years younger. Hartley told me somethin’ about bein’ at the train to
meet somebody, but I was too busy to pay any attention to the name. You
goin’ to stay a while?”
“If they don’t get tired of me.”
“Tired of yuh? Say, you’ll be here a long time,” Farley laughed. “Suits
me if yuh never go away. This country sure does need somethin’ for sore
eyes. Ha, ha, ha!”
“Have you had breakfast?” asked Milly.
“Hm-m-m, kinda. I can always eat, though. You know me, Milly.”
“I’ll tell Harmony that you are here.”
“Tell me what he says,” laughed Farley. “It does us good to know what
other folks think about us once in a while.”
The two girls went into the house, and a moment later Hashknife came out
of the bunkhouse door and started toward the stable.
“I want to see Hartley,” said Farley, and turned abruptly away from Dad
Parker, following Hashknife. The old man looked after him, his heart
filled with apprehension. Did it mean that the sheriff knew something of
what had happened the night before, he wondered?
He knew that Farley would suspect something, if he saw Cliff in his
present condition. Perhaps, he thought, Farley already had evidence
against Cliff. He could see Hashknife at the stable door, waiting for
Farley to reach him. They stood there for a minute or two, talking,
and then moved over by the corral, where they sat down on a pile of
old poles.
Hashknife was a little puzzled at the early morning appearance of the
sheriff. He tried to think of something they had overlooked; something
that might be a clue for the sheriff to fasten the guilt upon Cliff.
“Out kinda early, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.
Farley smiled thoughtfully. “Mebbe. Let’s set down and talk a little.”
They walked over by the corral and sat down on the pile of poles.
“We got back most of that jewelry,” said Farley. “It was scattered
around the yard back of that store.”
“Tha’sso?” Hashknife feigned surprise.
“Yeah.” Dryly.
“The jeweler was lucky, don’tcha think?”
“Uh-huh.” Farley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised
to know that some of the birdshot hit the Trey of Spades.”
“It might, at that. A shotgun sure scatters a lot.”
“Yeah. We found blood alongside that fence out there, and we found the
mask he wore.”
“Blood, eh? By golly, he must ’a’ been hit.”
“And,” said Farley looking straight into Hashknife’s eyes, “there was
a little blood here and there. In fact we was able to foller the trail
from there plumb around to the hitch-rack beyond the old feed store.”
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully.
“Is that so? Then he didn’t leave town, eh?”
“Mebbe he did, and mebbe he didn’t.”
“Yeah, that might be true,” Hashknife knew that Farley suspected that he
knew more about it than he was willing to tell.
“He was there at the hitch-rack quite a while,” stated Farley. “There
was more blood at that spot.”
“Uh-huh. He prob’ly was quite badly hurt and it took him a little while
to untie his horse.”
“Mebbe,” Farley smiled softly.
Milly and Dorothy came around the house, walking with an arm around each
other. They stopped at the kitchen door and talked with Harmony.
“Awful nice little girl, that Clement girl,” observed Farley.
“Finer than silk,” agreed Hashknife softly. “She’s goin’ to marry Cliff
Parker.”
Farley glanced sharply at Hashknife.
“Yuh say she is?”
“It ain’t a secret, Farley.”
“Well,” Farley frowned heavily, “it may not be a secret, but it’s a ----
shame.”
“She thinks a lot of him, Farley.”
“Um-m-m. Where’s Cliff?”
“In Oxbow, I suppose. He spends most of his time there, don’t he?”
“He was here last night, wasn’t he?”
“Not when I got back. He said somethin’ to Sleepy about goin’ over to
the Diamond V ranch. Him and Roche are good pals, I reckon.”
“Over to the Diamond V, eh?”
Hashknife nodded quickly, but with a fear that Farley knew that he
was lying. Came the musical jangling of Harmony’s big steel triangle,
calling them to breakfast, and Hashknife was very thankful for the
interruption. As they started for the house, Sleepy came out of the
bunkhouse and joined them.
Hashknife told him about the recovery of the jewelry, and Sleepy’s
surprise was almost overdone. At the doorway, Hashknife turned back.
“Got to have a coat,” he grinned. “Plumb forgot that we have company. Be
with yuh in a minute.”
He hurried down to the bunkhouse and went inside. Cliff was sitting
up in his bunk, feeling of his bandages. He scowled at Hashknife and
waited for him to explain.
“Get into your clothes,” ordered Hashknife. “You’ve been about all the
different kinds of ---- fools that there is runnin’ loose, Parker; and
you’ve got to work fast. Have you got a horse and saddle here?”
“What the ---- are you talkin’ about?” demanded Cliff.
“Somethin’ about your future. Dorothy Clement is up at the house,
waitin’ for you to ride in out of the hills. The sheriff is also up
there, kinda hankerin’ for a chance to look yuh over. You spin into
your clothes, grab a horse and saddle and slide into the hills.
“As soon as the sheriff rides away, you ride in; _sabe_? Don’t ask a lot
of fool questions! You ain’t got a lot of time. Now start movin’, while
the time is right.”
“Dorothy up there?” Cliff scowled as well as he could with his bandages.
“Came last night. We’ve lied all we could. Get goin’.”
“And the sheriff, too, eh? What in ---- does he want?”
“Listen,” Hashknife stopped at the door, pulling on his coat, “you do
as I say, Parker; unless you want to cool the soles of your boots on a
penitentiary floor for the next ten or twenty years.”
“Is that so?”
“Be a ---- fool about this, and see if it ain’t,” replied Hashknife,
shutting the door.
He went swiftly up to the house and took his place at the breakfast
table. The atmosphere seemed a trifle tense, and the conversation
strained. There was none of the usual good-natured banter of a cow
ranch breakfast table. Farley noticed this.
“Kinda like a Quaker meetin’,” he observed.
“Dorothy and I talked half the night,” said Milly quickly. “We are all
talked out.”
Farley told them about the robbery in Oxbow and how he had found the
stolen jewelry that morning.
“Oh, I think that the Trey of Spades is just too romantic!” exclaimed
Dorothy. “He is like Robin Hood.”
“He’s romantic all right,” grinned Farley. “I’ll betcha he ain’t so
romantic this mornin’, ’cause he got some of old man Freeland’s birdshot
in his anatomy. If I can find the man who is sufferin’ from a duck-load,
I’ll have the Trey of Spades.”
“Well, I hope you don’t find him,” declared Dorothy.
“I’ll do my best,” smiled Farley, as he got up from the table. “I’ve
sure earned him, little lady.”
Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside with Farley, who mounted his horse.
“You goin’ back to Oxbow?” asked Hashknife.
“I s’pose,” Farley grinned thoughtfully. “I’ve got to kinda keep
movin’ and try to find the jigger that got hit with that shotgun. From
the amount of blood he lost, I’m wonderin’ if it all come from a few
birdshot.”
“Might ’a’ pinched his hand in the door when he was goin’ out,”
reflected Hashknife aloud.
“Oh, yeah,” Farley’s nose wrinkled in affected seriousness. “That could
sure cut him up a lot. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”
They watched him ride away and turned back to the bunkhouse. Cliff was
not there. Dad Parker came down and Hashknife told him what he had
ordered Cliff to do. The old man seemed to breathe a little easier, but
was still dubious.
“Jud Farley suspects him,” he declared. “Jud is no fool. He has some
evidence against Cliff, that is a sure thing.”
“All right, Dad.” Hashknife slapped the old man on the shoulder. “Let
him suspect. He ain’t got enough evidence to make an arrest--or he’d
make it. If we can keep Cliff under cover until his wounds heal, it’ll
be a cinch.”
“Yes, we might evade the law, Hartley; but we can’t evade our own
knowledge. Milly knows--or suspects. She will have to know the truth.”
“Yeah, you’ll have to tell her, Dad.”
“And what right have you two to help compound a felony? You know that
my son is guilty. It is your duty to notify the sheriff--not to block
justice.”
Hashknife smiled softly and shook his head.
“Dad, do you read the Bible?”
“What has the Bible to do with this?” Bitterly.
“‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Who are we to judge
your son, Dad? Why should we send him to prison? Are we so danged much
better than he is that we must see the law punish him?”
“You are law-abiding, aren’t you, Hartley?”
“Perhaps. There are no sheriffs after us--now.”
“You are breaking the law right now.”
“Sure thing. And what is more, Dad, we always will--or until the law
starts writin’ in more ‘do’s’ and less ‘don’ts.’ It is always a ‘don’t.’
Me and Sleepy stay within the law--or as far as our conscience will
allow.”
“There comes Cliff,” said Sleepy, who was near the door.
They looked out. Cliff was riding in at the front gate, bareheaded,
bandaged. Dorothy and Milly had come out on the porch, and now they
went running down to him. Cliff dismounted, as they reached him, and
Dad Parker left the doorway, going toward them.
Hashknife and Sleepy went back into the bunkhouse and sat down.
“He never wore his hat,” observed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he never seen it
down there under the bunk.”
“He’s got a lot of lyin’ to do now,” grinned Hashknife. “I’d sure hate
to be in his shoes. And he’s got to lie before Dad and Milly, who know
danged well he’s lyin’. It sure is one swell situation.”
“And it’s none of our business,” said Sleepy seriously. “We ain’t got
nothin’ to do with it a-tall, Hashknife. There used to be a time when
me and you would be hornin’ into this here Trey of Spades thing--but
that time has passed.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” Hashknife sighed deeply and began rolling a
cigarette. “I feel sorry for Dad and Milly. He’s a dinger, Sleepy. Dad
ain’t makin’ no ---- of a fuss, but down deep in his heart it’s hurtin’.
Milly don’t know it all yet. It’ll kinda jar her, I reckon.”
“And it’ll jar Miss Clement, too, Hashknife.”
“Oh, sure. She thinks that Cliff is a little tin god.”
“Speakin’ of tin gods,” Sleepy tilted back on his bunk and squinted at
the ceiling. “How about the Countess?”
“Kinda tinny,” said Hashknife seriously.
“Hm-m-m. Didja see her ag’in?”
“Yeah--talked with her, Sleepy. She’s a pretty danged nice sort of a
girl--for her kind.”
“For her kind,” echoed Sleepy. “But yuh got to remember that Cliff
turned thief to buy things for her.”
“He did, like ----!” Hashknife fairly exploded.
“Well, dear me!” Sleepy sat up quickly. “He didn’t?”
“No, Sleepy. The Trey of Spades was doin’ a land-office business before
she ever came to Oxbow. I found out how long she has been there.”
“That’s a different colored horse,” grunted Sleepy.
* * * * *
Hashknife cleared the table and began playing solitaire, while Sleepy
watched him indifferently. It was about thirty minutes after Cliff’s
arrival at the house when he opened the door of the bunkhouse and came
inside. The two cowboys waited for him to speak.
His face was slightly flushed and he had the appearance of a man who was
badly in need of a stimulant.
“Well,” he said hoarsely, looking at Hashknife, “what next?”
“Next what?” Hashknife shoved back from the table.
“Next order.” He came closer and stared at Hashknife. “You seem to be
runnin’ things around here, Hartley.”
There was a distinct threat in Cliff’s attitude; so Hashknife got to his
feet, leaning across the table.
“Don’t be a fool, Parker,” Hashknife spoke softly. “You’ve got past so
far--now be careful.”
“Yeah?” Cliff spat dryly, thoughtfully. “What’s the big idea?”
“The big idea is to keep you out of the penitentiary. Mebbe you don’t
appreciate it, but yo’re edgin’ in pretty close to the big stone corral,
young feller.”
“The ---- I am!” snorted Cliff angrily. “Let me tell you----”
The door opened behind him and Dad Parker came in. Cliff turned and
looked at his father, who came up close to him, leaving the door open.
The old man’s eyes were stony cold and his jaw was set, as he faced his
son.
“More trouble, eh?” said Cliff angrily.
“No, not trouble,” Dad Parker shook his head. “It is just a showdown,
Cliff. You told your story very well, and I think that Dorothy believes
you, but I know better and I’ve told Milly the truth.”
“Well,” Cliff frowned heavily, “that’s all right.”
“All right with you, Cliff. Perhaps you will have time to get out of
the country, if you don’t waste too much time in starting. The sheriff
is suspicious of you, and when he sees you his suspicions will be
confirmed. These two men have saved you from the consequences of your
crimes, but there is little that they can do now.”
“Huh!” Cliff rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his
dry lips. For several moments he stared at the floor, as though trying
to concentrate his thoughts. Then he lifted his head and looked at his
father.
“Dad,” his voice broke slightly, “what in ---- is this all about?”
“All about?” The old man laughed bitterly. “You would dare to stand
there and ask me that question? Cliff, I’ve been afraid of this for
several days. Last night you were brought here, suffering from an
injury which was inflicted at the time you held up and robbed
Freeland’s jewelry store in Oxbow.
“Your face was filled with birdshot from Freeland’s shotgun. Hartley
and Stevens found you just after the holdup, where you had accidentally
injured yourself in the dark. The jewelry was all scattered around,
where it had fallen. Your mask was beside you. Now, can you stand there
and deny that you are the Trey of Spades?”
Cliff was staring at his father, his face gone white under the
accusations. Hashknife’s eyes shifted from the two men and looked at
the doorway, where the minister stood, a puzzled expression on his
face. None of them knew how long he had been there, but he had surely
been there long enough to have heard Dad Parker’s accusation of his
son.
Cliff shook his head and started to speak, but Hashknife forestalled
anything further by saying:
“Here’s the preacher who rides on his church.”
Dad Parker and Cliff turned quickly.
“Pardon me,” smiled the minister. “I was going past; so I stopped for a
minute or two.”
“Oh, yes,” Dad Parker’s voice was barely a whisper. “You ju-just
stopped. Well, won’t you go up to the house?”
“Thank you, Mr. Parker.” He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, turned and
walked slowly toward the house. Hashknife walked to the door, leaning
on the casing, watching the minister go into the house. Then, without
turning his head, he said:
“Dad, I’m afraid he heard everythin’ yuh said.”
“Well, suppose he did,” Cliff laughed harshly. “It don’t seem to be any
secret.”
“There are only four of us, except you,” said Sleepy.
Dad Parker turned away and started for the door. His anger had burned
out, and with it had burned several years of his life. His hand groped
uncertainly at the doorway as he went out and walked toward the house,
like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Cliff stared after him and his face softened as he turned to Hashknife.
“It--it looks like they’ve got the deadwood on me, don’t it, Hartley?”
“The law hasn’t--yet.”
“It’s a funny thing.” Cliff sighed deeply and shook his head. “I feel
like I’ve missed a few months out of my life.”
“Don’t remember doin’ these things?”
“No. I reckon--say, what day and month is this?”
Hashknife pointed to a calendar on the wall, and Cliff walked closer to
examine it. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. Lapse of memory had
already been established as a point of defense, and they felt that Cliff
might be going to claim such a condition.
But he turned away from the calendar and sat down on a bunk, thinking
deeply.
“How much time have you forgot?” queried Hashknife.
“Not a ---- day.”
“Then you remember everythin’, eh?”
“Well,” Cliff smiled wryly, “not what Dad accuses me of, if that’s what
yuh mean.”
“All right. Then how do yuh account for bein’ where we found yuh last
night, flat on your back, with jewels scattered all around yuh and yore
face punctured with birdshot?”
Cliff held his head in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the floor.
“I can’t tell yuh, Hartley. It’s all too hazy.”
He got to his feet and moved toward the door.
“I’m goin’ to town, if anybody asks about me.”
“Don’t be a fool!” exploded Hashknife. “The sheriff is lookin’ for a
shot-marked man, and your face looks like you’ve had the small-pox.”
“I’ve got to have a drink,” declared Cliff. “There ain’t a drink on
the ranch, and if I don’t get a shot of whisky pretty soon, I’ll kill
somebody--or myself. I--I--” he snapped his fingers nervously--“I’ve
just got to have it. To ---- with the sheriff and the law.”
“Well, I s’pose that’s up to you,” said Hashknife. He picked the hat
from under the bunk and tossed it to Cliff.
“If you’ve got to go, don’t go bareheaded. Here’s yore hat.”
Cliff straightened out the sombrero, looked inside it and threw it back
onto the table.
“That ain’t my hat.”
“It ain’t your hat?” Hashknife gasped at him.
“---- no! Mine’s a perfectly good Stetson, and she’s got my initials in
the sweat-band.”
He whirled and went outside, leaving Hashknife and Sleepy staring at
the hat which Hashknife had brought from the scene of the crime.
Hashknife turned the hat slowly in his fingers. There were several
tiny holes in the top of the crown, where some of the old jeweler’s
birdshot had penetrated the felt, and along the brim were several
pencil-like marks where the tiny pellets of lead had scraped.
“It ain’t his hat,” said Hashknife, half to himself. “His hat has his
initials in the sweat-band. And I’ll betcha a hundred-to-one that Jud
Farley had that hat. Sleepy, we’ve got somebody’s old discard.”
“We haven’t,” stated Sleepy. “You have. Don’t blame it onto me, cowboy.”
And while Hashknife and Sleepy wondered, “Hat, hat, who’s got the hat,”
the Reverend Mr. Jones sat in the living-room of the Maverick ranch
house and tried to make conversation with Milly and Dad Parker. Dorothy
was in her room, changing her dress, making herself more beautiful for
Cliff’s sake, while he was riding wildly back toward town, with his soul
shrieking for whisky.
“I am making wonderful progress with my church,” offered the minister.
“Mr. Cole is giving me every assistance in fixing up the old building,
and it will not be long until we have a suitable place of worship.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” Milly awoke from her abstraction long enough
to know that some reply was necessary. Dad Parker sat in stony silence.
“And I think that it will be a very good thing for this country.” The
minister persisted in talking. “There has been a need for religious
revival in Thunder county. It is really a shame--almost a heathenish--if
I may use that word--condition.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Milly slowly. “We need something, that is a
sure thing.”
She got to her feet and walked to the front door. If the minister would
only go away it would relieve the situation to some extent, she thought.
She did not want to talk with him--nor to any one else for that matter.
Since her father had told her what he knew about Cliff, she had been in
a daze.
He got up and walked over to her. Dad Parker looked at him, wondering
how much he had heard at the bunkhouse. Milly moved out onto the porch
and the minister came out beside her.
“Milly,” he said softly, “you are in trouble. I know that. In fact I
overheard a conversation between your father and brother, which
was--well, enough to make me understand the situation.”
“You heard?” Milly stared at him.
“Yes. I know that your brother is the Trey of Spades, Milly.”
She turned away and stared blankly. This was worse than she had
imagined.
“It is too bad,” he said slowly, “and I want you to know how sorry I
feel.”
“And,” he continued after a moment, “I want you to understand that this
does not affect my respect for your father nor my--er--feelings toward
you, Milly.”
“Toward me?” Milly turned and looked at him.
“Yes,” he admitted, half-bashfully. “I am not afraid to tell you that
I think you are the finest girl I have ever met. It is difficult for
folks to imagine that a minister might fall in love with a girl; but
that is just what I have done.”
“But--but you mustn’t do that.” Milly was half-crying with nervousness.
“Don’t you see I can’t talk with you? Everything is wrong--everything!”
“Not everything, Milly. I love you.”
“Well, I don’t love you, don’t you see? I--I like you, but--but I don’t
love anybody.”
“You don’t mean that, Milly. When you calm down you will feel
differently about it.”
“No, I won’t!” Milly shook her head violently. “Please go away, won’t
you?”
The minister turned slowly away, his eyes hardening slightly, and
started down the steps toward his horse, while Milly turned and went
back into the house. He stopped at the foot of the steps and looked
back toward the empty porch, before he mounted his horse.
As he rode toward the gate, Hashknife walked over from the bunkhouse
and intercepted him. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Then
Hashknife said:
“How much of it did you hear?”
“About all of it, I think.” The minister’s voice was crisp and hard.
Hashknife squinted curiously at him.
“About all of it, eh? Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “And how much of it are yuh
goin’ to tell?”
“How much am I going to tell? What makes you think I am going to tell
any of it?”
“Because,” Hashknife’s grin was aimed to take off some of the sting,
“yuh don’t look like a man I’d trust with a secret.”
“Really?” The minister straightened in his saddle at the direct insult.
“That is not very complimentary, Hartley.”
“----, I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”
“No?”
“No-o-o. Yuh see, they taught me in Sunday school to tell the truth.
If my talk offends yuh--blame religion. If so much of my Sunday school
teacher’s talk hadn’t stuck to my brain, I’d prob’ly lie to you like
other folks do.”
“A paragon, eh?”
“Mebbe,” said Hashknife, after a moment, “it’s a good thing I don’t
_sabe_ that word.”
“Possibly. Now just where are we getting to in this conversation?”
“Right back to where we started, Deacon. You heard Dad Parker accuse
Cliff of being the Trey of Spades. Cliff didn’t deny it. The question
is this--are yuh goin’ to tell what yuh heard?”
“Why should I?”
“And there yuh are,” Hashknife flapped his arms wearily. “I’d just as
soon argue with an old woman as a preacher. They always say ‘because,’
or ‘why.’ My ----, do yuh think I want to ask questions and answer ’em
myself?”
The minister smiled at Hashknife’s serious expression.
“Would it be a Christian thing to do, Hartley--to tell?”
“What do I know about Christian things?”
“We seem to be deadlocked again.”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“We sure are, pardner.”
“Are you trying to coerce the church, Hartley?”
“I ain’t sure. I’ve got a hazy idea what that word means, but I do know
this: We’ve got a sheriff to chase criminals, and we’ve got a preacher
to chase the devil. The sheriff ain’t got nothin’ on the devil, and the
minister hadn’t ought to chase criminals. It ’pears to me that they’d
both do pretty well if they minded their own business, as far as they
are personally concerned.”
“That is not a bad philosophy, Hartley.”
The Reverend Mr. Jones picked up his reins, laughing softly. “I think it
can be carried out--as far as the preacher is concerned.”
“That’s fine,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll answer for the sheriff. If he
monkeys with yore Gospel, let me know, will yuh?”
“I will, Hartley. As soon as my church is inhabitable, I would like to
see you in the congregation.”
“Yuh might, at that,” laughed Hashknife. “So-long, _compadre_.”
“Good-by.”
* * * * *
Cliff lost no time in getting to Oxbow, and his horse was dripping with
sweat when he drew up at the Cheyenne hitch-rack. Jud Farley had seen
Cliff ride into town, and there was considerable of a pucker between the
sheriff’s eyes as he speculated upon things.
He watched Cliff hurry into the saloon, and his conclusions were that
Cliff was badly in need of a drink. After a short wait he sauntered
over to the Cheyenne and eased himself inside.
Cliff was at the bar, leaning on his elbows and looking at his
reflection in the backbar mirror.
His body tensed slightly as he saw the sheriff’s face reflected in the
glass, but he did not turn.
“Howdy, Cliff,” said the sheriff pleasantly as he moved in beside him.
“Have a little drink?”
“Thank yuh, Jud; I’ve had enough for now.”
Cliff turned and they looked at each other. The sheriff’s eyes flashed
to the bandage, but he did not remark about it.
“Bronc throwed me off in a mesquite,” said Cliff slowly. “I was back in
the hills. That ---- mesquite sure punches yuh full of holes.”
The sheriff nodded thoughtfully.