after him thoughtfully. Milly and Dorothy had gone into the house, and
Harmony was standing in the doorway, holding a pan in his hand. Buck
turned back to Hashknife and Sleepy, and a look of understanding passed
between them.
“Well, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ back to Oxbow,” said Buck.
“Wait until we saddle up and we’ll ride with yuh,” offered Hashknife.
“Come on, Sleepy.”
They saddled quickly and rode away with Buck. Cliff watched them ride
away, a puzzled expression in his eyes, while in the kitchen door stood
Harmony, his head bowed in thought. Suddenly he looked around, stepped
to the stove and picked up a frying-pan. He strode to the door, and with
a flip of his hand, sent eight fried eggs spinning out into the yard.
“I’m just about through,” he told them. “It’s gittin’ so that they don’t
even set down at the table.”
Buck showed Hashknife and Sleepy where Roche had been found, lying
beside the road, near where the Diamond V road intersected with the
county highway.
“Jud told me about losin’ that hat,” said Buck meaningly, as they rode
on toward town.
“I reckon he still blames us,” grinned Hashknife. “But he’s all wrong,
Hardy. We would have swiped it if we had a chance.”
“That’s what Jud said. I dunno why somebody is always tryin’ to block
the law. This is the first killin’ that the Trey of Spades has done, and
yuh bet it’ll go hard with him when he’s caught. Thunder county is plumb
tired of that whippoorwill.”
“Who do yuh think it is?” queried Hashknife.
“Who?” Buck grinned sourly. “Well, figure it out for yourself, Hartley.”
“Cliff and Roche were the best of friends.”
“Yeah--sure. And Cliff needed money. Roche had over two thousand dollars
when he left the Cheyenne last night.”
“If Cliff is the Trey of Spades--did he need money?”
Buck frowned at this new angle. It had never occurred to him that the
Trey of Spades must have accumulated considerable money in a few months.
“Somethin’ to that,” he admitted. “Still, a couple of thousand is quite
a argument agin’ it, Hartley.”
Hashknife knew that Buck’s argument was logical, and he also knew that
Cliff had money when he came home. It looked bad for Cliff. They rode
into town and found Farley at his office.
“He’s still alive,” said Farley in answer to their questions. “He’s
badly hurt and the doctor don’t hold out much hope for him. Shot twice.”
“From behind?” asked Hashknife.
“What made yuh think that?” asked Farley quickly.
“The reasonable thing to do. Roche is a gunman. The Trey of Spades would
know that, Farley.”
Farley nodded thoughtfully.
“Yeah, I s’pose that’s true. Anyway, Roche was shot from behind with a
rifle.”
“Where did they find his horse?”
“It came to the ranch. That’s why Franklin went lookin’ for Roche early
this mornin’. There was blood all over the saddle.”
“All over it, eh?”
“Yeah. I’ve got the saddle here in the back room.”
“I want to see it later,” said Hashknife. “Buck said there was a trey of
spades.”
Farley took it from his pocket and handed it to him. It was not a new
card and was of the brand known as “Steamboats.” Hashknife examined
it closely and gave it back to Farley. They went to the rear room and
looked at Roche’s saddle. It was an expensive thing, studded with
silver; but just now it looked as if it had been dragged through a
slaughter-house.
“Franklin brought the horse and saddle with him,” said Farley. “The
horse is in the livery stable.”
“What’s your theory?” asked Hashknife.
Farley’s grunt was very expressive. They went back to the front office
and out into the street.
“How about Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.
“Not enough brains,” Farley shook his head. “Blackie is just a
cold-blooded snake, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades has got more sense
than an ordinary outlaw.”
“Roche knocked him down last night,” reminded Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s true. But yore pardner shot a gun out of his hand and made
him look cheap; and yore pardner is still alive.”
“I reckon you’ve got the right hunch.”
As they stood together, thinking it over, the minister came from the
livery stable where he had just stabled his horse. He came up to them,
with a smile on his dusty face.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them pleasantly.
Farley shook hands with him.
“I reckon we’re goin’ to need yuh, Jones.”
“Need me?” The smile faded, as he studied the serious face of the
sheriff. “What is the matter, Sheriff?”
“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche last night, and he prob’ly won’t
get well.”
“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?” The minister was thoroughly
shocked.
“Yeah. Shot him and stole somethin’ over two thousand.”
The Reverend Jones removed his hat and brushed back his hair nervously.
“Tell me more about this, Sheriff?”
In a few words Farley told him what they knew about the affair.
“Shot him in the back,” said the minister bitterly, “and left the Trey
of Spades on his bosom. Has the doctor any hopes for him?”
“Just about one chance in a hundred.”
“Not very great. You say he is at the doctor’s home? I will go there at
once and see what I can do to help.”
He nodded shortly and hurried on up the street.
“That’s my type of preacher,” said Farley. “He don’t try to act like he
was so ---- much better than everybody else.”
“Pleasant sort of a jigger,” admitted Hashknife. “What kind of a sermon
does he preach?”
“Never heard him yet. He’s been here quite a while, but yuh see he ain’t
had no place to preach. He rides from one place to another, kinda makin’
the rounds. I’ll betcha he’ll sure have a crowd when he does preach.”
“I’d like to hear him,” said Hashknife.
“Yuh might get the chance. They’re fixin’ over that old saloon for him
to use as a church, and it ought to be ready in a week or so.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over to the Cheyenne. The shooting of
Vincent Roche was the main topic of conversation and there was none of
the usual hilarity. Slim Cole met them with a grave smile, and with his
usual invitation to have a drink; but they declined.
Blackie Dahl was there, sitting alone at a card-table. He glanced at
Hashknife and Sleepy, a bit of a sarcastic smile on his thin lips. He
seemed entirely sober, watchful; more dangerous sober than drunk. He
must have known that men were hinting that he might have shot Vincent
Roche to revenge the blow, but he did not seem afraid.
Buck Hardy came in and joined them near the bar.
“Just been down to the doctor’s place,” he said. “Roche has a fightin’
chance. The minister is down there with him now.”
“It’s too bad we don’t know who shot him,” said Slim. “This shootin’ was
too mean to be left to the law.”
That seemed to be the general opinion of the cattlemen, as they rode
into town and talked about the shooting. It was Saturday, and by the
middle of the afternoon the hitch-racks were well filled with
saddle-horses and vehicles of every description.
Hashknife and Sleepy sat around, listening to the talk. It was
entertaining to listen to the different theories regarding the Trey of
Spades. Buck Hardy was drinking heavily. It was not often that Buck
looked upon the wine when it was red, but just now he had declared a
holiday and was imbibing more than was good for him.
It was almost dinner time when Cliff Parker rode into town and tied his
horse to a hitch-rack. There was nothing jovial about him as he strode
into the Cheyenne and encountered Buck Hardy.
“C’mon and have a drink,” said Buck thickly, indicating the bar with a
sweep of his arm, which almost overbalanced him.
Cliff squinted at Buck and shook his head slowly.
“I don’t want any drink,” he said gruffly.
“Is zasso? Don’t want no drink, eh? Zasso? My, my!”
There was quite a crowd at the bar and they were in the right mood
to enjoy trouble. Cliff started on, but Buck grasped him by the arm.
For a moment it appeared that Cliff was about to strike Buck, but he
merely jerked his arm away. The sheriff elbowed his way in, but did
not interfere in any way. Hashknife and Sleepy were near Cliff, as
he almost jerked Buck off his feet.
“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” queried Buck angrily. “Think yo’re too good to
drink with me? By ----, you ain’t too good. If somebody hadn’t stole
that hat, you’d be in jail right now.”
Cliff did not move a muscle, but his eyes narrowed. Buck laughed shortly
and turned to the crowd.
“He lost his hat the night he robbed the jewelry store, but somebody
stole that hat from the sheriff. Gen’lemen, I introduce to you--the
Trey of Spades.”
Buck tried to bow and almost lost his balance. Cliff swayed forward,
his right hand sweeping downward to his gun. Came the soft slap, as
hand met pistol-butt; but before he could draw Hashknife was into
him, fairly picking him off the floor and going toward the door with
a headlong rush.
So unexpected was the move that men stepped back to give him room. But
Jud Farley, the sheriff, knew. Swiftly he went out behind Hashknife and
Cliff, while behind him came Sleepy, blocking the crowd long enough to
give Hashknife and the sheriff time to rush Cliff across the street.
Men’s voices broke into excited argument, as they realized Buck’s
accusation. It meant that Cliff Parker was the man who had shot Vincent
Roche.
“Jud Farley knew!” cried a cowboy, back in the crowd. “We’re wastin’
time here.”
“Aw, ----! He’s got him in jail by now!” snorted another.
“Don’t be a lot of ---- fools!” roared Slim Cole, trying to make himself
heard. “If Cliff is guilty, the law will take care of him.”
Some one had procured a lariat, which they tossed toward the ceiling,
and the half-drunk, reckless gang fell onto it like a pack of wolves
and surged out through the door. Sleepy ran across the street, where
Hashknife was standing in the doorway waiting for him. They went
inside and barred the door. The jail cells were built into the rear
half of the building, but had not been constructed to withstand any
great assault. Jud Farley lifted a Winchester rifle and a sawed-off
shotgun from pegs in the wall and laid them on his desk, while he
took a supply of cartridges from his desk and spilled them into a
pile.
“---- Buck!” he grumbled. “That’s what whisky does to yuh. Buck will be
ready to cut out his tongue when he sobers up. That crowd is half-drunk
and they’re willin’ to take Buck’s drunken talk for Gospel truth.”
“What’ll this place stand?” asked Hashknife, looking it over.
“A hard wind.”
The sheriff stuffed the Winchester full of cartridges, while Sleepy
examined the double-barrel shotgun.
“You got Cliff in a cell?” queried Sleepy. But before he got a reply,
some one hammered sharply on the door.
“Go ahead and talk,” said the sheriff.
“This is Franklin,” said the man outside.
“All right, Franklin.”
“We want Cliff Parker, Jud.”
“Thasso? And then what?”
Several voices mumbled softly, as if they were conferring on their next
reply.
“We’ve got enough men to take this building apart,” said Franklin. “You
haven’t shot square with us, Jud. You knew that Cliff Parker was the
guilty man, but you let him keep on goin’. Now--we want him; _sabe_?”
“Folks don’t always get what they want,” replied the sheriff. “And I
wouldn’t advise yuh to try takin’ this shack apart. I’ve got two good
men in here with me, and we’re well heeled. If it comes to a showdown
I’ll hand Cliff a gun and let him defend his own life.”
“You know your own business, Jud. And you know us, too. We’ll give you
one minute to open that door.”
“All right!” The sheriff’s voice rang coldly, as he moved closer to the
door. “Let me tell you somethin’. That door is thin. I don’t reckon it’s
a inch thick in any place, and it ain’t hardwood. Right now there’s
sixteen buckshot squintin’ at that door, and if you snake-hunters don’t
break ranks right now----”
Came the sudden scrape of boot soles, as the crowd faded away from in
front of the door. They knew the evil effects of buckshot, backed by
three and one-half drams of powder, and they were not taking chances.
The sheriff laughed gleefully. It was getting dark in the room, but he
did not want to light a lamp. There was a hum of voices outside, as the
crowd debated.
“Prob’ly havin’ another drink,” grinned Farley.
A moment later a rock smashed through one of the front windows, half
tearing away the heavy curtain. Sleepy did not stand on ceremony. The
rock had barely crashed to the floor, when Sleepy sent a charge of
buckshot screaming out through the curtain.
The concussion shook the house and the shot ripped the curtain into
shreds, but the crowd had anticipated just such a move and had acted
accordingly. The sheriff grabbed a blanket off a cot and ran to the
window, quickly fastening it over the ruined one.
“Yuh can see we mean business, can’tcha?” yelled a voice.
“That sounds like Blackie Dahl,” said Farley. “Don’t pay no attention
to ’em. That back door is solid oak and has a bar across it. They can’t
hurt us from that direction.”
Some one outside fired a shot and the bullet splintered through the
upper part of the front door.
“Bluffin’,” declared Farley. “They know ---- well we ain’t up that
high.”
They sat down to wait for the next move. There was no more conversation.
They knew that the crowd would not quit that easy. Suddenly a heavy
weight crashed against the door lock, splintering the panel of the door.
“Look out!” snorted Farley. “Another like that and the door is open.”
He threw up his rifle and sent three bullets through the wall to the
right of the door, trying to drive the assault away from that quarter.
His answer came in the shape of two bullets, which hummed through the
door and splatted over their heads against the wall.
“Gittin’ serious,” said Farley thoughtfully, as they moved farther out
of line with the door. The room was filled with powder smoke, which
tickled their throats.
“Tough travelin’,” said Sleepy, trying to suppress a sneeze. “I’ve seen
places where I’d rather be than this. Let’s kick the door open and give
’em ----. This ---- idea of shootin’ from a fort don’t appeal to me.
Dang it, yuh ain’t even got their address.”
Just then another blow crashed against the lock and the door creaked
open, pieces of the lock spinning across the room.
“Flat down!” exclaimed the sheriff. “They’ve got us cold!”
Several voices yelped with triumph, while others warned against being
too quick to assault.
“Bring him out, Jud!” yelled a voice. “We’ve got yuh now! Don’t be a
---- fool. Your life is worth more than the life of a dirty murderer,
ain’t it? We’ll give yuh ten seconds to come out and hand over your
guns.”
“What’ll we do?” queried the sheriff softly.
“Nobody ever counted me out yet,” said Hashknife.
The man outside was counting slowly, drawling the numerals--
“Wun-n-n-n--two-o-o-o-o-o--three-e-e-e--”
Came the clatter of footsteps, a muttered exclamation from the crowd
outside, and a man stepped to the doorway of the office, silhouetted
against the lights across the street. Three guns were trained on him
from inside the building; some one outside swore viciously.
“This is a fine thing for a civilized community to do,” said the man in
the doorway. It was the Reverend Mr. Jones, hatless and coatless.
“Git to ---- out of the door!” yelled a voice.
“It’s the preacher,” called one of them. “What does he want here?”
“A square deal,” said the minister. “If you would stop to think this
over, I would not have to ask for a square deal, friends.”
“You better git out of the doorway,” cautioned a voice.
The minister laughed.
“No, I do not think so. If I stand here long enough, perhaps you savages
will realize that you are all wrong. You want to hang Cliff Parker--or
think you do. My advice to you is: go back where you came from and let
the law handle it. What right have you to hang a man?”
“The ---- law won’t do it!” yelled some one.
“How do you know it won’t? Give it a chance. The sheriff doesn’t serve
hangman’s knots with his warrants. And what right have you to judge
Cliff Parker? The careless remark of a drunken man isn’t sufficient
evidence. Go home before the sheriff has cause to arrest all of you for
assault with deadly weapons.”
“He’d have a ---- of a time gittin’ a jury to convict us.” Thus some
wit, who knew that such a thing would be impossible.
“Are we goin’ to argue or do what we came here to do?” demanded one of
them. “We’ve got the door open.”
“He deserves hangin’,” said another.
“Who--the preacher?” The wit again. Several men laughed.
“I am glad to hear that laugh,” said the minister. “It proves that
some of you are human enough to see the humor of hanging a minister.
Now let’s all go home, or back to the Cheyenne, and let the sheriff
handle this. Anyway, it is not a hanging matter. Vincent Roche is
still alive.”
The crowd mumbled and argued, but their ardor was dampened, and they
followed the minister’s advice.
“----!” snorted a disgusted voice. “I got the top-half of my ear shot
off with a buckshot, and now I ain’t goin’ to git even with nobody.
Preachers and civilization sure do rise ---- with the country.”
“And thus endeth that chapter,” said Hashknife wearily, and they moved
over to the door. “I thought it was goin’ to be a reg’lar fight and it
wasn’t nothin’ but a speech.”
The minister had followed the crowd, without waiting for the sheriff to
thank him.
“They won’t come back again tonight,” said the sheriff. “It was kind of
a half-cocked proposition, anyway; but it might ’a’ been bad pickin’ if
the preacher hadn’t showed up. I’ll have to build me a new door, I
reckon.”
“I’m goin’ to have a talk with Cliff,” said Hashknife. “You two stay
here, in case they decide to come back.”
He went through the connecting door and down to the cell, where Cliff
stood behind the bars trying to find out what was going on.
“It’s all over,” said Hashknife. “The minister stopped ’em.”
Cliff swore softly.
“The minister, eh? It’s a ---- of a wonder he didn’t head the mob.”
“Well, he sure done you a good turn. We couldn’t ’a’ stopped all of ’em.
Now, I want to ask you a few questions, Cliff. You can lie, if yuh want
to--but I hope yuh won’t. What do you know about that jewelry store
robbery?”
“Not a ---- thing.”
“Wrong answer. Remember, I carried yuh away from behind that store.”
“All right.”
“What was you doin’ there?”
“I dunno.”
“You ain’t goin’ to pass in yore studies, young feller.”
“Oh, ----! What’s all this about, anyway, Hartley? Who are you?”
“One of yore pa’s hired men.”
“You better stick with your job and let me alone.”
“Thasso? You’ll have to tell it to a judge. If yuh tell it to me first,
I’ll kinda figure it out, and between us we might be able to fool a
jury.”
“Figurin’ that I’m guilty, eh?”
“Of bein’ a hard-headed ---- fool--yes.”
Cliff was silent for several moments. Then:
“Vincent Roche was a friend of mine, Hartley. I never shot him.”
“We was speakin’ about that jewelry store holdup.”
“All right. I told you I didn’t know anythin’ about it, and I don’t lie.
I guess I was pretty drunk that night. I remember that the bartender at
the Cheyenne told me I’d have delirium tremens, if I wasn’t careful.
“I went to the Rodeo restaurant to eat. I can remember it a little. The
food made me sick, and I went out the rear door. I remember that I sat
down out there. There was a cool wind blowing and it made me feel good.
I was kinda trembly all over and I wanted to lie down, but was afraid.
“I think I got up and tried to find my way back to the street, but I
bumped into things. I was wandering around like a lost pup, when all
to once I got a flash of light in my eyes, and something stung my
face. I can kinda remember hearin’ a gun go off, but I won’t swear
to that.
“Anyway, something or somebody bumped into me, almost knocking me
down, and a moment later somethin’ landed on my head. The next thing
I remember was wakin’ up in the bunkhouse at the ranch. It was like
a fool dream--even the next mornin’, when you made me ride into the
part of a queer dream--somethin’ I had to do.”
“Yo’re liable to git a di-plomay,” said Hashknife softly. “Now, tell me
about last night, Cliff. Did yuh leave there with Roche?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t very drunk last night. Roche won a pile of money, but
I didn’t play, ’cause I was broke. We rode away together, late last
night. We talked things over and he gave me a wad of money. He kinda
blamed himself for me bein’ broke; so he gave me a poker stake.”
“That was it, eh?” Hashknife nodded slowly. It was dark in there, but
Hashknife did not need to see Cliff’s face to know he was telling the
truth.
“Where did you leave Roche?”
“Where the road forks. We talked a few minutes. He asked me to sober up
and behave myself. I--I told him I would.”
“Will yuh, Cliff?”
“I was goin’ to. Now, I dunno what’ll happen.”
“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen. Your story might not be much good in
court, but it’s good with me.”
“Dad thinks I’m guilty.”
“What about Milly?”
“Prob’ly.”
“Does Miss Clement know?”
“Part of it. She thinks that I turned her down for another girl.”
“Didn’t yuh, Cliff?”
“By ----, I reckon I tried to, Hartley. Oh, I’m no good. I’ve rode
’em wild for the last few months, and I’m right where a lot of folks
said I’d be. I had a start--once. Dad helped me out. He’s a good old
dad. Milly’s a peach. But I don’t know why I act like I have. Mebbe
I’m a throw-back.”
“Are yuh still engaged to Miss Clement?”
“I--I don’t know. Not if she’s got good sense.”
“She prob’ly hasn’t. Girls are kinda funny thataway--about fellers they
like a lot.”
“Well, I’m sorry. I want to thank yuh for blockin’ my draw tonight.
I suppose I might have killed Buck. And they’d ’a’ hung me, if you
hadn’t rushed me out. Oh, I was sore at yuh, Hartley. But bein’ here
behind these bars, with a drunken mob wantin’ to hang me--well, I
kinda seen things different.”
“If yuh get out of this mess--will yuh be good?”
“Well,” Cliff hesitated for a moment, “I dunno. Human nature is a
queer thing, Hartley. I don’t want to lie to you; so I’ll just say
that, lookin’ at it now, I sure as ---- will. Once I get outside--I
dunno.”
“I’m glad you’re a human bein’,” said Hashknife slowly. “I like folks
that know somethin’ about themselves. So many men only know what they
can see of themselves in a mirror. They never get deeper into their
own mind than the root of their hair. You set down and enjoy yore
surroundin’s, while I try to find out a few things.”
“You’ll tell ’em--at the ranch, won’t yuh?”
“They’ll have to know, Cliff.”
“Well, you tell ’em, Hartley. They’ll believe you.”
Hashknife went back to the front office, where Sleepy and the sheriff
were repairing the front door.
“What did yuh find out?” asked the sheriff.
“Quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “Let me take that card yuh found on
Roche, will yuh?”
“Y’betcha.” The sheriff gave him the card. “What good will the card do
yuh, Hartley?”
“I dunno. C’mon, Sleepy. We’ll see yuh later, Farley.”
* * * * *
They crossed the street to the Cheyenne and went inside. The place was
thronged with cattlemen. Many of them knew that Hashknife and Sleepy
had been with the sheriff, but bore them no ill-will. In the gambling
room they found Slim Cole, who greeted them with an expansive grin.
“The preacher sure saved you jiggers,” he declared.
“We appreciate that part of it,” replied Hashknife. “It was a fool
idea, Slim. Whisky makes a mob forget that they’re human. But even if
the preacher hadn’t showed up, there would have been plenty of crape
hangin’ to Thunder County doorknobs tomorrow.”
“And that’s no dream,” agreed Slim slowly. “Well, I suppose they’ll let
the law make the rest of the mistakes.”
“You don’t think that Cliff is guilty?”
“Do you?”
Hashknife grinned and took a playing card from his vest-pocket.
“Do you use this brand in here, Slim?”
Slim squinted at the card, examined it closely and shook his head.
“Nope, we don’t use ’em. That’s a high-grade card, Hartley. No gamblin’
house ever furnishes them kind.”
“How about this one?” Hashknife handed him the card which had been found
on Vincent Roche.
“That’s the kind we use,” nodded Slim.
Hashknife pocketed the cards and looked around the room. In the
dance-hall the orchestra was playing furiously, while half-drunk
cowpunchers swung dizzily through the rapid-fire two-step.
“Is the Countess in there?” asked Hashknife.
Slim grinned widely, as he shook his head.
“She ain’t, Hartley. But if yuh really want to know where she is, I’ll
impart the information that she’s down at the doctor’s place.”
“Interested in Roche, eh?”
“Well,” grinned Slim, “it might be the old doctor. He’s past sixty and
homely as ----; but yuh can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the Countess. She sure
does switch brands often.”
“How’s our friend Blackie Dahl?”