’em, Slim. Mebbe I’d be the biggest fool in the world--if I tried to
find out somethin’ about ’em.”
“Everybody is,” said Sleepy quickly. “The best thing to do is to forget
’em. That’s what I’ve always done.”
“It’s a good idea, I suppose,” agreed Hashknife. “But the good God made
us rational critters, and why shouldn’t we hanker for a mate at times.
Why even the birds----”
“I’ll remind yuh of this,” interrupted Sleepy seriously. “Next time you
tell me that my loop is draggin’, I’ll speak my little piece about the
birdies.”
They laughed and moved to the bar, but Hashknife’s face was serious.
Slim Cole noticed it with amusement.
“I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do,” he suggested softly. “I’ll take yuh back
and introduce yuh to her, Hartley.”
“And he’ll leave his money with me when he does,” declared Sleepy
quickly.
Hashknife shook his head.
“No, thanks, Slim. It ain’t that serious. Have yuh seen Cliff Parker
lately?”
“Not for quite a while. Mebbe he went home.”
“That might be,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll take a look around town.”
They crossed to the Rodeo restaurant and sat down at a table. It was
growing dark and the lamps had already been lighted. They asked the
waiter if he had seen Cliff Parker, and he took the question under
advisement.
“Yeah, he was here just a while ago. I served him with a meal, but he
didn’t eat all of it. I’m not sure, but I think he went out the back
door.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No-o-o, I don’t think so. He acted sober enough.”
They finished their meal and went out again. It was half an hour before
the train would be in.
“We’ll take another look around the Cheyenne,” said Hashknife. “If we
don’t find him there, he’s likely gone back to the ranch.”
Before they reached the door they ran into Jud Farley and Buck Hardy.
“Well, how’s the Maverick ranch?” asked Farley, shaking hands with them.
“Fine,” laughed Hashknife. “We haven’t had time to vent many brands yet,
but the year is young. How’s crime?”
“Kinda slow. Goin’ in?”
They started in through the doorway, when there came the unmistakable
sound of a shot, or an explosion: It was muffled, like a shot fired
inside a building, but there was nothing to show them its location.
“That sure sounded like a shot,” said Farley anxiously. “Where did it
seem to come from?”
“That’s kinda hard to tell,” replied Hashknife, walking back into the
street.
To the left of the Rodeo restaurant was a general store, a vacant
building, and next to that was a small jewelry store, in which a single
oil lamp gave a poor illumination. It was after closing hours.
Suddenly a man came out of the jewelry store, slammed the door shut
behind him and came running across the street. It was the proprietor,
a little, fat man, with gray hair and spectacles.
He was so short of breath that he was unable to speak for several
seconds. Then he panted:
“I’ve been robbed!”
“Robbed?” blurted Farley. “Held up, yuh mean?”
“Yes, yes! He came in the back door, with a mask on his face. I--I was
alone--putting my jewelry into the safe. He held me up and took it all
with him. Diamonds----”
“Wait a minute,” begged Farley. “What did he look like, Mr. Freeland?”
“Look like? I don’t know. Ju-just a man, with a mask on his face and a
gun in his hand.”
“And he took a shot at yuh, did he?”
“No, he didn’t shoot.”
“There was a shot fired.”
“Tha-that was me. I--I have a shotgun under the counter. As he shut the
door, I grasped this gun and fired both barrels at the door, just as it
was closing.”
“Think yuh hit him?”
“No, I--I don’t know.”
“Loaded with buckshot?” asked Hashknife.
“No, it wasn’t buckshot; it was birdshot.”
“Was you expecting to be held up by a duck?”
“Probably had a horse out back of the store,” said Farley quickly. “Our
horses are here at the rack; so we’ll just see if we can cut his trail.
C’mon, Buck.”
They raced for the hitch-rack, mounted and went pounding away in
opposite directions, circling that side of the town, while Hashknife
and Sleepy went back to the store with the excited owner.
“He was slick,” explained the old man. “Not much talk. Just scooped up
everything into his pockets.”
“Here’s his callin’ card,” observed Hashknife, picking it off a
show-case and handing it to Freeland. “It’s the Trey of Spades’
trade-mark.”
“And they won’t get him,” wailed the jeweler. “He’s too slick for
anything. See where I shot at the door?”
They went back and examined the jeweler’s marksmanship. The two loads
of birdshot had plentifully sprinkled the door, but the distance was
too great for it to have injured the bandit to any extent, even if
part of the pattern had struck him.
“Small shot don’t do very well in a sawed-off gun,” observed Hashknife,
as the jeweler exhibited his weapon. “You ought to use buckshot,
pardner.”
“I should have kept that back door locked.”
“Nailed,” said Sleepy. “Very few robbers carry claw-hammers.”
“Let’s take a little look around, Sleepy,” suggested Hashknife, and they
went out the back door, leaving the jeweler to try and figure out just
how much he had lost.
It was quite dark out there and the ground was strewn with the usual
litter found at the rear of business houses in small towns; broken
boxes, odd pieces of lumber, tin cans. To the right was a low,
tight-board fence, which enclosed the rear of the vacant building.
Hashknife scratched a match and cupped it in his palms for a more direct
illumination, and as he glanced down at the litter-strewn ground, he
whistled softly.
“Come here, Sleepy!” he called softly, as he scratched another match.
Together they bent down, picking up a miscellaneous assortment of
jewelry, which seemed to have been strewn broadcast.
“By golly!” exclaimed Sleepy. “He sure must ’a’ been scared to lose all
this.”
A groan echoed Sleepy’s exclamation, and they both sprang to their feet.
With a couple of long strides Hashknife reached the fence and knelt down
again.
“Light another match, Sleepy. Here’s a wounded man.”
Sleepy scratched the match and they looked down into the pale face of
Cliff Parker. There was an open cut above his temple which was bleeding
freely, and several more tiny spots of blood on his face. The match
burned out in Sleepy’s fingers, and he swore softly.
Another match was lighted. A few feet from where Cliff lay was the black
mask, lying where it had fallen or been thrown.
“There’s the Trey of Spades, Hashknife,” said Sleepy sadly. “The
deadwood is upon him, that’s a cinch.”
“Yeah, that’s so,” agreed Hashknife. “He got some of the shot in his
face, too. He probably got stung and dropped some of his loot, and it
kinda looks like he ran into the fence and busted his head. A fine
finish, Sleepy.”
“Fine for old Dad and Milly.”
Hashknife lifted his head and listened closely. From far away came the
sound of a locomotive whistle. He sprang to his feet and grasped Sleepy
by the arm.
“You beat it for the depot, Sleepy. Milly won’t think anythin’ of havin’
to walk back to the wagon. She won’t even ask where I am, ’cause she’ll
think I’m tryin’ to keep Cliff from findin’ out anythin’; _sabe_?”
“But what--” began Sleepy.
“Never mind about this end of it, Sleepy. You better rattle yore hocks,
cowboy.”
* * * * *
Sleepy grunted softly and circled the store. He knew that Hashknife
would do the best thing in regard to Cliff Parker. There was no question
in his mind that Cliff Parker was the Trey of Spades, and his heart sank
when he thought what it would mean to Dad Parker and Milly.
About midway between the store and the depot he ran into Blackie Dahl,
standing in front of a store, but neither of them spoke. Milly had come
downstairs and was standing on the depot platform, talking to a man who
turned out to be the minister. He spoke to Sleepy, who was panting from
his hurried trip. The headlight of the train was already in sight, and
they moved back as it approached.
As the train drew to a stop, Milly ran to a car platform and threw her
arms around a girl, who was coming down with the assistance of the
conductor. Sleepy kept in the background while the two girls finished
their greeting, and then secured Miss Clement’s two valises.
“Sleepy, I want you to meet Miss Clement,” said Milly. “Dorothy, this is
Mr. Stevens, known as Sleepy.”
“I’m sure pleased to meet yuh,” grinned Sleepy, as they shook hands.
“How’s all yore folks?”
“Where is Cliff?” Miss Clement ignored Sleepy’s question.
“Oh, Cliff’s out on the range,” said Milly quickly. “You see, he didn’t
know you were to arrive today. He was gone when your last letter reached
us, Dorothy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. It just seems ages and ages since I saw him.”
“Well, it won’t be long,” assured Milly. “I know he will be greatly put
out when he finds out that you arrived when he was away.”
“Put out is just what he will be, that’s a cinch,” said Sleepy to
himself. “He was sure ‘out’ when she arrived.”
“We’ll walk to the wagon,” said Sleepy, leading the way. “We was kinda
afraid to bring that team up here near the train.”
“That’s all right,” said Milly. “It is such a short distance.”
They found Hashknife sitting on the driver’s seat, but he sprang down at
their approach and shook hands with Miss Clement. The two girls occupied
the rear seat, and had little chance for conversation on the way to the
ranch as the team was inclined to make the greatest possible speed, and
Hashknife made little effort to slow them down.
Dad Parker and Harmony met them at the porch and escorted the visitor
inside, while Hashknife and Sleepy drove down to the stable and unhooked
the team.
“What did yuh do with Cliff?” asked Sleepy anxiously.
Hashknife did not reply. They stabled the horses and came back to the
wagon, where Hashknife lifted off the rear seat and climbed into the
wagon.
“We’ll slide him out the end, Sleepy. We’ve got to get him into the
bunkhouse before anybody sees us.”
“You mean to say----”
“Sure. He’s all wrapped up in robes, and I reckon them two girls had
their feet on him all the way back.”
Together they lifted out the robe-wrapped bundle and carried it into the
bunkhouse. Hashknife lighted the lamp and they proceeded to remove the
robes, disclosing Cliff Parker, with his arms and legs tied and a gag in
his mouth. He stared at them, but without recognition.
“I had to make a mummy of him,” explained Hashknife, “so I took a
tie-rope. I gagged him, too.”
They removed the ropes, and Hashknife was just starting to investigate
the knots in the handkerchief gag, when the door opened and in came Dad
Parker. Hashknife groaned softly and stepped aside, while the old man
stared at Cliff wonderingly.
He came slowly forward, looking down at his son’s bloody face. His eyes
shifted to the loose ropes and he looked at Hashknife, as if begging for
an explanation.
“It’s kinda hard luck, Dad,” said Hashknife slowly. “We was tryin’ to
fix him up and put him to bed before yuh had a chance to see him.”
“But what does it all mean?” asked Dad hoarsely. “Why is my son in this
condition? Why was he bound and gagged?”
Cliff was trying to sit up, and Hashknife swiftly removed the gag. He
tried to get to his feet, but was unable to do so alone; so Sleepy
helped him onto a bunk, where he flopped full-length.
“Won’t either of you tell me what it means?” asked Dad.
“I’ll tell yuh about it, Dad,” offered Hashknife. “It ain’t somethin’
nice to tell a man about his son, but I reckon you’ve got to know it.
It’ll hurt to beat ----, old timer.”
“I want to know about it, Hashknife.”
“All right, Dad.”
And in a few words Hashknife told him about the holdup and of how they
had found Cliff with loose jewelry scattered all around him. He told
just why he had bound and gagged Cliff, and how they had brought him
home without any one suspecting that they had even discovered a clew
to the bandit.
“And this means that Cliff is the Trey of Spades?” Dad’s voice broke
badly. “Is that it, Hashknife?”
“It sure looks thataway, Dad. Any jury on earth would convict him in a
minute.”
The old man bowed his head for several moments, his gnarled hands
clutching at his knees. Then he looked up, shaking his head.
“I--I was afraid of this,” he faltered. “The morning that the Cheyenne
was held up, Cliff left there at three o’clock. He did not get here
until about eleven. What is there left to do, except to turn him over
to the sheriff?”
“Think it over quite a lot,” replied Hashknife slowly. “We’ll have to
let Harmony in on it, I reckon. Sleepy will go up there and get some hot
water and rags. We’ll prob’ly have to find some tweezers and a razor,
’cause we’ve got to get them shot out of his face. Mebbe Harmony’s got
what we need, Sleepy.”
Cliff made no objections to having Hashknife remove his clothes and
put him to bed. He was in a dazed condition, but did not seem to be
suffering greatly.
Dad picked up his soiled coat and felt in a pocket. His hand came out,
holding a jewel case, which he opened under the light of the lamp. It
contained a string of imitation pearls, which would cost about fifty
dollars.
Hashknife squinted at them thoughtfully.
“Hide ’em, Dad,” he advised. “They’re evidence against him.”
“I’ve never broken the law yet,” said Dad firmly.
“All right,” Hashknife reached over and took the case. “You won’t be
breakin’ any law by keepin’ your mouth shut, will yuh?”
“No, I--I suppose not. But you can’t evade----”
“It has been done,” interrupted Hashknife. “Do you realize what this
means, Dad? Do you know what it would mean for Milly?”
Before the old man could reply, Sleepy and Harmony came in, carrying a
kettle of hot water, some rags and a towel. Sleepy had told Harmony
part of the story, or at least enough to keep him from asking too many
questions.
“Harmony had some tweezers,” said Sleepy, “and there’s a razor here. We
brought some of that stickum-tape, too.”
With the able assistance of Sleepy, Hashknife managed to clean out
Cliff’s wound, bind it up; and by dint of perseverance he succeeded
in taking the six birdshot out of his cheeks and forehead. Several
more left scratches, which would soon heal.
The pain of the crude surgery had revived Cliff, who looked at them
wonderingly.
“What in ---- is goin’ on around here?” he muttered, trying to sit up.
“Better stay where yuh are, Cliff,” advised Harmony.
“Huh?” Cliff felt of his bandaged head. “Must have got hit, eh? How did
I get home?”
“You try sleepin’ for a while,” advised Hashknife. “In the mornin’ we’ll
answer questions.”
He slumped back on his pillow, squinting painfully at the ceiling. Dad
Parker turned wearily to the door and Hashknife walked out with him.
“Don’t worry about this, Dad,” he advised. “Let me and Sleepy handle
it for yuh. If we can keep Cliff under cover for a few days he’ll be
as good as new. Nobody suspects him, don’tcha see?”
“I see,” Dad Parker sighed deeply, turned and went slowly to the house.
Hashknife watched him enter the house. Silhouetted against one of the
windows were the two girls, talking. Their shadows turned away at the
entrance of the old man. Overhead a star-jeweled sky lighted up the
hills, and on the jagged top of the Thunder range, a silvery crescent
moon seemed to balance on one tip.
Hashknife breathed deeply and turned back to the bunkhouse where he
found Harmony and Sleepy talking softly. Cliff was asleep.
“You fellers take care of him,” said Hashknife softly. “I’m goin’ back
to town and see what the sheriff found out.”
He picked up his hat and turned to the door.
“Why, even the birds--” Thus Sleepy indifferently.
Hashknife squinted at him, and a grin flashed across his lips.
“Yeah, even the little birds, Sleepy.”
He shut the door softly behind him and went to the stable, where he
saddled his horse and rode swiftly away toward town. He had no clear
conception of just how he was going to keep Cliff under cover until
his face was healed. Hashknife was not in the habit of trying to
defeat justice; rather he had upheld the law during most of his
career.
“The Trey of Spades will disappear, it will be a lesson to Cliff, and
everybody will be happy--I hope,” he told himself.
He found the sheriff at his office, talking with Buck and the jeweler.
Their ride had been in vain.
“We wondered what had become of you, Hartley,” said Farley.
Hashknife told them of the arrival of Miss Clement, and that he had
hurried as fast as possible to get back to town.
“Well, he made a clean getaway,” declared Farley gloomily.
“We went out through the back and all around,” said Hashknife, “but
naturally he wouldn’t be there.”
“Not likely,” agreed Farley, and Hashknife felt sure that they had not
discovered the scattered jewelry.
“You fellers were lookin’ for Cliff, wasn’t yuh?” asked Buck, and
Hashknife felt that there was a hidden meaning in the question.
“Yeah,” said Hashknife easily. “He was home when we got there. Harmony
said he came a little while after we left.”
“Drunk?” queried Buck.
“As a goat,” nodded Hashknife, leaving it to their imagination as to how
drunk a goat might get.
“Well,” concluded Farley, “there’s no use huntin’ in the dark; so we
might as well close up the place.”
Hashknife drifted over to the Cheyenne and mingled with the crowd.
There was a fairly heavy play, and a number of couples were dancing. On
the far side of the room, the Countess and Blackie Dahl were sitting at
a table. She seemed greatly interested in what he was saying, although
Hashknife could see that he was maudlin drunk.
As the dance finished she left Blackie and went to the platform. Slim
Cole walked in beside Hashknife and took him by the arm.
“Back again, eh?” he laughed. “They sure do come back. When she finishes
her song I’ll introduce yuh. Stay here, where I can find yuh before she
gets back to Blackie. He’s as jealous as ----”
Hashknife grinned and nodded. Vincent Roche passed him and went up close
to the platform, but the Countess merely glanced at him, as she started
her song, which was a music-hall ditty and not at all what Hashknife
wanted to hear her sing.
As she came down off the platform, Slim Cole hurried him across to her
before she could reach Blackie’s table.
“Countess, I want yuh to meet Mr. Hartley,” said Slim, grinning widely.
She looked keenly at Hashknife for a moment and held out her hand.
“I am very glad to meet you,” she said slowly. “I noticed you in here
today.”
“I didn’t s’pose yuh would,” smiled Hashknife. “I sure did enjoy yore
singin’, but I didn’t care much for yore last song.”
She smiled softly.
“Do you like the old love songs, Mr. Hartley?”
“Love songs don’t ever get old, do they?”
“No, I suppose not. You are a stranger in Oxbow?”
“Yeah, we’ve only been here a little while. We’re workin’ at the
Maverick ranch--Parker’s place.”
“Oh, I see.” She looked away.
“You’ve been here long, ma’am?”
“Almost a month.”
“Well, I hope to see yuh ag’in, ma’am.”
“Thank you--I hope so too.”
She walked on to where Blackie sat glowering at Hashknife’s back, as he
crossed the hall and went into the bar-room, where he found Slim Cole.
“How did yuh like her?” grinned Slim. “Ain’t she a dinger?”
“Very nice,” admitted Hashknife. “And just for that, I’ll buy a drink.”
The jewel robbery had become generally known by this time and was the
main topic of conversation.
“When did this Trey of Spades start operatin’?” asked Hashknife.
“The first time was about four months ago, Hartley. In that length of
time he has pulled off eight jobs. His first job was to stick up the
Crow Creek stage out of Silverbend. The next one was to blow the
post-office safe at Silverbend and grab a lot of registered mail. Since
then he has robbed the Snake River Hill stage, out of Cottonwoods, the
little bank at Cottonwoods, the store at Weston, the express office,
Cheyenne saloon and now the jewelry store here in Oxbow.”
“And he always left his card, eh?”
“Every time. Whoever he is, he’s gettin’ rich. It’s a payin’
proposition, as far as he’s gone.”
Several other men came up to the bar, engaging Slim in conversation,
and Hashknife drifted away. He crossed the street and glanced in the
Rodeo restaurant, where Jud Farley and Buck were eating their
delayed supper. Then he circled the jewelry store and came in behind
it, moving carefully. This time he did not light a match, but he did
grunt delightedly as he found what he was looking for. Then he swung
around behind the Rodeo, went back to the street and untied his
horse.
He rode swiftly back over the moonlit road and stabled his horse. There
were no lights showing in the ranch house, but he could see a dim light
in the bunkhouse. Sleepy was in bed, reading an old magazine, while
Cliff slept soundly in a bunk across the room.
“How’s the little birds?” grinned Sleepy, tossing the magazine aside and
reaching for his tobacco.
“They’re fine, Sleepy,” Hashknife sat down and began removing his boots.
“The sheriff hasn’t found that jewelry yet.”
“Didja meet the Countess?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Sleepy lighted his cigarette thoughtfully. “Well, I ain’t no
hand to chide a man as old as you are, Hashknife; but, personally, I
think you’re seven kinds of ---- fool. You go plumb back there to meet
a dance-hall female. And you ain’t even ashamed of yourself, are yuh?”
“No-o-o-o, I can’t say that I am, Sleepy.”
“I’m ashamed for yuh, cowboy.”
“Thanks, Sleepy. You sure are considerate.”
Hashknife yawned, reached inside his shirt and drew out a flattened
sombrero. He looked at it, looked around the place and threw it under
the bunk. Sleepy leaned down and looked under the bunk, while Hashknife
removed the rest of his clothes.
“What’s the idea of the hat, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.
“Cliff’s hat,” said Hashknife softly, as he blew out the lamp. “We
forgot about it, Sleepy. I went back after it.”
Hashknife crawled into bed and adjusted himself to a comfortable
position.
“I apologize to the little birdies,” said Sleepy meaningly.
“They accept it,” drawled Hashknife, “but they’re still singin’ their
little song.”
* * * * *
Dad Parker was up early the next morning. He had spent a sleepless
night, trying to decide just what to do, but was no nearer a solution
than he had been the night before. His mind was haunted by the picture
of his son, lying on the bunkhouse floor, bound and gagged, with a
white, blood-streaked face and dazed, wondering eyes.
Down in his heart he thanked Hashknife and Sleepy for doing what they
had done to save Cliff from the law. There was no doubt in his mind that
Cliff was the Trey of Spades, and he wondered just what restitution he
could make and still save his son from the penitentiary.
He walked slowly around to the front of the house, where Dorothy
Clement stood on the porch, gazing across the hills. She was a pretty
little thing, with wide, wistful eyes that matched in color her soft
blue morning gown. She smiled at Dad and indicated the hills with a
sweep of her hand.
“I’ve been looking far back into the hills, Dad,” she said slowly.
“Milly said that Cliff might come this morning, and I wanted to be the
first to see him.”
The old man shaded his eyes and stared at the hills, with their
rose-tinted crests and cool blue shadows in the morning light. Then
he dropped his hand and looked up at her.
“I’ll let you do the lookin’, Dorothy,” he told her wearily. “My old
eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”
He turned and started toward the rear of the house, when a joyful
exclamation caused him to turn. Dorothy was looking down the road,
where a lone rider was coming toward them.
“Oh, that must be Cliff!” exclaimed the girl. “Why doesn’t he hurry?”
Dad squinted at the rider and his lips shut in a thin line. He had
recognized the horse. Milly came out onto the porch and Dorothy threw
one arm around her waist.
“Isn’t that Cliff coming?” she asked.
Dad looked at Milly, who turned from a glance at the on-coming rider,
and their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. The rider swung in at the
gate and came slowly up to them. It was Jud Farley, the sheriff, riding
his white-faced sorrel.
“Howdy, folks,” the sheriff smiled as he drew up near the porch and
dismounted.
“Good mornin’, Jud,” said Dad Parker. “Glad to see you.”
Farley looked closely at Dorothy, and a wide grin wreathed his face.
“Well, by golly, if it ain’t little Miss Clement!” he exclaimed. “Say,
I’m sure glad to see yuh, little lady.”
“And I am very glad to see you, Mr. Farley,” smiled Dorothy, as they
shook hands. “You haven’t changed one bit.”
“Well,” Farley grinned at her, “you have. You’re gettin’ prettier every
year.”
Dorothy blushed, and this amused Farley greatly.