“Yes. The—er—treasurer’s office has agreed to—er—do something which is

probably irregular, and we will need you to sort of pave the way, as it

were.

“Henry Ludden handed us his check for fifteen hundred dollars today,

from which we are to pay Mary Lane the salary received by her lamented

husband. It is supposed to be paid by the county, otherwise the said

Mary Lane might not agree to accept it. And in order that she may

understand it, I want you to intimate that the county is going to pay

Joe Lane’s salary to her for his unexpired term. Do I make myself

plain?”

Pete Darcey yanked his hat down over one eye, while his five-fingered

right hand dug deeply into the back of his head, his eyes half-closed,

his mouth open.

“We felt sorry for the old man,” explained the treasurer. “It is

irregular, of course, but—you’ll know what to say to her, Sheriff. You

don’t mind, do you?”

“——, no!” The sheriff leaned against the side of the building and

watched the treasurer go briskly down the sidewalk.

“Three of a kind and a joker,” he wailed. “My ——, I s’pose I might as

well be good and —— for a three hundred and thirty lie as to be an

ordinary liar for a third of it.”

* * * * *

It was supper time when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the little town

of McCallville, if it might be designated a town. It was what might be

termed a half-street town, as the three buildings were all on the same

side of the road—the McCallville hotel, part of the lower floor being

the general store and postoffice, the McCallville saloon and the

McCallville restaurant.

About two hundred yards away from the town was the depot, a little

box-like affair, and farther to the north was a big loading corral.

McCallville was not an interesting place. From the lack of paint,

repairs and general activity, it was plain to see that the population

was not progressive or public-spirited.

The two cowboys rode out to the depot, tied their horses to a telegraph

post and sauntered around to the door. The depot agent, a cadaverous

looking, weary-eyed man, was asleep in his chair, an open pocket-knife

in one hand, a piece of pine board in the other. He had whittled himself

to sleep.

The sound of their boot heels awoke him, and he squinted sleepily.

Hashknife leaned through the ticket window and grinned widely.

“Hyah was?” said Hashknife.

“Awright. Whatcha want? Ticket?”

“No-o-o. Just drifted in to see if yuh know anybody that’s goin’ to ship

some cows soon. We’re lookin’ for a free ride.”

“Shippin’ cows!” The agent spat disgustedly. “There ain’t been a cow

shipped from here since it became fashionable for ’em to wear horns.”

“Thasso? Pshaw, I heard that lotsa cows was shipped from McCallville.”

“Was, but ain’t no more. Not for a year or so. Somebody sure lied

heavily to yuh, friend. If any cows was shipped from here, I’d sure know

about it. I’m high, low, jack and the game around this misnamed shippin’

point.”

“Yeah, I reckon yuh would,” admitted Hashknife. “We’ve been lied to, it

seems.”

Hashknife thanked him for the information and they rode down to the

loading corrals. To all appearances the corral had not been used for a

long time. The hinges of the gates were rusty and the loading platform,

a movable piece of planking which was used to connect the loading chute

with the cars, had been lying in the weeds for months.

“If Scotty McLeod and his friend stole HL cattle, they sure didn’t ship

’em from here,” declared Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and climbed back on his horse. It was growing

dark, and they went back to the hotel, where they ate supper. Only two

other men entered the hotel, and from their conversation it was easy to

see that they were in business.

After supper they went to the McCallville saloon, where they bought some

cigars, only to throw them away later on, and talked with the bartender.

To him Hashknife told the same tale he had told to the depot agent.

“Ain’t been shippin’ nothin’ from here,” replied the bartender. “Town is

on the bum. You fellers ought to go up to Casco. They ship once in a

while, and yuh might get a chance to travel with ’em.”

“Didja ever meet a feller named Scotty McLeod?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender took this under advisement.

“Nope. I knowed a feller by that name in Iowa. He died before I left. It

must be a different McLeod.”

“Prob’ly is,” said Hashknife seriously. “This one has red hair.”

“It’s a different one then. Mine had white. He was eighty years old.

What are yuh goin’ to have?”

They named their choice. Another man, one of the diners, came in and

joined them at the bar. He was the proprietor of the general merchandise

store and was not adverse to accepting a drink.

For possibly half an hour they stood at the bar, talking about

McCallville which, according to the storekeeper, was on its last legs.

Some horsemen went past, bridle chains jingling, the horses going

slowly.

The bartender walked to the window, drew aside the curtain and looked

out.

“Who was it?” asked the merchant, as the bartender came back.

“I didn’t get a look at ’em. Don’t think they stopped.”

“Ain’t much travel through here, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Not much,” replied the merchant. “I’ll buy now.”

“You want the same, gents?” asked the bartender.

Sleepy shook his head quickly.

“I don’t like to be particular, but I don’t like that kind of liquor.”

“This kind?”

The bartender picked up the bottle rather indignantly and shook it

viciously.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Sa-a-ay, don’tcha know good liquor when yuh taste it? That’s twenty

year old, pardner. Ol’ Crow, by golly!”

“Thasso?” Sleepy’s eyes opened wide. “That accounts for the feathers

I’ve got in my mouth. They ort to pick their crows before they bottle

’em.”

“There ain’t no feathers in this stuff, y’betcha. Look at it.”

He handed the bottle to Sleepy, who squinted through it at the light.

“Jist as clear as a—”

_Crash!_

The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, spraying them all with

broken glass and liquor, while from out in the street came the report of

a gun. The heavy glass bottle deflected the bullet into the back-bar,

where it smashed a few more bottles and splintered a corner of the

mirror.

For a second they were all paralyzed. The next second they were all on

the floor. Hashknife flung himself backward toward a card table, where

he landed sitting down with a gun in his hand.

Steadying himself on his left hand he proceeded to shoot out the hanging

lamp over the bar, plunging the saloon in darkness. There was only a few

seconds space between the smashing of the bottle and the putting out of

the lamp.

“He-e-e-ey! Quit shootin’, you —— fool!” yelped the bartender.

He probably thought both shots had been fired from outside. Hashknife

squinted toward the street, across which he could see only the skyline

of the hills.

“Shot at me,” he decided. “Mebbe the window glass deflected it a little.

Bullet goes past my neck and busts up that bottle.” Then aloud—

“Sleepy!”

“Present,” grunted Sleepy. “I’m settin’ on the merchant. How are yuh,

bartender?”

“Down low,” replied the bartender. “And I’m goin’ to stay low, too. I’ve

got a sawed-off shotgun in my hands, and I’m sure goin’ to be generous

with buckshot if anybody fools around me.”

“Somebody must ’a’ had it in for you,” observed Hashknife.

“Me?” The bartender snorted indignantly. “Who in —— do yuh reckon wanted

to kill me?”

“You prob’ly gave somebody a drink of yore Old Crow,” snickered Sleepy.

“A feller can’t be too careful in this day and age.”

“Mebby it’s funny to you, but it sure ain’t to me.”

“Nor to me.” Thus the merchant. “Some of that glass cut me in the face.

Can’t we light a lamp?”

“After I get out,” said Hashknife quickly.

“No lamp,” declared the bartender. “I don’t suppose there will be

another lamp lit in this place tonight. Tomorrow I’m goin’ away and I

ain’t comin’ back.”

“Think you’ll go back to Iowa?” asked Sleepy.

“Some’rs back there. Say, why don’tcha go out and see if that assassin

is still there.”

“C’mere and give me yore riot gun,” said Sleepy.

“Yea-a-ah? If I wanted a riot gun very bad, I’d sure have ambition

enough to go and git one. I may have to come out some time, but that

ain’t right now, pardner.”

* * * * *

Hashknife slid back against the wall, walked to the front of the room

and peered out through the broken window. The light was good enough for

him to see that there was no one in the street in the immediate vicinity

of the saloon.

“I reckon the storm is over,” he told them. “Nobody in the street.”

He walked outside and looked around. Several people were standing in

front of the hotel, and now they came down toward the saloon,

questioning Hashknife. Sleepy and the merchant came out, and Hashknife

left it to the merchant to explain what had happened.

The men from the hotel were unable to throw any light on the situation.

Hearing the voices, the bartender came out, still carrying his riot gun.

He locked the door behind him and announced that the McCallville saloon

was closed for repairs.

“Was they shootin’ at you?” asked one of the men.

“Yuh danged right!” The bartender was emphatic. “If one of these men

hadn’t shoved a bottle of hootch between me and that bottle, I’d be a

lily holder right now.”

“I had a hunch to do it,” said Sleepy seriously.

“We’re bunched up too much,” said one of the men, turning back toward

the hotel. “I’d hate to be mistaken for the bartender.”

“That’s the way I feel,” laughed Hashknife.

He started toward the hitch-rack, and Sleepy followed him, while the

rest of the men headed toward the hotel.

They mounted and rode north, until they were out of sight of the street,

when they swung east again, going slowly, riding knee to knee.

“That was close, Sleepy,” said Hashknife softly. “It missed my neck by

an inch. I was leanin’ forward.”

“That’s right. You was at my left, and the bullet came from yore left

and behind yuh. What’s the answer, Hashknife?”

“The man who wrote me that letter, Sleepy. The same man who wrote the

instructions to Scotty McLeod.”

“The dirty bushwhacker!”

“Sh-h-h! He prob’ly knows he missed, and he’s out here somewhere waitin’

for another chance.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Go through Crow Rock Cañon in the dark, cowboy.”

“Holy cats! Suppose he lays for us in there? We ain’t got a ghost of a

chance in there, Hashknife.”

“We have at night. In the daylight he could pick us off. If he works

close he can’t be sure. We’ll just have to ride with a gun in our hand.

It’ll be as dark as the inside of a stovepipe for two miles.”

“And expectin’ every minute to get a shot in the dark.”

“Mebbe. Anyway, I’ve got a scheme that might help us. It sure is lucky

we’ve got a pair of broncs we can depend on.”

There was no moon. They had ridden in over sort of a trail from the east

end of Crow Rock Cañon, but they did not know where that trail was now.

Ahead of them, sharply etched against the horizon, was the U-shaped

cleft in the mountains, where nature had cut a canal-like cañon

completely through the range of mountains.

There was little variance in altitude in the floor of the narrow cañon,

which was principally of solid rock, although here and there a slide had

filled in enough soil to start a growth of jack pines.

In places it was barely wide enough for a single rider to pass between

the rocky sides, and again it would attain a width of fifty feet or

more. Nature had provided a pass through the Twisted River mountains and

then proceeded to fill it with snow in the winter and slides in the

spring, which precluded any chance of it ever being a popular pass.

They reached the mouth of the cañon and stopped to give the horses a

breathing spell. The last half mile had been a heavy grade, over rocks

and through thickets. Behind them the hills sloped sharply toward

McCallville, but the valley was only a black bowl, unlighted by the few

faint stars. Ahead of them were the steep rocky slopes where the breeze

whispered through the pines, and the ink-like blot of Crow Rock Cañon.

Hashknife dismounted and tied his reins loosely to his saddle-horn.

“We’re goin’ to herd ’em through, Sleepy,” he said softly. “Tie up yore

reins. In that cañon the devil himself couldn’t tell whether a horse

carried a rider or not. We may lose a horse, but that’s better than

losin’ a life.”

“It sure is.” Sleepy dismounted and fixed his reins. “Two miles ain’t

far to walk. Shall we pack our rifles?”

“Nope. A six-gun is enough, Sleepy. All set?”

They led their horses to the mouth of the narrow cañon, where Hashknife

put his horse in the lead and clucked to him sharply. A moment later the

mouth of the cañon was empty, and only the slither of hoof and boot came

from the inky depths to show that men and beasts were passing through.

There was no possibility of fast traveling. The lead horse picked his

way slowly around the rocky turns, while Hashknife and Sleepy traveled

within reach of the second horse.

They were unable to see anything. In that deep cleft even the faint

starlight was cut off. It was like traveling through the bore of a great

tunnel. There was no conversation except an occasional grunt when one of

them came in sharp contact with a corner at one of the right-angle

turns.

They were possibly a third of the way through the cañon, when Sleepy’s

horse stopped short and both men bumped into it. A quick investigation

showed that Hashknife’s horse had also stopped.

For possibly ten seconds neither man moved. It was plainly evident that

there was something ahead of the horses. Touching Sleepy on the arm,

indicating for him to stay where he was, Hashknife worked his way slowly

past the horses, whispering softly to them. At the head of his horse he

stopped and tried to penetrate the darkness, listening closely. But

there was only the soft murmur of the breeze from high up on the cliffs.

Then he moved slowly ahead, one arm outstretched. Suddenly his hand came

in contact with a wire which had been stretched across the narrow cañon,

and before he realized what he was doing he pulled sharply on it.

From just ahead and to the right came the flash and report of a gun.

Hashknife ducked low, jerking at his gun, while from around the horses

came the slither of Sleepy’s boots on the rocks as he shoved past the

startled horses.

“Hashknife!” he called sharply.

“All right, pardner,” replied Hashknife. Sleepy came in beside him.

“Did you fire that shot?” he asked.

“Nope,” Hashknife chuckled softly and guided Sleepy’s hand to the wire.

“Feel that.”

“For gosh sake! Barb wire, eh? They came through ahead of us,” whispered

Sleepy. “Where did that shot come from?”

“I’ll tell yuh in a minute.” Hashknife worked his way along the wire and

found where it circled a small jack pine. He ducked under the wire and

followed it a few feet, where it ended at a piece of the broken ledge.

Working his fingers down in the ledge he managed to dislodge a short

revolver, around the trigger of which had been looped a single strand of

the wire. He came back along the wire to Sleepy and squatted down on his

heels while he explained about the set-gun.

“I happened to be lookin’ toward it and seen the flash go up.

Bushwhackers don’t usually shoot in the air, Sleepy.”

“All right, cowboy. But what does it mean?”

“It was meant to stop us. They felt sure our horses would stop at the

wire. We’d get off and run into it, shootin’ off the gun. _Sabe?_ And

that would stop us from goin’ ahead, ’cause we’d feel sure that a

reception was bein’ planned for us. They want us to be in this cañon at

daybreak.”

“Which would give them a sweet chance to pick us off from the sides, eh?

Let’s go.”

It did not take long to remove the wire, and they started on, hardly

knowing what to expect now. But nothing impeded their progress. After

what seemed an interminable length of time they came out of the cañon,

mounted quickly and rode down the slopes toward Arapaho City.

It was still too dark for any danger of ambush, so they traveled

southwest past McLeod’s cabin, and struck his road to town.

* * * * *

Arapaho City was in darkness. They stabled their horses and went to

their room at the hotel, where Hashknife produced the revolver which he

had taken from the rock crevice, and they examined it.

It was of a cheap make, brightly nickeled, and of .38 caliber. Only one

cartridge had been placed in it. And on the bottom of the butt,

evidently engraved with great care, were the initials S. McL.

“Scotty McLeod’s gun, eh?” mused Hashknife, as he lighted a cigaret over

the chimney of the lamp.

“—— fool to put his initials on a gun!” snorted Sleepy.

“But he didn’t set it,” grinned Hashknife. “The man who set it didn’t

expect us to take it along. We’ll talk with McLeod in the mornin’.”

“But what I don’t see is this—What good did it do us to go to

McCallville, Hashknife?”

“Well, we met some nice people, got shot at, collected a nice, shiny gun

and got home safe. What more would yuh want in one evenin’? I feel that

we’ve been entertained, Sleepy.”

“Tha’sall right. I appreciate their efforts and all that, but what do we

gain by it? There wasn’t any chance of McLeod takin’ cows through Crow

Rock Cañon tonight. I don’t believe there has been any cows through

there. Wasn’t any sign of cows through there.

“If you went to McCallville to get shot at, yuh sure got yore wish. An

inch further to the left, and you’d be of no further use to me. But I

don’t see what good it done yuh.”

Hashknife grinned slowly, as he drew off his boots.

“I just wanted to find out if they was waitin’ for Scotty McLeod or for

me.”

“Do yuh know now?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “of course, there’s always a chance that they

were shootin’ at the bartender. But the bartender never had any idea of

comin’ through Crow Rock Cañon tonight.”

“He’s prob’ly half way to Iowa by this time,” laughed Sleepy. “He’ll

brag about that all the rest of his life, and I’ll bet he’ll tell it so

many times that after while it’ll be one of the biggest killin’s ever

pulled off in the west.”

“Prob’ly wear his hair long and call himself ‘Two-Gun Ike’ or somethin’

like that,” grinned Hashknife. He had taken off his boots and was

examining a blister which he had contracted in his two-mile walk. Sleepy

rolled into bed with a sigh of relief.

“It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t do somethin’ to our horses,” said

Sleepy. “They were the only two at the hitch-rack in McCallville.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“It looks as if they saw a possible chance to kill or cripple one of us

there in the saloon. And if they failed to do this, the fact that they

shot at us in there might cause us to wait until daylight. What they

wanted us to do was to ride through that cañon in daylight.”

“Yuh mean they wanted to pot-shoot us in that narrow pass?” asked

Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded quickly, “It looks like it to me. I’m just wonderin’ if

they wasn’t playin’ a cinch game.”

He got off the bed and walked to the corner of the room, where they had

left their rifles.

He examined one of them closely, opening and closing the action,

investigating with his finger. Then he took the other one and gave it

the same inspection. Then he stood it against the wall, walked back to

the table, blew out the lamp and rolled into bed.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t do battle with ’em, Sleepy,” he said

seriously. “They plumb ruined the firin’-pins on both of them rifles.”

“The —— they did! Can yuh beat that?”

“I’m goin’ to try and do it, Sleepy.”

“Uh-huh. Say! Were them pins all right when we got the guns from the

sheriff?” The idea was so good that Sleepy sat up in bed.

“That’s a question I’ve been askin’ myself.”

“Oh, ——!” Sleepy subsided heavily.

“I’m always late. By golly, I’ll bet that when Gabriel blows his horn

and says, ‘Sleepy Stevens, come forth,’ I’ll come fifth.”

“I’m glad you thought of it, anyway, Sleepy.”

“Oh, so am I. I gave you a chance to swipe my thunder.”

“Good night, Sleepy.”

“I thought of that quite a while ago myself. Good night.”

* * * * *

The following morning Amos Hardy, cattle buyer, arrived in Arapaho City

on his semi-annual buying trip. Amos was short, fat, with a big, smiling

face, a typical good-natured fat man, but with an uncanny judgment

concerning the weight and worth of cattle.

He wended his way to the Arapaho Hotel, where he ate his breakfast,

after which he went to the War Paint saloon to renew old acquaintances.

Amos was a mixer, a hail fellow well met. He shook hands with the

bartender, bought a handful of very bad cigars, and listened to the news

of the Twisted River range.

The bartender knew it all, and Amos Hardy soon knew as much as the

bartender.

“Joe Lane dead, eh? Lucky Joe. Hm-m-m. Gosh, that’s too bad. I didn’t

know this Naylor. McLeod, I didn’t know either. And Hank Ludden killed

Joe Lane, eh? That’s bad. How’s Joe’s widder? All right? Pretty girl.

She won’t be a widder long.

“Is Hank Ludden still runnin’ the Hard Luck ranch? He is? Stick there in

spite of it all, eh? Huh! Well—” Hardy shifted his cigar and puffed

thoughtfully—“this kinda looks as though the hard luck still sticks to

the HL. Have yuh seen old Dutch O’Day lately?”

“He was in the other day. We don’t see much of him.”

“Mean as ever, I suppose. I never was out to see him but once. My, my!

Boy, he’s got the worst tongue I ever heard. He cursed me in and he

cursed me out. I wouldn’t go out to see him if he’d give me a trainload

of cows.”

And so Amos rambled on, getting a few drinks under his wide belt and

acquiring plenty of local knowledge which would be food for conversation

later on.

He was beginning to shorten his drinks when Corliss rode in from the

Five Box and came to the War Paint.

“H’lo, Corliss,” greeted Amos. “How’s the cow business?”

Corliss laughed and shook hands with him.

“O’Day was sayin’ yesterday that it was about time for you to be showin’

up, Hardy. How are yuh, anyway?”

“I’m jus’ right, old-timer. Have a drink. I’ll bet that ain’t all that

O’Day said about me.”

Corliss laughed and shook his head.

“I reckon he don’t like you, Hardy. But don’t let that bother yuh.”

“Nothin’ bothers me,” expansively. “As long as he’ll sell me good beef

he can cuss me and be darned to him. Well, here’s to the pit of your

stomach and may it never rust out.”

And while Amos and the foreman of the Five Box drank to each

other—including, of course, the bartender, who bought every third

time—Hashknife and Sleepy had breakfast at the Pekin Café, after which

they took their rifles to the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff was anxious to hear what they found at Crow Rock Cañon, and

Hashknife told it to him in detail, showing him the revolver which

carried McLeod’s initials. Then he opened the rifles and pointed out the

disabled firing-pins. It had only taken a few moments’ work with a screw

driver to put both rifles out of commission.

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff nodded thoughtfully. “Hartley, yo’re not buckin’

ignorance in this. They’re not overlookin’ anything.”

“Except that we’re still alive,” added Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s true. Let’s go back and have a little talk with Scotty.

He’s eatin’ breakfast.”

Scotty greeted them with a smile and came up to the bars, carrying his

cup of coffee.

“How are they treatin’ yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Very well considerin’ my position in the matter.”

“I was just wonderin’ if you owned a six-shooter, McLeod.”

“A six-shooter? No, ye wouldn’t call it that. I’ve a five-shooter.”

“Nickel-plated .38, with yore initials on the butt?”

Scotty nodded quickly, squinting at Hashknife.

“Ye’ve been in my tr-runk, it seems.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“You hadn’t ought to put yore name on a gun. It might cause yuh

trouble.”

“That gun shouldn’t cause any one trouble. Ye couldn’t hit the wall of a

house at ten paces with it.”

“I reckon that’s true,” grinned Hashknife. “I found it in Crow Rock

Cañon yesterday.”

“Ye did? My gun?” Scotty shook his head. “I’ve never been in Crow Rock

Cañon in me life and I’ve never carried that gun anywhere. It wasn’t

worth carryin’.”

“Yuh never was in Crow Rock Cañon, eh? Never went through to

McCallville?”

“Never,” Scotty shook his head. “I’ve never been in McCallville in me

life and I’ve had no occasion to go to Crow Rock Cañon although I know

where it is. If ye’r not jokin’ with me, some one must have searched

through me trunk and took the gun. I’m sure it was there just before I

was arrested.”

“I guess they did,” agreed Hashknife.

Back in the office the sheriff shook his head.

“I’m thinkin’ that Scotty is an awful liar. I haven’t mentioned that

note to him, and he’ll probably lie when I do.”

“Probably,” agreed Hashknife. “We’ll just have to wait and see what

happens next.”

They left the office and wandered to the War Paint saloon, where they

ran into Amos Hardy and Corliss. Hashknife would have given much to have

known that Hardy was in town so that he might have avoided him, but it

was too late now.

Hardy was expansively drunk, and he yelped with delight when he caught a

glimpse of Hashknife and Sleepy.

“——’s hinges!” he yelped, shoving away from the bar, his fat face

wreathed in a smile, his legs a bit uncertain. “Hashknife, you old bed

slat! Welcome to our reception! Sleepy, you old hedge-hog! Ha, ha, ha,

ha, ha! Shake uncle Amos’ paw and say yuh feel pleased to meet him.

Greeting and salutations.”

He wheezed and pawed at them, stepping on Sleepy’s toes in his

exuberance of joy.

“Keep yore feet down!” growled Sleepy. “Ain’t the rest of the world wide

enough for yuh without walkin’ on me?”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” Amos guffawed widely and tacked back to the bar,

waving both hands at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“C’mon and get it. Ha, ha, ha, ha! By golly, it sure is fine to meet a

friend. Yes-sir, it sure—”

He squinted at Corliss, shut one eye tight and turned his head to look

at Hashknife.

“Misser Corliss,” he said solemnly, “I want you to meet Misser Hartley

and Misser Stevens. Gen’lmen, thish is Misser Corliss. He’s foreman of

the Five Box.”

Hashknife shook hands with Corliss, a half-grin on his lips, and Corliss

laughed.

“Smith brothers, eh?” he chuckled.

“Smith brothers?” Amos squinted at Corliss.

He was not so drunk that all reason had fled.

“He-e-ey!” he snorted. “What in —— have I done now?”

“Killed the Smith brothers,” laughed Hashknife.

“Oh!” Amos goggled drunkenly. “Is it all right?”

“Sure.” They stood at the bar and had their drinks.

“That Smith idea was sort of an inspiration,” laughed Hashknife.

“A man has a right to a name,” said Corliss. “Let’s have another.”

* * * * *

One more was just one too many for Amos, and Corliss took him across the

street to the hotel, where he registered for Amos and put him to bed.

“I sure hope the deaths of the Smith brothers won’t cause a fallin’ off

in the Hartley and Stevens families,” said Sleepy as they sat down in

the shade of the saloon porch.

“It won’t hurt none, Sleepy. The men who were lookin’ for us already

knew us, so the rest of the bunch don’t matter. I’d like to know who

Amos talked to about us after he spoke to Hank Ludden about writin’ that

letter to me.”

“Probably won’t remember.”

Corliss came back from the hotel and joined them.

“I tucked Amos in his little bed,” he grinned. “Meetin’ him almost made

me forget what O’Day told me. He said if I met you fellows to tell yuh

to come out and see him.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Hashknife.

“I’ll be darned if I know, Hartley. Of course, you haven’t known O’Day

very long and you wouldn’t see any change in him, but somethin’ has gone

wrong with the man.

“I’ve kept my job because I was able to stand for his disposition. For

years, ever since he got hurt, he’s been the meanest old —— on earth.

Nothin’ suited him. He’d cuss yuh for doin’ wrong and he’d cuss yuh for

doin’ right.

“There was only one satisfaction, and that was the fact that we could

get away from him. He cursed everybody, everythin’. Even subscribed for

several newspapers so he could get somethin’ to curse about.

“Sent east for one of them air-rifles so he could shoot the dogs. Shoot

a horse just to see it jump, and then laugh about it. He wanted to hurt

somethin’. No one ever came to see him the second time.

“But now—” Corliss shook his head slowly—“I dunno what’s the matter with

him. He don’t swear any more. Not even at How Long, the Chink. Asked us

to come up to the ranch-house and play poker with him. Honey Moon won

forty dollars from him last night, and O’Day never even swore about it.

“Honey thinks the old man is goin’ to die. I tell yuh it’s pretty

noticeable when How Long sees it. He don’t _sabe_. I asks him what he

thinks and he says:

“‘No _sabe_. Long time, nobody good. Plenty mad. How Long cook bad,

dlive bad. ——— Chinaman not worth kill. Swear plenty from evelything.

Now, How Long velly good cook, dlive nice. No swear at How Long. Say

‘please.’ Yo’ _sabe_? How Long velly good Chinaman. Like fine.’

“And that’s how the Chink feels about it, Hartley.”

Hashknife grinned.

“Mebby he got tired of bein’ bad.”

Corliss grunted shortly.

“Mebbe.”

“I’d just as soon ride out and see him,” said Hashknife. “It sure must

be a novelty to have O’Day ask yuh out there.”

“Novelty, ——! It’s a shock. If yuh want to go out right away, I’ll be

ready as soon as I get the mail.”

Hashknife and Sleepy got their horses and rode away with Corliss. He

seemed a different man than he was the day they met him at Scotty

McLeod’s place after the killing of Naylor. Except for the broken nose,

Corliss would have been a good looking man. The muscles of his big torso

rippled beneath the thin shirt, and he held his body straight in the

saddle.

The talk drifted to Scotty McLeod’s troubles as they passed the old road

which led to McLeod’s little shack.

“I dunno what you fellers thought of us that day,” said Corliss. “It

kinda looked as though we had started somethin’ we couldn’t finish,

didn’t it? You know how cow-men feel about sheep, even a few sheep. It

was like a slap in the face.

“I’ll admit that I was a little sudden.” Corliss laughed. “It was worth

it to see the expression of that nester’s face when he seen the sheep on

the end of my rope. I made him walk to the gate with me. I figured I

could get out of sight before he could get back to the house and grab

his rifle, but I was all wrong.

“He went back there like a scared rabbit goin’ to a hole, and it was

only about ten seconds until he was throwin’ lead. And he’s a good shot.

Moon and Naylor were further back on the hill. They thought everythin’

was all right.”

“About how far did he have to shoot at Naylor?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. Must ’a’ been between two hundred and two hundred and fifty

yards—mebbe more.”

Hashknife nodded. He had estimated it at about that distance.

“I have heard that Joe Lane was very friendly with McLeod.”

“I dunno much about that,” said Corliss. “Joe Lane was all right. Bein’

a deputy sheriff kinda swelled his head, but outside of that he was all

right, I reckon.”

“Did you ever suspect Joe Lane of rustlin’?”

Corliss shook his head quickly.

“No. I don’t suppose anybody else ever did, Hartley. There’s nothin’

now, except Hank Ludden’s word for it. But I don’t think Hank would lie

about it. Joe was his son-in-law.”

“And there were two other men, Corliss. Ludden says there were three in

the bunch.”

“That’s what he says, and he’s prob’ly right. Who they are and where

they went is a question. There are a lot of riders in the Twisted River

range, Hartley. There’s six outfits between here and Casco. On the other

side of the range are several more outfits within a day’s ride of here.

Pickin’ out two men from that bunch would be quite a job.”

They rode in at the Five Box ranch and tied their horses at a corral

fence. The Five Box ranch-house was a one-story, rambling sort of place,

with a wide veranda around the front and one side. Behind the house was

a big stable and to the left of this was a series of corrals. The

bunk-house was a long, log building, about a hundred feet away from the

ranch-house, and was the only log building in the group. It was

evidently at one time the ranch-house building as all the rest of the

group were of frame construction and paint had been used lavishly. The

house was blue and the stable was red.

“Yuh ought to paint the bunk-house white and change the brand to US,”

suggested Hashknife, as they dismounted.

“Might be a good idea,” laughed Corliss. “O’Day hates red and blue, so

he used them colors. It gave him an excuse to curse the ranch along with

everythin’ else.”

They followed Corliss up to the ranch-house veranda, where they found

O’Day, snuggled down in an easy chair, watching How Long who was trying

to plant a rose bush in the front yard.

* * * * *

O’Day greeted them with a smile although he did not offer to shake hands

with them. He looked even smaller, humped down in that big chair.

Perhaps it was because he was not wearing a hat, and his thin, colorless

hair was sticking up on his head, like some fox-tail grass.

“Sure, I’m havin’ the ——’s own time,” he told them. “Did ye ever have to

do any gardenin’ by Chinese proxy? Ah, it’s a task. How Long is a fine

Chinaman, but he has an Oriental idea of doin’ things. Sure, he came

near plantin’ my rose bush upside down.”

Hashknife laughed and sat down on the veranda, bracing his back against

a post, while Sleepy sat down on the steps.

“Goin’ to have a rose garden, eh?” asked Hashknife.

“Aye,” O’Day squinted against the sun, and the heavy lines of his thin

face seemed to deepen. “Dutch O’Day and a rose garden. Well, I’ve looked

at thistles long enough, and it’s time I was lookin’ at the rose.”

“That’s the right idea,” said Hashknife seriously.

O’Day nodded slowly, squinting at the Chinaman who stood out in the

yard, shovel in hand, waiting for his orders.

“If ye put yer feet in the hole, ye’d take root, How Long,” laughed

O’Day. “Put the root of the bush in the hole and fill in the dirt. But

before ye do that, go and get some fertilizer.”

The Chinaman looked blankly at O’Day, who turned to Corliss.

“Will ye go wid him. By the time I’ve explained what fertilizer is, the

bush will have died.”

Corliss laughed and motioned to the Chinaman, who followed him. O’Day

watched them go and turned back to Hashknife.

“Smith,” he said slowly, “I want to thank ye for sayin’ what ye did to

me the other day. It made me so —— mad that I got to thinkin’.”

“I’m glad yuh thought,” said Hashknife. “But our names are not Smith. My

name is Hartley and my pardner’s name is Stevens. The Smith part of it

was only a joke.”

O’Day squinted closely at Hashknife.

“Hartley? Now where did I hear—what do they call ye?”

“They usually call me Hashknife.”

“Aye! Hashknife Hartley. I’ve heard the name, and I’ve also heard of

things ye have done, lad, ye and yer pardner. Well, well! No wonder ye

wasn’t afraid to throw me reputation into me teeth. Smith brothers!”

O’Day laughed softly and shook his head.

Honey Moon came clattering up the side steps and along the veranda,

while around the corner came Corliss and the Chinaman, carrying

fertilizer for the roses. O’Day called to Corliss, who came up to them.

“I want you two boys to meet Hashknife Hartley and his partner,

Stevens,” said O’Day chuckling softly. “They’re not the Smith brothers.”

“I knew that before we left town,” laughed Corliss.

“Oh, ye did, did ye?” grunted O’Day. “Well, Moon didn’t.”

“I shore didn’t,” laughed Moon. “I dunno what it’s all about, but I

s’pose it’s all right.”

“Ye don’t? Honey, I’m surprized at ye. Didn’t ye ever hear of Hashknife

Hartley?”

“Well, I may be ignorant,” laughed Moon, “but I don’t—”

“Do you?” O’Day spoke to Corliss, who shook his head.

“All I know is that Amos Hardy called ’em by those names. He came in on

the mornin’ train and got dead drunk.”

“Aye, it’s about time for him to come through. Mebbe I better let him

sober up and tell yuh who Hartley is, because he travels all through the

cow country, and he’s likely heard a lot more than I have.”

“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ worth tellin’,” said Hashknife. “Hardy

would prob’ly lie a lot about us.”

“I’ve heard,” said O’Day seriously, “that most of the lies they tell

about you are the truth.”

“Suppose you tell us,” suggested Corliss.

“I’m the biggest liar of them all,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re just a

pair of ramblin’ punchers, tha’sall. A feller in Calumet called us a

pair of tumbleweeds, and that covers us.”

“Do they lie about what ye done in the Thunder River country and up

north of Wind River and the jobs here and there for the last few years?

What about the Mission River gang? Do they lie about that? I could name

ye a few names if ye wish.”

“Don’t do it, O’Day,” smiled Hashknife. “I do not know how it has been

told to yuh, so I can’t tell whether it’s true or not. But me and Sleepy

never talk about ourselves. He don’t think I amount to much, and I

know —— well he don’t. So there yuh are.

“If we’ve made reputations for ourselves, it wasn’t because we went

seekin’ ’em. That part of it was the last thing on our mind. It hasn’t

paid us in money. Sometimes we have a hard job to get money enough to

buy a fresh horse.”

“Ye mean that ye don’t get paid for what ye do?”

“We don’t hire out,” smiled Hashknife. “There’s no agreement between us

and the rest of the world.”

“That’s —— poor business,” said Honey Moon.

“We’re not in business.”

“I wouldn’t take a chance on bein’ killed unless I was bein’ well paid,

y’betcha.”

“Wouldn’t yuh?” smiled Hashknife. “Do yuh ask for a raise in salary

every time yuh top a bucker? Do yuh demand more money to chase a cow

down the side of a cañon than yuh do for drivin’ one along a flat piece

of road?”

“That’s different.”

“The principle is different, but the result is the same. It don’t make

much difference whether yuh die from a bullet or a broken neck.”

“All the same, I’ll take a chance on my horse keepin’ its feet,” said

Moon.

“And we take a chance on a rustler or murderer bein’ a bad shot or a

slow one.”

“That idea is all right,” smiled Corliss, “but some day you’ll meet one

that shoots straight and shoots quick.”

“Then I’ll be a memory,” grinned Hashknife.

* * * * *

The Chinaman had finished planting the bush. O’Day thanked him kindly,

and the big Long How went away, grinning widely.

“I’m goin’ to get more roses,” said O’Day. “I’ll borrow some of me hard

workin’ punchers and attach ’em to the wood end of some shovels. Then I

can set here and look out at roses and smell ’em. That’s all there is

left in life for me—just to set down and look on.”

“Why don’t yuh get some artificial legs?” asked Hashknife. “Yore knees

are still good.”

“Pegs, do ye mean?”

“Not pegs—legs. Yuh might never become a foot racer, but yuh could walk

all around. They’re made with braces and some springs, and yuh wear

shoes on the feet. Mebby yuh’d have to pack a cane, but what if yuh

did?”

O’Day smiled grimly.

“I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, but I believe ye, Hartley. Now where

could I buy ’em?”

“I don’t just know. I’ll tell yuh who could get ’em for yuh, and that’s

Amos Hardy. He goes east after his buyin’ trip is over, and he’d sure do

it.”

“Mebbe not for me.” O’Day was thinking of the only time Amos Hardy had

been at the Five Box and they had quarreled over the price of hides.

“He’d do it for me,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll tell him as soon as we

get back.”

“Thank ye, Hartley. But I’d like to have a talk wid Hardy meself. He

knows the cattle business, and I’d like to talk over the situation wid

him. Suppose—” O’Day turned to Corliss—“ye bring him out here? You or

one of the other boys take the buckboard in to Arapaho and bring him

back.

“We quarreled a long time ago, and he’s not been here since. Hardy’s

firm pays cash for everythin’ they buy, and it saves time. He takes

mostly everythin’ we have for sale, and his prices are as good as

anybody offers. Corliss, ye might tell him that I was wrong on the price

of hides, and that I’m sorry for the things I called him.”

“All right,” nodded Corliss. “I’ll ask him to come. Mebbe he won’t,

O’Day. Hardy is kinda touchy, yuh know.”

“Not knowin’ him very well, I dunno how his feelin’s are. But I think

he’ll come.”

Corliss and Moon went off the veranda and headed for the stable. Dayne

had just ridden in and was unsaddling.

“What do ye think of the Five Box, Hartley?” asked O’Day.

“Comfortable sort of a place. I like this long porch and the one-story

buildings. The cattle business is good now.”

“Aye, it’s all right when you’re all right. I loved the feel of a good

horse between me legs, the trail dust in me nostrils, the smell of the

chuck wagon. I love the sight of the cattle along the skyline of the

ridges, the roundup crews of dirty, sweatin’ punchers, the song and the

arguments. Aye, and I loved the fights.

“But I disliked the loadin’ pens, Hartley, the long strings of cattle

cars, the bawlin’ cattle, rattlin’ their horns agin’ the side of the

cars—big, helpless hulks, goin’ away to die. Ah, I may be a fool, but I

disliked it. The money I got for them gave me little enjoyment.

“Since I’ve been hurt I haven’t even seen a cattle train. I’ve not seen

a cow loaded since then. So many are taken at a time, and I only know

that there’s that many less Five Box cattle in the Twisted River hills.”

Hashknife smiled softly. It was the first time he had ever seen that

kind of sentiment in a cattleman.

“The day of the big herds is passin’,” said O’Day sadly. “In a few years

there’ll be no big ranges left. Nesters will be raisin’ fruit and

vegetables where we raised cattle. Barb wire is comin’ in, Hartley. This

country can be irrigated, and irrigation will break up the ranges.”

“That is true,” nodded Hashknife. “But it will be quite a while yet. The

world must have meat, and it takes the ranges to furnish it in big

quantities. I’ve been curious to know just why yuh invented the Five Box

brand.”

O’Day laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“I wanted somethin’ that no cow thief could alter into some other brand.

I’d defy anybody to take a runnin’ iron and change it so that it would

look like any other registered brand.”

“Well, you sure got it,” grinned Hashknife. “It’s visible enough.”

O’Day shifted himself to an easier position and lowered his voice.

“Hartley, what are you workin’ on here?”

“Workin’ on?” Hashknife looked up at O’Day. “That’s hard to say,

old-timer.”

“I see. Ye’re not workin’ for Hank Ludden, are ye?”

“I’m workin’ for the right side,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’m not sure

yet just who is in the right.”

“I don’t think I understand ye,” said O’Day.

“That’s about all I can tell yuh.”

“It’s none of me business, of course. I’d like to hire the two of ye. I

know I’m goin’ to need a prod once in a while because I’m not cured. I’m

tryin’ to change me disposition, but it’s a hard pull. It’s easier to be

mean than kind after ye’ve been mean for so —— long.”

“Thank yuh for the jobs,” said Hashknife. “But we wouldn’t be worth much

to yuh, O’Day. We’d be leavin’ soon. Yuh can’t scratch an itchin’ foot

and look at the same scenery.”

Came the rattle of a buckboard, and Corliss drove past the corner of the

veranda, stopping his team long enough to ask O’Day if there was

anything he wanted in town. The team was a half-broken span of sorrels,

threatening any moment to throw themselves, under the strong pull of the

lines.

They shot away from the ranch, and the buckboard faded out of sight in a

cloud of dust.

“Won’t ye stay for supper?” asked O’Day, when Hashknife and Sleepy got

to their feet.

“Not today, thanks,” said Hashknife. “We’ll come out again.”

“Make it soon, boys. Thank ye for comin’, and if there’s any help ye

want, don’t hesitate to ask for it. And thank ye for suggestin’ the

legs. I’d try anythin’. My ——, after settin’ in a chair as long as I

have, I’d try wings if somebody would suggest ’em.”

* * * * *

A couple of hours sleep was sufficient for Amos Hardy, and he came back

to the War Paint saloon, where he met Armadillo Jones. After a drink to

renew old acquaintance, Armadillo told him about Hashknife and Sleepy

being in Arapaho and that they were handling the troubles of the Hard

Luck ranch.

Amos dimly remembered introducing them to Corliss by their right names,

and asked Armadillo if they were traveling incognito.

“You better have another drink,” said Armadillo. “Mebbe one more drink

of War Paint’s best will unravel yore words so a white man can _sabe_

’em.”

“I just wanted to know if they were usin’ different names.”

“Oh, yeah, Smith.”

“Uh-huh!” grunted Amos. “I reckon I made a _faux pas_.”

“A foo paw, eh? We’ll pass that one and have the drink. You don’t ache

any place do yuh, Amos?”

Amos shook his head slowly as he drank his liquor. Then he wiped his

lips thoughtfully and said—

“I reckon I’m _de trop_ with Hashknife.”

Armadillo dropped his glass on the bar, blinked violently and headed for

the door.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Amos.

“I’m goin’ to git me a booktionary, and then I’m comin’ back and worry

you a while.”

Amos laughed and invited the bartender to become his bottle partner.

“I want everybody to be happy,” said Amos. “You can’t run out on me

unless yuh shut up the shop. I never get drunk until I get to Arapaho

City. It’s so darned far away from the rest of the world that nobody

knows what I do.”

“You buyin’ cattle?” Thus the bartender.

“Y’betcha. I need five hundred head. Spot cash.”

“Lotta money. Got it with yuh?”

“I suppose yuh want to play single-handed stud, eh? Nope. Money’s in the

Arapaho bank. Signed check is in my pocket. I draw what I need. That’s

how we get the pick of the beef.

“These old cow-men are funny. They want money, not checks. My firm

carries a balance in every bank where we do business. Oh, not a big

balance, of course. But when I start out, I’ve got a hunch where I’ll

land the stuff, so they play the game with me and have the money all

set. They’ve sure got confidence in little Amos.”

“You just about buy all the stuff around here, don’tcha?”

“Any place I go, I land the business. I’m too fat to be a crook. Honest

Amos Hardy. It’s took me all my life to win that name, and I wouldn’t be

crooked for less’n a million. Drink welcome, —— knows you’re hearty.”

Corliss came in as they were drinking, and Amos whooped with joy.

“It was a great Democrat victory, and I’m about to be inaugurated,” he

told Corliss. “This time I’ll put you to bed.”

“That’s a job,” said Corliss, who was a trifle proud of his ability to

carry liquor. They had several drinks, and Corliss delivered the message

from O’Day.

“Go out to see that old reptile?” wailed Amos. “That old jug of

profanity? Me? Sa-a-ay, feller! Huh! Have another and you’ll see things

different.”

Corliss did not urge him. He knew what happened to Amos the one time he

had been out there and he did not blame him for not wanting to go back

again. But the more liquor Amos drank the more indignant he became.

“Can yuh beat that?” he wailed. “Asks me to come out there to see him.

Don’t he think I’ve got any feelin’s? What does he think I am? I’m

s’prized at yuh, Corliss, for askin’ me.”

Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Arapaho City and entered the War Paint

during one of Amos’ discourses. Amos whooped with joy and insisted on

dragging them to the bar and telling all about Dutch O’Day wanting to

see him. Hashknife made no comment, but let Amos wail as loud as he

wanted to.

The sheriff drifted in and joined the crowd of which Amos insisted on

being toastmaster.

“I’m a nightingale,” he told them. “I’m a whippoorwill and a

nightingale, mixed with a strain of canary and medder lark. My voice

sounds to me like the tinklin’ of bells.”

“Cow bells,” said Sleepy. “And as a birdologist, yo’re all off the

grade. Yore pedigree right now is one hundred per cent. crow with a

touch of buzzard. You’ve been eatin’ birdseed when yuh should have been

lookin’ for somethin’ that had been dead a week.”

Sleepy was willing to admit that Amos Hardy was a good cattle buyer, but

he hated to hear even a drunken man brag about himself. But Amos did not

care. Sleepy’s sarcastic remark went in one ear and out the other.

“I know what I’m goin’ to do,” declared Amos. “I’m goin’ out to see

Dutch O’Day.”

“Yo’re crazy,” said the sheriff. “You let O’Day alone.”

“Thasso?” Amos flared drunkenly. “Crazy, eh? Like —— I am! I’m just

drunk enough to talk to that mummy-faced old chuckwalla. Las’ time he

told me a few things—thish time I’m gonna tell him a few. C’mon,

Corliss.”

“You better stay here,” advised the sheriff. And advice was something

that Amos would not take—not in his condition.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” snorted Amos. “I’m free, white and

twenty-one. I’ve spent a lot of money with the darned old caterpillar,

and I’m goin’ to tell him all about his ancestors.

“I’ve got a list of every shipment I ever bought from him, every darned

cow! And I’m goin’ to show him how much money I’ve spent with him. By

golly, he can’t curse me and keep m’ trade. C’mon, foreman of the Five

Box.”

* * * * *

Corliss shook his head at the sheriff, but followed Amos outside and

over to the buckboard, where Amos insisted on driving. But Corliss

shoved him to the other side of the seat and took the reins himself.

As he turned the half broke team away from the hitch-rack, Amos leaned

forward, whipped off his hat and struck one of the horses across the

rump, which caused the team to whirl wildly and almost upset the

buckboard.

“A nice feller when he’s sober, but a —— fool when he’s drunk,” declared

the sheriff as he and Hashknife started for the office, followed by

Sleepy.

“He’ll sober up before he gets back,” said Hashknife.

“He prob’ly will. Did yuh go out to see O’Day?”

“Yeah. Found him havin’ roses planted in the front yard.”

“My ——! Roses? Must have gone crazy. Say, I told McLeod about that note

yuh found. He started to deny it, but shut up like a clam. Old Armadillo

came down here a while ago. I was out, so he took it upon himself to go

back and talk to McLeod. I suppose Armadillo thought it was all right.

After he went away I told McLeod about that note.”

“Started to deny it?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. Then he shut up about it. Said he’d like to see the tall one of

the Smith brothers.”

“Oh, he did, eh?” Hashknife surmised that Armadillo had told McLeod who

the Smith brothers were, but he did not tell the sheriff.

“Mind if I talk with him alone?” asked Hashknife.

“No-o-o, I reckon not. Go ahead. If he tells yuh anythin’, I know you’ll

tell me.”

“You think so, do yuh?” said Hashknife to himself, but to the sheriff he

merely nodded.

Sleepy and the sheriff sat down in the office, while Hashknife went back

to McLeod’s cell. McLeod had heard them come in, and was at the bars.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes. Armadillo Jones told me who you were, and that you were tryin’ to

find out who was stealin’ from the Hard Luck ranch.”

“Quite an order, don’tcha think, McLeod?”

“It has never been done. A while ago the sheriff accused me of bein’ one

of the thieves. Where did ye find that note?”

“In yore coat, hangin’ on the wall of yore cabin.”

McLeod’s amazement was genuine. He scratched his red hair violently and

squinted at Hashknife. He felt that Hashknife was telling the truth,

although he, McLeod, knew nothing about the note.

“That beats the ——!”

“It does,” agreed Hashknife, grinning. “But unless it can be explained,

yo’re up against it awful hard, McLeod.”

McLeod shook his head.

“But I can’t explain it. Neither can I explain how ye happened to find

me gun in Crow Rock Cañon. I’ve never been there, I tell ye. I’ll admit

in court that I shot at a man, but I’ll insist that he got what was

comin’ to him, but I’ll admit no rustlin’.”

“You were a good friend to Joe Lane?”

“Yes. I liked the lad. He often came out to see me.”

“He was killed for stealin’ cattle.”

“That’s tr-r-rue. But does that make me one? Man, there’s a plot to make

things awful har-r-rd for Scotty McLeod.”

He shook his head sadly, a dismal expression in his blue eyes.

“It’s bad enough to be hung for killin’ a man, but I’ve no likin’ to be

branded a thief in the bargain. The prosecutin’ attorney was in to see

me this mornin’, and he asked me who my attorney might be. I’ve no

attorney. What good would one be to me? All the ar-r-rguments in the

world would only bring it back to the fact that I defended myself and

killed a man.”

Hashknife laughed softly as he rolled a smoke.

“It sure looks bad for yuh, McLeod. I told Ludden I’d try and find out

who was stealin’ HL cattle. That’s a big job. I’ve got a theory,

tha’sall. I don’t believe you was with Joe Lane. You say you was in

town, and must have left here shortly before Lane was killed. I’m goin’

to believe that, whether any one else believes it or not.”

“Are you goin’ to try and prove that I’m not a thief?”

“I’m goin’ to try it, McLeod. Everythin’ is against me, but I’ll do what

I can. Don’t say anythin’ about it. Keep still about that note and the

gun. _Sabe?_”

Hashknife went back to the sheriff and Sleepy, but told the sheriff that

McLeod had nothing new to tell. While they were talking a man came in

whom Hashknife recognized as being the prosecuting attorney.

They went away, leaving him with the sheriff, and strolled up to the

general store, where they made a few purchases and were going back to

their room, when the sheriff hailed them.

“This is a —— of a note!” he snorted. “The prosecutor says that there’s

too much talk about the killin’ of Joe Lane. He says that it ain’t never

been proved that Joe Lane was stealin’ cows when Ludden killed him, so

now he demands that I arrest Ludden.”

Hashknife whistled softly.

“Gee, that’s too bad. But I can see his viewpoint, Sheriff. We all took

Ludden’s word for it.”

“I s’pose that’s true, Hartley, but my ——, I hate this job of mine! Oh,

well, I suppose if I arrest enough of ’em, I’ll get the guilty ones

after while. This —— prosecutor will bring a charge of murder against

old Hank, as sure as ——. He ain’t got no heart, liver or lights when it

comes to makin’ a case against somebody.”

“They’re all alike,” said Hashknife sadly. “I like to settle all my

cases out of court.”

“Yeah, I hear yuh do,” meaningly. The sheriff sighed deeply. “Well, I

s’pose that’s the best way. But I’ve got my orders, and I’ve got to do

it. Old Armadillo will prob’ly hit me with the grind-stone or a

two-faced ax before I can get Hank off the ranch. By ——, it sure is Hard

Luck ranch.”

* * * * *

Much against his will the sheriff rode away to arrest Hank Ludden.

Sleepy and Hashknife went to their room and sprawled on the bed, where

Hashknife smoked innumerable cigarets and ignored all of Sleepy’s

questions.

“Thinkin’, eh?” Thus Sleepy indignantly. “Well, there’s sure a-plenty to

think about. By golly, I could almost set down and do some thinkin’

myself—almost. Rotten deal for Ludden. He never killed Joe Lane on

purpose. This’ll set a fine example for the rest of the rustlers.

“Pretty soon a sheriff will have to take out a license as an executioner

in order to compete with crime. Hank Ludden up and shoots a cow thief

instead of kissin’ him, and they throw Ludden in jail. By golly, I’m

sure goin’ to set on my gun-hand in this country.”

“How in —— can yuh expect a feller to think?” demanded Hashknife

indignantly. “You sure do flow vocally, pardner. Ho, hum-m!”

Hashknife sat up on the bed and dusted the tobacco from the folds of his

shirt.

“Conscious again, eh?” grunted Sleepy. “I suppose you’ve got it all

figured out now, and all we’ve got to do is to go out and put the

handcuffs on the criminals. My golly, yuh sure do go in a trance, tall

feller.”

“I ain’t got it all clear yet,” grinned Hashknife.

“Have yuh got any of it clear?”

“Clear enough for me, but not enough for a jury. They need a lot of

facts, while all I need is a hunch. It’s too stuffy up here, so I’ll

play yuh a game of pool. I need somethin’ to take my mind off the

troubles of the world.”

They left their room and went across the street to the War Paint. All

was serene in Arapaho City, drowsing beneath a warm sun. Only two or

three men loafed in the saloon, and the bartender sprawled across the

bar, reading a love-story. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the rear of the

room and began playing pool. It was one form of relaxation that appealed

to Hashknife, who was able to banish all else from his mind in the

serious business of trying to figure out bank and combination shots.

Neither of them was a good player.

They were in the midst of their second string of fifty markers when

Dayne of the Five Box came clattering in, the rowels of his big spurs

jangling over the rough floor.

“Does anybody know where the doctor is?” he asked loudly.

Hashknife and Sleepy stopped playing, while the rest of the men in the

saloon denied all knowledge of the doctor’s whereabouts.

“Somebody sick?” asked the bartender, marking the place in his

paper-backed novel.

“Aw, that —— fool cattle buyer got himself killed, I think. I’ve got to

get the doctor to pass judgment though.”

“Amos Hardy killed?” The bartender was shocked.

“I think so,” Dayne leaned on the bar, bracing himself with his crooked

elbow.

He rubbed his broken nose and squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, who came

up to the bar, still carrying their cues.

“How did it happen?” asked Hashknife.

“’Bout a mile this side of the ranch.” Dayne spat dryly. “Hardy was

drunk. He wanted to drive, but Corliss wouldn’t let him. They had quite

a quarrel, so Corliss says, and when they was goin’ around a turn in

Sweetwater Cañon, Hardy grabbed the whip and slashed the team with it.

“That team wasn’t more ’n half broke, yuh know. Corliss tried to hold

’em, but he broke a line, the right one, and throwed all the pull on the

left. Corliss jumped, and all he got was a skinned leg. It’s about forty

feet straight down to the bottom, and all rocks. One horse was killed

and we had to shoot the other. O’Day told me to get the doctor out there

as soon as I could, but I can’t find him. Don’t reckon it’ll do Hardy

any good, ’cause he’s too dead to skin.”

One of the men reported that he had seen the doctor go in to the general

store across the street, and Dayne left his interested audience to hurry

to the store. Hashknife and Sleepy went back to their unfinished game,

but did not complete it.

They had known Amos Hardy for a long time, and his death had taken away

their desire to play pool. Dayne found the doctor at the store and they

went away together.

It was about two hours later that the sheriff came back to town,

bringing Hank Ludden, and accompanied by Armadillo Jones, who was mad

enough to fight the world. Ludden was lodged in a cell across the hall

from McLeod, and the sheriff and Armadillo were back in the office when

Hashknife and Sleepy came and told them what had happened to Amos Hardy.

The sheriff threw up both hands.

“What next?” he wailed. “By grab, I’m sick of all this trouble!”

“You and me both!” snorted Armadillo. “Lemme git my hands on

that —— prosecutin’ attorney. I voted for that polecat. Actually did.

Thought he had brains. Arrestin’ old Hank! My ——, the old man is

grievin’ his heart out over killin’ Joe Lane, and now a —— fool of a

lawyer has him arrested.”

“Well, I can’t help it!” snapped the sheriff. “It wasn’t my idea,

Armadillo.”

“Nobody blamin’ yuh, is there? I voted for you, too.”

“Yeah, and if yuh think I’m thankin’ yuh for that vote, you’ve got

another think comin’,” retorted the sheriff. “If I ever run for

this —— office, I hope I don’t get a vote.”

“Yuh prob’ly won’t,” said Armadillo, and added dryly, “not if I have

anythin’ to say about it.”

Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at the repartee. It was like a little

terrier snapping at the heels of a great dane. They were the best of

friends, but both of them were so exasperated that they used each other

as an outlet.

“I’m goin’ up to see Mary Lane,” declared Armadillo. “I’m goin’ to gird

up my loins and tell her who’s which.”

“It won’t do yuh no good to wish more trouble on her,” said the sheriff.

“She’ll find out anyway.”

“Of course she will. But I want her to know jist how her daddy feels

about the shootin’. It’d make a —— of a lot of difference to Hank if

Mary would come down and see him. That —— old fool would set right there

and let yuh hang him, ’cause he thinks there ain’t nothin’ left in the

world.”

“Well, she won’t never come,” declared the sheriff.

Armadillo squinted closely at the sheriff. “You won’t do anythin’ to

stop her if she wants to come, will yuh?”

“Of course not.”

“All right.” Armadillo spat violently, hitched up his belt and went

bow-legging his way out of the office.

It was not a job to Armadillo’s liking, but he knew it must be done. He

had really wanted an excuse to talk with Mary. Somehow he could not

believe that Mary would refuse to see her father. At least, he thought,

she would not refuse to see him.

* * * * *

He turned the corner at the old cottonwood and went out to Lane’s house,

a little, one-story, unpainted cottage. There was little style to the

Arapaho residential architecture. The front yard was enclosed with a

picket-fence, many pickets being missing, and the gate sagged from one

hinge.

It creaked loudly, when Armadillo opened it, and he looked

apprehensively toward the house. Nothing happened. There were a few rose

bushes in the front yard, and Armadillo stopped to examine them for no

reason except that it delayed him.

He heard the front door open, but did not look up. Another bush drew his

immediate attention. Finally he lifted his head and looked at Mary Lane,

standing just outside the door. For several moments they looked at each

other. They might have been total strangers, as far as recognition was

concerned.

Armadillo looked back toward town, removing his hat and rubbing the side

of his head with the heel of the same hand. He turned back and looked at

Mary.

“What do you want?” she asked softly.

“I had to come, Mary,” he said simply. “They said yuh wouldn’t have

anythin’ to do with us any more, but I—” He smiled slowly—“Yuh know I

never was any hand to believe what I heard.”

“I never said such a thing, Armadillo. But after what happened, you—”

“Oh, I _sabe_ all that. It sure was an awful blow. It almost killed yuh,

Mary. I know it did. It almost killed Hank Ludden, too.”

Mary’s lips shut tightly and she looked away.

“It made him a hundred years old, Mary. He’d give his life to bring Joe

Lane back. We was a pair of —— old fools, Mary. We was jealous of Joe

Lane, I reckon. We didn’t realize that both of yuh was young.”

“But it’s too late now,” she said painfully. “I’m sorry about Dad. I

might have been wrong, too.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it was too late, Mary. Yore dad was arrested

today for the killin’ of Joe.”

“What?” Mary came closer to Armadillo, searching his face, wondering if

she had misunderstood.

“Yeah, it’s true, Mary,” he said slowly. “He’s in jail. The prosecutin’

attorney made the sheriff do it. He said that there was no proof that

yore dad had shot Joe while Joe was in the act of stealin’ cattle.

They’ll give Hank a hearin’ tomorrow, ’cause court opens the next day.”

“But they don’t think that Dad did it—” Mary hesitated, shaking her

head, her eyes wide. “Armadillo, do they think that Dad lied?”

“That’s what they think, Mary. But they’re crazy.”

“Then you think Joe was a thief?”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” Armadillo floundered badly. “I don’t know what I think,

Mary. I’ve talked it over with yore dad until I dunno whether I’m afoot

or on horseback. I wanted to be the one to tell yuh. Yore dad is settin’

down there in the jail, lookin’ at the wall, wonderin’ what’ll come

next. I told him I was goin’ to see yuh, and he said it wouldn’t help

any, but for me to tell yuh he was sorry.”

“Sorry, Armadillo?”

“Well, that’s about all he could tell me. Hank never was a good hand at

expressin’ himself except with profanity. Bein’ sorry means a lot for

him to admit, Mary.”

“But what can I do?” asked Mary helplessly.

“Go down and talk with him, girl. He’s yore dad. Stick to him. He didn’t

hurt yuh on purpose, honest he didn’t.”

“I don’t believe he did,” she said slowly. “It hurt me so much that I

haven’t been able to think.”

“I’ll betcha that’s right, Mary. It sure was tough. I jist wondered how

yuh was gettin’ along for money, yuh know.”

“Oh, that part of it is all right, Armadillo. The county is going to pay

me—”

She hesitated. The sheriff had told her not to talk about it.

“Yeah, I heard they was,” said Armadillo with great satisfaction.

He wondered how the sheriff had fixed it up. Mary looked at him,

wondering how much he knew. If he had heard of the generosity of the

county, it was no longer a secret.

“Yes,” she said, “it is wonderful. It seems that they don’t believe Joe

was dishonest, because they are going to pay me three times what Joe’s

salary would have been. Just think of it! Three hundred and thirty

dollars a month!”

Armadillo gulped heavily, blinking his eyes. Three hundred and thirty a

month!

“But please don’t mention it to any one, Armadillo. The sheriff said the

county didn’t want it generally known.”

“I sh’d think not,” muttered Armadillo blankly.

Mary got her hat and accompanied Armadillo down to the jail, where they

found Hashknife in charge, the sheriff having gone to the Five Box

ranch.

Hashknife shook hands with Mary, although he had never been introduced,

and offered them chairs.

“I’m runnin’ this place right now,” smiled Hashknife as he closed the

front door and locked it.

He took a key from the sheriff’s desk and walked to the door which

connected the office with the jail.

“I’ll let my star prisoner come out here to yuh,” he told them. “The key

will be in the lock, and when yuh get through talkin’ yuh can lock him

in again. This may not be accordin’ to Hoyle, but there’s a lot of

things done around here that ain’t been accordin’ to Hoyle.”

He walked back to Ludden’s cell, swung the door open and told Ludden he

was wanted in the office. Wonderingly the old man headed through the

doorway, while Hashknife closed the connecting door and went quietly out

the rear.

Hashknife had no fear of Hank Ludden escaping, and he did not want the

meeting of father and daughter to occur in the presence of McLeod. Not

that it would make any difference, except that Hashknife had an idea

that it might better be held in private.

He went to the War Paint where he joined Sleepy. Several more cattlemen

had ridden in and were discussing Hank Ludden’s arrest and the death of

Amos Hardy, who was well known. None of them was in sympathy with the

law regarding the arrest of Ludden.

They were willing to take it for granted that Hank had shot Joe Lane for

rustling cattle, and they indignantly wanted to know what they were to

do in case they caught a rustler red-handed.

“Git up a petition orderin’ him to leave the country,” decided a

bandy-legged cowboy seriously. “Or yuh might speak severely to him.”

“And git arrested for slander,” grunted another, which caused a general

laugh.

It was a short time later that the sheriff and doctor came back with the

body of Amos Hardy, which was left at the doctor’s office. Hashknife

joined the sheriff, and they were almost to the office when Mary and

Armadillo came out.

“I left ’em alone to talk with Hank,” explained Hashknife.

“Tha’sall right,” said the sheriff. Mary greeted him with a smile and a

handshake.

“I hope yuh ain’t sore at me, Mary,” he said.

She shook her head quickly.

“Not a bit. It isn’t anything you could help.”

“I’m sure glad yuh feel thataway. Come again.”

“I surely will.”

They went on, and the sheriff looked quizzically at Hashknife, who

shrugged his shoulders.

“Armadillo brought her,” he said. “I’m glad for Ludden’s sake.”

“So am I.”

* * * * *

They went in the office and sat down. The sheriff stretched wearily, his

big hands dropping loosely in his lap, while his sad eyes contemplated

the opposite wall.

“Hardy was dead, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. Musta landed down in that cañon on his head. The team and

buckboard are still there. Too much liquor.”

The sheriff took a bundle of papers from his pocket and placed them on

his desk. From another he took a sum of money, a pocket-knife, a watch.

“Amos Hardy’s personal effects,” he said sadly.

“Mind if I look at ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“Certainly not. Go ahead.”

Hashknife examined all the papers, which consisted of some personal

letters, business letters, telegrams, business cards. He looked them all

over carefully and put them back.

“We’ve got to send word to his firm,” said the sheriff. “Nobody around

here knows where Hardy’s home is.”

“I never heard,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “When do yuh give Hank

Ludden a hearin’?”

“Tomorrow mornin’. Court opens the next day, and we’ve got to find out

if Hank has got to stand trial. There ain’t a lot of cases on the

calendar, and we can’t hold Hank Ludden for another three months.”

“I don’t see how they can hold him,” mused Hashknife. “He says Joe Lane

was stealin’ cattle. How can the law prove that Joe wasn’t. It looks to

me like a foolish case.”

“I reckon so, Hartley. But there’s so much talk about it that the

prosecutor has got to do somethin’. Old Hank won’t hire a lawyer.”

“Prob’ly don’t realize what it means. I’m naturally interested, because

I told him I’d try and change the luck of the HL ranch.”

“You’ve got a job, Hartley.”

Hashknife smiled softly and rubbed his nose. “I did have,” he said

slowly. “See yuh later.”

He left the office and the sheriff squinted after him.

“He did have,” muttered the sheriff. “Did have, eh? Now what did he mean

by that, I wonder?”

Hashknife’s words were food for thought, and the sheriff of Arapaho

tried to digest them. What did Hashknife know that the rest of them did

not know, he wondered? Was he bluffing or did he really know something?

“I don’t think he’s bluffing,” decided the sheriff. “That long, lean,

question-eyed whippoorwill has seen somethin’. He’s got a reputation

that he didn’t get from settin’ still.”

Hashknife went up the street and was standing in the doorway of the

general store, when Honey Moon and Dayne rode in and tied their horses

at the War Paint hitch-rack. They waved at Hashknife as they went to the

saloon—Honey Moon waddling along like a duck while Dayne went stiffly,

his crippled arm giving him a peculiar appearance.

Some more cowboys came up the other side of the street and went in the

saloon. Hashknife puffed on a cigaret, his eyes half closed, as he tried

to map out his next move. The cigaret burned his lip, and he spat it

out.

Across the street he went and into the War Paint. Sleepy was at the bar

with the rest of the cowboys, and the conversation was still about the

arrest of Hank Ludden. The Five Box boys were anxious to hear all about

it, and the bartender, acting in the capacity of a town crier, was

giving them plenty of information.

“Aw, that’s a rotten deal,” declared Honey Moon. “They can’t never cinch

the old man.”

“The —— they can’t!” Thus the bartender. “The law can cinch anybody.

They could cinch me or they could cinch you. You ain’t got a chance

agin’ a smart lawyer.”

“Yeah, and they’ll get you, too,” said Sleepy seriously. “Don’t yuh know

it’s a crime to serve the kind of liquor you do? I’ve heard that you

bought that barrel of whisky seven years ago, used out of it steady ever

since, and you’ve still got two-thirds of it left.”

Sleepy hadn’t heard any such thing, but he delighted in an argument.

Before the spluttering bartender could frame a fitting defense,

Hashknife came in beside Sleepy and offered to buy a drink. The

acceptance was unanimous.

“You were talkin’ about Hank Ludden,” reminded Hashknife. “Didja ever

stop to think what a conviction of him would mean to things out in the

ranges?”

“Sure thing,” nodded Honey Moon. “It’ll mean that a man will be scared

to shoot at a rustler, unless he has a couple of lawyers along with him

and permit from the court.”

“That’s just what it’ll mean, Moon. Now here’s what we’ve got to do,

boys. The case is awful weak on both sides, but we can’t take any

chances. Every one of you fellers bring in all the punchers yuh can. By

golly, we can sure make it so uncomfortable for the law that they won’t

dare hold him. _Sabe?_”

“We’ll sure do that,” said Honey. “There’s too danged much law around

here, anyway.”

They drank to success. Hashknife’s scheme appealed to all of them, and

Hashknife drew Moon aside.

“Have O’Day come in, too, will yuh? He can protest just as hard as the

rest of us, and the fact that he took the trouble to come down here will

kinda add power to us.”

“I’ll tell him,” grinned Moon. “Yuh never can figure out what Dutch

O’Day will do. He thinks yo’re a little tin god, Hartley.”

“I am,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Oh, yeah,” Moon’s fat face expressed only a blank stare.

He didn’t know whether Hashknife was serious or not.

“I’m pretty smart,” said Hashknife. “Prob’ly a lot smarter than most

folks, but I can’t help it. I was born thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” Moon nodded foolishly. “Well, I’ll tell the boys.”

“Thank yuh,” Hashknife walked to the rear of the room and began

practising on the pool table, while Moon went back to the bar, wondering

what kind of an egotistical fool Hashknife really was.

All the wonderful stories he had heard of Hashknife’s ability were

immediately discounted. He nudged Sleepy and attracted his attention.

“What kind of a feller is yore pardner?” he asked.

“Hashknife?” Sleepy squinted sideways at Moon. “I’ll tell yuh the truth,

Honey—he’s about half-loco.”

“Honest?”

“Well,” Sleepy shrugged his shoulders, “a feller wouldn’t say that about

his pardner if it wasn’t true, would he?”

“Um-m-m-m,” Moon glanced at Hashknife thoughtfully. “No, I don’t reckon

yuh would. But I’ve heard so much about him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sleepy turned and looked at Hashknife before replying. “That

was quite a while ago, Honey. He used to be good. Yeah, he sure used to

be a dinger. But now?” Sleepy shook his head sadly.

“Told me he was a tin god,” whispered Moon.

Sleepy choked. In fact he strangled, and there were tears on his cheeks

before he could swallow again.

“He thinks he is,” said Sleepy hoarsely. “He’s all right if yuh leave

him alone.”

“Sure.”

Moon and Dayne left the saloon. Sleepy went back to Hashknife and they

racked up the balls for a game.

“What was Honey Moon whisperin’ to you about?” asked Hashknife.

Sleepy leaned on the table and laughed so hard he missed the cue ball.

“He thinks yo’re crazy, Hashknife. Did you tell him you was a tin god?”

“I admitted that I was,” grinned Hashknife.

The grin vanished as he slowly chalked his cue, and his eyes looked

somberly toward the front of the room.

“I might be, at that, Sleepy. The Tin God of Twisted River, if I guess

right.”

Sleepy straightened up and looked keenly at Hashknife.

“Is it almost time to say ‘when,’ cowboy?” he asked softly.

“Almost,” Hashknife nodded thoughtfully. “I’m all set, pardner. Mebbe

I’m wrong, but I can almost read what’s written after certain names in

the Big Book. It ain’t plain yet, but plain enough.”

“I _sabe_,” said Sleepy seriously.

He knew that Hashknife’s work had not been in vain, although Hashknife

had given him no inkling of what he had found out. It was not like

Hashknife to tell any one what he was doing, and Sleepy had learned to

follow blindly to the end.

“Do yuh know the name of the man who sent yuh the letter?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Don’t need it now.”

They stood for several moments, looking at the layout of colored balls

and making no effort to continue play. Then Hashknife missed an easy

side-pocket shot and dropped the cue ball in a corner pocket. Sleepy

studied the layout for several moments, ignoring the fact that the cue

ball was not in sight. All of which showed that their minds were not on

the game. Then, as if by mutual consent, they put their cues in the rack

and walked outside, where they sat down in the shade with their backs

against the wall.

* * * * *

That the cattlemen of Twisted River wished to keep their rights, so far

as killing off rustlers was concerned, was attested by the fact that the

ranges were well represented in Arapaho City the following morning.

The arrest of Hank Ludden was considered a direct slap in their faces,

and a conviction would establish a dangerous precedent. So they had come

to attend the hearing of Ludden and to protest vigorously.

Macey, the prosecuting attorney, had got wind of Hashknife’s scheme, met

him at the sheriff’s office and pointed out that he, Hashknife, was

trying to interfere with the law.

“Nothin’ of the kind,” laughed Hashknife.

“With the room filled with hostile cowboys, do you think a justice of

the peace would dare decide against Ludden?”

“Well, you’ve got no case against him.”

“Very well. Then let the case decide itself. If we have no case against

him, why bring all these cowboys?”

“Don’tcha like to act in front of a big crowd?” grinned Hashknife. Then

seriously, “Macey, I came here to find the answer to a mystery.”

“You did, eh?” The lawyer smiled indulgently. “I don’t believe in

mysteries.”

“No, I s’pose not. Lotsa folks don’t believe in Santa Claus, but they

always get up early Christmas mornin’ and take a good look around to see

what has been left for ’em.”

The lawyer laughed. He had an exalted idea of his own importance, but he

was just a trifle curious about the mystery.

“Just what mystery were you trying to solve?”

“You’ve heard of Hard Luck ranch?”

“Yes. But as far as any mystery is concerned, no.”

“Perhaps it ain’t no mystery to you when cattle disappear month after

month, and nobody knows where they went.”

The lawyer smiled.

“I’ve heard something of it. Perhaps there is a mystery in that. The

other happenings were merely coincidences.”

“Certainly. I’m not tryin’ to find out how it is that men get killed

accidently, and all that. That’s none of our business. But losin’

cattle, that’s different.”

“I see. But what has that to do with the trial of Henry Ludden?”

“He killed a rustler, didn’t he?”

“It seems to me,” said the lawyer solemnly, “that we are not getting

anywhere with our argument. I tried to point out to you the folly of

trying to stampede my court with a lot of indignant cowboys, and you get

me into an argument over some mystery.”

“Which shows that you ain’t so awful narrow,” laughed Hashknife. Then

seriously, “Macey, here’s the way yore case stands right now. Hank

Ludden ain’t got any defense. He can’t prove that Joe Lane was at that

old U6 corral. He can’t prove that any one was there, nor that a single

head of cattle was in the corral. If you say that he met Joe Lane alone

on the hills and killed him, he can’t prove that you’re wrong.

“Nor can you prove that yo’re right. It’s yore imagination against his

word, and —— only knows what a jury might do. Do you want a conviction,

whether the old man is guilty or not, or do you want justice done?”

The lawyer studied Hashknife for several moments.

“If you can prove it to my satisfaction—justice, of course.”

“Good. Now quit wailin’ about the cowboys stampedin’ yore courtroom.

Forget the dignity of the court, and let me run part of the show to suit

myself.”

“But you can’t—”

Macey started to protest, but the sheriff interrupted him.

“Let Hartley alone, Macey. I dunno his proposition, but I’m behind his

play right now.”

“Well,” dubiously. “A court of law has a certain dignity to uphold,

whether it is in a big city or on a cattle range.”

“It won’t lose any dignity,” Hashknife smiled softly. “See yuh later.”

Hashknife crossed to the War Paint, where a goodly crowd were already

filled with good cheer. Honey Moon drew Hashknife aside and informed him

that O’Day would be there soon.

Corliss, limping a little from his accident, shook hands with Hashknife.

“You got off lucky,” said Hashknife.

Corliss nodded quickly.

“I jumped just in time. How soon does that hearing start?”

“Pretty soon, I reckon. Get yore boys down close to the front where we

can sort of look things over close, will yuh?”

“Sure thing.”

Hashknife motioned to the bartender, who came down to the end of the

bar.

“Can I borrow that blackboard back by the pool table?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender squinted at the rear wall, where a blackboard, about three

feet square, was suspended with a wire from a nail. It was used for

keeping pool scores.

“Borrow it? Sure yuh can. But you’ll bring it back, won’t yuh?”

“Sure,” Hashknife lifted the wire off the nail, picked up a stick of

chalk, and walked out through the back door, carrying the blackboard,

while the bartender squinted after him, wonderingly.

“What in —— is he goin’ to do with the blackboard?” asked Dayne, who had

seen Hashknife depart.

“I could answer something else a lot easier than that,” grunted the

bartender, and went back to his clamoring patrons.

Hashknife circled the saloon, crossed the street and went into the

building that was used as a courtroom. The door was open, but no one was

in the room. There were a few benches, but most of the seats were

chairs. A wide aisle down the center was the only mode of inlet and

exit.

The room was about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, with a space of

about fifteen feet deep railed off for the judge, jury and those

immediately concerned in the case. The judge’s desk was an old roll-top

affair on a level with the rest of the room.

* * * * *

Hashknife walked back to the desk and looked at the back wall. There

were plenty of protruding nails on which to hang his blackboard. He

selected one to the left of the desk which would allow the board to hang

about five feet above the floor.

The blackboard was the same on both sides, and was scarred from much

usage. Hashknife carefully drew some cabalistic marks on it, before

hanging it, with the marks turned to the wall. Then he sat down on a

front seat, rolled a cigaret and waited for the time to come.

He had only been seated a few minutes when Sleepy came in. He sauntered

down to Hashknife, squinting at the blackboard, and sat down.

“Goin’ to do some examples for the class?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded.

“Dutch O’Day just drove in,” offered Sleepy. A noise at the door caused

them to turn. The big Chinaman, Long How, was coming in, carrying O’Day.

“C’mon down here,” called Hashknife, and the Chinaman came grinning down

the aisle, depositing O’Day on a front seat.

“Thank ye, How Long,” said O’Day, adjusting himself carefully. “Ye may

run down to the Pekin Café and enjoy yer old friend. I’ll send for ye

when this is over.”

Long How smiled and went shuffling out.

“Ye heard about Hardy, of course,” said O’Day. “The poor ——. Too much

liquor. Corliss tells me that Hardy was comin’ out to pay me back for

what I said to him,” O’Day sighed. “Ah, it’s true that when ye try to

cook up a great heat against a man, ye may get scorched yerself. I know

it, Hartley.

“They tell me that things may go against Hank Ludden. We’ve not spoken

for two years, but I’d like to tell him that I’m for him.”

“He’d appreciate it, O’Day. His daughter was down to see him yesterday,

and I hope things are right between them.”

“I hope so. She’s a nice girl. I’ve seen her grow up, Hartley, but the

other day was the first time I realized it.”

Men were beginning to drift in, and among them was Armadillo Jones, who

came down to the front, selected his chair and sat down defiantly.

Hashknife noticed that Armadillo shifted his holster so that his gun

rested across his lap. He glared at O’Day, but grinned at Hashknife and

Sleepy.

The prosecuting attorney came in, carrying a book and some papers. He

squinted at the blackboard, but said nothing. Armadillo’s eyes followed

every movement of the lawyer, and the little man’s eyes were filled with

hate.

The seats were filling rapidly, and the lawyer glanced at the crowd

apprehensively. Finally he came to Hashknife, speaking to him in

whispers:

“I don’t like the looks of this. If you have any influence over these

men, I hope you will speak to them before the hearing begins.”

Hashknife nodded.

“I’ll see that yore case ain’t hurt.”

“Thank you.”

The three men from the Five Box came down the aisle, looking over the

empty seats. There were twelve jury chairs at the left side, facing the

judge’s desk, and the three cowboys clattered over to take possession of

three seats.

“My ——, I’d hate to be on trial with a jury like that!” yelled a cowboy

back in the crowd. It caused a general laugh, much to the embarrassment

of the three cowboys, who did not realize that they were making

themselves conspicuous. Honey Moon got up and opened the window near

them. Some one clapped his hands in applause, and Honey slipped back to

his seat, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

Then came the sheriff, Hank Ludden and Mary Lane. The roar of

conversation ceased abruptly, and the last half of their walk to the

table beside the judge’s desk was made in silence. They sat down, and

Armadillo moved over to join them.

Ludden looked old and tired, but there was a smile in his eyes, as he

leaned over and listened to what Mary was saying. His long, gray hair

was unkempt, and his big hands were locked together on the table, as he

peered at the crowd beneath his heavy brows.

The justice who was to hear the case came bustling in. When not acting

in his official capacity, he handled part of the affairs of the

Arapaho-Casco stage line. He was too fat to be dignified and too

unversed in court procedure to even be calm.

He wiped his brow, nodded to the prosecutor and sat down heavily. From

back in the room a man called—

“Remember, Hank, we’re with yuh.”

Hank Ludden smiled. The prosecuting attorney shot a quick glance at

Hashknife, who got to his feet, walked to the blackboard, where he

printed in large letters—

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS BOARD IS

THE ANSWER TO THE TWISTED RIVER MYSTERY.

Then he put the chalk in his pocket and stepped aside. Every eye in the

room was on the board, and from different parts of the room came droning

voices as some read it aloud. The judge and prosecutor stared at the

board and at Hashknife.

“Well, turn it over!” yelled an impatient cowboy, and the conversation

roared again, as men asked each other what was meant.

“What’s the mystery?” asked Corliss. “Let us in on it.”

Hashknife leaned back against the wall and looked at the prosecutor.

“Mind if I talk a few minutes?” he asked.

“It looks as though you might have to talk,” said the prosecutor.

Hashknife grinned at the crowd.

“This little social gatherin’ was for the purpose of seein’ whether the

law could try Hank Ludden for the murder of Joe Lane,” began Hashknife

easily. “The law didn’t have no case, and Hank didn’t have no defense.

“Now, I’ve got to go back a few months to a time when a man wrote me a

letter from Arapaho City, warnin’ me not to come and take charge of the

HL ranch. I didn’t _sabe_ it. Amos Hardy had told Hank Ludden to try and

get me to come, and gave Hank my address at Calumet.

“Hank’s letter had a return address on it, so he got his letter back.

The other letter had none, and that’s why I got warned off a job I never

took.”

Hashknife laughed softly and looked around. Every man was leaning

forward, listening intently.

“So,” continued Hashknife, “we came here to see why we wasn’t wanted,

and we ran into a killin’. We seen a man fall in the road, and a few

minutes later, Hank Ludden tried to kill the both of us. He thought we

were the two men who had been with the one he had shot.

“But we got away, circled back to the road, and I think Hank chased us

to town, where he got the sheriff and went out to find that he had shot

his son-in-law. After we got away from Hank Ludden, another shot was

fired, off to the west of us.

“But we got to town. The sun was in our eyes, and the horse and rider

appeared so sudden-like and the horse went into the brush so quickly

that we didn’t see what color it was.

“But,” Hashknife paused, scanning the crowd, as though trying to make up

his mind what to say next, “I am goin’ to prove to you that Hank Ludden

never killed Joe Lane!”

* * * * *

It was like dropping a bomb-shell in the room. For a moment there was

silence, then a roar of wonderment, a laugh. Hank Ludden got to his

feet, staring at Hashknife.

“Never killed him?” queried the sheriff. “What do yuh mean?”

Hashknife held up his hand as a signal for silence. It was difficult to

silence the room, but Hashknife waited.

“I am goin’ to prove that Joe Lane was killed by the rustlers. Now keep

still! I never got up here to answer questions.”

“Next thing, you’ll be sayin’ that McLeod didn’t kill Naylor,” snorted

one of the audience.

“He didn’t!” Hashknife’s reply snapped like a whip.

It left the audience goggle-eyed. They stared at him, as if he had gone

crazy. Hashknife’s eyes flashed to the three Five Box cowboys and found

them staring wide-eyed at him.

“Then who killed Naylor?” demanded a man on the second row.

“Hank Ludden!”

“For ——’s sake!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice. “What’ll he tell next?”

“What makes yuh think so?”

“How in —— could he?”

“Hank wasn’t at McLeod’s place!”

“Yo’re crazy!”

The questions and arguments came too fast for any of them to be

intelligible.

“Shut up!” The sheriff sprang to his feet and roared his order at the

crowd. “Set down! Now, keep still!”

Hashknife’s lips grinned, but his eyes were as hard as flint as he

waited, watching every movement. O’Day was staring up at him, his lips

twitching, while Sleepy cautiously eased his gun loose in its scabbard,

wondering what was coming next, but ready for anything.

Ludden had not resumed his seat, but was leaning one hand on the table,

staring at Hashknife, wondering if it could possibly be true. The

sheriff’s orders had caused the crowd to quiet enough for Hashknife to

proceed.

“Hank Ludden saw three men at the old U6 corral,” said Hashknife. “They

were misbrandin’ cattle. He shot one and the other two got away.

“Joe Lane, on his way to the Five Box, heard the shootin’, and started

toward it. He ran into the two rustlers, who killed him, probably

thinkin’ he was workin’ with Ludden.

“These rustlers knew that one of their bunch had been shot. They had to

get him. For the sheriff to find him would be to incriminate all of

them, so they substituted Joe Lane’s body for that of their companion.

Hank Ludden didn’t know it, ’cause he never looked at it until the

sheriff was with him.

“These two rustlers took the body of their companion with ’em. They had

to alibi him, so they picked a fight with Scotty McLeod, to blame him

and—”

Hashknife whirled, turned the blackboard around, disclosing a heavily

chalked HL brand, with thin chalk lines added to it, which builded it

into a perfect Five Box brand.

The denouement came so suddenly that Moon and Dayne were stricken dumb.

But not so with Corliss, whose brains had worked out all these schemes

for them. There were but two ways out of the room, the main aisle and

the open window, and Corliss knew he could never make the window.

And, knowing that only a miracle could save him, he was on his feet

before the blackboard had completely turned, whipping out his gun as he

came, fairly screaming an oath at Hashknife, who had drawn so swiftly

that it was an even break between them, but Sleepy’s six-shooter crashed

out before either of them could shoot, and Corliss whirled sidewise, his

gun falling to the floor.

Moon and Dayne dashed for the window, but Moon’s grasp was inches short.

Both Hashknife and Sleepy were shooting at them, and at that distance

there was little chance of a miss. Both Dayne and Moon were making a

desperate effort to keep going. Dayne was partly shielded by Moon, who

was more intent on escape than fight.

He whirled, falling with his back against the wall, and his one shot

skittered along the table-top, filling old Armadillo’s eyes with

splinters. Dayne’s gun clattered to the floor and he threw up his one

good arm in a token of surrender, his two shots having gone wild, but he

was surrendering to a higher power than the courts of law of Arapaho.

Hashknife vaulted across the body of Corliss and drew Moon and Dayne

apart. A look sufficed. He turned back to Corliss, who had managed to

lift his head and was trying to speak. Hashknife held up his hand for

silence, and the struggling crowd stopped long enough for Corliss to be

heard.

“O’Day didn’t know,” he said painfully, his eyes closed. “It’s all

right. Moon said you was—a tin—god—”

That was all. The courtroom quickly cleared, while the doctor went to

work and the crowd waited outside for Hashknife. Two men carried O’Day

to the edge of the sidewalk. He seemed too stunned even to ask

questions, and his face was twisted painfully over the shock of it all.

* * * * *

Hank Ludden, Mary Lane and Armadillo were inside a circle of men, who

insisted on shaking their hands, and Hank Ludden hardly seemed to know

what it was all about. The sheriff came from the courtroom and halted

near Hashknife, who had come out just ahead of him.

“Hartley, how did you figure all that out?” he asked.

The crowd gathered around him, imploring him to tell them.

“I told most of it in there,” said Hashknife. “There had to be a way to

change the HL brand. It was awful simple to make it into a Five Box. I

found out that O’Day was crippled and let Corliss handle his sales and

all that. What could be easier than for Corliss to steal HL stock and

sell ’em with O’Day’s stuff?

“If I had known where to get in touch with Amos, I might-a checked up on

his buying, and found out that he bought more Five Box cattle than O’Day

got paid for, I reckon. But I wasn’t so sure that O’Day wasn’t mixed-up

in the stealin’ from the HL.

“And when I did figure out that Corliss was the guilty party, Amos Hardy

shows up and proceeds to get drunk and stick around with Corliss, so I

had no chance to find out anythin’.

“Amos Hardy paid cash. O’Day got paid for his cattle, and Corliss,

Naylor, Dayne and Moon got paid for HL cattle. They tried to kill me and

Sleepy at McCallville.

“Corliss was clever, but made the mistake of tryin’ to kill us through a

saloon window. They ruined the firin’-pins on the rifles we borrowed

from the sheriff so as to cripple us for long range work. They figured

we’d ride back through Crow Rock Cañon in daylight, and they could pick

us off. And we might-a done it too, if they hadn’t overplayed their hand

by shootin’ through the window.

“They put a note in McLeod’s coat, feelin’ that me or the sheriff would

find it. It sent us to McCallville and almost got us killed.

“I wanted to be sure and I couldn’t feel sure until Hardy was killed. He

said he had a list of every shipment he had ever bought from Dutch

O’Day, and he was goin’ to show it to O’Day yesterday. When the sheriff

brought O’Day’s effects back, that list was gone.

“Corliss killed Hardy to get that list. He couldn’t afford to have O’Day

know how many cattle had been shipped, because it would be a lot more

than O’Day’s list showed. So Corliss killed Hardy, took that list and

blamed the runaway.”

“But I knew nothin’ about it,” O’Day’s face twisted painfully. “I didn’t

know it, lad.”

“I was sure yuh didn’t, O’Day. If you had been guilty, Corliss would not

have killed Hardy.”

Hank Ludden came over to Hashknife, peering at him from beneath his

shaggy brows.

“Hartley,” he said slowly. Just that. It was enough. Hashknife held out

his hand and they gripped tightly.

“I’m glad I didn’t get yore letter, Hank,” smiled Hashknife. “It was

written in the Big Book that the man who told you about me had to die

first.”

“Yes,” said Ludden simply.

Mary did not speak, but the look in her eyes, as she gazed at Hashknife,

was payment enough.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” muttered O’Day. “Ludden, my men robbed ye for a long

time. Put my brand on yer stock. Of this I had no knowledge, but ye’ll

not lose. I’ll make good. It’s about all there is left in life for me to

make good.”

The tall, thin, county treasurer pushed his way through the crowd and

held out his hand to Mary Lane.

“Congratulations,” he blurted. “The—I was just talking to one of the

commissioners who was in there—in the courtroom. They have—er—” He

winked boldly at Hank Ludden, who had given him the check to issue in

monthly payments to Mary. “They have decided to go right on paying

you—er—another one hundred and ten dollars per month.”

Mary looked at him blankly and at the sheriff, whose mouth was wide open

like a fish out of water. Then the sheriff turned and went striding

toward his office. It was too much for him. Hashknife and Sleepy

overtook him before he reached the office, and he was talking to

himself, something about four hundred and forty dollars per month, but

did not explain to them.

“I’m goin’ to turn McLeod loose,” he muttered. “He’ll sure be glad to

have yuh tell him all about it.”

He swung open the door and stepped inside, but Hashknife and Sleepy kept

right on going toward the livery stable.

Their room rent was all paid up and they had no baggage to get. Swiftly

they saddled and rode out of Arapaho City, circling the town and going

away the same way they had come to the town.

The crowd was still in front of the courthouse, probably wondering what

had become of Hashknife and Sleepy, but they were doing what they had

done many times before—getting away ahead of thanks and hero worship.

They pounded across the Twisted River bridge and along the dusty road,

passing the spot where Joe Lane’s body had been found and drawing rein

only when they saw the old sign—