“Uh-huh. Got to get me a new one. I was kinda knocked out and went away
without it. Mebbe I could find the place, but it’s doubtful.”
“Bronc throwed yuh, yuh say?”
“Yeah--not my bronc though. He’s in the stable here in town. I was kinda
wobbly; so I went to the ranch in the wagon. I was ridin’ another bronc
when I got throwed.”
“Uh-huh,” Farley smiled, because he knew that Cliff’s horse was still
in the livery stable, and he decided that Cliff was a first-class liar.
Then it suddenly struck him that Cliff had not lied about it all. That
Maverick ranch wagon had been in town the night before, and had gone
back to the ranch while he and Buck were trying to pick up the trail of
the bandit.
“I was out to the ranch this mornin’,” offered Farley. “I seen Dorothy
Clement. By golly, she’s a nice girl, Cliff.”
“Yeah,” said Cliff thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I was out in the hills and
didn’t get to meet her at the train.”
“Yeah, it was too bad.”
Farley knew that Cliff hadn’t been in the hills. He had seen Cliff in
Oxbow that afternoon, and Cliff was in no condition to ride a horse.
And Cliff knew that Farley did not believe him.
“You heard about the jewel robbery, didn’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.
“They talked about it at the ranch,” said Cliff easily. “Didn’t amount
to much as long as the jeweler got his stuff all back. That Trey of
Spades has sure got nerve.”
“Yeah, but he’s careless.”
“Thasso?” Cliff’s eyes studied a framed picture on the opposite wall.
“Well, I suppose they all get careless. Wouldn’t be much use for jails,
if they didn’t. Let’s have a drink, Jud.”
They drank and turned away from the bar. Vincent Roche came swinging
through the front door but stopped suddenly at sight of Cliff’s bandaged
head.
“What hit you?” he asked.
Cliff explained about being thrown off his horse in the hills. Roche
listened closely, a half-smile on his face. He knew that Cliff had not
been in condition to ride into the hills, but he felt that Cliff had a
good reason for lying about it in the presence of the sheriff.
“I was over to the ranch to see yuh,” said Roche, anxious to change the
subject. “I met the Reverend Jones, who had also been there.”
“Had he?” Cliff smiled grimly. “Some day----”
“You let the preacher alone,” advised the sheriff dryly. “He’s needed
around here.”
“Then keep him around here,” retorted Cliff. “We don’t need him out at
the Maverick,” and then to Roche, “Did yuh go out to the ranch, Vint?”
Roche shook his head.
“No. The sky-pilot told me that you had pulled out for town; so I rode
back here with him. He invited me to church.”
Farley smiled and walked away. He knew that there was nothing further to
be gained from talking to Cliff. They watched him disappear.
“You went out in the hills and got bucked off in a mesquite,” said Roche
slowly. “That’s fine. Dorothy showed up; so you better brace up and
behave yourself. Now tell me somethin’ about those two new punchers at
the Maverick.”
“What do yuh want to know about ’em, Vint?”
“Are they just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, or are they here to try
and find the Trey of Spades?”
Cliff squinted thoughtfully. Then, “Just cowpunchers, Vint.”
“Are yuh sure?”
“Well, I’m as sure as death or taxes. What do you want to know for?”
“Just curious, tha’sall. Let’s go and take a whirl at the old wheel.”
“I’ll look on,” grinned Cliff. “I’m sure lookin’ for cheap amusement.”
The sheriff went back to his office, where Buck was asleep on a cot,
and sat down to try and plan just what to do. Buck awoke in a bad
humor, as usual, but grew interested when the sheriff told him about
Cliff’s injuries.
“Looks kinda bad for Cliff,” agreed Buck. “I wonder why the blasted fool
came back thataway.”
“Got thirsty, I reckon.”
“You didn’t have much luck with that feller Hartley, did yuh?” queried
Buck.
Farley shook his head.
“Not what you’d notice.”
Buck cleared his throat raspingly and shifted his position.
“I’m suspicious of them two, Jud. I tell yuh, they’re laughin’ at us all
the time. Dang ’em, they know too much t’ suit me.”
“Aw, ----, they couldn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Well, suppose it ain’t Cliff? Who’s the next bet?”
“I’m not bettin’, Buck. If it ain’t Cliff--I’ll eat my old shirt.”
“Then why in ---- don’tcha arrest him?”
“And have Hartley, Stevens, Dad Parker and Milly prove an alibi for him,
eh?”
“That’s the ---- of it!” snorted Buck disgustedly. “Every hand is agin’
us, Jud. ’Pears to me that the law ain’t pop’lar no more. I’m sure glad
we’re goin’ to have a church. If a lot of these jiggers would git the
Ten Commandments drilled into ’em, me and you would have an easier job.”
“How many of ’em do you know, Buck?”
“----, I don’t have to know ’em.”
“You’re pure, are yuh?”
“Jist like the driven snow,” said Buck savagely. “And I git poorer
and poorer every year. Pure and poverty-stricken. Them two words fit
together jist like meanness and money.”
The rest of the day was uneventful. Several times the sheriff went to
the Cheyenne and found Vincent Roche bucking the roulette wheel. Cliff
was not playing; so the sheriff decided that Cliff was either broke or
afraid to show too much money.
It was after dark when Buck joined him and they went to the Rodeo
restaurant. Blackie Dahl was there, sitting moodily at a table, alone.
He had been drinking steadily all day.
“Prob’ly got turned down by the Countess,” said Buck. “That’s kind of
specialty with her--turnin’ ’em down. But I don’t blame her for ditchin’
Blackie. My ---- he’s a awful specimen of humanity.”
“Don’t talk so loud,” advised the sheriff. “Blackie’s in a bad humor.”
“Aw, ----! We’ll have to kill him sometime, Jud; so it might as well be
one time as another.”
Jud grinned and attacked his food. In a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy
came in and sat down at the nearest table. Buck glowered at them, but
the sheriff seemed pleased. As soon as he finished his meal he went over
and took a vacant chair beside Hashknife.
“Well, what’s new?” asked Hashknife.
“Nothin’ new,” The sheriff rested his elbows on the table and chewed
thoughtfully on a toothpick.
Hashknife and Sleepy finished their meal and got up from the table.
Buck went out ahead of them and crossed the street, but the sheriff
waited for them to pay their check and met them outside.
“I don’t want to seem to be ridin’ you fellers, but I’d sure like to
trade talk with yuh.” The sheriff was apologetic.
“Trade talk?” Hashknife grinned.
“Yeah. I want yuh to understand that I ain’t jumpin’ at no conclusions;
_sabe_? With what I already know I could make a lot of grief for
somebody; but I ain’t hangin’ crape on doorways until I’ve got the old
deadwood planted.”
“That’s sure square of yuh, Farley; and I might trade on that basis--if
you talk first.”
“All right. Come down to my office, will yuh?”
They walked down the street and went into the office. The sheriff
lighted the oil lamp, closed the door, and the three of them sat down
beside his desk.
“I’m goin’ to play my cards face up,” stated the sheriff. “Beatin’
around the bush ain’t goin’ to get me nothin’ with you two. Cliff
Parker held up that jewelry store last night, got hurt and was taken
to the ranch by you fellers.”
Hashknife and Sleepy squinted at each other.
“I’m playin’ ’em in sight,” warned the sheriff. “You two went into
that back yard, while me and Buck went ridin’. There’s blood on the
ground where the robber laid, and it wasn’t hard to trail him to the
hitch-rack. Cliff’s got his head all bandaged up today and there’s
shot marks on his face. He got enough shot to make him blunder into
that fence, where he bumped himself. The plunder flew out of his
hands. All this was dead easy to read. Now, I’m askin’ you to talk a
little.”
“But why do yuh say it was Cliff Parker?” grinned Hashknife. “You only
know that Cliff has been hurt. He said he got throwed into a mesquite
bush.”
“Mesquite, ----! I’ll show yuh how I know.”
The sheriff hitched over to his desk and drew open one of the drawers.
He scowled deeply, and reached for the lamp with his other hand. After a
close inspection, while the two cowboys watched him closely, he lifted
his hand from the drawer and tossed a playing card on to the table, face
up. It was the trey of spades.
The sheriff looked searchingly at the two men, and poked at the card
with his finger.
“Two hours ago Cliff Parker’s hat was in that drawer,” he said slowly.
“It ain’t there now.”
“Turned into the trey of spades, eh?” queried Hashknife seriously.
Farley’s eyes hardened and his lips drew into a straight, level line.
“I didn’t ask yuh for much help, Hartley,” he said coldly, “but I do ask
yuh not to interfere with the law.”
Hashknife leaned across the desk and squinted in the sheriff’s face.
“Do yuh mean to say that we stole the hat?”
Farley’s eyes shifted under Hashknife’s steady gaze and he looked at the
card.
“We didn’t, Farley,” said Hashknife. “I figured that you had the hat,
and I’d ’a’ stole it, if I had the chance.”
The sheriff sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“Well, there’s no evidence left, that’s a cinch. I was a fool to leave
it in that drawer.”
Hashknife picked up the card and examined it. The back of it was an
intricate design, printed in blue. It had never been used, because it
was as white and crisp as a card from a new deck.
“Are all his cards like this?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff rummaged in another drawer and took out another trey of
spades with the same colored back.
“That’s the one he left at the jeweler’s place.”
“Can I take this one?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah. I dunno what good it’ll do yuh, though.”
Hashknife pocketed it and they went over to the Cheyenne. Blackie Dahl
was at the bar, and he glared at them, but did not speak. His eyes were
almost crossed from excessive drinking but he did not stagger. They went
into the gambling room and looked over the games. Cliff was humped in a
look-out chair, with a glass of liquor in his hand, watching the play.
“He ain’t been playin’ today,” observed the sheriff.
“Prob’ly broke,” said Hashknife.
“Prob’ly not,” replied the sheriff dryly. “I wonder where Roche is?”
Blackie passed them, going toward the dance-hall, and Slim Cole met them
at the entrance. He glanced at Blackie and grinned widely.
“Blackie’s workin’ up a grudge,” he said. “Vint Roche has been talkin’
with the Countess for an hour, and Blackie has been wanderin’ around
like a lost duck.”
They moved into the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and gained a
position near the orchestra. About half-way down, on the opposite side,
sat Vincent Roche and the Countess in close conversation.
“Roche hit the wheel for a lot of money today,” said Slim. “He must have
cashed in about two thousand dollars.”
“Not so good for you, eh?” said Hashknife.
“Aw, I’ll get it all back.”
“With interest,” added the sheriff.
“That’s the beauty of this business,” laughed Slim. “It’s like makin’ a
loan. Once in a while yuh find a man who is wise enough to keep what he
wins, but the majority of ’em can’t forget how easy it was to get.”
Blackie Dahl had been bumped by several dancers, which did not increase
his humor to any extent. He moved closer to Roche, although trying to
appear indifferent. It amused Slim Cole, but not so Jud Farley.
“Blackie is drunk enough to be dangerous,” said Jud. “If Roche is wise
he’ll watch that son-of-a-gun.”
Suddenly a dancing couple collided with Blackie, knocking him almost
into Roche, who looked up at Blackie and said something. A moment
later Blackie had flung the table aside and stepped back, reaching
for his gun.
But whisky had slowed Blackie’s speed, and before he could use the
gun Roche smashed him full in the face, knocking him half-way across
the hall, where he sprawled full-length on the floor. The orchestra
stopped with a crash and the dancers scattered.
Instinct had caused Blackie to cling to his gun, in spite of the blow,
but before he could recover sufficiently to use it, Roche’s right foot
was on it, crushing it out of his hand. Jud Farley crossed to them and
helped Blackie to his feet.
The punch had loosened all of Blackie’s front teeth and had driven the
whisky from his brain. He looked weakly around, as if wondering what it
was all about.
“You go home and sober up,” advised the sheriff.
“That’s good advice,” agreed Roche, examining his skinned knuckles. “And
next time you start to draw on me--look out, Blackie.”
“Yeah?” Blackie spat painfully, turned on his heel and went out of the
place.
“Whipped,” declared a cowboy.
“Not whipped,” said the sheriff. “Yuh can’t whip this kind.”
Roche went back, straightened the table and sat down again.
“He’s no milk-fed infant himself,” said Sleepy. “He sure cooled Mister
Dahl with one punch.”
Hashknife and Sleepy drifted back through the gambling room. Cliff was
still in the look-out chair, joking with the players.
“We might as well go home,” said Hashknife. Sleepy nodded and they went
back to their horses.
“Cliff ain’t as big a fool as I thought he was,” observed Sleepy, as
they rode back to the ranch.
“And the funny part of it is,” laughed Hashknife, “Jud Farley didn’t get
any trade talk out of us. He told us all he knew, Sleepy. I was sure he
had that hat, and I didn’t lie when I told him I would have stolen it.”
“Yeah, I suppose yuh would, Hashknife. Didn’t we agree to keep out of
other people’s business?”
“Well, yeah, we did. I ain’t hornin’ into anything, Sleepy. We won’t
get any deeper into this thing. Cliff is clear, as far as the law is
concerned.”
“Yeah--as far as the law is concerned.”
“Well, that’s as far as we can go, Sleepy. I know how Dad and Milly must
feel about it. It’s a ---- of a jolt. But it kinda looks like folks were
put on this earth to suffer. For every whisky glass full of joy there’s
a five-gallon demijohn of bitter misery for a chaser.”
“That’s true, Hashknife. Still, me and you ain’t never been so danged
unhappy.”
“Because we don’t mind our own business, I suppose. We’ve been so busy
foolin’ with other people’s troubles that we ain’t never had time to
have any for ourselves.”
They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. As they walked back
toward the bunkhouse, Milly came to meet them.
“Where is Cliff?” she asked.
“He’s still in Oxbow,” said Hashknife.
“Drinking?”
“N-not an awful lot,” Hashknife hesitated.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” said Milly wearily. “Dorothy knows that
something is wrong, but I can’t tell her the truth. She has been crying
all the evening. She--she thinks that Cliff don’t love her any more. I’d
rather have her think that than to know the real truth of the matter.”
“Prob’ly be better.”
“What about the sheriff?”
“Don’tcha worry about him, Milly. He had Cliff’s hat; found it out back
of the jewelry store. But he ain’t got it now.”
“Oh, did you get it, Hashknife?”
“No-o-o, we didn’t, Milly. There was a trey of spades in its place.”
“Oh!”
“How’s Dad?” asked Sleepy.
“Dad?” Milly looked back at the yellow lights from a window. “Dad is
reading.”
“Readin’?”
“Yes--the Bible.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Prob’ly do him good,” observed Hashknife softly.
“I don’t know how much it will do him,” Milly laughed wearily. “You see,
he never read it before.”
“Well, he’s old enough to know what it’s about,” said Hashknife
thoughtfully. “Is there anything we can do, Milly?”
“Not a thing. I wish Cliff would come home. If he don’t come pretty soon
I’ll be tempted to tell Dorothy the whole thing and let her faint dead
away. And she probably will, too.”
“Might be a good stunt,” said Sleepy. “She’ll be better off, if she
knows the whole thing.”
“No, she won’t,” declared Hashknife. “She thinks Cliff is all right.
There’s been many a brand snatched from the burnin’, as the preacher
said. We’re takin’ a lot for granted.”
“What do you mean by that?” queried Milly anxiously. “You don’t mean
that there’s a possible chance of Cliff not being guilty, do you?”
“He’s guilty of bein’ a fool. He’s guilty of drinkin’ too much hooch and
all that, Milly.”
“And of falling in love with a honkatonk girl,” added Milly.
“Well,” Hashknife chuckled slightly, “there’s a few things yuh might
excuse him for.”
“Hashknife met her,” laughed Sleepy. “But thank gosh she’s too fickle to
rope him for long. She shifted from Cliff to Blackie Dahl, and now she’s
got Vincent Roche roped and hog-tied.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Milly softly. “Vincent Roche.”
Sleepy knew that he had talked too much, but it was too late to retract
it now. Milly turned away without another word and went back toward the
house. Hashknife swore softly, as they went on into the bunkhouse and
lighted the lamp.
“You sure talked too much,” said Hashknife sadly.
“I know it. I didn’t stop t’ think about Roche bein’ a regular visitor.
I reckon I’ve just added to her misery, Hashknife.”
Hashknife nodded over his cigarette making.
“Yeah, I s’pose so. And old Dad up there readin’ the Bible; tryin’
to get some comfort for his soul: Oh, ----!” Hashknife got to his
feet and paced the length of the bunkhouse. It was not often that he
exhibited anger, and Sleepy squinted at him closely, wondering what
was coming next. Hashknife stopped at the table and looked down at
Sleepy.
“Cowboy, we’ve got to foller out our natural inclinations.”
“Meanin’ which?” Seriously.
“Up there in the house is an old man, tryin’ to find out in the Bible
that his son still has a chance, Sleepy. There’s a girl up there cryin’
her heart out because she thinks that her feller don’t love her no
more. And there’s a game little sister up there, tryin’ to keep a stiff
upper-lip through it all.
“And down here in the bunkhouse are two ---- fool cowpunchers who ain’t
got no business of their own, and have sworn to mind it. Now, you can do
as you ---- please, Sleepy. Stick to yore pledge, cowboy, if yuh want
to; but I hereby bust ---- out of mine; _sabe_?”
“Well,” Sleepy grinned softly and stretched out his legs comfortably, “I
been wonderin’ how long we could stand for our own affairs. Just which
end of this affair do we start gnawin’ on, Hashknife?”
“The first end we run into. By golly, I feel like a feller who hears the
dentist say, ‘Well, it’s out.’”
Sleepy yawned and began pulling off his boots.
“This is our land of milk and honey, Hashknife,” he bantered. “A land
where the coyote files off his teeth and eats grass with the cows. We
came huntin’ peace and it didn’t taste good.”
Hashknife merely grinned widely. He knew that Sleepy was anxious for
action, and was only talking for effect. They went to bed, and in about
an hour Cliff came in. He was half-drunk, but was careful to not disturb
them.
Feigning sleep Hashknife watched him take a quantity of money out of
his pocket and stuff it under his pillow. It was impossible to estimate
the amount, but it looked sufficient to excite Hashknife’s curiosity.
Cliff seemed to be in good spirits, whistling softly to himself as he
undressed. He knocked the chimney off the lamp, trying to extinguish
it, and mumbled an apology as he crawled into his bunk.
* * * * *
“I tell yuh I’m about through.” Harmony leaned against the kitchen
doorway and delivered his ultimatum. “By ----, I don’t mind a little
gloom, but I draws the line at too much of it. Won’t nobody eat. They
set down at the table, look like they’re goin’ to bawl about somethin’,
and then plumb ignore my cookin’. I tell yuh, it’s too ---- solemn to
suit me.”
Hashknife looked up from the washbasin, his face dripping, and reached
for the towel.
“Is it as bad as that, Harmony?” he asked.
“As bad? ----, I ain’t got el-o-cution enough to express m’self. Cliff
comes up here early and he runs into Dorothy. She’s cried until there
ain’t no moisture left in her system. Yes, sir, she’s been cryin’ over
that ---- fool half-baked kid; weepin’ over the fact that he don’t love
her no more. My, ----, if she had any sense she’d be wavin’ a flag and
cheerin’.
“And does she fall into his arms? Does she? Like ---- she does. She
turns him down as cold as old man January. Whooee! I hears him say,
‘Dot, what is the matter?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Him down at Oxbow lappin’
up liquor, and her up here bawlin’ ’cause he don’t come home--and he
wants to know what’s the matter.
“Well, she don’t tell him what’s the matter; so he follers her into the
house, tryin’ to find out. Ain’t a man in love a awful ---- fool. I’m
just about makin’ up my mind to stay single, I’ll tell yuh that. Gloom?
Whooee!”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed at Harmony’s disgusted expression. Cliff
had awoke and left the bunkhouse ahead of them, and they were curious
to know about his reception.
“How’s Dad Parker?” asked Hashknife softly.
“Him?” Harmony spat explosively and hooked his thumbs over the waistband
of his overalls. “Well, sir, I dunno. I like the old man. I’ve been with
him quite a while, and I thought I knew him kinda well.” Harmony shook
his head sadly, “I don’t know him a-tall.”
“Of course he feels bad about Cliff. It’s plumb natural for a pa to
feel bad when his offspring de-parts from the strait and narrer and
goes bumpety-bump toward ----; but if I ever git married and have a
son that gits bogged down, I’ll spit on my hands, load up the old
six-gun and find out who in ---- threw the switch on him--and not
read any Bible!
“Now, I ain’t sayin’ that the Bible ain’t good readin’, yuh understand.
It’s jist like a cook-book or an almanac--all right for what it’s
intended--but in a case like this, action speaks a ---- sight stronger
than printed words. Now, if you jaspers want to eat--say so. I’ll throw
a flock of ham and aigs together for yuh in a minute, and I’m the best
cook between here and there, but I ain’t cookin’ for somebody to sigh
over.”
“About four eggs for me, Harmony,” said Hashknife, “and not more than
that many for Sleepy. And if yuh cut that ham thin, I’ll measure yuh
for a harp. Make the coffee for grown men; _sabe_?”
“My ----, there still is joy in the world!” Harmony fairly skidded into
the kitchen and began rattling the pans.
They squatted on their heels against the house and waited for Harmony
to call them. Cliff came around from the front of the house, walking
with his head down, and almost ran into them.
His face was a trifle drawn and in the harsh light of day he looked much
older than his years.
“Mornin’, Cliff,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “Yuh kinda beat us out of
bed this mornin’.”
Cliff nodded, but did not speak. It was evident that he was not
interested. Milly came out through the kitchen and stopped in the
doorway. She looked tired, weary, and did not speak to Hashknife and
Sleepy. In a few moments Dorothy came out behind her.
It was evident that Dorothy had spent a sleepless night and an
unpleasant morning.
She seemed on the verge of crying, but at sight of Cliff she braced up
and tried to appear indifferent.
“Yore breakfast is ready, you two punchers!” sang out Harmony. “Come and
git it!”
They got to their feet and started past the two girls, when Milly said:
“I wonder who this is?”
They turned and looked down the road, where a lone horseman was coming.
He swung in at the gate and rode straight up to them. It was Buck Hardy.
He lifted his hat and eased himself in the saddle, as he spoke directly
to Cliff.
“When did you see Vincent Roche last, Cliff?”
“Vincent Roche?” Cliff squinted at Buck. “Why, Buck?”
“Somebody shot him last night.”
“Shot him?” It was Milly’s voice, almost a croak.
“Yeah--shot him. He had a lot of money with him, so Slim Cole says. He
didn’t have any when we found him.”
Hashknife put a hand on Milly’s shoulder to steady her. She was staring
into space, her hands clenched tightly.
“Sid Franklin found him,” continued Buck. “He was at the forks of the
road. And stickin’ in his bosom was a trey of spades.”
“Was he dead?” asked Hashknife.
“Danged near it. I dunno whether he’s got a chance or not. The doctor’s
workin’ on him.”
Hashknife grasped Milly by both shoulders.
“Brace up,” he whispered. “He’s still alive.”
She nodded dumbly. Cliff was staring at the ground, trying to think.
“How much money did Roche have, Cliff?” asked Buck.
“I don’t know!” Cliff threw up his head defiantly. “I’m not his banker.
Slim Cole ought to know how much Vint won yesterday.”
“Well, I s’pose that’s right,” said Buck slowly. “Somebody seems to have
the idea that you and Roche rode away together last night.”
“Somebody, eh? Who said we did?”
“Just somebody, Cliff.”
“Yeah? Do you think you can fasten this onto me?”
“Not me,” Buck shook his head. “I ain’t tryin’ to fasten it onto
anybody, Cliff. I just wanted to know, tha’sall.”
“Well, you’ve found out.”