Dahl and Sid Franklin.”
“I’ll be ----!” exploded the sheriff, but obeyed.
Hashknife stepped out of his hiding place and began walking toward the
man, his gun ready. The sheriff had dropped his rifle, and now reached
slowly for his holster.
“Take ’em out easy,” advised the man.
The sheriff laughed and leaned sidewise to get a better view of
Hashknife.
“None of that!” warned the man. “I’m no fool.”
“Look behind yuh,” challenged the sheriff. “Yo’re afraid to look behind
yuh.”
“Shut up, ---- yuh!” The man was getting nervous. His arms tensed and
his shoulders hunched slightly. He wanted to turn, but would not.
“Drop them six-shooters!” he snarled. “---- yuh, be quick.”
And it was then that Hashknife bunched himself and dived into the man
like a football player making a hard tackle. They went down, with
Hashknife on top, while both guns fired into the dirt as they fell.
The attack had been so unlooked for that the man was completely at
Hashknife’s mercy, but he twisted over on his side and Hashknife
looked down into the face of the Reverend Mr. Jones. The sheriff,
Cliff and Buck were running to his assistance, while from the other
direction came Sleepy, laughing joyfully.
“All right, ---- yuh!” snarled the prisoner. “I’ll behave.”
They jerked him to a sitting position, while Buck got a lariat and
secured him.
“If you’ve got a trey of spades I’ll pin it onto yuh,” offered
Hashknife.
“Thank you, I’m all out of cards,” said Jones.
“You killed Blackie Dahl?” asked Farley.
“Yeah, I killed him. Had to. He shot first.”
“Well, what in ---- was he doin’ here? Who is the Trey of Spades? Who
shot Vincent Roche?”
“Hey! C’mere!” Buck called from the doorway.
“Go ahead--I’ll watch him,” said Sleepy.
Hashknife and Farley went into the cabin where Buck pointed at a pile of
blankets on the floor.
“For gosh sake! How did she get here?” exploded Farley.
It was the Countess, bedraggled, disheveled, her face caked with blood,
but with eyes that tried to smile and a mouth that trembled visibly.
Hashknife knelt down beside her and peered into her face.
“Hello, Mr. Man.” Her voice was not very strong.
“How did you get here?” repeated Farley wonderingly.
“Our friend, Mr. Dahl, furnished transportation.” She tried to smile,
but it was a dismal failure. “He met me last night, after I left you
at the doctor’s home, and I think he hit me with his gun. He is not
very gentlemanly, you know.
“I don’t remember much, except that he had me in a cabin. He didn’t know
that I was conscious. Anyway,” she grimaced, “he packed me on a horse,
just like a sack, and I nearly died. He had me roped on and brought me
here. He thinks I’m dead. Yes, he does. I heard him say it out loud. He
was going to leave me here.”
“He won’t never do it again,” said Hashknife softly. “He’s all through
doin’ things like that.”
“The preacher shot him,” offered Buck.
“The Reverend Jones?”
“The Trey of Spades,” corrected Hashknife softly.
A moment or two of silence, and then came the smashing report of a
rifle. The men rushed to the doorway just in time to see Sleepy kick
a rifle out of Franklin’s hands. He had managed to get to his knees,
but now he slid sidewise.
The pseudo preacher was lying on his face, arms outstretched.
“---- him!” wailed Sleepy. “He shot the prisoner!”
“The dirty spy!” Franklin managed to lift himself on one elbow. “He
won’t never have a chance to squeal on me. I--I’ll bet his shoulder
holster won’t save him this time. Why, dang his soul----”
Franklin slid back dead.
Hashknife stepped over and turned the other man. He was barely
conscious, but managed to smile. Hashknife lifted him up.
“Thanks,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Saves time. Most of the money
is under the bunk in my shack. The express loot is--is tied to the
cantle of my saddle. I--I stole that black horse for a swift getaway.
Tell Cliff I’m sorry I had to hit him that night. It was dark. I stole
that hat to save him.
“I thought that Blackie shot Roche, but it was Franklin. He admitted it
to me. Thought I was a detective. I--I had to make my getaway today,
because I couldn’t preach. I’m sorry I--I fooled folks. They do need a
preacher pretty bad.”
“Why did you use the trey of spades?” asked Hashknife.
“Superstition. Treys have always been lucky for me. I--I stayed at it
too long, I guess. I was afraid somebody might suffer for my trade-mark.
You tell the Countess,” he smiled up at Hashknife, “that she picked the
wrong ones.”
His head swayed forward and Hashknife laid him down.
“What did he mean--about the Countess pickin’ the wrong ones?” asked
Hashknife.
“I will tell you.”
He turned and looked at the Countess, who was leaning against the door.
She sighed and felt of her aching head.
“You better set down,” advised Farley.
“No, I’m all right. I’m not a dance-hall girl. Mr. Cole knows who I
am. He is a friend of the United States Marshal. I am a Government
operative. You would call me a detective, I suppose. So I played the
dance-hall girl and let men fall in love with me to see what I might
learn. That is what he meant. I guess he knew who I was.”
“And that is why yuh let men fall in love with yuh?” Thus Hashknife. She
looked at him closely.
“Perhaps I should have said ‘encouraged’, Mr. Man.”
“And the little birdies sing in the spring, tra, la, la, la,” said
Sleepy softly. Hashknife looked at Sleepy closely, and a grin wrinkled
his homely face.
“The next place we go, I hope we’ll find peace.”
“As far as I’m concerned--we’re half-way there right now,” said Sleepy.
“What I want to know is this,” said Farley thoughtfully, turning to
Hashknife: “Did you suspect the preacher?”
Hashknife smiled softly and nodded his head.
“Yeah--in a way. I suspected Cliff, Vincent Roche and Blackie Dahl. By
the way, Cliff, I’ve got a pearl necklace that belongs to you.”
“Have yuh?” asked Cliff. “That’s fine. I wondered where it went. I
bought it for Dorothy, and lost it that night.”
“Yuh suspected Cliff and the others, eh?” queried Farley.
“Until I eliminated ’em. Blackie wasn’t smart enough; so I dropped
him. Roche got shot, but the Trey of Spades kept on goin’; so that
fact eliminated Roche. I never did suspect this Franklin person. I
suppose he needed the money. I knew that Roche had been packed quite
a distance after bein’ hurt, but I thought Blackie was the one that
done it.”
“Vincent Roche is an old friend of my family,” said the Countess
painfully. She was keeping up on sheer nerve now. “He knew why I was
here, and he was doing everything he could to assist me. I want Miss
Parker to know that Vincent Roche was not making love to me.”
Hashknife smiled and turned to Cliff:
“Is there a Mauser rifle at the Diamond V ranch?”
“Yeah. There’s an old one that Vint bought from old Pete Duncan. We used
to shoot coyotes with it.”
“Well, that’s what Franklin used on Roche. It seems that Blackie wasn’t
to blame for anythin’ worse than turnin’ cave-man.” Hashknife turned to
the Countess.
“Blackie took you to the ranch and came back to town, didn’t he?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “It was all rather hazy. He roped me to a
horse, I know that much. And he thought I was dead; so he was going away
and leave the door open. He knew that some one was using this cabin, and
he was afraid to stay.”
“But what made you suspect the preacher?” persisted the sheriff.
“The smallest thing yuh could imagine,” grinned Hashknife. “Did yuh ever
see him smoke cigarettes? Well, that’s what made me suspect him, Jud. He
was a regular feller in everythin’ else. Nobody around here would ----”
“But he didn’t smoke,” declared Jud. “I’ll leave it to everybody that
knew him.”
Hashknife stepped over and lifted one of the dead man’s hands--the left
one. The thumb and first two fingers of it were yellow from nicotine
stain.
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” declared Farley. “It--it kinda looks like
his is the first cigarette fatality we’ve ever had in Thunder county,
by gosh!!”
“How do you suppose he knew who I was?” asked the Countess.
Hashknife smiled at her.
“Because yuh didn’t fit yore job, ma’am. Anybody would suspect you.”
“Is that so?” She tried to smile at him. “And what did you suspect me of
being, Mr. Man?”
Hashknife reddened slightly, and Farley stepped into the breach.
“I reckon we better load up the casualties, boys. We’ll have to recover
that stolen money, too. By golly, it all worked out fine.”
The Countess was still looking at Hashknife, but he did not lift his
head. Sleepy moved in closer to her and from his puckered lips came a
few notes of “The Mocking-Bird.”
Hashknife looked up at her and grinned slowly. There was a wistful
expression about his eyes, as he went to her and held out his hand.
“I suspected yuh of bein’ a mighty nice girl, ma’am; and I reckon my
suspicions worked out. I hope I meet yuh agin’ some day. C’mon, Sleepy.”
“Ain’t yuh goin’ back with us?” queried Cliff, as they started toward
their hidden horses back in the cañon.
“I reckon not,” said Hashknife, looking back at them. “We ain’t got
nothin’ to go back after.”
“There’s a lot of thanks comin’ to you both, Hartley.”
“Tha’sall right, Cliff. Yo’re welcome. Be good. So-long, everybody.”
They turned and disappeared up through the brush, while the three men
and the disheveled looking woman looked at each other wonderingly.
“Funniest thing I ever heard of,” declared Farley.
“What--what is funny about it?” queried the Countess.
“That’s what I say,” grunted Buck. “It may be funny, but it ain’t
gettin’ a ---- of a lot of laughs out of me.”
And from the rim of the cañon, the two riders looked back before they
rode on toward the high range.
“We’ll find the milk-and-honey land some day, Sleepy.”
“Hm-m-m. Gimme a match, Hashknife.”
They turned and rode away through the purple sage.
[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1924 issue
of Adventure magazine.]