went back to the hitch-racks after their horses.
“That’s right, nobody mentioned the trey of spades.” Hashknife started
to mount his horse, but hesitated and handed the reins to Sleepy.
“Wait here a minute.”
He went into the Cheyenne and found Sufferin’ Stockton, who had just
left his game to get some supper.
“Sufferin’, did you ever know a gent by the name of Pete Duncan?”
“Old Pete Duncan? Sure did. He left here and went to Old Mexico and----”
“Died of a pain in his face,” added Hashknife, grinning. “Where did he
live around here?”
“D Bar ranch. He sold out to Blackie Dahl.”
“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, and bolted out of the place to join
Sleepy. But instead of riding toward the Maverick ranch they swung
out of town in the opposite direction and took the road which led to
the east.
“You ain’t turned around, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.
“Not yet. I’m just beginnin’ to get straightened out.”
Hashknife glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. A moon poked
itself over the crest of the Thunder mountains and lighted up the yellow
ribbon of road ahead of them.
“I’m glad there’s a little light on the subject,” stated Sleepy
peevishly. “Either you think I’m a mind-reader, or yuh want to keep
me plumb ignorant. I’ll betcha yo’re afraid you’ve made a mistake,
and that I’ll laugh at yuh, if yuh have.”
“I’m lookin’ for somethin’, Sleepy.”
“The ---- yuh are! By golly, I thought yuh was just takin’ a ride. Well,
that makes it better and relieves my mind quite a lot.”
Hashknife laughed, but did not enlighten Sleepy, who knew that Hashknife
was not in the habit of talking about what he was going to do. It was a
strange road to both of them, but they knew that it led to the D Bar
ranch, which was about six miles from Oxbow.
“That old moon sure makes it nice for us,” observed Hashknife, as they
galloped along over the dusty road.
“Yeah? Is this a six-shooter mission, Hashknife?”
“Yuh never can tell, Sleepy.”
“Well, it’s somethin’--to know that much about it.”
The road swung farther into the hills, going onto the higher ground,
as they neared the D Bar ranch. A right-hand curve brought them out
onto the brow of a hill, where they could see the outlines of the
ranch buildings below and to the left of them.
They drew up their horses and dismounted.
“Drops us below the skyline,” observed Hashknife, as he squatted on his
heels and began rolling a cigarette.
“There’s a light in the house,” said Sleepy. “That’s Blackie Dahl’s
place, ain’t it?”
“Must be. Mebbe we better move closer and find out what’s keepin’ him up
so late.”
“Yo’re the general of this army, Hashknife.”
Hashknife laughed and straightened up.
“We’ll walk in from here, Sleepy. It ain’t far, and we can keep kinda
under cover thataway.”
They tied the horses just off the road and went down through the
sagebrush toward the ranch house. The light had disappeared now, as
they made a cautious advance. They were almost to the tumble-down
fence, which partly enclosed the ranch house, when Hashknife grasped
Sleepy by the arm.
A rider, leading a horse, had appeared from around behind the house
and was heading northwest. It was not light enough to distinguish
colors, but it was light enough to show that there were two horses
and one rider.
“Whoever that is, he’s takin’ a pack-horse along,” declared Hashknife.
“Can’tcha see the pack on the rear animal?”
“Plenty plain,” grunted Sleepy. “I’ll betcha that’s Blackie Dahl, and
he’s makin’ his getaway.”
“Looks like it, sure enough. C’mon.”
They trotted over to the house and looked around. The rider had
disappeared in the hills. Hashknife knocked on the front door with
the barrel of his gun, but no one answered. Cautiously he tried the
knob and found the door unlocked.
They went inside and found a small oil lamp on the table. Hashknife
scratched a match and touched it to the wick. The weak illumination
showed them a dirty, disordered room; smelling strongly of liquor and
grease. The table was littered with dirty dishes, the rusty stove was
gobby from spilled food. But Hashknife paid little attention to the
room, as he carried the lamp from place to place, searching. On a
crude mantel he found some empty cartridge shells, which he examined
and showed to Sleepy.
“A feller down at the store would call ’em ‘Mow-zers’,” grinned
Hashknife. “I had a hunch that we’d find a Mauser here, but it ain’t
here. Vincent Roche was shot with a high-power gun, shootin’ solid-point
bullets.”
After a final inspection, Hashknife blew out the lamp and led the way
outside.
“We’ll get our broncs and see if we can catch sight of that jigger and
his pack-horse, Sleepy. I’ve an idea he’s the feller we’re lookin’ for,
and he won’t travel so awful fast.”
“I’ll foller yuh blindly,” complained Sleepy, as they panted back up the
slope to their horses. “I’ll betcha you ain’t got no ---- of a fine idea
where we’re goin’, nor what we’re liable to find.”
“You’d win,” laughed Hashknife.
“And that pack-horse sure shows that somebody is pullin’ out for a good
long stay, Hashknife.”
“Longer than that--mebbe. C’mon. We’ve got to keep off the ridges,
cowboy; so peel the old eye ahead.”
* * * * *
And while Hashknife and Sleepy rode through the moonlit hills, trying
to catch sight of the rider ahead of them, Dad Parker and Cliff sat on
the front porch of the Maverick ranch house, talking seriously. Cliff
had told them of the attempt to lynch him. Making a clean breast of
it, he told Milly and Dorothy of the many things that had happened to
him; of how, in a drunken haze, he had bumped into the jewelry store
robbery, and of how Hashknife and Sleepy had saved him. He did not
spare himself.
“I’m not out of the woods yet,” he told them. “Until the real Trey of
Spades is caught--I’m liable to be it. The sheriff had my hat. He still
thinks that Hashknife or Sleepy stole it from him, but they swear they
didn’t.”
“Where is their interest in it all?” asked Milly.
“I think they’re detectives. Vincent thinks they are, too. They may be
Government agents. You know, the Trey of Spades stole registered mail,
and Uncle Sam don’t lie down and let a mail robbery go unnoticed.”
Dorothy listened silently to it all. Then:
“You were not in the hills the night I came, Cliff?”
“No. I was rolled up in a blanket, with my hands and feet tied and a
gag in my mouth; and you rested your feet on me all the way home that
night. I didn’t know much about it. I had been hit pretty hard, and I
was soaked with whisky to begin with.”
“You girls better sleep over it,” advised Dad Parker. “It looks worse
now than it will in the mornin’. We’re goin’ to church tomorrow
afternoon.”
“I’m going to town right now,” declared Milly. “Vint needs me. Whether
he is right or wrong, I’m going. Will you go with me, Cliff?”
“Sure thing.”
“We’ll hitch up the team,” said Dad Parker slowly, “and all go. I’ll
wake Harmony and tell him that----”
“Who’s this comin’?” wondered Cliff. Two men rode into the ranch and
came straight up to them.
“Howdy, folks,” called one of them.
“It’s Franklin, of the Diamond V,” said Cliff. “How are yuh, Frank?”
“Travelin’ in good company, too,” laughed Franklin. “Brought the
minister with me.”
“The minister?” said Dad wonderingly.
“Yes, the minister,” laughed the Reverend Mr. Jones, dismounting. “This
is a queer time to come calling, isn’t it?”
“What brings you here?” asked Dad.
“It appears that a lady is missing,” explained the minister. “She is
a singer in the Cheyenne dance-hall. There seems to be considerable
apprehension over her absence. Mr. Cole organized sort of a search
party, but she is not to be found in Oxbow.
“A number of the boys volunteered to make a search of the surrounding
country, and I offered my services; so Mr. Franklin and myself came in
this direction.”
“The Countess missing?” queried Cliff.
“That’s her,” said Franklin. “Where are them two punchers that’s workin’
here?”
“They’re in Oxbow,” said Cliff.
“They pulled out for home quite a while ago. Right after the train
robbery.”
“Train robbery?”
“Didn’t yuh know about that?” asked Franklin. He told them about the
robbery--or what he knew of it.
“Well,” laughed Cliff, “they can’t blame me for that. If it hadn’t been
for the preacher, I’d be danglin’ on a rope now.”
“Yuh sure would,” agreed Franklin. “It was an awful fizzle.”
“Mebbe not,” said Cliff dryly. “Farley had Hartley and Stevens in there
with him. You fellers got off lucky.”
“They seem like a nice pair of fellows,” said the minister.
“You don’t know half of it,” said Cliff. “If I was the Trey of Spades
I’d sure hightail it out of here.”
“What do yuh mean by that?” asked Franklin.
“Well,” laughed Cliff, “Dad thought he hired a pair of cowpunchers.”
“Thought he did?”
“Yeah. Mebbe the Trey of Spades thought so, too. I’ll go down and hitch
up that team, Dad.”
“Did Cliff mean that them two fellers are detectives?” asked Franklin.
“He seems to think so,” replied Dad.
“Are you going to town?” asked the minister.
“Yes. We were coming in tomorrow to church--or rather today--but Milly
is anxious to see Vincent Roche.”
“We might as well be movin’,” said Franklin. “That bronc of yours needs
plenty of time to go anywhere, Jones.”
The minister laughed shortly and mounted.
“We’ll see you at church,” called Dad.
“Not me--yuh won’t,” called back Franklin, as they rode away back toward
Oxbow.
“Why won’t you come to church?” asked the minister, after a long period
of silence.
“Don’t care for it, that’s why.”
“Don’t believe in it?”
“Mebbe not.”
“Franklin, who do you think shot Vincent Roche?”
“Who?” Franklin laughed hoarsely, as he swung his horse in closer to
the minister. “Who do I think shot him? Listen to me you ---- sneak!
I know you. Preacher ----! You ride too well, and you’ve got a
six-gun under yore vest. ---- you, I don’t know what you know, but I
hate a ---- detective!”
As Franklin snapped out his last sentence he fired his gun almost
against the minister. The two horses whirled wildly at the crash of the
heavy revolver, and the minister went headlong to the ground, sparks of
fire drifting from his clothes where the powder had ignited them.
Franklin jerked his horse under control and spurred back to where the
minister lay, a blacker blot in the shadow of the sage. The gray horse
had only gone a short distance away.
The minister had fallen far enough away from the road to be invisible
at night. Franklin looked cautiously around, as if debating what to
do next. Then he rode out to the gray horse, caught the reins and led
it further back against the hills, after which he spurred on toward
Oxbow.
And Franklin might have been surprised to see the minister get to his
feet, brush the dust off his black suit and move away from the road,
while the wagon from the Maverick ranch went past.
“That is the advantage of a shoulder holster,” said the minister,
half-aloud. “The bullet was fired almost against the gun. So it was
Franklin, eh? The last man I would have suspected. Well, I suppose I
shall have to walk to town.”
And while the minister plodded along the dusty road in the moonlight,
Sid Franklin rode into Oxbow, a potential two-time murderer, but with
a feeling of security in his heart.
“It’s too ---- bad I didn’t have a trey of spades to stick into his
vest,” he told himself. “By ----, it might not be a bad idea to do it
after all.”
He strode into the Cheyenne, with that idea in mind.
The crowd had thinned considerably, but there were still a few men
playing the games. The floor was littered with cards; so Franklin waited
his chance to pick up a trey of spades. In order to allay suspicion he
picked up several more, and amused himself by spinning them across the
room.
Finally he slipped one into his pocket and sauntered out of the place,
stopping at the bar to find out whether any one had found the
Countess--which they had not. Then he got his horse and rode furiously
back to where he had left the minister.
At first he thought he had made a mistake in the place, but closer
inspection showed that it was the right place, but the body was not
there. For a long time he sat on his heels, his mind in a whirl. He
had been an awful fool he was forced to admit.
He had virtually confessed to the shooting of Roche, and had failed to
make sure that the minister’s lips were sealed.
“Held the gun right agin’ him, too,” he told himself. He took the card
out of his pocket and looked at it closely. Then he swore hoarsely and
tore it into bits.
It was a joker! He had thrown away the wrong card.
“I’ve gotta keep under cover,” he told himself. “And I’ve got to kill
that ---- detective before he can tell on me. I’ll go to his shack and
finish the job.”
He rode swiftly back to Oxbow, tied his horse at a little-used rack, and
made his way around to the minister’s little shack, which was located
some little distance from the center of town. He walked boldly to the
door and knocked loudly, but there was no response.
“----!” swore Franklin. “He ain’t got here yet. No wonder--I made him
walk.”
A light streak had appeared in the eastern sky, proclaiming that
daylight was not far away. He noticed this and swore nervously. His
future was not half as rosy as that sky was becoming. But still the
minister did not put in an appearance. Finally he left the house and
walked back to the street. He had made up his mind that there was
only one thing for him to do, and that was--flight.
There were several men in front of the Cheyenne, which Franklin avoided.
He did not want to waste time in idle words with any one, because time
was worth money to him now. He passed between the Rodeo restaurant and
the vacant building, walked around to the hitch-rack--and cursed
bitterly.
His horse was gone.
* * * * *
And while the Gods of Fate juggled with Sid Franklin’s future, Hashknife
and Sleepy rode higher into the hills, traveling over a strange country,
following some one whom they knew not. Twice in an hour they had seen
the rider and a led horse top the skyline of the hills, and they were
sure that it was the same man they had seen leave the D Bar ranch.
He had swung in a quarter-circle, until now he was heading almost west
of Oxbow. They had traveled slowly.
“Goin’ to be daylight pretty soon,” observed Hashknife. “If he’s makin’
a getaway, he’ll likely hole up at daylight and we’ll have a chance to
look him over.”
They had crossed the railroad near the point where the train had been
held up, although they did not know it.
“I thought he was headin’ for the main divide,” said Hashknife, “but
he’s swingin’ too far to the left now. There might be a pass over there,
where he can go through, but my private idea is that he’s huntin’ a hole
to crawl into.”
“I hope he’s been worth follerin’,” said Sleepy. “If we’ve just been
trailin’ some prospector, I’ll be kinda peevish.”
Hashknife laughed shortly. It had been hard traveling. The hills were
rather brushy, dry; which made it difficult for them to travel with any
degree of silence.
Daylight swept away the haze and they found themselves on the slope of
a timbered cañon. There was no sign of their quarry, although they sat
there and studied the country for several minutes.
“We’ll swing around the head of this cañon,” suggested Hashknife, after
studying the broken slope of the opposite side. “If that jigger knows
this country, he wouldn’t go down there.”
They rode slowly along the rim, scrutinizing the depths, and were just
about to swing back to higher ground, when Sleepy drew up his horse and
pointed down through the timber.
“See it down there?” he asked, as Hashknife swung around and came back
to him. “See that horse down there?”
“A black horse!” snorted Hashknife, and added: “In a brush corral.
Whatcha know about that?”
He dropped off his horse and hunted for a better view.
“There’s a shack down there, Sleepy!” he called softly from where he
crouched on the rim of the cañon. “Yuh can’t see it very plain, but
it’s there.”
Together they studied the place. It was impossible to get a clear view
of the shack, which was quite a little distance below the brush corral.
“We’ll go further up the cañon and see if we can find a way to sneak
down,” said Hashknife. “I think our man is down there, and he’s the
jigger that took the sheriff’s horse, I reckon.”
“It won’t take us long to find out,” grinned Sleepy.
“If he ain’t already seen us. We better go danged quiet.”
They drew away from the rim, circled wide and came in at the upper end
of the cañon, where it was possible to find a fairly easy slope down
through the heavy brush.
* * * * *
Sid Franklin leaned on the hitch-rack for some time. He was both
frightened and angry. Whether his horse had pulled away and gone home,
or whether some one had stolen it, he had not the slightest idea. He
could not remember whether he had tied the animal securely or not.
Finally he resolved to steal a horse from the Cheyenne rack and ride
back to the Diamond V, where there were plenty of good horses. But
he was destined to more disappointment. As he neared the rack, the
sheriff, Buck Hardy, and Cliff Parker came out of the saloon and saw
him.
“Sid, I want yuh to go with us,” said the sheriff. “Get yore horse right
away and bring him around to the office.”
“Huh!” Franklin debated swiftly. He had thought at first that the
sheriff meant that he was under arrest, but now he knew that Farley
wanted him to ride with the posse.
“Somebody stole my bronc,” he said calmly. “I tied him to the rack
around there a while ago, but he’s gone.”
“Did he leave his card?” asked Buck.
“Get yuh a horse at the livery stable,” ordered Farley. “Cliff has to
get one, too. And then come down to the office and get yore rifles. Me
and Buck will have everythin’ ready.”
Inside of fifteen minutes the four men rode away from the office and
headed for the hills to the west of Meteor Creek. There was little
conversation.
“No use huntin’ for a trail,” said Farley. “We’ll just swing into the
hills and see what we can see.”
They rode for an hour, finally grouping on the crest of a high ridge,
where Farley examined the country through a pair of field-glasses.
Franklin was watchful, nervous. Farley replaced his glasses in a
leather case and turned to Franklin.
“Sid, if you was goin’ to hide out from the law in this country, where
would yuh head for?”
Franklin grinned slightly and swallowed dryly.
“I dunno, Jud. I might head for the main divide, I s’pose. There’s lots
of hidin’ places in these hills. How about that rocky cañon over there?
The one where the creek sinks out of sight.”
“I know which one yuh mean,” said Cliff. “Vint Roche told me that
there’s a cabin back near the head of it.”
“I know where it is,” said Farley thoughtfully. “Old Pete Duncan built
it. He had an idea of catchin’ wild horse out there in the winter time,
and he built it to live in. I never seen it, but old Pete told me the
location.”
“Well, let’s go,” said Buck. “I hope to gosh there’s a bed in it, ’cause
I’m asleep right now.”
They moved ahead. Franklin’s brow wrinkled in thought as he considered
the Thunder Range, towering closer and closer. If the opportunity arose
he was going to desert the posse and take chances on finding his way
across that range and into a new country. He did not want to go back and
face the minister.
Franklin had always borne a fair reputation. He did not have a face that
would inspire any great amount of confidence. But he had just enough
imagination to picture himself, standing on a breakaway platform, with a
knotted rope tickling his ear. It was not a pleasant picture, and his
face expressed his feelings.
“You must ’a’ et somethin’ that didn’t set well, didn’t yuh?” asked
Buck, who was riding beside him.
“Too much Cheyenne hooch,” said Franklin quickly. “It sure sours on
yuh.”
“You ought to quit it,” said Buck. “I sure did.”
“When?” queried Farley, looking back at him.
“Well, I’m taperin’ off,” corrected Buck.
“Yore taperin’ off came danged near bein’ my finish,” declared Cliff.
“If it hadn’t been for the preacher, I’d be a ghost.”
“Aw, that was before I quit,” laughed Buck. “I sure pulled what you’d
call a ‘fox-pass’ that time.”
“And I never even thanked the preacher,” laughed Cliff. “He was at the
ranch about three o’clock this mornin’ with Franklin. We should have
brought him along--him and his race horse.”
Franklin spat dryly and looked away, while the rest of them laughed.
Far away to the south of them, a rider was skirting the side of a
ridge; just a moving speck in that world of sage.
Franklin called Farley’s attention to him, and they stopped to use the
glasses. For several moments the sheriff studied the spot, and handed
the glasses to Franklin. One glance was enough for Franklin to know
that it was his horse, but the distance was too great to identify the
rider. He handed the glasses back to Farley.
“Recognize the animal?” queried Farley.
“It sure looks like mine,” declared Franklin. “It’s a red-roan, with a
white face, and that’s what mine looks like.”
Farley used the glasses again, but the horse and rider had disappeared
into a cañon.
“Goin’ in the same direction as we are,” said Farley. “We’ll kinda edge
in on him.”
“Better edge in,” agreed Buck, “or we’ll miss that cañon.”
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy tied their horses above the brush corral and worked
their way silently down through the undergrowth. The tall black horse in
the corral looked them over indifferently. It was a racy looking animal.
Hanging to a snag near the corral was a saddle, with a loose rope
dangling on the horn.
The cabin was well hidden in the brush, but the cover was heavy enough
for them to come close without chance of being detected. They were
almost to the corner of the cabin, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the
arm and drew him down.
A rider was coming down the right hand side of the cañon, and was almost
to the bottom. They dropped lower and waited for him to appear again. It
seemed that he had stopped and was looking at the cabin. To the right of
them was some down-timber and a tangle of brush, and Hashknife crossed
swiftly to this with Sleepy on his heels.
This gave them a fairly good view of the front yard of the place, where
two horses were standing. Both of them were saddled. On the ground was a
blanket and a tarpaulin, thrown aside.
Then Blackie Dahl came from the cabin door and went to one of the
horses. He looked around at the left-hand rim of the cañon and back
at the cabin. He seemed undecided what to do. Hashknife and Sleepy
had forgotten the other man.
Blackie tested the cinch on his saddle and turned to go to the other
horse, when he stopped suddenly, looking toward where the other rider
had stopped. For several seconds he did not move. Then his hand jerked
back to his holster, and his revolver shot crashed out in the stillness
of the cañon.
His shot was echoed by another--and another. Blackie turned, reached
for his horse, as if trying to support himself, and fell sprawling on
his face.
He did not move. The two horses sidled away from him, looking down at
their fallen master. One of them nuzzled at him and threw up its head
to look at the man, who was coming toward them.
This man was walking quartering to Hashknife and Sleepy so they were
unable to see his face. He was wearing a gray shirt, black sombrero,
which seemed very new, and wore his overalls tucked into the tops of
his high-heeled boots.
He went slowly up near Blackie and touched him with his toe, but Blackie
did not move. Then he whirled quickly and went into the cabin. Hashknife
grinned widely and started to his feet, but Sleepy drew him back. Riders
were coming down over the left-hand rim of the cañon, fairly sliding
their horses in their haste.
“Sheriff’s posse!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Keep down.”
The posse dismounted and deployed through the brush, advancing on
the cabin. They were almost to the cabin, when the man came outside.
He had his back to Hashknife and Sleepy, but the sheriff was plainly
visible to them.
“What in ---- are you doin’ here?” demanded Farley. His voice was filled
with wonder and anger.
The man did not speak, but his hands dropped to his sides.
“You dirty horse thief!” It was Sid Franklin’s voice. “I’ve got you.”
With an almost imperceptible motion the man drew and fired. A second
later another shot crashed out, and the bullet whined off a rock on
the side of the cañon.
“Don’t move!” The man snapped his order. He had a gun in each hand now,
and his hands were weaving back and forth, as he covered the posse.