He cinched his saddle and called to the stableman—

“Seen anythin’ of Joe this mornin’, Al?”

“Yeah. He said he was goin’ out to the Five Box.”

“Thanks.”

Hank Ludden scowled at the mention of Joe Lane’s name. He did not like

Joe Lane, known as Lucky Joe, a rather handsome, devil-may-care sort of

person, deputy to Pete Darcey.

Hank Ludden’s whole life had centered around his daughter Mary, and when

Joe Lane came courting her, Hank lost no time in telling Joe that he was

not eligible. Joe quietly informed Hank that he was not intending to

marry him, and that his private opinions of his, Joe’s, worth were

merely one-man ideas.

Mary Ludden was a tall, slender, wistful-eyed girl with a wealth of

chestnut hair, a pleasing personality and a mind of her own. It is not

at all unlikely that she could have had her pick of the young men of the

Arapaho country, but she eloped with Lucky Joe Lane, and the world

soured for Hank Ludden and “Armadillo” Jones, his partner.

Mary and Joe took up their residence in Arapaho City, and Hank Ludden

ignored their existence.

Every one in the country knew about it. Many of the old-timers shook

their heads and said it was only another mark against the Hard Luck

ranch.

The first owner had been Jim Shafer who registered the Circle S brand.

He was an experienced cattleman from Texas. Within a year he was thrown

from a horse and instantly killed. His son, a wild-riding young man of

twenty-five, took charge of the Circle S, carried on the business for a

year, when he accidentally killed himself with a revolver.

Jim Shafer’s widow sold the ranch to a Robert Morgan, who changed the

brand to the Bar M and proceeded to get himself killed in a runaway in

the yard of the ranch-house. Title descended to his brother, who

operated the ranch successfully for over a year, only to be killed by a

bolt of lightning on the ranch-house porch.

It was then that Hank Ludden and Armadillo Jones bought out the place,

putting in every cent they had, changing the brand to the HL. But the

proverbial hard luck of the ranch still remained. Try as they might they

could not make it pay.

Instead of an increase there was a decrease. Each roundup showed them a

loss of many head of stock, and in spite of continual vigilance, their

cattle vanished. The law had little appeal to either Hank or Armadillo.

They had been partners for years—prospecting, mining, working with

cattle.

The marriage of Hank Ludden had broken their partnership, but the death

of Mrs. Ludden, shortly after Mary was born, brought them together again

stronger than ever. Armadillo even claimed a fifty-fifty interest in

Mary, and he disliked Joe Lane as much as Hank Ludden did.

The sheriff and Hank Ludden rode out of Arapaho City together. There

were many curious people who had seen Hank Ludden gallop into town, and

they wondered what had happened to cause him to come for the sheriff,

knowing that Hank had little use for any one connected with the office.

“You didn’t look at this man, didja?” asked the sheriff as they galloped

along the dusty road.

“Didn’t take time. I seen him fall and he’s there yet.”

The sheriff nodded grimly. The identity of this rustler might help to

implicate the other two men. They swung around the right-hand turn at

the point of the hill and came out on the straight piece of road. Hank

Ludden raised in his stirrups and pointed up the road.

“There he is, Pete. Right where he fell.”

The dust-covered body was lying sprawled across the road just as it had

fallen from the horse.

They reined their horses and dismounted. A soaring buzzard’s shadow

crossed the yellow dust between them and the body, and the sheriff

glanced upward, a scowl on his face. Then he strode forward, knelt in

the dust and turned the man over.

Hank Ludden cried out sharply and stepped back, while the sheriff looked

up at him wonderingly.

It was Lucky Joe Lane, Ludden’s son-in-law.

“Pete, it—it—,” Ludden’s hand shook as he removed his sombrero and wiped

the cold perspiration from his brow.

“It can’t be,” he whispered. “Why, Joe Lane—”

“It’s Joe Lane,” said the sheriff softly. “My deputy, Hank.”

“Yeah, it’s Joe Lane,” huskily. “I—I don’t quite _sabe_ it, Pete.”

The sheriff squinted down at the dusty face of the dead man for a long

time, while Hank Ludden gripped his cartridge belt and stared into

space. He had killed the husband of Mary. For the first time in his life

he realized that she loved this man—this dust-covered person who

sprawled in the dust, his sightless eyes half-closed, staring up at the

blue sky. Hank remembered that Joe was so particular about his personal

appearance, and it did not seem right for him to be sprawling in the

dust.

The sheriff looked up and there was a suspicion of moisture about his

eyes as he squinted at Hank Ludden and said—

“Hank, you ain’t lyin’ about this, are yuh?”

“Lyin’ about what, Pete?”

“About findin’ Joe with the rustlers. You ain’t—”

The old man shook his head slowly.

“He was one of ’em, Pete. Good ——, do yuh think, Pete, I didn’t like

Joe. Mebbe I was just selfish, I dunno. But you know I wouldn’t murder a

man. I—I didn’t recognize him.”

The sheriff nodded slowly.

“I know how yuh feel, Hank. It hurts me a lot, I’ll tell yuh. I liked

Joe. Oh, why in —— do men do things like this, Hank? Joe didn’t have to

steal cattle. He could live on his salary. He could have every cent I

own if he wanted it.”

“Mebbe I didn’t treat him square,” whispered Hank. “Mebbe he wanted to

git even with me, Pete.”

The sheriff shook his head.

“No, Joe wasn’t that kind of a person, Hank. He’s never said a word

against yuh—not to me. Are yuh sure they was stealin’ your cattle?”

“No. But they were stealin’, Pete. Honest men don’t corral yearlin’

stock, build a brandin’ fire, and high-tail it out of the country when a

horse nickers.”

“No, they don’t, Hank.” The sheriff grew thoughtful. “Shall I tell Mary

about it? She’ll have to know about it, and you—”

“Go ahead and say it, Pete. I killed her husband.”

“I ain’t blamin’ yuh, Hank. It’s ——, but directions says take it. I

thought as much of Joe as I would of my own boy, but I’m not blamin’

you. Things just worked out this way.”

“Others will blame me,” said Hank hoarsely. “They know I didn’t like

Joe, and they’ll say things.”

“Bein’ human, they will,” nodded the sheriff. “I wish we’d brought a

wagon. Mebbe we can kinda drape him across my saddle, and I’ll ride

behind. I reckon that’s the best thing to do, Hank.”

Together they placed the body, face down across the saddle, and the

sheriff mounted behind the saddle.

“Do yuh want me to go back with yuh, Pete?”

“Mebbe yuh better not, Hank. I’ll fix things up as well as I can.”

“Thank yuh, Pete,” Hank Ludden held out his hand. “So-long.”

Their hands met, gripped tightly, and the sheriff rode away, leaving

Hank standing in the middle of the road, looking after him.

* * * * *

The sheriff jogged around the curve and Hank went to his horse which he

mounted and rode off the road to the left, heading toward the low saddle

in the hills. The shock of finding he had killed Joe Lane took all the

fight out of the old man, and all he could think of was how would Mary

take the news.

He could mentally picture Pete Darcey telling her that Joe was dead and

that her father had killed him. He wondered if there wasn’t some way of

telling her; some way of taking away the sting.

Could it have been an accident, he wondered. But he knew it was not. The

three men were together, and it was merely a twist of fate which made

Joe Lane the target instead of one of the others.

Ludden struck the trail where the rustlers had led their horses from

near the corral, and came out into the clearing. The little branding

fire had long since burned itself out, and the corral was empty. Not a

yearling remained within the enclosure.

“Came back and turned ’em all loose,” muttered Ludden. “Not even ashes

left of the brandin’ fire and no brandin’ iron.”

He searched all around the place, but was unable to find any evidence

that any misbranding had been attempted. Down in his heart he was glad

that the sheriff had not come to the corral with him. It would have

looked bad for him. Even the spot in the dust where the one animal had

been thrown had been trampled by the feet of the escaping yearlings.

Ludden mounted his horse, climbed the ridge from which he had first seen

the rustlers and rode down across the hills toward the Hard Luck ranch,

northwest of Arapaho City.

It was not a pretentious place, this Hard Luck ranch. The buildings had

been placed on sort of a low mesa which jutted out into the wide mouth

of a little valley like the prow of a battleship. A small, brush-lined

stream wended its way around it.

Behind the small ranch-house the ground sloped sharply to the

brush-covered hills. The ranch-house itself was originally a log

building, but it had been added to until little of the original was

left. The bunk-house was of logs, but the stables and sheds were of

rough lumber, unpainted, scoured by age, the corrals of pole and lumber.

A huge live-oak tree shaded the front of the ranch-house and at the rear

grew a clump of big sycamores.

Roses climbed over the old porch, uncared for since Mary had left the

ranch, and on the window ledges were flower-pots, containing what had

once been geraniums, but now merely wisps of dried substance, perished

for want of moisture.

Armadillo Jones was sitting on his heels in the shade of the stable

repairing a harness as Hank Ludden rode in past the corral and

approached the stable.

Armadillo was a little man—thin, wiry, with a wrinkled, parchment-like

face and a bristling, gray mustache. He was nearly bald, and when he

lifted his eyebrows the wrinkles extended far above his original hair

line.

Armadillo’s nose was large, almost too large for his face, and his keen,

gray eyes were deeply set in a nest of hair-like wrinkles. His hands

were long, bony, mahogany-tinted, and his legs, even in his squatting

position, showed a decided tendency to bow.

One side of his face bulged from an enormous chew of tobacco which he

shifted slowly, spat deliberately and nodded to Hank Ludden, while his

eyes squinted keenly at his partner.

Ludden dropped his reins and squatted beside Armadillo. It seemed the

natural thing for him to do. Armadillo examined the mended strap, tested

it by hooking one foot in a loop and pulling heavily. Then he tossed it

aside, spat wearily and leaned back against the stable wall.

“I found three rustlers at the old U6,” stated Ludden thickly. “I

dropped one of ’em in the road on the other side of Pinnacle Rocks.”

“Didja?” Armadillo spat viciously. “Good! Who was he?”

“Joe Lane.”

“Oh, m’ ——! No!”

“Yeah.”

They didn’t look at each other. Armadillo’s jaws worked industriously

and the long, lean fingers picked at the knees of his overalls, his eyes

squinting painfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I ain’t a —— of a lot surprized. It’ll be tough

on Mary.”

“Yeah, it’ll be tough on her, Armadillo.”

“—— tough!”

For several minutes neither of them spoke. Then Armadillo broke the

silence.

“Speakin’ of things bein’ tough, Hank, I killed that old white leg’rn

rooster for supper, but I’ll be danged if I think we can eat him. I’ve

had him on to b’ile for five whole hours now and about all he’s done is

to e-vaporate the water.”

“That’s all right, Armadillo. I ain’t got no appetite.”

“Appetite won’t make no difference to that bird. The man that eats him

has got to be plumb vicious.”

“I reckon we better go to town,” said Ludden wearily. “Might as well

face the music.”

“Yeah, we might as well,” Armadillo spat thoughtfully and got to his

feet. “I dunno what the music will be though. It’s gettin’ to be a —— of

a country, when a feller has to get a rustler’s name and address before

shootin’ him, for fear he might belong to a prominent fambly.”

“He was Mary’s husband,” said Ludden softly.

“Good ——, don’t set there and tell me about it! Ain’t I been thinkin’

about it until m’ ears ring? Do yuh think I’m so —— ignorant that I

don’t realize things like that? Hank, I dunno—” Armadillo’s voice

softened. “It’s terrible. I s’pose the best thing to do is to throw

that —— rooster away and eat supper in Arapaho City.”

* * * * *

While the sheriff rode back to Arapaho City with the body of his deputy

sheriff and Hank Ludden went back to the Hard Luck ranch, trouble was

brewing in another part of the Twisted River range, Scotty McLeod’s

ranch.

It was a little ranch—just a two-room shack and a tumble-down stable,

but within the fenced enclosure, bubbling from under a spreading

sycamore, was a big spring which flowed water which did not freeze, even

in the coldest weather.

It was not hot water, but cool enough to drink at any time, yet it was

practically the same temperature all the year around. And it was located

on what the Five Box outfit claimed as their range.

In other words, Scotty McLeod was a nester, a fighting Scot who defied

the Five Box to put him off his little ranch. “Dutch” O’Day, owner of

the Five Box, had tried in many ways to oust Scotty, but all his efforts

had failed.

Not satisfied to hold the ranch and run his few head of stock, Scotty,

angry at the Five Box, had secretly brought in a dozen sheep which he

close-herded. To flaunt a dozen sheep in the face of the Five Box was

like dangling a red rag in front of an angry bull.

Cowboys had taken long shots at the sheep in Scotty’s front yard, but

without any casualties. Perhaps it was because they feared Scotty’s

skill with a rifle that they did not come close enough for a good shot

at the sheep.

But on this day Scotty had been to town, and in the meantime his sheep

had managed to get out of the yard. Scotty noticed that about half of

them had vanished when he returned; so he intended to fix the fence

before cooking himself a meal, resolving to round up the lost sheep

right away.

He was absorbed in the latest newspaper while his coffee-pot boiled over

when he heard a noise at the door. Looking up, he beheld the face of Ben

Corliss, foreman of the Five Box, a big, lean-faced man with a broken

nose. Corliss carried a six-shooter in his right hand, with which he

motioned to Scotty.

Corliss was a much bigger man than Scotty who was what might be termed

undersized. Scotty’s hair was a flaming red and the color of his chin

was almost the same tint, which exaggerated the blue of his eyes.

“What do ye want?” asked Scotty coldly.

“C’mere, nester,” Corliss motioned him outside. “Don’t make no fool

break for a gun, McLeod.”

“I’m no fool!” snapped Scotty.

He followed Corliss out in the yard where he beheld his best sheep, now

nothing more than an inanimate drag on the end of Corliss’ lariat rope.

“There’s four more back in the hills—dead,” said Corliss. “If you think

you can turn sheep loose in these hills, you’ve got another think

comin’.”

“They got away,” said Scotty simply. “I was in town.”

“Got away, eh?” Corliss backed to the carcass of the sheep and removed

his rope which he coiled and threw over the horn of his saddle.

“You better imitate the sheep, McLeod. We’ve tolerated you about as long

as we care to. _Sabe?_ We need a reason to wipe you out, and yore sheep

furnished it. Now, you high-tail it out of here before we come back.”

“Ye mean to come back, do ye?” Scotty smiled softly. “Well, I’ll try to

meet ye with a gr-r-rin, Cor-r-r-lis.”

Scotty began burring his r’s, which indicated that he was getting angry.

“Yeah, we’ll be back,” snarled Corliss.

“I’ll tr-ry to be here.”

“Yuh will, eh? Fine. Walk down to the gate with me, McLeod. I’m not

goin’ to take any chances on you pottin’ me with yore rifle from the

house.”

He forced Scotty to go with him to the gate and stand there while he

mounted his horse.

“Now you just try runnin’ back to the house,” laughed Corliss. “The rest

of my outfit are settin’ out there in range of here, and they’ll make a

sieve of yore shack in about a minute. So go slow, you sheep-lovin’

pup.”

Corliss touched the spurs to his horse and galloped away, while the

little Scot ducked low and ran swiftly toward his doorway, zig-zagging

his course. A moment later he knew that Corliss had not lied.

A bullet struck in the gravel just beyond him, throwing up a little

spurt of dust and hitting the house a resounding thwack! Another struck

near his feet, ricocheted and broke one of the shack windows.

But before another one could throw gravel in his face, he dived through

the doorway, rolled across the floor and lifted his rifle from where it

stood in a corner of the room.

Then he ran back, wriggled out through an open window and ran to the

corner where a scraggly bush gave him a little cover. He could see

Corliss riding along through some heavy cover, and just beyond him he

could see two horses. A man got into a saddle and seemed to be waving an

arm at Corliss.

But Corliss was riding into heavier brush now, and Scotty could not see

him plainly. The other man had shifted his position, which rather

confused Scotty, but as he squinted at the brushy hillside he could see

a moving horse. He was not exactly sure as to the identity of the rider,

nor whether there was a rider, but decided that at least he would make

somebody move quickly.

Scotty did not look any farther. He lifted his 45-70 rifle, swung the

muzzle against the corner of the house, caught a quick sight and

squeezed the trigger.

The big rifle jerked violently and its crashing report was flung back by

the hills, while a cloud of smoke drifted back into Scotty’s face.

He lowered the muzzle quickly. He could see a saddle horse, but there

was no sign of the rider. The horse turned and ran over the brow of the

hill. Farther to the left some one was shooting at the house, and Scotty

could hear the bullets hitting the walls. He levered in another

cartridge and waited for some one to expose himself.

* * * * *

The entrance of the sheriff with his dead deputy caused Arapaho City to

wake up. Joe Lane had been a favorite in the town, and his demise was

more or less of a shock to every one. The sheriff went straight to his

office, where several men helped him place the body on a cot.

To all their questioning the sheriff turned a deaf ear until the coroner

had been notified. Then he gave them this short statement:

“Hank Ludden caught him rustlin’ cattle and shot him. Hank didn’t know

who he was. There was two other men with him, and they were operatin’ at

the old U6 corral.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the crowd which grouped around the doorway

of the sheriff’s office, and it seemed to Hashknife that no one believed

the sheriff.

“Rustlin’ ——!” snorted a cattleman. “Good excuse.”

The sheriff looked sharply at the speaker, but did not reply. He had

expected just such sentiment.

“Speakin’ of shootin’,” remarked a fat-faced cowboy, whose legs were too

short for his barrel-like body. “I jist rode in from the Five Box, and I

shore hears a —— of a lot of shootin’ goin’ on over toward that nester’s

place. Sounded like Fo’th of July.”

“Prob’ly somebody takin’ pot-shots at the —— shepherd,” laughed another.

“I hear he’s got twelve sheep. He’s sure due to grab a harp pretty

soon.”

The coroner arrived, and the sheriff ushered him in, shutting the door

against the rest of the crowd, which resented such practise and repaired

to the nearest saloon to talk things over.

Hashknife and Sleepy lingered until the sheriff came out, which was

about a minute after the rest of the crowd had vanished. He squinted at

Hashknife and Sleepy, stopped as if waiting for them to ask a question,

and then walked to his horse.

“You goin’ over to the nester’s place?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff paused and looked at them. It was rather unusual for a

stranger to interest himself in this way.

“Why?” he asked shortly.

“Thought we might ride along and talk with yuh.”

“Well—” The sheriff paused. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, cabbages and kings, mebbe.”

“Cabbages? What’s the joke, stranger?”

“No joke. Wait until we get our horses and we’ll ride out there with

yuh. It might interest yuh to know that we was the two men that Hank

Ludden missed, when his horse moved.”

“Ye-e-eah?” The sheriff’s mouth opened widely, and his right hand

slipped from his hip, where it had been resting.

“He mistook us for the two rustlers,” explained Hashknife quickly.

The sheriff’s mouth resumed its normal expression and he nodded slowly.

“Go get yore horses,” he said.

And then he added as an afterthought when he realized where their horses

were tied—

“Swing around the town and meet me outside, will yuh?”

They mounted and left Arapaho over the same route they had used in

entering. A quarter of a mile from town they overtook the sheriff who

spurred his horse to a gallop.

“We’ll talk later,” he yelled at them. “Prob’ly have more time later

on.”

That arrangement was all right with Hashknife and Sleepy. They realized

that here was a sheriff who knew the value of swift action, and they

appreciated the fact that he could wait to hear what they had to say.

About a mile from town the road to the nester’s ranch turned sharply to

the left, while the main road continued to the Five Box. There was no

let-up in speed. The sheriff sat his horse well, scanning the country as

he rode.

Suddenly he jerked his horse sharply, almost blocking the two men behind

him.

“Didja hear that shot?” he asked.

It came again, the echoing bang of a rifle, and not so far away.

“C’mon!” The sheriff roweled his horse and they went pounding up the old

road, heading for the sound of the guns.

“Mebbe some —— fool is target shootin’,” yelled the sheriff, “but we’ve

got to find out.”

The road led down through a ravine, twisting in and out of the brush,

came out into a little valley, studded here and there with oak clumps,

sloping gently upward toward where the nester’s cabin was located.

The three riders drew rein and scanned the surrounding hills. To the

right of them and up on the side of the steep hill a huge outcropping of

granite jutted out. And, as they scanned the hills, from behind this

granite dike came the _whang_ of a high-power rifle.

The three men instinctively ducked their heads. Hashknife and Sleepy

grinned foolishly at each other, while the sheriff whirled his horse and

rode closer to the foot of the hill.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What in —— do yuh think yo’re doin’ up there?”

From among the rocks lifted the head and shoulders of a man. He peered

down at them, wondering, no doubt, what it was all about.

“_Spow-ee-e-e-e-e!_”

A bullet ricocheted off the rock beside him, and he ducked like a

rabbit, while from farther up the valley came the roar of a black-powder

rifle cartridge.

“What in —— is goin’ on around here?” yelled the sheriff.

“Go up and muzzle that —— nester!” yelled the man behind the rock. “You

dang near got me killed. Who in —— are you, anyway?”

“I’m the sheriff!”

“Oh, that’s different. This is Corliss, Pete. Go up and stop

that —— nester, will yuh? He’s killed Oscar Naylor, and he’s got Moon

down in a coyote hole across the cañon.”

“Yuh say he’s killed Naylor?”

“An hour ago, yeah. Look out for him, Pete. That —— fool can hit yore

belt buckle at half a mile.”

No doubt this was a gross exaggeration of Scotty’s marksmanship, but

showed what Ben Corliss thought of it after an hour of swapping lead

with him.

The sheriff drew out a none too clean white handkerchief, grasped it by

one corner and turned to Hashknife.

“You better stay here, gents. This nester might ’a’ gone crazy or color

blind, and he sure can shoot.”

“Better all three go,” said Hashknife. “Take it slow, I’d say. Show him

we ain’t tryin’ to rush him.”

“Good idea. C’mon.”

* * * * *

They went slowly up the road and soon came in sight of the little shack.

The sheriff held up his flag of truce, waving it gently, while Hashknife

and Sleepy rode one on each side of him, expecting any moment to have

the nester fire upon them.

But nothing happened, and they dismounted at the gate. Several dead

sheep were scattered around the yard, attesting to the fact that all the

shots had not been fired at Scotty. Both front windows had been shot

out.

“Hey! McLeod!” yelled the sheriff.

“And what would ye be wantin’, wavin’ your white rag and comin’ slow?”

Scotty had stepped out from the rear of the house and was looking them

over.

“Oh, it’s the sher-r-riff, eh?”

“Yeah,” nodded the sheriff, walking toward Scotty.

“Did ye silence thim br-r-rave cowpunchers?” he asked, waving one hand

in the general direction of his enemies.

“They’re all through, McLeod. What started all this?”

Scotty rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“Me sheep, sheriff. Several of thim got away, and the Five Box outfit

killed ’em. Ben Corliss came with one of ’em on a r-r-rope, and he

warned me to leave. He forced me to accompany him to the gate, and when

I started back, his cohorts star-r-rted shootin’ at me. I got in the

house, took me gun and returned their fire. We’ve been at it over an

hour now, so I guess there’s been no harm done.”

“Corliss says you killed Oscar Naylor.”

“I don’t know about that. We had it hot and heavy for a while. They’ve

killed all me sheep, I think, and my house will leak like a sieve in the

next rain.”

“Give me your gun, McLeod,” ordered the sheriff.

The Scot frowned slightly, but grinned as he handed the gun across.

“I’d as soon, sheriff. I shot me last cartridge a while ago.”

He glanced toward the gate and his face hardened. Corliss was walking

toward him, rifle in hand.

“You dir-r-rty pup!” gritted Scotty.

Corliss paid no attention to him, but spoke directly to the sheriff.

“Moon just yelled that he had found Naylor, and he’s dead.”

The sheriff sighed deeply and looked at Corliss.

“What’s yore side of this, Ben?”

“Go ahead and lie,” said McLeod.

Corliss scowled and started toward Scotty, but the sheriff stepped

between them and held out his hand to Corliss.

“Give me yore gun, Ben. Yore six-gun, too.”

Corliss handed over the two weapons, looking sharply at Hashknife and

Sleepy, two men he had never seen before. The sheriff knew that Corliss

was wondering who they were, but he was in no position to say.

“The nester’s sheep got loose,” explained Corliss. “You know how we feel

about sheep, Pete. We stopped some of ’em and I roped one, which I

brought down here with me. I told McLeod what I thought of a

sheep-raising nester, and told him he better call it a day and pull out

of here.

“I made him walk to the gate with me because I didn’t want him too close

to his rifle when I was ridin’ away. As soon as I pulled out he ran into

the house and started shootin’ at us. Naylor and Moon were up there on

the hill, and he got Naylor the first shot. Anyway, Moon says he got him

with the first shot.

“Naylor didn’t know that McLeod had run back for his gun, so he didn’t

have a chance in the world. I wasn’t back to ’em when the shootin’

started, and he drove me off that side of the valley. That’s how I

happened to be up there behind that granite cliff where yuh found me.”

The sheriff turned to McLeod.

“How about it, McLeod?”

“Par-r-rt true, par-r-rt lies, sheriff. They were shootin’ at me before

I got back to the house. I was lucky to get in there alive. If Naylor

didn’t know the shootin’ had started, he must have been deaf, because

there were several shots fired before I got me gun, and there was more

fired before I had any chance to take par-r-rt.”

“Yo’re a liar!” snapped Corliss.

“Drop that, Ben,” warned the sheriff. “This is no place to discuss

it—not between you and McLeod.” He turned to McLeod. “I’m sorry, but

I’ll have to arrest you, McLeod. I’m not sayin’ that you were not

justified in what you have done, but a man has been killed, and that

demands an investigation.”

“I suppose so,” nodded McLeod. “I’m not sorry, sheriff. They forced me

to it, and if I killed a man, he had his chance the same as the rest of

us. It was war-r-r, and no favors. Perhaps I’m sorry it was Naylor

instead of Corliss, because I had no quarrel with Naylor.”

“You’ll hang just as high for Naylor as for me,” said Corliss angrily.

“But with less satisfaction,” replied Scotty coldly.

The sheriff turned to Corliss.

“You go back and help Moon bring Naylor’s body down to the road. We’ll

saddle McLeod’s horse and meet yuh there.”

“All right, sheriff.”

Corliss turned and hurried back, while the four men went to McLeod’s

little stable and let him saddle his own horse. Scotty did not complain,

until the sheriff assured him that he would get a fair trial.

“Will I?” he asked coldly. “With a cattlemen’s jury?”

“The sheep were against yuh, pardner,” said Hashknife kindly. “That was

yore mistake.”

“I’ll admit it,” said Scotty. “I’m bullheaded. Since I’ve been here I’ve

fought to live. The Five Box is a big outfit for one nester to fight. I

was whipped a long time ago, but I didn’t know it.

“I was a fool to bring the sheep. It was like takin’ a big roll of bills

from your pocket, placin’ thim on the table behind your poker chips,

tryin’ to frighten a gambler. I wanted to make the Five Box fightin’

mad,” Scotty laughed bitterly. “I think I made a big success of it,

too.”

“And the witnesses are two to one,” reminded Hashknife.

“Aye, that’s true. But so was the shootin’.”

“And yuh never can tell,” agreed Hashknife smiling at Scotty’s optimism.

They led Scotty’s horse back to the other horses, where they all mounted

and rode back down the little valley. Down near the spot where they had

discovered Corliss, they found Corliss and Moon with the body of Oscar

Naylor. Moon was a short, heavy-set cowboy, with a round face and an

upturned, brown mustache.

* * * * *

There was a certain resemblance between the face of Jim Moon, nicknamed

“Honey,” and that of the usual artists’ conception of the Man in the

Moon. But Honey Moon was neither smiling nor beaming. He scowled heavily

at Scotty McLeod and waited for the sheriff to speak.

The sheriff’s examination of Naylor was brief.

“Dead as ——,” he said coldly. “Rope him to his saddle and we’ll go to

town.”

“Ain’t yuh goin’ to arrest that —— nester?” asked Honey Moon.

His voice was husky, high-pitched.

“Tub o’ lar-r-rd!” snorted Scotty.

“The nester is under arrest,” said the sheriff. “If you’ve got any

remarks to make to my prisoner or about him, don’t let me hear ’em. I’ve

taken charge of him, Honey, and it’s up to me to protect him. _Sabe?_”

“Oh, all right,” grudgingly.

Hashknife liked Pete Darcey for that remark. It showed that the sheriff

was playing square with his prisoner.

“And I want you boys to pack a message to Dutch O’Day,” said the sheriff

as they roped Naylor’s body to his horse.

“You tell O’Day that I’m holdin’ him responsible for anythin’ that might

happen to McLeod’s few head of stock or to his little ranch while McLeod

is in my charge.”

“You don’t think O’Day would bother his —— stuff, do yuh?” asked Corliss

indignantly.

“No matter what I think, Corliss. You take the message.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him all right. But Dutch O’Day ain’t a man who—”

“I’m not askin’ for any pedigree, Corliss. I know O’Day as well as you

do. I’m not makin’ him responsible for only his own acts. I’m includin’

the Five Box outfit.”

“Oh, all right. Do yuh want me and Honey to go to town with yuh, Pete?”

“Not unless yuh want to.”

“We better go,” advised Honey Moon. “Naylor was my bunkie, and I want to

see that nester behind the bars.”

The sheriff tied-off his lash-rope, picked up the lead rope on Naylor’s

horse and mounted his own animal. Corliss had been rolling a cigaret,

his eyes squinting inquiringly at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Pete, who are these two men?” he asked abruptly.

The sheriff looked at Hashknife and Sleepy, frowned slightly and rubbed

the back of his hand across his chin. He knew no more about them than

Corliss did.

Hashknife grinned slowly and shifted in his saddle.

“We’re the Smith brothers,” he said easily. “I’m the tallest, and he’s—”

pointing at Sleepy—“the shortest.”

Hashknife said it so earnestly that every one took it for granted until

Scotty McLeod’s sense of humor caused him to snort audibly. The sheriff

turned his head and looked at his prisoner reprovingly.

“Friends of the nester, eh?” growled Corliss, who had misconstrued

Scotty’s snort.

“Yuh never can tell,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Well, we better be movin’ along,” said the sheriff, and the cavalcade

headed for Arapaho City.

Several times during the trip Hashknife caught Scotty McLeod looking at

him, a grin on his lips. Scotty was evidently still amused at

Hashknife’s self-introduction.

When almost to town Hashknife spurred in close to the sheriff and told

him of seeing Joe Lane fall from his horse and of their narrow escape

from Hank Ludden’s bullet. The sheriff listened closely, but made no

comment.

“Do you know anybody around here?” he asked.

“Not a soul, Sheriff.”

“Lookin’ for work?”

“Nope. We might take jobs, but we’re never lookin’ for work.”

The sheriff grinned and shook his head.

“I dunno what you’ll be able to find around here, Smith. You sure showed

up on a lively day. This is the most killin’ we’ve ever had in one day.

I know I’ve got to appoint me another deputy, dang the luck.”

They rode in to the main street of Arapaho City and to the front of the

sheriff’s office. The word spread quickly, and they had hardly

dismounted when men came running from all directions to stare at the

cavalcade and ask questions.

They crowded around the body of Naylor, questioning the two cowboys from

the Five Box, while the sheriff took Scotty McLeod through his office

and locked him in a cell at the rear.

But the crowd could get no satisfaction from questioning Corliss and

Moon, so they surrounded the sheriff when he came out.

“Back up, you fellers!” snapped the sheriff. “Some of the Five Box

outfit got smart with McLeod, tha’s all. Give me room to unlash that

body, will yuh?”

“The nester killed Naylor?” asked one of them.

The sheriff did not reply, but busied himself with the ropes.

“Here comes Mrs. Lane,” said one of the crowd, as if warning them. The

talking ceased, and several men stepped off the sidewalk, glancing

quickly at the tall, slender girl who was hurrying toward them.

She was wearing a kitchen apron over her white dress, and there was a

smudge of flour across her nose and cheek.

She stopped short when the crowd moved aside and she could see the body

roped to the saddle. The sheriff turned and looked at her, but his

glance strayed quickly away and around the crowd as if looking for some

one to help him handle the situation.

The woman came closer, her eyes wide with apprehension. She stumbled

over a warped board, stopped. A breeze blew a lock of hair across her

eyes and she brushed it back with a trembling hand. A man swore softly

and moved away, going slowly across the street. Two more followed his

example, glad to get away.

“Pete, what—is—it?” Mrs. Lane spoke haltingly.

The sheriff looked at her. His lips twisted painfully.

“This is—is Naylor,” he said. “You knew Naylor, Mary.”

“Yes, I—I knew him.” Her voice was strained, hoarse with emotion as she

came slowly forward to the edge of the sidewalk.

“I—I knew Naylor. You say that is Naylor? Somebody—” she tried to smile,

choked—“somebody said it—it was Joe. But it wasn’t Joe. It was Naylor.

Oh, I’m sorry it—it had to be anybody.”

“Yes’m.” The sheriff looked appealingly around. This was making it

worse. Some one had told her that Joe was dead, and now the shock would

be just double. She was trying to smile, and he was going to tell her

the truth. He moved toward her, came to the edge of the sidewalk, his

hands clenched tightly.

“Mary,” he whispered, “I’ve got to tell yuh the truth. I was intendin’

to come right to yuh, right after it happened, but this other deal came

up and I didn’t have time. Joe got—”

The sheriff stopped and turned away. He could not bear to look at the

expression of her face. She knew now. The smudge of white flour was not

visible now. Her lips were compressed tightly and her eyes were staring

vacantly into space.

* * * * *

Hashknife stepped to the sidewalk beside her. He expected her to faint.

She interpreted his move and looked up at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered bravely. “I’m all right.”

“You’ve got nerve,” said Hashknife softly. “Keep hangin’ on to it,

ma’am.”

“Where is Joe?” She turned to the sheriff, who was mopping his brow with

a gaudy-colored handkerchief.

“They moved him down to the doctor’s home,” offered one of the men.

“Mary, you hadn’t better go down there,” advised the sheriff. “You wait

until yuh kinda get over the shock.”

“Get over the shock?” Her lips trembled and she choked back a sob. “How

did it happen? Who did it?”

“Good ——!” muttered one of the men hollowly.

And while the woman waited for some one to tell her, the crowd drifted

across the street, singly and in groups, leaving only the sheriff,

Hashknife and Sleepy to tell her.

It was too much for the sheriff, who turned to Hashknife.

“Yo’re a stranger here, Smith. For ——’s sake, take her away from here

and tell her about it. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll never forget it.”

“But—but what is it all about?” asked Mary Lane blankly.

Hashknife touched her on the arm.

“If yuh want to walk down to the doctor’s office, I’ll go with yuh,

ma’am. Mebby it’ll be easier for me to tell yuh all about it.”

Without any comment she walked with him, while the sheriff and Sleepy

looked after them, thankful that Hashknife was game enough to accept the

delicate task of explaining things to her.

“I think it was an accident.” Hashknife could think of no better way to

break the news to her.

“You mean, he was accidentally—”

“Yes’m. Anyway, it looks thataway to me. Yore father was lookin’ for

rustlers, they tell me, and he runs into three of ’em. Somehow they got

away from him, and after—”

“My God!” Mary stopped and stared at Hashknife. “You mean that my father

shot Joe?”

“Well, I tell yuh I think it was an accident. Yore dad seen this man

ridin’ along and he—”

But there was no use in going farther, and he knew it.

“That’s why they wouldn’t tell me,” she said painfully. “All those men

walked away, looking so queerly at me. My own father shot Joe. He

thought Joe was a rustler, and they—”

She shuddered and Hashknife grasped her arm.

“No, I’m not going to faint,” she told him. “You are a stranger and you

don’t know about things. They all know that my father disliked Joe.

They’ll say that he killed him out of spite.”

“I don’t think your father would murder a man.”

Mary Lane looked at Hashknife, her eyes filled with horror and pain, but

her lips were firm now.

“No, he wouldn’t murder,” she said slowly. “He thought Joe was a

rustler, and Joe can’t prove he wasn’t.”

Hashknife shook his head. Two men were crossing the street from a

hitch-rack, and Hashknife recognized one of them as Hank Ludden. The

other was Armadillo Jones. Mary Lane saw them, and turned her head away.

They came to the edge of the sidewalk and stood together looking at

Mary. Armadillo squinted at Hashknife, and there were tears in his eyes,

or it might have been caused by the sun and the dust.

Mary looked up at Hashknife and said:

“I will go the rest of the way alone. Thank you for telling me, Mr.

Smith.”

She turned and walked away, not even looking at the two men. They

followed her with their eyes until she turned the corner, going past the

old blasted cottonwood which pointed a crooked forefinger skyward as if

promising a retribution.

“You shore raised ——,” declared Armadillo, slowly and distinctly. “Never

even looked at us.”

“Can yuh blame her?” asked Ludden hoarsely.

“Well, my ——, I never shot any of her relations!” retorted Armadillo

hotly. “Jist because we’re pardners, it ain’t my fault if yuh shoot

somebody.”

Hank Ludden turned and walked slowly back toward the hitch-rack.

Armadillo squinted at Hashknife and turned his head to watch Hank cross

the street. After a moment he hitched up his belt, spat reflectively and

followed Hank.

Hashknife went back to the sheriff’s office. They had placed the body of

Naylor on a cot. The bullet had torn its way through the man’s body,

making a wicked wound, but the sheriff was unable to say whether the man

had died instantly or not.

“I seen Naylor fall,” said Moon, who had come back to the office after

Hashknife and Mrs. Lane had walked away.

“I wasn’t far from him. We seen Corliss comin’ back, so we swung around,

intendin’ to ride over the ridge, when all to once I hears the bullet

hit Naylor.

“He didn’t say anythin’—jist fell off. I swung my horse around to go

back to him, but that —— nester started heavin’ bullets so close to me

that I unloaded off my bronc and dug myself in. My gosh, that jigger

sure can shoot straight.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, and in a few minutes the sheriff

joined them.

“Goin’ to eat somethin’,” he told them. “C’mon and have a bite with me.

Have a cup of coffee or anythin’. I want to hear how Mary Lane took the

news.”

* * * * *

They walked down to the Pekin Café, where the Chinaman with the Irish

name grinned at them and hastened to take their orders.

“I told the lady all about it,” said Hashknife. “Yuh can imagine how

she’d take it, can’t yuh? But she didn’t scream nor faint, if that’s

what yuh mean.”

“She’s got nerve,” mused the sheriff. “Mary loved Joe Lane. I ain’t

never been married, but if I ever do, I hope my wife will like me as

well as Mary liked Joe.”

The sheriff sighed deeply and drummed on the table with his big fingers.

“This has been a hard day for Arapaho City. Two dead men, a broken heart

and a man in jail.”

“What will they do to the nester?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno.” The sheriff squinted gloomily at the wall. “The sheep will

hurt his chances with a jury.”

“Only twelve sheep,” said Hashknife.

“Numbers won’t matter, Smith. Sheep are hated in this country. If one of

the Five Box had killed McLeod, it wouldn’t be worth my while to arrest

them, because any jury in this county would turn ’em loose.

“I had to arrest McLeod. Perhaps he wasn’t to blame. I know those Five

Box boys, and they’re wild as ——. But I had to do it, as much to save

him as anythin’. They’d go back and kill him sure. This way there’s a

chance for him to get off with manslaughter.”

“Yuh spoke about Dutch O’Day,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah. Dutch owns the Five Box outfit. He’s a wizened, little old

Irishman, with temper of the devil. Several years ago he got both legs

broke in a runaway. Wheels went over both legs below the knee.

“The bones were crushed pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, they didn’t knit

well. The doctor managed to save his legs, but little good it did him.

He’ll never walk. All day long he sits on the porch of the Five Box

ranch-house and curses everything and everybody. Got a big Chink cook

who carries Dutch where he wants to go, and takes care of him. Dutch

curses Long How, calls him How Long, but the Chink just grins.

“Once in a great while Dutch comes to town. It ain’t often. He thinks

everybody is laughin’ at him, but they’re not, of course. Who would

laugh at a cripple? His mind must be twisted a little over his trouble.

He probably egged the boys into makin’ an attack on McLeod. Dutch has

tried to force McLeod off that place, but didn’t quite make it. Dutch

wants that spring for a winter waterhole.”

“Why didn’t he buy McLeod out?” asked Hashknife. “It would be worth it

to the Five Box, I’d think.”

“Buy ——! Do you think Dutch O’Day would buy from a nester? Not that it

wouldn’t be the square thing to do, Smith. But the principle of the

thing would be all wrong. If McLeod goes to the penitentiary, the Five

Box will take back that spring, but I think O’Day is wise enough to

order hands off until the case is settled.”

“How many punchers does O’Day usually have?”

“Four. Oh, sometimes he puts on extra men. Corliss, Moon, Naylor and

Dayne have been with him a long time. I dunno who he’ll get to take

Naylor’s place.”

“What kind of a feller is this Corliss?”

“All right. He’s the foreman. You’ve got to credit him with havin’

patience. Anybody that’ll take orders from O’Day must have patience. He

has to handle most of O’Day’s business because O’Day can’t get around.

Corliss is all right. He’s a darned good cowman, knows his business.

Today is the first time he’s ever got wild, and that was probably

because he had orders from O’Day.”

“I’ve never seen that Five Box brand,” said Hashknife. “What does she

look like, Sheriff?”

The sheriff took out the stub of a lead pencil and an envelope. He drew

an oblong, three times as long as its width. Across this at right angles

he drew another of the same proportions, which made a square center with

the same size squares on each side. It might have been called a cross

brand, except that all sides were of equal length.

“That’s the Five Box brand,” said the sheriff. “It was Dutch O’Day’s own

idea. He said he was goin’ to have a brand that nobody could alter and

get away with it.”

“It sure looks like he’d got it,” grinned Hashknife. “Most any rustler

would balk at changin’ that darned thing. I’d like to meet Dutch O’Day,

Sheriff.”

“The —— yuh would! Well, mebby you’ll get a chance. We’ll see that he

comes in for McLeod’s hearin’, and you’ll probably hear him at his very

best. He can hate louder and harder than any man on earth.”

“Any special person?” asked Sleepy.

“The one who just spoke to him last.”

Hashknife and Sleepy grinned and leaned back to let Pat put their orders

on the table.

“Yo’ no like soup?” asked the Chinaman.

“Compulsory?” grinned Sleepy.

“Jus’ same noodle today. I hear somebody get kill, eh?”

“Joe Lane and Oscar Naylor,” said the sheriff. “Two dead men in town

today, Pat.”

“Shoot each othah, She’iff?”

“No-o-o.”

“Whisky?”

“No-o-o.”

“Hm-m-m! Ve’y solly fo’ Joe Lane. Naylor owe me tlee dolla.”

The Chinaman shook his head sadly and shuffled back to the kitchen. He

didn’t feel sorry for Naylor. He felt sorry for himself, and it would be

difficult for another cowboy to get credit at the Pekin Café.

* * * * *

It was two days later that McLeod’s hearing was held, and in the

meantime the “Smith brothers” had demonstrated to the poker-playing

element of Arapaho City that they knew one card from another.

Corliss offered to take them on at the Five Box ranch, but they declined

the jobs. It was all right with Corliss. He had told O’Day about them,

and the old Irishman had told him to offer them the customary forty

dollars a month.

About fifteen minutes before McLeod’s hearing was to take place, Dutch

O’Day came to Arapaho City, driving a wild pair of buckskin horses to a

buckboard, while beside him sat a big Chinaman, clinging with both hands

to the seat.

O’Day drove up in front of the War Paint saloon, jerked the horses back

on their haunches and swore at the Chinaman for being slow in getting

around to their heads. Hashknife and Sleepy were in front of the saloon,

and they were willing to agree with the sheriff’s description of O’Day.

He was thin to the point of emaciation, his bony shoulders threatened to

tear holes in his colorless shirt, and there was not enough meat on his

face to hide the contour of his skull. But his features were typically

Irish, and Hashknife wondered if somewhere beneath that wormwood and

gall there wasn’t a spark of humor and kindness.

“Tie thim up, ye —— heathen!” he shrilled at the Chinaman who was

fussing with a rope.

He twisted his head and glared at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Who th’ —— are ye starin’ at, ye saddle-slickin’ dummies?”

“You’d make anybody stare,” said Hashknife coldly. “I’ve been told that

yo’re the meanest old —— in this country, but I think they’re wrong.”

“Ye do, eh?” O’Day leaned forward, his thin lips twisted in a snarl.

“And jist why do ye think they’re wrong?”

“They didn’t cover enough territory, O’Day.”

“Oh!” O’Day leaned back and squinted at Hashknife, his face twisted with

impotent wrath. “Ye don’t think they did, eh? By ——, if I was able to

get out of this rig, I’d pay you out for that.”

“If you’d been able to get out of that rig, somebody would have killed

you a year ago. You’ve gained a sweet reputation, O’Day. Just because

yo’re a cripple you think you have the right to curse everybody, say

what you please. But you haven’t. Yo’re just a little atom in the scheme

of things. Hard luck has soured you, or you think it has, but down in

yore soul is the wish that you could come back, that you could have the

good will of every one, be a man among men in spite of yore condition.”

O’Day listened to Hashknife, his mouth half open, as if to interrupt.

But he held his tongue. The Chinaman finished hitching the team and had

come back to the wheel. O’Day shifted his eyes from Hashknife to the

Chinaman, squinting at him closely. Then—

“Did ye get thim tied, How Long? Ye did? Thank ye kindly. Now, if ye are

ready, How Long, ye may assist me across the way.”

The Chinaman looked curiously at O’Day. It was the first time that O’Day

had ever spoken to him in that tone. It had always been with a curse. He

leaned inside the buckboard, lifted O’Day easily and started across the

street with him. And O’Day twisted his head, looked back at Hashknife

and actually laughed.

“You see how easy it is, O’Day?” called Hashknife.

The smile snapped out like the turning out of an electric light.

“Go to ——, will ye?” snarled O’Day, and turned away to swear at How

Long.

Hashknife shook his head, still smiling.

“I’m right, Sleepy. O’Day doesn’t hate the world. He hates O’Day. He

sits at his ranch all the time, knowing that he has made every one

dislike him, knowing that no man can speak a good word for him. He can’t

get out and win back his friends. They won’t go to see him. The

bitterness of his soul is against himself, and he takes it out on the

world.”

“He’s sure a perfect cross between a polecat and a badger,” said Sleepy,

who was very practical. “It’s too bad the wagon didn’t run across his

neck.”

There were only three witnesses examined at the hearing, Moon, Corliss

and McLeod. It was a case of two witnesses to one; two men who swore

that McLeod opened fire on them without warning, and that it was either

the first or second shot that killed Naylor.

McLeod told his story in a straightforward way, but the law accepted the

Five Box version, and Scotty McLeod was bound over to the superior

court, charged with murder.

Hashknife walked back with McLeod and the sheriff, and when McLeod was

again locked in his cell, Hashknife asked him to go over his story

again.

“But I’ve told the truth,” insisted McLeod. “I can’t tell ye any more

than I have.”

“What’s the idea, Smith?” queried the sheriff.

“I believe McLeod’s story, tha’sall. I hate to see an innocent man sent

up or hung. He has told his story. I’ve heard it twice, but I want to

ask questions, if I may.”

“It’s all right with me,” said the sheriff. “I can’t make McLeod talk.”

“I’ll talk,” nodded the prisoner. “Ask the questions.”

“How did yore sheep get out?”

“Sure, I dunno that.”

“I do. I was out there yesterday. The dead sheep are in the corral, and

there’s no way for a sheep to get out except through the gate.”

“Ah-ha! So they turned me sheep out, eh?”

“Mebbe.”

“You mean they wanted an excuse to start trouble with McLeod?” asked the

sheriff.

“Somethin’ like that. McLeod, you say they were shooting at you as you

ran back toward the house?”

“Aye, several shots. I fell into the house, took me gun, fell out

through a back window and went to the corner.”

“Were they still shootin’ at the house?”

“Aye, they wer-r-re.”

“They tell me you’re a good shot, McLeod. Did you draw a good bead on

Naylor?”

“I dunno who he was. Corliss told me that his men were in the hills

ready to kill me if I ran back for my gun. I could see some men. I dunno

how many. I drew down on one who was on a horse, and I wasn’t quite sure

of my aim. It was a long ways.”

“And you saw the man fall?”

“I did not. I saw a riderless horse, so I thought I had hit somebody.”

“You didn’t know how many men were in the hills?”

“I did not. I didn’t know how many there were until it was all over, and

you came with the sheriff.”

“I reckon that’s about all,” said Hashknife.

“But that won’t help McLeod any,” said the sheriff. “Even if the Five

Box boys did turn the sheep loose to get a reason for startin’ trouble,

it won’t help McLeod much at this trial.”

“Possibly not. But it shows that they intended to start trouble,”

Hashknife turned to McLeod. “Did you ever meet Dutch O’Day?”

“No, I never have. I’ve minded my own business, and I’ve had no occasion

to go to the Five Box.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the office. The sheriff sighed

and sat down in a chair.

“Well, that much of it is over. This afternoon they bury both Naylor and

Joe Lane. I was just wonderin’.” The sheriff squinted at the ceiling.

“Just wonderin’ what interest you’ve got in this trouble, Smith?”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, lighted it carefully and inhaled

deeply before looking at the big sheriff.

“You don’t mind, do yuh, Sheriff?”

“——, no! But I was just wonderin’ if you two happened to drift in here

or were yuh sent here. Yuh don’t need to answer it either way. Mebby I

was thinkin’ out loud.”

“We drifted in,” said Hashknife slowly. “Mebby there was a reason, but

nobody sent us. A week ago we didn’t know anythin’ about the Twisted

River country.”

“Yore business is yore own,” said the sheriff. “Excuse me for talkin’

about it. Are yuh goin’ to the funerals?”

“Nope. We didn’t know either of ’em. And we’re not morbidly curious.”

“I reckon yo’re right. I’ve got to go. Folks are talkin’ about me and my

rustlin’ deputy, and I’ve got to stick with him to the last sod.”

“You don’t think the old man killed him on purpose, knew who he was, do

yuh?”

“My ——, no! If you could have seen the look on the old man’s face when

he seen it was Joe Lane! No, Hank Ludden is no murderer. I’d bank on it,

Smith.”

Hashknife left the office and wandered up the street. Old Dutch O’Day

was sitting in his buckboard, talking with Corliss. Hashknife saw them

look toward him and exchange a few words. Then Corliss nodded his head

and walked toward the door of the War Paint saloon.

Hashknife intended to ignore O’Day, but O’Day would have it otherwise,

and called to Hashknife.

“How’s yore disposition?” asked Hashknife.

“What in —— do you care?” retorted O’Day.

“I just wanted to know before I stopped, O’Day. I might throw a rock at

a peevish old badger, but I’d not stop and waste words with him.”

“Come back here!” snapped O’Day. “You’re the first —— man I’ve seen in a

year that had guts enough to tell me where to head in.”

Hashknife came back and leaned against a front wheel.

“Corliss offered ye a job, didn’t he?” asked O’Day.

“Yeah,” indifferently.

“Mebbe ye don’t want a job.”

“Mebbe not.”

“Ah-h-h-h-h!” O’Day cleared his throat angrily. “Ye’r too —— cool!

That —— heathen pair o’ legs of mine has gone down to the Pekin Café to

ta-alk Chinese wid another of the same breed, and I’m left here to the

mercy of every gallinipper that—that—” O’Day spat viciously and glared

at Hashknife.

“Why don’tcha smile for a change?” asked Hashknife. “I’d be a little

careful at first, if I was you ’cause it’ll wrinkle yore face the other

way and might break the skin.”

O’Day glared with impotent wrath, his hands clenched in his lap. But as

Hashknife had surmised, back of his bitterness was a spark of humor, and

it was forced to the surface.

“Ye almost made me laugh,” he said, choking a trifle.

“I’m not tryin’ to make yuh laugh. I’m tryin’ to make yuh think, O’Day.”

“Think?” O’Day stared at him and his face twisted with bitterness.

“My ——, man, what do ye think I’ve been doing since I lost me legs?

Think? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s all there is left for me to do—think.”

Hashknife turned his head and looked at Hank Ludden and Armadillo Jones

who were crossing the street from a hitch-rack.

“I’d rather be in your fix than in Hank Ludden’s,” said Hashknife

softly.

“Ye’d rather? And why would ye, man?”

“He killed his daughter’s husband.”

“I know he did. Joe Lane was a rustler.”

“No matter what he was, O’Day. They say that Ludden worshipped his

daughter. She married against his wishes and he has never been to see

her. She loved her husband enough to give up her father, and he killed

her husband. Ain’t that worse than not bein’ able to walk? Yore pain was

physical, O’Day. Any ache in yore soul has been put there willingly by

you.”

O’Day turned his head and squinted at Ludden, squinting thoughtfully.

Then he turned back and nodded.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. “God knows I’ve hurt no one

except with my tongue. I wonder does the man realize what he has done.”

“I think so, O’Day. I watched his face the other day when his daughter

passed him by. I felt the pain in it myself, and I’m kinda salty. And

the pain won’t pass like the pain of a physical hurt. But I don’t think

he’ll curse the world for something that he can’t help.”

“Here comes my Chinese legs,” said O’Day softly. “I hope he had a good

visit with Pat Ling.”

The big Chinaman came up to them, looking inquiringly at O’Day, waiting

for his orders.

“We’ll be going, How Long,” said O’Day, and then to Hashknife—“If ye

care to, come out to the Five Box, Smith. If ye need a job for you or

your pardner, come and get it. I’m glad I stopped ye when I did.

So-long.”

Hashknife stepped closer and held out his hand. O’Day hesitated, glanced

around, as though wondering who might see it, and grasped Hashknife’s

hand.

“The first handshake in years,” he said huskily. “Perhaps it’s because

ye are a stranger. No, by ——! Ye knew what I am—was—and ye—” O’Day

turned to the Chinaman. “Don’t drive too fast, How Long. Me legs are

hur-rtin’ me.”

Without another glance at Hashknife, O’Day drove away. As far as

Hashknife could see them, O’Day had not turned his head. Hashknife

stepped on the sidewalk in front of the saloon and leaned against a

post, rolling a cigaret.

Arapaho City was getting ready for the double funeral. Down in front of

the livery stable, a man was washing the antiquated hearse, its two

remaining black plumes standing askew on opposite corners of the

equipage. As Hashknife watched the cleaner, another man brought out two

gray horses which they proceeded to hitch to the hearse.

Several men were going around the old cottonwood heading for the

doctor’s home where the services were to be held. Rigs were arriving

regularly, but were turning off to the right before reaching the main

street.

Across the street from Hashknife, sitting close together on a bench,

were Hank Ludden and Armadillo Jones. The proprietor of the general

store came out, wearing his cutaway coat and an antiquated derby hat. He

locked the door, glanced quickly at the two men on the bench and hurried

up the street.

* * * * *

The hearse went past, rattling badly from disuse, the two gray horses

swinging away from each other as the driver checked their natural

tendencies to go fast. The two old men watched the hearse turn the

corner, but it seemed to Hashknife that neither of them spoke to the

other.

Sleepy came from the saloon with Honey Moon and Corliss, followed by

Layne, a skinny, bow-legged cowboy, who carried his left arm stiffly

bent at the elbow, as though about to strike at something or somebody.

His nose had been broken at some time, giving him a disk-faced

appearance.

“Goin’ to the funeral, Smith?” asked Corliss.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Nope, I’m not curious.”

“I ain’t goin’ either,” said Sleepy.

“We’ve kinda got to go,” said Honey Moon dolefully. “Yuh see, Naylor

ain’t got no relation, not that we know about, and it ain’t a reg’lar

funeral unless somebody mourns. Naylor was a good feller and he deserves

a send-off.”

“C’mon,” grunted Layne. “Let’s git it over with. I’m glad Dutch O’Day

didn’t decide to go to the funeral. He’d likely cuss the minister before

it was over with.”

The three cowboys went down the sidewalk, rattling their spurs, mounted

their horses at the hitch-rack and rode around the corner. The sheriff

came up the opposite side of the street until he noticed the two old men

on the bench, when he crossed the street and came up to Hashknife and

Sleepy.

“I didn’t want to pass ’em,” he told Hashknife. “I got close enough to

see old Hank’s face, and that was enough for me.”

“I guess that’s right,” nodded Hashknife.

“Well.” The sheriff sighed deeply. “I reckon I’ve got to go and set on

the mourner’s bench, boys. These things ain’t so easy for me.”

“You won’t be on the mourner’s bench,” said Hashknife. “It’s over there

in front of the store.”

“I reckon yo’re right at that. So-long.”

The sheriff went on, his Sunday boots creaking a protest. Hashknife

rolled a fresh cigaret, his expression deadly serious as he spread the

tobacco carefully along the crimped paper. Sleepy glanced at him and

began rolling one for himself.

“I’m ready,” said Sleepy seriously, “to add my quit-claim deed to that

other one on the Arapaho City signboard. Anybody can have my share of

the —— thing.”

Hashknife shook his head, squinting thoughtfully, the unlighted cigaret

hanging to his lower lip. Slowly he drew a match from his pocket and

snapped it to a light with his thumb nail.

“We can’t leave now, Sleepy. I can’t go away and remember them two old

men over on that bench, and that white-faced woman. I’d always be

lookin’ back, wonderin’, you know, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, I know, cowboy.”

“And there’s a letter I’ve got to answer.”

“When?”

“Just as soon as I find his address.”

Sleepy nodded and hitched up his belt, indicating the saloon door with a

jerk of his head.

“All right,” said Hashknife. “I need one just now.”

They went into the War Paint. There were only two human beings left on

the main street of Arapaho City; two old men who humped together on the

little bench, straining their eyes toward a spot beyond the old

cottonwood where they could see the first few rigs of the funeral

procession, lining up for the cemetery trip.

* * * * *

The next day Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to the old U6 corral. The

sheriff had given them directions, and they had little trouble in

finding the place, as an old road, nearly grown up with weeds and brush,

led from the main highway to where the old ranch-house once stood.

A few Five Box and HL cattle were at the old waterhole, and a magpie

chattered at them from a high pole of the corral. They drew up beside

the old fence and Hashknife glanced at his watch.

“It took us almost an hour to reach here, Sleepy,” he remarked.

“That’s prob’ly a world’s record,” said Sleepy dryly.

“What’ll we do now? Go back to Arapaho and brag about it?”

Hashknife replaced his watch and ignored Sleepy’s sarcasm.

“All right, I’ll give us three cheers,” grinned Sleepy.

They went around to the corral gate, looking for evidences of the

branding fire, but there was none.

“Tracked out or wiped out,” said Hashknife.

He squinted at the top of the ridge from where Hank Ludden had first

seen the rustlers at work.

“That must be where the old man’s horse came out and put the rustlers on

the run,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad he came alone after them.”

“It’s too bad he came at all,” replied Sleepy. “He’d ’a’ saved himself a

lot of misery by stayin’ home that day. What’ll we do next?”

“From what the sheriff said, the HL ranch must lie almost due north of

here. So we’ll kinda angle out through the hills and visit old man

Ludden. I’d like to have a little talk with him.”

They circled to the left of the butte and headed north, riding slowly.

After the first mile the hills were more open, covered with a fairly

good growth of bunch-grass and dotted here and there with live-oak, the

creek bottoms heavy with cottonwood and a few sycamores.

Cattle grazed on the open slopes of the hills, stopping their feeding to

gaze with deep suspicion upon the two riders. In each group there seemed

to be one or two more suspicious than the others, and these would start

running away, followed by the rest.

“There’s a lot more Five Box than HL’s,” observed Hashknife as they

skirted the side of the bunch-grass hill. They came out on the crest and

drew up to scan the country to the eastward.

They were high enough up to locate Arapaho City and to see the hills

behind Scotty McLeod’s place. Between them and Arapaho City was the

green, snake-like line of Twisted River which swung in southeast,

passing close to the Five Box ranch.

They rode down the ridge, crossing the head of a deep cañon and came out

on a flat mesa which led them out to a view of the Hard Luck ranch far

down in the mouth of the little valley, its elevated position making it

plainly visible.

Hashknife led the way, following the higher ground until they struck the

slope which led down to the ranch-house. Old Armadillo was in the yard

greasing a buckboard. He had a smear of axle grease on his chin, and his

hands were gobby with the same substance in spite of the fact that he

was using a stick to apply it to the axle.

He paid no attention to their approach and did not look up until several

moments after they had stopped beside him. Then he straightened up,

placed the grease can and stick in the buckboard and felt tenderly of

his back.

“Gittin’ so —— old that I squeak,” he said. “Been puttin’ off greasin’

that dinged e-quipage f’r a long time, jist ’cause it creaks m’ back.

Gittin’ old, I reckon. Gittin’ old jist like that —— buckboard. But

nobody can grease me and take out the squeaks.

“Well, are yuh goin’ to set there or are yuh goin’ to git down and give

them horses a rest? Yore names are Smith, and yo’re brothers. Howdy. I’m

Armadillo Jones, meaner ’n —— and as dangerous as a sage-rabbit.”

The two cowboys dismounted and shook hands gravely with Armadillo,

trying not to laugh. Then he handed them a rag to wipe their greasy

hands with, and they all laughed.

“Where’s Ludden?” asked Hashknife.

“Hank? He’s up at the house, settin’ there.” Armadillo spoke the last

two words softly and looked toward the house.

“You know about it, don’tcha?” he asked.

“Yeah, we know about it,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, I dunno. Hank was younger ’n me before

this happened, but right now I’m a yearlin’ beside of him. Don’t want

nothin’ to drink nor eat—jist sets.”

“Hit him hard, eh?”

“Jist like a ton of brick with a muzzle velocity of ten thousand feet

per second. Wait’ll I hook that —— wheel on and I’ll go up with yuh.

Mebby it’ll do him good to hear a strange voice.”

Hashknife helped him put on the wheel and they went to the front of the

house where they found Ludden sitting on the porch, slumped down in a

chair, a dead pipe between his lips. He turned his head and looked at

Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Hank, these here are a couple of Smiths,” said Armadillo. “Gents, I

make yuh used to Hank Ludden.”

“Don’t get up,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand.

Ludden shook hands listlessly and waited for them to say what they

wanted of him. Armadillo scowled at Ludden.

“Well, good ——, Hank!” he blurted. “This ain’t no way to meet anybody.

Shake yoreself, can’tcha?”

“Please don’t, Armadillo,” replied Ludden. “I—I reckon I was half asleep

when yuh came up—dreamin’.”

“That’s all right,” smiled Hashknife. “We just dropped in to say howdy

and see how things are goin’.”

“To see how things are goin’?”

“I can tell yuh they ain’t goin’ worth a ——,” said Armadillo.

“Shucks, that’s no way to look at it,” grinned Hashknife. “Remember that

every cloud has a silver linin’.”

* * * * *

Hank Ludden turned quickly.

“Not every cloud. Not some clouds that I know, Smith.”

“Let’s forget the clouds for a while, Ludden. Did you ever hear of a man

named Hashknife Hartley?”

“Hashknife Hartley? Why, I—I—”

“Yo’re —— right yuh did!” snorted Armadillo. “Last Spring yuh—”

“Yes, I knew of a man by that name. I wrote him a letter. But what has

that to do—”

“You wrote to him at Calumet?” interrupted Hashknife.

“Yes, that was the town.”

“It’s funny I didn’t get it. We just left there a short time ago.”

“Nothin’ funny about it,” said Armadillo. “Hank wrote on the envelope,

‘After ten days return to Hank Ludden, Arapaho City,’ and that’s what

they done.”

“Are you Hashknife Hartley?” asked Ludden.

“That’s me.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” Ludden stared at him closely. “Then if you didn’t get that

letter, how did yuh know I wrote to yuh?”

“Mebby, I’m a mind reader,” smiled Hashknife. He did not want to tell

them about the other letter.

“I don’t believe it!” snapped Armadillo. “No —— man can read yore mind.

But,” he added seriously, “that kinda fits in with what Amos Hardy told

yuh, Hank. He said that Hashknife Hartley was worse’n a palmist, when it

comes to puttin’ the deadwood on a rustler or a killer.”

“Amos Hardy, eh?” Hashknife smiled. He knew Amos, the big, roly-poly

cattle-buyer for an eastern packing house.

“Know him, don’tcha?” asked Armadillo.

“Yeah, I know Amos. But we haven’t seen him for over a year. It seems to

me that you wanted me to come out and take charge of the HL ranch.”

“Did we?” Ludden’s teeth gripped tightly on his pipe stem. “If you

didn’t read my letter, how in —— did yuh know what we wanted?”

“Mind readin’,” drawled Armadillo dryly.

“Hardy told him,” declared Ludden.

“We haven’t seen him for over a year,” reminded Hashknife.

“Mind readin’,” reiterated Armadillo. “But what difference does it make

how he found it out, Hank? We’re in a —— sight worse hole than we was in

April.”

“No one was ever in a worse hole,” gloomed Ludden.

“Job had boils and the whale swallered Jonah,” offered Hashknife

seriously, and Armadillo laughed.

“Yuh can draw a boil to a head, and I never did believe that whale yarn

no more’n I believe yo’re a mind reader. It ain’t none of my business

how yuh found out that Hank wrote yuh a letter last Spring, and I don’t

give a ——.”

“That’s the spirit,” grinned Hashknife. “Where was yuh when Amos Hardy

told yuh so much about me?”

“Right here on this porch.”

“Thasso? Who was present?”

“Me and Hank and Hardy.”

“Nobody else heard what he said, eh?”

“Not a soul.”

“Hardy came alone,” nodded Ludden.

“Is Hardy well known around here?”

“Ought to be.” Thus Armadillo. “He’s been buyin’ beef in the Twisted

River country f’r years. Shows up about twice a year.”

“Any other buyers?”

“——, yes! But Amos is so well known that he gets what he wants. He used

to buy quite a lot from us, but lately we ain’t sold none.”

“And a —— good reason for not sellin’,” added Ludden.

“Where do yuh ship from—when yuh ship?”

“Casco. We have to drive twenty miles to a railroad. It’s all good

travelin’. They’ve been sayin’ that a branch is to be built in to

Arapaho, but I don’t reckon it ever will. The railroad intended to come

in thisaway, but they couldn’t get out of this pocket without goin’ out

through Crow Rock Cañon, and that’d cost a lot of money. So they swings

to the east from Casco and misses this spur of the Twisted River

mountains.”

“What towns are between here and Casco?”

“Bend and Lone Tree. It’s about eight miles to Bend, five from Bend to

Lone Tree and about seven from there to Casco.”

“Cattle raised all up the valley?”

“Yeah. Little alfalfa raised, but mostly stock. All small outfits, the

JME, K8, 103, Box X, Diamond Z, and 7 Bar 9.”

Hashknife drew out pencil and paper and asked Ludden to enumerate the

brands again, while he drew them out on the back of an old envelope.

“I told yuh in my letter that I wanted yuh to take charge of the HL,”

said Ludden earnestly. “That still holds good.”

“This proposition has gone past that stage,” replied Hashknife,

pocketing his envelope. “You need a man at large, not in charge. Has

anythin’ ever happened to cause yuh to think that Joe Lane was a

rustler?”

Ludden sighed heavily and shook his head.

“No, Hartley. It was an awful shock to me. I don’t reckon I’ll ever get

over it. I know I’ll never notch a sight on another human bein’. They

can steal all my cows if they want to.”

“By ——, they can’t steal mine!” snorted Armadillo. “I could pot-shot the

rest of the world and never hit a relation of mine. Ain’t got none. Paw

said he was the last bud on the fambly tree, and he married an orphing.

I’m the result, Armadillo Jones, meaner’n ——!”

“What will yore daughter do now?” asked Hashknife of Ludden.

“—— only knows. They ain’t got much. Joe’s salary was enough to keep

’em, but there’s no salary now. I dunno what she’ll do, Hartley.”

“Couldn’t yuh induce her to come back here?”

“Here?” snorted Armadillo. “Why, she won’t even speak to us!”

“She’d be welcome, wouldn’t she?”

“Welcome?” Armadillo pronounced the word softly and looked at Ludden.

“Jist like rain is welcome in July when the whole range smokes from the

heat—when the water-holes are all dry and the cottonwood leaves curl up

on the tree. That’s jist how welcome she’d be at the HL.”

“That’s welcome enough,” said Hashknife. “We’ll mosey on back to town, I

reckon.”

Armadillo urged them to spend the rest of the day and have supper with

them at the HL, but Hashknife explained that he was too busy to attend

social functions.

“Social, ——!” snorted Armadillo. “Don’t let that part of it stand in

yore road.”

“I dunno what there is for yuh to do,” complained Ludden. “I killed Joe

Lane for stealin’ cattle, and there ain’t enough HL cattle left to make

much difference. There’s two rustlers left, and they’ll be smart enough

to keep quiet for a while.”

* * * * *

Sleepy argued that side of the case with Hashknife as they rode back to

Arapaho City, but got little satisfaction out of it. Hashknife had told

Sleepy about his conversation with Dutch O’Day, and their talk drifted

to Scotty McLeod.

“They’ll sure send him over the road,” declared Sleepy. “A cattle jury

won’t give him a chance, and that’s the kind of a jury they’ll draw

here. Somebody was sayin’ that Lane and McLeod were pretty good

friends.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Huh! I wonder if—”

Hashknife squinted at the sun, estimating the time of day. Perhaps it

was easier than taking out his watch.

“Wonder if what?” queried Sleepy.

“Just wonderin’.”

They rode across the rickety old bridge over Twisted River, and were

almost to Arapaho City when they met the sheriff.

“I was just goin’ out to the HL,” he told them. “Got tired of settin’

around and thought I’d go out and talk with Hank and Armadillo a while.”

“We just came from there,” said Hashknife. “I was thinkin’ about ridin’

over to McLeod’s place and takin’ a look around.”

“Yeah? McLeod’s place, eh? Wasn’t yuh out there day before yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. But I didn’t go in the house.”

“Didn’t yuh? Hm-m-m-m. What do yuh expect to find in there?”

“Nothin’.”

The sheriff shifted in his saddle and spat reflectively.

“Nothin’, eh?” he mused, his keen eyes searching Hashknife’s lean

features. Then—

“Smith, who are you, anyway?”

“One of the Smith brothers,” seriously.

“——!” The sheriff expressed his disbelief explosively. “Names don’t mean

nothin’. You ride in here on a wave of crime, turn down jobs, help me

take a man and then go pokin’ around like a danged detective lookin’ for

a clue. Mebby yo’re just the Smith brothers, I dunno. But I don’t mind

tellin’ yuh that I ain’t the only one in Arapaho City who wonders who

in —— yuh are.”

Hashknife grinned and produced the makings of a cigaret.

“Smith is as good a name as any,” he said slowly. “Our own names won’t

mean anythin’ to yuh, Darcey. Nobody sent us here, nobody is payin’ us

for what we’re doin’. We’re just what we look like—two driftin’

punchers.

“We busted in on two killin’s. Nobody can tell us what we want to know,

so we go huntin’ for the answer. If we find it, we’ll let yuh know. If

we get killed, it’s our own fault.”

“Fair enough,” nodded Darcey. “If yuh don’t care, I’ll ride to the

McLeod place with yuh. But if yuh think yuh can clear McLeod, you’ve got

a job on yore hands.”

“I hadn’t thought much about it,” grinned Hashknife. “Was Joe Lane

friendly with McLeod?”

“Well, yeah. McLeod is a likable Scotchman if yuh don’t rub him the

wrong way. Joe liked him. McLeod has traveled quite a lot and Joe liked

to talk with him. But what does that mean?”

“If Joe Lane stole cows, he didn’t do it alone.”

“Oh-ho! And yuh think—I see. But there was three of ’em.”

“Mebby we can find out who the third one was, Sheriff.”

“Mebbe,” hopefully.

They turned to the right near Arapaho City and cut across the hills to

McLeod’s cabin. No one had bothered to bury the sheep, and the odors

were none too inviting.

The cabin doors were unlocked, swinging half open. They went in and

looked around. Most of McLeod’s few belongings were in the rear part of

the building. His bed had been carefully made.

On the rough table a million ants were making merry with an open can of

syrup, and the top of the stove was covered with coffee-grounds from the

last brewing which Scotty had been forced to ignore.

There was no furniture to speak of. An old trunk with a broken lock,

covered with an Indian blanket, stood near the head of the bed, used as

a table. Hanging on nails near the head of the bed was a well worn pair

of overalls, an old black coat and a battered sombrero hat.

Hashknife walked around the room, examining things, while the sheriff

and Sleepy watched him. He lifted the lid of the old trunk and examined

the few things within it, a gray coat and vest, a nearly new pair of

boots, some old odds and ends of wearing apparel.

Hashknife closed the trunk and lifted the old black coat off the nail.

In the inside pocket he found a miscellaneous bunch of old letters,

bearing British stamps. Hashknife did not read these letters. But among

the envelopes was a folded sheet of paper, which almost escaped his eye.

He unfolded this and scanned the short, penciled note, which read:

Have them thear at east end of Crow Rock canyon next Friday sure

don’t try to run as menny as last time and go easy.

Hashknife smiled softly and handed the paper to the sheriff, who read it

blankly, while Sleepy looked over his shoulder.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked the sheriff.

“Hey!” snorted Sleepy. “Ain’t that the same writin’ as in that letter

you got, Hashknife?”

Hashknife laughed and nodded his head. The sheriff looked gravely at

Hashknife and handed back the note.

“So that’s yore name, eh? Hashknife Hartley?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d ever heard of me,” said Hashknife.

“I have. Yuh see, I’ve been a sheriff for almost four years, and we do

hear things once in a while. Was you sent here by the cattle

association?”

“Nope.” Hashknife drew out the letter he had received in Calumet and

handed it to the sheriff.

“Compare the writin’,” suggested Sleepy, which they found to be

identical. The sheriff read the letter and listened as Hashknife told

him about Hank Ludden’s returned letter. The one he received, of course,

had no return address.

Then Hashknife told him that Amos Hardy had suggested to Ludden that he

get in touch with Hashknife Hartley.

“Well,” said the sheriff gravely, “I’m glad yuh came. But you better not

tell anybody who yuh are, Hartley. This letter sure is a warnin’ that

yuh can’t disregard.”

“It didn’t scare me much. The man who wrote me that letter ain’t never

quit lookin’ for me to show up here, and I’ll bet he knows who I am

right now.”

“Do yuh think so? Huh. Who do yuh think wrote it?”

“That remains to be found out. How far is it from here to Crow Rock

Cañon?”

“About three miles. The cañon cuts plumb through the range, and it’s

about two miles through. Do yuh reckon this letter was Scotty McLeod’s

instructions on movin’ cattle?”

“Can yuh think of anythin’ else he might take through the cañon? It

tells him to not run as many as before and to go easy. Must be somebody

over there who takes ’em off his hands.”

“Sure,” nodded the sheriff. “It ain’t far from the east end of the cañon

to McCallville. I’ll betcha Scotty runs a bunch through the cañon at

night, turns ’em over to somebody at the other end of the cañon and they

handle ’em from McCallville.”

“And today is Thursday,” mused Hashknife. “This letter tells him to have

’em there on Friday. The question is, what Friday did he mean? Is it

tomorrow or was it last Friday, two, three, four weeks ago tomorrow? No

date on the letter, nothin’ to show when the cattle were to be moved.”

“Makes it kinda tough,” agreed the sheriff. “But it sure puts McLeod up

against some hard travelin’. He’ll have a hard time explainin’ away that

note.”

“McLeod says he had been to town the mornin’ that Lane was killed. He

told us about that part of it, Sheriff. If he can prove that much, it’ll

help him. A man can’t be in two places at the same time.”

“Not if it can be proved, Hartley. But you know it would only take about

forty minutes for a man to make the ride from Arapaho City to the old U6

corral. McLeod won’t be able to find a man who can swear within an hour

of the time he was in Arapaho, because his being there wouldn’t be of

enough interest for any one to make a note of it.”

“Is there any one who can swear what time Joe Lane left Arapaho City and

where he intended to go?”

“Joe told me he was goin’ out to the Five Box ranch to look at a horse.

One of the boys out there has a three-year-old sorrel that Joe liked,

and Joe wanted to buy it. But I’ve no idea what time Joe left town.

“His time was mostly his own. I never pinned Joe down to regular hours.

I have no home, so I spend most of my time at the office. He was usually

where I could find him.”

“Did he ever talk much about the rustlers?”

“No more than the rest of us did, Hartley.”

“How did he feel toward Hank Ludden?”

“He felt that the old man had too much sense to stay mad all his life.

Joe didn’t hate Ludden. At least, he never seemed to. He wanted Ludden

to be friends with Mary because he knew it hurt Mary for the old man to

feel as he did. Joe liked old Armadillo Jones, meaner’n ——.”

* * * * *

The sheriff laughed as he quoted Armadillo’s description of himself.

Hashknife grinned and walked to the door where he examined a bullet

scrape along the casing. Then he crossed the room, took out his

pocket-knife and dug out a battered 30-30 bullet which had barely buried

itself in a seasoned board.

“Thirty-thirty,” said Hashknife, tossing the bullet to the sheriff.

“McLeod swore they were shootin’ at him as he ran for that back door. It

kinda looks like he might have told the truth.”

Hashknife went outside and looked for more evidence. In the doorstep was

another bullet hole, and in the door-frame was embedded a pebble the

size of a small marble which might have been driven in by a bullet

striking the ground short of the door.

He showed these to the sheriff, who nodded gravely.

“It looks like McLeod told the truth,” he admitted. “But how would a

jury look at it, Hartley? There’s nothin’ to prove when those shots were

fired. It might have been months ago.”

“No, that’s right. Well, we might as well go home.”

The sheriff secured some nails and fastened the doors tight. There was

nothing in the place which might tempt a thief, but the sheriff thought

it would look better to have the doors nailed shut.

Back at their room in the Arapaho hotel, Hashknife stretched himself

full length on the bed and stared at the ceiling, while Sleepy proceeded

to play solitaire with an old dog-eared deck of cards on the little

table.

For an hour there was no conversation, no sound except the soft riffling

sound as Sleepy shuffled the cards or when Hashknife moved slightly,

causing the bed to creak. Then Hashknife said aloud—

“We can get to the east end before dark.”

“East end of what?” Sleepy lifted his head quickly.

“Crow Rock Cañon.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We’ll borrow a couple of rifles from the sheriff. Put up them cards,

cowboy.”

Hashknife twisted off the bed and reached for his hat.

“If anybody brings a cow through that cañon, we’ll be there to welcome

’em, Sleepy.”

“Friday jist means tomorrow to you, does it?” wailed Sleepy.

“We can’t be there last Friday,” retorted Hashknife.

The sheriff was willing to lend them the guns and ammunition, and

insisted on going along, but Hashknife persuaded him to stay at home.

“It’s a hundred-to-one shot that we don’t see anybody,” said Hashknife.

“If there’s a man over there to receive the stock, he’s prob’ly heard

that McLeod is in jail, so we’ll have our trouble for nothin’. If there

is a man there—well, two of us will be as good as an army.”

Crow Rock Cañon was visible from Arapaho City, and the sheriff gave them

directions as to the easiest way to reach the west end of it. They had

Pat, the Chinaman, make them each a sandwich, which they tied inside

their slickers, purchased some extra cartridges for their 30-30 rifles,

and rode out of town.

* * * * *

Mary Lane had just begun to recover from the shock of losing her

husband, and the cold, hard facts of existence were staring her in the

face. It had just occurred to her that she had no visible means of

support, except her father.

Joe had not been of a saving disposition. She did not know how much

money there was in the bank in his name, but she did not imagine it to

be any great amount. Joe’s last month’s salary had paid for the funeral,

leaving her a few dollars extra.

She had tried to forgive her father for what he had done, but found it

impossible to do so. He had shot Joe for a rustler, and Mary would

gamble her soul that Joe had been honest.

To her it seemed that her father had merely used this as an excuse to

kill Joe.

“And I’m the wife, the widow of a dead thief,” she told herself

bitterly. “That’s what they say about me. He shot Joe in the back. Never

gave him a chance.”

She stared at herself in her mirror; stared at her own white face with

the dark-circled eyes, as if she was looking at someone she had never

seen. A few days had changed her from a laughter-loving girl to a

tragic-faced woman.

She hated to leave the house, to be seen on the street. None of her old

friends had been to see her, and she knew it was because Joe had been

labeled a rustler. An officer of the law, a thief!

Her mind only ran in circles when she tried to plan a future. But she

had a definite idea of leaving Arapaho City. Just where she might go or

what she might do was indefinite. Much depended on how many dollars Joe

had left for her.

It was shortly after Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden out of town that

she came to the bank. Dutch O’Day and Long How had just driven in and

were stopped in front of the bank. The little, wizen-faced Irishman

squinted closely at Mary as she walked past, going into the bank.

Long How went in, spoke to the president of the bank, who came out to

him. O’Day’s account was worth a certain amount of service. He had come

in to draw cash enough for his payroll. It was the first time he had

ever talked with the president of the bank and did not curse some one.

The president went in after the required money, and it was several

minutes later that he came out with it. He seemed preoccupied. Through

the open door O’Day had seen him in conversation with Mary Lane.

As he went back, Mary Lane came out. She stood on the threshold of the

bank, deep in thought.

“How do ye do, Mrs. Lane,” said O’Day abruptly.

She looked up quickly. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her,

although she had known him for years.

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. O’Day,” she said, hardly realizing that she

had answered him.

“Ye’re not!” he declared. “Don’t fib about it.”

Mary Lane almost laughed. It seemed ridiculous for Dutch O’Day, the

meanest man in the Twisted River country, to talk so to her. He was

smiling at her, and she remembered that O’Day never smiled.

“No, ye’re not all right,” he told her. “Come over closer to me, Mary

Lane. Ye see, I can’t come to you.”

She came closer, wonderingly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For me?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Day.”

O’Day rubbed his chin and blinked thoughtfully.

“Did Joe leave ye any money?” he asked.

Mary shook her head.

“I’m afraid he—he didn’t have much to leave.”

“No, I suppose not. Will ye go back to yer father?”

Mary stared at him for a moment and shook her head.

“No,” she said.

“Ye haven’t talked with him?”

“No.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” O’Day cleared his throat raspingly. “Mary Lane, I dunno just

what to say. Ye see, I—” he rubbed his chin violently—“I was just

thinkin’ that—well—it, here ye are:

“The Five Box has no women. We’re a rough lot out there. But if ye want

a home I’ll give it to ye. I’ve plenty, and I’ve no chick or child to

spend it on.”

“Oh, that is awful good of you, Mr. O’Day,” said Mary, and she meant it

now. She had ceased to be astonished at O’Day. “But I couldn’t do that.

I can get along some way. But I want you to know I appreciate your

kindness.”

“I know, Mary Lane. Only don’t forget that the offer still stands as

long as ye might need it.”

He turned abruptly, picked up the lines and swung the team out into the

street, leaving her there staring after him. He drew the team to a stop

in front of the sheriff’s office and spoke to Long How, who grinned, got

out and went toward the Pekin Café, glad for a chance to talk with one

of his own race.

O’Day squinted back up the street. Mary Lane was turning the corner,

going home. The sheriff came to his doorway and nodded to O’Day. They

had never been good friends because of O’Day’s vitriolic tongue.

“How is everything, Pete?” asked O’Day kindly.

“All right, O’Day. How is everythin’ with you?”

“Fine. I was just talkin’ with Mary Lane, Pete. She’s up against a tough

deal. Joe left her little or no money, I suppose.”

It rather shocked the sheriff to hear O’Day speaking of other people’s

troubles. He wondered if O’Day was sick or had gone crazy.

“Well, I don’t suppose Joe did leave much,” admitted the sheriff slowly.

“In fact, I don’t reckon he left anythin’.”

“Ye know —— well he didn’t!” It was a return of the old Dutch O’Day.

“These —— young fools git married and—but—” he squinted at the sheriff

and grinned widely—“We were all young once, Pete Darcey. If they’d have

killed me in me twenties, I’d left nothin’.”

“It’s the nature of humanity,” said the sheriff, wondering at the sudden

change in the man.

“What salary did Joe Lane get from this county, Pete?”

“Hundred and ten dollars a month,” replied the sheriff.

“And he still has about fourteen months left of your two-year term.

Hm-m-m-m. Have ye an indilible pencil, Pete?”

Wonderingly the sheriff gave him the required article, and watched O’Day

take out his check book and begin to write.

* * * * *

He finished the check and looked up at the sheriff.

“There’s no chance of gettin’ the county to pay anything to the widow of

a dead deputy, is there?” he asked.

“Hardly. Perhaps if he had been killed in upholdin’ the law, O’Day. But

Joe wasn’t.”

“To —— wid the law! The man is dead, ain’t he? His widow never stole any

cows. Here, Pete.”

He handed the sheriff a check for fifteen hundred dollars.

“Put that in the bank and pay her a hundred and ten dollars every

month.”

“But she won’t take it, O’Day. You don’t know her.”

“Tell her that a kind-hearted county paid it to her, Pete. She can’t

refuse it then. Keep my name out of it. Tell her not to say anything

about it, ’cause the county don’t want it generally known. Ye’r working

for a kind-hearted county, and ye don’t know it.”

The sheriff looked at the check and squinted at O’Day.

“Dutch O’Day,” he said slowly, “what in —— happened to you?”

“None of ye’r —— business, Pete Darcey! It’s me own money and I can do

as I like wid it, can’t I? But if I hear that you ever told anybody

about that check, I’ll ride ye down the first time I catch ye in the

street.”

“And I’ll stand still and let yuh, O’Day. Just now I’d like to shake

hands with yuh.”

The big, muscular hand of the sheriff enveloped the scrawny, brown hand

of O’Day, the meanest man in the Twisted River country, and they shook

gravely. Then O’Day drove down to the Pekin Café, where he humped over

in his seat to wait until Long How got through talking with Pat Lee, the

other Chinaman of Arapaho.

The sheriff went in his office, spread the check out on his desk, and

sat down to try and figure out what had happened to Dutch O’Day to cause

him to give away fifteen hundred dollars to some one he did not even

have a speaking acquaintance with.

But the sheriff was unable to arrive at any logical conclusion except

that possibly Dutch O’Day had a hunch he was going to die and wanted to

spend some of his money. Anyway, he decided, it was a fine thing for

O’Day to do, and there was no question of Mary Lane’s need.

He decided to bank the money and tell Mary that the county had ordered

the bank to issue her a monthly allowance instead of having the county

treasurer issue the usual voucher check.

So he picked up his hat and went to the bank. It was just at closing

time, but the cashier was willing to delay his departure to accommodate

the sheriff.

“Here’s a check for fifteen hundred dollars,” stated the sheriff,

producing the slip of pink paper. “You credit that to the account of

Mary Lane, and give her one hundred and ten dollars a month as long as

it lasts.”

The cashier looked at the check, nodding his head, as he turned back to

his desk.

“You merely want us to issue that amount per month, eh? No explanation

needed, I suppose?”

“I’ll explain to her.”

He wrote out a receipt and gave it to the sheriff, who went outside and

started for the office, meeting Armadillo Jones.

“Yo’re the feller I want to see,” grinned Armadillo. “You know how the

county does things, Pete. Listen t’ me, feller. I’m danged if I was

goin’ to see Mary Lane starve, _sabe_? So I went to the bank a while

ago, drawed fifteen hundred dollars of my own money, handed it back to

’em, and fixed it up so’s they’ll pay Mary one hundred and ten dollars

per month for the rest of Joe’s unexpired term.

“I fixed it up for them to tell her that the county was payin’ her Joe’s

salary, but for her to keep quiet about it, as it was kinda irregular.”

Armadillo laughed softly and shuffled his feet.

“I didn’t let Hank know a danged thing about it. Anyway, it’s my money

and I can do as I —— please with it. I got away from Hank, and it didn’t

take me long to fix things. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Pretty good, eh?”

The sheriff tried to grin, but failed.

“Yeah, that was pretty good, Armadillo. She—uh—sure needs the money.”

“Sure thing. But here’s what I want you to do, Pete. If she knowed it

was from the HL outfit, mebby she wouldn’t take it. So I want you to

kinda let on that there’s a chance of the county payin’ her sort of a

pension. Will yuh do this?”

“Eh? Oh, sure.” The sheriff rubbed his chin nervously, wondering what

Mary would say when she received two hundred and twenty dollars. The

thought flashed through his mind that he might intimate that they had

doubled Joe’s salary.

“Well, that’s fine,” said Armadillo. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Thanks, Armadillo, but I ain’t got time right now. Mebby a little

later, eh?”

“Aw, sure. See yuh later, Pete.”

Armadillo bow-legged his way across the street. Hank Ludden was crossing

the street farther up, and they met in front of the War Paint saloon,

where they entered together.

“——’s delight!” snorted the sheriff. “I better think up a good lie to

tell Mary, and I can’t think a-tall.”

He walked back past the bank and headed for the other end of town,

intending to have a talk with Mary. A tall, thin man came from inside a

hallway, and the sheriff recognized him as being the county treasurer, a

slow-spoken, clerical sort of a person.

“Hello, Sheriff. I was hoping to see you.”

The treasurer of Arapaho county hitched up his trousers, drew out a

handkerchief and blew his nose violently.

“Wanted to see me?” Thus the sheriff indifferently. He did not care a

great deal about the treasurer.