Chapter IV: Part 4

Lonesome’s reply brought a grin, but it was short-lived.

Came the sound of a hurried footstep, the door was flung open and Lorna Cassidy almost fell inside the room. She shut the door behind her and stood with her back against it.

She was hatless, one sleeve of her dress was torn badly. Her hair was wind-blown and one of her long braids was wrapped once around her neck; as though she had ridden fast and far through the wind.

She looked from face to face in that smoke-fogged room, her lips shut tight, her eyes blazing, until she caught sight of Hashknife, and spoke directly to him.

“Your pardner was shot--hour--or--so--ago!” she panted.

Hashknife sprang to his feet, as did the rest of the men.

“My pardner--Sleepy. Shot? Not dead?”

She shook her head, her eyes still searching the room.

“No, not dead; hurt bad.”

Hashknife went to her and took her by the arm.

“Don’t hurry,” he advised her hoarsely. “Take yore time and tell us all about it.”

She nodded, leaning against the door, as she looked from face to face. She appeared to be looking for some one.

“We were out riding,” she said slowly. “We had been to town and when we were coming back we decided to take a ride into the hills.

“We saw a man riding alone, but paid no attention to him. As we were riding down to our ranch, a shot was fired and my horse fell. I hurt my head a little, and before I could get up another shot was fired and Sleepy fell off his horse.

“I got him to the house and--” she shook her head wearily-- “My mother helped me. She heard the shots, too.”

“But how bad is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t know. The bullet struck him under the left arm and knocked him off the horse. He didn’t know anything for a while, but he woke up all right.”

“How long ago did this happen?” asked Trainor.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while before dark.”

“And he hasn’t had a doctor?” queried Hashknife.

Lorna shook her head.

“My mother is better than a doctor. She knows what to do. He knew I came over to tell you, and he said to tell you that he’s all right.”

“And you didn’t see the man that fired the shots?” said the sheriff.

Lorna looked around the circle again and back at the sheriff.

“Yes, I seen him.”

“Yuh did? My gosh! Who was he?”

“I got up, after my horse fell with me. I was dizzy for a minute, but I looked back toward the hill and I seen the man riding away. It was the same man we saw a while before.”

“But who was he?” urged half-a-dozen voices, as the cattlemen crowded around her.

“Give us his name,” demanded the sheriff.

But Lorna shook her head.

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I told Sleepy about it and he said for me to not tell anybody.”

“Well, that’s a ---- of a note!” wailed Lonesome.

Hashknife smiled grimly. He knew that Sleepy, even though badly hurt, knew that this information would be for them alone.

“You want to be party to a crime?” queried the sheriff. “If yuh don’t tell, yo’re as guilty as the shooter.”

Lorna backed against the door and looked defiantly at him.

“All right, arrest me.”

“Oh ----!”

The sheriff turned appealingly to the men.

“What can yuh do in a case like that?”

Hashknife turned and went out through the kitchen, heading for the barn. He saddled and led his horse outside, where he found the cattlemen waiting for him. Poco brushed past him, saying that he and Trainor were going along.

Lorna was already in the saddle; so he rode in beside her and they led the way. There was little conversation. Every man felt that they would soon know the name of the man who had been terrorizing the Ghost Hills Range, and they also knew that he would never live to be tried by a court of law.

Hashknife did not question Lorna, and he felt that these men would have their ride in vain. If Sleepy did not want her to tell the name of the killer, it was because this information might serve them to uncover the whole band.

Near the forks of the road he asked if it might not be well to send one man after the doctor at Wolf Wells, but she said:

“My mother good doctor. She knows what to do.”

Hashknife knew that many of the Indians were adept at treating gunshot wounds, and a rangeland doctor is not usually a surgeon; so he agreed that her idea was probably the best.

It was a silent group of riders that dismounted at the open door of the Tomahawk ranch-house and filed inside. Sleepy was stretched out on a cot and beside him sat the Indian woman, Mrs. Cassidy.

Sleepy was very white, but he grinned at Hashknife and looked around at the crowd.

“Pardner, how do yuh feel?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Fine.” Sleepy’s voice was weak. “They come danged near handin’ me a harp, Hashknife.”

“Where did it hit yuh?”

“Kinda under the pit of m’ arm and come out over m’ chest. It sure ripped ---- out of me. I must have cast-iron ribs, ’cause she didn’t go inside.”

“Then yuh ain’t hurt bad.” There was a note of relief in Hashknife’s voice.

“F’r a minute I thought yuh was dead, cowboy.”

“You didn’t have nothin’ on me. I seen seven flocks of angels flyin’ in a V-shape over me. I says to myself, ‘Sleepy, yo’re goin’ to be a migratory bird, instead of a harpist.’”

The sheriff shoved his way to the front and looked down at Sleepy.

“The girl says that yuh know who shot yuh.”

Sleepy squinted up at the sheriff in amazement. He turned his head slowly and looked at the ring of faces around him.

“Well, I know that somebody did,” he said softly, “but a feller with his face in the dust can’t hardly see behind him and up a hill.”

“But you seen the same feller before today,” persisted the sheriff. “By ----, we want to know who it was!”

“So do I,” said Sleepy. “I want to be sure.”

“You give us his name and we’ll find out for yuh,” stated old man Shappee.

Sleepy shook his head and looked appealingly at Hashknife, who turned to the crowd.

“Gents, yuh can’t bother him no more now. He’s been bad hurt, and he don’t want to talk.”

The crowd moved back to the doorway and the Indian woman sat down beside Sleepy, giving him a drink of something that had a most peculiar odor.

There was no question but what the cattlemen were not in the best of humor. They had come a long way after information and had not received it.

“I don’t understand why they won’t talk,” said Trainor. “This ain’t a thing to keep secret. If the guilty one finds out that they are known, they’ll fog out of the country and we’ll never see ’em again.”

“Well,” Lonesome shook his head sadly, “that sure wouldn’t hurt my feelin’s, none whatever. They can’t fog too soon nor too far to suit old man Hobbs’ little son.”

“---- it!” wailed the sheriff dismally. “What’s the good of havin’ a sheriff.”

“I’ve argued the same question many times,” smiled Hashknife, “but yuh never can make folks listen to reason. I never seen one yet that was good for anythin’, except pitchin’ horseshoes.”

“What I want to know is this.” Jud Carey spat dryly and looked around. “When do we git informed as to who the shooter was?”

“Don’t look at me!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ve asked questions until m’ tonsils are all raw. I don’t see why they’re keepin’ this to themselves, danged if I do.”

“I reckon there’s nothin’ to be learned here,” said Shappee wearily, “and it’s a long ride back to the old Flyin’ M. I ain’t as young as I used to be.”

“Come over and stay with us tonight,” offered Trainor.

“Yeah, and have ma pawin’ holes in the carpet, ’cause I don’t come home. She’s scared stiff, jist thinkin’ that I might git shot in the back. I told her that at my age it didn’t make a ---- bit of difference whether they shot me in the back or the front. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the same, Trainor.”

“You’re sure welcome to come,” laughed Trainor, and turned to Hashknife.

“You goin’ back with us, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, I reckon I’ll stay here tonight. Mebbe I’ll have to go after a doctor, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll be over early in the mornin’.”

They went back to their horses and rode away down the moonlit highway, which wound in and out of the brushy cañons. Hashknife watched them until they faded out in the distance, and turned back, closing the door behind him.

He crossed the room and drew the blanket curtain across the window near the cot. Lorna had sat down near the fireplace, and a moment later Jimmy, the half-breed, slipped in the front door and closed it quickly.

Jimmy was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned against the wall. The squaw spoke to him in the Sioux tongue and he shook his head.

“Lorna go way, Jimmy watch,” volunteered the squaw in explanation.

“See nothin’,” grunted Jimmy, coming closer to the cot and grinning at Sleepy.

“You feel good, eh? Minnie ---- good doctor.”

Hashknife walked over and squatted down on his heels beside the cot.

“Yuh want to talk about it, Sleepy?” he asked.

“Ask Lorna.”

Lorna came closer and spoke softly.

“It was Buck Avery.”

“Buck Avery?”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. Buck had been drunk for two days. He was still drinking that morning, and was dead drunk just before supper.

“I’m sorry, but I reckon yuh made a mistake, Lorna,” he said slowly, and told them of Buck’s drinking.

“I told her not to tell anybody, and I’m glad she didn’t,” said Sleepy weakly. “It don’t pay to be too quick in a thing like that.”

Lorna shook her head slowly and stared at the blank wall.

“No talk much,” grunted the squaw. “---- good thing.”

“I seen that man,” persisted Lorna, as if visualizing him now. “He rode like Buck Avery and he looked like Buck Avery. But this man was not drunk.”

“Got me the second shot,” grinned Sleepy. “His first one must ’a’ just grazed me and hit Lorna’s horse in the head. No drunken man fired them two shots.”

“Which lets Buck out,” declared Hashknife. “He’s been drunk ever since I went to the Circle Cross. But this sure puts us in one fine fix. The guilty party will think that we know ’em, and they’ll either pull out of the country or try harder to wipe us out.”

“Don’t worry sick man,” advised the squaw. “Go to bed.”

“That’s good advice,” admitted Hashknife, and to Sleepy--

“If that bullet tore yuh up bad, suppose I go after a doctor and have him sew yuh up.”

“I fixum,” grunted the squaw. “No need doctor.”

“That’s a cinch,” grinned Sleepy. “Mother fixed me up fine. I couldn’t be sewed tighter if they used a sewing-machine on me. Don’tcha bother about me, Hashknife; you keep yore own skin together.”

Hashknife accepted a blanket from Lorna, kicked off his boots and rolled up in a corner. He was dog-tired, but his mind refused to rest. He wondered who rode and looked like Buck Avery.

Mentally he compared every Ghost Hills cowpuncher that he knew, but none of them looked like Buck. Still, at a distance, there was a similarity between Buck and Honey Simpson, the silent puncher from the 66. Even Bility Edwards might be mistaken for Buck.

But his mind always jerked back to Buck Avery, snoring on the bunk, with the empty bottle beside him and the bunk-house smelling strongly of liquor. Buck was drunk the night that Jimmy, the half-breed, had been shot, and Buck had gone to the Flying M ranch at the time that Quong had nearly been hit.

The Flying M was west of the Circle Cross, while the shots had been fired from the east. Buck had been to Wolf Wells that day, and had also carried the message to the Flying M for Trainor.

And last, but not least, there was not a .30-30 rifle on the Circle Cross. The bullet that wrecked Quong’s kettle was a .30-30. Hashknife had seen Smoky Cole’s wound, but it was hard to tell what kind of a bullet had killed him. He wished now that he had examined it more closely.

He resolved to examine the dead horse in the morning and see if he could find the bullet. Lorna was sitting by the fireplace, her chin cupped in her hands and Hashknife studied her profile.

Just beyond her, and to the right, sat her mother, a short, squat, typical Indian woman. He thought of Pinto Cassidy, with his wizened, wrinkled, Irish countenance, and wondered what freak of nature had given these two an offspring like Lorna. She was as unlike either of them as a child could be.

And then he went to sleep to dream of miles of mesquite clumps with a bushwhacker behind each one, and him with a .45-70 rifle and nothing to shoot in it, except .30-30 caliber cartridges.

Just after midnight a severe thunderstorm swept the Ghost Hills, and the downpour of rain thudded hollowly on the roof of the Tomahawk ranch-house; but Hashknife slept the sleep of the just, in spite of it all.

It was barely past daylight when Hashknife awoke and rolled out of his blanket. The old squaw was already preparing breakfast and Sleepy was snoring soundly. Jimmy, the half-breed, put in a yawning appearance, and peered cautiously out of a window.

“Whatcha see?” queried Hashknife.

“I just look,” replied Jimmy.

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and turned to the squaw.

“Mother, how’s the patient gettin’ along?”

She smiled widely and nodded toward the cot.

“He get well now--pretty quick.”

“He sure didn’t git hit in his snorer,” grinned Hashknife, and nodded to Lorna who had just come in.

She walked over, looked at Sleepy, who awoke and grinned up at her.

“How are yuh feelin’, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Gimme a cigaret.”

They sat down and discussed the happenings of the evening before, but Lorna still persisted that the man looked exactly like Buck Avery.

“But,” argued Hashknife, “Buck has been drunk for several days. He was drunk when we found him yesterday.”

“Lorna know Buck pretty good,” said Jimmy.

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If it was Buck, he’s headin’ out of this country right now. He’d hear that Lorna seen him, and he’d sure fade away fast. But where would Buck fit into the scheme of things?”

No one seemed to have an answer for that question. They ate breakfast and Hashknife announced his intentions of going back to the Circle Cross ranch.

“No ---- good,” declared Jimmy.

“Yuh think they’d bushwhack me, Jimmy?”

“Think plenty now,” advised Jimmy.

Hashknife grinned and puffed on his cigaret.

“Mebbe yo’re right, Jimmy,” he finally agreed. “They’d hate to have me pack information back with me, I reckon. None of ’em know the name that Lorna had in mind, but they’d know danged well that I’d have it now. Mebbe we better try somethin’ easy at first.”

Hashknife selected an old pair of overalls, an old shirt and a pair of boots. Three blankets sufficed for the stuffing of them. He tied a rope around the dummy under the arms and left a length of rope extending from each side. Then he surmounted the thing with his own hat, fitting it to the roll of blanket which extended up through the neck of the shirt.

“Grab hold of a rope, Jimmy,” he ordered, and the half-breed obeyed with a grin.

“Looks more like me than I do,” laughed Hashknife as he dragged the dummy over to the door.

“Now, Jimmy, you stand on one side and hold yore rope high and tight enough to make the darned things stand up like a man. Don’t expose yourself, young feller. All set?”

Jimmy nodded and drew the rope tight. Hashknife looked back in the room to see that nothing was in line. Then he shoved the door wide open. The dummy looked like a cowboy. Perhaps it was a trifle limp-looking at close range.

It stood there for perhaps five seconds motionless. Then it jerked convulsively and fell sidewise. From the rear of the room came the splat of a bullet striking wood, and from the hills came the thin pop of a high-power cartridge.

Hashknife reached out and drew the door shut. Jimmy stood there, looking foolishly at a piece of rope in his hand, which had been cleanly severed. It was a rope made from Maguey fiber, about the size of a clothes-line, but very hard and brittle.

“Well,” said Hashknife, shoving the dummy aside, “I’ll say that it worked to the queen’s taste.”

The two women were staring wonderingly at him, but Sleepy was laughing joyously. Jimmy crossed the room and poked his finger at the spot where the bullet had bored into the seasoned wall.

“We’re sure hived up for keeps,” said Sleepy, as if rather pleased at the prospect. Sleepy loved a fight, and nothing pleased him more than to give odds.

“You ain’t in it, you doggone cripple,” reminded Hashknife. “Yuh don’t need to start cheerin’ about it.”

Jimmy had moved the curtain an inch and was staring out through the window.

“See anythin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’. They think you dead--mebbe.”

“Very likely. But they won’t stop at one killin’. They will naturally think that we all know the guilty man, and they’ll try to stop all of us. You got a rifle, Jimmy?”

“You ---- right!”

Jimmy went into another room and came back with an old .50-90 Sharps, which he handled lovingly before giving it to Hashknife.

“That good gun, you bet.”

Hashknife grinned and examined it. He knew the killing power of the old Sharps, even though they did not compare with the high-power rifle. He accepted a handful of cartridges from the half-breed.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

“I’m goin’ into the hills,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m goin’ to have a perfectly good little fight, and yo’re goin’ to lay here in yore nice little beddie and wish you was along; _sabe?_”

“Aw ----! You’ll go out there and get yore danged hide all filled up with soft-nose bullets that’s what you’ll do. Ain’tcha got no sense, Hashknife?”

“Sour grapes,” retorted Hashknife, and to Jimmy--

“Gimme more shells.”

Jimmy gave him several more, which Hashknife pocketed. He rescued his hat from the dummy and drew it tightly on his head.

“Now, you folks just set tight, will yuh? I’ve got to teach them bushwhackers that they ain’t got the only rifle in the Ghost Hills. _Adios._ That means good-by in Spanish.”

“Thirty-thirty,” retorted Sleepy. “That means good-by in any darned language.”

Hashknife went to the rear of the house, opened a window as wide as possible, stood up on a chair and fairly dived outside. He landed on his feet, ducked low and ran swiftly toward the upper corral, running in a zigzag angle to confuse any one who might be trying to use him for a target.

He had almost reached the angle of the corral fence when--

_Whim-m-m-m!_

A bullet tore up the ground almost under his feet and _zee-e-e-e’d_ its way up the slope of the hills. It was too close for comfort, and Hashknife was thankful for the protection of a patch of brush behind the corral fence.

“Good shootin’,” he panted aloud, as he crawled like a snake fifty feet from where he had dropped behind the brush.

The shooter was evidently unable to determine just where Hashknife had gone; so he tore a few splinters off the pole-corral, just taking a chance on scoring a hit.

Hashknife worked his way the length of the corral and into a bunch of brush on the side of the hill, where he snuggled into a depression and prayed for a chance to do a little shooting. He studied the hills beyond the ranch-house, but could see nothing.

He knew that the man had not seen him take cover on the hill, because no more shots had been fired. He had watched closely for about five minutes, when his vigilance was rewarded.

Something moved in a jumble of brush and rocks, but the distance was a good four hundred yards. It moved again, and this time Hashknife could see that it was a man.

He appeared to be moving very slowly, and was evidently trying to work his way higher in order to get a better view beyond the corral fence.

Hashknife estimated the distance and set his sights. It was a long shot and a small target, as the man did not expose much of his anatomy at a time.

The old gun kicked viciously and emitted a cloud of smoke; while its report clattered like artillery, as it echoed from the surrounding hills.

Hashknife ducked low under the smoke and saw the bullet strike. It threw up a cloud of dust about a foot below where the target had been.

“Next time, brother,” promised Hashknife, as he shoved in another cartridge.

But the next moment a bullet splattered into the bank behind him, causing him to hug the ground tightly. Another struck to his left, another to his right. The man was trying to find out his location.

Another bullet ricocheted off a rock behind him, while the next one threw sand in his face.

Hashknife snorted loudly, kicked himself loose from that location and rolled back down the hill, where he scuttled up the draw a little and got behind a big rock.

“That danged old smoke-wagon sure advertised my location,” he panted aloud. “Anyway, I scared him so that he wasn’t exactly sure just where I was.”

He stayed flat on the ground and recovered his breath, while an occasional bullet searched along the corral fence, but did no damage. He knew that the man had not seen him take cover so he felt reasonably safe.

But inaction soon palled upon him and he looked around for a good place to try for again. Just to the left of the corral was a jumble of broken rock and a clump of greasewood, which would make a fine breastworks. It was about a hundred feet away, but Hashknife took the chance and ran for it. He fell in behind the greasewood, without a shot being fired.

“That’s danged funny,” he told himself. “What’s happened to m’ friend with the .30-30?”

There was no question but what the man could have seen him make the run. He studied the spot where the man had been, but there was nothing there as far as he could see.

“Gotta make him start somethin’,” he told a lone magpie, which had stopped on a tall post and was chattering angrily over something.

Hashknife drew his feet under him, gripped the rifle tightly and ran for the corner of the barn like a rabbit hunting a hole. But there was no response from the man on the hill. He crawled in through a broken window and secured a saddle-blanket, which he hung on a pitchfork and tried to draw a shot by extending it slightly past the corner of the barn.

Then he walked deliberately into the open and headed for the house. But no shots were fired at him.

“Somethin’ chased him away, I reckon,” he decided, as he went back into the house.

Lorna and Jimmy met him at the door while Sleepy yelled weakly for details of the slaughter.

“I shot at him once and scared him away,” laughed Hashknife.

“Don’t lie to a cripple,” wailed Sleepy.

“Well, he just quit shootin’ then,” grinned Hashknife. “Somethin’ scared him away, and I’m going to see if I can find out what it was. I’ll be back this evenin’.”

“I’m goin’ to get up tomorrow,” declared Sleepy hopefully, looking at the old squaw.

“I ain’t sick, am I, mother?”

“You pretty good. Get up bimeby.”

“Yuh betcha. I can ride and shoot as good as ever and I’m danged if I’m goin’ to let you have all the fun.”

Hashknife laughed teasingly.

“Sleepy, I sure had fun. That son-of-a-gun seen the smoke from this old rifle and he sure salivated everythin’ in range. _Powee-e-e!_ Bullets everywhere, and me down in a little swale, with m’ stummick wrapped around my vertebray. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Sleepy swore softly at anybody lucky enough to have fun like that, and Hashknife went swiftly down to the barn and saddled his horse. Jimmy, the half-breed, had put up the horse the night before. Hashknife still kept the Sharps rifle, and rode away with it across the fork of his saddle.

He pointed straight into the hills to the spot where the man had been hiding. The downpour of rain the night before had softened the ground a little, and Hashknife was able to find where the man’s heels had dug into the dirt.

He trailed the man to the top of the hogback, but there he was forced to give up the scent. Greasewood and tall sage grew in profusion on this hog-back, and the man had evidently taken advantage of it, as the last tracks that Hashknife had found were pointing up the slope.

He mounted again and followed the ridge, watching closely. He rode around the heads of several brushy coulees and was about to head back toward the road, when he spied a rider crossing the coulee below him. Hashknife dropped off his horse and watched closely. The rider went slowly up the side of the hill, going cautiously and scanning the country carefully.

“Poco Saunders,” muttered Hashknife, as he adjusted his sights carefully. “Poco, yo’re coyote bait right now.”

But something in Poco’s actions caused him to hold his fire. He was leaning down from his saddle, as if searching for something on the ground. He rode ahead a short distance and from his actions it seemed that he was following a trail.

Hashknife squatted low in the brush and watched him reach the ridge and disappear over the other side.

“Now that’s a queer actin’ jasper,” Hashknife told his horse. “Mebbe we better see what’s ailin’ him.”

He circled the head of the coulee and picked up Poco’s horse-tracks. He waited a while and finally he saw Poco far down the next coulee, heading along the side of it, still looking down.

Hashknife looked closely down at the horse-tracks and discovered that two horses had passed that way.

“Poco’s trailin’ somebody, and I’m trailin’ him,” he laughed. “Kinda like button, button, who’s got the button.”

He gave Poco plenty of time to get out of sight before he took up the trail again, which kept bearing toward the road. Finally he reached the top of the hill, where he could look down at the road, but the trail did not lead directly down.

He could see where Poco had started down, lost the trail and had come back to the top again. The trail led along the top for possibly an eighth of a mile, as if the rider had been looking over the country below, and headed down a heavily wooded coulee, which opened into a little swale down near the road.

At the lower end of the open swale was a clump of old cottonwoods, and it was near these that the trail practically ended. Here were the marks of footprints, as if the horse had stood there several minutes.

“Heard somebody comin’ along the road,” decided Hashknife, as he went on down to the road, where all the footprints jumbled into those of the regular country traffic.

Hashknife noted that he had struck the road just below where the road forked to the Circle Cross ranch; so he swung to the east and rode slowly through the hills to the ranch.

He wondered what Poco was doing in the hills and who he was trailing.

“Was Poco doin’ the shootin’?” he wondered. “Did somebody scare him and was he trailin’ this other party to see what they were up to? Or did Poco happen in, hear the shots and start trailin’ the shooter?”

As far as he could see, Poco carried no rifle; but at that distance it would not be possible to see whether there might be one in a scabbard on the saddle.

“Anyway,” he decided as he rode in at the ranch, “the shooter got scared and pulled out. They may be goshawful bad, but they can be scared, that’s a cinch.”

* * * * *

He put up his horse and went up to the house, where he found Buck Avery eating breakfast. Buck looked unkempt and appeared to be still shaky from drink.

“’Lo, Hartley,” he grunted, helping himself to more black coffee. “They tell me yore friend got shot yesterday. How’s he gittin’ along?”

“Fine, Buck. Didn’t hurt him much, and he’ll be out right away.”

“Tha’s good,” mumbled Buck. “Had yore breakfast?”

“Yeah, long time ago.”

“Time f’r another. Hey! Quong! Fry the gent some aigs.”

“Yessah, lite away.”

Hashknife did not object. He was always in the mood for ham and eggs, and it had been two hours or more since he had eaten.

“Where’s Trainor?” asked Hashknife.

“Gone t’ town with Lanpher. Poco went over to the Tomahawk t’ see how yore friend is. Didn’t yuh meet him?”

Hashknife shook his head and attacked his eggs.

“No. I came across the hills.”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck gulped his coffee and began rolling a cigaret.

“I’m off the hooch,” he declared. “I’ve seen a whole danged mee-nag-i-ree pee-radin’ around here the last two days. Caught me two vi’let colored elephants las’ evenin’, but they gnawed their way out of the corral.”

He got up rather unsteadily and headed for the bunk-house. Hashknife laid aside his knife and fork. Something caused him to distrust Buck, although he could not see how Buck could have done all the deviltry. He sauntered out and went down to the barn, where he examined Buck’s horse, but there was nothing to show that the animal had been ridden that day. It was true that Buck could have removed all traces of travel; but the animal’s spirits did not fit in with a fifteen-mile trip.

“If he rode yuh today, he didn’t ride yuh far,” declared Hashknife, and went outside where he sat down on an old lumber-pile and grew comfortable over his cigaret.

Mrs. Lanpher came out on the porch of the ranch-house and Hashknife mentally compared her and her daughter to Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, and Lorna.

“Too much money and too much convention,” decided Hashknife. “They ain’t a danged bit natural. Still, they’re mothers, just the same--and this one’s got a boy in jail.”

He sauntered up to the porch and was surprized to receive a cordial “good-morning” from Mrs. Lanpher.

“Sure is a nice mornin’, ma’am,” admitted Hashknife, sitting down on the steps. “How’s all yore folks?”

“Mr. Lanpher has gone to town with Mr. Trainor and Helen has a slight headache,” she replied.

“What is the latest news from your friend who was hurt last night?”

“Thank yuh kindly, ma’am; he’s doin’ fine. He got kinda ripped up a little, thasall.”

“I am very glad to hear he is doing so well. I asked my husband to explain some of these things to me last night, and what he told me was surprizing, to say the least. Why, the whole country must be in a turmoil. And nobody knows who is doing it all.”

“No, ma’am, they sure don’t. Yore husband and Trainor are doin’ everythin’ they can, I reckon.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“I know little about these things, but it seems that the loss in stock has been tremendous. But--” she stared across the gray hills and her lips twitched slightly-- “I--I would not mind it--the money part of it--if my boy was back with us again.”

“Yes’m, that part of it is kinda hard,” agreed Hashknife. “I’d sure like to help him, ma’am. But you’ve sure got to take him away from the range country, when he gets loose.

“Yore boy is all right, ma’am; he’s fine, inside. But he got a lot of queer notions, don’tcha know it? Somebody told him that he was a good shot, and he immediate and soon proclaims himself a gunman and goes seekin’ a victim.

“He got to likin’ whisky, too. It’s bad for kids, ma’am. Ben’s all right, and I don’t want yuh to think that I’m paintin’ him worse than I ought to. Yessir, he’s all right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly. “I feel that you know my boy well enough to express an opinion. We have been lax with him, I know. Mr. Lanpher was not at all discreet in the matter of his--er--feelings toward the half-breed girl. Of course it was absurd for Ben to think of such an alliance, but it might have been handled differently.”

“Well,” Hashknife settled himself and began rolling a cigaret carefully. “Well, ma’am, there’s a lot worse things could happen to Ben. Half-breeds don’t make bad wives. I ’member that old Jake Dickson married one over in the Button Willer country, and she stood for old Jake two years before she killed him in a friendly fight.

“And there was old ‘Shep’ Hardy, over in the Skiwaumpus country. He married a breed girl. Everybody said that no human could get along with old Shep for thirty days; but she was ca’m and patient with him--which no white woman would have been--and he annoyed her for darned near a year before she stole the ladder out of his prospect shaft and left him there, while she run away with a sheepherder. I tell yuh, they’re fine wives, if yuh give ’em a chance, ma’am.”

“Horrors!” Mrs. Lanpher shuddered visibly.

“Of course,” amended Hashknife, “he ain’t got her yet, and he may not be lucky enough to get her; but she’s a fine girl.”

“But to think of Benjamin Lanpher marrying an Indian! Why, it would never do at all, don’t you see.”

“She sure’s got ancestors,” grinned Hashknife. “I heard a feller braggin’ once about his ancestors comin’ over in the Mayflower. Called his family old-timers. He sure paraded his great-grandpas, until a dark-complected gent spoke up and said that his folks was pretty good sort of folks, until that darned boat showed up.

“Come to find out, the dark-complected gent had a lot of Delaware Injun blood in him, and he proved to this Mayflower gent that his Injun ancestors were free as birds years before the Mayflower gent’s ancestors quit bein’ branded by their owners.”

“I--I suppose that is true,” agreed Mrs. Lanpher, “but that does not lessen the fact that we do not want Ben to marry this girl.”

“All right,” said Hashknife. “Neither do I, ma’am. Talkin’ seriously; I don’t like marriages of that kind. I’ve got a lot of respect for Injun blood, when it ain’t been tainted. Mixin’ Injun and white blood brings out the vices of both and the virtues of neither.

“Lorna is a doggoned sweet little girl--too sweet for yore son--the way he’s been actin’. And I’m whisperin’ my objections to this here marriage as much for her sake as for Ben. She’s got just as much right to be happy as he has, don’t cha see? I reckon we all dislike to see ’em get married. Even Trainor don’t like it.”

“That is one of the reasons that Ben refused to stay here on this ranch,” explained Mrs. Lanpher. “Mr. Trainor knew what Ben was doing, so he wrote to us about it. Ben resented it greatly and left the ranch.”

“That was too bad,” agreed Hashknife heartily.

“You’ve known Trainor a long time, ain’t yuh, ma’am?”

“Mr. Lanpher has.”

“Ma’am, I am goin’ to ask yuh a personal question, if yuh don’t mind.”

Mrs. Lanpher looked curiously at him.

“A personal question?”

“Yes’m: I was goin’ to ask yuh if yore daughter is goin’ to marry Trainor?”

Mrs. Lanpher’s lips shut tightly, but she smiled a trifle as she shook her head.

“No, I do not think so. Why do you ask that question?”

“Just kinda curious, thasall.”

“No.” Mrs. Lanpher shook her head and sighed deeply. “A year ago Helen was not of age, and Mr. Trainor wanted her to marry him. I refused, because I did not think that she knew her own mind in the matter. And more than that, Mr. Trainor is twice her age.

“No doubt Mr. Trainor would make a good husband; but with her advantages I think she could do much better. I explained it fully to Mr. Trainor and he was gentleman enough to--well, not exactly agree with me--but to drop the matter.”

“What did Mr. Lanpher think of it?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, he was not at all diplomatic. He said it was absurd--and I think he told Mr. Trainor just that.”

Hashknife rubbed out his cigaret against the step and got to his feet. Poco Saunders was riding in through the main gate, heading for the barn. Hashknife turned to Mrs. Lanpher.

“Ma’am, I didn’t mean to pry into yore family affairs, and I ask yore pardon. I’ll sure do all I can to open the jail for yore boy.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied. “It was good to just have some one to talk to, and those family affairs are no secret.”

Hashknife lifted his hat and went to the barn where Poco was unsaddling. He looked at Hashknife curiously, but said nothing as he hung up his saddle and came back to the door.

“I been out to the Tomahawk,” volunteered Poco.

“Yeah, I seen yuh,” replied Hashknife easily.

“Yuh did?” Poco squinted reflectively, thoughtfully.

“Yuh did?” He repeated the question. “Where?”

“Back in the hills,” Hashknife was watching Poco closely, but he was relaxed, as he leaned against the door.

“Back in the hills, eh?” Softly.

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife took a deep breath and hooked his thumbs over his belt.

“Poco Saunders, we’re goin’ to trade talk this time.”

Poco looked up quickly, but there was no anger, no defiance in his dark eyes.

“We’re goin’ to trade talk,” said Hashknife, “and yo’re goin’ to talk first, Poco.”

Poco nodded slowly and a bitter smile flashed across his thin lips, as he said--

“Where do I begin, Hartley?”

“Start in with this mornin’, Poco.”

“We got up early this mornin’, Hartley. After breakfast, me and Lanpher and Trainor started for town. Trainor’s got an idea of follerin’ the sheriff’s idea of makin’ up a big posse. We got almost to town and they got to talkin’ about Stevens gettin’ shot. Kinda wonderin’ how he is, yuh know, and they decided that I’m to ride back to the Tomahawk ranch and see how things are goin’.

“I’m to tell you that they’re goin’ to make up this big posse, and then I might as well go back to the ranch. Lanpher gets to kinda worryin’ about the women bein’ alone, and all that. I rides back and I’m almost to the ----”

“What time did yuh leave the ranch?” interrupted Hashknife.

“I dunno. It wasn’t much after daylight. Why?”

“Go ahead.”

“Like I just said, I’m almost to the Tomahawk, when I hears a shot. I stops and considers things. Mebbe I’m there five or ten minutes, when there’s more shootin’. I mosey on up the road, and I’m almost to the ranch, when I see the shooter. He’s quite a ways from me, but I think he seen me at the same time. Anyway, he ducks real rapid.

“I take things kinder easy, and foller him. That rain made the ground kinda soft and I’m able to trail him, but it only winds through the hills and comes back to the road. Then I go back to the Tomahawk and find you gone. Anythin’ else?”

“Only to say that you told the truth, Poco. Do you want to ask me any questions?”

Poco considered deeply for a while, and then--

“Who are you, Hartley?”

“Cowpuncher,” grinned Hashknife. “Just a puncher.”

“Uh-huh. Why is somebody tryin’ to kill you?”

Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Poco, I can’t tell yuh, because I ain’t sure. Yuh see, they ain’t never told me why. Mebbe I’ve got my own ideas on the subject, but a feller is liable to figure things a little wrong.”

Poco nodded thoughtfully, his eyes squinted. Hashknife studied him for a moment and then--

“Poco, I forgot to ask yuh one question.”

“Thasso? What is it?” Poco did not look up.

“You asked me who I am--who are you?”

“Me?” Poco’s thin lips fluttered in a bitter laugh. “I’m a ---- fool, I reckon.”

Hashknife laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Poco, we all are, but we’re just as happy as though we had good sense. I hate to pry into anybody’s private affairs, but I’d sure like to know why Smoky held out to try and convict old Pinto Cassidy.”

“Don’t you think he’s guilty?” queried Poco.

“No--do you?”

“I did,” said Poco shortly, and after a few moments of reflection--

“He threatened to kill any Circle Cross puncher that trespassed on the Tomahawk.”

“Why?”

“I told yuh once that I didn’t know why, Hartley. But I think it was on account of the half-breed girl.”

Poco turned away and headed for the bunk-house, while Hashknife sat down beside the barn in the shade, and watched Poco go jerkily along on his high-heeled boots.

“You’ve got an ax to grind, but I don’t think yuh know where to find the grindstone,” observed Hashknife to himself. “I’d rather have yuh on my side than against me, ’cause you come nearer bein’ a cold-blooded gunman than anybody I’ve seen for quite a while.”

Hashknife had never seen Poco Saunders in trouble, but he felt instinctively that Poco would be swift with a gun. Every motion betokened the gunman; cool, calculating, sober and unemotional.

Hashknife felt sure that Poco had been greatly affected by the murder of Smoky Cole, his bunkie. There was no doubt that Poco did not know who had killed Smoky, but that Poco was trying hard to find out.

Poco had used the past tense in speaking of his opinion of Cassidy’s guilt, and Hashknife wondered whether the recent bushwhacking had convinced Poco that both Cassidy and Ben Lanpher were innocent.

“Well, we’re earnin’ that Lanpher money, that’s a cinch,” observed Hashknife. “This kind of a job needs armor more than it does brains.”

* * * * *

He got to his feet as Trainor, Lanpher and a third man rode in through the big gate, and waited for them to come to the barn. It was not until this third man dismounted that Hashknife recognized him as being Carsten, the cattle-buyer, whom he and Sleepy had met at Lanpher’s house in San Francisco.

Both Trainor and Lanpher spoke to Hashknife, but Carsten did not even look at him.

“Hartley, will yuh take care of the horses?” asked Trainor, handing Hashknife his reins.

Hashknife nodded and collected the three sets of reins.

“We’ll go up to the house,” said Trainor, and he and Carsten started away.

Lanpher stooped to take off his spurs and when he stood up, the other two were half-way to the house.

“I got Carsten aside and told him not to recognize you,” explained Lanpher hurriedly. “I didn’t want even Trainor to know that Carsten met you.”

“That’s the stuff,” grinned Hashknife, but added, “Even if everybody else seems to know what we’re tryin’ to do here.”

“It must be only the guilty ones, though,” protested Lanpher quickly. “We had a talk with the sheriff and he plans a big sweep of the whole country very soon. How is Stevens?”

“He’s doin’ fine. That squaw sure beats the doctors.”

Lanpher frowned slightly, but a glad smile chased it away immediately, as he said:

“Hartley, my boy gets his trial day after tomorrow. We were notified of it today. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, will defend him. He gets his trial even ahead of Cassidy’s second one.

“Mitchell is optimistic, but admits that the evidence is greatly against us. In fact--” Lanpher’s eyes were wistful and his voice broke slightly-- “In fact, we haven’t any evidence in our favor, except Ben’s unsupported word. He--he had been rather wild, I am told, and that will all be against him; but my boy did not commit murder, Hartley.”

Hashknife shook his head in agreement and turned to the barn door with the horses.

“No, I don’t reckon he did. Ben was just a plumb ---- fool, thasall. He’s got a hard, hard fight ahead of him, Lanpher, and some of them recent wild oats are goin’ to make all of yuh sick of the lad’s sowin’. But you stick with him.

“That prosecutin’ attorney is sure goin’ to hang a red fringe around the kid, y’betcha. He’ll make you think you raised a locoed bobcat instead of a boy; but don’t mind him. He’s paid to say nasty things about folks.”

Lanpher nodded slowly, as he held out his hand to Hashknife.

“Hartley, I appreciate what you’ve said.”

They shook hands solemnly and Lanpher went to the house, where Mrs. Lanpher and Helen were talking to Carsten and Trainor. Hashknife stabled the horses and went to the bunk-house, where he found Buck half-asleep on a bunk and Poco playing his interminable game of solitaire.

Hashknife told them that Lanpher and Trainor had returned, and mentioned the stranger, who limped slightly with his right leg.

“Kinda thin-faced?” asked Poco indifferently. “Little gray in his hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck cleared his throat huskily.

“Must be Carsten, Poco;” and to Hashknife:

“He’s a cattle-buyer. Works for some Eastern outfit.”

“Sets on a horse like a puncher,” observed Hashknife.

Buck laughed.

“Oh, I reckon, Carsten ain’t no tenderfoot. Feller’s kinda got to _sabe_ horses and cows, if he’s goin’ to mix with cattle-folks and buy their stock.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife.

He sauntered outside and saddled his horse. Inaction palled upon him so he rode up past the ranch-house and told Trainor that he was going back to the Tomahawk. Trainor came down from the porch.

“Lanpher just told me that Stevens is gettin’ along fine,” he said. “We’re glad to hear it. We talked with the sheriff today, and in a short time we are going to comb these hills so thoroughly that even a gopher will have to dig deep to keep out of our way.

“You go right ahead over to the Tomahawk and stay as long as yuh want to. Mr. Carsten, a cattle-buyer, will be here for a few days, and I will likely be busy with him. Ben Lanpher’s trial comes up Wednesday; so his father will likely be busy with the lawyer. Poco and Buck can take care of everything.”

He glanced down toward the bunk-house, and added--

“If Buck will try and stay sober.”

“I reckon he’s sick of liquor,” grinned Hashknife.

“By ----, I hope so! He ain’t got no judgment. Well, so-long, and good luck.”

Trainor had been drinking a little--just enough to put him in rare good humor, and Hashknife wondered if he brought some liquor out to Buck.

Hashknife turned at the forks of the road and headed for Wolf Wells. He wanted to get away from the two ranches and mix with people. He felt that there was nothing to be learned from the people at either the Circle Cross or the Tomahawk; so why bother with them?

* * * * *

In the Lily of the Valley saloon, Hashknife found Lonesome Hobbs and Bility Edwards. Lonesome’s fat face was as placid as a mountain pool and his eyes were round and solemn. Bility was also very solemn of demeanor.

They both nodded to Hashknife, who invited them to partake of his hospitality. It was then that Hashknife discovered that Lonesome and Bility were gloriously, shamelessly drunk. Lonesome nearly fell down in merely turning around to the bar.

He looked at Hashknife, wide-eyed and said--

“Gotta roo--roosh-ter?”

“Got a rooster?”

“Yesh,” nodded Bility, “Need one--bad.”

“What for?” Hashknife grinned at their earnestness.

“Fight,” explained Lonesome, trying to make the glass and bottle meet.

The bartender rescued them both, when Lonesome dropped them disgustedly.

“Whitey’s got roosh’er,” said Lonesome. “Pre’y good one, too, y’betcha. Fight’n rooshter. Yesshir, he’s gone af’er it.”

“Who’s Whitey?” asked Hashknife.

“He owns the depot,” said Bility with great deliberation.

Came the sound of unsteady footsteps, and Whitey Anderson bumped his way in through the front door. Anderson was in the same condition as Lonesome and Bility, and in his two hands he carried a bedraggled-looking rooster.

“C’mon with your fight’n animals,” croaked Whitey. “Bring ’m big and bring ’m strong. H’rah, f’r my he-hen!”

“Misser Andershon,” said Lonesome gravely, “shake han’s with my ol’ friend Hartley. Very ol’ friend, ’ndeed.”

“How doo-o-o,” drawled Whitey, and let loose of his rooster to shake hands with Hashknife.

The frightened bird flipped to the top of the bar, volplaned across to the top of a pool-table and scooted out the back door, cackling wildly. Lonesome made a grab at it, but missed and fell flat on his face, while Bility stumbled across him and almost knocked the bar loose from its moorings.

But Whitey paid no attention to any one, except Hashknife.

“Yesshir, I’m glad t’ meet ol’ friend of Loneshome Hobbs. Whatcha shay your----”

He looked around and discovered Lonesome trying to get back to his feet.

“Shay, Loneshome, what shay friend’s name? My gosh, you ain’t got ap’plexy, have yuh? Face’s all red.”

“Who shoved me?” wailed Lonesome, feeling of his nose, which was bleeding slightly. “Who done it, I deman’ t’ know immed’ly.”

“You fellers go outside to do your bumpin’!” advised the barkeep angrily. “This ain’t no ---- corral.”

“Where’s m’ rooshter?” demanded Whitey hotly, looking around. “Who’s got ’m? Loneshome have you got ’m?”

“Nug oomp guff,” declared Lonesome, holding one hand tightly over his nose and mouth.

“He says he ain’t got ’em,” explained Bility solemnly.

“I think he’s a liar, Whitey; let’s shearch him.”

Bility staggered into Lonesome and tried to feel in his pockets, but Lonesome protested strenuously and Hashknife had to pry them apart.

“Got’m in hish pocket,” declared Bility.

“Can’t be dood,” Whitey shook his head violently. “Can’t put rooshter in pocket.”

“Tha’s right!” exclaimed Bility. “Too wild. Let’s shing a shong. What shay?”

“Not in here,” declared the bartender. “You cowpunchers start to sing in here and I’ll----”

“Don’t go no further.” Lonesome shook a warning finger at the bartender. “You’ve threatened us s’fficiently, Misser Weed. We unnerstand yore at’tude perfec’ly; perfec’ly. You are not a frien’ of a workin’ man, so you ain’t. I refuse to shing in yore housh. C’mon.”

They strung out in single-file, with Hashknife bringing up the rear, and went into the street. Whitey leaned against the side of the building and tried to adjust his hat to an even balance.

“Mus’ go back t’ work,” he declared, trying to force himself to a semblance of sobriety. “I’m workin’ man.”

“Ain’t you goin’ t’ shing?” queried Lonesome.

“Yesh, I’ll shing--shometime--but not yet. Gotta work.”

He shoved himself away from the wall and wended a very erratic way down the narrow sidewalk.

“Perfec’ly capable man,” declared Lonesome airily, “but he’s curshed with a thirsht. Ha, ha, ha! Rhymes like a po’m. Curshed with a thirsht.”

“You think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” queried Bility, with drunken sarcasm.

“Yesshir, I am. Betcha I c’n make you laugh.”

“Zasso? Betcha five dollars yuh can’t.”

“Lissen, that’s a bet, now.”

Lonesome shook a finger in Bility’s face.

“Can’t back down, yuh mus’ ’member.”

“Nosshir, I back down from no man. How yuh goin’ do it?”

“Take off yore boots, old shad face. I’m goin’ to tickle yore feet.”

“Tha’s dirty trick,” declared Bility. “That ain’t bein’ funny, you danged fathead--tha’s torture. But I’ll let yuh try it. I’m numb all over, anyway.”

He half-fell to the edge of the sidewalk and began tugging at his boot, which resisted his efforts stubbornly. Lonesome essayed to help him and Hashknife walked away, leaving them in each other’s arms and the boot still intact.

Hashknife crossed the street and bought some tobacco, after which he sauntered down the street to the little depot. He found Whitey Anderson slumped in a chair, his head dripping wet and his shirt saturated.

“Water-cure,” explained Whitey. “Darn near drowned myself, but it sure sobered me up. I get with that blamed gang up there and drink too much. Anyway--” Whitey hooked his toe into the rounds of a chair and jerked it around for Hashknife-- “Anyway, I’m sick as ---- of this town and this job. Nothin’ ever happens, except somebody gets drunk and shoots up things a little. And I mostly always miss that.”

“Wolf Wells seems like a nice town,” observed Hashknife.

“It does? Well, you can have it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m goin’ to have another station or I quit poundin’ brass.”

Hashknife laughed softly over his cigaret.