Chapter II: Part 2

Ryker was rather an old-timer in the country. For a number of years he had operated an assay office in Turquoise City, but with the falling off of the mining industry he had devoted himself to the law, had been admitted to the state bar and was now serving his third term as prosecutor. “Mica” Jones, formerly assistant to Ryker in the assay business, was running the assay office for Ryker, and barely making a living.

Wind River Jim did not like Ryker. He took one look at him and groaned slightly; but otherwise he remained silent, after his first greeting, which had not been returned by Jefferson Ryker. The prosecutor stepped back to the doorway and looked up the street.

“Where’s the sheriff?” he asked.

“He’s eatin’ breakfast.”

Ryker leaned against the doorway and examined a cigar, which was rather badly unwrapped. He licked it gently in spots, trying to work the wrapper back into place. Finally he lighted it and puffed convulsively, but got no results.

“Anythin’ you want around here?” queried Wind River. “I’m doin’ the sheriffin’ while Roarin’ Rigby nourishes.”

“You are?” Ryker looked curiously at Wind River, who gave him plenty of opportunity to see the nickel-plated badge.

“Oh, I see.” Ryker came back closer to Wind River. “All right, Wind River, I want to see the prisoner.”

“The prisoner?”

“Yes--Pete Conley.”

“Huh!” snorted Wind River. “Well, now, from where I set, you’ve got a fine chance, Ryker.”

“I have a right to see him!” snapped the lawyer.

“Yea-a-a-ah, the devil you have!”

Wind River jerked his feet off the desk and faced Ryker.

“Your rights and wrongs don’t mean nothin’ to me. If you keep your hat on until I let you see Pete Conley, they’ll have to saw it off when you’re dead.”

“I wonder how Roaring Rigby ever happened to appoint such an ignorant person,” said the lawyer.

“Because he couldn’t trust the smart ones, that’s why. The smarter they are the crookeder they are, Ryker, and I’ve heard that you’re the smartest man in this valley.”

Ryker walked back to the door, boiling with wrath.

“I’m going to find the sheriff,” he said hotly. “You can’t call me a crook and get away with it.”

“Well, you’re a friend of English Ed.”

“What has that got to do with it?”

“He’s crooked. You never see a lot of lambs hobnobbin’ with a coyote, do you?”

Ryker whirled on his heel and left the office.

Wind River Jim chuckled to himself as he uncoiled his length from the creaking old chair and walked over to a cracked mirror on the wall. He looked intently at himself.

“You don’t look crazy to me,” he told himself, “but you must be. Appearances are shore deceptive. But I don’t like that cat-eyed lawyer, and it was a good chance to let him know it. Anybody who didn’t know me would think I was mean as dirt.”

The jail adjoined the sheriff’s office, and there was no exit, except through the sheriff’s office. The front of the jail was a blank wall. At the side and rear were small barred windows, not large enough for a man to crawl through. It was not a well ventilated jail, it is true, but it was built to hold a prisoner.

Roaring Rigby came back a few minutes later, carrying a tray of food for Pete Conley.

“This is your job after this, Wind River,” he said, placing the tray on the desk. “What did you say to Ryker?”

“He wanted to see Pete,” grinned Wind River. “I told him to go to hell.”

Roaring grinned widely.

“I thought so. He shore was sore as a boil. Met me at the door of the restaurant and jumped all over me about you.”

“The devil he did! What did you say, Roarin’?”

“Me? I slapped his old face loose from his hat. Mebby that wasn’t exactly the right thing for a sheriff to do, but it’s all I could think of at the time. I never took no oath of office. Anyway, I don’t think there’s anythin’ in the oath about not slappin’ lawyers. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! Let’s feed the animal.”

They unlocked the door into the jail and carried the tray in. There was a short hall, about six feet wide, across the room, at each side of which were barred doors. Pete Conley leaned against the bars of one cell, smoking a cigaret.

“Got you some ham and eggs, Pete,” said the sheriff cheerfully.

“Good!” said the half-breed. “What’s new?”

Roaring unlocked the door and put the tray on a chair.

“Nothin’ much. English Ed’s gang is pretty sore. They rode all night. Ha-haha-ha! Aw, they’ll cool off. Last night they was in a lynchin’ mood, tha’s all. Ryker wants to see you, Pete. Jist remember he’s the jigger that’ll try to hang you. Don’t tell him a thing, _sabe_? You don’t have to talk.”

Pete nodded quickly.

“I like see Judge Beal.”

“You can’t, Pete; he’s the judge.”

“He’s good man.”

“Uh-huh--shore, but he can’t see you until you walk into his courtroom. You’ll have to hire a lawyer, I reckon.”

“What for?”

“To prove you didn’t kill Mallette.”

“What lawyer see who kill him?”

“Oh, hell, there you are, Wind River!” exploded Roaring. “Can you imagine that? What lawyer seen who shot him?”

“I dunno,” said Wind River innocently. “Did any?”

Roaring stared open-mouthed at Wind River. Finally he closed his mouth and shook his head sadly.

“Well, I reckon it’s all right,” he said resignedly. “I hired you because you was honest, Wind River.”

“My old man come town yet?” asked Pete, beginning to eat.

“Not yet.”

“Huh! How soon they hang me?”

“Are you in any hurry, Pete?”

“Not much.”

“Well, that’s fine. They’ll have to try you first, so you’ll jist have to be patient. First they’ll give you a hearin’ and decide if yo’re worth hangin’. Then they’ll hold the trial and see when you git hung. It’ll take quite a while.”

“Nobody ask me if I kill Mallette,” said Pete, his mouth filled with food. “I like kill him pretty good, but somebody kill him. He stole my money.”

“You like to kill him, eh?”

“Sure.”

“Uh-huh. You’ll make a hell of a good witness for the State--as long as you last.”

* * * * *

Roaring left Wind River Jim with Pete and went to see Dr. Shelley, the coroner, who had an office at the east end of the street. The old doctor was a short, fat, breathless man, with two double chins and no waist-line.

“Going to have an inquest, I suppose,” puffed the doctor.

“Shore,” nodded Roaring. “He won’t keep a long while this kinda weather. You fix up about the inquest, Doc. That’s somethin’ I dunno anythin’ about. Are you shore Mallette didn’t kill himself?”

“Might have shot himself at long-range. No powder marks on his face, and the bullet went through his head.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Funny thing,” said the doctor. “You know, Mallette wore boots--the short kind. Well, there was dirt in both boots.”

“What about it?”

“I don’t know; I just mentioned it.”

“Uh-huh. Mallette didn’t look to me like a man who had taken a bath very often. You fix up about that inquest, will yuh, Doc? You’ve held ’em before.”

“All right, Roaring. Ryker was down to look at the corpse. He says there’s no doubt in his mind that Pete Conley killed Mallette. They chased Conley all night last night.”

“Yeah, I heard they did.”

Roaring didn’t bother to tell the doctor that he had Pete in jail. He went from the doctor’s office to Judge Beal’s home, where Wong Kee opened the door for him. The old judge was slumped down in an old rocker, half dressed, an uncorked bottle of whisky beside him on the table. On his lap was a much worn copy of the Bible.

“Come in, Roaring,” he said softly. “Sit down and tell me all the news. We’ve only heard rumors here. Between Wong’s rheumatism and my bottle of rye, we’ve not been able to get out and gather the news. Have a drink--it’s good stuff. Wong, bring the gentleman a glass.”

It was evident to Roaring that the judge was mellow with liquor. But that was as far as he ever got--mellow. No one had ever seen Judge Beal drunk--as a drunk is measured in Turquoise City.

Roaring took the drink and told the judge what had happened the night before. The old jurist chuckled over how Roaring drew the lynchers away from the ranch, while Jimmy Moran brought Pete safely to Turquoise.

“Oh, they’d have hung him, Judge,” assured Roaring. “Pete wasn’t stuck on comin’ to jail, but he could see that it was the only safe place for him.”

“That’s very true, Roaring. I got my second warning yesterday.”

“You did? Gosh! What are you goin’ to do, Judge?”

The old judge smiled grimly.

“Die in a good cause,” he said slowly. “Why run away? I’ve no place to go. After all, I am the judge of this district. English Ed and his cohorts fear justice, and it may be that English Ed has political influence enough to get a friendly judge elected, or rather appointed, in case he can frighten me into resigning.”

“Mebby,” nodded Roaring. “He scared Randall out.”

“But you are not one of his men, Roaring.”

“I hope to die if I am! I’ve got Wind River Jim for a deputy and I’ll run that office as long as she’s got a wheel to turn on--and when she ain’t, I’ll keep her draggin’. I dunno much about my office, Judge. Randall never did tell me much, so I’ve kinda got to run her by ear. English Ed and his gang don’t like me; but that ain’t goin’ to git me down. Well, I better go back and see how Wind River is makin’ out. I plumb forgot to tell him that bein’ a deputy sheriff don’t give him a right to shoot anybody he happens to get sore at. See you later, Judge.”

* * * * *

The inquest over the body of Mallette created quite a lot of interest, and the six jurors did not hesitate to bring in a verdict to the effect that Mallette had been killed by Peter Conley. Roaring Rigby refused to produce Pete in court.

“That half-breed is behind the bars, neck intact,” he told the coroner, “and there he stays until he has to go into a reg’lar courtroom. There’s too much iron among those present, I’ll tell you that.”

Jimmy Moran’s testimony regarding the poker game in which Mallette stole a card was rather in favor of Pete; and the audience enjoyed Jimmy’s story of how Roaring was chased by the posse. Jimmy admitted that it was he who brought Pete to jail that night.

Every one noticed that Jimmy showed Dawn marked attention during the trial, and Slim was foolish enough to mention this to Jimmy later on.

“Is it any of your damn business?” demanded Jimmy. “You may be in charge of my father’s cattle, but you’re not in charge of my father’s son. And get this straight, Slim. If I want to marry--”

“Sure, sure,” nodded Slim hastily. “Excuse me, Jimmy.”

Slim subsided, but he hurried to the telegraph office and sent a long telegram to Franklyn Moran, explaining what had happened and mentioning that Jimmy might need a bit of fatherly advice regarding matrimony. Not that it mattered to Slim, except that he had orders to keep Moran informed on Jimmy’s activities. Franklyn Moran loved Jimmy, in his own way, and he wanted Jimmy with the Big 4. According to his views of the matter, the sooner Jimmy went broke, the better, perhaps, for the relations between father and son.

Kent Cutter, owner of the 7AL, failed to see any humor in Jimmy’s recital of the fruitless chase of Pete Conley. Kent went back to the Black Horse after the inquest, imbibed a sufficient number of drinks to make him free of speech and then proceeded to tell the world that he didn’t care very much for Jimmy Moran.

Lovely Lucas, Jimmy’s sole remaining cowboy, was in the Black Horse and heard Cutter’s loud-voiced, profane opinion of Jimmy. Lovely was a huge figure of a man. In fact he was so big that his eight and one-half by six and one-half Stetson did not seem at all out of proportion on his head. He had a big nose and an enormous mouth. He had been born and raised in southern Texas, and he had an easy drawl. He sauntered over to the bar, rested one elbow lazily and considered Cutter.

“You jist kinda like to talk, don’tcha?” he said slowly.

Cutter turned his bloodshot eyes upon the bulky Lucas.

“Mebby,” he said shortly, and turned his back.

“He-he-he-he-he!” chuckled Lovely. He had imbibed a few drinks himself.

“My talkin’ don’t ache you none, does it?” demanded Cutter frigidly.

“It ain’t got that far--yit,” smiled Lovely, “but you’ve done got to remember that Jimmy Moran is my boss, Cutter. He ain’t no damn angel, so anythin’ you feel like sayin’ about him might better be said to his face, ’cause I’ll shore tell him what you said, and I might make it sound a heap worse ’n you would.”

“Huh!” snorted Cutter. “That’s no dream!”

“I’d prob’ly lie,” said Lovely softly.

“You would,” admitted Cutter incautiously.

Lovely Lucas moved swiftly for a big man. One huge hand caught the back of Cutter’s muffler, while the other caught the back of his cartridge-belt and, with a heave, he swung Cutter off the floor.

“Comin’ up!” snorted Lovely, and he swung Cutter over the bar, letting loose of him in mid-air.

The bartender fell out of the way, giving Cutter plenty of room to catch his legs across the top of the back-bar, hooking his spurred heels behind stacks of polished glasses, and bringing everything down on top of him when he crashed to the floor.

Lovely whirled around and headed for the door, his mouth wide open in a chuckling laugh. No one tried to stop him. He crossed the street and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where he found Roaring Rigby and Wind River Jim. It was several moments before Lovely was able to tell them what had happened.

“I jist kinda valised him over,” laughed Lovely.

“Yeah, and you’ll wish you hadn’t,” said Roaring. “That whole 7AL gang will lay for you.”

“But he called me a liar,” protested Lovely. “He said somethin’ ought to be done about Jimmy Moran marryin’ Dawn Conley.”

Roaring Rigby shifted his eyes and looked down at his boots. Wind River Jim looked reprovingly at Lovely and shook his head. Wind River knew more about it than Lovely did. But Lovely didn’t understand.

“If Jimmy wants to wed with that half-breed girl, I reckon we’ll all step out and help make it a success, eh, Roarin’?”

Roaring rubbed a thumb along the edge of his boot-top.

“Yea-a-ah,” he said slowly. “I reckon you’ve got to stick up for your friends, Lovely.”

“Shore! That’s why I played ante-over with Cutter. He-he-he-he! I s’pose English Ed will send me a bill for damages. Cutter’s legs swept every glass off the back-bar.”

“And you better tell Jimmy to look out for Ed,” advised Roaring. “That gambler ain’t forgot that Jimmy cooled him off the night that Mallette was killed.”

“Oh, Jimmy ain’t asleep, Roarin’. Say, I’ll let you in on somethin’, if you’ll keep still about it. After the inquest, old Mose Conley told Jimmy to keep away from the Hot Creek ranch; said he appreciated what Jimmy was doin’ for ’em, but that Jimmy was to keep away from Dawn. I reckon it was because he hates Jimmy’s pa. He didn’t say that was the reason. Jimmy got kinda hot and told the old man he was aimin’ to marry Dawn. He-he-he-he! The old man says Jimmy better think it over a long time, ’cause Dawn is a half-breed; and Jimmy asks him how long he took to think things over before he married Dawn’s mother. He-he-he-he-he!

“He had the old man up a stump, but the old man stuck to it. Jimmy asks him what he’ll do in case he decides to come to see Dawn. ‘I told you not to,’ says the old man. ‘All men look pretty much the same in the dark, and I’ve got to protect myself.’ And there you are. I didn’t talk with Jimmy afterwards; he piled on his bronc and went home.”

Some one stopped at the doorway of the office, and they turned to see English Ed. He looked coldly at Lovely.

“You owe me forty dollars, Lucas,” said the gambler. “That is the amount of glassware you broke awhile ago.”

“Forty dollars,” said Lovely softly. “Lotta glasses, Ed.”

“A month’s salary,” said Wind River Jim.

“And here’s a letter to take to Jim Moran,” said English Ed, handing Lovely an envelope. “You see that he gets it.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? And I owe you forty dollars, eh?” Lovely sat up straight and glared at the gambler. “Say! You cold-jawed card-slicker, do you think I’ll ever pay that? Pay you forty dollars for busted glasses! Why, I wouldn’t give forty dollars for everythin’ in your place, even if they’d throw in your hide and taller.

“You think you’re runnin’ this town, don’tcha? You runs Jim Randall out, but the rest of us has kinda got our heels braced, _sabe_? You’ve got a couple gunmen dealers over there. Mack Ort and Keno Smiley, I’m meanin’. You had three, until Mallette got hung on the hot end of a bullet.

“Well, you tell ’em to cut loose any old time. See if they can tear forty dollars’ worth out of my hide, English; and that’s the only way you’ll ever collect. Yeah, I know all about the warnin’ you sent to Jim Randall. You scared him out; but you ain’t scared old Judge Beal out yet. And if I was you, I’d turn right around and go back to my little playmates, knowin’ well that old man Lucas’ little boy ain’t never goin’ to give you that forty dollars. What do you think?”

English Ed did not change expression, no matter what he felt. It was no place for him to protest Lovely’s decision. These three hard-bitted cowboys were closer than brothers and, judging from their expressions, welcomed any argument he might start. So he merely nodded coldly, turned and walked away.

Lovely grinned widely and looked at the envelope. It was unsealed, and Lovely did not hesitate to open it and take out the enclosure. It read:

Jim Moran: Your I.O.U.’s, aggregating over twelve hundred
dollars, are long past due. These must be met at once, or I
shall be obliged to levy an attachment on the Stumbling K.

—Edward Holmes

“Twelve hundred dollars!” exploded Lovely. “Jimmy shore played high and handsome, didn’t he! Whooee! Levy an attachment, eh? What kind of a thing is that, Roarin’?”

“Some law thing. I told you English Ed would shut down on Jimmy.”

“And Jimmy can’t pay it,” declared Wind River Jim. “Why, he ain’t got it. Every time pay-day came around he had to sell enough cows to pay us off. Betcha he ain’t got fifty head of stock left. The Black Horse Saloon has got rich off of Jimmy Moran. He owes the bank, too. They’ve got a mortgage for a couple thousand.”

“Yeah, it kinda looks as though Jimmy was about sunk,” agreed Lovely.

He walked back to the door and looked out. Cutter was crossing the street, looking down toward the office. He met Ryker in front of the post-office, and they went up the street together.

“Cutter and Ryker are pretty good friends, ain’t they?” asked Lovely.

“Always have been,” grunted Roaring.

“Cutter’s prob’ly fixin’ to have me arrested,” grinned Lovely. “Mebby I better go home while the way is clear. How soon do they have Pete’s trial?”

“Next week,” replied Roaring.

“Before Judge Beal?”

“If he lives that long.”

“Who--Pete?”

“No, Judge Beal.”

* * * * *

The overland train ground to a stop at the little station of Sibley Junction, unloaded one passenger and a couple of heavy valises, and then hurried on, as if glad to get away.

Sibley Junction consisted of the depot, a water-tank and a saloon. The depot and water-tank were on one side of the railroad; the saloon was on the other. The saloon was a weatherbeaten, false-fronted structure, one side of which still bore traces of having been decorated with a circus poster.

There was no sidewalk, no awning. The false-front leaned back, as if weary of it all. The surrounding hills were hazy with the afternoon heat, and the dust from the passing train seemed to hang suspended in the windless atmosphere. There was no sign of life, except two saddled horses dozing at the hitch-rack beside the saloon.

The lone passenger from the overland picked up his valises and walked heavily to the waiting-room of the depot, dropped the valises and mopped his red face. He was a big man, square-headed, heavy-jawed, well dressed. His baggage was of expensive leather. He looked around sourly as the head and shoulders of a sleepy-eyed depot-agent appeared at the ticket window.

“Howdy, Mr. Moran,” said the man with the sleepy eyes. “I kinda thought somebody got off Number Six.”

“Yeah!” grunted Franklyn Moran.

“Goin’ over to Turquoise City, eh?”

“Yeah. Train on time?”

“Might be here on time tomorrow--not today. They went in the ditch this side of Wiebold, and the report is that they won’t move nothin’ over this jerkwater line for at least twenty-four hours, Mr. Moran. I’m sorry.”

Moran almost exploded. Slim Regan’s telegram had caused him to drop everything and head for Turquoise City. And here he was, twenty-five miles away, with no hotel, no livery-stable, no way for him to travel that twenty-five miles, except on foot.

“That means I can’t get a train to Turquoise until tomorrow, eh?”

“Probably about tomorrow even’.”

“Anybody around here got a horse I could buy or rent?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I saw two horses over at the saloon rack.”

“Couple of strange cowboys. They rode in today from the Outpost country. Been punching cows for the Muller outfit.”

“I wonder if they’re headin’ for Turquoise City?”

“I don’t think so. They asked about the Long Bend country.”

“Maybe I better take a look at ’em. I’ll leave my baggage here.”

Moran mopped his face again and crossed the track to the saloon. It was a dusty, fly-specked place. The bartender was humped over in a chair, reading a paper-backed novel; a gray cat was curled up on the end of the bar, and at the one card table sat two dusty cowboys, eating canned salmon, peaches and crackers.

Moran stopped at the bar and looked around. The bartender showed mild interest, marking the page of his book by crimping a page. The two cowboys did not even show mild interest. One of them was very tall and thin, with a long, serious face, which just now he was stuffing with food. The other was of medium height, broad-shouldered, with very wide blue eyes and a deeply-lined face. Their well worn garb was typical of the cow-country.

“I’ll buy a drink,” invited Moran.

The tall cowboy swallowed heavily and shook his head.

“Thank you just the same,” he said pleasantly. “We tried it.”

“They don’t know good liquor,” said the bartender rather plaintively, and getting to his feet.

“I reckon that’s right,” nodded the tall one, digging into the salmon can with his pocket-knife.

“Beer?” queried Moran.

The tall one grimaced.

“Hot. There ain’t been no ice here since the glacial period.”

“What’ll you have?” asked the bartender.

Moran considered.

“Anything cold?”

The bartender rubbed his chin ruefully.

“Not that I’ve seen. Been pretty hot lately.”

“I guess I don’t want anything, thank you.”

“Uh-huh.”

The bartender went back to his novel, and Moran sat down near the two cowboys.

“I’m Franklyn Moran,” he told them, “from Chicago. I own the Big 4 ranch near Turquoise City.”

“What former experience have you had, and why did you leave your last place?” queried the blue-eyed cowboy seriously.

“Eh?” said Moran.

“I was just thinkin’ how I’d hate to live here,” said the blue-eyed one seriously.

“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Moran. He knew that wasn’t what the cowboy had said.

“It’s all right, after you get used to it,” said the bartending bookworm.

“That may be,” smiled Moran. “I expected to catch that afternoon train to Turquoise City, and find that there’s a wreck which will take twenty-four hours to clear. I’d give twenty-five dollars for a horse to ride to the Big 4 ranch.”

“Twenty-five dollars for twenty-five miles?” queried the bartender.

“It’s worth it to me,” declared Moran. “If one of you boys will let me have a horse--”

“You must be in a hurry,” observed the tall cowboy. He wiped his lips and prepared to roll a cigaret.

“I am. That’s my offer. I’d even ride double.”

“What kind of a place is this Turquoise City?”

“Wide open town. You boys lookin’ for work?”

“No-o-o-o, lookin’ for a job. We’re too intelligent to look for work, pardner.”

Moran smiled and offered them cigars, which were declined.

“How about my offer?” he asked anxiously.

The tall one elevated his eyebrows and looked at his companion.

“I’ll tell you what we will do with you,” said the short one. “You can ride my bronc, if you’ll pay twenty-five dollars and give me a railroad ticket to that town. I’ll wait for the train tomorrow afternoon.”

“Cinch!” Moran dug in his pocket and drew out a ticket. “Here’s mine. How soon do we start?”

“Right now, if the bartender will let me have half of his bed tonight,” said the short one.

“Pleased to have you,” nodded the bartender. “I won’t have to talk to myself tonight.”

“I’ll leave my baggage with you,” said Moran.

“All right.”

They threw the empty cans outside and went to the horses. The cowboys helped Moran adjust the stirrups to the proper length.

“My name’s ‘Hashknife’ Hartley,” said the tall cowboy. “This pardner of mine is named Stevens. Folks call him ‘Sleepy,’ ’cause he ain’t.”

“Well, I’m both glad and lucky to meet you,” laughed Moran. “There’s some trouble over in Turquoise City, and I’m anxious to get over there.”

“Trouble, eh?” Hashknife Hartley’s long nose twitched.

Moran mounted and picked up his reins. Sleepy Stevens was looking at Hashknife, a queer expression in his blue eyes.

“Seems there is,” nodded Moran. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. He turned to Sleepy.

“Don’t miss that train, pardner; I’ll be lookin’ for you.”

Sleepy nodded solemnly and watched them ride away. Finally he cuffed his Stetson over on one side of his head, spat disgustedly and walked back toward the saloon.

“Trouble!” he snorted aloud. “By God, there wasn’t nothin’ but a depot and a saloon, a depot-agent and a bartender --and we found trouble jist the same.”

* * * * *

That same afternoon, which was two days after Lovely Lucas had tossed Kent Cutter over the Black Horse bar, Jeff Ryker, prosecuting attorney, rode out to Conley’s ranch, wearing a new mailorder suit and an extra large collar. Dawn saw him coming from afar. She had been expecting Jimmy to ignore her father’s warning, and at first she thought it might be Jimmy; but, when she saw who it was, she departed hurriedly, leaving her mother to do the talking.

The very fat, stolid old Indian woman filled the rocking-chair to creaking capacity. She wore an old print wrapper and moccasins, a very brassy necklace and an even more brassy bracelet. Minnie Conley had never become civilized, as far as apparel was concerned.

Ryker rode up to the porch, tipped his hat to Mrs. Conley and dismounted. She nodded coldly. Moses Conley had explained to her that Ryker was the man who would try to hang Peter.

“Rather hot today, Mrs. Conley,” he said pleasantly.

“Pretty damn hot,” she said forcibly.

“Yeah, it is,” he sat down in the vacant chair and mopped his brow. “Hot in town today. I thought I’d take a ride and cool off. Where’s Mr. Conley?”

“He not here.”

“I see.”

He craned his neck and glanced through the doorway.

“Dawn not here,” said the woman.

“I see. Well, you’re here, Mrs. Conley.”

“I here,” stolidly. “I mos’ always here. Too fat to ride.”

Ryker laughed cautiously.

“Well, you’re good and healthy, Mrs. Conley.”

“Pretty good. What you want?”

“That depends, Mrs. Conley. Peter’s in jail, you know.”

“I know very well.”

“And they might hang him, Mrs. Conley,” he said heartlessly.

The Indian woman’s eyes flickered for a moment, as she shifted her gaze past Ryker. He watched her face closely, but beyond the flicker of her eyelids there was no emotion.

“And you don’t want that to happen,” he said softly.

“No,” she said. “No want that to happen.”

“He’s your son,” said Ryker.

“You right, my son.”

“There’s just me and you here, Mrs. Conley. I don’t mind telling you, I love Dawn. I want to marry Dawn.”

The woman’s gaze came back to Ryker, and he shifted uneasily under the stare of those beady eyes.

“You want marry Dawn?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s the idea, Mrs. Conley. I’m a big man in Turquoise City, you understand. If I say they must hang Peter--they hang Peter. If I am going to marry Dawn, I not say for them to hang Peter. You _sabe_ that?”

“Damn right!”

“Fine. When Dawn say she marry me, I get Peter loose. If she not marry me--” Ryker hesitated meaningly.

“You hang Peter,” said the woman heavily.

“That’s the idea, Mrs. Conley. We make a trade, eh?”

“S’pose Dawn no marry you?”

“She like to see Peter get hung?” countered Ryker.

“She not like.”

“And there you are, Mrs. Conley. You tell her about it. You not need to tell Moses. He not need to know. Our secret, eh?”

“I not tell nobody.”

“Good! Well, I’ll be goin’ on. Peter have trial next week. You let me know Monday.”

Ryker mounted his horse and rode away, well pleased with himself. Once he turned in his saddle and waved back at the huddled figure on the old porch, which did not wave back at him.

After Ryker had passed from sight, Dawn came out. She halted near her mother and stared across the hills toward the Black Horse ford.

“I heard everything he said, mother.”

“Good! Ryker _mamook hyas cultus wau-wau_.”

Stress of emotion caused the old squaw to revert to the trade language of her people. Translated, it meant that Ryker made a very bad talk.

“How can he turn Peter loose?” demanded Dawn indignantly. “Is Ryker the law?”

“Crooked!” said the old lady.

“It surely is! If I marry him he’ll turn Peter loose. Why, I wouldn’t marry him.”

“Peter hang, mebby.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it that way, mother. I want Peter to go free. You know that, don’t you? Why, he’s my brother; but to marry Jeff Ryker--”

“Too much talk about marry,” said the old lady. “Cutter talk to Mose. You don’t know. He want marry you. Jimmy Moran want marry you.”

“Kent Cutter want to marry me?”

“You right. Mose tell him go to hell.”

Dawn laughted bitterly.

“I wonder what’s got into ’em? Why don’t they come to me, I wonder?”

“Jimmy come to you, eh?”

“Yes,” softly.

“Roarin’ come to you, Dawn?”

“No.”

“He not come to nobody--jus’ come. Good man.”

“Yes, he’s a good man, mother; but I don’t want to marry him. Oh, I don’t want to marry anybody.”

Her mother looked at her keenly for several moments.

“I guess you marry man you want,” she said slowly. “Peter have trial next week. Mose hire good lawyer. Mebby I tell judge what Ryker say. Here come Mose now.”

Moses Conley rode to the corral, unsaddled his horse and came up to the house.

“Was Ryker here?” he asked.

Mrs. Conley nodded.

“He jus’ stop little while, Mose.”

“What for?”

“Dawn.”

“Dawn?” Mose Conley twisted his head and looked at Dawn. “Came to see you? What did he say to you?”

“I didn’t talk with him.”

“He want marry her,” said Mrs. Conley.

“Huh!” The old man ran his fingers through his white beard, frowning heavily. “The prosecutin’ attorney wants to marry Dawn. That’s funny. There’s Cutter, Rigby, English Ed, Moran, and now comes Ryker. How do you account for all this, Dawn?”

“I don’t,” said Dawn seriously.

“You’re pretty,” said Conley slowly.

“I’m a half-breed.”

“You stop that! I hate that word, Dawn. If there’s any mixed blood that you might be ashamed of, it’s on my side. You mother is an American.”

“You right!” said Mrs. Conley. “My father big chief.”

“Well, I wouldn’t rate him too high,” said Conley. “If I hadn’t tracked some horses he stole from me to his teepee, I wouldn’t have met you; so that’s all right.”

“That was my grandfather,” said Dawn bitterly. “A horsethief.”

“Well,” amended Conley, “he didn’t really steal ’em, Dawn. Me and him made a deal. He kept six pintos and I took his daughter. That’s the only time I ever cheated an Injun.”

Conley looked fondly at his fat wife. She smiled. Dawn laughed and turned toward the door, going into the house.

* * * * *

A moment later came the sound of horses, and two riders swept around the corner of the house. They jerked to a stop, throwing a shower of gravel against the steps. Moses Conley sprang to his feet.

The men were Slim Regan and Mark Clayton of the Big 4. Regan whirled his horse against the side of the porch and at the same time, he covered Moses Conley with a six-shooter. Clayton dismounted.

“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Conley.

“I’ll show you what’s the matter with me!” rasped Regan angrily. “Keep your hands above your waist, Conley.”

“I’m not armed,” said Conley. “What’s gone wrong with you, Regan?”

Mark Clayton halted at the bottom of the steps. He held a gun in his right hand and seemed to wait for Regan to give him further orders.

“You know damn well what’s wrong,” declared Regan hotly. “We found where you cut your upper fence; so we rode down to see what it meant. Oh, we found out all right. There’s eight white-faced, Big 4 steers dead at Hot Creek. You let ’em in and then shot ’em for trespassin’, eh?”

Conley’s right hand went to his beard, trembling slightly.

“Keep your hands still,” warned Clayton.

“You don’t need to deny anythin’,” said Regan coldly. “We’ve got the deadwood on you, Conley. I reckon you’ll claim they didn’t have any right there, eh? Mebby not. But that won’t help you any. Come off that porch and saddle your bronc. You go to jail, _sabe_?”

“To jail?” Conley shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Regan. Put up that gun and let’s talk sensible.”

“Like hell! Come off that porch.”

Mark Clayton holstered his gun, as the old man started to obey Regan. It was evident that the old man carried no arms of any kind.

“Drop that gun, Regan!”

Regan’s head jerked sidewise enough for him to see Dawn Conley and the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. She was not over a dozen feet away. He dropped his gun. Clayton stood perfectly still. Dawn had circled the house and come in almost behind them. Now she moved closer, holding the big gun easily in her two hands, the first finger of her right hand crooked around a trigger.

“Take their guns, Dad,” she said huskily.

Clayton made no objection as Conley removed the gun from his holster. He knew what a shotgun would do at short range, and he had no desire to be picked up in chunks.

The old man took Regan’s gun and stepped back to the edge of the porch. Dawn went slowly to him and laid the gun on the porch floor.

“Where do you keep the shells for this gun, Dad?” she asked. “I looked all over for them.”

“There ain’t any, Dawn,” he said. “I’ve been goin’ to buy some, but I put it off.”

“Wasn’t loaded, eh?” gritted Regan.

“Hasn’t been for a week,” said Conley.

“Pretty good bluff, at that,” said Clayton. “It’s all right with me. Any old time you point one of them twin tubes at my anatomy, I sag visibly.”

“What’s it goin’ to get you?” demanded Regan. “Put down them guns. You’re goin’ to town with us.”

“Not now, Regan. The Big 4 can’t arrest me. If you’ve got a complaint to make, go to the sheriff.”

“Oh, yes! And have him pull a deal with us like he did with Pete.”

“Then go home and mind your own business. I’m not goin’ to town with you, Regan. I don’t care to see you two any longer than I have to. I fenced this place to keep all the Big 4’s off my land; so you better pilgrim home.”

Clayton mounted hurriedly.

“We’ll come back, Conley,” said Regan. “You’ve butchered eight of our steers on your land, and if the Big 4 don’t wipe you off the earth, I’ll miss my guess.”

They whirled their horses and galloped off down the road. Regan was so mad he spurred his pet saddle horse unmercifully on the way to the gate. The sun was just going down. He wasn’t certain just what to do. They drew rein at the gate.

“What are you laughin’ about?” demanded Regan.

“I can’t help it,” chuckled Clayton. “The look on your face, when you saw that shotgun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

“Is that so! Well, I didn’t see you do anythin’, except reach for the sky.”

“An empty gun, too! Whooee-e-e! Say, Slim, I never knowed how danged pretty that girl was until now. She’s a bird.”

“Yeah, and she needs her wings clipped. What had we better do, Mark? We can’t let the old man destroy the evidence. It would be like him to drag every steer out of sight.”

“Let’s go and get Roarin’ Rigby. We can come back with him and see that he does what we want him to do. I know I’d like to have my gun but it’ll be dark pretty quick.”

“That’s the worst of it. Wonder who this is comin’.”

Two horsemen were coming up the road from the ford, and the fading sunlight showed them to be riding a tall gray and a sorrel.

“Pretty tall man on that gray,” observed Regan.

“Plenty big on the sorrel,” Clayton. “I don’t _sabe_ that tall gray, Slim.”

As the riders drew closer, the two men at the gate recognized Franklyn Moran as the rider of the sorrel.

“Well, I’ll be danged!” snorted Regan.

“Hello, Moran!”

“Hello Slim,” called Moran. “Howdy, Clayton.”

He shook hands with the two cowboys and introduced them to Hashknife and, at the same time, he told them how it happened that he was riding to the ranch. Slim looked appraisingly at Hashknife. Slim was a cowman and a judge of cowboys. His practised eye noted the riding rig of the tall cowboy, the cut of his well worn chaps, the hang of his belt and gun. His eyes flashed back to Hashknife’s serious face, and he half-smiled as he said:

“Boy, howdy! Your outfit never got to lookin’ that way from ridin’ now and then.”

“I’ve been around,” said Hashknife modestly.

“I’ll betcha. Lookin’ for work?”

Hashknife grinned at Moran.

“Must be a habit in this country, Moran--this ‘work’ idea.”

Moran laughed and explained.

“I was just wonderin’ if it was ag’in’ the law to wear a gun around here,” smiled Hashknife, indicating Regan’s empty holster.

“Not unless they get the drop on you!” blurted Clayton. “You tell ’em, Slim.”

Slim told them, while Moran swore explosively. Hashknife rolled a cigaret during the recital and tried to appear indifferent, but his eyes smiled when Regan told how Dawn Conley had stuck them up with an empty shotgun.

“That’s the dirty old squaw-man I told you about, Hartley,” said Moran. “That’s how he gets even with me. I’ll send him to the pen for that, if there’s any law in the county.”

“Well, there ain’t,” declared Clayton. “Roarin’ Rigby is stuck on Dawn Conley and--”

“What about Jim Randall, the sheriff?”

“Gone. The Black Horse Saloon outfit scared him out of the country. Roarin’ Rigby is sheriff, and he’s hired Wind River Jim for a deputy.”

“And that is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” declared Moran. “This country needs a shake-up. What about Jimmy? Oh, you don’t need to be afraid to talk in front of Hartley. I’ve told him all about things.”

“Well, there’s no secret about him goin’ to marry Dawn Conley, I guess,” said Slim. “I happen to know Jimmy borrowed money from the bank on a mortgage, and he owes English Ed quite a lot of money.

“You knew they had Pete Conley in jail for killin’ Joe Mallette. Well, that same night, Jimmy had a fight with English Ed, and knocked Ed out. That caused bad blood. Then Jimmy and Roarin’ Rigby foxed the gang that went out to hang Pete, and got Pete safe to jail. It put Jimmy in bad with a lot of folks. They held the inquest and indicted Pete. Kent Cutter got to talkin’ kinda loud about Jimmy in the Black Horse, and Lovely Lucas pitched Kent over the bar, bustin’ forty dollars’ worth of glasses. Oh, we’ve had a lot of fun around here lately, but Joe Mallette is the only one that’s been killed. You know, the same gang that scared Jim Randall out sent warnings to Judge Beal, but the old judge is still in evidence, although he sticks pretty close to home.”

“And all this will lead to more killin’,” said Moran. “I’ll tell you what to do, Slim. You and Mark go to town and bring Roarin’ Rigby out to the Big 4. Tell him I want to talk with him.”

“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”

“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”

* * * * *

Slim Regan was glad that Franklyn Moran arrived in time to take charge of the affair. It would take the responsibility off of his shoulders, and Slim didn’t care for responsibility.

He and Clayton splashed through the ford at Black Horse Creek and, about a quarter of a mile beyond, they met Jimmy Moran. Jimmy was alone, singing at the top of his voice. He had a very good barytone, developed to a certain extent in a college glee club.

“Drunk ag’in,” declared Mark.

But Jimmy wasn’t drunk. He drew up beside them, grinning good-naturedly. Slim Regan scowled. Jimmy had a habit of getting on Slim’s nerves.

“Your father just came in,” said Slim.

“Yea-a-a-ah? Too much for you to handle, eh?”

“You don’t need to let that bother you?” retorted Slim.

“Oh, I know all about it,” grinned Jimmy. “You wired him. I got the depot agent drunk, and he told me about it.”

“The dirty bum!” exploded Slim. “I’ll fix him.”

“Well, he told the truth, didn’t he?”

“He didn’t need to tell anythin’.”

“Well, he didn’t,” laughed Jimmy. “I guessed it, and you bit like a hungry fish. I saw you head for the depot after the inquest; so the rest was a cinch. How’s the old man lookin’, and what’s he goin’ to do about it?”

Slim gnawed the corner of his lip.

“He’ll do somethin’--that’s a cinch,” said Clayton. “Old Mose Conley cut his upper fence, herded eight Big 4 steers down into Hot Creek basin and shot ’em. I reckon that’ll hold him for a while.”

“A-a-a-aw, what are you talkin’ about!” snorted Jimmy. “He never did any such a thing.”

“Yes, he did,” said Slim quickly. “We found ’em, Jimmy. We went down to bring the old man to town, and the girl got the drop on us with a shotgun. Oh, we all know how you feel about that girl--but I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

“Got the drop on you, Slim?”

“She shore did. Two-barrel shotgun.”

“Empty,” chuckled Clayton.

Jimmy took a deep breath and grinned widely.

“Well, can you beat that? What are you goin’ to do?”

“That’s up to your dad. He sent us to town after Roarin’ Rigby.”

“Well, I’ll be darned! Are you sure about them steers?”

“We seen ’em. Eight white-faced steers, with the Big 4’s pointin’ skyward. No mistake, kid. And the fence was cut.”

“Gosh, that’s bad, huh!”

“You headin’ up that way?” asked Clayton.

Jimmy shook his head quickly.

“Not me. I’ve been warned to keep away. This is gettin’ to be a great place for warnings. I got a tip today that the Black Horse Saloon wouldn’t be healthy for me. I suppose the bartender has his orders to put ground glass in my liquor. They tell me that Lovely Lucas mopped off the back-bar with Kent Cutter the other day and busted forty dollars’ worth of glasses. This Western country is gettin’ tough. Well, you boys better trot along and get the sheriff.”

“I reckon we better,” nodded Slim.

“So long!”

“Want to send any message to your dad?” asked Clayton.

“Yeah. Tell him to mind his own business, and to give Slim Regan orders to the same effect.”

Slim turned and glared at Jimmy in the gathering gloom, but Jimmy didn’t see the glare. He was riding on, lifting his voice in song.

“He’s a tough pup, that feller,” growled Slim. “Why, he didn’t know I sent that telegram.”

“Not until you admitted it.”

Clayton turned in his saddle and listened. Jimmy’s voice floated back to them. He was singing “The Message of the Violet” from the “Prince of Pilsen.” They drew up their horses and listened.

“I wish I had his voice,” said Clayton seriously.

“I wish I had his gall,” said Slim.

* * * * *

Hashknife Hartley instinctively liked Roaring Rigby. There was something pathetically earnest about this new sheriff of Black Horse County, who was willing to admit that he knew little about his duties and limitations.

Roaring had ridden back to the Big 4 ranch with Slim Regan and Mark Clayton. He shook hands gravely with Franklyn Moran and with Hashknife, and accepted Moran’s invitation to stay all night. Regan had told Roaring about the dead steers at the Hot Creek coulee.

“That’s Mose Conley’s idea of retaliation,” declared Moran, as they sat together in the main room of the Big 4 ranch-house, the air blue with tobacco smoke.

“Mm-m-m-m-m,” mused Roaring, “kinda funny thing t’ do. What head would that come under, Moran? It ain’t rustlin’. He didn’t steal your cattle.”

“Wanton destruction!” snapped Moran.

“They was inside his fence.”

“He cut the fence himself.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m. Hard to prove, Moran.”

“Even that doesn’t need proof. He shot the animals. Any jury on earth would convict him.”

“Any Black Horse jury would convict Mose Conley of anythin’. Just bring your charge.”

“Well, he brought it on himself, Roarin’, when he fenced in the only open winter water-hole in the country.”

“It’s his land.”

“I can see where Conley’s got one friend.”

“Two,” corrected Roaring. “Me and Jimmy Moran.”

That was a body punch to Franklyn Moran. He got up from his chair and announced that he was going to bed.

“We’ll see about those steers in the morning,” he said.

Hashknife slept in the ranch-house that night. He tried not to work up any interest in the squabble. He did not care particularly for Franklyn Moran, who was half-Easterner, half-Westemer, and inclined to be proud of his own importance.

Moran had told Hashknife much of the story during their ride from Sibley Junction. He had admitted that he double-crossed Moses Conley in a mining deal, because he was unwilling to match his money against Conley’s knowledge. He told Hashknife that he had bought up several prospects which turned out well. In fact, these prospects were responsible for his fortune.

He also explained to Hashknife his reasons for haste in coming to Turquoise City--to break off Jimmy’s engagement to a half-breed girl, who happened to be Conley’s daughter.

“That’s another one of Conley’s ideas of getting even with me,” he told Hashknife.

“He must kinda hate you,” observed Hashknife.

But Hashknife was really more interested in the fact that the sheriff of Black Horse had been frightened into resigning his office by the gambling element of Turquoise City; not that it made any difference to Hashknife, but it was in his blood to seek the reasons for things of this kind.

That was one of the reasons for Sleepy Stevens’ outburst against trouble, when Hashknife and Moran rode away from him at Sibley Junction. Sleepy knew what this word “trouble” would mean to Hashknife.

It would mean that the lean-faced cowboy would not rest until it was all straightened out, regardless of the cost. Since the day when George Hartley had ridden in at the ranch that gave him his nickname, he and Sleepy Dave Stevens had been inseparable. They had cast their lots together and had become wanderers of the open places, going nowhere in particular, but always heading for the next hill, just to see what might be on the other side.

Hashknife had been born with an analytical mind. Having had little schooling and having been born in the cattle country, he naturally became a cowpuncher, a rider of bad bronchos--a top hand with cattle. But there was always the urge to follow the trail of trouble, and when he found Sleepy Stevens, blue-eyed, grin-wrinkled, always looking beyond the distant ranges, they went away together, up and down the land, untangling the mysteries of range trouble, seeking no remuneration, asking no thanks.

In many places they were marked men, but this did not stop them from coming back. Life had made them confirmed fatalists, knowing that nothing could happen to them until their time came.

The West did not list them as gunmen; but strangely enough they had gone through many gun battles unscathed, when men faster with guns had gone down. Theirs was the psychology of being in the right.

“Run when you’re wrong; shoot when you’re right,” said Hashknife. “That’s why some of these fast gunmen get killed off’--they shoot when they’re wrong.”

Sleepy Stevens did not analyze anything. He followed Hashknife dumbly, filled with arguments against getting into trouble, deriding Hashknife’s ability, vocally fearful of getting killed; and yet he inwardly delighted over it all, anxiously waiting for somebody to start shooting.

The following morning after breakfast, Moran, Regan, Roaring and Hashknife rode away from the Big 4 ranch. Hashknife led Sleepy’s horse, as he meant to meet the train at Turquoise City that afternoon.

Regan led the way down to the cut fence at the Conley ranch, and they rode through to Hot Creek. As they came out along the lava beds, high above the creek bottom, they could easily count the eight head of dead steers. Moran swore bitterly against Moses Conley and promised him plenty of trouble for this work.

They circled the lava beds and came down into the bottom. Moran had explained to Hashknife about this warm spring, and Hashknife could see the value of it as a winter shelter and watering place.

“We all used it,” said Slim Regan. “Why, you could run a thousand head of cattle in here ahead of a blizzard, and they’d stand it fine and dandy. This country is cold in the winter. The other streams freeze to the bottom.”

“Why don’tcha make some kind of a deal with Conley?” asked Hashknife.

“Can’t be done; he won’t sell out. Moran offered him more than it’s worth, but he won’t sell. The 7AL has tried to buy it, but didn’t have any luck. The old fool won’t listen to money.”

“Hey!” blurted Roaring. “Look at that animal!”

They had ridden up close to the nearest dead steer. On its shoulder was a spot about a foot square, where the hide had been stripped off.

“The dirty old pup!” wailed Moran. “He’s skinned out the brands. But that won’t help him. Everybody knows we brand on the left shoulder.”

“So does the Stumblin’ K,” said Roaring thoughtfully.

“Huh!” Moran stared at Roaring. “Is that so! I suppose that squirt of a kid will claim the carcasses, eh? Swear he owned ’em, eh? But you and Clayton saw ’em, Slim. You can swear they had Big 4’s, can’tcha?”

“Shore,” nodded Slim thoughtfully.

He remembered that he and Clayton had told Jimmy about it last night. Now he wished that he had kept his mouth shut.

“What are you thinkin’ about?” asked Moran.

Slim jerked slightly and adjusted his Stetson carefully.

“I was just thinkin’ how much gall some folks have.”

“Oh, Conley’s got plenty of it, Slim. He always did have. Well, what about it, Roarin’? Goin’ to arrest Conley?”