Chapter II: Part 2

“I can fix that,” said the sheriff quickly. “I’ll let yuh have a couple of horses and saddles. Yuh can leave ’em tied to the loadin’ corral and I’ll get ’em tomorrow.”

“Now that’s danged nice of yuh,” agreed Hashknife. “We’ll take yuh up on that, and thank yuh kindly. Let’s go.”

The sheriff led the way to his stable, where they secured two horses and saddles.

“It’s only six or seven miles on a straight line, but yuh can’t go thataway,” explained the sheriff, leading the way back to the main street. “Yuh go straight north out of town, follerin’ the road kinda northwest. Then yuh turn at the first road runnin’ northeast. About a mile along on that road you’ll find a trail that leads due east. Foller that and it’ll take yuh straight to Turkey Track sidin’.”

“This is doggone white of yuh,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand. “We ain’t the kind that forget, Sheriff. Yore broncs will be there at the corral. And some day, we’ll try real hard to return the favor.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the sheriff. “I hope yuh catch yore train. _Adios!_”

* * * * *

They rode out into the night. It was light enough for them to follow the dusty road, but not light enough for them to distinguish the kind of country they were traveling through.

“I hope they’ve got that danged car on the track, and are headin’ East right now,” said Sleepy, peering into the night. “I like this country, Hashknife.”

“After seein’ as much of it as you have, I don’t wonder.”

“Not that,” said Sleepy seriously. “There’s punchers packin’ Winchesters, and nobody tellin’ yuh what a —— of a good country this is. I tell yuh, there’s trouble brewin’. I can smell it, Hashknife.”

“Then I hope there’s more than one car off the track, and that we can get to sleep on that caboose before the train starts. I can build up all the trouble I can use. If there’s trouble around here, leave it alone. My old dad used to say—

“‘If yuh ain’t got no business of yore own, yuh ain’t qualified to monkey with somebody else’s.’”

“That’s a fine sentiment,” laughed Sleepy. “But it don’t work in our case. We’ve been monkeyin’ with other folks’ business for several years, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, that’s true. But it don’t prove that we were qualified to do it. Mebbe somebody else could ’a’ done it better.”

“Well, I’d sure like to set on a fence and watch ’em do it,” laughed Sleepy. “It would be worth havin’ a front seat at the show. Here’s that road runnin’ northeast, Hashknife.”

And Sleepy was right when he said that he would like to have a front seat at the show. For several years, he and Hashknife had drifted up and down the wide ranges, working here and there, helping to fight range battles; a pair of men who had been ordained by fate to bring peace into troubled range-lands.

It was not for gain nor glory. They usually left as abruptly as they came; dreading the thanks of those who gained by their coming; leaving only a memory of a tall, serious-faced cowpuncher with a deductive brain and a wistful smile. And of his bow-legged partner; him of the innocent blue eyes, which did not harden even in the heat of gun-battle.

They did not want wealth, power nor glory. Either of them could have been a power in the ranges, but they were of that breed of men who can’t stay still; men who must always see what is on the other side of the hill. The lure of the unknown road called them on, and when their work was done they faded out of the picture. It was their way.

* * * * *

Jack Hartwell was in a white-hot rage when he rode away from the Arrow. His own father had virtually accused him of being a spy for Eph King, and his life-long friends were all thinking him guilty of giving information to the invading sheepmen.

He set his jaw tightly as he spurred across the hills toward home, vowing in his heart to make them sorry that they had spurned his assistance and added insult to injury by declaring him a traitor. Once he drew rein on the crest of a hill and looked back, his throat aching from the curses that surged within him.

It was then that he realized how powerless he was, how foolish he had been to declare a dead-line around his property. It had been a childish declaration. And with this realization came the selfish hope that the sheep men might break the dead-line and flood the valley with sheep. He wanted revenge. And why not help them, he wondered?

His own father had outlawed him among cattlemen. He had been ostracized from the cowland society. He owed them nothing. Perhaps Eph King would welcome him into Sunshine Basin. He might even make him a sheep baron. But the vision did not taste sweet to Jack. He had the cattlemen’s inborn hatred of sheep. He had heard them cursed all his life, and it was too late for him to change his attitude toward them.

He rode in at his little corral and put up his horse. There was no light in the house, but the door was unlocked. He went in and lighted the lamp. It was not late, and he wondered why Molly had gone to bed so early. He picked up the light and entered the bedroom, only to find it vacant, the bed unruffled.

He went back to the living room and placed the lamp on the little table. It was evident that Molly had left the place. He went out to the stable and found that her horse and saddle were not there.

He remembered dazedly that she had said she might not be there when he returned. Back to the house he went, searching around for a possible note, which might tell him where she had gone. But there was no note. She had left without a word.

He sat down on the edge of a chair and tried to figure out what to do. Right now he cared more for his wife than he ever had, and the other events of the night paled into insignificance before this new shock.

Suddenly he got to his feet, blew out the light and ran down to the corral. Swiftly he saddled and rode out into the yard, heading straight back toward the slopes of Slow Elk Creek.

“Get ready, you sheepherders!” he gritted aloud. “I’m comin’ after my wife, and I’d like to see any of yuh stop me.”

Jack knew every inch of the country, and was able to pick his way through the starlit hills at a fairly swift pace. He knew that the dead-line was within three miles of his place, but he did not slacken pace until up near Slow Elk Springs.

As he rode up through the upper end of a little cañon, a man arose up in front of him, the starlight glinting on the barrel of his rifle. It was Gene Hill. The recognition was mutual.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hill in a whisper.

He was standing at the left shoulder of Jack’s horse, as if to bar his way.

For a moment Jack hesitated, and then drove the spurs into his horse, causing the animal to knock Hill sprawling. Then he ducked low and went racing away toward the dead-line. Hill got to his feet, cursing painfully, searching for his rifle, while Bert Allen, of the Circle V, another of the watchers, came running through the sage, calling to Hill and questioning him as to what the commotion had been about.

“It was Jack Hartwell,” said Hill, trying to pump some air into his lungs. “He tried to sneak through, and when I stopped him he rode me down. The dirty pup has gone over to the sheep.”

“Gives us a good chance at him,” said Allen. “I wasn’t so sure about him before. We’ll have to pass the word. Sure yuh ain’t hurt, Gene?”

“Not bad enough to make me miss him, if he ever shows up here again.”

Once out of range of Hill’s rifle, Jack drew up, with the sudden realization that he had given them plenty of circumstantial proof that he was a spy. He knew that Hill would lose no time in spreading the report that he had forced his way through the dead-line. He laughed bitterly at the tricks of fate, but swore that somebody would pay dearly.

Then he realized that he was in a precarious position. The sheepmen would be looking for mounted men. Jack knew that they would be just as alert as the cattlemen; so he dismounted and went on slowly, leading his horse. There were plenty of sheep bedded down on the slopes of the hills, and they bleated softly at his approach.

Jack had made a guess as to the probable location of the main camp. It was a wide swale on a little tributary of Slow Elk Creek, where there was plenty of fuel and water, and also a bed ground for thousands of sheep. He led his horse out on to the rim of this swale, where he could see the lights of the camp below him.

There were several camp-fires, and as he came closer he could see the outlines of several camp-tenders’ wagons. It was a big outfit and this was their main camp. Several men were playing cards on a blanket stretched in the light of one of the fires, and behind them several tents had been pitched. The men were all wearing holstered guns, and behind them, leaning against the guy rope of a tent, were several rifles.

Jack left his horse out beyond the firelight, and walked boldly into camp, coming in behind the players. Somehow he had slipped through the sheepmen’s line of guards. He stood near the front of a tent, listening closely. The players were so engrossed in their game that they made signs instead of sounds. One of them lifted his head and looked at Jack, but made no move to indicate that he did not recognize Jack as one of them.

A few minutes later, three men came walking into camp. One of them was a big man, walking empty handed, while the other two carried rifles. As they came into the light of the fires, Jack recognized Eph King. He was head and shoulders above the other men, bulking giant-like in the firelight.

His head was massive, with a deeply lined face, looking harsh and stern in the sidelights, which accentuated the rough contour of his features. The two men sauntered over to the card game, while Eph King, after a long glance out into the night, turned toward the tent and walked past Jack, without looking at him.

Once inside the tent he lighted a lantern, and Jack heard a cot-spring creak a protest as King settled his great bulk upon it. Then Jack stepped over, threw back the flap of the tent and stepped into the presence of the sheep king.

For several moments the big man stared at him. He had not seen Jack for several years, and it took him quite a while to recall the features of his enemy’s son. Jack did not speak, but waited to see what King would have to say.

The big man knitted his brows, glanced toward the flap of the tent and back at the cowboy, facing him tensely.

“How did you get here?” he asked harshly.

“Walked right in,” said Jack evenly.

“Did yuh?” King studied him closely. “What for?”

“To take my wife back home.”

Eph King started slightly.

“To take her back home, eh? Back from where, Hartwell?”

“From here!” Jack’s jaw muscles tightened and he leaned forward slightly. “By —— she’s my wife and I want her! Now you produce her, King.”

“Oh, is that so?” The big man’s bushy brows lifted in mock surprize. “I’m not a wizard, Hartwell. In fact I don’t know what in —— you are talkin’ about.”

“That’s a lie, King! She came here tonight, and I came after her.” Jack’s hand clenched and unclenched over the butt of his gun. “Come on—tell me where she is.”

The big man sighed and motioned to a camp chair.

“Set down, Hartwell. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ men tell me that I lie, but you’ve kinda got the edge on me this time. At the risk of bein’ called a liar again, I tell you that I haven’t seen Molly. —— it, I haven’t seen her since you stole her away from me.”

“I didn’t steal her,” denied Jack hotly. “She went willingly. You knew she was goin’, too. Was it a trick, King? Did she marry me to supply you with information?”

“Eh?” King scowled at the questions. “Did she marry you to—hm-m-m! What made you think she came up here?”

“She’s gone. I just came from home. One of your men took a note to her. I reckon he came home with a smashed arm, didn’t he?”

King nodded slowly.

“We expected a few smashes. There are more to come.”

“But that don’t tell me where my wife is, King.”

“No, that’s true, Hartwell. I wish I knew. She ain’t here.”

There was a ring of truth in King’s voice. “If she was here, I wouldn’t lie to you, Hartwell. And if she didn’t want to go back with you—well, you’d have a hard time takin’ her. Didn’t you realize that you was runnin your neck into it by comin’ up here tonight? It’s war, Hartwell. I’m leadin’ one side and your father leadin’ the other. And you came into my camp.

“It was a risky thing to do, young feller. You took a big chance of bein’ shot. Do you think I ought to let you go back? You are my son-in-law, and I don’t want to have yuh get shot.”

“I reckon I’ll go back,” said Jack coldly. “I never seen the sheepherder yet that could stop me. I ——”

Jack stopped. King had lifted his hand from the blanket and Jack looked into the muzzle of a big revolver. The big man was smiling softly, and the hand holding the gun was as steady as a rock.

“Set down,” he said softly. “Keep your hands on your knees. I’d hate to kill my son-in-law, but if you make a move toward your gun, that marriage is annulled by Mr. Colt.”

“All right,” grunted Jack. “I know that kind of language. Go ahead and shoot. It’ll save yuh future trouble.”

But Eph King only smiled and rested the muzzle of the gun on his knee.

“Futures don’t bother me, Hartwell—not that kind. You come blusterin’ up here and talk big. You kinda amuse me, so I’ve a —— good notion to keep you here. Did yuh ever read about the old-time kings? They had a jester—a fool—to amuse ’em. I’m as good as they, so why not have a jester, eh?”

“A fool,” corrected Jack bitterly.

“Very likely,” dryly. “Still, I’d hate to even be amused by a Hartwell. Anyway, I’ve a notion to keep yuh here and let your father know that I’m holdin’ yuh. It might——”

“Amuse him,” finished Jack.

“Meanin’ what?” queried King quickly.

“Meanin’ that he thinks I’m a spy for you. They all think I am—except Molly. I forced my way through the cattlemen’s dead-line to get up here tonight. They recognized me. I had to knock one of ’em down to get through. And they’d be liable to care a whole lot if I didn’t come back, wouldn’t they?”

Eph King stared at Jack closely. He knew that Jack was telling the truth and it seemed to amuse him a little. With a flip of his wrist he threw the gun behind him on the cot, and got to his feet.

“Hartwell,” he spoke seriously, “do you want to throw in with us?”

“No.”

“Still loyal, eh?”

There was a sneer in the question.

“Mebbe not loyal, King.”

“Blood thicker than water, eh?”

“Probably. Anyway, I hate sheep.”

King sighed deeply and threw open the tent flap.

“Sometimes I hate ’em myself,” he said softly, as they went outside.

The men crowded around them, realizing that Jack was an outsider. His horse had just been brought in by one of the sheepmen. But none of them questioned King.

“This is one of the cattlemen,” he said to them. “He is going back now, and I’d like to have one of you go with him until he passes our lines.”

“Not with me,” declared Jack. “I’ll circle wide and come out away beyond the sheep. Much obliged, just the same.”

“And tell all yuh know to the cattlemen, eh?” growled one of the men, and then to King:

“If one of ’em can ride into our camp, what’s to stop a dozen of ’em from comin’.”

“That’s my lookout, Steen,” replied King coldly. “All he knows won’t hurt us any.”

The men stood aside and watched him ride away. As soon as he was out of earshot, King swore harshly.

“You had the right idea, Steen,” he said, “but I didn’t want him to think that his comin’ bothered us any. We’ve got to tighten the line. Next thing we know a whole horde of men will come ridin’ over the hill, and —— will be holdin’ a recess. But I don’t think that Hartwell will tell what he knows.”

“Was that young Hartwell?” asked Bill Steen, foreman for King.

“Yeah.”

King nodded shortly and went back into his tent, where he sat down on the creaking cot, leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground. From beyond the immediate hills came the sound of several rifle shots. The big sheepman shook his head slowly, thoughfully. Steen lifted the flap of the tent.

“I’m sendin’ all the men down to the line for the rest of the night” he said. “We’ll likely have to draw the herd back a little early in the mornin’, ’cause they’ll prob’ly start shootin’ at ’em.”

“I s’pose,” King nodded. “Not too far, though. We’ll have our own men placed, and mebbe we can do a little shootin’, too.”

“Sure. We ought to string ’em out pretty wide tomorrow. I think we’ve got more men than they have, and by stringin’ out kinda wide, we can slip through the holes any old time yuh say. I don’t think they can stop us when we get ready to start.”

“When we get ready,” echoed King. “We’re not ready yet.”

* * * * *

“Yeah, this is the right road, but where is that danged trail the sheriff told us about?” complained Sleepy. “I tell yuh we’re past it, Hashknife.”

“Prob’ly,” agreed Hashknife dryly. “It’s so danged dark that yuh couldn’t see it.”

They drew rein and debated upon their next move.

“Let’s go ahead a little ways,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we ain’t past it. The sheriff said we couldn’t miss it.”

“Mebbe he was educated in a night school and can see like an owl,” laughed Sleepy as they rode on.

Suddenly both horses shied from something that was in the middle of the road. Hashknife dismounted quickly and made an examination.

“An old telescope valise, busted wide open,” he remarked. “Lot of women’s plunder, looks like. Must ’a’ fell out of a wagon.”

He lighted several matches and examined it, while the two horses snuffed suspiciously at the smashed valise.

“I’ll just move it aside of the road, where the owner can find it,” said Hashknife. “Some woman is worryin’ over the loss of all them things, I’ll betcha.”

They laughed and rode on, peering into the darkness. About two hundred yards beyond the valise, the two horses jerked to a stop. Hashknife’s horse snorted and tried to whirl sidewise off the road, but the lanky cowboy swung it back and dismounted again.

“It’s a woman this time,” declared Hashknife as he leaned over the dark patch on the yellow road. “That driver must ’a’ been pretty careless to lose his load thataway. Here, hold some matches for me, Sleepy, and don’t let loose of my bronc. That danged jug-head must be a woman-hater.”

Together they examined the woman, who groaned slightly as they lifted her to a sitting position. It was Molly Hartwell. She blinked at the matches and tried to get to her feet.

“You better take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “You’ve got a cut on yore head, which has bled quite a lot, ma’am.”

“I—I know,” she said painfully. “I guess I didn’t have the cinch tight enough and the saddle turned with me. I tried to go back home, but I got so dizzy I had to lie down.”

“Where do yuh live?” asked Hashknife.

Molly Hartwell peered out into the gloom and was forced to admit that she did not know.

“It is either—well, I don’t know. Anyway, it is on this road.”

“Well, it ain’t behind us—’less it’s hid,” declared Sleepy. “So it must be the way we’re travelin’.”

Hashknife assisted her on to his horse, while Sleepy went back and got the valise. It was a cumbersome object to carry, and the broken straps made it almost impossible for him to keep from spilling its contents.

It was not far back to the Hartwell place. Sleepy opened the gate, while Hashknife led his horse up to the house. It was then that the valise refused to remain intact any longer. It skidded out of Sleepy’s arms and the contents spilled all about. And as fast as he picked up one article another fell out.

Finally he tied his horse to the gate-post, so he could use both hands. The valise had evidently been packed with care, but in upsetting it had jumbled things until it was impossible for Sleepy to get them all back.

He swore feelingly, perspired copiously and finally tripped over the stack of white clothes. He came up with a handful of womanly garments, to be exact—a nightgown. It was of the voluminous kind, and its bulk forbade the shutting down of the valise cover.

Hashknife and the lady had gone into the house and lighted the lamp. Sleepy whistled to himself, as he slipped the nightgown over his head, ran his arms through the short sleeves, picked up the valise and started for the house. He had solved the transportation problem to his own satisfaction.

A man had ridden in at the rear of the house, but Sleepy had not seen him. He walked up to the open front door and stepped inside, just as Jack Hartwell came in through the rear door. Hashknife was standing near the table, looking at Mrs. Hartwell, who was sitting in a low rocker, her head held in her two hands.

Jack Hartwell’s clothes were torn and there was a smear of blood across his face, which gave him a leering expression. In his right hand he held a cocked revolver. His eyes strayed from his wife and Hashknife to Sleepy, who stood in the doorway dressed in a white gown, and holding the bulky valise in his two hands. For several moments, not a word was spoken. Then:

“Evenin’, pardner,” Sleepy spoke directly to Jack, who was staring at him wonderingly. “Ain’t you the feller I met in Cheyenne last year?”

Jack Hartwell shifted his feet nervously.

“No,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve never been in Cheyenne.”

“Neither have I,” said Sleepy innocently. “Both parties must be mistaken.”

Hartwell shoved away from the door and came closer to Hashknife.

“Who in —— are you? More sheepherders?”

Mrs. Hartwell looked up at Jack and at sight of his bloody face she started to get up. He looked at her. She was as bloody as he, and her clothes were dusty and disarranged.

“More sheepherders?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah, —— yuh! What are yuh doin’ here, anyway?”

“Excuse me for appearin’ in this condition,” said Sleepy, starting to disrobe, “but this thing was what broke the telescope’s straps. There’s a limit to what yuh can git into ’em.”

Jack squinted at Molly.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “You’ve been hurt, Molly. Did these men ——?”

He whirled and faced Hashknife, who had moved toward him.

“They found me and brought me home, Jack. I—I was going away—going to Totem City to catch the train—home. But the cinch turned and I fell off. That valise was too heavy.”

Molly Hartwell began crying softly, and Hashknife walked over to Sleepy, who had managed to get out of the gown.

“We better go, Sleepy,” he said quietly.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. “I’d kinda like to know who you two fellers are.”

“Well—” Hashknife grinned slightly—“we’re not sheepherders, if that’ll help yuh any. We missed the place where the sheriff told us to turn off, and mebbe it was lucky that we did. We was headin’ for Turkey Track sidin’, wherever that is.”

“I can show yuh how to get there,” offered Jack. “Go out of my gate, turn to the left and foller that old road to the Turkey Track ranch. It turns and crosses the river leadin’ right to the sidin’. Yuh can’t miss it.”

“Uh-huh, thanks,” nodded Hashknife. “’Pears to me that there’s a lot of folks around here that have confidence in us. The sheriff told us we couldn’t miss that trail, too.”

* * * * *

They walked out abruptly, mounted their horses and turned to the left, following the old road.

“What do yuh make of that outfit?” asked Sleepy, as they gave the horses a free rein and spurred into a gallop.

“It’s got me pawin’ my chain,” said Hashknife. “Kinda looks like the little lady was goin’ home to pa, but the cinch turned, and ag’in she’s in the bosom of her family. Right pretty sort of a girl.”

“And the husband looks like he’d been kinda pawed around, too,” said Sleepy. “He had blood on his face and a gun in his hand. And he wondered if we were sheepherders, Hashknife.”

“Well, it’s none of our business, Sleepy. That hubby is a right snappy sort of a jigger, and he might be bad medicine.”

“Do yuh reckon there’s a sheep and cattle war on here?”

“There’s somethin’ wrong, Sleepy, and it feels like it might be wool versus hides. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business, bein’ as we’re just a pair of train chasers and ain’t got no interest in either side.”

“I hope the cattlemen knock —— out of ’em,” declared Sleepy.

“Same here. What’s this ahead of us?”

They slowed their horses to a walk. Ahead of them, crossing the road, was a herd of cattle. They were traveling at a fairly good rate of speed, heading toward the river. From the bulk of them Hashknife estimated that there must be at least a hundred head.

A rider came surging down through the sagebrush, silhouetted dimly against the sky, as he urged them on with a swinging rope. The cattle cleared the road, and the circling rider almost ran into them, possibly thinking that these other two objects were straggling cows.

“Runnin’ ’em early, ain’t yuh?” called Hashknife.

For a moment the rider jerked to a standstill, and Hashknife’s answer came in the form of a streak of fire, the zip of a bullet and the echoing “wham!” of a revolver. He had fired at not over fifty feet, but his bullet went over their heads.

Then he whirled his horse and went down the slope, swinging more to the east, before either of them realized that he had shot at them and escaped. The cattle were bawling, as they scattered down through the brush, evidently thinking that this loud noise was part of things designed to keep them moving.

“Well, can yuh beat that?” exclaimed Hashknife. “Shot right at us. Ain’t this a queer country, cowboy?”

“I’ll betcha that’s a bunch of rustlers!” declared Sleepy excitedly.

“By golly, you do deduct once in a while,” laughed Hashknife. “Let ’em rustle. As I said before, we’re chasin’ a train, not trouble. C’mon.”

“Yeah, and c’mon fast,” chuckled Sleepy. “That impudent son-of-a-gun headed down this road, I’ll betcha. Shake up that old bed spring yo’re ridin’, Hashknife and he’ll have to be a wing shot to hit us.”

Together they went down the old road as fast as the two horses could run, each man carrying a heavy revolver in his right hand. The old road was only a pair of unused ruts, but the horses had good footing. A quarter of a mile below where the shot had been fired at them, a rider swung across the road and faded into the tall sage, but whether he was a rustler or not they were unable to say.

They drew up at the bank of the Lo Lo River and let the horses make their own crossing. The river was shallow at this point. It was only a short distance from the river to the old loading corrals at Turkey Track siding, but there was no sign of the cattle-train.

“Empty is the cra-a-adul—baby’s gon-n-ne,” sang Hashknife in a melancholy voice as they dismounted and sat down on the corral fence.

“Who the —— told you you could sing?” asked Sleepy.

“A feller with a voice like mine don’t have to be told. It’s instinct, cowboy, instinct.”

“Extinct,” corrected Sleepy. “Like do-do-bird and muzzle-loadin’ pistols. I wonder if that jigger was a rustler, or was he just nervous. Some folks are thataway, Hashknife.”

“All rustlers are, Sleepy. The more I see of this country the more I envy Stumpy, Nebrasky and Napoleon in their nice, easy-ridin’ caboose. Right now I hanker for that good old dog house. Sleepy, I hankers for it so strong that I becomes melancholy and must sing.”

Hashknife cleared his throat delicately and began:

It was a dar-r-r-rk, stormy night,
As the train rat-tuled on,
All the pass-un-n-n-gers had gone to bed,
Except one young man, with a babe on his ar-r-rm,
Who sat there with bow-w-w-w-ed down head.
The——

“Hark!” blurted Sleepy dramatically. “There came a scream of agony! The lights went out! From somewhere came the crashing report of a gun. Then everything was still. A man lighted a match and held it above his head, dimly illuminating the room. But it was enough. The singer was dead—shot through the vocal cords.”

“Didn’t yuh like the song?” asked Hashknife meekly.

“——, the song was all right; it’s the way it was bein’ abused that made me step in and stop it. Yore ears must shut up tight every time yuh try to sing, Hashknife. That must be it, ’cause you’d never do it if yuh knowed what it sounded like.”

“Uh-huh, that must be it,” agreed Hashknife sadly. “I wish that train would back up long enough for us to get our belts and holsters. This darned six-gun of mine is goin’ to give me stummick trouble, if I don’t find a new place to carry it. The barrel is too long for my pocket.”

“Carry it over yore shoulder,” advised Sleepy. “We better go back and give these horses to the sheriff. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and I’m sleepy.”

“Might as well,” agreed Hashknife. “No tellin’ where that train is by this time, so there’s no use chasin’ it.”

They climbed back on their horses and rode toward the river. It would be daylight in less than two hours, and they were both weary. The horses splashed into the ford and surged through the knee-deep water over to the other bank, where the old road wound its way up through a willow thicket to the higher ground.

And as they rode slowly up through the heavy shadows of the thicket, a gun flashed almost in their faces. It was so close that the burning powder seemed to splatter them. With a lurching scramble the two horses broke into a frightened run, while behind them two more guns spat fire.

The horses needed little urging, as they ran blindly along the old side-hill road.

“Hit yuh?” yelled Hashknife anxiously.

“Burnt me!” yelped Sleepy angrily. “Yanked all the feelin’ out of my left arm.” He was half turned in his saddle, looking back.

“Don’t shoot,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t waste ammunition.”

Their belts and extra ammunition were on that cattle-train, and all they had were the six cartridges in each gun.

“They’re comin’, —— ’em!” snorted Hashknife, catching a fleeting glimpse of several horses running toward them over a high spot in the road. “That sheriff never gave us race horses, that’s a cinch.”

They were running as fast as they were able, but both of the cowboys knew that, as far as speed was concerned, they were not well mounted. But the horses were willing to run, and that was something to recommend them.

“We horned into somethin’,” panted Hashknife, as a bullet whizzed past them. “Them danged fools have made a mistake.”

“As long as they don’t know it—say! That last bullet was too close! C’mon, Molasses!”

The pursuers were shooting recklessly now. The chase was nearing Jack Hartwell’s place, and they seemed determined to kill or capture these two men before they reached that ranch.

Hashknife turned in his saddle and shot at them.

“That split ’em, cowboy!” cheered Sleepy. “Keep hittin’ the grit.”

* * * * *

Then came a splattering of shots and Hashknife’s horse went stumbling into a fall. But the lanky cowboy was not caught napping. As the horse went down, he swung free from the saddle and ran several steps before he went sprawling.

Sleepy jerked up quickly, whirled and sent shot after shot at the oncoming crowd, which had drawn up quickly. Hashknife got quickly to his feet and ran to Sleepy, where he vaulted on behind him.

“Got a horse to pay for yours,” panted Sleepy, as he spurred the overburdened horse onward. “Went down in a heap.”

Sleepy’s volley had driven the pursuers to cover momentarily, but now they came on again. Bullets whizzed and skipped around them, but a stern shot at a running horse in the dark, especially from the saddle of a running horse, is rather difficult.

Hashknife turned and fired his last shot at them, as Sleepy whirled the horse into the yard of Jack Hartwell’s place and rode up to the front of the building, where Jack was standing, wondering what the shooting was all about.

They fairly fell off the horse, shoved Jack into the house and slammed the door behind them. But the riders circled wide of the gate and went back the way they came.

“What—what was the trouble?” stammered Jack.

“Got any shells for a forty-five?” asked Hashknife calmly.

Jack shook his head. He carried a forty-four.

“But what was the matter?” he demanded.

“I heard a lot of shootin’ and—”

“So did we,” laughed Sleepy. “They killed a horse for us. They might ’a’ just been foolin’, but they sure play rough.”

“They sure did,” laughed Hashknife, brushing the dust off himself. “I lit so hard I almost knocked the heels off my old boots.”

They grinned at each other, and Hashknife, turned to Jack.

“We don’t know who it was nor what it was about. A feller took a shot at us when we was goin’ over to the sidin’, and when we came back there was three or four of ’em bushwhacked us just this side of the river. I dunno how we escaped. My gosh, they were so close that the powder burned my bronc’s nose.”

“I got a furrow along my forearm,” said Sleepy grimacing, as he pulled the sleeve away. “But it won’t bother much. Kinda made the old arm feel like it was asleep.”

“But what did they shoot at yuh for?” demanded Jack.

“You answer it,” replied Hashknife quickly. “We don’t know anybody around here. We borrowed the horses from the sheriff, and he’ll likely blow up when he hears that one of ’em has been shot.”

“Keep away from that door,” advised Sleepy, as Jack started toward it. “Them pelicans don’t need to recognize yuh.”

“It sure beats me,” declared Jack.

“Does it?” queried Haskhnife seriously. “Everythin’ around here beats us, pardner. We ain’t been here long, but we’ve sure found out that Lo Lo Valley is a dinger of a place to entertain a stranger. What’s wrong around here?”

“Everythin’,” said Jack bitterly.

“Sheep and cattle war?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

“Didja? Who are you fellers, anyway?”

“Couple of soft-shelled eggs.”

“I guess so!” Jack snorted his unbelief. “Don’tcha know that Lo Lo Valley ain’t a very healthy place for strangers right now?”

“——!” snorted Sleepy. “Mebbe yuh think we don’t. Take a squint at my arm—and ask me that.”

“I reckon I know what yuh mean,” said Hashknife slowly. “Mebbe it looks kinda queer for us to be gallivantin’ around here, but we had a danged good reason.”

He explained to Jack how they had missed their train, and their reasons for going to Turkey Track siding. The explanation seemed plausible enough.

“Yo’re a cattleman, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Well,” Jack laughed shortly, “I dunno. I’ve got cattle, if that’s what yuh mean, stranger.”

“My name’s Hashknife Hartley,” said Hashknife. “This here droopin’ lily beside me is Sleepy Stevens.”

“Hashknife Hartley?” Jack frowned thoughtfully. “Say, did you ever know a feller by the name of Casey Steil?”

“Casey Steil? Hm-m-m. Casey Steil. That name is familiar.”

“I heard him tellin’ about a Hashknife Hartley one night. I think Casey is from the Sweetgrass country.”

“Lee Steil!” blurted Sleepy. “Kinda bench-legged, roan-haired, buck-toothed son-of-a-gun, with green eyes?”

“That fits him,” laughed Jack.

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife seriously. “Who does he work for?”

“He’s been with the Turkey Track for a year. Slim De Larimore owns the outfit.”

“Slim De Larimore? By grab, that’s a fancy name. What is he, a exiled duke?”

Jack laughed and shook his head.

“Slim is all right. Casey Steil is all right, too, as far as I know.”

“Nobody disputin’ yuh, pardner. I wonder if them blood-huntin’ jiggers have pulled out, or are they waitin’ for one of us to show up.”

Hashknife went to a window and peered out. It was getting lighter, and the east glowed from the coming sunrise. There was no one in sight. A horse was coming into the place, and Hashknife watched it approach the house.

“Here comes the bronc the lady tried to ride,” he announced. “It’s got the saddle under its belly.”

“See any signs of our enemy?” asked Sleepy.

“Nope. I reckon they was afraid to be seen in the light.”

The three of them went outside and removed the saddle from Molly’s horse, and Jack offered them the use of the animal to ride back to Totem City and the offer was accepted. They put the saddle back on the horse and Hashknife lengthened the stirrups.

“We’ll leave yore animal in the stable,” said Hashknife as he shook hands with Jack. “Mebbe well see yuh later. We didn’t intend to stay here, but after what happened a while ago, we feel like stickin’ around a while.”

“To find out who shot at yuh?”

“Yeah, they kinda made us curious.”

Jack grinned seriously.

“I reckon you are the same Hashknife Hartley that Casey spoke about. We thought he was stretchin’ it a little.”

“What did he say?” smiled Hashknife.

“Oh, a lot of things. We was talkin’ about rustlers and all kinds of bandits, and of fellers we knew that were wanted by this sheriff and that sheriff and by U. S. marshals. Casey says:

“‘It all depends on who wants yuh. Now, if Hashknife Hartley, the feller I’ve been lyin’ to yuh about, wanted me, I’d either throw away my gun and yell like ——for him to come and get me, or I’d turn sailor and head for the tip end of South America.’”

Hashknife laughed and lighted the cigaret he had been rolling.

“He likely exaggerated a lot,” he said. “I’m not an officer of the law—never have been. Never arrested any one in my life.”

“Casey said the same thing—about the arrests. He said there wasn’t anybody left to arrest. He sure boosted yuh to us.”

“Well, don’t believe half of it,” laughed Hashknife, as he swung the horse around and joined Sleepy, who had been examining his animal for possible injury, and they rode back toward Totem City.

* * * * *

It was a little later that morning when old Doctor Owen closed the door of the Arrow bunk house and walked to his horse and buggy at the front gate. He was an angular, grave-faced man, well past middle age, an old family doctor sort of person.

He carefully placed his well-worn medicine case in the buggy, carefully wiped his glasses on an immaculate handkerchief before taking the halter off his horse. For twenty years Doctor Owen had been doing this same thing in the same way.

The medicine case must be placed in just such a position on the seat, the glasses must be polished, before he would take the halter off his horse. As he coiled up the halter rope to place it in its accustomed place in the buggy bed, he looked up at Marsh Hartwell, who had just ridden in.

Hartwell’s eyes were red-rimmed and there was a weary stoop to his big shoulders as he spoke to the doctor.

“What’s new, Doc? Patient doin’ well?”

“The patient,” said the good doctor slowly, “is dead. He passed away at exactly six-thirty-two.”

It was like the doctor to be exact.

“Dead?” Marsh Hartwell turned away and glanced toward the bunk house. “Old Ed Barber is dead. I didn’t think he was hurt that bad, Doc.”

“It seems that he was,” dryly. “Two bullets had passed entirely through him, one of them puncturing his lung. It was impossible to stop the internal bleeding. I shall notify the sheriff at once. It is, I believe, a case for the coroner, Marsh.”

“Yes.” Marsh Hartwell sighed deeply. “I—send me the bill will yuh, Doc?”

“There will be no bill, Marsh. I liked old Ed, and that was the least I could do for him.”

The doctor got into his buggy and drove away. Marsh Hartwell stared after him for several moments before he turned toward the house, where Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee were waiting for news from the dead-line.

Mrs. Brownlee was two years older than Jack, a tall, thin-faced, tired-looking woman. Any beauty she might have possessed while a girl had long since departed with the drudgery of running a ranch house.

Marsh Hartwell came slowly up to the steps, leading his horse. Both women knew that something was decidedly wrong.

“Did yuh know that Ed Barber died this mornin’?” he asked them.

They shook their heads. The doctor had not been to the house.

“Died about half-past six,” said Marsh wearily. “Murder is all they can make of that.”

“That’s all the rest of it amounts to,” said Mrs. Brownlee wearily. “It is just a grudge fight between you and Eph King—and your armies.”

“You, too, Amy?” Marsh Hartwell looked curiously at her.

“Oh, well—” she turned away half angrily— “There will be a lot of men killed, men who have no interest beyond their monthly pay check. You branded Jack a spy last night; turned him out of his old home because he married a sheepman’s girl. That was spite. I’m getting tired of spite and grudges. My husband is up there on your dead-line, trying to kill somebody, because you pay him sixty dollars a month.”

Marsh Hartwell’s expression hardened slightly, but he did not reply to his daughter’s angry accusations. Mrs. Hartwell looked away. It was not her nature to accuse nor condemn. Mrs. Brownlee went into the house and closed the door, leaving Marsh Hartwell and his wife together.

“The sheep moved back a little this mornin’,” he told her wearily. “Everything is quiet along the line, so I came home for a while. Anyway, I want to ride east along the Turkey Track end of the line and see how things look. We expect the sheep to spread into a longer line by tonight.”

Mrs. Hartwell remained silent. They had not mentioned Jack since the night before.

“Too darned bad about old Ed,” continued Marsh. “They shot him down like a dog.”

“And who will pay for it, Marsh?” she asked.

“Pay for it? —— only knows. It was the sheep men who shot him, but the dirty spy who told them that old Ed was the guardian of Kiopo Pass is the real murderer.”

“Who would tell?”

“Who?” Marsh Hartwell’s features hardened. “Nobody knew it, except cattlemen. It was something that we guarded close. It was not the work of a spy; it was the deed of a traitor.”

“And you still accuse your own son, Marsh Hartwell?”

The big man laughed bitterly and turned toward the door.

“Jack is no traitor, Marsh,” she declared flatly.

“No?” Marsh turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I wish I could believe that, Mother. Last night Jack broke through our dead-line and went over to Eph King. He rode his horse over Gene Hill to get through. If he isn’t a traitor, what is he doin’ over there?”

“Are you sure, Marsh?”

“You bet I’m sure.”

For several moments they looked at each other, the old lady with tearful eyes; the big man, whose thin lips showed in a white line now, his eyes filled with pain.

“It hurts you, too, Marsh?” she whispered.

“Hurts? Good God, it hurts! He’s as much my son as yours, Mother. The men all know this. They don’t say anythin’ to me, and I’m tryin’ to put myself in their place. I’m tryin’ to forget that it’s my son, but it can’t be done, Mother.”

He shut his jaw and turned away. Al Curt, a thin-faced, narrow-shouldered cowpuncher from the Turkey Track, was riding in at the main gate, so Marsh Hartwell waited for him to come up.

“Mornin’, Curt,” he said hoarsely.

“Mornin’. How’s everythin’ along yore line, Marsh?”

“Quiet. I just left there.”

“Plenty quiet on our end, too. They ain’t got the sheep down that far yet. Didja know anythin’ about a lot of shootin’ that was goin’ on early this mornin’ over near the old Morgan place?”

Marsh shook his head,

“No, we didn’t hear it, Curt.”

“Uh-huh. Wasn’t none of yore men, eh?”

“My men were all on the line, Curt. I traveled the line twice last night myself. You say it was over by the Morgan place?”

“Yeah; about an hour or so before daylight. We could hear it pretty plain. Thought at first it was the sheep tryin’ to bust through, but it was too far south for that. Must ’a’ been fifty shots fired. Slim told me to ride down here and see what I could find out about it. I came past the Morgan place, but didn’t see anybody.”

“Wasn’t anybody at home, Curt?”

“I didn’t go up to the house, Marsh, but there wasn’t anybody in sight.”

“Where are you goin’ now?” asked Marsh.

“I’m goin’ back and let some of the boys off for breakfast. Was the sheep movin’ any this mornin’?”

“Not much. I expect they’ll take their time.”

“They better,” grinned Curt, and rode back toward the east end of the dead-line.

“What do you suppose the shooting was about?” queried Mrs. Hartwell anxiously.

“That’s what I’m goin’ to find out, Mother. It was near the old Morgan place. Now, there’s no use borrowin’ trouble. It can probably all be explained.”

* * * * *

And just to show that he believed in his own assurances, he mounted his horse and went galloping across the hills toward the Morgan ranch. He was afraid that some of the cattlemen had taken it for granted that Jack was the traitor and had paid him an early morning visit.

He knew that Gene Hill had not been lying when he said that Jack had smashed his way through the dead-line. Hill bore evidences of the encounter. Bert Allen had seen him, but not near enough for recognition. Things looked bad for Jack, but down in his heart, Marsh Hartwell could not believe that his son had turned traitor out of spite.

He rode to the top of a hill in sight of the little ranch, where he drew rein. There was no assurance that Jack would not enforce his private dead-line, and Marsh had no desire to be made a target for his son’s rifle. From his elevated position he could see two men and a saddled horse in the front yard.

It looked very much like a black and white pinto, belonging to Sudden Smithy. He whistled softly and spurred down the hill, wondering what would bring the sheriff out there so early in the morning.

The sheriff and Jack were not having a very animated conversation, as he rode up and dismounted. In fact the sheriff seemed a trifle annoyed over something, and barely nodded to Marsh Hartwell. Jack did not make any sign.

“Ridin’ early ain’t yuh?” asked Marsh.

“Kinda.”

The sheriff nodded shortly.

“What was all the shootin’ about over here?”

“Shootin’?” The sheriff was interested. “Did you hear it?”

“No. Al Curt came over to the Arrow to see if we knew what it was all about. They heard about fifty shots.”

The sheriff turned and squinted at Jack, who looked him square in the eyes.

“You heard ’em, didn’t yuh, Jack?” he asked.

“Did I?”

“Oh, ——!” snorted the sheriff. “That’s as far as I can get with him, Marsh.”

“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Marsh. “What do you know about it, Sudden?”

“I know this much—” he pointed at a saddle, lying on the ground near his pinto— “I loaned two horses and two saddles to two strangers last night. They came in on a cattle-train—or said they did—and the train went away and left ’em in Totem City.

“This train got off the track at Turkey Track sidin’, so I loaned ’em the outfits to ride over to catch their train. They were to leave the horses tied to the old loadin’ corral. Later on I got to thinkin’ what a fool I was to let ’em have them horses, so I saddles the pinto and takes a straight cut toward the sidin’.

“It was doggone slow goin’, I’ll tell yuh. I hunted in the dark for a shallow crossin’ of the river, and wasted a lot of time thataway, finally havin’ to swim across. Well, I finally got to the sidin’, but don’t see my horses.

“Just about that time I hears a lot of shootin’ goin’ on down by the old river crossin’. I rode down there, but finds that the shootin’ is gettin’ farther away all the time. Then I waited until daylight and came in over the old road. About a mile from here I finds my roan horse lyin’ right in the middle of the road, too dead to skin. I took the saddle—and that’s all I know.”

“Well, that’s quite a lot, Sudden,” observed Marsh.

“Yeah, it’s quite a lot, but not enough. Jack must know somethin’ about it, but he won’t talk.”

“Why should I talk?” asked Jack coldly. “I never fired any of the shots, and I don’t know who killed your horse.”

The sheriff sighed and hooked his thumbs over his belt. He was plainly exasperated, so exasperated that he forgot caution.

“His wife answered my knock at the door,” he said, indicating Jack, “and her head is all tied up in bandages. She looks like she’d been run through a threshing machine.”

“You leave my wife out of this, Sudden!” snapped Jack. “She had nothin’ to do with it. If you want to find out anythin’, you better find them two strange cowpunchers.”

“Yeah, and I’ll do that too!” snorted Sudden. “They’ll talk, or I’ll know why.”

“You better take their word for it,” grinned Jack.

“Is that so?”

“Very likely.”

“You know ’em, do yuh?”

“Ask Casey Steil about Hashknife Hartley.”

“That’s the tall one,” said the sheriff quickly. “Casey knows him, does he?”

“I think he does.”

“Well—” the sheriff picked up his saddle and turned to the pinto—“I reckon all I can do is to go back and wait for ’em to show up and talk about it.”

He mounted his pinto, carrying the saddle in his arms, and headed for Totem City, while Jack and his father faced each other, both waiting for the other to begin.

“What did you want here?” asked Jack after a long silence.

“I heard about the shooting and I was afraid——”

“That somebody had come gunnin’ for the spy?” Jack laughed harshly. “Don’t mind me. I can take care of myself.”

“Ed Barber died this mornin’.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. He was hurt worse than we thought.”

“I forgot to tell the sheriff.”

“He’s got enough grief right now, I reckon.”

“We’ve all got plenty of that, Jack. Did you see Eph King last night?”

“Yeah.”

Jack was not trying to deny it.

“You rode over Gene Hill, didn’t yuh, Jack?”

“Yeah, I sure did. He tried to stop me.”

“They all know that you went over to the sheep last night.”

“And then what?”