.

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

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

Maldeen half-smiled and cleared his throat.

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

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

Maldeen and Searles exchanged glances before Maldeen nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where was I?”

Severn tried to appear at ease.

“Why, I was there at my ranch.”

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

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

“You keep her name out of this!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thasso?”

Hashknife seemed hurt.

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

“I don’t know a —— thing about it!”

“Then listen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He ain’t goin’ no place, Hashknife!”

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Severn?”

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

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

He tried to grin, but only his lips responded.

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

Searles licked his dry lips and took a deep breath.

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Severn?”

Henry blinked and shook his head drunkenly.

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

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

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

“Will yuh?”

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

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

Hashknife grinned and turned to Haley.

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

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

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

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

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

“Looky!” said Sleepy hoarsely.

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

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

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

Then he squinted at Hashknife and said:

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

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

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

“Will ye roll me a cigaret?”

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

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, February 28, 1923

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