Chapter V: Part 5

“That’s what it is. Conley’s trial starts tomorrow. He hasn’t a lawyer to defend him. The court will have to appoint some one to defend him, I suppose, and that will cause a delay. Personally, I don’t think a lawyer would do him any good.”

“You think he’s guilty?”

“Beyond a doubt. He went out to kill Mallette. Admits it.”

“Admits that he wanted to, Ryker.”

“I don’t know about that, because I never talked to him; but the evidence is all against him.”

Hashknife studied the thin face of the prosecuting attorney--the wry neck inside the misfit collar, the deep-set eyes.

“And you was willin’ to kill the case, if that half-breed girl would marry you, eh?” he said coldly.

Ryker flushed hotly and shuffled his feet on the old carpet of the hotel.

“That--that isn’t true,” he stammered.

“I never--”

“Why deny it?” queried Hashknife coldly. “You’re not the first man in your position to misuse his power, Ryker. You ain’t settin’ no precedent that I know of.”

“Oh, all right, I’m not going to discuss my personal affairs with you, Hartley. What I do is none of your business.”

Ryker turned on his heel and walked away.

“You stick to your own business then,” said Hashknife.

“And you stick to your own,” retorted Ryker hotly.

Hashknife laughed softly and went back to Sleepy.

The doctor came again that night. Sleepy had not developed any fever, and the doctor was jubilant. In the morning he was stiff and sore, but cheerful. Horse-Collar Fields came fairly early in the morning and offered to stay with Sleepy as long as Hashknife wanted him to stay.

* * * * *

The court was to open at ten o’clock, but Hashknife did not care about the opening of the case. He saddled his horse and rode out toward the Conley ranch. Near the ford he met Doctor Shelley and Dawn. The doctor had told Dawn about the shooting of Sleepy, and the girl was full of sympathy.

“He’s able to cuss this mornin’; so he’ll get well,” laughed Hashknife. “How’s your father?”

“Just fine, Mr. Hartley.”

“I wonder if I could talk with him.”

“Go ahead,” nodded the doctor.

“Don’t talk too long.”

Hashknife rode on to the ranch. He hadn’t the slightest idea of why he was coming out to see Conley, except that he had what might be termed a hunch. Mrs. Conley admitted him, and he found the old man propped up in bed.

Conley stared at Hashknife out of sunken eyes.

“I heard them talk about you,” he said huskily. “The doctor said your pardner got shot last night. Is he alive?”

“Yeah, luckily,” said Hashknife.

“I’m glad somebody has luck.” He stared up at the ceiling. “I’ve never had much of it myself. My son is being tried for his life, and he hasn’t even a lawyer. I was goin’ to get him one, but I got shot. Dawn has gone down to be with him.” He shifted his eyes to Hashknife.

“Will they hang him, do you think?”

“Law is a queer piece of machinery, Conley.”

“Law for a half-breed, Hartley.”

“Law for anybody.”

“Mebby. They tell me you came with Frank Moran.”

Hashknife explained how it happened that he came to Black Horse with Moran, and the old man nodded.

“I hate him,” he said.

“Yeah, I know,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad, Conley. Hate never got either of you anythin’ but misery. Hatin’ folks is just like throwin’ a rubber ball against a wall. It slams back at you.”

“That’s true!” The old man’s eyes opened wide. “It does. Ain’t it queer that my son and Moran’s son should both be in jail at the same time. Jimmy Moran shot me, you know.”

“Sure of it, Conley?”

“He called me out and shot me.”

“Did you see him?”

“No. I don’t remember anythin’ after I opened the door and stepped outside. But he called and told me who he was.”

“He admits it. Oh, he’s sorry, Conley. He swears he didn’t shoot you. Why, man, he’s in love with your daughter.”

The old man averted his eyes and his bony old face twitched.

“That’s what hurts, Hartley--hurts worse than the bullet-hole in my side. That’s what hate does. I--I was goin’ to let Dawn marry Jimmy Moran, because I hated his father. Goin’ to help his son marry a half-breed girl. It wasn’t right.”

“It was right, Conley; he loves her.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I didn’t want him to at first. I gave him orders to keep away. But I got to thinkin’ how it would hurt Frank Moran. That’s hate. I’m not fit for much. By God, I was goin’ to sell my girl! It’s the same thing. Love! Bah! What in hell did I care about love? But I’ve had plenty of time to think lately. I fenced Hot Creek against the Big 4, but I didn’t kill them steers. No, I didn’t, Hartley. I’m a cowman. I’ve been a cowman ever since the old minin’ days. Do you know, this ranch was a minin’ claim? It was. About twenty-five years ago I located this as a minin’ claim. In them days there was plenty of buyin’ and sellin’ prospects. You know Ryker? He was an assayer. Frank Moran was here. He had plenty of money to buy mines. He’s always had money.”

“You not talk too much,” advised Mrs. Conley.

“I’m all right, mother. It was great in the old days; but the mines played out. This was my last location. I dug my discovery hole just west of Hot Creek. There’s an old sycamore up there on the slope. It was a small tree twenty-five years ago, and it was there that I tacked my notice and dug my discovery. But things went wrong in the minin’ game, and a little later I homesteaded and went in for cattle. I went up into Idaho to buy stock and that’s where I met Minnie.”

“My father big chief,” said Mrs. Conley.

“Mm-m-m-m,” grunted Conley. “Not so awful big. You see, he stole some horses from me, and I went after ’em. I made him a trade for Minnie. He had six other daughters; so it wasn’t hard to make a trade, you see.”

“We get married, too,” said Minnie.

“We shore did; and I’ve never been sorry, Hartley.”

“Well, that’s great,” smiled Hashknife. “You better take a rest now, I’ll see you ag’in’, Conley.”

“All right; be sure and come ag’in’, Hartley.”

Hashknife rode around the house and headed for Hot Creek. He wanted to see that old prospect hole. He had a hunch that the Conley ranch was being desired for more than a winter water-hole and a shelter from blizzards.

He located the big sycamore and, in the brush at its base, he found the old prospect hole, which was practically hidden in an overhang of brush. It was an open cut, possibly five feet long, three or four feet wide, and not over five feet deep.

Hashknife was not a miner, but he knew a little about rocks. It seemed to him that there were indications that some one had broken off a little of the exposed ledge of reddish quartz long since the hole had been originally dug. Some of the quartz was badly honeycombed, rusty looking stuff.

He broke off a small chunk from about the center of the upper end of the cut, put it in his pocket and went back to his horse. His hunch was fading out now. It did not seem that this mere showing of honeycombed quartz would warrant any one’s making a great effort to purchase the entire ranch.

He rode back to the main gate and followed the fence down to the ford, where he dismounted and drank from the river. Sitting down on a convenient boulder, he took out the chunk of rock and washed it carefully, while the tall gray horse slaked its thirst and looked curiously at him.

A washing showed the quartz to be thoroughly honeycombed and not very hard. Taking the rock in his palm he struck it sharply against another rock, breaking it in several small pieces. For several moments he stared at the broken fragments.

Gold! It gleamed through the lace-like texture of the broken quartz, and there were even specks of it on his palm.

He examined it closely, knowing that it was gold. Hashknife had never seen rock so rich in his life. He tried to estimate its worth per ton, but gave it up. The rock was not heavy. It would take a lot of it to weigh a ton, and if all of it was as rich as this, it would be worth more money than Hashknife could estimate.

He put the rock back in his pocket. It was not hard for him to imagine what had happened. Conley had found a piece of promising float, located the property, dug a discovery hole and had never had an assay made. The mining boom had died, and Conley had never gone any further with the prospect.

* * * * *

Hashknife rode back to Turquoise City and went to the assay office, where he met “Mica” Jones, the old bald-headed assayer who ran the business for Ryker. The little place stank of acids.

Jones was idly reading a much-thumbed mining journal, when Hashknife came in and placed a piece of the ore on the battered old counter. Jones put on his glasses and picked up a receipt blank.

“Assay it for lead, will you?” said Hashknife.

Jones glanced at the sample. It was a most unusual request. He squinted closely at it and looked at Hashknife.

“There ain’t no lead in that stuff,” he said, giving an honest opinion.

“What do you think’s in it, pardner?”

Jones picked up the sample, turned it slowly in his gnarled hand and gave Hashknife a sharp glance. But the tall cowboy merely slouched against the counter, looking at other pieces of ore on the counter. Mica Jones swallowed heavily. He had seen the gold.

“It ain’t lead-bearin’ rock,” he said, clearing his throat harshly.

“Pshaw! Well, let it go then. I don’t know much about ore. Do you know anythin’ about minin’ laws, pardner?”

Mica Jones frowned. It was difficult for him to keep his eyes off that piece of crumbly red ore.

“Little bit,” he said. “Whatcha want to know?”

“Ain’t there some kind of a minin’ law that lets you go on a man’s ranch and locate a mine, if you can prove it’s worth more for mineral than it is for agriculture?”

Mica Jones carefully placed the piece of ore on a shelf behind him, drew out a plug of tobacco and bit off a huge portion.

“Yea-a-ah, I think there is. It was tried out five year ago. Feller jumped in on a ranch about ten mile below here and located a mine. Quoted that law and got a bullet plumb through him. They tried this rancher for murder, and the lawyer orated that this dead client was actin’ accordin’ to law; but the jury exonerated him without leavin’ their seat. It kinda set a precedent, you see. Out here--” Mica shifted his chew thoughtfully--“out here, you can hold what you’ve got, pardner.”

“That’s a good system,” agreed Hashknife. “Thanks for the opinion. Never mind assayin’ that stone.”

“Oh, that’s all right; come in ag’in’.”

“Thank you.”

Hashknife went to the hotel and found Horse-Collar and Lovely with Sleepy, who was resting easily. The doctor had been there and changed the dressing.

“Wind River was over here from the courtroom a while ago,” said Lovely. “They’re goin’ ahead with the trial of Pete Conley. The judge offered to postpone the trial until Pete could get a lawyer, but the bug-headed half-breed said to go ahead; he didn’t need any lawyer.

“They’ve got the jury already. Ryker ain’t particular, because he’s got a cinch. Him and the judge locked horns a few times this mornin’, and the boys had fun out of it. Roarin’ come damn near runnin’ everybody out of the courtroom. Dawn is up there with Pete--jist them two. I tell you it don’t look right. It’s jist them two agin’ the judge, jury and the crowd, not to mention Ryker. The judge says it’s a farce. What’s a farce, Hartley?”

“It’s a cooked game that looks honest.”

“Oh, yeah. He prob’ly meant that Pete ain’t got a chance. But Pete’s hardheaded. The judge asked him if he didn’t want the case postponed until he could get a lawyer. Pete asked him where in hell he could find a lawyer that knew who killed Joe Mallette. It made everybody laugh.”

“They’ll have Jimmy on the stand,” said Horse-Collar. “He’ll have to tell about that poker game, I reckon. English Ed will be a witness, and the doctor said he’d have to testify; but what good will it do the half-breed? They won’t be helpin’ him. Suppose Mallette did steal from Pete?”

“It’s murder, just the same,” said Hashknife. “I suppose there’s quite a crowd at the court-house.”

“Biggest you ever seen,” said Horse-collar. “Everybody in the country. I’d hate to be in Roarin’ Rigby’s shoes, if he has to hang Pete.”

“A-a-aw, talk about something’ pleasant,” said Sleepy.

* * * * *

Hashknife saw Dawn Conley after the trial was over for the day, and he talked to her for awhile. She did not see a single loophole for Peter. Of course, the evidence was all circumstantial, but there was plenty of evidence that Peter had left the saloon that night with a revolver in his hand.

English Ed had testified to what he knew about it. The old doctor, who was also the coroner, testified. Jimmy Moran had not been brought from the jail to testify; but his testimony would be taken the next morning. Roaring Rigby had told the court how he had outwitted the men who came out to Conley’s ranch that night to lynch Peter, and his testimony caused a laugh. Most of the men who had ridden through the hills that night were in the room.

Ryker had dominated the trial. The old judge, white of face, plainly nervous, humped at his desk. At times he would rebuke Ryker; but there was little dignity left in the man. He continually scanned the room, as if seeking the men who had warned him to leave Turquoise City.

In a half-open drawer at his right hand was a Colt revolver, fully loaded, and most of the time his hand rested on that drawer.

After Dawn had ridden away, Hashknife met Franklyn Moran. He had attended the trial and he told Hashknife much of what had happened. He was cheerful over the rapid recovery of Moses Conley, but he was curious to know who had shot Sleepy.

“You know as much as I do,” said Hashknife.

Ryker came from the courtroom and gave them a curt nod as he went past, carrying papers and several books. The sheriff and the judge were close behind him; the sheriff walked home with him.

“Scared to death,” said Moran, after the sheriff and judge were out of hearing. “The man is positively on edge. I don’t believe he knows what the trial is all about. To begin with, his nerves are all shot from whisky.”

“Are they?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure they are; he’s the greatest single-handed drinker in this country. I haven’t seen him for almost a year, and he’s ten years older than he was at that time.”

“I’d like to talk with him,” said Hashknife. “I believe I’ll go visitin’.”

“Good luck to you,” laughed Moran.

Hashknife hurried across the street and went through the alley between the saloon and restaurant. The sheriff and the judge were at the judge’s gate, talking together, when Hashknife came up to them. Roaring introduced them, and the judge offered Hashknife a very limp hand.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said the judge huskily. “Nice weather we’re having these days.”

“Pretty good,” smiled Hashknife. “The sheriff has told me a lot about things that have happened around here, Judge, and I just wondered if you happened to keep one of those warnings.”

The judge started visibly and looked at Roaring.

“It’s all right, Judge,” assured Roaring.

“I have,” said the judge firmly, “the first one.”

“May I take a look at it?”

“You may; I’ll get it for you, Mr. Hartley.”

The judge went into the house and came out in a few moments with the halfsheet of paper. The warning had been written with a pen, or rather printed with a pen. The paper was of ordinary grade, unglazed.

Hashknife looked it over carefully, examining the letters, even looking through it at the sun. There was a faint watermark--_Fordhill Bond_. Hashknife gave the paper back to the judge.

“What do you make of it?” asked Roaring anxiously.

“Who knows?” smiled Hashknife.

“Are you a handwriting expert?” asked the old judge.

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.

“Not me, Judge. I know pen and ink from typewriter, but that’s about all.”

“You didn’t come up to the trial, did you?” asked Roaring.

“I’ve been busy. They tell me Peter Conley hasn’t a chance in the world.”

“Gentlemen,” said the judge wearily, “let us not discuss the trial. Anything else, and I am at your service. Won’t you come in?”

Roaring shook his head quickly.

“Got to get back, Judge.”

Hashknife thanked the judge, but declined his invitation.

* * * * *

On the way back to the office, Roaring told Hashknife that the judge had asked him to walk home with him.

“He’s scared to death,” declared Roaring. “Personally, I don’t think they’ll harm him. I don’t think they’d ’a’ hurt Jim Randall, but he didn’t wait to see.”

“Time will tell,” said Hashknife. “The old judge has a right to be nervous.”

They went back to the office, where Wind River Jim was changing the bandage on his sore head. Hashknife sat down at the sheriff’s desk and rolled a smoke, while Roaring assisted Wind River Jim with his bandage. There were several sheets of writing paper on the desk, bearing the letterhead of the sheriff’s office. Hashknife picked one of them up in his hand and looked through it. Across the bottom of the sheet was the watermark--_Fordhill Bond_.

He dropped the sheet of paper back on the desk and lighted his cigaret.

“I’d like to get a line on the jigger that knocked on my temple,” growled Wind River Jim. “It shore aches me.”

“What does Pete think of the trial?” asked Hashknife.

“Sore about it.”

Roaring pinned the end of the bandage and came back to the desk.

“He testified today. Ryker tried to get him mad. I don’t think the jury believed Pete’s story. He admitted he wanted to shoot Mallette. He put up a good argument. Ryker wanted to know why he wanted to kill Mallette, and if he didn’t know it would be murder; and Pete asked him if it was murder to kill a horsethief. He said that Mallette stole his money, and that stealin’ was stealin’; and, by golly, the judge agreed with him, I think! You see, he’s bein’ tried for first-degree murder, and if that knot-headed jury brings in a verdict of guilty, it’s up to the judge to soak him awful hard. He can either hang Pete or give him life.”

“If somebody don’t shoot the judge between now and the time he’s supposed to pass sentence,” said Roaring dryly.

“I don’t think they will,” said Hashknife. “There’s other things to think about.”

Hashknife didn’t tell them what he meant, but went back to the hotel to relieve Horse-Collar Fields. Sleepy was in good spirits, much better than Hashknife expected him to be.

“How’s it comin’, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

“I’m just about to sing me a little song,” replied Hashknife, and Sleepy knew what that song meant.

Hashknife did not have a particularly melodious voice and seldom did he lift his voice in song, except when a puzzle was working out to his satisfaction.

“And me flat in bed,” wailed Sleepy. “But go easy, pardner. You can see just how easy it is for to go down and out. I never had no warnin’. I felt it slap me down, but I never heard the shot. It hurts worse now than it has any time. The doctor says it’s healin’ up fine. You’ll go easy, won’t you, Hashknife?”

“If you need help, call on Horse-Collar and Lovely. They’re the biggest liars that ever saw the sun come up, but they’re on the square.”

“Dang the luck, I want to ride with you. Can’t you put it off for a week or so? The doctor says I’ll be able to ride in a week or ten days, if I wear a wide belt.”

“You lay still and take it easy. Get well, cowboy. I shore miss you. Ain’t had nobody crabbin’ at me for two days, and it ain’t natural. And I’m not goin’ to get hurt. Can you eat anythin’?”

“Soup!”

“All right. I’ll git a tray of grub at the restaurant, and a bowl of soup. We’ll eat up here and, by golly, I’ll stay here until daylight. I’m as scared as the judge was. I’ll find Horse-Collar Fields and ask him to come agin’ tomorrow morning.”

* * * * *

It was just daylight when Hashknife left the hotel. The street was deserted at that time in the morning, but Hashknife did not lose his vigilance. He found the keeper of the livery-stable, asleep in his little inside office, and told him he was taking his horse out.

“Yeah, all right,” yawned the man. “Need any help?”

“No, I’ll manage,” laughed Hashknife. “What time did Ryker get back last night?”

“Ryker? Oh, it was about midnight.”

“I just wondered.”

Hashknife went to his horse, grinning to himself in the gloom of the stable. He knew nothing about Ryker’s having been out last night, but he had followed another of his hunches when he asked the question.

He took the right-hand road out of Turquoise City, traveling east. Hashknife had never been over this road, so he went carefully. The country was fairly flat for about two miles. Then the road entered the foot-hills. About four miles from town he swung off the road, but kept it in sight and finally came out on a hogback ridge from where he could get a good view of the 7AL ranch.

He was not over two hundred yards from the buildings, but his view of the one-story ranch-house was partly obstructed by a huge stable and several sycamore trees. Behind the stable sprawled a series of corrals and beyond them could be seen the top of the old bunkhouse.

There was smoke coming from the ranch-house. A man came around the corner of the stable and entered the corral at the rear, where there were several horses. A little later he came out, leading a bay horse, which he led around the stable out of Hashknife’s sight.

Hashknife tied his horse in a thicket and came back to the crest of the ridge, where he sat down to wait. It was about thirty minutes later that three men rode away from the ranch-house and came down along the road, passing Hashknife close enough for him to identify Kent Cutter and Ted Ames. The third man was Henry Miller.

They disappeared down the road, and Hashknife went back to his horse. He guessed that Cutter had a cook. There was a fourth man, Jud Hardy. Hashknife knew him for a thin-faced, hard-jawed young man, who had bad eyes--not physically, but morally. Eyes meant quite a lot to Hashknife, when it came to judging a man’s character.

Hashknife mounted his gray horse and rode down to the ranch-house. There was a main gate, but it was wide open, sagging on its hinges. He rode around to the rear, where he found the kitchen door open. There was a pleasant odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee, doubly pleasant to Hashknife, who had had no breakfast.

As he swung out of his saddle, the cook came to the door. He was a grizzled little man, with a big mustache and a slight limp; a typical old round-up cook. In his hand was a frying-pan, still smoking hot. He peered at Hashknife wonderingly.

“Hyah, pardner,” greeted Hashknife, “how about a little breakfast?”

“Hyah,” he grunted, “pretty good-- mebby.”

He looked Hashknife over carefully and glanced at the tall gray horse.

“Ridin’ kinda early, ain’t you, stranger?” he asked.

“No law ag’in’ it, is there?”

“Not that I ever heard about. Excuse me. My name’s McCall. ‘Jinyus’ McCall, to be exact. Used to be Albert, until I cooked a forty-year-old sage-hen for some fellers. One of ’em said I was a jinyus--and it stuck. Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

Hashknife laughed and scraped his heel along the short boards that had been laid as a walk near the door. He glanced down at the boards, but lifted his head quickly.

“C’mon in,” invited Jinyus. “I’ll make you somethin’ to eat right off the stove.”

“Fine.”

Hashknife stooped over quickly and picked up a little copper shell near the boards. The cook was looking at him curiously.

“Somebody been havin’ target practise, eh?” said Hashknife, exhibiting the twenty-two shell.

“Pop-gun practise!” snorted Jinyus. “Ever since Cutter sent away for that danged gun, they’ve shot at everythin’ on the ranch. Nothin’ is safe. Cutter is the boss here.”

“Oh, I see,” smiled Hashknife. He started to enter the kitchen, but a man’s voice stopped him short.

“What in hell do you want here?”

Hashknife turned slowly. About ten feet away stood Jud Hardy. His hair was uncombed and he had the general appearance of a man who had just got out of bed.

“I didn’t want anythin’,” said Hashknife meekly.

He noticed that Jud’s hand was swinging close to his gun.

“You didn’t; eh?” flared Jud. “Who are you lookin’ for?”

“Not a soul. I was just passin’ and smelled breakfast; the cook said he’d feed me, so I was goin’ to eat.”

“Is that so? Well, the boss ain’t here, and the cook don’t run this ranch. If you came from town, it’s damn funny you didn’t meet him.”

“I didn’t say I came from town,” said Hashknife.

“Didn’t anybody ask you, did they? You turn around and get on that horse.”

Turn around and get on that horse! That was just what Hashknife was not going to do. He started to turn, as if to comply with Hardy’s order, but at the same time he drew his gun so quickly that Hardy was looking down the muzzle of it before he realized that Hashknife had not turned.

The cook stood there, his mouth wide open, the skillet still in his hand. Slowly Jud Hardy’s hands came up to a level with his shoulders.

“Unbuckle your belt and let it drop,” ordered Hashknife.

One look at Hashknife’s eyes, and Hardy complied.

“Back up five steps. Cook, you stand like you are.”

“Believe me!” gasped the cook earnestly.

Hashknife walked forward, plucked Hardy’s gun from the holster and flung it far back toward the corral. Then he backed to his horse, mounted and bolstered his gun.

“Thanks for the breakfast, just the same, Jinyus,” he said.

“Oh, you’re completely welcome.”

Without further conversation he whirled his horse around and galloped off down the road.

* * * * *

Jud Hardy stared at the cook and slowly put down his hands.

“That shore as hell beats me,” declared the cook foolishly. “What was all that gunplay about, Jud?”

Jud spat savagely and went after his gun. It had struck on its muzzle and was half-full of dirt and gravel. Jud came back to the kitchen door, swearing to himself.

“Gee-mighty, that feller was shore forked!” said the cook. “Didja ever see a gun pulled thataway, Jud. Jist _whap_! And you’re it.”

“Yeah,” growled Jud darkly. He was fast with a gun himself.

“What did he want, Jinyus?”

“Breakfast.”

“Tha’sso? Is that all?”

“Well, that’s all he asked for.”

“What did he pick up off the ground? He was showin’ it to you.”

“Oh, that,” the cook grinned. “Nothin’ but one of them little empty twenty-two shells. He asked me if we’d been havin’ target practise, and I said that ever since Cutter had sent for that damn gun, they’d been shootin’ at everythin’.”

Jud stared at Jinyus for several moments.

“Yea-a-a-ah? The hell he did!”

“Shore did. Go wash your face and I’ll have you some eggs.”

“To hell with the eggs! I’m goin’ to town.”

Jud whirled and ran down to the bunkhouse. Jinyus looked after him, shaking his head.

“I dunno what it’s all about,” he told himself aloud, “but it looks t’ me as though somebody was all het up. My, but that jigger shore can yank a six-gun!”

* * * * *

Within fifteen minutes after the opening of court that morning the case had gone to the jury. Ryker had made no plea to the jury, and the judge’s instructions were summed up in very few words. The twelve men had filed out, preceded by Wind River Jim, who acted as bailiff.

The judge did not retire. He slumped forward on his desk, resting his chin on one hand and watching the crowded room. Ryker sat at his table, slouched back in his chair, confident that the jury would bring a verdict for him.

At the opposite table sat Dawn and Peter with Roaring Rigby. Peter was not handcuffed. All the cattle ranches in the country were represented. The Black Horse Saloon was closed, so that every one could attend, and there was a sprinkling of the girls from the redlight row.

English Ed had a front seat, as did Cutter and Frank Moran. The room buzzed with conversation. English Ed leaned past Cutter and spoke to Moran-- “I wonder where Hartley is, Moran?”

“I don’t know.”

“He pulled out almost at daylight. One of my swampers saw him ride out of town.”

Moran smiled thinly.

“I can’t quite figure things out, Ed. I wonder who shot Stevens.”

“That’s a puzzle. Looks funny. Roaring thinks that bullet that hit Wind River Jim was intended for Hartley. In fact it burned Hartley’s neck before it hit Wind River.”

“Somebody is scared of ’em,” declared Moran.

“Why would anybody be scared of ’em?” queried Cutter.

“I don’t know--but they are.”

“Who--Hartley and Stevens?” asked Cutter.

“No, the men who shot ’em.”

Ryker got up and came over to them, a smile on his thin lips.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“It looks like a poor piece of justice to me,” growled Moran. “That kid needed legal advice.”

“He could have had it, Moran. I’ve played easy with him. There’s not a juror from this end of the county, and I made no plea. What more could I do?”

“He was as good as hung before the trial started,” said Cutter.

“That’s the worst of it,” said English Ed. “I’m sorry for my part in it. Mallette was no good. No, I don’t mean that I uphold murdering a man because he’s no good. But I’m of the opinion that Mallette stole that pot, and if Pete had killed him on the spot, I’d have hired a lawyer to free him.”

Moran looked queerly at English Ed.

“I didn’t expect that from you, Ed.” The gambler flushed.

“I’ve been accused of a lot of things I never did, Moran.”

“I suppose.”

“The judge keeps an eye on me,” said the gambler softly. “He thinks I tried to run him out. I didn’t.”

“He’s getting old,” said Ryker. “We need a younger man on the bench.”

“You, for instance,” suggested Moran.

“Why not? I belong here and I can qualify.”

Ryker laughed, and walked over to the table beside Dawn. He spoke to her and she got quickly to her feet.

“Go and sit down where you belong,” she said coldly.

Ryker laughed angrily, but did not move. The judge struck the top of his desk with a clenched hand.

“Ryker, go and sit down!” he snapped. “That girl and her brother are under the protection of this court.”

“Oh, is that so?” demanded Ryker. “Since when did the court have jurisdiction over a prosecutor during a recess?”

Before the judge had a chance to reply, Pete Conley sprang from his chair, caught Ryker by the collar with his left hand and smashed him in the face with his right fist. He had only time to hit Ryker once before Roaring had grasped him in both arms and dragged him away.

Ryker went to his haunches, but staggered back to his feet, gore running from his nose, his big collar half-torn from his skinny neck. The room was in an uproar. Roaring forced Pete back into his chair and held him down.

Ryker was dazed, blinded. He clawed under his coat trying to draw a big Colt gun before Cutter sprang across the railing and grasped him. He swung Ryker around, talking swiftly. He handed Ryker a handkerchief to mop off the blood; and the prosecutor of Black Horse County leaned against his own table.

The judge hammered wildly on his table, while the cowboys in the audience whooped with joy. This was the first bit of action they had seen. Roaring talked earnestly with Pete, who nodded in agreement. Roaring smiled with evident satisfaction, and there was a ghost of a smile on the face of the old judge.

“By golly!” roared the voice of Lovely Lucas from the back of the room. “That’s the first time I ever saw a half-breed git the best of anythin’ in a courtroom!”

“Turn ’em loose, and I’ll take the breed for forty dollars, even money!” boomed Mark Clayton, of the Big 4.

The old judge rapped for order.

“Cease this disturbance, or I’ll have the sheriff clear the court!”

“You better let well enough alone,” said Hank Pitts. “If Roarin’ Rigby lets loose of Pete, Ryker loses his scalp.”

Hank’s sally brought a laugh that the judge was unable to check. Dawn was leaning forward on the table, crying. Ryker was angry. He tried to arrange his collar, but found that Pete had torn out the button-hole. He finally took it off, exposing about eight inches of thin neck.

Wind River Jim came from the juryroom, closing the door behind him. The judge rapped again for silence.

“They’ve made up their minds, Judge,” said Wind River.

“Bring them in,” said the judge wearily.

The room became silent, as the twelve men filed in and sat down. They looked curiously at Ryker, who was holding the handkerchief to his nose and lips, but none of them looked at Pete.

“Gentlemen,” said the old judge, “have you reached a decision?”

The foreman of the jury, a tall, bearded cattleman from south of Turquoise City, arose and handed Wind River a sheet of paper.

“We have, Judge,” he said, and sat down heavily.

Wind River gave the paper to the judge, who read it slowly.

For a space of possibly ten seconds the judge stared at the back of the room, not a muscle of his face moving. An impatient cowboy scraped a boot-heel on the floor, and it sounded very loud and harsh in that silent room.

“This is your verdict?” asked the judge, without looking at the jury.

“That’s it,” said the foreman.

The old judge shifted his eyes and looked at Peter Conley.

“Peter Conley, stand up,” he said. It was little more than a whisper.

Roaring nudged Pete; he got awkwardly to his feet. Dawn got to her feet, as if to assist Pete, and the judge shifted his gaze to her. He looked back at the verdict.

“Peter Conley,” he said, “the jury has found you guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The judge stopped, but did not look up. Dawn reached over and put her hand on Pete’s arm. He turned his head and looked at her, his face twisted painfully.

* * * * *

There came a slight noise from the rear of the room, and the judge looked up. It was Hashknife Hartley, coming down the aisle, his spurs rasping harshly on the board floor--a jarring note in the most dramatic moment of the trial. But Hashknife did not seem aware of it. There was an empty seat at the end of the first row, and he went all the way down to it.

He looked at Ryker as he sat down, and a smile creased his wide lips. He looked at Peter and Dawn, standing up. The girl looked at him and there were tears in her eyes and on her cheeks. Hashknife turned his head and looked at the silent jury. The room was very quiet.

“They found him guilty, Hartley,” whispered a cowboy behind Hashknife and the whisper could be heard all over the room.

The judge looked sharply at the whisperer.

“Peter Conley,” he said slowly, as if weighing every word, “you have been found guilty. Is there any reason why the sentence of the court should not be imposed at this time?”

Peter did not speak. He did not know what to say.

“Have you nothing to say, Peter Conley?”

“I didn’t kill him, Judge; that’s all I say.” Hashknife got slowly to his feet, facing the judge.

“If you don’t mind, Judge,” he said slowly, “I’d like to speak for Pete Conley.”

“I object!” snapped Ryker hotly.

“You look like you had once before,” said Hashknife. “I’m kinda surprized at all that red on your handkerchief, Ryker; I thought you’d bleed yaller.”

Ryker turned appealingly to the judge, but the judge did not look at him.

“What did you want to say, Hartley?” he asked.

“Why not sentence the guilty man?”

“The guilty man?” It was a whisper-- a hoarse whisper.

“The man who killed Joe Mallette by mistake, Judge. The man who dragged Joe Mallette from your door and took him across that vacant piece of ground, draggin’ his boots full of gravel. Mallette was so drunk that he made a mistake in houses, Judge. You’re safe; you shot because you thought he had come to fulfill that warnin’. Tell the truth!”

Roaring was on his feet, as were half of the men in the room. The judge continued to stare at Hashknife, whose voice rang like a bell in that crowded room.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” cried Roaring.

“Ask the judge; he knows.”

The old judge got slowly to his feet, his face white, his mouth half-open, breathing heavily. His right hand was in the drawer of his desk, clutching the heavy revolver.

“Be quiet!” cried Hashknife. “Let him talk!”

The judge wet his lips with his tongue.

“It’s time to tell,” he said. “Yes, it’s time. Hartley’s right. I hoped the jury--but that’s past. I killed Mallette. The gambling element warned me to get out of town. They swore to kill me. You all know it. I wouldn’t run. I--I waited for them to come after me. Mallette came. He flung open the door of my house and came in. I--I was sitting in my chair beside my table, and I shot once.”

His eyes went slowly around the room and he swallowed painfully.

“I never shot a man before,” he continued. “Wong Kee and I dragged him away. Better to have left him there and sent for the sheriff. But a man don’t know what he would do, until the time comes. Pete Conley is innocent. I killed in what I thought was self-defense.”

He lifted his head and his voice grew stronger.

“I’m glad it’s over now.”

English Ed was on his feet, facing Hashknife and the crowd.

“I don’t blame the judge,” he said. “Mallette was drunk and he got into the wrong place; but I’ll swear that Mallette was not in any plot to run the judge out. It was not the gamblers. I’ll swear that we had nothing to do with it.”

“And I’ll back you, Holmes,” said Hashknife.

He stepped through the railing his back to the jury, where he could face the crowd. A man was coming hurriedly down the aisle. It was Horse-Collar Fields. He stopped just short of the railing and said to Hashknife--

“He’ll be here in a minute, Hashknife.” Hashknife backed up a step and his hands dropped to his sides. The eyes of all in the room were upon him, and they saw him hunch forward a trifle, his right arm lifting just above his waist-line.

“It’s Jud Hardy comin’,” he said evenly. “He’s comin’ from the 7AL ranch, ridin’ the hocks off his horse to tell his outfit that Hashknife Hartley found an empty twenty-two shell beside the kitchen door. He tried to kill me, I reckon. He knew that a twenty-two was used to kill them eight Big 4 steers. He knew there was a million dollar ledge of gold ore on the Hot Creek ranch, and he wanted his share. He knew, and his outfit knew, that as long as Moses Conley lived he’d never sell out--and they wanted it. So they tried to send the Big 4 against Conley and when that didn’t work they tried to kill him. Cutter--don’t!”

Hashknife drew swiftly and fired from his hip. The report of his gun blended with the one that flashed beside him from Horse-Collar’s gun.

Cutter staggered sidewise, trying to cock the gun in his hand, but English Ed caught him in his arms and flung him to the floor. Wind River Jim vaulted the railing and fell upon Ted Ames, who was trying to reach the aisle, and from further back in the room came the triumphant yell from Slim Regan:

“Ho-o-o-old fast, Henry! Take his feet, Bill!”

They had captured Henry Miller. Horse-Collar had fired one shot at Ryker, who had drawn his gun, and then had whirled and run swiftly from the courtroom.

“Got Mister Miller!” yelled Regan.

* * * * *

From outside the building came a fusilade of shots, a wild yell. Some of the men ran out, crowding at the doorway, and some of them fell down. The room was in an uproar. The old judge had drawn his gun from the drawer and was standing very straight, resting the muzzle of the gun on his desk. The room was hazy with smoke. Roaring was shielding Dawn from the crowd.

English Ed got slowly to his feet. One knee of his pin-striped trousers was split wide open and the knot of his necktie was under his left ear. Cutter did not get up. Ryker was sprawled across his desk, one hand hanging limply over the edge, his gun on the floor. Hashknife stepped over to the table and touched the prosecuting attorney on the shoulder.

“Horse-Collar Fields shoots straight,” said Hashknife meaningly.

The crowd of men was coming into the room again, headed by Horse-Collar. They were bringing a disheveled Jud Hardy, whose face was bruised and dusty, clothes torn.

“He tried to git away on his bronc when he heard the shootin’!” yelled Horse-Collar triumphantly. “I had t’ hit him on the fly, by golly!”

“Kent Cutter’s dead,” said Roaring Rigby. “I don’t know yet what it was all about, Hashknife.”

“He’s a liar!” wailed Jud Hardy.

“You don’t even know what he said!” snorted Lovely Lucas.

“Bring ’em down here,” ordered Hashknife. “All three of ’em.”

They came--Henry Miller, Jud Hardy, Ted Ames--brought down bodily by cowboys who longed for a chance to handle them roughly. Hashknife looked them over. Miller and Hardy shut their lips tightly. Hashknife stepped up to Ted Ames.

“You’ll talk,” he said. “I’ve got the goods on all of you; but a talk will help you out, Ames--State’s evidence, you know.”

“Squealer, eh?” defiantly.

“Not now. It’s a hangin’ matter--unless you talk.”

Ames looked around at the faces of the men.

“I’ll talk,” he said. “Cutter and Ryker schemed it, just like you said. Cutter shot Conley; Jimmy Moran almost got Cutter that night. Me and Cutter killed them Big 4 steers. Pete Conley had the only twenty-two in the country, until Cutter sent away for one. Usin’ a twenty-two would cinch it on to Conley. Cutter wanted Mose Conley out of the way, so he could buy the ranch. Dawn Conley admitted to Ryker that she and her mother would be willin’ to sell.”

“Who shot Sleepy, my pardner, and tried to kill me?”

“Me and Jud Hardy. I missed you, Cutter said we’d have to kill you both, and they’d blame English Ed and his gang.”

“All right,” nodded Hashknife. “Cutter knew I found that mine, didn’t he?”

“Ryker came out and told us last night.”

“And Ryker was the one who wrote the warnings, wasn’t he? He used paper that the county furnished.”

“He wrote ’em,” nodded Ames. “Cutter wanted to be judge of this county, and he hated Judge Beal. They warned the sheriff, too. Cutter said he was too honest. But we didn’t know who killed Mallette. We thought Pete was to blame for that. Ryker wanted to marry Dawn Conley. Said he’d get control of the property thataway. Ryker was a bad bird.”

“Thank you, Ames. You’re wise to tell it all, and it won’t hurt you none at the trial.”

Hashknife turned to the old judge, who still stood at the desk, gun in hand.

“You can put up your gun, Judge,” he said. “The whole county will vindicate you for your mistake. Mallette was a thief and a card-sharp. You did just what any man would have done. Now, forget it.”

“I--I’ll have to put these three birdies in jail,” said Roarin’, “and turn Jimmy Moran loose, eh?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Bring ’em along, boys.”

Hashknife turned to meet Dawn and Pete. None of them spoke for several moments. Franklyn Moran stepped beside Dawn; he seemed bewildered. Hashknife smiled at Dawn.

“Let’s not talk about it, Dawn,” he suggested. “Jimmy will be out pretty quick, and he’ll come up the street, you know.”

Dawn glanced quickly at Franklyn Moran.

“It’s--uh--all right,” he said. “Fine, Dawn.”

“I don’t talk much,” said Pete dumbly.

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, “You’re a man after my own heart.”

Dawn and Pete went hurriedly up the aisle. The old judge came down to Hashknife and Moran and held out his hand to Hashknife.

“I don’t pretend to know much about it,” he said slowly.

They shook hands gravely, and Moran shook hands with the judge.

“You know many things, young man,” said the judge. “I have grown very old today, but I’m going to grow younger. I hope you stay with us; Turquoise City needs men like you.”

“I hope he will stay,” said Moran. “I’m still shocked, and I don’t know what to do or say.”

“Will you do me a favor?” asked Hashknife.

“Anything in the world, Hartley.”

“Come out and see Moses Conley with me.”

“Moses Conley? Why, well, that’s quite--I’ll go.”

They walked from the court room and met the doctor on the stairs.

“My goodness!” he blurted. “More shooting! I jump around like a grasshopper. What was it? Nobody talks--they yell. Ten men yelling at me at the same time. I can’t hardly keep Stevens in bed. Fields came up and danced on the foot of the bed. Crazy men.”

“You can’t do any good up there, Doc,” said Hashknife.

“Only in your capacity as coroner.”

They went on down to the street. Jimmy was running up from the jail, and Dawn met him. Pete stood on the sidewalk, blinking around. He didn’t know what to do.

Hashknife took Moran by the arm and led him down to where Dawn and Jimmy were looking at each other. Jimmy looked at his father and grinned foolishly.

“Hyah, Dad,” he said. “How are you?”

“All right, Jimmy. Why don’t you kiss her. We’re all going out to see her father.”

“For heaven’s sake!” Jimmy cried. “Who upset the world?” He stepped past Dawn and held out his hand to Hashknife. “You did,” said Jimmy. “I’m all out of words, Hartley.”

“Good, boy! So am I.”

* * * * *

It was Mrs. Conley who saw them from afar, as they came up the dusty road. There was a top-buggy, and several men on horseback. She had been anxiously waiting for Dawn to come home and bring the news. It had been impossible for her to leave her husband, as there was no one else to take care of him. She went back to the old man.

“Some folks come,” she said. “One buggy, five, six horses. They turn in our gate.”

“Who can it be? What has happened now, Minnie? Dawn said she was sure the case would go to the jury today. Who would be coming here today?”

“I go look.”

Mrs. Conley stood dumbly on the porch and watched Pete and Dawn and Jimmy Moran get out of the buggy, while Franklyn Moran, Slim Regan, Lovely Lucas, Hank Pitts and Hashknife dismounted from their horses.

Dawn ran up and threw her arms around her mother, who merely stared at everybody, especially at Pete, who grinned sheepishly.

“Peter is free, mother!” exclaimed Dawn. “He didn’t shoot Mallette! Don’t you understand? He’s free!”

“Pretty damn good, eh?” The Indian woman smiled.

“Will you shake hands with me?” asked Moran, holding out his hand to Mrs. Conley.

She looked closely at him for a moment.

“Your name Moran. You want to shake hands? You crazy?”

“No, I’m not crazy. I want to be a friend.”

“Damn funny.”

She shook hands with him wonderingly, and they all went into the house. Dawn ran to her father, telling him the good news. Conley patted her on the head and stared at Franklyn Moran, his sunken eyes wide with wonder.

“Conley,” said Moran, coming in close to the bed, “I came to see if we can’t be friends. It seems that our kids have decided to marry each other, and I think it’s time for us to bury the hatchet. Everything else has been straightened out. The 7AL were the ones that caused the trouble. They tried to start war between us. They killed my cattle on your land, and they tried to kill you. Hartley run ’em down. Cutter is dead and the rest of his gang are in jail. Ryker is dead; he was a leader in their crooked work. Will you shake hands with me?”

The old man held out a shaking hand.

“Hartley tells me you are rich,” said Moran, “and I want to be the first one to congratulate you. Ryker and Cutter discovered a rich gold ledge on your ranch, and that’s one of the reasons they wanted to buy you out. Hartley found it, too. That was one of his clews, I suppose.”

The old man’s eyes opened widely and he stared at Hashknife.

“Rich gold ledge?” he queried wonderingly.

“Rich enough to make them do murder to get it,” said Hashknife. “It’s that old prospect you told me about--the one east of Hot Creek, under the big sycamore.”

Conley sank back on his pillow and stared at the ceiling.

“It’s awful rich,” said Hashknife. “Rotten with gold.”

“Rotten with gold,” echoed Conley. “Crooked gold!”

He lifted himself on his elbow and looked at Moran.

“Remember why I got mad at you, Frank? You cut me out of a deal. Mebby it was business; but that’s all past. You had money; you bought several pieces of property and paid a good price on surface showings, you remember?”

“I did, Mose.”

“Oh, I was mad,” smiled Conley. “I was hot-headed in those days. I wanted to get even with you; so I blew over a hundred dollars’ worth of gold-dust into that rotten, red quartz, with a shotgun. I salted it for you, Frank; but before I got a chance to show it to you, you left the country. I hated you for leaving. I hated what I had done so much that I never even tried to hammer the gold out of that little ledge. And that’s what caused all this misery.”

“And it’s been there over twenty-five years, Mose?”

“Yes, my first and last crooked work.”

“Pretty damn good!” exclaimed Mrs. Conley.

“That’s right,” said Hashknife. “I know how they felt. I had a touch of it myself.”

He walked out to the porch and Dawn followed him out.

“Do you realize what you’ve done today?” she asked.

Hashknife looked at her curiously.

“Aw, I didn’t do nothin’,” he said slowly. “It just kinda worked out thataway. I think Jimmy’s lookin’ for you.”

As Dawn turned back to the door, Slim Regan stepped out on the porch, his hat tilted forward. He scratched the back of his hat in evident bewilderment.

“I’ll be darned,” he said slowly. “Lotsa things I don’t _sabe_ yet, Hartley. You say that Cutter and his gang knowed you was after ’em, and jist the same they go and leave a twenty-two shell layin’ around where you could find it.”

“They didn’t, Slim; I dropped it there myself. Their mistake was in admittin’ it.”

“F’r gosh sake! And what made you think Jimmy Moran didn’t shoot Conley?”

“Because there was two shots fired. Jimmy shot one, but Conley didn’t shoot any.”

“The hell he didn’t? There was an empty shell--”