Chapter IV: Part 4

* * * * *

For a long while after the men had left the ranch Dawn wondered why Hashknife had asked all those questions. Why would an absolute stranger quiz her like that, she wondered? What was behind those level gray eyes, and that smile that seemed to drive her sorrows away for a moment? She was so sleepy and weary that she could hardly remember just what he looked like; but she remembered his eyes. And he seemed just an ordinary cowboy; the other man seemed to be one continuous grin and blue eyes.

Her mother, wearied from the all-night vigil, came out to her on the porch and they sat down together.

“Mose pretty bad hurt,” she said dully. “He talk long time ago. Long time ago he friend to Frank Moran.”

“I know,” said Dawn.

“Two strange men come,” said Mrs. Conley.

“With the sheriff,” said Dawn.

“What they want?”

Dawn shook her head slowly.

“I don’t know, mother. I think they want to find out who shot Dad.”

“Easy find out, Dawn. Everybody know.”

“I suppose.”

“Funny life,” said the old Indian woman. “Frank Moran hate Mose Conley; Mose Conley hate Frank Moran. Now both have son in jail for same thing.”

“I told that man what Ryker said to you, mother?”

Mrs. Conley looked curiously at Dawn.

“I told him that Ryker came to see me and talked with you,” said Dawn. “This man knew what Ryker said.”

“You tell him what Ryker say about turn Pete loose if you marry him?”

“I didn’t tell him all about it; he seemed to know.”

“Ryker tell him, Dawn?”

“No.”

Dawn got to her feet and looked down the road. Some one was riding up along the road. It was Ryker. Dawn knew who it was as soon as she saw him, even at that distance.

“Ryker is coming now,” she said. “I won’t talk to him.”

“I talk to him,” said her mother, and Dawn went into the house.

The prosecuting attorney guided his horse up to the porch and smiled a greeting to Mrs. Conley, who gave a short nod of her head in acknowledgment. He dismounted and came to the corner of the porch. Perhaps he wasn’t exactly sure of his reception.

“I heard about the trouble,” he told her.

“Pretty damn bad,” she said inelegantly.

Ryker mopped his brow with a clean handkerchief and came up on the porch.

“Met the sheriff and two men,” he said jerkily. “Out here, wasn’t they?”

Mrs. Conley nodded. Ryker cleared his throat harshly.

“I thought so. Know who those two men are?”

“Pretty smart,” she said. “Tall man tell Dawn what you tell me.”

“Eh?” Ryker blinked rapidly. “What do you mean?”

“Tall man tell Dawn you turn Peter loose if she marry you.”

“The tall man said!” Ryker stopped, staring at her. “Who told you this, Mrs. Conley?”

“Dawn tell me.”

“Who told the tall man?”

“Nobody.”

Ryker scowled heavily at the Indian woman.

“You told him,” he declared.

“You lie. I never talk to man.”

“You told Dawn and she told him.”

“’Nother lie. He tell Dawn. Pretty damn smart.”

“Too damn smart,” growled Ryker. “What did Dawn say when you told her?”

“I can answer that, Mr. Ryker.”

The prosecuting attorney turned quickly to see Dawn in the doorway.

“Why!” he began breathlessly.

“I heard what was said,” continued Dawn. “The other time you were here I heard what you said, Mr. Ryker. Are you the law?”

“The law?” faltered Ryker.

“Yes, the law. They say Peter may hang for the murder of Mallette. Can you trade Peter’s life for a marriage? Is that what the law is for--trade goods?”

Ryker flushed angrily.

“You don’t understand,” he said huskily. “It isn’t a case of trading, Dawn. I--I want you.”

“And I don’t want you,” she said evenly. “Go home.”

“Oh, all right,” Ryker turned angrily and walked to his horse. He started to get on, but hesitated and turned to Dawn. “I suppose you know your father hasn’t hired a lawyer to defend Pete. The trial starts Monday.”

He mounted and rode away, cursing his own luck and wondering how Hashknife Hartley knew about the proposition he had made to Mrs. Conley. English Ed had said that Hartley was a dangerous man, and Ryker was inclined to believe him.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy rode back to Turquoise City with the sheriff. They had not met Ryker, for the simple reason that Ryker had seen them coming and had avoided the meeting. They went to the sheriff’s office, where several men had gathered with Wind River Jim, waiting for word of Conley’s condition. They went away after the sheriff had reported no change in the patient, and the four men sat down in the office.

“Pete and Jimmy shore ain’t lost no appetite,” laughed Wind River. “I shore packed plenty ham and eggs.”

“What did Pete say about his father?” asked Roaring.

“He didn’t say much. I saw Judge Beal this mornin’. He was cold sober, too. Looked awful white and was kinda shaky, but he stopped long enough to ask about things. He ain’t been out of his own house for several days, and I’ll bet he’s been on a big drunk.”

“Gettin’ ready for the openin’ of court,” said Roaring.

“What’s your private opinion of those warnings?” asked Hashknife.

“Search me. They scared Jim Randall out of his job. They sent the old judge two. The last one was the day before Mallette was killed. Mebby it was the same day. Anyway, it was their final warnin’--and the judge ignored it.”

“And he’s still alive,” smiled Hashknife. “It proves that the gang are four-flushers.”

“Yeah, it looks that way,” admitted Roaring. “But he’s been stayin’ in the house pretty close.”

* * * * *

Lovely Lucas was as good as his word. He came back to Turquoise City with Horse-Collar Fields, who came willingly. It was not often that Horse-Collar left the Stumbling K. He was a small, thin person, about fifty years of age, as bald as the proverbial billiard-ball. He had a slight cast in his left eye. He did the cooking for the Stumbling K.

Just now he wore a pair of misfit chaps. They belonged to Wind River Jim, whose waist measure was several inches larger than that which Horse-Collar boasted. He also wore a cartridge-belt and a holstered gun. Lovely led the way to the Ranger Saloon, with Horse-Collar swaggering along behind him.

“Hello, Horse-Collar,” grinned the bartender, a short, fat person, with a moonlike face and a damp curl of hair gracing his expansive brow.

“Boy, howdy,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “How’s chances to git drunk?”

“Best you ever seen. Ain’t seen you in a long time.”

“No, and you wouldn’t see me now, if it wasn’t that I’m needed here. Cities don’t appeal to me. I jist feel all cramped up in a city. What’ll you have, Lovely?”

“Some of that there corrosive sublimate which is designated as liquor. But before we salivate our lungs, liver and lights, I want to explain to you ag’in, for about the seventh time, Horse-Collar--we ain’t goin’ to git drunk.”

“And for seven times I replies to same,” said Horse-Collar. “When I takes the law in my two hands, I’m goin’ to have m’ stummick in shape to handle m’ brains. Gimme that bottle!”

“You takin’ the law?” asked the bartender.

Horse-Collar cocked one eye wisely, as he poured out a big drink.

“Right by the slack of the pants,” he declared. “They’ve got Jimmy Moran in jail, ain’t they? Here’s how. Well, well, well! ’F here ain’t one of them officers of the law!”

Wind River Jim had come in and was standing near the bar, considering them gravely.

“What about Jimmy Moran bein’ in jail?” asked Wind River.

“That’s what we’re here to find out,” grunted Lovely.

“Grab a glass,” invited Horse-Collar.

“I’m purchasin’.”

“I hadn’t ort to,” said Wind River sadly. “I’m deputy sheriff, you know.”

“What difference does that make?”

“Well, I might gargle one with you, boys.” But they didn’t stop at one drink.

Lovely bought the next one, the bartender stood a treat and then it was Wind River’s turn. By this time Horse-Collar was in the right mood to buy again, which caused the others to treat in turn. Eight drinks of Ranger whisky were guaranteed to either bring out all the latent forces within a human being, or to put him flat on his back.

Horse-Collar surveyed the world through rose-colored glasses; he essayed a song.

“Don’t shing,” advised Lovely.

“Tha’s the worsht of friends,” sighed Horse-Collar. “They try to run your business. What’ll you do if I try to shing?”

“I’m shorry, but if you shing I mus’ has’en your demise. Know what a demise is, Horsh-Collar? Tha’s the end of you.”

“Whish end?”

“Now, don’ drink no more, Horsh-Collar. Ain’t that verdict, Wind River? Horsh-Collar mus’ not drink no more. We’ve got p’tic’lar work to do. Win’ River’s goin’ help us, Horsh-Collar. We’re goin’ down and deman’ releash of Jimmy. Whoo-ee-e-e!”

Lovely cuffed his hat off his head and laughed deliriously.

“Thish is a lovely day,” he declared. “Win’ River Jim, yo’re triplets! H’rah, f’r your fambly. Let’s go up to the s’preme palace of vice and visit our old friend English Ed.”

“He--he’ll mashacree you,” choked Wind River.

Horse-Collar shook his head so violently that he fell against the bar and sat down heavily on the bar-rail.

“Havin’ a chill?” queried Lovely. “My Lord, you shore can shake. Havin’ fits, Horsh-Collar?”

“Ain’t nobody goin’ mashacree nobody,” declared Horse-Collar. “Let’s go and fin’ Jimmy. Poor old Jimmy. Oh, poor old Jimmy!”

“Can yuh beat that?” demanded Lovely. “Cryin’!”

“Git up,” begged Wind River. “You make me shick. Let’s have one more drink, and then we’ll go down and have it out with Roarin’ Rigby. C’mon, Horsh-Collar. A-a-a-aw, dry up!”

“You fellers start monkeyin’ with the law, and you’ll get hurt,” said the bartender.

“Will, eh?” grunted Wind River. “Well, I’m about half of the law around here, and I know what I can do.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy came from the restaurant near the Black Horse Saloon and saw Franklyn Moran and English Ed, sitting together in a buggy, the team of which was tied to the Black Horse hitch-rack.

Moran called to Hashknife, who went over to them. Sleepy sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and rolled a smoke.

“You’ve met Holmes, haven’t you, Hartley?” asked Moran.

Hashknife nodded quickly. Holmes laughed shortly.

“Yes, we’ve met before, Moran. Hartley recognized me. He’s got a good memory, it seems.”

Hashknife studied the gambler. It seemed rather odd that the man was admitting all this, and Hashknife wondered what his reason might be.

“I’m putting my cards on the table, Hartley,” said Holmes. “I knew you. At first you had me puzzled, but I remembered.”

“And then what?” asked Hashknife coldly.

“I’ve been telling Moran about you, Hartley. I’ve got nothing to conceal. I’m just as anxious to have things cleared up as he is. You heard about the warnings sent to Jim Randall and Judge Beal? Well, I didn’t send ’em.”

“No?” Hashknife smiled curiously. “Why tell me, Holmes?”

“Because I know you are not here for your health.”

“That’s true; my health never worries me.”

English Ed shook his head.

“Still suspicious, eh? Don’t blame you. Do you believe Jimmy Moran shot Moses Conley?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’d like your opinion.”

“Haven’t any. None of my business, Holmes. Must have been enough evidence to satisfy the sheriff.”

“It’s not hard to satisfy a sheriff,” said Moran slowly. “Holmes tells me that you have cleared up a lot of hard cases, Hartley. I didn’t know I was hiring a horse from a detective when I met you at Sibley Junction. I hired your horse and now I’d like to hire you. How about it?”

“I’m more or less of a cowpuncher,” said Hashknife. “I’m not a detective, Moran. Never pretended to be one.”

“Will you take this case?”

“What case?”

“Jimmy’s case.”

“Oh, yeah, Jimmy’s case. You mean--to try and prove he didn’t shoot Conley?”

“If it’s possible--yes, I’ll pay well.” Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“You’ve got the wrong dope on me, Moran. My skin is worth quite a lot to me. Even if I was able to solve a mystery, I’d have no chance here. Somebody would fill me full of lead before I got started.”

English Ed laughed shortly.

“Which proves that you don’t think Jimmy is guilty. If he was, why would you be afraid of getting shot?”

Hashknife shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t think Jimmy killed those Big 4 steers at Hot Creek, do you?”

“I don’t know anything about it,” said Holmes flatly.

“Somebody does,” smiled Hashknife. “Nope, I don’t want any finger in this pie; I might get it hurt.”

He nodded and turned back to Sleepy, who joined him. They saw Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields coming from the Ranger Saloon, and the sidewalk was not wide enough for them to walk in single file.

“What did they want?” asked Sleepy.

“Wanted me to clear Jimmy Moran. English Ed had filled Moran up with a lot of stuff. I wouldn’t trust Holmes as far as I could throw a prize bull by the tail.”

“You didn’t take the case, did you, Hashknife?”

“Not so much you’d notice it.”

“Boy, howdy! Now we can high-tail out of here, eh?”

“Mm-m-m-m. Let’s go down and see how Roarin’ is gettin’ along.”

They found Roaring Rigby sitting on the edge of the cot that he had moved into the office. His eyes were blurred with sleep, but he grinned a welcome.

“Took a little shut-eye,” he said. “Fixed me up pretty good, too. Ho-o-o-o-hum-m-m-m-m! Gosh, I shore was sleepy! What’s new in the world?”

“Nothin’ much,” replied Hashknife. “Roarin’, what kind of a gun did Jimmy Moran use?”

Roaring yawned heavily.

“Colt. I’ve got it here.”

He went to his desk, sat down heavily and opened one of the drawers. There were three guns in the drawer, and he placed them side by side on the desk top.

“This is Jimmy’s,” he said. “The middle one belongs to Moses Conley and the other is the one Pete killed Mallette with.”

Hashknife examined Jimmy’s gun. The hammer was still down on the exploded shell. It was a .45 caliber. He picked up Pete’s gun, a .45, single-action Colt. It was fully loaded and fairly clean.

“He had plenty of time to reload and clean it,” said the sheriff.

Hashknife nodded and put the gun back on the desk.

“There wasn’t any bullet in Mallette, eh?”

“Nope; went plumb through.”

Hashknife picked up Moses Conley’s gun. It was of the same model as Pete’s. There was an empty shell in one of the chambers. Hashknife slid it out and looked it over. Some one was coming down the sidewalk toward the office. Hashknife replaced the shell. He was half sitting on a corner of the desk.

Roaring Rigby was rolling a cigaret and Sleepy was busily examining a reward notice. Some one stopped at the open door, but Hashknife didn’t look up. His long fingers gripped the heavy revolver, a thumb drew back the hammer almost to full cock and let it slip.

_Wham!_

The big gun roared like a cannon in that small room. Hashknife had the muzzle pointed at the floor and, as the gun jerked in his hands, he glanced toward the door in time to see Wind River Jim, Lovely Lucas and Horse-Collar Fields.

_Wham!_

Horse-Collar Fields had yanked out his gun and fired so quickly that the report of his gun was a thudding echo of Hashknife’s shot.

_Wham!_

Lovely Lucas’ gun went off before it was out of the holster.

“You-u-u-u-u-u-u damn fools!” howled Roaring. He went over backward, clawing at his face.

Hashknife sprang sidewise, collided with Sleepy, and they went sprawling together, while the three drunken cow-punchers backed out, fell off the sidewalk and proceeded to empty their guns at anything and everything in sight. Hashknife and Sleepy sat up, staring at each other; while Roaring crawled to his feet and peeked over the top of his upset chair.

“My Lord!” exploded Sleepy.

“Where’d the nigger come from?”

Roaring’s face, except for the tip-end of his nose, was as black as ebony. He spat disgustedly and wiped the back of a hand across his lips.

“Ink!” he snorted. “Damn fool busted the ink-bottle and I got it all in the face. What in the devil is goin’ on around here, anyway?”

_Wham!_

A bullet came through the window and splatted against the end of the room.

“Shoot at me, will you?” It was Horse-Collar’s voice, filled with righteous indignation. “Show yourself, you murderer! Give ’em hell if they rush you, Wind River!”

Roaring wiped some more ink off his face and got to his feet.

“Don’t go near the door,” advised Hashknife.

“I’m not goin’ to. What started this here war?”

Hashknife grinned sheepishly.

“Mebby I’m to blame. I accidentally fired this gun, and them three men must have thought I was shootin’ at them.”

“Hunh!” grunted Roaring disgustedly.

“One was Lovely Lucas,” grinned Sleepy. “He said he was goin’ to get help and come back, didn’t he? Wasn’t he goin’ to get a jigger named Horse-Collar?”

“That’s right! Why, the dirty bum! And they’ve got my deputy along with ’em. See if you can find out where they are, Sleepy.”

“Is that so!” snorted Sleepy. “Take a look and grab a harp. Not me, brother.”

“Hunh! Well, they won’t shoot at me, I’ll betcha.”

Roaring strode over to the doorway, ducked convulsively when a bullet thudded into the wall behind him, and whirled in against the wall.

“I lose,” he said quickly.

The shooting had caused considerable excitement in the main street, but none of the three men went to the door until Hank Pitts, of the Big 4, came down to the doorway as a committee of one to find out what caused it.

“They’re over in the Ranger Saloon,” he told Roaring. “Anybody--my Lord, you shore got painted! Ink?”

“Ink! Nobody got hurt. Hartley accidentally fired Moses Conley’s gun, and them drunken fools thought we were shootin’ at them. Got a darn good notion to jail all three of ’em.”

“I wouldn’t; they’re drunk,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt.”

“I suppose that’s right. The darn fools might have killed somebody. Hank, if you see Wind River, will you tell him to sober up and get back on the job?”

Hank promised and went back to the Black Horse. Hashknife examined the shell he had fired, and a faint smile twisted his wide lips. He handed the gun back to Roaring, who was scrubbing his face with a handkerchief, trying to remove the ink, which had already dried in.

“Put that gun in a safe place, will you?” asked Hashknife.

“You’re right I will!” spluttered Roaring. “How’d you ever come to fire it thataway?”

“Slipped,” grinned Hashknife. “Mind if I talk with Jimmy Moran?”

“I reckon not. I’ll bet they’re wonderin’ what all the shootin’ was about.”

They opened the jail door and went in. Pete was frightened. He thought there had been an attempt to take him from the jail. Jimmy laughed joyfully at Roaring’s description of how Lovely and Horse-Collar and Wind River had got drunk and had come down to get him out of jail.

“They’re a wild bunch,” laughed Jimmy. “All heart and no brains.”

“I want you to tell me about Conley’s shootin’,” said Hashknife. “I’ve got Miss Conley’s story.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Jimmy cautiously.

“Just curious, Jimmy. Tell me about it.”

And Jimmy told him everything as he had seen it.

“You shot at a man, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“There was somebody behind that bush,” declared Jimmy. “I was kinda excited, you see. No, I didn’t see where the shot came from; I was too far around the corner. But I didn’t see anybody after I shot.”

Hashknife continued to question--

“Was there more than two shots fired?”

“That’s all, and I fired one of ’em.”

“You went out there to warn Conley that the Big 4 outfit were comin’ out, didn’t you?”

Jimmy nodded quickly.

“What else could I do?”

“Did you skin out them brands, Jimmy?”

Jimmy shifted his eyes and a ghost of a smile passed his lips.

“You’re just guessin’, Hartley,” he said.

Hashknife smiled.

“Good guesser?” he asked.

“Mebby you think you are.”

“By golly, I never thought of that!” exploded Roaring.

“I’m just tryin’ to help you, Jimmy,” reminded Hashknife.

“I need little help,” said Pete.

Hashknife turned his head and looked at the half-breed. Pete was leaning against the bars, a wistful expression in his dark eyes.

“I reckon you do,” agreed Hashknife.

“Pete ain’t even got a lawyer,” said Roaring.

“Don’t need none,” said Pete quickly. “Damn lawyer don’t know who kill Joe Mallette.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“That’s very true, Pete.”

They left the jail and, while Roaring went on a hunt for Wind River Jim and his two wild-shooting companions, Hashknife and Sleepy got their horses and rode out of town, heading toward Hot Creek.

Quite a crowd collected in the Ranger Saloon, trying to get a firsthand account of the gun battle, and they got it in three distinct versions.

“They repulsed us,” said Horse-Collar dismally. “Oh, the loss was terrific. There was bodies stewed--strewed all over the street. In one plash--jus’ in one plash, mind you--I shaw twelve dead men in one pile. An’ if that ain’t the truth, you can cut off Lovely’s ears.”

“Whozears?” demanded Lovely. “Horsh-Collar’s a liar. That long-geared Hartley shot d’liber’tly at my heart; that’s what happened. Jus’ lifted his six-shooter and shez t’ me, ‘I’ve gotcha faded, Misser Lucas.’ Jus’ like that. And then he pulled the trigger. It was the mean-esht thing I ever beheld. That feller’s a murderer--jus’ a common murderer.”

“A-a-a-a-aw, hell!” snorted Wind River. “You and Horsh-Collar are drunk. Here’s what act’ally happened, gents. Me and Lovely and Horsh-Collar went down to pay our reshpects to Roarin’ Rigby. We was jus’ as innochent as a unborn sheep--three of ’em. Hartley and Stevens was there with Roarin’, you shee. Well, they mus’ ’a’ thought we was makin’ an attack, because they armed themshelves with Winchester rifles, you shee. And when we came in, p’lite as hell, and shed good-afternoon, they opened fire on us, jus’ like that. _Bing! Bang! Boom! Bim!_”

Wind River struck the bar three times, emphasizing his vocal imitation of a shot, but the fourth time he missed the bar and hit his chin on the edge of it.

“They must be drunk,” declared the bartender, grinning.

“I’ll shay they are,” agreed Horse-Collar.

“Didja kill any of ’em?” asked Hank Pitts.

“All five,” said Horse-Collar solemnly. “Let’s all have a drink. My conscience bothers me. It’s the firsh time I ever missed a shot. Gittin’ old. Any old time I have to take three shots to kill two men, I’m all wrong. Whatcha drinkin’?”

It was about ten minutes later when Roaring Rigby came into the Ranger Saloon. He leaned against the bar and looked sadly at Wind River Jim, who goggled at him owlishly.

“H’lo corpsh,” said Wind River.

“Go stick your head in a horse-trough,” advised Roaring. “Drown some of the liquor out of you and then go back to the office where you belong. You’re a hell of a deputy!”

“Deputy?” Wind River’s eyes opened widely. He turned and hit Horse-Collar a resounding whack between the shoulders, the force of the blow knocking Horse-Collar against the bar, from which he rebounded and sat down on the floor.

“You quit knockin’ Horsh-Collar ’round,” ordered Lovely. “Who do you think you are, anyway. Git up and pile him, Horsh-Collar. Don’t let’m knock you ’round, the big bully.”

“Who in the devil got hit?” wailed Horse-Collar in a thin voice. “Lemme alone, will you, Lovely? Keep your nose out of my business, will yu-u-u-uh? ’F I want to pile Wind River, I don’t need no advice from you. Gittin’ so a man can’t even git knocked down, without somebody advisin’ him.”

“Give ’m hell!” grunted Wind River. “’S’ all right, Roarin’. I’m shober.”

Wind River cuffed his wide hat almost over his eyes, got his bearings and headed out through the doorway.

“Have a li’l drink, Roarin’?” asked Lovely.

“You boys better go home, Lovely.”

“Tha’ so? Huh! Whaffor? Nothin’ to do. We ain’t goin’ home until--whatcha shay, Horsh-Collar?”

“Drunken idiots,” said Roaring, and he went out.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy circled the Hot Creek ranch fence to where the wire had been cut at the north side and then they came down to the coulee where the Big 4 steers had been killed. Luckily they had been killed far enough away so as not to pollute the water. A coyote sneaked away from one of them, and a flock of magpies went chattering into the trees. Nature’s scavengers were swiftly obliterating the Big 4 losses.

Hashknife examined one of the steers. It had been shot in the head.

“Funny they didn’t hear the shootin’ down at Conley’s,” said Sleepy.

“A twenty-two don’t make much noise, Sleepy.”

“F’r gosh sake! No wonder. Probably used longs; them little guns are beef killers. Looks as though the killers didn’t want to be heard, eh?”

“Looks thataway,” agreed Hashknife, mounting his horse. “Let’s ride down and see how Conley is feelin’.”

The doctor had gone to town a short time before they arrived. Conley was conscious, but the doctor had left orders with Dawn that he was to see no one. She came outside to talk with them.

“What did he have to say?” asked Hashknife. “Did he know who shot him?”

Dawn nodded, her eyes filled quickly with tears.

“Jimmy, eh?” said Hashknife softly.

“Yes. The doctor wouldn’t let him talk much.”

“Of course not; but the doctor thinks he’ll get well, don’t he?”

“He thinks Dad has a good chance now.”

“Well, that’s great.”

Hashknife sat down on the steps and rolled a smoke.

“Is there much deer huntin’ around here in the fall?” he asked.

“Not very close,” said Dawn. “The boys go back about fifteen miles. They get quite a lot.”

“Plenty grouse, eh?”

“Quite a few; Peter kills lots of them.”

“It’s a lot of fun, if you’ve got a shotgun,” said Hashknife.

“Peter uses a twenty-two rifle,” said Dawn.

“Uh-huh.” Hashknife did not look at Sleepy. He had found out that the Conley family owned a .22.

They did not stay long. Mrs. Conley was sleeping, and Hashknife realized that Dawn wanted to be with her father.

“How much longer are we goin’ to stick around here?” asked Sleepy, as they rode back toward Turquoise City.

“Not long, I reckon. It kinda looks as though the Conley family killed those steers.”

“Well, that’s what everybody else thinks; so why not you?”

“I hoped they hadn’t, Sleepy, that’s all.”

“As far as ownin’ a twenty-two is concerned--there must be more twenty-twos in this country.”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy.

“You do have an idea once in a while, cowboy. But how much easier it would have been if Conley didn’t.”

“I suppose it would. But what do we care? Let’s figure on pullin’ out tomorrow.”

Hashknife frowned thoughtfully. There were still things that puzzled him greatly, and he hated to leave things unsolved. The jury would find Pete guilty, and he would be sentenced to hang; that was almost a certainty. If Conley died, Jimmy Moran might get off with a sentence. It would all depend on the jury, and a Black Horse jury would give Jimmy the benefit of a doubt.

But Jimmy wanted to marry Dawn Conley, and nothing except complete vindication would ever give him that chance. Hashknife did not believe English Ed Holmes. He had a feeling that Holmes merely wanted to know whether Hashknife was going to work on the case.

It was rather hard for Hashknife to believe that old Moses Conley had cut the fence, herded in those Big 4 steers and shot them down just for revenge. Revenge for what? For something that had happened twenty-five years before. That would be ridiculous presumption. No doubt Conley had fenced in Hot Creek against the Big 4; but that was no crime. He owned the land.

Had some of the Big 4 cut that fence and killed the steers merely to have a reason for starting trouble with Conley? Possible but hardly probable, he decided. Slim Regan was a hard-bitted sort of person, but Hashknife could hardly believe that Slim would do that.

“You’re doin’ a lot of thinkin’,” observed Sleepy.

“Am I?” grinned Hashknife. “It ain’t doin’ me much good. I’m kinda stuck.”

“Glad to hear it. Mebby you’ll quit.”

“I might,” grinned Hashknife.

About a mile out of Turquoise City they met the old doctor, heading back to the Conley place, driving his old sway-backed gray. The two cowboys drew rein beside the road, and the doctor stopped.

“Hyah, Doctor,” smiled Hashknife. “Hear your patient is comin’ along fine.”

“Good enough,” answered the doctor gruffly. “Didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“The little lady wouldn’t let me.”

“Good for her. Smart girl; nice girl, too. Obeys orders. Feel sorry for her. Conley says Moran shot him. Lucky thing I’m pulling Conley out of it. Hate to see the kid strung up.”

The old doctor talked jerkily.

“Conley didn’t say he saw Moran, did he?”

“Didn’t say; suppose he did. Kind of hot today.”

“Little warm,” agreed Hashknife. “You’re the coroner, ain’t you, Doc?”

“Yes, who’s dead this time?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Nothin’ like that, Doc. You handled this Mallette, didn’t you?”

“Naturally, bein’ a murder case.”

“Didn’t find any bullet?”

“No; shot in the head; bullet went on. You’re not trying to find out who killed him, are you?”

“Why not?”

“No question about Pete Conley, is there?”

“Might be, Doc. Tell me about how Mallette looked. Was he shot at close range?”

“Guess not. Not close enough to get burned. They said he had been drinking heavily. Drank absinth with his liquor. Darn bad combination. Wore cowboy boots. Funny thing about his boots. When I took them off I found a lot of gravel in them. I told the sheriff about it.” The doctor laughed heartily. “He said Mallette wasn’t very clean.”

“Gravel in his boots, eh?” mused Hashknife. “Man would have to go without a bath a long time to acquire gravel.”

“He would,” laughed the doctor, picking up his lines. “I’ve got to be going on, boys.”

They told him good-by and rode on. Hashknife’s eyes were keen now and his lips shut tightly. Sleepy looked closely at him, groaned and yanked his hat down viciously.

* * * * *

Sleepy and Hashknife stabled their horses and went to the sheriff’s office, where they found Roaring and Wind River Jim. The deputy was asleep on the cot, sleeping off his jag.

“What do you know?” asked Roaring.

“Not very much,” replied Hashknife. “I wish you’d take me to the spot where they found Joe Mallette.”

“Yea-a-ah? What for, Hashknife?”

“Curiosity, I suppose.”

“Uh-huh. Will you stay here, Sleepy? Got to keep somebody around here. Wind River ain’t much use right now.”

“Go ahead,” laughed Sleepy.

Roaring led Hashknife through the alley between the Black Horse Saloon and the restaurant, out past the rear of the judge’s home, to a spot between there and the end house of the redlight district.

“This is the spot,” said Roaring. “I wasn’t here that night, but several of the boys showed me the place.”

Hashknife studied the spot for a while, while the sheriff watched him curiously.

“Mallette was drunk, wasn’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“They say he was. Drank absinth. Some of the boys said they wondered how he was able to walk.”

“Powerful stuff.”

They walked part way back to the alley, where Hashknife stopped and looked back.

“Mallette came from the rear of the Black Horse Saloon,” said Hashknife. “He was headin’ for them redlight houses and he was loaded with absinth and whisky. Uh-huh.”

“That’s the right dope on it, Hashknife. What have you got in your mind?”

“How long was it before Pete Conley went out on his trail?”

“Prob’ly not much more than five minutes.”

“Long enough.”

They walked back through the alley, where Hashknife excused himself and went over to a general merchandise store. He bought a box of cartridges for his revolver, and engaged the proprietor in conversation. Their selection of ammunition was limited to a few sizes. Hashknife noticed a few boxes of .22 caliber shells.

“Yuh don’t sell many twenty-twos, do you?” he asked.

“Not many,” grinned the proprietor. “Pretty small ammunition. Pete Conley used to buy quite a lot.”

“Some places they’re popular,” observed Hashknife. “Is Pete the only twenty-two shooter around here?”

“Guess he is. Don’t remember any others.”

Hashknife bought some tobacco, and went out. It seemed to have narrowed down to the one twenty-two rifle. As he came from the store he met Kent Cutter, the boss of the 7AL. They nodded and went on. Cutter entered the store, singing out a greeting to the proprietor, who had seen Cutter and Hashknife exchange nods.

“Who is that tall cowboy?” asked the merchant.

“Name’s Hartley. Came here with Frank Moran. Heard he’s a cattle detective, but don’t know anythin’ about him myself.”

“He’s a level-eyed son-of-a-rooster.”

“Sure is. Gimme a box of thirty-thirties, Al.”

The merchant slid a box across the counter.

“This Hartley seemed to be interested in twenty-twos.”

“In twenty-twos? Don’t pack one, does he?”

“Bought forty-fives. Mentioned that I probably didn’t sell many twenty-twos. I told him Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in this part of the country.”

“Yeah, he’s got one,” said Cutter. “I need a pair of overalls, Al. Give ’em to me big enough. This cowboy idea of tight pants don’t appeal to me. So he’s interested in twenty-twos, is he? Pretty small gun for a grown man; me, I like a thirty-thirty.”

Hashknife went back to the office and asked Roaring to let him speak a word with Pete Conley. Roaring was willing. Hashknife told Pete that his father was conscious, and the half-breed seemed pleased. Jimmy Moran danced a jig on the cell floor and wanted to know all the details.

“What did he say?” asked Jimmy anxiously. “Did he have any idea who shot him, Hashknife?”

“He said you did, Jimmy.”

“My God!” Jimmy turned around and sat down.

“I want to ask you a question, Pete,” said Hashknife.

“Sure.”

“You’ve got a twenty-two rifle, Pete?”

“Sure,” Pete grinned widely. “I got little gun. Pretty damn good gun, too.”

“Fine. Who else in Black Horse valley has a twenty-two rifle?”

“Mm-m-m-m,” Pete scratched his head thoughtfully. “By golly, I dunno. Nobody, I guess. I not know any one. You want use mine? You tell Dawn--”

“I don’t want it, Pete--thanks.”

“She shoot good.”

“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife.

“What about a twenty-two rifle?” asked Roaring.

“You don’t know anybody who owns one, do you?”

“I don’t; didn’t even know Pete owned one.”

“You’re a lot of help to me,” sighed Hashknife. “Much obliged to you, Pete.”

They went back into the office and sat down. Hashknife knew that Roaring was itching to know; so he told him that the Big 4 steers had been killed with a twenty-two rifle.

“The hell!” exploded Roaring. “Do you know, I never even thought to see what had killed ’em? I’ll betcha Mose Conley killed ’em with Pete’s gun. Yes, sir, that’s jist what happened.”

“Why would he, Roaring?”

“Why would he? Why, the old man has hated the Big 4--”

“For twenty-five years--yeah.”

“Well, mebby it was to show Frank Moran--”

“Conley didn’t even know Frank Moran was comin’. That fence was cut. If Conley wanted to kill Big 4 steers for revenge, would he kill ’em down in that Hot Creek coulee, where the Big 4 couldn’t find ’em? He’d have to take a chance that some puncher would find that cut fence, and investigate. If Conley wanted to make the Big 4 mad, he’d kill them steers inside the fence and near the road.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I never thought of that, Hartley. You kinda reason things out.”

“And if Pete owned the only twenty-two in the country, do you suppose they’d kill them steers and then deny it? They did deny it, Roarin’. And if Conley killed ’em for revenge, would it be any revenge to deny it to the Big 4? It would not. He’d merely tell ’em to keep their stock off his ranch. And another thing, Roarin’; Moses Conley wouldn’t wantonly butcher eight big, fat steers in that manner. He’s an old cowman. He might kill a man, but I don’t think he’d kill steers.”

“Well, somebody did,” said Roaring foolishly. “Mebby the Big 4 killed ’em themselves.”

“Probably borrowed Pete’s twenty-two,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Anyway, I’m not interested in them steers. So old man Conley says Jimmy shot him, eh? That makes it tough for Jimmy; but old Frank Moran will shore hire a good lawyer for Jimmy. English Ed tells me that the old man paid Jimmy’s gamblin’ debt. English was down here a while ago. Asked about you. I told him I didn’t know where you’d gone. He asked me if you was interested in Jimmy’s case, and I said you prob’ly was. He said he heard that you took a shot at Horse-Collar Fields, and I told him what had happened. Ryker heard about it too, and he came down. You can’t keep a lawyer’s nose out of things. He asked quite a lot; but that’s natural.”

“He’s a queer lookin’ jigger,” smiled Hashknife.

“He shore is,” laughed Roaring. “Ryker is an old old-timer, Hashknife. He had that assay office for years. Knows minerals, y’betcha. But when the minin’ boom died out and his business wasn’t so much, he took to law. I reckon he had studied it before he came here. Knew quite a lot about minin’ law. He’s done pretty good. Got himself elected to office, and this is his third term. Makes me itch. I want to cinch up his collar. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! And them danged cuffs! Him and Judge Beal never got along. The old judge knows law, and the prosecutor never slips anythin’ over on him. I heard old Ryker make the crack one day that he was aimin’ to be judge of this county one of these days. Could, I reckon--if the voters would elect him.”

“Was Jim Randall a good sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“Best in the world! Why, Jim Randall would shoot a man as quick as he’d look at him. Good? I’ll tell you he was.”

Hashknife grinned to himself. That was Roaring Rigby’s idea of an efficient officer.

“Strict, eh?”

“You’re danged right. That’s why they ran him out. He was a fighter in the open, but--but he had a wife and kids, Hartley. I don’t blame him. If they ever send me a warnin’, my own skin will be my only alibi for high-tailin’ it out of here. I’d rather be a runnin’ coward than a reclinin’ hero.”

“Somethin’ to that, too,” smiled Hashknife.

“Yeah, and you better think about it,” said Sleepy.

* * * * *

Saturday night, as was usual in a cow-town, was a gala night in Turquoise City. Every cowboy in the country came to town, thirsty, full of song and looking for excitement. Wind River had sobered and was repentant; but Horse-Collar Fields and Lovely Lucas were still having a wonderful time.

They had forgotten Jimmy Moran and their escapade at the sheriff’s office; but they had never gone near the Black Horse Saloon. The Ranger was their happy hunting ground. Both of them had long since run out of money and were spending their credit with great prodigality.

“We s’licit your votes, gen’lemen,” said Horse-Collar expansively. “Lovely’s runnin’ f’r gov’ner and I’m sheekin’ nomina-shun for pup-president. Long may she wave. How’s all your li’l’ cowlets and bullets? Have a drink on the bartender; he ain’t treated since Sittin’ Bull stood up.”

“Lemme ’lone;” pleaded Lovely, “Lemme ’tirely ’lone. I’m tryin’ to think why I came to town.”

“Tha’s right; be intelligent, ’f you can. ’F that bartender would only think, he’d know it’s his turn.

“O-o-o-oh, I feel as fresh as a big sunflower
That bends and nods in the bree-e-e-e-zus;
My heart’s as light as a drop of dew
That lays in the road and free-e-e-e-zus.”

“My word, what a shong!” exploded Lovely. “Lissen, mockin’-bird, I know what we came here for.”

“I crave to know,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “Yes sir, I ahnos’ deman’ to know. Don’t keep me in shuspense.”

“We came here to liberate Jimmy Moran.”

“My God! We did? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha! That was yesserday.”

“That was t’day.”

“My, my! Thasso? How time does fly. Was it only t’day that we had the battle? Don’ tell me. Where’s Wind River Jim?”

“Roarin’ came and got him long time ago.”

“Can that be possible? Ain’t Roarin’ Rigby dead? Ain’t he? My, my, I mus’ practise up. Shay! Let’s me and you go down and c’ngratulate Roarin’. He’s lucky. As shoon as the bartender dechides that it’s his turn, we’ll have one more li’l’ snifter and then go down to shee Roarin’.”

“I’d do that just to get you jiggers out of here,” said the bartender. “But if you ask me, I’d tell you to go easy on Roarin’ Rigby. He’ll salivate both of you.”

“Yesh, he will not!” snorted Horse-Collar. “He’ll eat out of my good right hand, tha’s what, eh, Lovely?”

“Oh, pos’tively; well, here’s a stiff rope and a short drop, bartender. May you eat well on your last mornin’.”

They took their drink, locked arms and tried to go through the narrow doorway, arm in arm. Failing in that, they went out sidewise and fell flat on the sidewalk.

“Thank heaven, they’re out of here!” said the bartender. “They’re the craziest pair of punchers I ever seen, and I’ve seen ’em all. Lie and prove it by each other. Owe me ten dollars apiece, and won’t remember it. Well, I won’t lose an awful lot. I filled up a half-empty bar-bottle with water, and they’ve drank it all; so I only lose fifty per-cent on ’em.”

But they didn’t find Roaring at the office. Hashknife was there, talking with Wind River Jim, and Horse-Collar looked hin over rather dubiously. Lovely sat down on the floor against the wall and tried to roll a cigaret. Wind River Jim didn’t feel very well.

“We came peacefully,” declared Horse-collar. “Kinda like a fam’ly re-e-union, you shee.”

“You don’t feel so good, do you, Wind River?” asked Lovely, spilling the contents of his tobacco sack over his knees. “I think you’ve got stummick complaint.”

“Ne’ mind my stummick,” growled Wind River.

“Don’ mind his stummick,” advised Horse-Collar Fields owlishly, and then to Hashknife he said--

“Wheresh Roarin’ Rigby?”

“I dunno,” grinned Hashknife.

“Ain’t dead, is he?”

“He wasn’t dead fifteen minutes ago.”

“Then I mus’ ’a’ missed him,” sadly.

“Gittin’ old.”

“You’re drunk,” declared Wind River heavily.

“Thasso? Huh! Not a speck. Lemins tell you--”

From somewhere on the street came the sharp snap of a revolver shot. Hashknife stepped quickly to the door. There was nothing unusual about a revolver shot on the main street of Turquoise City, especially on a Saturday night.

The only lights on the street were from the windows of the saloons and business houses. Hashknife stepped outside, and Wind River Jim came to the doorway behind him.

Hashknife was looking toward the Black Horse Saloon, where there seemed to be considerable activity, and Wind River Jim stepped past him to the edge of the sidewalk, when a spurt of flame seemed to lash out at them from the alley between the office and a store building next door.

Almost before his ears registered the report of the gun, Hashknife felt the bullet sear the side of his neck, like the touch of a red-hot iron. Hashknife instinctively threw himself sidewise, drawing his gun. He heard Wind River drop to the sidewalk, but he thought that he merely did it for protection, never thinking that the bullet might have hit him.

He heard the scrape of running feet. He darted into the dark alley, regardless of the fact that he might be running into an ambush. He blundered around behind the store, falling over an old packing-box; finally he ended his run at the corner of the sheriff’s little stable.

For several moments he remained silent, but he could hear nothing. He circled the rear of the store and came back to the street between the store and post-office, where he met Roaring Rigby.

“What was that shootin’?” asked Roaring.

“I don’t know who it was,” panted Hashknife. “They darned near got me. Burned me across the neck. I chased him down the alley but he got away. Didn’t somebody fire a shot near the Black Horse Saloon?”

“Yeah--one shot. I can’t find out who fired it.”

“Foxy devils,” said Hashknife. “That shot was to draw me out of your office, Roarin’. I bit on it.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Roaring. “Could it have been Horse-Collar or Lovely?”

“No, they’re both in the office. Let’s go down there.”

They went cautiously past the alley and entered the office. Wind River Jim was lying flat on his back in the middle of the office floor, his face bathed in gore. Around his neck was Lovely Lucas’ blue silk muffler, tied loosely, and inside the loop of this was a long-barrel Colt revolver, which Horse-Collar Fields was twisting around and around, shutting off Wind River’s breath entirely, while Lovely sat on Wind River’s legs to keep him from jerking.

“You fools!” yelled Roaring.

He knocked Horse-Collar aside and untwisted the muffler as quickly as possible. Horse-Collar landed against the wall and stared at Roaring indignantly.

“What in the devil was you tryin’ to do?” demanded Roaring.

“Turny-keet,” wailed Horse-Collar. “Look at his head, you big bully! He’s bleedin’ to death.”

“Firs’ aid for the injured,” grunted Lovely. “Look at him kick.”

Hashknife flopped down in the old swivel chair and shook with laughter, while Horse-Collar and Lovely looked at him in amazement. Roaring didn’t see the humor of the situation. He wiped some of the blood off Wind River’s face and head; enough to discover that the bullet had merely cut a furrow, knocking Wind River cold.

“You can’t stop bleedin’ thataway,” he told Horse-Collar.

“The devil you can’t! I did, the time I got shot in the leg. Saved in’ life, too, y’betcha.”

“Who shot ’in?” demanded Lovely. “That’s what I’d crave to know--who shot ’in?”

“That long legged geezer,” said Horse Collar, pointing at Hashknife. “Shot ’im and then run. He’s dangerous, I tell you. Didn’t he shoot at me awhile ago? Put ’m in jail, Roarin’.”

“Drunk and crazy!” snorted Roaring. “Take a look at this wound, will you, Hashknife? If you figger it’s bad enough, I’ll send out to Conley’s place for the doctor.”

Hashknife examined it closely and decided that Wind River would be all right in a few minutes.

“Get some water and wash his head,” suggested Hashknife.

As Roaring started for the rear of the office, Slim Regan stepped into the office. Slim was panting from running, and he ignored the sight of Wind River Jim on the floor.

“Hartley,” he panted. “Your pardner got hurt. They’ve got him in the Black Horse Saloon; you better come.”

Hashknife was past Regan before the Big 4 foreman finished speaking. He ran heavily up the street and crossed to the saloon. The crowd parted to let him in. They had placed Sleepy on the floor near the center of the room, and the yellow light from the center lamp illuminated his white face. Hashknife dropped to his knees beside him, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Sleepy, do you know me?” he asked.

But Sleepy did not speak. He was breathing heavily. Hashknife could see the blood oozing through Sleepy’s shirt. He had been shot through the body on the right side, about two inches above his waist-line.

“I sent Hank Pitts for the doctor,” said Slim.

Hashknife looked up at Regan, his face twisted with pain.

“Thank you, Slim. Does anybody know how it happened?”

Slim shook his head.

“He was out by the hitch-rack. Hank Pitts almost stepped on him, Hartley. There was a shot fired out there awhile ago, but nobody investigated it.”

“That was the shot I heard,” muttered Hashknife. He got to his feet and stood fretfully looking down at Sleepy.

“I seen him in the restaurant a while ago,” said Ted Ames, a short, fat-faced cowboy from the 7AL.

Hashknife nodded. He knew that Sleepy had gone to supper with Roaring Rigby. Roaring came in and shoved his way to Hashknife. His arms were still wet from washing Wind River’s head.

“How bad is he hurt, Hashknife?” he asked.

“Bad enough. They’ve gone for the doctor. Wasn’t Sleepy eatin’ supper with you, Roarin’?”

“He shore was. I stopped to talk with Jeff Ryker, and Sleepy went out. While I was talkin’ to Ryker I heard that shot out near the hitch-rack, and then I heard the one that hit Wind River Jim. I came out, tryin’ to find out what was goin’ on, and crossed the street. That’s when I met you.”

“Who shot Wind River Jim?” asked a cowboy.

“The same man who tried to kill me,” said Hashknife savagely.

“F’r God’s sake!” exploded some one. “’S gittin’ salty around here.”

“If there’s a blanket handy, I’d like to have some of you help carry him over to the hotel,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got a room over there.”

The blanket was forthcoming, and there were plenty of volunteers to act as stretcher-bearers. They put Sleepy on the bed, and several of the men waited with Hashknife, until the old doctor arrived. Among them were Slim Regan and Kent Cutter. Hashknife had nothing to say. He sat at the head of the bed, his lean face very grim in the lamplight.

It was the first time in their wanderings that either of them had been seriously hurt. Hashknife knew that only half of the plot had succeeded. These men, whoever they were, had planned to kill him and Sleepy.

It was an hour before the doctor arrived. He sent for more lamps, and the men held them over Sleepy while he made his examination.

“Close,” he muttered. “Went all the way through. Must have went through on an angle. Bad shock, lost lots of blood. Can’t tell all about it yet.”

He straightened up and peered at Hashknife.

“Pretty lucky, I think. Gut shot is very bad. Unless I miss my guess, he’ll pull through. Put the lamps on the table and get me plenty of hot water.”

Hashknife stretched his full length and sighed deeply.

“Glad, eh?” said Regan.

“Glad?” Hashknife blinked painfully.

“My God!”

He turned and walked over to a window, where he stared out into the night. The room was very quiet.

“We ain’t got much money, Doc,” said Hashknife slowly. “But if you pull him through, I’ll go out and kill anybody you want killed.”

The old doctor lifted his eyes and studied the lean figure at the window.

“All right,” he said finally, “I’ll take you up on that.”

“Name your man, Doc.”

“I can’t do it, Hartley; it’s a man who shoots in the dark.”

“All right, Doc, you’ll get his ears.”

* * * * *

Sunday was a dull day in Turquoise City. Hashknife hardly left Sleepy’s side during the day. Sleepy had regained consciousness and was pretty sick. There was plenty of company. Wind River Jim, his head swathed in bandages, insisted upon playing nurse while Hashknife ate his meals.

“That’s the least I can do,” declared Wind River. “If your old leather beck hadn’t deflected that bullet, it would have hit me between the eyes. And between you and Roarin’, you stopped Horse-Collar from chokin’ me to death.”

Hashknife told Sleepy about Horse-Collar’s tourniquet, and Sleepy cried tears. Even with all his pain he still retained his overdeveloped sense of humor. Later in the day Horse-Collar came to the hotel. He was sober now and had been talking to Jimmy Moran at the jail.

“I been talkin’ with Jimmy,” he told Hashknife confidentially. “He says you’re detectin’. Gosh, I didn’t know that.”

“What about it?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Thisaway, Hartley. You can’t detect and set here. Tomorrow I’ll be here. I ain’t much of a good nurse, but I’ll do what I can.”

“That’s mighty good of you, Horse-Collar.”

“Not p’ticularly. I’m still workin’ for Jimmy, and I take orders from the boss. Old Conley’s out of danger, they say, and I heard that Frank Moran has paid Jimmy’s debts at the Black Horse. I’ll be here in the mornin’.”

Jeff Ryker came and talked to Hashknife, trying to see if Hashknife had any idea who had shot Sleepy.

“There’s been too much of this shooting going on around here,” declared Ryker earnestly.

“Well, you can’t blame it on Pete Conley or Jimmy Moran,” observed Hashknife. “Mebby it’s what you’d call an epidemic of crime.”