Chapter I: Part 1

The Lovable Liar

By W. C. Tuttle

Tecoma consisted of a little depot, a saloon and a restaurant. Inasmuch as the saloon and restaurant were in the same building, it made Tecoma a two-house town. The railroad time table showed that Tecoma had an elevation of five thousand feet, and that certain trains would stop there on a flag.

There was a wagon road of sorts from Tecoma down into the Moolock cattle country, and this alleged road also wound its way from Tecoma back to the mines of the Bearpaw district. The main street of Tecoma was this road, if it might be termed a street. In front of the saloon and restaurant was a long hitch-rack, where a horse might have the privilege of standing at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

Just now it was after dark. The restaurant was closed, as was the depot; but from the open saloon door a shaft of yellow light illuminated part of the rough porch. Inside the saloon, five men sat at a poker table, playing rather indifferently. The stakes were not high enough to make it interesting for a tall, raw-boned cowboy, who yawned wearily and shoved back from the table.

“I wish there was a hotel here,” he said. “Ain’t even a stable where yuh can feed a horse.”

“And that’s whatever,” agreed the proprietor. “Tecoma ain’t no town, pardner. ’F I had a bed I’d offer it to you and your pardner; but all I’ve got is a cot t’ sleep on.”

“It’s about twenty miles to Moolock,” offered the man who owned the restaurant. “The road ain’t none too good, but yuh can get a bed in Moolock.”

The tall cowboy yawned again and squinted at his partner, “Sleepy” Stevens. Sleepy was slightly below the average in height, with broad shoulders, slightly bowed legs and a pair of perfectly innocent blue eyes. His face was angular, almost serious in repose, but at the slightest provocation it would break into a mass of grin-wrinkles, like the ripples from a stone cast into a quiet pool.

“What do yuh think about it, Sleepy?” asked “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall one. “Shall we gird up our broncs and hie away for this Moolock town?”

“Jist so well as not, I reckon,” said Sleepy. “Might as well be ridin’ as settin’ here. I ain’t held better than a pair of jacks since supper.”

“You fellers come in from the Bearpaw?” asked the saloon man.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife. “We came in over the Grayling trail. Some darned liar told us that there was a lot of unlocated land up there--land that was pretty rich; but he lied, as usual. What kind of a country is this Moolock?”

“Cows, mostly. Lot of good outfits. Frank Allenby owns the Half-Circle Cross, the biggest outfit.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Sleepy, who regarded him innocently. They cashed in their few chips, bought a supply of tobacco from the saloon keeper, and went out to the hitch-rack.

As they started to untie their horses, Sleepy grunted wonderingly. He had ridden a roan horse into Tecoma, but the horse he was looking at now was decidedly gray. Its head was hanging low with fatigue and its coat was drying rough with lather.

He called softly to Hashknife, who was doing a little swearing over his own discovery.

“I’ve got a pinto,” grunted Hashknife, as Sleepy blurted out the fact that he had drawn a gray.

There were only two horses at the rack, and only one rack in the town. Sleepy scratched a match and discovered that whoever had made the substitution had changed saddles too.

“We’ve still got our saddles,” he declared. “Now what in ---- do yuh know about that?”

Hashknife untied his pinto and led it into the light from the saloon door, where he appraised the animal closely. It was sore-footed and weary. Sleepy walked in beside him, leading the gray, and was about to call to those inside the saloon to come out and help them wonder over it all, when a voice yelled out from the darkness--

“Put up yore hands, doggone yuh!”

A revolver flashed and the bullet bit a splinter out of the sidewalk. With an almost automatic movement, Hashknife drew and fired at the flash; and at the same moment he darted out of the light and flung himself flat on the ground. Sleepy went headlong out of the illumination, rolled down the hill and came to rest behind a big rock.

“Gosh dang yuh, what did yuh do that for, ‘Forty’?” wailed a voice from the gloom. “Who in ---- told yuh to shoot, anyway?”

“Don’t walk into that light, ‘Swan River’!” cautioned another voice. “They didn’t go far. I’ve got to fix that gun of mine. It’s too easy on the pull. Don’t git in that light, you darned fool!”

The three men had come to the saloon door, wondering aloud what it was all about. The saloon keeper carried a sawed-off shotgun, and at sight of him, the one called Swan River spoke quickly--

“Hey, Pierson! This is the sheriff.”

“Hello, Swan River,” called the saloon keeper. “What’s all the ruction about?”

“Don’t git in that light!” warned the deputy, “Forty Dollar” Dion, whose gun was easy on the trigger. “I tell yuh they didn’t git far away.”

“Who yuh lookin’ for?” asked one of the men in the saloon doorway.

“The men who own them two horses,” replied Swan River Smith, the sheriff. “They stuck up a train this afternoon, and we’ve been on their trail ever since. That’s their gray and pinto.”

“Hey, sheriff!” called Hashknife.

“Listenin’.”

“Then listen close. Them ain’t our horses. I reckon the three men in the doorway can tell yuh that we rode a roan and a bay into this place late this afternoon, and that we’ve been in there ever since. We jist found that somebody traded horses with us, and was admirin’ ’em in the light.”

“That’s the truth,” said the saloon keeper. “They sure did ride a roan and a bay, sheriff.”

“Well--” the sheriff seemed a bit dubious--“if yuh say so, Pierson, I’ll take yore word. C’mon in, gents.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back into the light and looked at Swan River Smith and his elongated deputy. Swan River was small, gray as a rabbit, and with a pair of eyes as hard as granite. Forty Dollar Dion was almost as tall as Hashknife, sad of face, and walked with a loose-jointed shamble that would cause one to suspect that he might fall apart at any time.

“I’m the sheriff of this county,” said Swan River, after a close scrutiny of the two cowpunchers. “Name’s Smith.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and they adjourned to the bar.

“You danged near killed me,” declared Forty Dollar mournfully. “My gun went off accidental. I had sense enough to sidestep; and yore bullet poked a hole in the air just after I left. And it ain’t like me to think fast, either.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh can’t blame me, pardner. One of yuh yelled for us to put up our hands and the other one shot at us.”

“Excuse him, if yuh can,” said the sheriff, “I can’t. Here’s happy days and a blanket at night.”

They drank and rattled their glasses on the bar.

“Didja take a good look at them horses, Forty?” asked the sheriff.

“Uh-huh. I was right, Swan.”

The sheriff accepted Hashknife’s tobacco and cigaret papers, which were also passed to Forty Dollar.

“The question is--where did they go from here?” observed the sheriff.

“I’ll betcha forty dollars they headed for Bearpaw,” said Forty Dollar. “They’ve got fresh horses now.”

“And good horses,” added Sleepy mournfully.

“I never heard of a lost horse that wasn’t a good one,” grinned the sheriff. “Nobody ever lost a bad one. Ha, ha, ha! Well, there ain’t no use tryin’ to foller them two fellers now. Our horses are plumb whipped; so we might as well go home, I reckon.”

“How much did they get?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They blew the safe on the express car and took what was in it. Cut the train in two and made their getaway near where they had the horses staked out. But the engineer got a look at the horses they used, and as soon as the train got to Moolock he told me about it. Me and Forty cut straight across the hills and are lucky enough to spot ’em.

“Since then we’ve sure burnt up horseflesh. Comes night and we kinda loses track of ’em; so we heads for here and finds that pinto and gray, standin’ plumb in the light. Yuh can’t blame us for the mistake, can yuh?”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head. It was all clear to him now, and he did not blame the sheriff.

“I reckon we’ll go to Moolock with yuh,” he said. “Mebbe them two horses are as fresh as yours, sheriff.”

“Yeah, sure. Let’s go. It’s a long ride back there; but there ain’t no accommodations in Tecoma. You know anybody down there, Hartley?”

“Nope. Me and my pardner rode into Bearpaw from over the Grayling trail. We kinda had an idea we’d like to do some gold minin’, and we was told that there was plenty of good ground left up there; but there wasn’t an inch. By golly, a moose bird has to keep in the trees to keep from bein’ a trespasser.”

“Pshaw, that’s all been located long ago. Well, let’s have one more drink and pull our freight, gents.”

They told Tecoma good-bye, mounted the jaded horses and headed for Moolock.

“Seems to me that I’ve heard of Moolock,” observed Hashknife, as they jogged along over the dim road through the pines. “The name is kinda familiar. You spoke of a feller named Allenby.”

“Frank Allenby,” said the sheriff. “He’s the biggest man in Moolock county.”

“To hear him tell it,” amended Forty Dollar, “Allenby thinks that his family is responsible for the risin’ and settin’ of the sun. ’S a fact. He tells it when to come up and when to go down.”

“Didn’t Allenby send some young feller to the pen a while ago?”

“Yeah. A young feller by the name of ‘Bud’ Bell. Allenby didn’t exactly send him to the penitentiary; but he was responsible for it. Bud’s out now. I ain’t seen him yet. Mebbe he hates me for what I done, but I had to do it. The Bell family are kinda strong on hate.

“Allenby bought the Half-Circle Cross from Henry Christman about three years ago. Allenby is from Philadelphia. Never seen a cow ranch until he hit this country. Hank Bell nested in on what Christman claimed as his own ranch; but Christman didn’t own it.

“There was bad blood between Christman and old Hank. Christman tried in every way to oust old Hank. Hank’s cows turned up missin’; some of ’em had their throats cut. But old Hank stuck. One day him and Christman met on the street in Moolock and shot it out. Christman got a bullet through one lung and old Hank got his right arm crippled for life.

“It kinda put a crimp into old Hank, as a gunman; so he spent all his time givin’ his son Bud a six-gun education. And Bud was a danged good pupil. Then Christman sold out to Allenby, who tried to oust old Hank, but the old boy had a title to his ranch. It’s a sore spot to Allenby, ’cause Hank’s place has the best spring in the Moolock range.”

“Did they quit killin’ off Hank’s cattle?” asked Hashknife.

Swan River Smith chuckled audibly.

“Yeah, yuh might say they did. The Bible says somethin’ about an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Anyway, Allenby got the deadwood on Bud Bell and sent him up for five years; but the law let him out in two years and a few days. Now I reckon Allenby is shakin’ in his boots for fear Bud will make him pay for that two years.”

“Allenby is rich, ain’t he?”

“Yeah, I suppose he is pretty well fixed.”

“And I’ll tell yuh why,” said Forty Dollar. “Allenby is so stingy that he wouldn’t pay two bits for a front seat at the Custer battle, if the original actors would come back and play it. It’s an honest fact. To my way of thinkin’, Allenby is a big jughead, with too much money and a soul so danged thin that it squeaks in the wind like a fiddle string. He wants everybody to know that he’s from Philly-del-fee.”

“That ain’t nothin’ agin’ him,” said the sheriff.

“Not that part,” agreed Forty Dollar. “I admire him for gettin’ out that place. I’ve been there----”

“You mean you’ve heard about it,” corrected the sheriff.

Forty Dollar subsided.

“I’ve heard that men don’t value their lives very highly in Moolock,” said Hashknife.

“Thasso?” The sheriff seemed surprised.

“Some as cheap as five thousand dollars.”

“Cheap?” blurted Forty Dollar. “My ----, I could point out a lot that wouldn’t be worth that much per bale. Five thousand! Say, if I was Saint Peter I wouldn’t even accept souls from Moolock, unless they came prepaid.”

“Forty Dollar is a pessimist,” explained the sheriff quickly.

“Yeah and I’m a good democrat. M’ folks was Baptists. Tried to make me one, but the water was too cold that winter; and by spring I was all out of the notion.”

“I think we’ll like Moolock,” said Sleepy.

“Everybody does,” said Forty Dollar. “I know at least a hundred that couldn’t even think of leavin’ there.”

“Love their little city, eh?”

“No--they’re stuck on the little cemetery,” chuckled the deputy. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! I’ll drink with yuh in Moolock.”

They laughed and rode down the last of the steep grades into the valley of the Moolock. The moon had lifted above the timbered slopes of the mountains, bathing the hills and valleys in a blue haze. Far off to the left a light twinkled from a window.

“That’s the 27A ranch,” said the sheriff. “Joe Bass owns it. Joe’s part Nez Percé; quarter-breed, I reckon. Minds his own business. Been here a long time. Ships quite a lot of stock.”

“Moolock is the shippin’ center, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Most of it goes from there. It’s kinda in the center of the valley; so mostly everybody trades there. I was just wonderin’ what you meant about human life bein’ cheap in Moolock.”

“Nothin’ much,” laughed Hashknife. “I heard that a man--a certain man--only put that much value on his life.”

“Well, I dunno,” said the sheriff thoughtfully. “I s’pose that some folks feel thataway about money. I’d hate to sell mine for that.”

“And yet yuh take a chance every day for so much per month.”

“Yeah, that’s a fact. You fellers aim to get jobs over here?”

“Mebbe. Feller’s got to eat.”

“They sure do. Yuh might see Allenby. Jim Merton might need a man. He runs the Arrowhead brand, and his iron is on lots a cows. Them two are the biggest outfits. You’d like Jim. He’s young and full of ambition.”

“Do yuh think we’d like Allenby?”

“Mm-m-m, well, yuh might. It takes all kinds of folks to make up a world. What’s meat for one man is poison for another.”

It was about one o’clock in the morning when they rode into the town of Moolock, stabled the horses and got a room at the one little hotel. They were too tired to investigate the town, and even the hard mattress of their bed felt like downy feathers.

“It’s funny how things work out,” observed Hashknife, as they stretched out in bed. “We never had any idea of runnin’ into this place.”

“It’s the same Allenby, ain’t it?” asked Sleepy.

“Sure. Bob Freeman said in his letter that it was Allenby of Moolock; so it must be the same feller. He spoke about the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary; and about the old man.”

“They are the ones that are stealin’ Allenby’s cows, eh?” Thus Sleepy, with interest.

“The ones he said he’d pay us five thousand for, if we could convict ’em. If we could.” Hashknife laughed. “Allenby wants his detective work done on commission, Sleepy. He’s afraid of his life, that’s what’s the matter with him. And he values it at five thousand.”

“Prob’ly all it’s worth,” laughed Sleepy.

In a different environment Hashknife Hartley might have been a famous detective. His mind was quick to grasp the important points of a case, and that, combined with what a gambler would call a “hunch,” had enabled him to solve some of the mysteries of cowland, which had baffled even the best operatives of the Cattle Associations.

Both he and Sleepy Stevens were top-hand cowboys; but fate had always thrown them into troubled ranges where their detective ability was of more demand than their ability to handle cattle. It was a hazardous calling, and of little remuneration.

Their fame had spread from range to range; and the repeated telling in cowtown, bunkhouse and around the camp-fires had exaggerated their ability until they became a bugaboo to those outside the law on the ranges. But there was nothing superhuman about either of them. There was nothing marvelous about their gun-play; neither could they whip their weight in wild-cats. Yet they had left behind them a trail of righted wrongs, and a memory of two big-hearted cowpunchers, who fought with a grin, asking no favors of anyone; riding away ahead of thanks or remuneration, if possible.

There were homes on the ranges where these two men were mentioned in the evening prayer, and there were places where their names brought forth a curse and the hope that they would never come back. Still they rode on with a grin on their lips, knowing that fate had marked them for certain duties. And they were both confirmed fatalists--facing death with a grin, because they felt that they would never die until the moving finger on the big book wrote _Finis_ after their names.

* * * * *

It was just breaking day the following morning, when “Chet” Hoban, foreman of the Half-Circle Cross, and “Omaha” Olsen, one of the Half-Circle Cross cowboys, rode through the main street of Moolock, which was the only street in the town.

It was a crooked street as well as a narrow one, bordered with false-fronted buildings, of which the livery stable was the most pretentious. The next building in size was the Elk saloon and gambling house, with its spacious hitch-rack crowding close to the narrow sidewalk.

Next to the Elk saloon was the Blue Front Café, with only the name to indicate that at some remote time it might have been painted. Adjoining this building was the White Horse saloon. Across the street from the Elk saloon was the sheriff’s office. On this side of the street were more saloons, a general merchandise store, post-office, stage station and other small business necessary to the comfort of rangeland humanity.

The Moolock hotel was neither of great size nor elegant in appointment, but it served. Its sign read--

MOOLOCK HOTEL FROSTY WELCOME PROP.

Which, as a cowboy had said, “If yuh don’t git treated well, you’ve been warned ahead of time.”

But “Frosty” Welcome was only frosty by nickname and not by nature.

The two cowboys rode through town and cut across a flat toward the big loading corrals near the depot. A string of cattle cars were being shunted onto a spur track by a freight engine, as they rode up to the corral fence and tied their horses.

Chet Hoban was a thin-faced, raw-boned man, whose hair was plentifully dusted with gray, and whose humped shoulders and bowed legs gave him the appearance of one who bears a mighty burden on his back. His boot heels were run-over on the outer side, which caused him to walk jerkily lest he sprain his ankles.

Omaha Olsen was taller than Hoban, and even leaner of frame. His eyes were sad; in fact his whole mien bespoke a great sadness, and his long nose, slightly twisted at the bridge, showed blue veins, as though it might be perpetually damp and cold.

The engine uncoupled and went puffing back toward the depot, while Hoban and Olsen crossed the track, circled the corral and stopped. For a space of several moments they surveyed the empty corral and then, as if by mutual consent, they climbed to the wide plank of the top and gazed across the different pens, their faces filled with an expression of wonderment.

Then Hoban circled to the main gate, where he sat down and looked at the broken padlock, which dangled from a twisted staple. Omaha Olsen came up and peered down at it. Then he produced his tobacco and papers and began calmly rolling a cigaret, while Hoban turned and gazed off across the rolling hills.

“They done busted the lock,” said Omaha. Hoban squinted at him, but did not reply. The busted lock needed no explanation.

“Three hundred of ’em, too,” observed Omaha.

“You keep on and there won’t be nothin’ to tell about,” said Hoban a trifle sarcastically.

“And Allenby will jist about bust a gizzard.” Thus Omaha, ignoring Hoban. “I c’n see him commencin’ to git red and swell up like a carbuncle. My ----, this’ll sure ache him all over.”

“You’d ache if somebody stole three hundred two-year-old Herefords from yuh,” retorted Hoban.

“----, I’d ache if I ever had that many. Now what in ---- will we do with these cars?”

Hoban got to his feet, shaking his head.

“Let Clayton worry about that. C’mon.”

They climbed down and went to their horses, which they mounted and rode back into town. The sheriff was still asleep, but Hoban hammered on the office door and woke him up.

“Last night we had three hundred two-year-old Herefords in the loadin’ corrals, sheriff. They were to be loaded this mornin’. Somebody smashed the padlock on the main gate and swiped the whole herd.”

Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Well,” he said slowly, “that was worth takin’. Smashed the padlock, eh? That’s a penitentiary offense. Took three hundred Half-Circle Cross Herefords, eh? Gosh! Somebody held up the train yesterday, too, Chet. Danged country is goin’ to the dogs. Allenby know?”

“Not yet. We just found it out.”

“We better find Clayton,” said Omaha. “He’ll likely want to see about them cars.”

“I’ll git on some clothes right away and see what I can find out,” offered the sheriff, turning back into the office.

Hoban and Omaha walked up to the hotel, where they found Ed Clayton, the cattle-buyer, just ready to leave for the loading pens. Clayton was a big man, without an ounce of fat on his huge frame. He was not unhandsome, dressed well, and was not over thirty-five years of age. Clayton was an inveterate gambler, a plunger; and his eyes were still heavy from a long session of poker at the Elk.

In a few short words Hoban told him what had happened.

“Sounds like a ---- fairy story,” said Clayton, but quickly corrected himself with, “You know what I mean, Hoban; it don’t seem possible.”

Hoban relaxed and nodded shortly. He and Clayton had never been very friendly.

“Mebbe it don’t sound possible,” said Hoban slowly, “but they’re gone. What about your cars?”

“And nothing to put in ’em,” muttered Clayton. “Well, I’ll have to see what can be done. Want to walk up to the depot?”

“All right. Allenby will be here pretty soon.”

The freight was still at the depot and Clayton immediately explained the situation to the agent.

“I’ll tell yuh what we can do,” suggested the agent, “We can send ’em up to Bluejoint. Old Sam Bass has been yelling for cars for three days. He’s got some stock to ship. Shall I take that chance?”

“Go ahead,” urged Clayton. “I don’t want the darned things. If Bass can use ’em, he’s sure welcome.”

Bluejoint was merely a siding and a loading corral about ten miles from Moolock. It was sometimes used by the ranchers of that side of the valley in making small shipments, and was located about two miles from the 27A ranch.

The train crew grumbled audibly, but added the cattle cars to the train, took their orders and steamed away across the valley, while Clayton, Hoban and Omaha went back to wait for Allenby, who rode into town in a buckboard drawn by a pair of cream-colored horses.

* * * * *

Frank Allenby was about fifty years of age, portly and important. When Forty Dollar Dion had declared that Allenby thought the sun arose and set because of the Allenby family, he was not so far wrong. Allenby had a square, protruding jaw, which accentuated the flatness of his cheek-bones, and beneath a slightly hooked nose he wore an aggressive, brush-like, gray mustache.

His suit was of black broadcloth, his boots of finest leather, and his hats were made to order. But he wore an old-fashioned, stiff bosomed shirt, sans collar, but with a huge onyx button; while his cuffs were fastened together with big cameo cuff-buttons. He wore no vest. From a suspender stay dangled a solid gold watch chain, each link at least an inch long.

Hoban met him at the hitch-rack and tied the team, while Allenby got ponderously from the buckboard, the springs of which seemed to sigh with relief. He looked questioningly at Hoban, as though wondering why he was not busy at the loading pens. He could also see Omaha Olsen and Ed Clayton, standing in front of the Elk saloon.

It did not take Hoban long to inform Allenby of his loss, and the big man stiffened, as though to withstand a physical blow. His face paled with anger and then he hunched forward, as if to grapple with his foreman.

“Gone?” he muttered thickly. “You mean that some one stole them?”

“Yuh might say they have,” said Hoban slowly. “The padlock on the big gate has been smashed. I told the sheriff about it.”

Allenby shook his head like a wounded bull. The pocket-book was Frank Allenby’s vital spot, and it nauseated him to think of losing those Herefords. Then he shut his teeth with an audible snap and surged ahead toward the Elk saloon, where he stopped in front of Omaha and the cattle buyer.

“I know about it,” said Clayton sympathetically.

“By ----, I know about it, too!” roared Allenby. He was almost crying with anger. “I know who stole those Herefords. By ----, I know! I’ll----”

“Go ahead and tell me who stole ’em.”

Swan River Smith had crossed the street unnoticed and had heard Allenby’s statement. Allenby turned his head and glared at the sheriff. But Allenby’s glare did not affect Swan River in the least. The big cattle man’s dominating personality meant nothing to the little sheriff.

“Go ahead,” urged Swan River. “I’d shore like to hear his name.”

“That’s my business!” snapped Allenby.

“And mine,” added the sheriff. “If you know who stole yore cows tell me his name. If you don’t know, Allenby, if yore only makin’ a wild guess--keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll do as I ---- please!”

“Yeah?” Swan River looked him over coldly. “All right. Free speech is yore right, Allenby. But if you ain’t got evidence enough to back up the name you mention--the law ain’t backin’ you.”

“I don’t need the law. I’ll be my own law, by ----!”

“Huh!” Thus the sheriff softly, as he turned and walked back toward his office. Allenby glared after him. Omaha and Clayton smiled; but Hoban’s face did not change a line.

“Little pup!” sneered Allenby, half under his breath; but the sheriff was too far away to hear it.

“He isn’t much,” agreed Clayton. Hoban looked sharply at the cattle-buyer. Hoban knew that Swan River Smith was a thoroughly capable officer, with a fine record behind him.

“Do yuh know who stole ’em?” asked Omaha innocently.

“Do I know who stole ’em?” parroted Allenby. “I do know.”

“Well, let’s go and get ’em back.”

“Fool!” snorted Allenby. “Do you suppose they’d leave ’em where we could find ’em?” He spat viciously and turned to Clayton.

“When will your man be here, Ed?”

“He’s due any time now. You just keep calm and let Jim Seeley work on this case. He’ll put a stop to it.”

“That’s the detective?” asked Omaha.

“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t tell everybody about it.”

“I hope he can handle it,” said Allenby wearily. “I can’t stand losing any more stock. Freeman, the secretary of the association, promised to furnish me with a couple of men, who, he said, are the best in the world on this kind of a case. But they refused to take it. I offered them five thousand dollars for a conviction, but they refused.

“I know who is doing the dirty work, Clayton. I know it just as well as if I had a confession from them; but I need evidence. Nobody else is losing stock. It’s spite work, that’s all it is. For over two years I’ve been losing cattle. I sent one man to the penitentiary, and next time I’ll send two. If I don’t stop ’em, I’ll be broke. I’m going home now.”

“You heard about the train robbery, didn’t you?” asked Clayton.

“Yes. The sheriff chased them to Tecoma, but they got away into the Bearpaw country.”

“Suppose there’s any connection between the train robbery and the rustlers?”

“No. Too far apart. Are you coming out to the ranch today?”

“I may be out later.”

Hoban untied the team and watched Allenby ride back toward the ranch, before joining Omaha and Clayton at the Elk bar.

Hashknife and Sleepy had finished their breakfast in time to see Allenby ride away. The sheriff was standing in the doorway of his office when they arrived, and told them that the big man was Frank Allenby.

“Allenby ain’t no woolly little sheep when he’s contented,” explained Swan River, “so right now he’s a ragin’ wolf with nothin’ in sight to bite into. Somebody busted into the loadin’ pens last night and lifted three hundred Hereford cows that were due to take a railroad ride this mornin’.”

“Lifted ’em out of a loadin’ pen, eh?” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll tell a man that’s the real handy way to get ’em. Sheriff, I’m of the opinion that this county ain’t so law-abidin’ that it aches.”

“Naw, she ain’t,” agreed Forty Dollar, trying to get a number nine foot into a number seven boot. “’F you was a deputy sheriff here for a while you’d find out. This here ain’t no office--it’s a job, y’betcha.”

“Any clues left by the light-fingered gents?” asked Sleepy.

Swan River shook his head.

“Not a clue. There’s so darned many cow tracks in this country, and no rain for two months, that yuh never could trail ’em.”

“Just have to trust to luck, eh?” Thus Hashknife, interested.

“Yeah--luck.”

“Have much rustlin’ to contend with?”

“Mm-m-m, not so much. It’s a queer thing about the rustlin’. Somebody has been stealin’ cows from Allenby for over two years. I’ve tried every scheme I could think of to nail the guilty party or parties; but they’re too slick for me.”

“Only from Allenby?” queried Hashknife.

“He’s the only one that reports a loss.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Kinda looks like somebody had a grudge against Mr. Allenby, don’t it?”

“Do yuh think so?”

“Well, what do you think, sheriff?”

Swan River Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew who Allenby suspected. There was a dead weight of evidence against that party right now; but Swan River wanted to be fair. He did not know who Hashknife and Sleepy were, except their names, and he did not want to make any mistakes.

“We don’t want to horn into yore business,” said Hashknife, reading the sheriff’s hesitancy. “It ain’t nothin’ to us, yuh see. We’d kinda like to get our broncs back though. Them was sure two goshawful good horses.”

Swan River looked up grinning.

“I’ll betcha they were,” he said. “I’d just like to help yuh get ’em back, to see how good they are. C’mon out to the stable.”

They went out through the rear door, with Forty Dollar bringing up the rear, stamping his feet to try and stretch his boots. If facial expression means anything he was accomplishing little.

“These are m’ dude boots,” he explained to Sleepy. “When I dress--I dress to kill.”

“Yourself?” asked Sleepy innocently.

Forty Dollar grinned painfully and rested on his high-heels, bracing one hand against the stable door, while the others went inside.

“I want yuh to take a look at the gray and the pinto,” said Swan River, pointing out the two horses in adjoining stalls. Hashknife looked them both over carefully and came back beside the sheriff.

“Notice the brands?” asked the sheriff.

“Both HB animals,” said Hashknife. “No other brands.”

The sheriff squinted at the rumps of the two horses, chewing reflectively on a straw.

“I didn’t need to look at the brands,” he said slowly. “I knew the two horses we were chasin’ yesterday. Yuh couldn’t mistake that pinto. That black head shows it up a mile away. And there ain’t many gray horses bein’ rode around here.”

“Kinda looks like Hank Bell’s goose was about cooked,” observed Forty Dollar, limping in from the doorway.

“That’ll be about all from you,” said the sheriff. “Yo’re just pessimistic from tight boots.”

They went back to the office, where Forty Dollar managed to take off the offending, if gaudy, footwear and put on his old boots.

“Them that wants to be dudes can be dudes,” he declared. “’F I can find the drummer what sold me that pair of boots, I’ll kick him seven times with each one. I want food, by golly. You fellers had breakfast yet? Yeah? Well, I reckon I can eat by my lonesome.”

* * * * *

Forty Dollar grabbed his hat and crossed the street to the Blue Front restaurant, while the other three men lounged in the doorway of the office, smoking thoughtfully. A man rode in past them and dismounted at the Elk saloon. He was not many years past his majority; a thin-faced youth and rather frail of physique.

“That’s Allenby’s son,” said the sheriff. “Harry Allenby. The old man thinks that Harry is the finest piece of man-flesh that ever was whelped. I dunno what in ---- he’s ever goin’ to make out of the kid. Allenby is so ----ed stingy that he wouldn’t let the kid go to college; yet he expects him to be President of the United States, I reckon.”

“Kinda figures to have him be a self-made man, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“Somethin’ like that. I like Mrs. Allenby. She’s sure a nice little woman--too ----ed nice for Allenby. And June is a dinger. June is the daughter. She’s about a year younger than Harry, and I reckon he’s about twenty-four now.”

While they were discussing the Allenbys’ affairs two more riders came into the far end of the street and rode toward them. Swan River squinted thoughtfully, watching them ride to the Elk saloon rack.

“There’s Bud Bell and ‘Sticky’ Clay,” said Swan River. “Bud is the one on this side--the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary. Clay rides for the HB outfit, and he’s a gunman if there ever was one. Oh, oh! C’mon.”

The two men had tied their horses and were going toward the saloon door. Swan River stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the saloon. After a moment of hesitation, Hashknife and Sleepy hurried after him.

“There’s three men from Allenby’s in there,” explained Swan River, as they reached the sidewalk. “Mebbe it won’t mean anythin’, but yuh never can tell.”

As they went inside Clayton was just buying some chips in a poker game, while Omaha and Hoban were deep in the mysteries of trying to play pool on an uneven table, on which the cushions were as “dead” as strips of mattress. Harry Allenby was at the bar, with a bottle at his elbow, squinting sidewise at Bud Bell and Sticky Clay, who were also at the bar, being served by “Snowy” Barnette, the proprietor.

As far as outward appearances went there was no cause for the sheriff to feel any uneasiness. Bud turned his head and looked at Swan River Smith. It was their first meeting since Bud had come back from the penitentiary. But if Bud felt any malice toward the sheriff, his gray eyes did not show it.

“Hello, Bud,” said the sheriff softly. “Goin’ to shake hands with me?”

A slight smile flashed across the young man’s thin lips and he nodded quickly, as he held out his hand.

“Why shouldn’t I, Swan River?” he asked. “You wasn’t to blame.”

They shook hands solemnly. Omaha and Hoban stopped playing long enough to observe this meeting, and those in the poker game were silent until it was over. Harry Allenby took a lonesome drink and braced his elbows on the bar, hooked one heel over the bar-rail and studied the poker players.

“Howdy, Clay,” said the sheriff.

Sticky Clay grinned, showing two rows of bad teeth, and motioned for the sheriff to join them in their drink. Clay was wry-necked, sallow complexioned and almost bald. He seemed to be in bad health, but those who had had trouble with him declared that there was nothing sickly about him.

“Invite yore friends,” said Sticky, noticing that Hashknife and Sleepy were with Swan River.

“I’ll take a cigar,” said Hashknife. “Little too soon after breakfast to drink.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Clay. “I don’t diagnose no man’s inside workin’s. ’S everybody set? Here’s hopin’ yuh never get caught.”

“Here’s hopin’ I don’t have to catch yuh,” smiled the sheriff.

Harry Allenby laughed harshly. The saloon went silent. Swan River had spoken loud enough for every one to hear.

“You won’t have to,” said Harry meaningly. “A sheriff can do as he ---- pleases.”

Swan River’s eyes narrowed, but he turned away, ignoring the implied insult. He knew that Harry had been drinking more than was good for him, and was willing to excuse him for his words. Bud was only a few feet away from Harry, with no one between them.

“You’re drunk, Harry,” said Clayton, shoving back from the table. “Better go out and get some fresh air.”

Hoban and Omaha carefully placed their billiard cues on the table and moved slowly toward the bar. Harry looked at them and laughed.

“I don’t need any help,” he assured them, waving them away with a slight gesture of his left hand. “I can take care of myself, y’betcha. Maybe it’s none of my business, but when the sheriff comes in and tries to put himself in right with a ---- jail-bird of a horse-thief, I’m ----ed if I----”

His right hand jerked to his gun and he swayed from the bar, but his defense was too slow. Before he had finished speaking, Bud Bell had flung himself forward, and Harry Allenby went down from a smash full in the face that flattened his nose and loosened his front teeth.

He fell at the feet of Omaha and Hoban, who made no move to assist him, as they were looking at Sticky Clay, who had stepped into the center of the room, six-shooter swinging at his thigh, a grin on his lips. Harry got slowly to his feet, spitting gore; but the fight had all been taken out of him. His gun was still in its holster, but he had enough for one day.

“Yuh can put up yore gun, Clay,” said Hoban. “The kid’s been drinkin’ too much, thasall.”

Sticky Clay grinned and snapped the gun back into the holster. Bud Bell’s face was still white with anger, but he turned his back on the blubbering young cowboy, who was being led back to a bucket of water by Omaha Olsen. Clayton looked up at Swan River and said:

“Overlook that, will you, sheriff? Harry is just a fool kid, and he had too much liquor.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Swan River seriously. “I hope this will be a lesson to him. Somebody’ll kill him for talkin’ too much one of these days, Clayton.”

“I suppose they will,” agreed Clayton, and resumed playing.

* * * * *

Bud and Sticky left the place and crossed to a general merchandise store. In a few minutes Swan River, Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, where they met Forty Dollar. He wailed mightily when Swan River told him what had happened.

“Jist my darned luck!” he exclaimed. “Seems like I’m always eatin’ when anythin’ good is pulled off. ’F I ever want to see anythin’ of the world, I’ll have to starve, I reckon. Betcha forty dollars this won’t be the end of it.”

“I hope you lose that forty dollars sometime,” grunted the sheriff. “You’ve been offerin’ that bet ever since I’ve knowed yuh.”

“Nobody ever takes me up, Swan River. I’m game.”

“Oh, ----, you never had that much money. I reckon I better go up to the depot and collect a lot of telegrams from the express company. They’ll swamp me with ’em for a while, even if there wasn’t a two bit piece in that safe.”

“How much did they lose?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They prob’ly don’t know yet. Anyway, there ain’t a ghost of a chance to--” Swan River hesitated, cleared his throat harshly and headed for the depot.

“I’d say that he was a square-shooter,” observed Hashknife.

“Swan River?” Forty Dollar grinned softly. “Yeah, he’s all right. He’d play square with a horse-thief. That’s why our jail ain’t hardly ever occupied. But don’tcha ever get the idea that the little feller ain’t a fighter.”

“I wouldn’t choose him,” smiled Hashknife.

They sauntered across the street and met Bud, who was coming out of the store, followed by Sticky Clay.

“Hyah, Bud,” greeted Forty Dollar, holding out his hand.

“Old Forty Dollar Dion, how are yuh?” said Bud softly. “Long time I no see yuh.”

They studied each other for several moments.

“Yuh look all right, Bud,” said Dion.

“Yeah, I’m all right, Forty. It seems good to see yuh again.”

“Thank yuh, Bud. Say, I want you fellers to meet Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens. Gents, this is Bud Bell and Sticky Clay.”

The four men shook hands. Bud Bell’s eyes never turned from his study of Hashknife, even when he shook hands with Sleepy. It was evident to both Hashknife and Sleepy that Bud Bell had recognized them by name. Sticky’s eyes squinted reflectively, as he seemed to try and place them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never traveled incognito, even when knowingly going into an enemy country. Moolock was a long ways from any place where they had operated, and it was not surprising that more men did not recognize them by name.

There came an awkward pause, broken by Sticky Clay.

“We better be gettin’ back to the ranch with this stuff, Bud.”

“All right,” said Bud. “Pleased to have met yuh, gents.”

They walked across to their horses and rode out of town, while Hashknife, Sleepy and Forty Dollar sauntered down to the office.

“Did you ever know that tall puncher?” asked Clay, as he and Bud rode out of town. “Seems like I’ve heard that name.”

“I don’t know him,” said Bud slowly, thoughtfully, “but I’ve heard about him, Sticky. There was a man in the penitentiary, servin’ time for murder, who told me about him. This convict was part of the Moon River gang. Hartley sent him to the pen.”

“Was he the only one of the gang in the pen?” asked Sticky.

“Yeah--the rest died with their boots on.”

“Oh, yeah,” muttered Sticky. “What do yuh reckon he’s doin’ around here, Bud?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I dunno. Mebbe Allenby has hired him.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Sticky dubiously. “Yuh never can tell. Still, when you knocked Harry Allenby down, and Hoban and Omaha were comin’ from the pool table, I seen this tall puncher’s hand swing back toward his gun, and he kinda humped a little. I seen all this out of the corner of my eye. Mebbe he’s hired by Allenby, but I’m wonderin’ what would ’a’ happened if Allenby’s gang had started anythin’.”

Bud shook his head and examined his skinned knuckles, which had come in contact with Harry Allenby’s teeth.

“I heard,” said Sticky Clay, “that Clayton, the cattle-buyer, is goin’ to marry June Allenby.”

Bud looked up quickly, but Sticky was looking straight ahead, his sombrero pulled low over his eyes. For several moments they rode silently. Bud’s thin lips twisted painfully, as he said--

“Well, she’d sure make him a good wife.”

“That side of it is all right,” observed Sticky. “She’d make any man a good wife.”

“If he was lucky enough to get her,” said Bud softly.

Sticky squinted sidewise under the protection of his wide hat at Bud, who was gazing unblinkingly at the bobbing ears of his horse.

* * * * *

Frank Allenby fairly boiled with indignation when Chet Hoban told him what had happened in the Elk saloon. Harry had refused to come home with Hoban and Omaha. Hoban told Allenby exactly what had transpired, without excusing Harry in any way.

Allenby did not stop to consider that Harry had been a foolish young man; he only saw the disgrace to the Allenby family in having an ex-convict knock his son down in a saloon brawl.

“Why didn’t you and Omaha defend him?” he demanded hotly.

Hoban shook his head slowly.

“Harry was wrong; and Sticky Clay had every man in the room covered before Harry went down. And Clay will shoot.”

“Well, perhaps,” grudgingly. “And Harry wouldn’t come home, eh?”

“No.”

“He must feel the disgrace keenly.” Allenby turned away and went into the house. Hoban squinted after him and went back toward the bunkhouse, where Omaha was stretched out on a bunk, reading a paper-backed novel.

“How’d he take it?” asked Omaha.

“Rearin’ straight up,” said Hoban humorously. “I told him that Harry wouldn’t come home, and he said that Harry must feel the disgrace keenly.”

“My ----!” grunted Omaha. “‘The disgrace keenly,’ eh? Didja tell him everythin’ that Harry said?”

“Every word, cowboy.”

“He ought to be proud of his offspring.”

“That’s the ---- of it, Omaha--he is.”

June Allenby was in the living room of the ranch-house when her father came in after his talk with Chet Hoban, and she could see that he was greatly perturbed. June was a tall, slender girl, with an unruly crown of soft brown hair above a face that the cowboys of the Moolock swore, “has anythin’ beat that ever came over the hills.” But June was not of the clinging-vine type, nor was she ever guilty of parading her own beauty.

Allenby flung himself down in an easy chair that creaked a protest, and stared moodily at the well-worn Navajo rug under his feet.

“What has gone wrong now, Dad?” asked June, closing the book she had been reading.

He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Wrong? Everything is wrong. Bud Bell whipped your brother in the Elk saloon today. Knocked him down like a dog!”

Allenby grasped the arms of the chair, as though trying to tear them from their moorings.

June colored slightly and looked away.

“Why did he do it?” she asked calmly.

“Why?” snorted her father. “Possibly Bud Bell thought it would help to pay me back for sending him to prison.”

“Don’t you know what started it?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Had Harry been drinking?”

“Drinking? He doesn’t----”

“Yes, he does, Dad. Omaha told me----”

“Oh, pshaw! They all drink a little. Harry isn’t a drinker.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t take much liquor to make him drunk.”

Allenby stared at June for several seconds. He chuckled angrily and got to his feet.

“June, are you trying to defend Bud Bell?”

“No, I----”

“You met him at several dances before----”

June sprang to her feet and they looked squarely at each other. Then Allenby laughed harshly, and June whirled on her heel and left the room.

“By ----, that would make the ---- laugh,” he told the empty room. “That ---- rustler!”

He turned to the front door as a vehicle rattled over the hard ground outside, and he stepped out to see Clayton and a stranger getting out of a buggy. The stranger was of medium size, dark-featured and with a small, black mustache. He was dressed in dark clothes, soft shirt and a stiff-brim Stetson hat.

“Mr. Allenby, meet Mr. Seeley--Jim Seeley.”

They shook hands jerkily. Clayton took a big suit-case from the buggy and placed it on the porch.

“Kind of a pretty place yuh got here, Mr. Allenby,” said Seeley, glancing around. “I never seen a cow-ranch with so much paint before. You believe in dudin’ it up, don’tcha?”

“Just because it is a cattle ranch, there is no need of living like savages,” replied Allenby.

“Mr. Allenby is several jumps ahead of the rest of the country,” declared Clayton. “He’s progressive. His ranch-house is as fine as a home in the city, and I’ll defy you to find a broken board, loose post or a loose wire on the place.”

Seeley laughed.

“I’m not goin’ to look.”

“Well, you couldn’t find it,” declared Allenby proudly. “I’ve seen to it all myself. Do you intend to stay right here?”

“Why not?” asked Seeley. “I’m workin’ for you now.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you,” said Allenby. “And when I hire a man I want him where I can see that he is on the job all the time. Come on in and meet the family.”

Seeley shot a side glance at Clayton, who was trying to suppress a smile, and they followed Allenby into the house.

“Now who do yuh reckon that is?” queried Omaha, who was looking out of the window and saw the three men going into the house.

Hoban joined him and took a look at the stranger.

“That must be the private investigator that Clayton sent for,” said Hoban dryly. “Allenby has had the detective idea for quite a while, it seems. He lost faith in the Cattle Association, and had some words with the secretary, who promised to get him a first-class cow detective; but it seems that Allenby didn’t ante high enough to get this man.”

“He wouldn’t,” agreed Omaha, turning away from the window. “I don’t like to appear disloyal, but personally I think that Allenby is so stingy that he takes out his false teeth at night to save the wear and tear from his snores.”

* * * * *

Omaha went back to his paper-backed novel, while Chet Hoban sat down to play a game of solitaire. About fifteen minutes later Harry Allenby came in. His nose was badly swollen, as was his upper lip; but he was well loaded with liquor, and if he had been disgraced he did not show it.

“Whoozup at th’ house?” he asked thickly, trying to point in the direction of the ranch-house.

“Clayton and a stranger,” grunted Hoban.

“Whooza stranger?”

“I dunno,” Hoban was trying to concentrate on the layout.

“Zasso?” Harry sat down on the bunk and looked owlishly at Omaha, who grinned behind his book.

“He’s a detective, sonny,” said Omaha patiently. “He’s come here to save yore papa’s li’l cowlets.”

“Zasso?” Harry blinked thoughtfully. “Zee a goo’ one?”

“Shore is,” nodded Omaha. “He’s the jigger that found the ‘Lost Chord,’ if yuh know what that is.”

“Yezzir, I dunno. Ol’ man up at the house?”

“Yeah, he’s there. If I was you I’d doctor up that nose and lip, Harry. Yo’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing, if yuh ask me.”

“You better crawl into bed and sleep it off,” said Hoban, without looking up. “Don’t let yore dad see yuh drunk.”

“Zasso?” Harry stumbled over to a mirror and looked at himself with one eye shut.

“I’m a sweet lookin’ lily, tha’s a cinch,” he concluded.

He came back to the center of the room, as though the sight of himself had sobered him a little.

“I’m goin’ back to town,” he decided.

“You better stay right here,” advised Hoban. “Shuck off yore clothes and go to bed.”

“Not ’f I can get away without the folks seein’ me.”

He opened the door cautiously, peered out for several moments before going out after his horse. Omaha went to the window and watched Harry make his sneak back toward town.

“Danged fool kid,” opined Hoban.

“Yeah,” nodded Omaha, “he’s a fool all right, I s’pose. Still he’s old enough to know what he wants. I blame Allenby more than I do the kid. He won’t even pay Harry a cowpuncher’s wages.”

Some one was talking just outside the door; so Omaha went to the window and looked out at Swan River Smith and Forty Dollar Dion, who had just ridden up to the bunkhouse.

“The law has found us out, Chet,” he said as he threw the door open.

“Howdy, officers,” he called. “Get down and appear amiable.”

“Hello, Omaha,” grinned Swan River. “Is Allenby at home? I mean ‘Mr.’ Allenby.”