Chapter V: Part 5

“But not contented,” said Hashknife. “Just why didja want to come to the Double Bar 8? You know —— well the three men from that ranch are in jail at Blue Wells.”

“Oh, I knowed that all right. But I wanted to get a look at the two men who are runnin’ the place.”

“Get a look at ’em, eh?”

Goode grinned widely, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

“I reckon yo’re one of ’em, stranger. Yuh see, I lived at Black Wells when you and yore pardner cleaned up the Modoc trouble, and I heard a lot about yuh. I’ve always wanted to thank yore pardner for killin’ Jud Mahley. It saved me a ca’tridge.”

Hashknife studied the face of the ex-Black Wells cowboy, but the man seemed sincere.

“I want to believe yuh, Goode. But a while ago somebody fired a rifle up here, and the bullet almost killed a woman in the Double Bar 8 patio.”

Goode’s eyes narrowed.

“And yuh thought I done it, Hartley?”

“I found yuh here.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I heard the shot. It wasn’t long ago. But a shot don’t mean anythin’. I seared up a flock of quail back there on the hill, and I jist wondered if somebody hadn’t been out tryin’ to get a meal of ’em.”

Hashknife lowered his gun and let down the hammer.

“I’m takin’ you at yore word, Goode,” he said. “There’s got to be a reason for that shot—and I don’t reckon you’ve got one.”

“Well, I sure ain’t, Hartley. Any old time I go bushwhackin’, it won’t be you, nor any of yore friends.”

“Well, that’s sure thoughtful of yuh. Do yuh know Miss Taylor?”

“Know who she is. Tex Alden intended to send me and one of the other boys down here to run this ranch, but when you boys took it, I reckon he changed his mind.”

“It didn’t make him mad, did it, Goode?”

Goode looked curiously at Hashknife, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“Well, it hadn’t ought to,” he said slowly.

Hashknife nodded. He liked Goode for that remark.

“We might as well go down to the ranch-house,” suggested Hashknife. “I reckon the shootin’ is all over.”

“I hope t’ gosh it is, Hartley. That’s nasty business.”

They went to the ranch-house, where Hashknife introduced Goode to Sleepy and Jimmy. Marion had gone into the house, but came out a few minutes later and was introduced. Hashknife explained how he had met Goode.

It was possibly a half an hour later that Goode rode away. His explanation of how he happened to be there on the hill so soon after the shooting did not satisfy Sleepy.

“That jigger’s eyes are hard,” declared Sleepy. “Jist like moss-agate. And he’s from Black Wells, Hashknife.”

“I _sabe_ that,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t think he did fire that shot. He don’t look like a hired killer, and it’s a cinch he ain’t got no personal reason for killin’ any of us.”

“Ain’t he?” Sleepy smiled wisely. “Just suppose Mr. Goode is one of that gang of train robbers? He knows what we done in the Modoc country. Figure it out for yourself.”

Hashknife nodded seriously.

“Yeah, that might be true. Mebbe he thinks we’re here to work on that case. I hate to get fooled on humanity, Sleepy. That feller may be awful slick. He’s either innocent, or smooth as satin, because he sure had an alibi on the end of his tongue.”

“But he didn’t have any rifle,” said Jimmy.

“A rifle is easy to hide,” said Sleepy, shaking his head. “Nossir, I’d look out for Mr. Goode.”

“But that shot was fired at me.” Jimmy was not to be denied of his thrill. “It went right past my ear.”

“And why would Goode shoot at Jimmy?” questioned Marion.

Hashknife laughed and picked some of the burrs off his knees.

“We’ve got to get an answer-book, folks. I’m glad that the heirloom was only creased. But from now on we’ve got to be mighty careful. Unless I’m mistaken, that shot was only a beginnin’.”

“Do you think you ought to stay here?” asked Marion nervously. “I mean, to take a chance on your lives, just to help me out?”

Hashknife looked at Jimmy, who dug his heel savagely in the hard ground, appearing ill at ease. Finally he looked up, noticing that both Hashknife and Sleepy were waiting for him to answer Marion’s question.

“Well,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, I’ll stay.”

“Three times—and out,” said Hashknife softly. “They’ve tried twice, Jimmy.”

“I know,” seriously. “But,” he grinned and peeled some sunburn off his nose, “I’m beginnin’ to think that you never will die until your time comes.”

“And that thought will sure help yuh win a lot of fights where the odds are all against yuh, Jimmy,” said Hashknife.

“Are you a fatalist?” asked Marion.

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if I wasn’t, I’d ’a’ been scared to death years ago.”

“I would like to hear about that Modoc affair,” said Jimmy.

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, Jimmy. It wasn’t anything. Goode kinda got things twisted. I hope Carrie Nation gets some food on the table pretty soon.”

It was like Hashknife to refuse to tell of things they had done. After he and Sleepy Stevens had joined forces and left the Hashknife outfit, fate seemed to throw them into troubled waters. Hashknife was either blessed or cursed with an analytical mind. A range mystery was food and drink to him. Sleepy’s mind ran in normal channels, but he loved to roam, and his love of adventure, fearlessness in the face of danger, made him a valuable ally to Hashknife.

So for a number of years their trail had led them where the cattle roamed, working on mysteries; more often than not, working for the sheer love of the thing, rather than for pay. At times they had stepped out of a pall of powder smoke, mounted their horses and rode away ahead of the thanks of those whose future had been made more bright by their coming.

“Soldiers of fortune,” a man had called them.

“Cowpunchers of disaster,” corrected Hashknife.

And in all their wanderings, the thing uppermost in their minds was to find the spot where they might be satisfied to settle down and live a peaceful life; both of them realizing all the while that they would never be satisfied with peace. Always the other side of the hill called to them—the irresistible call of the open, of the strange places, which is always answered by men who can’t sit still.

XI—THE SHERIFF WONDERS

After Goode rode back to Blue Wells he met Lee Barnhardt, who was taking a drink at the Oasis, and Goode, who was also drinking, told him of his visit to the Double Bar 8, and of the mysterious shot. The lawyer was naturally interested and questioned Goode closely, but Goode knew nothing of who had fired the shot.

“I met Hartley and Stevens,” offered Goode. “They’re the same two jiggers that cleaned up that Modoc job.”

“Detectives?” asked Barnhardt.

“Oh, I dunno about that part of it. But that ain’t the only job they ever cleaned up. There’s a lot more behind that one, and I’ll betcha they’ve not been idle since then. I’m wonderin’ what they’re doin’ here.”

“Perhaps they’re working on that train robbery.”

“Pshaw, that might be it. I’ll buy a drink, Barnhardt.”

On his way back to the office Barnhardt met Le Moyne.

“What ever happened to that detective the Santa Rita was going to put on that robbery?” asked Barnhardt.

Le Moyne smiled.

“Why, I guess the company didn’t think it was worth while, as long as you folks had jailed some one for doing the job.”

Barnhardt laughed softly, knowingly.

“That’s all right, Chet. But when you hire detectives, why don’t you get men whose reputations are not so well known?”

Le Moyne looked him over coldly.

“What do you mean, Lee?”

“Oh, I respect your secrecy. But really, Hartley and Stevens are too well known to do much good.”

“Eh?” Le Moyne frowned heavily. “Those two men at the Taylor ranch?”

“Sure. The two best man hunters you could have hired. But it’s a case of them being too well known.”

“Yeah?” Le Moyne smiled thinly. “Too well known, eh? But don’t blame me—I’m not the Santa Rita company.”

“That’s true.”

“Personally, I know nothing about their reputation, Lee.”

“You don’t? Well, I don’t know very much, but I do know that they’ve never lost a case. I’d hate to have them on my trail.”

“Well,” Le Moyne shrugged his shapely shoulders, “it seems as though we had hired two very good men, Lee.”

“You have.” Barnhardt laughed and grew confidential. “Tex Alden is as sore as a boil. He didn’t want them two men to stay at the ranch. He intended to run the ranch himself.”

“He did, eh?” Le Moyne scowled. “Yeah, I suppose he would. I’m glad he missed out on that. And I’m glad the sheriff and the railroad detective had to make that arrest. It rather lets me out of any blame in the matter, you see.”

“Certainly.”

“They’ve got plenty of help at the Double Bar 8,” said Barnhardt, after a pause. “That tenderfoot, Jimmy Legg, who was at the AK ranch, has volunteered his services. Tex sure is sore at him.”

“Sore at Legg? What for?”

“Well, Tex thinks Marion pays too much attention to Legg.”

“Well, does she?”

“I don’t know, Chet. She calls him Jimmy, and he calls her Marion.”

“Does, eh? Say, Lee, where did that fellow come from?”

“Nobody seems to know. He tramped in here the night of the hold-up. He said the train passed him. I can’t quite figure him out. I’ve talked with Scotty Olson and Al Porter about him, and they’re not quite sure what he is. He’s not a bad looking fellow, and I think he has a way with women.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you know, Chet; sort of a way of talking.”

“Yea-a-ah, I guess I know what you mean,” sighed Le Moyne. “I’ll see you later, Lee.”

Barnhardt went back to his office, glowing with the self satisfaction that comes to men who love to gossip. Le Moyne met Goode at the Oasis, and Goode was carrying just a little too much liquor. Goode happened to be extolling Hashknife and Sleepy to the bartender, who evidently didn’t care a bit about it.

“I tell yuh, they’re invin-shi-ble,” he declared. “Bes’ pair of two-handed fighters on earth. Betcha odds, tha’s what’ll do.”

“Hello, Plenty,” said Le Moyne.

Goode goggled at Le Moyne.

“Howza paymashter? Whatcha usin’ f’r money these days, Chet?”

“Good yellow gold, Plenty. What do you want to bet on?”

“Don’t get him started,” advised the bartender. “He’s drunk. Wants to bet odds that Hartley and Stevens will find the men who robbed your pay-roll.”

Le Moyne laughed and bought a drink for every one at the bar.

“I’m tellin’ yuh,” declared Goode. “’F they was after me, I’d run like ——, and pray every jump.”

“Bad men, eh?” asked Le Moyne, laughing.

“Wors’ you ever sheen! Gun-shootin’ mind-readers. Yesshir. Oh, you’ll shee.”

He pointed a wavering finger in the direction of the bartender.

“Betcha oddsh. Betcha anythin’—”

Goode waved his arm, as if to encompass everything, and sat down on the bar-rail, where he began snoring.

“Can’t stand much,” said the bartender. “Give him ten drinks of hooch, and he’s plumb gone. Know anythin’ about Hartley and Stevens?”

Le Moyne smiled and his brows lifted slightly.

“You knew the Santa Rita had detectives on the case, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I did hear they was goin’ to. What’ll yuh drink, Chet?”

“Same thing. I wonder where Goode found out so much about those two men?”

“I don’t know. He’s been out to the Double Bar 8 to see ’em, and when he came back he met Al Porter here. They had a few shots of hooch, and Goode told Al all about ’em. The more drinks he took, the more he told. After Al went away, Barnhardt came in, and Goode told it all over again. When Barnhardt went out, I was the victim. You’re lucky he went to sleep.”

“I suppose I am,” laughed Le Moyne. “It appears that the Double Bar 8 is well taken care of right now. Did any one find out who shot that tenderfoot kid the other night?”

“Never tried to, I reckon. The kid went back to the AK.”

“He’s over at the Taylor place now.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Oh, sure; I heard that too. You heard about somebody takin’ a shot at the gang at the Double Bar 8, didn’t yuh?”

Le Moyne hadn’t; so the bartender told him what he had heard Goode tell Barnhardt. It was interesting to Le Moyne, inasmuch as the bullet nearly struck Marion.

“That sure beats ——!” snorted Le Moyne. “What kind of a country is this getting to be? I wonder,” he squinted thoughtfully, “if that shot was fired at Legg, the tenderfoot?”

“Might have been. What’ll yuh have, Chet?”

“Nothing; I’ve had enough.”

Le Moyne turned his back to the bar, while he rolled and lighted a cigaret, his eyes thoughtful. Scotty Olson came in and spoke to Le Moyne as he walked past, but the handsome paymaster of the Santa Rita did not reply. Finally he walked out, mounted his horse and rode away.

The sheriff came back to the bar.

“What’s the matter with Le Moyne?” he asked of the bartender.

“I dunno.” The bartender rested his elbows on the bar, chewing on his cigar. “I told him about the bushwhacker out at the Double Bar 8 almost killin’ Marion Taylor, and I suppose Le Moyne is sore about it.”

“Al Porter was tellin’ me about it,” nodded the sheriff. “I don’t _sabe_ it.”

“You’d be a wonder if yuh did, Scotty. This country is getting pretty salty, don’tcha know it? First a train robbery, then an attempted murder on the main street, and now they’re shootin’ from the hills.”

“And what for?” wailed the sheriff. “My ——, I do hate a mystery!”

“Sure yuh do, Scotty. What’ll yuh drink? See-gar? Sure. These ought to be good. Paid five dollars for that box of ’em three years ago. Pretty dry? Well, my ——, you’d be dry, too, if yuh was kept in a box in Arizona for three years. What-cha suppose anybody’s tryin’ to kill off Legg for?”

“I didn’t know they was.”

“Somebody shot at him the other night, didn’t they? And Goode says that shot was fired at him today.”

“He ought to go away,” said Scotty, looking gloomily at his cigar, which seemed to be trying to expand into a rose, or a cabbage.

He flung it in a cuspidor, and smoothed his huge mustache.

“We never had no trouble around here until he came,” said Scotty. “He’s a hoodoo, that —— tenderfoot!”

“How’s that dog comin’ along, Scotty?”

“First class. It bit me once, and Al Porter twice.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Don’t like officers, eh?”

“Takes after his owner, I reckon. Gimme somethin’ to take the taste of that cigar out of my mouth.”

The sheriff drank a glass of liquor and scowled at Plenty Goode, who still sat on the bar-rail, snoring blissfully.

“Don’t wake him up,” pleaded the bartender. “When that jigger gets on one subject, he never knows when to quit.”

“I ain’t goin’ to wake him up,” wearily. “I suppose I’d better go out to the Double Bar 8 and investigate that shooting. It won’t do no good, though. I’ve got more prisoners now than I know what to do with. Three of ’em—and a —— dog! I wish I wasn’t the sheriff.”

“Well, cheer up, Scotty; somebody will prob’ly kill yuh very soon, and then yore troubles will all be over.”

“I s’pose that’s true.”

The sheriff went back to his office, where he found Porter cleaning a Winchester.

“Hear anythin’ new?” growled Porter.

“No. Reckon there’s any use investigatin’ that shootin’ at the Taylor ranch?”

Porter inserted a piece of white paper in the breech of the rifle, and squinted down the barrel.

“With two of the smartest detectives already there?” he replied. “You’d find out a —— of a lot, wouldn’t yuh?”

“Mebbe that’s right. I understand they’re hired by Le Moyne, or by the Santa Rita mine.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m,” Porter reached for the oil-can and proceeded to lubricate the mechanism.

“I dunno how a detective can ever find out who held up that train, if he spends all his time runnin’ a ranch,” said the sheriff.

“Not bein’ a detective, I don’t know,” said Porter coldly. “And what’s a lot more I don’t care a ——!”

XII—JIMMY TAKES A SHOT

For the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double Bar 8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a rope, which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter, which seemed to ignore the target entirely.

Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing many cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and marveled that any man could shoot away so much ammunition and never hit anything.

But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good ear convulsively at each report of the heavy Colt.

Nanah had watched with interest from the door of the ranch-house, until a misdirected bullet smashed through a window near her, after which she lost interest in Jimmy’s marksmanship.

Hashknife and Sleepy rounded up several head of Double Bar 8 horses, getting Marion’s opinion on them as a remuda for the coming round-up, and also trying them out. As a result, both of the cowboys were stiff and sore from the unaccustomed shaking which is usually meted out to a rider by horses which have not been ridden for months. Jimmy Legg had tried one, and then retired to the liniment bottle.

Marion decided to ride to Blue Wells, and Jimmy immediately offered to ride with her. Jimmy had not been away from the ranch since the mysterious bullet had nearly robbed him of an ear, and he was anxious to go to town. Regardless of the fact that his torn scalp had not been dressed by a doctor, it was doing very nicely, and he was able to do away with the bandage.

He and Marion did not indulge in much conversation on the way to Blue Wells, because of the fact that most of Jimmy’s time was occupied in handling his mount.

“This is rather embarrassing,” he told Marion. “I start to say something to you, when this fool horse goes off across the country. I’d rather be thrown off than to have my conversation interrupted every time.”

“But you’re learning,” declared Marion.

“I hope so,” dubiously.

“Jimmy, does it mean so much to you—to be a cowboy?”

Jimmy reined his horse back into the road, clutched his hat just in time to save it, and nodded violently.

“You bet! Say, it means an awful lot to me, Marion. Darn it, the more I think about it, the more it means.”

Marion did not question him any further, as they rode down the main street of Blue Wells. Marion dismounted at the sheriff’s office, but Jimmy rode on to the Oasis hitch-rack, where he had seen several AK horses tied.

At the Oasis bar he found Johnny Grant, Eskimo Swensen, Oyster Shell and Tex Alden. Johnny fell upon him with a war-whoop of joy and dragged him to the bar, while Eskimo and Oyster pounded him on the shoulders and examined his scalp, much in the way of a pair of monkeys, gibbering the while.

Tex turned away without speaking and walked outside, while the AK gang leaned Johnny against the bar and demanded loudly of the bartender that he work fast. They questioned Jimmy about the shooting at the Double Bar 8, and his progress as a cowpuncher. In fact, the questions came too fast for Jimmy to answer. But after the second drink he managed to catch his breath, and told them some of the happenings. But he would not drink any more.

“I’ve got to ride back to the ranch,” he told them solemnly. “I brought Miss Taylor to town, and she is down at the jail, visiting with her folks.”

The two drinks had made Jimmy rather expansive and he told them about his roping and shooting lessons; which caused the AK boys to double up with mirth.

“We was goin’ to stop at yore place on the way back,” said Johnny Grant. “Bonnette said to tell Miss Taylor that her outfit can use from our wagons. There’s plenty of room for all the bed-rolls, and three extra men ain’t goin’ to kill off our cook.”

“Well, that certainly is thoughtful of him,” said Jimmy. “I know Miss Taylor will appreciate it.”

“Aw, you better have one more drink,” urged Eskimo. “One more won’t hurt yuh none.”

“Well,” Jimmy smiled expansively, “I suppose not. But I’ll buy this one.”

All of which was acceptable, as it had been long enough since pay-day to find the AK boys in financial straits. They drank a health to Jimmy, and all walked outside. The main street of Blue Wells drowsed in the afternoon sun. A few men humped in shady spots, whittling, discussing nothing much in particular. Even the horses at the hitch-racks drowsed.

Suddenly a commotion started at the sheriff’s office. It was not a big commotion, but plainly audible on the silent street. A yellowish-red dog darted out of the office door, whirled around once, as if to get its bearings, and trotted up the street, looking back.

Out of the door came Al Porter. He had a heavy dish in his right hand. Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then started toward the dog, running stiffly, swearing. The dog was Geronimo, the Exhibit A, in the case of the State of Arizona versus the Taylor Outfit.

Running as fast as he was capable, Porter hurled the dish at the dog. But his aim was very faulty, which was attested to by a splintering of window-glass from the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant.

The AK gang whooped with mirth. Jimmy Legg, forgetting that ownership of Geronimo might cause complications, ran across the street toward Porter, yelling at him to let the dog alone. Geronimo stopped in an angle between the end of a bench and the wall of Moon’s store, and anxiously watched Porter, who had picked up several rocks about the size of eggs, and was preparing to bombard the dog.

Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.

“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.

He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring Porter, who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which was even more arid than Death Valley.

“By ——, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in his —— skull!”

The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into Geronimo, who yelped more from fright than actual distress.

“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.

Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking one of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.

“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.

His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective, because he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before his hand swung away from his hip.

The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot lifted, as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And at the crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him and he came down in the hard street with a crash.

Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand, while Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came running toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy down.

“Good ——, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”

The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to Porter. The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it seemed to Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every doorway. Then he lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street, followed by Geronimo, barking wildly.

Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head, his face a mixture of anger and wonderment.

“Where’d he hit yuh?”

“What was the matter?”

“Who shot yuh?”

Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved the anxious sheriff away.

“That —— fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I was plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a look at it.”

Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the deputy’s sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high heel, almost into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s sole prop from under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding whack against the ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter stayed down a while.

“And he stole the dog!” exclaimed the sheriff.

“The dog stole him,” amended Johnny Grant.

“I hope t’ —— he keeps him!” groaned Porter. “I’m all through with that dog, evidence or no evidence.”

“But we’ve got to have that dog, Al,” insisted the sheriff. “That’s our main evidence.”

“Then you get him and do the feedin’. I never hired out as a —— menagerie keeper. He bit me on the wrist, and when I kicked at him, he bit me on the ankle and got loose.”

Tex Alden was one of those who had come from Moon’s store, and now he spoke to the sheriff:

“Just why did that dog pull out with Legg?”

“Why, I dunno, Tex,” admitted the sheriff.

“Why did Legg defend the dog?”

The sheriff looked blankly around.

“I dunno that either, Tex.”

“All right,” Tex smiled crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Marion, but did not speak, and turned away.

“What’ll yuh do to that kid, Al?” asked one of the men.

“Do to him?” Porter took it under advisement. “I dunno. He might ’a’ been right. I was so —— mad that I dunno just how things was.”

“You reached back for a gun,” reminded Eskimo, and the other three AK cowboys nodded in confirmation.

“Yuh did, Al,” said Johnny.

“All right,” nodded Porter. “Mebbe I did.”

“And the kid thought yuh was goin’ to draw on him,” offered Oyster Shell.

“Well, what the —— is all the argument about?” snarled the deputy. “I’ll admit he was right. But,” Porter mustered a smile, “I hope that —— dog bites him when he gits off that horse.”

All of which ended all arguments as far as the guilt or innocence of Jimmy Legg was concerned—although Jimmy Legg, running his horse back toward the Double Bar 8, considered himself a deep-dyed killer.

He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he saw Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still on his palate.

His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking. Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to remember just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-forgotten dream—something that had happened long ago.

His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio gate and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just coming from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of the horse that something was wrong.

“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in his throat.

“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.

Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.

“You done what?”

Jimmy gulped and nodded.

“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”

“Take it easy, kid,” said Hashknife. “Set down here on the curb and tell us about it.”

“I can’t,” Jimmy shook his head nervously. “I’ve got to keep going. They’re after me, don’t you see?”

“All right, kid. If they’re after you, this is a fine place for ’em to get you.”

“But I can’t stay here, Hashknife.”

“Sure yuh can, Jimmy. Let’s talk it over. Runnin’ away won’t help yuh none. You’d lose out.”

Geronimo came into the patio, dust-covered, his tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Jimmy had set a hot pace from town, but the dog had found him. He sat down on his haunches in front of Jimmy and put a paw on Jimmy’s knee.

“Where’d the dog come from?” asked Sleepy.

Jimmy looked at Geronimo, and Geronimo looked at Jimmy.

“He is my dog,” said Jimmy slowly. “It’s the dog they had in jail—the evidence against Taylor.”

“Your dog, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

“Oh, yes,” Jimmy nodded slowly. “You see, I was afraid to tell anybody.”

“All right,” said Hashknife. “Now, tell us about the killin’ of the deputy sheriff, Jimmy.”

And Jimmy told them, while the two cowboys asked a question here and there to clarify things somewhat.

“Well, it looks to me as if it was a case of self-defense,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his story.

“He really reached for his gun,” said Jimmy. “I realized it.”

“What I’d like to know is, how in —— did yuh ever hit him?” queried Sleepy.

“I—I suppose it was because he’s larger than a tin can.”

“Where do yuh reckon yuh hit him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” wailed Jimmy. “It must have been through the heart, because he fell down so quickly—and his knees were jerking.”

“That’s good shootin’, for the first time,” said Sleepy dryly. “Where is Marion?”

“Oh, I forgot her! I must have been excited.”

“You prob’ly would be,” agreed Hashknife. “What I want you to do right now is to tell me all about ownin’ this dog.”

“Oh, yes, about the dog,” Jimmy jerked nervously at the sound of a noise outside the patio gate, but it was only Apollo, rubbing his shoulder against the wall.

Jimmy sighed deeply.

“I suppose that was a dirty trick. But when I found out that—that the dog was supposed to belong to a robber, I was afraid to claim him. He ran away from me that night in Blue Wells, you see.”

And then James Eaton Legg went ahead and told them about his experience with the express messenger. Hashknife grinned, when Jimmy told of that battle in the express car, and of how the messenger had described him as being a big, burly man, who tried to draw a gun.

“His lyin’ saves you a lot of trouble,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his tale. “He didn’t want anybody to think he had been whipped by a smaller man.”

“I suppose so; but I’ll go to town and tell ’em that the dog belongs to me. I might as well shoulder it all now.”

“I wish yuh wouldn’t,” said Hashknife. “Let things ride as they are for a while. If they arrest yuh for shootin’ the deputy, mebbe yuh can make a self-defense out of it. Yuh say that the AK boys saw it? They’ll prob’ly alibi yuh, ’cause they don’t like the sheriff. Under the circumstances a man could lie a little and not bend his conscience too much.”

“Yuh should have stayed and seen the finish,” said Sleepy. “It would ’a’ looked better.”

“I know it,” Jimmy sighed wearily. “But all I could think about was to run away. I’ve never killed a man before.”

“Prob’ly the first time he ever was killed, too.”

“Oh, don’t joke about it! It’s a terrible thing.”

“Pshaw, I wasn’t jokin’, Jimmy.”

“I know, but—”

A horse swung in through the patio gate, and Jimmy almost fell off the curb; but it was only Marion. She looked at Jimmy and began laughing. Geronimo barked joyfully and tried to jump up to her stirrup.

But Jimmy only stared at her blankly, his mouth open.

“What’s the joke?” asked Hashknife seriously.

“Dud-don’t laugh,” pleaded Jimmy. “It isn’t anything to laugh about.”

Between chuckles of merriment Marion managed to tell them what Jimmy had done, while Jimmy, his eyes and mouth wide open, leaned against the curb, gasping like a fish out of water.

Marion described how Jimmy had ridden out of Blue Wells, followed by the dog, and Sleepy cried against the shoulder of her horse. But Jimmy was too relieved to laugh.

“Well,” he said solemnly, “I guess I’ll have to pick something bigger than a man next time. Really, there should be something big enough for me to hit.”

“You ought to attack a fort,” laughed Sleepy.

They unsaddled Marion’s horse, while Jimmy took care of his own exhausted mount. He was so happy that he tried to take the saddle off without uncinching it.

“I expect the sheriff will be out here soon,” Marion told them. “He wants that dog. It bit Al Porter twice today, but they’ve got to keep it for evidence.”

“They don’t know it’s here,” said Hashknife. “Let’s hide it.”

“Hide it? But that wouldn’t be lawful.”

“It isn’t lawful to hold yore folks on that kind of evidence, either. Where can we put the dog.”

“In the cellar,” suggested Sleepy. “The one beneath the kitchen.”

“But won’t they search?”

“Prob’ly. Put a rug over the trap-door, and they’ll never see it.”

It did not take them long to dump Geronimo into the cellar, where Sleepy made him a good bed and put in a bucket of water. The dog accepted his new quarters without any protest, and Nanah grinned when she put an old rug over the trap-door, and moved over a table to rest on it.

The three men were in the bunk-house when the sheriff showed up, about thirty minutes later. He looked around the patio, expecting to see the dog, and dismounted. Hashknife shook hands with him. Jimmy did not put in an appearance.

“You heard what happened in town, didn’t yuh?” asked the sheriff. Hashknife agreed that he had.

“It ended all right,” remarked the sheriff. “Except that the main exhibit of the Taylor case followed Legg out of town.”

“What exhibit was that?”

“The dog. Legg came here, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. But I don’t know anythin’ about the dog. Jimmy said the trouble started over a dog, and Miss Taylor said the dog followed Jimmy out of Blue Wells, but it prob’ly went back.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? Went back—where?”

“Why, to Blue Wells.”

“I don’t think so, Hartley.”

“Didja search the town?”

The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had stopped and turned back to town.

“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had killed Porter.”

“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the heel. They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’ to kill somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every time. By golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot that he worries me.”

As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt rode in on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.

“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start out, but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”

“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”

Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from his pocket, which he gave to her.

“The postmaster said you forgot to get it,” he said. “I was coming out; so I brought it.”

The mail consisted of a few circulars and a weekly newspaper.

“I asked for mail for you boys,” Barnhardt told Hashknife.

“We’re not likely to get any,” smiled Hashknife. “Thank yuh just the same.”

Barnhardt turned to the sheriff.

“What about that dog?”

“Not here. Mebbe it never left town, Lee. Yo’re not worryin’ are yuh?”

“Not me. I’d be just as well satisfied if it never came back.”

“That’s what I thought. Are yuh ready to ride back?”

The lawyer shook his head.

“I’m in no hurry, Scotty.”

“Well, I am. So long, folks.”

Jimmy ventured out after the sheriff had gone, and wanted to know everything the sheriff had said. He was so glad to know that the law was not on his trail that he even spoke pleasantly to Lee Barnhardt.

Marion went in the house, and Sleepy sat down in the shade with Jimmy, leaving Hashknife with the lawyer.

“Naturally, we are both working in the interests of the Taylor family,” said the lawyer confidentially. “Now, I’d like to know what progress you have made in your observations.”

Hashknife looked at him keenly.

“I don’t reckon I understand yuh, Barnhardt.”

“No?” Barnhardt smiled knowingly. “For your own information I will say that Chet Le Moyne admitted your connections with the Santa Rita mining company.”

“He did, eh?” Hashknife was wearing his poker face now.

“Yes. It is rather difficult to keep a thing like that from becoming common knowledge. Folks naturally wondered what your business might be.”

“I suppose,” seriously. “But I don’t reckon it makes much difference, does it?”

“Oh, no. I have not mentioned it to any one; but I was curious to know what you had found out, because I am anxious for any new development which will serve my clients.”

“Well, I can’t tell yuh much. In fact, I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”

“Anything you told me would be in strictest confidence.”

“Yeah, I realize that.”

But although the Blue Wells lawyer waited patiently, the tall cowboy remained silent. Then—

“Just an inkling of what you are doing would serve to cheer up my clients.”

Hashknife shifted his position and looked Barnhardt squarely in the eye. The level stare of the cold-eyed cowboy caused Barnhardt’s gaze to shift. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Hashknife could read his mind.

“Barnhardt,” said Hashknife earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”

“Oh, no; not at all. Well,” Barnhardt turned away, “I suppose I may as well go back. No hard feelings, I hope. Being in charge of the Taylor defense, I would naturally be interested in any new developments in the case.”

Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his elbows flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the Double Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the dusty road, while he took an envelope from his pocket.

The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was addressed to H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:

Dear Sir: A wire from us to James Eaton Legg, San Francisco,
California, brought a reply from his former place of residence
to the effect that Mr. Legg had left there and had left his
forwarding address as Blue Wells, Arizona. This may be a
coincidence, or it may be because of some former information.
Trusting that you will be able to furnish us with valuable
information soon, we beg to remain,
Sincerely yours,
Leesom & Brand.

Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw bulged as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off the road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He turned in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he reined his horse back to the road.

“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a —— fool?”

But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of knowing. He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At any rate he rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and the first man he met was Chet Le Moyne.

“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I had a talk with your detectives.”

“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”

“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were working for the Santa Rita.”

“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”

“Oh, they didn’t deny it. But I don’t think they’ve found out very much.”

“Possibly not.”

Le Moyne watched Barnhardt ride down to his office, tie his horse, and go inside. The face of the handsome paymaster twisted angrily, as his gloomy eyes squinted against the sun.

“I wonder if Barnhardt is just a plain —— fool, or—”

Le Moyne shook his head and went on his way.

* * * * *

That evening Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy rode to Blue Wells. There were few people in town, and while Jimmy and Sleepy played pool at the Oasis saloon, Hashknife found the sheriff at his office. The sheriff was pleasant and curious, especially when Hashknife talked over with him the evidence in the Taylor case.

The subject of the AK boys’ locking the sheriff in his own cell came up, and the sheriff explained that the reason no one discovered his plight was because Al Porter, the deputy, was at Encinas, visiting a girl, and did not get back until morning.

“Does that Santa Rita pay-roll come in at the same time every month?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno.”

“They say that the paymaster always takes the money from here to the mine.”

“I reckon he does.”

“And somebody would have to know it was comin’ that day.”

“Oh, they must ’a’ knowed about it, Hartley.”

“How would Taylor have found it out?”

“That’s hard to say. Chet Le Moyne, the paymaster, is kinda sweet on Miss Taylor, and—”

“And he might have told her, eh?”

“I don’t say he did, Hartley.”

“But for the sake of an argument, it could ’a’ happened. She might ’a’ mentioned the fact that Chet was comin’ in to get the pay-roll, eh? Is that what yuh was thinkin’?”

“Mebbe.” The sheriff did not want to commit himself.

“And this Le Moyne was at the depot to get the pay-roll?”

“Yeah. He was here earlier in the evenin’, and somebody said he went out to see Miss Taylor.”

“But he was at the depot to get the money, was he?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think there was four men in on the deal?”

“Sure. The fourth one got on at Encinas. It was his job to put the messenger out of commission, I reckon.”

“This happened out where the AK road turns off the Encinas road, near the railroad track, I understand. They cut the express car loose from the rest of the train, ran it up there, blew the safe and got the money. The engine crew say they had sort of a battle with ’em, after they left the car. Then the engine crew ran the engine and express car back to where they had cut loose from the rest of the train, picked it up and came on to Blue Wells. Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s what happened.”

“This express messenger and the man who got on the car at Encinas fought in the car, but finally fell out. Do yuh know if this was before or after the train was cut in two?”

The sheriff cogitated deeply.

“I never did hear, but—say, it must ’a’ been after the train was broken, because they picked up the messenger on their way to here. Yessir, it must ’a’ been after they cut off the express car, because that messenger sure was picked up. He never walked to the train.”

“The messenger described the man who fought him, didn’t he?”

“Well, he said it was a big, husky sort of a feller. I don’t think there’s any question about him bein’ one of the gang. He used that dog as a reason for gettin’ on that car.”

“They why did he walk to the scene of the robbery, take the dog from the express car and disappear?”

“Prob’ly scared that some one would recognize the dog?”

“The messenger and engine crew had already seen it. If it belonged to Taylor, do yuh reckon they’d take the dog back to their ranch, where any one could find it?”

The sheriff twisted his mustache thoughtfully. This was something he had not thought about.

“Anybody would recognize that dog,” said Hashknife.

“Yore argument sounds pretty good,” admitted the sheriff. “But it don’t make much difference, because we can’t find that dog. Al Porter is glad, I suppose. The darn thing hates him. Bit him every time it had a chance. Growls every time he shows up.”

“You’ll have to find the dog before the trial, won’t yuh?”

“I s’pose the prosecutin’ attorney will raise —— if it ain’t here. Still, it’s been identified; so that prob’ly won’t make a lot of difference.”

“What became of Wade, the railroad detective?”

“Oh, he went back. Yuh see, he decided that Taylor was guilty; so there wasn’t anythin’ more for him to do here.”

Hashknife went back to the saloon, and they made it a three-handed game of pool. It was about nine o’clock when they decided to go back to the ranch, as there was no excitement at all in Blue Wells. The moonlight was so bright that, following Hashknife’s suggestion, they rode in single file, about fifty feet apart.

That shot from the hills had made Hashknife cautious, and he knew that three riders, bunched, would make an easy target in that moonlight. But their return was uneventful, except that there were no lights in the windows of the ranch-house.

“That sure looks all wrong,” declared Hashknife.

“Mebbe not,” said Sleepy. “Marion and Nanah might be enjoyin’ the moonlight.”

“They might, but we’ll play safe by thinkin’ they’re not.”

The three men dismounted a hundred yards from the house and went cautiously to the patio gate. There was not a sound. The rear of the ranch-house flung a long shadow across the patio. Hashknife watched and listened for a while, and then strode boldly inside. A door creaked, and they heard Marion’s voice—

“Is that you, Hashknife?” she spoke softly.

“It sure is,” replied Hashknife. “What’s the matter?”

“Come here.”

They went softly across the patio and up to the door, where she let them in. They could see the silhouette of Nanah against a window, where she was watching. Marion closed the door softly.

“There wasn’t any light,” said Hashknife.

“Nanah saw you leave your horses,” said Marion. “She knew who it was. About half an hour ago Nanah and I were sitting on the back porch in the moonlight. It was wonderful out there, but it was getting cool; so we came in. There were no lamps lighted.

“And Nanah swears she saw a man looking in the window, where she is now. I told her she must be seeing things, but she persisted. So we did not light a lamp. We watched and watched, but the man did not come back. I went to the rear door and opened it a little. It squeaks a little, you know. Then I saw a man cross the patio. He was all humped up, and it seemed to me as though he had been looking in the window of the bunk-house. I can’t be sure about it. I’m sure he did not suspect that I had seen him, because he stopped in the gateway for quite a while. Then he stepped into the shadow on the other side of the wall.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Hashknife.

“Not over thirty minutes ago.”

“He must have been lookin’ for us,” grinned Sleepy.

“And if he seen us sneak in here he’ll know we’re on to him,” said Hashknife. “But we’ve got to take a chance. Come out on the porch. Tell Nanah to light the lamps.”

The old Indian woman bustled around, lighting lamps, while the rest of them followed Hashknife to the rear porch.

“I’ll go first,” whispered Hashknife. “One man only makes one target. If the coast is clear, I’ll whistle a tune, and Sleepy, you and Jimmy come over there.”

Hashknife kept well in the shadow in crossing the patio, and in a minute or two he began whistling. Sleepy and Jimmy crossed to the bunk-house, where the door was open. Hashknife lighted the lamp, which was on a table about midway of the room.

Then he motioned Sleepy and Jimmy back to the doorway, where he followed them out, closing the door.

“Duck down as low as yuh can and sneak back to the house,” he whispered. They got back to the house and crept silently in.

Hashknife stepped in close to a rear window, where he could get a clear view of the patio, and watched through a break in the curtain.

“If he didn’t see our horses, he’ll think we’re in the bunk-house,” said Hashknife. “If he seen us leave our horses and do an Injun sneak, he’ll know we’re on to him, and prob’ly fog away from here.”

“Do you think it’s the man who has been trying to kill me?” asked Jimmy.

“Might be.”

Suddenly Hashknife jerked back. A blinding flash filled the room, followed by a terrific jarring crash, which fairly threw them off their feet. The lamp was extinguished; pictures fell from the walls, and a moment later the house seemed to be bombarded with missiles from every angle.

Hashknife had fallen back against a table, but now he got to his feet, groping in the dark. Sleepy was swearing dazedly. Dust and smoke eddied in through the broken windows, and with it was the odor of dynamite; the unmistakable scent of nitroglycerine.

“Is anybody hurt?” gasped Hashknife, scratching a match and holding it above his head. Nanah was sitting against the wall, her eyes goggling out of an impassive face. Marion had got to her feet and was reaching for something to steady herself with, while Jimmy had backed against the wall, his arms outspread against it, his feet braced.

“What was it?” whispered Marion, staring wide-eyed at Hashknife.

“Somebody dynamited us, I reckon.” He strode to the door and flung it open, while the others crowded close behind him. Where once had stood the adobe bunk-house, there was only a pile of adobe bricks, twisted timbers. The patio was a mass of adobe. On the porch of the ranch-house was the splintered door, torn from its hinges and flung across the patio.

Hashknife ran across the yard, vaulted across the débris and went out through a gaping hole in the patio wall, heading for the stables. Through some freak of dynamite explosion, the force seemed to have been in the opposite direction to the stables, with the result that none of the stock was injured, and the stable still intact.

It did not take Hashknife long to find that nothing had been injured in the stable. A decidedly feminine shriek from the patio sent him running back through the broken wall, where he almost ran into Apollo, the ancient burro.

“He was under that pile of stuff,” yelled Sleepy. “Rised up like a darned ghost and almost scared Marion to death.”

Marion was laughing foolishly, almost hysterically.

“—— good thing I see man,” declared Nanah solemnly.

“You bet it was!” agreed Hashknife warmly. “If yuh didn’t see that man, we’d be in bad shape now, Nanah. Good gosh! Can yuh imagine what would ’a’ happened to us, if we’d ’a’ been in that bunk-house?”

“Yeah, and we’d better look a little out,” said Sleepy nervously. “The little sidewinder that touched off that blast will prob’ly want to see if he done a good job.”

“He’ll not come back tonight, Sleepy. He’s high-tailin’ it out of this section right now. I’ll betcha yuh could hear that explosion in Blue Wells.”

Marion shivered in the cold breeze, as she looked at the moonlit wreck.

“Oh, what will happen next?” she wondered aloud.

“Somebody,” said Hashknife, “is goin’ to hear the echo of that blast, and it sure is goin’ to ache his ears.”

They tried to find their bed-rolls, but the outer wall of the bunk-house, which was about two feet thick of adobe, had fallen in on the floor, and it would require much digging to get down even to the bunk-levels.