Chapter II: Part 2

Omaha grinned widely and pointed toward the house, where Allenby, Clayton and Seeley had come out on the porch. Clayton got into the buggy and drove away, and after a few moments of conversation Allenby and Seeley came down to the bunkhouse.

Allenby did not introduce Seeley to any of them, but spoke directly to the sheriff--

“Something you wanted, Mr. Smith?”

“Nothin’ I exactly wanted, Mr. Allenby,” said the sheriff. “It was kinda in regard to yore loss of last night. In reply I can say that I ain’t been able to find any clue--yet. In yore talk of this mornin’ you kinda intimated that you suspected somebody of purloinin’ yore cows, and if you ain’t got nothin’ else to do right now, I’d kinda like to have yuh explain yore suspicions to me. Sincerely yours, Swan River Smith, sheriff of Moolock.”

Swan River had intoned the whole statement, as though dictating a letter, and Allenby’s ears reddened quickly. Omaha smothered a grin; but Forty Dollar Dion laughed outright. Allenby glared angrily at Forty Dollar, but that worthy did not mind.

“Are you trying to be smart, or just funny?” Allenby asked the sheriff.

“It’s all in the point of view,” said Swan River evenly.

“All right,” Allenby spat viciously. “As far as my losses are concerned, you may just forget them. I am not asking any assistance from the sheriff’s office, and I don’t care to have you volunteer any. I hope you understand what I mean.”

“----, you didn’t leave many loopholes for a mistake to crawl through,” grinned Swan River. “But yore likes and dislikes don’t mean nothin’ to me, Allenby. I’m the sheriff of this county, and I want to tell you----”

“Pardon me, but you can’t tell me anything.” Thus Allenby.

“That’s the whole trouble with you,” said Swan River slowly. “You think that yore a tin god around here, Allenby. Another thing yuh might do without any advice from me--and that is to look after that half-baked kid of yours.

“He came danged near gettin’ what was comin’ to him today, when he opened his mouth too wide. You’ve brought him up to think too ----ed much of the name of Allenby. Now I’m tellin’ this to you for yore own good. And yuh might preach it to him and practice a little of it yoreself. When you’ve got some evidence that’ll hold good in court, let me look at it. In the meantime, think what yuh please, but keep yore mouth shut. I hate to conduct coroner’s inquests. _Adios._”

The two officers turned their horses and rode away, leaving Allenby gasping with wrath. Omaha stepped back into the bunkhouse, where he could laugh in safety, while Allenby spluttered and told the wide world what he thought of Swan River Smith.

Finally he introduced Seeley to Chet Hoban, but did not tell Hoban what Seeley’s business was. In fact Allenby was too mad to tell anything.

“We’re going to town, Chet,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll hitch up the team myself.”

He and Seeley went toward the stable, and Hoban leaned against the doorway until they drove away. Omaha, his face tear-streaked, came out to watch them depart.

“Prob’ly goin’ down to tell his son that the fatted calf is almost ready for the barbecue,” said Omaha hoarsely.

“More likely goin’ down to save his little lamb from the slaughter,” said Hoban. “Me and you better fix a new lock on this bunkhouse, Omaha. The next thing we know, somebody will steal us.”

* * * * *

For the next two days Moolock was devoid of excitement. Hashknife and Sleepy spent their time loafing around the Elk saloon and the sheriff’s office. They had made the acquaintance of several cowboys, but had not tried to secure work. Hashknife suggested that they move on, but Sleepy demurred.

“Somethin’ tells me that Moolock is a good place for to be, Hashknife,” he stated. “The poker games ain’t too avaricious, they put up good food, and I ain’t found a bug in that hotel. Yuh don’t find many places as good as this, cowboy.”

Swan River and Forty Dollar had scoured the country, trying to see what they could see; but there was no trace of Allenby’s three hundred Herefords. The express company had flooded Swan River with correspondence regarding the robbery but as yet they had offered no reward.

“I marked them off my slate, as soon as they got into the Bearpaws,” stated Swan River. “I’d like to see you fellers get yore broncs back.”

“Me, too,” said Sleepy. “They was the best pair of animals that ever wore a saddle, y’betcha. Whooee, but that roan of mine was a bird.”

“I’ll betcha,” nodded Swan River. “It could run a mile in spite of----.”

“Just about that fast,” agreed Sleepy. “It was one of them famous A-rab steeds, noted for endurance. It was the horse that the old emperor or somethin’ or other meant when he yelled that he’d trade his kingdom for a horse. Yessir, I’m sure pinin’ a lot for that hammer-headed, ring-boned hunk of coyote bait.”

“Speakin’ of horses,” observed Hashknife, “I’d like to play somebody a game of bottle-pool for the championship of Sweden.”

“I’ll poke yuh a game,” offered Forty Dollar quickly.

Swan River and Sleepy agreed to hold stakes and keep the score, but before the quartet reached the Elk saloon, Jack Merton, owner of the Arrowhead outfit, and Pete Sepulveda, one of his cowboys, came riding down the street, leading two horses.

Hashknife and Sleepy looked quickly at each other, as they recognized their horses. There was no mistaking Hashknife’s tall bay and Sleepy’s hammer-headed roan. Merton waved to the sheriff, and he and Sepulveda tied the four horses to the Elk saloon hitch-rack, and the four men waited for the two riders.

“Seen anybody that lost two horses?” asked Merton, a tall well-built cowboy, with a pleasant cast of countenance, indicating the horses. “These two were camped at my stable this mornin’; so I brought ’em in, sheriff. One’s branded with a JK and the other with a Triangle-6. They don’t show in my register book.”

“They belong to us,” grinned Hashknife.

“F’r gosh sake!” exclaimed Swan River.

“Is them the two saddle-racks yuh been wailin’ about? Well, well, well! Huh!”

“What about it?” asked Merton interestedly.

“Well,” Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully, “it ain’t ready for explanation, Jack. You just take my word for it that the horses belongs to these gents, will yuh?”

“Anythin’ you say, Swan River,” Merton grinned and hitched up his chaps.

“That’s fine of yuh,” admitted Swan River, and proceeded to introduce Merton and Sepulveda to Hashknife and Sleepy.

They all adjourned into the saloon, and a few minutes later another rider came into town.

It was not difficult to see that this rider’s veins carried a certain percentage of Indian blood. He was nearly six feet tall, a trifle gaudy in his spotted calf-skin vest and scarlet muffler, together with a canary-yellow shirt. He was about forty-five years of age, with a deeply lined face and prominent cheek-bones.

He looked over the horses at the rack, especially the two strange ones, before dismounting. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection he tied his sorrel horse at the rack, adjusted his belt and went into the saloon.

“Well, here’s Sam Bass comin’ to town!” exclaimed Swan River, as the newcomer approached the bar. “How are yuh, Sam?”

“Pretty ---- good, you bet,” laughed Bass. “Hello, Forty Dollar. Hello, Merton. How are you? By golly, here’s Pete Sepulveda!”

“Have a drink,” invited Swan River.

“Sure I drink whisky. Pretty ---- dry these days.”

They poured out their drinks and Swan River introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Sam Bass, who grunted and grinned widely.

“I see two strange horses at the rack,” he stated. “I don’t know the brands; so I s’pose strangers here. You ride bareback, eh?”

“Well, here’s regards,” said Hashknife, ignoring Bass’ question. He knew that Swan River did not want to explain about the lost horses. Bass noticed the evasion, and elevated his brows slightly; but drank his liquor and did not bring up the subject again.

“You don’t happen to know of somebody that wants to hire a couple of good punchers, do yuh?” Thus Hashknife, speaking to Merton.

Merton shook his head and motioned to the bartender to get busy again.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve got a full crew. Maybe Sam needs some help.”

“Not much,” replied Bass quickly. “I got too much help now. ‘Pinon’ Meade and Lem Elder set in the shade all the time.”

“Must take a lot of shade for all three of yuh,” observed Swan River.

Sam Bass laughed loudly, nodding excitedly.

“By golly, that’s right!” he exploded. “I’m lazy too. Swan River knows. Some cattlemen work all the time. Look at Allenby. He make new fence, paint it pretty; paint the house. He’s rich. Sam Bass let ranch go to ----; he’s poor.

“Allenby work all the time; worry, too, I guess. He’s ---- fool. Sam Bass never work much, never worry no time. He’s ---- fool, too. Let’s have another drink, eh? Drink to two fools.”

“Allenby wouldn’t appreciate that,” laughed Merton. “He sure thinks he’s a wise man. Personally, I think that Sam Bass is right.”

“Danged right he is,” agreed Forty Dollar. “Any old time a man says that Allenby is a fool, I’ll agree with him.”

“What about Allenby losin’ three hundred head of Herefords?” asked Merton. “Was it a fact?”

“You ask Allenby,” laughed Forty Dollar. “It gave him plumbago.”

“Plumbago is lead,” stated Swan River. “You don’t mean plumbago; you mean lumbago, Forty.”

“Thasso?” Forty Dollar emptied his glass and wiped off his chin. “If I shoot a man, I give him plumbago, do I?”

“If yuh shot him with a lead-pencil, Forty.”

“My ----!” grunted Forty Dollar.

“That liquor shore does take a-holt of yuh, Swan River. Shoot him with a lead-pencil!”

Forty Dollar stared around at the rest of the men, his eyes wide with wonder.

“You fellers better exchange a few last words with Swan River Smith, while he still has a little _sabe_ left,” he said softly. “It shore is the turnin’ point in his glorious career. I’d rather see him dead than to not know anythin’. ---- knows he’s always been bad enough, but this is too much.”

Forty Dollar Dion buried his face in his elbows on the bar and began crying.

“That danged fool always gets a cryin’ jag on, after about six drinks,” said Swan River disgustedly. “Let him cry.”

* * * * *

Someone passed a sack of tobacco and they were rolling cigarets, when a tow-headed youngster, his eyes wide with wonder, tiptoed into the saloon and looked at the group at the bar.

“What do yuh want, sonny?” asked the bartender.

“I--I want the sheriff,” faltered the youngster.

“Me?” asked Swan River. “What do yuh want, son?”

“You--you better come out here.” The lad turned and fairly ran out of the place.

“Mebbe I better,” agreed Swan River quickly, and he was followed by every one, except Forty Dollar and the bartender.

The boy was on the sidewalk, pointing excitedly toward the hitch-rack, where a man sat drunkenly on a horse, reins dragging.

“That looks danged funny!” exclaimed the sheriff, as they all hurried out to the man. He was roped to the saddle with a long lariat, and tied to the rope, where it circled the man’s neck, was a fairly fresh cowhide.

It was Seeley, Allenby’s detective. His face was gray as ashes, except where it was caked with blood; and there was blood all over his shirt. It appeared that the man had been shot in the head and in the body. Hashknife took out his knife and cut the ropes, while the others lowered the man to the sidewalk.

He groaned painfully and collapsed. Swan River sent one of the men after a doctor. Hashknife spread out the cowhide. It had been taken from a Hereford two-year-old, and the brand on the right shoulder was a Half-Circle Cross.

“Does anybody know him?” asked Swan River. “Ain’t he the feller who was stayin’ at Allenby’s place?”

“He was here with Allenby yesterday,” offered the bartender, who had left Forty Dollar alone.

“It kinda looks like he’d collected the hide of one of Allenby’s missin’ Herefords,” said Hashknife. “He’s got creased along the head, and it kinda looks like there might be a bullet in his right shoulder, which made him lose quite some gore.”

The youngster came racing back with the information that the doctor wanted them to bring the man down to his home. Some one got a blanket from the hotel, and there were plenty of men to carry the wounded man down to the doctor’s office. Swan River carried the cowhide over in front of his office and draped it across the little hitch-rack.

“What do yuh make of it, Hartley?” he asked seriously. “Why would anybody shoot this man, tie him to a saddle and send him back with that cowhide?”

“You want my opinion, Swan River?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Well, I ain’t got one. It kinda looks to me like somebody was tryin’ to take a slap at Mr. Allenby.”

Swan River sighed deeply. All this was only piling up misery for him.

“I suppose I’ve got to make an arrest pretty soon,” he said slowly. “I ain’t got a bit of evidence to make it on; but the arrow points just one way. Still--I dunno.”

He got up and walked to the door of the office. Hank and Bud Bell were dismounting at the general store.

“There’s old Hank Bell,” he told Hashknife, pointing at the angular little man, who carried his right arm sharply bent at the elbow. They disappeared into the store, and Swan River turned to Hashknife.

“That pinto and gray belong to old Hank,” he said softly. “Bud rides the pinto.”

“You still got ’em in yore stable?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure thing. When they start inquiring about lost horses, it’ll be time enough for me to do my talkin’. Nobody, except the four of us, know about ’em.”

Hashknife walked up to the store and went inside. He was curious to see old Hank Bell. Bud was buying some cartridges from the proprietor, who was telling him about the stranger who had been shot. Old Hank seemed indifferent to the telling, but Hashknife could see that the old man was not missing a word of it.

Old Hank was of the old school of cattlemen. He was small, wiry of frame, thin faced; his white hair reaching to his collar. His eyes were small and as hard as agate, but there were enough grin-wrinkles around them to prove that old Hank Bell was not always serious. His right arm was crippled in such a way that he was unable to reach below his waist; and Hashknife noticed that the old man wore his holster on the left side, tied down.

“Regular old he-wolf,” Hashknife told himself. “Taught himself to draw and shoot left-handed.”

The proprietor finished telling his story, and a ghost of a smile flitted across old Hank’s lips, when the proprietor spoke about the Half-Circle Cross cowhide that was hanging from the man’s neck.

Bud turned and nodded to Hashknife. He spoke aside to his father, who shot a quick glance at Hashknife. Pete Sepulveda came into the store and spoke to Hashknife--

“That feller was shot twice, Hartley. The one creased his head and won’t amount to much; but the other one went plumb through him. He was shot from behind. The doctor dunno whether it’ll kill him or not. Do you know who he is?”

“Nope. Somebody said he was stayin’ at Allenby’s place.”

“Allenby just drove in. I seen him comin’ as I came in here.”

Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. Allenby and his daughter were in the buckboard, stopped in the middle of the street, talking to one of the men who had just come from the doctor’s office. As Hashknife watched them Allenby whipped up his team and went toward the doctor’s place.

Bud completed his purchases and walked across to the Elk saloon, followed by his father, who gave Hashknife a searching glance as he went past.

“He’s a tough old pelican,” declared Sepulveda. “Don’t think he’s been in a shootin’ scrape since he got his arm smashed; but I’m bettin’ that he _sabes_ how to shoot left-handed. Them old jiggers shoot first and talk afterward.

“Old Hank used to be awful fast with a gun. He had a funny way of gettin’ his gun, Hartley. He’d kinda swing his hand behind the holster--like a feller might swing his hand when he’s walkin’--and on the back swing he pulled and shot all to once. I dunno how he done it. I’ve tried to do it. They tell me that he learned Bud how to do it; but I ain’t never seen Bud have to shoot--yet.”

They walked outside and joined Sleepy and Merton.

“Allenby is throwin’ a fit,” declared Sleepy. “He acts like he was the one that got shot. I asked him who this feller was, and he told me it was none of my business--which it wasn’t. I’ve heard a lot of profanity, but Allenby’s got ’em all skinned.”

“Not in front of his daughter, did he?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she didn’t stay; she drove back to the post-office.”

Swan River Smith and Sam Bass were coming down the street toward the store; but crossed the street and went to the White Horse saloon.

“I’ll buy a drink,” offered Sepulveda, and Sleepy accepted; but Hashknife shook his head.

“Thank yuh just the same, Sepulveda. Mebbe I’ll join yuh later.”

Sleepy and Sepulveda went to the saloon, leaving Hashknife leaning against the front of the store, cogitating over certain things.

Bud Bell came out of the saloon, as Sleepy and Sepulveda went in. He declined their invitation to drink and came over to the store.

“How is everythin’ today, Hartley?” he asked, as he went past.

“Oh, kinda interestin’,” smiled Hashknife.

June Allenby was coming down the street, carrying some packages in her hands. It was the first time that Hashknife had seen her, and he was forced to agree with Forty Dollar Dion, that June Allenby was a “dinger.”

It was not like Hashknife to stare at a lady, but he did. In fact he was so interested in her that he did not hear Bud Bell come out of the store. June lifted her eyes from the sidewalk and looked straight past Hashknife, who turned his head and discovered Bud Bell.

They had both stopped and were staring at each other. Hashknife wished that he was on the opposite side of the street instead of almost directly between these two. Then Bud stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, as though to start across the street; but the girl halted him with a motion of her hand.

“Bud,” she said, “aren’t you going to even say hello?”

Bud’s hand went uncertainly to his sombrero, but his eyes shifted from June and glanced quickly around.

“Yes’m, I reckon that wouldn’t hurt anybody--and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He stepped off the sidewalk and headed swiftly across the street. Hashknife watched June’s face, as she followed him with her eyes until he went into the Elk saloon. Hashknife wanted to speak to her--to tell her that he would help to straighten things out--but he was tongue-tied. Perhaps she read his intentions in his eyes as she passed him and went into the store.

“She loves Bud Bell!” he told himself wonderingly. “Can yuh beat that? This is sure a queer old world. And in spite of all the trouble Frank Allenby has caused Bud Bell, I’m bettin’ that Bud Bell loves Allenby’s daughter. He said he didn’t want to hurt her. I wonder if he meant--oh, well, let’s see.”

He hooked his thumb over the waistband of his overalls and considered the situation for a space of time. His eyes shifted to their two horses at the Elk saloon hitch-rack.

“By golly, I’ve got to fix a place for them broncs,” he told himself, “and this is as good a time as any, I reckon.”

He turned on his heel and went slowly down the street.

* * * * *

Hashknife was barely out of sight when Allenby came from the doctor’s home. His face was black with anger and his hands were clenched at his sides as he strode along. Near the door of the Elk saloon he stopped and studied the horses at the hitchracks. Over in front of the store stood the two horses which Hank Bell and his son had ridden.

“Both here,” muttered Allenby, half-aloud. “By ----, I’ve stood enough!” He turned, spat viciously, grimacing, as though he tasted wormwood and gall, and went into the saloon.

Swan River Smith and Pete Sepulveda saw him cross in front of the White Horse saloon, and they lost no time in crowding into the saloon behind him. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Hank Bell, who was standing at the bar with Sleepy and Sam Bass. He did not notice that the sheriff was behind him.

Bud was sitting beside a card-table, looking at an old newspaper, but now his eyes shifted to Allenby.

“I’ve stood about all I’m going to, Bell,” Allenby spoke to old Hank in a shaking voice. Hank Bell turned slowly, his left hand swinging back of him, as though to shove him away from the bar.

“Look out,” whispered Pete Sepulveda, who knew what that movement meant.

Allenby was not a gunman. It is doubtful if he could have hit Hank Bell at that distance; but his anger had made him forget all caution. He wanted to crush this little, crooked-armed old man. But Hank Bell was not going to fight him. He stood there, poised easily, his left hand splayed out behind him.

But before anything more could be said, Swan River Smith butted Allenby with his left shoulder, while with his right hand he snatched Allenby’s gun from its holster. The jolt turned the big man half-around and he struck at the little sheriff; but Swan River easily dodged the blow and stepped between Allenby and Hank Bell.

“And that’ll be about all of this show,” said Swan River calmly. “If you fellers want to go gunnin’ for each other, you better go out on the flat somewhere.”

“I wasn’t gunnin’ for anybody,” said old Hank slowly, “but I hate to disappoint anybody when they ask me for trouble.”

“Thasall right, Hank.” Swan River turned to Allenby--“Some day, Allenby, you’ll make a mistake. And it’ll probably be the kind of a mistake that a man only makes once in a lifetime. I don’t blame yuh for bein’ mad--but yuh ought to use judgment.”

“What was this to you?” demanded Allenby hotly. “You had no right to interfere with my business. Give me back that gun!”

Swan River grinned and shoved the gun inside the waistband of his overalls.

“When yuh get ready to go home, I’ll just do that,” he said. “I’m kinda responsible for the wear and tear on Moolock, yuh know.”

“You’re responsible for a lot of things,” sneered Allenby. “I came to town to get a little information from you, Smith. This morning I had a little talk with a man named Pierson. He’s from Tecoma. He told me a little story about you being at Tecoma the other night--the evening of the day that the express robbery was pulled off.

“He told me about two men whose horses were stolen by the bandits--and he told me about a pinto and a gray that were left at the hitch-rack. The pinto had a coal black head. Pierson saw the brands, too. What about it?”

Swan River squinted at Sleepy and his brows drew into a deep frown. He realized that there was nothing more he could do to keep that evidence under cover. Hank Bell and Bud were looking straight at each other, and now Bud got to his feet.

“Take it easy,” advised Sleepy softly. Bud flashed a glance at him, as though wondering why Sleepy had said that.

“Well, what about it?” asked Allenby triumphantly.

He felt that he was putting the screws to Swan River Smith, and he knew that it was not welcome news to the Bell family.

“What about it?” queried Swan River vacantly. “Huh! Pierson told yuh this, did he?”

“Yes, he did. Would he have any reason to lie?”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon he would, Allenby.”

“What about the pinto and gray?” asked Bell wonderingly.

Swan River pursed his lips, as he shook his head slowly.

“You’ve got those horses,” declared Allenby. “You’ve had them ever since that night.”

Swan River did not deny it. Sepulveda turned to Sleepy.

“That’s how you lost your two horses, eh?”

Sleepy ignored the question.

“Are they in your stable or at the livery barn?” asked Allenby.

“Yuh might find out by lookin’,” said Swan River.

“All right!” snapped Allenby. “You know as well as I do that those two horses belong to Hank Bell. Now what are you going to do about it?”

“Do about it?” parroted Swan River.

“Yes! Are you going to let them escape while we go to look at the evidence?”

Swan River squinted at Hank and Bud.

“Are yuh?” he asked.

Old Hank shook his head and said--

“I’d rather fight than run, Swan River. Suppose we go with yuh.”

“That’s a ---- of a way to run your office!” exploded Allenby. “Some of these days----”

“Suppose you stay here, Allenby,” suggested Swan River blandly.

“No, by ----! All I want is a square deal. Will we go to the livery-barn first?”

“Suit yoreself.”

* * * * *

They all trooped to the livery-stable, where it did not take them long to find that the horses were not there. Back they went to the sheriff’s stable, behind his office, where they found Hashknife, busily currying the tall bay. In the next stall stood the JK roan, belonging to Sleepy, and in the other two stalls stood Swan River’s sorrel and Forty Dollar’s buckskin.

Hashknife looked curiously at the crowd, but did not cease grooming his horse. Swan River leaned against the doorway and rubbed his chin, while the rest of the crowd looked around blankly and came outside.

“I--I hope yore satisfied,” said Swan River chokingly.

“Satisfied, ----!” snorted Allenby. He was no longer the triumphant person of a few minutes ago. Old Hank scratched his head foolishly, and motioned to Bud.

“You don’t want us for anythin’ more do yuh?” Old Hank spoke to Swan River.

“Shucks, no,” said Swan River. “I reckon everybody’s satisfied.”

“I hope so,” said old Hank. “C’mon, Bud.”

They walked back through the alley, leaving Allenby staring after them, his lips working painfully. He turned on the sheriff.

“What crooked work is this?” he demanded hotly. “You just the same as admitted that you had those horses.”

“I didn’t admit nothin’,” denied Swan River. “I was willin’ to prove that I didn’t.”

Allenby went back toward the street without another word.

“I’d buy a drink,” stated Pete Sepulveda. “I’d buy a drink for everybody.”

Sam Bass, Merton and several more of the crowd accepted on the spot; but Sleepy had already gone to work grooming his roan.

Swan River sat down on the feed-box and watched the two cowboys work on their horses, until the rest of the men had gone back.

“I thought they had yuh, Swan River,” said Sleepy, pausing to clean his currycomb. “Yuh could ’a’ knocked me down with a straw.”

“Yeah, I felt the same about it.” Swan River squinted at Hashknife questioningly, but the tall cowboy’s face was serious. For several minutes there was nothing but the “swish” of the currycomb and brush to break the silence. Finally Hashknife stepped back, looked the bay over carefully and threw the comb and brush into a box against the wall. He walked to the door and looked out, as he brushed off his shirt.

“Hartley,” said Swan River softly. “Did you know that Pierson had talked with Allenby?”

“Pierson?”

“Yeah. He’s the feller who runs the saloon at Tecoma. Didja know that Pierson told Allenby about those two horses--the pinto and the gray?”

“No-o-o, I didn’t know it. We needed a place to put our broncs, and I didn’t feel like payin’ a livery-stable to keep ’em.”

Swan River took a deep breath and looked at Sleepy, who had ceased work while Hashknife was talking.

“And that’s about all you’ll ever get out of him,” said Sleepy knowingly.

“Well,” Swan River sighed with satisfaction, “that’s enough to suit me. Mebbe we’re all wrong, I dunno. Anyway, I thank yuh, Hashknife. It saved me from a lot of explainin’.”

“Yo’re welcome, sheriff,” said Hashknife. He was thinking of a girl who wanted a boy to say hello to her; a boy who was afraid that even a hello from him might harm her.

“This is a ---- of a world,” he said thoughtfully.

“It sure is,” agreed Swan River. “We don’t ask to get in; get ---- while we’re here, and get out because we can’t help ourselves. My old dad used to say--

“‘Eat a lot of green vegetables, keep yore mouth shut and yore gun cocked--and you’ll live a long time.’”

Sleepy laughed and put up his brush.

“How close do yuh foller that advice?” he asked.

“Well,” grinned Swan River, “I keep my gun cocked quite a lot of the time. I figure that’s what they call a necessary of life--anyway around here.”

* * * * *

A lapse of twenty-four hours had made little difference in Allenby’s feelings toward the rest of the world. Seeley was still alive, but the doctor held out little hope for his recovery. The soft-nose bullet had just about wrecked one of his lungs, and the other had caused a slight concussion of the brain.

Clayton has just brought in the latest report of Seeley’s condition, and Allenby had called a meeting at the bunkhouse. Harry was sober but just a bit shaky; Omaha amused; Hoban serious. It was then that Allenby told them all about hiring Seeley to investigate for him.

“They shot him down like a dog,” Allenby told them angrily. “They have probably added murder to their other crimes. There is no doubt in my mind that either the sheriff, his deputy, or one of those two strange cowboys turned that pinto and gray horse loose, to ruin the evidence.

“Just what interest those two cowboys have in this deal, I do not know. I feel sure that Swan River Smith thought those two horses were in the stable, and that he was as surprised as anyone else when we did not find them. The sheriff is against us; so it is up to us to handle it in the only way possible--go and settle it ourselves.”

“How do yuh mean?” asked Hoban.

“I mean that we’ll ride down to the HB ranch, force them to confess and take them to jail ourselves.”

“Christmas daisies!” grunted Omaha. “You talk like we was goin’ out to bring in a cow.”

Allenby glared at Omaha. He did not believe in anyone questioning an order or a suggestion from him.

“Are you afraid to do this, Olsen?” he asked.

“No, I ain’t afraid,” said Omaha meaningly. “I just don’t think it can be done, tha’sall. You might get a ---- of a lot of hot lead, but yuh won’t get no confession.”

“Would you refuse to go?” asked Allenby.

Omaha squinted at the floor for several moments before he looked up at Allenby and nodded slowly--

“Yeah, I reckon I would. If I caught a man stealin’ yore cows, I’d shoot him as quick as you would; but I don’t reckon I’m goin’ to try and take the law in my own hands and try to make a man confess. That’s up to the officers--not to me.”

“All right,” said Allenby briskly. “Your wages up to date are ready for you, Olsen. I want men who will do my bidding. How about you, Hoban?”

“I’ll ride with Omaha,” said Hoban calmly. “We came here together, yuh know. I’ve handled yore cows, Allenby--you handle yore own killin’.”

Allenby snorted audibly and looked around. He had been sure of Hoban, because Hoban was his foreman. It left only three of them to do the job--and he wasn’t so sure of Clayton.

“Well, that makes things different,” he decided grudgingly.

“Decidedly,” agreed Clayton. “Perhaps the idea wasn’t as good as it might have been. You see, Allenby, you haven’t enough evidence yet to force a confession from either of the Bell family.”

“Well, how can I get it?” demanded Allenby. “I’d give five thousand dollars for evidence enough to convict those two men.”

No one seemed to know--which was not surprising.

“Who are those two cowboys?” asked Allenby.

“One is named Hartley and the other one Stevens,” offered Harry. “I heard that much about ’em. The tall one is nicknamed Hashknife.”

Allenby squinted closely at Harry.

“Are you sure of that, Harry?” he asked.

“Well, that’s what they’re called.”

“That’s funny,” muttered Allenby, turning to Clayton. “That is the names of the two men that Freeman, the secretary of the Cattle Association, spoke to me about. They refused my offer, but still they came here.”

“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” said Clayton wonderingly. “Who sent them in here, I wonder?”

“I’ve done all the wondering I’m going to,” declared Allenby, turning to the door. “I’m going to town and find these two men. My offer is still open, and I think they’ll accept it, after I tell them what it means to me.”

“How soon can I get my pay?” asked Omaha. Allenby halted half-way outside and looked back.

“We will take that up later, Olsen. Are you going with me, Clayton?”

“Yes, I’ll go with you,” agreed Clayton.

They drove away in a cloud of dust, swinging out through the main gate on two wheels. Omaha grinned and sat down on his bunk.

“I suppose that me and you are canned, Chet,” he said.

“Yo’re canned,” corrected Chet, “I quit.”

“Aw, ----!” blurted Harry. “The old man will forget all that in an hour. You fellers got anythin’ drinkable around here?”

“You lay off the booze,” advised Hoban. “The first thing you know the old man will cut you off his will.”

“Is that so?” Harry laughed sarcastically. “That’ll hurt me a ---- of a lot. He never did give me a ---- cent; and he’ll live longer than I will probably.”

“If you don’t keep your mouth shut,” agreed Hoban dryly.

Harry laughed and went up to the ranch-house, while Omaha and Hoban began packing their war-sacks.

It did not take Allenby and Clayton long to make the drive to Moolock, and they were greeted at Elk saloon with the information that Seeley had died. The doctor wanted some information regarding this man, in order to notify his relatives; and Swan River Smith wanted some information regarding him, to use at the inquest.

Allenby knew nothing about him, except what Clayton had told him; and Clayton’s information was almost as vague. He knew that Seeley was a detective--a cattle detective--but he did not know where Seeley’s relatives lived.

Swan River Smith went back to his office, where Forty Dollar, Hashknife and Sleepy were playing seven-up at two bits a corner, and told them what Clayton had told him regarding the dead man.

“Name is Seeley, and he was a cattle detective, eh?” mused Hashknife. “It kinda looks to me like his profession reacted upon him. Mebbe he wore a star, or somethin’ that advertised his callin’.”

“That’s why Allenby told me to keep out of it,” grinned Swan River. He sobered in a moment, shutting one eye, as he considered the situation.

“I’ll tell yuh, it ain’t so much of a joke, at that,” he said. “Murder is murder, by golly. That Seeley was shot from behind; and it ain’t noways healthy nor conductive of pleasant thoughts to think that there might be a killer behind the next bush.”

“Looks to me like it might be a warnin’,” observed Forty Dollar. “I sure believe in them kinda signs. I’ve had my fortune told five times, altogether. Had ’em told by a different person every time--and every fortune was different. Doggone it, yuh never know who to believe.

“One of ’em told me to beware of a tall, dark man; another told me that I was goin’ to have a lot of trouble with a light complected man, and the rest of ’em dilated on trouble with three other kinds of men. And they all was different. If I tried to run my existence accordin’ to their warnin’s, I’d have to hide out in the hills. Whooee! I sure have got a lot of mixed sizes and colors tryin’ to make life hard for me.”

“I never had my fortune told,” said Swan River. “I’d a lot rather get along in my own dumb way. I don’t want to know what is jist around the next turn; but I’d sure like to have just a little inside information on who is doin’ this dirty work.

“We’ll have to hold this inquest tomorrow and shove that poor ---- under the sod without knowin’ anythin’ more about him. Clayton, the cattle buyer, hired him for Allenby; but Clayton don’t know where Seeley’s relatives live.”

* * * * *

While they were talking, Doctor Edwall, the coroner, came in. He was a fussy little man, partly bald, and talked jerkily.

“Very little information to be had,” he declared. “Clayton knows very little. No known relatives. Came here from Omaha, Nebraska. Pockets yielded very little. Nothing worth while. Here--” he handed the sheriff a soiled envelope--“that is a letter to Seeley, written, I presume, by Mr. Clayton. I have read it.”

Swan River Smith took the letter out of the envelope and read it carefully. Swan River did not read very fast. Finally he placed it on his desk.

“Well, that don’t give us much information, doctor,” he decided. “We’ll just have to go ahead and hold the inquest, bring in the usual verdict, and bury the corpse, I reckon.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so, sheriff. Well, good-by, gentlemen.”

The doctor bustled away, as busy as a bee. Hashknife picked up the letter and looked it over. It had been sent from Moolock, and was directed to Jim Seeley, Omaha, Nebraska, care of general delivery. The letter read:

Dear Jim:

Frank Allenby, the biggest cattleman in Moolock, is
up against a very dangerous proposition and needs help.
It looks like a plain case of spite work by somebody and
you can make five thousand dollars for a few days work.

This gang of rustlers are able to pull off big jobs
and get away without the slightest chance of anyone
detecting them. Your work must be done without anyone
knowing who you are; _sabe_?

I will explain everything to you when you get here.
You will like Allenby. If you can’t take this job, Jim, it
will disappoint me greatly. If you come, keep it dark, or it
might make things very bad. Wire your decision.

Sincerely
Ed.

“Well, Allenby’s life is still worth the five thousand, I reckon,” smiled Hashknife, as he handed the letter back to the sheriff. “Mebbe he’ll raise the ante after awhile.”

“Speak about the ----,” muttered Forty Dollar.

Allenby was entering the office as Forty Dollar spoke, but he could hardly have heard what Hashknife said. Allenby was trying his best to be pleasant as he greeted all of them. He sat down and fanned himself with his hat.

“Going to hold the inquest tomorrow?” he asked the sheriff.

“Yeah, tomorrow,” nodded the sheriff. “Probably want you to testify, Allenby. It won’t amount to anythin’; but it’s accordin’ to law.”

“Certainly,” agreed Allenby warmly. “I wish I could give you more information regarding this man Seeley; but I knew nothing about him. There is no question but what he was murdered.”

“Well,” said Swan River slowly, “I never knowed a man to shoot himself twice in the back with a rifle. I suppose there is some of them con-tor-shunists that might shoot themselves once in the back; but I’ll betcha that a thirty-thirty would sure take the kink out of ’em real quick. No, I reckon we’ve got to look the facts square in the face and admit that Seeley was shot with malice aforethought and a high-powered rifle.”

“Mm-m-m-m,” muttered Allenby.

Swan River’s face was so serious that Allenby wasn’t quite sure whether Swan River was joking or not. He decided to drop the subject; so he turned to Hashknife and said--

“I was just wondering if you two cowboys were looking for work.”

Hashknife grinned widely.

“You might change that question to read, ‘lookin’ for jobs,’ and get us to nod our heads.”

Allenby forced a laugh.

“I suppose it’s just as well to be honest about it,” he said. “There will probably be two vacancies on my ranch, and you two can have the jobs, if you care to take them.”

“Hoban and Omaha quittin’?” asked Forty Dollar.

“Well, it amounts to that. I shall make Harry foreman, I think. He needs responsibility.”

“He sure as----needs somethin’,” grinned Swan River.

Allenby’s lips formed a hot retort, but he curbed his feelings. He knew that there was nothing to gain in quarreling with the sheriff; so he shut his lips and waited for Hashknife to decide.

“Forty a month?” asked Sleepy.

“Yes.”

The forty dollars per month did not appeal to Sleepy, but he was willing to leave the decision to Hashknife, who was thinking deeply over the offer.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I suppose we might take it. It ain’t none of my business, but I’d like to know why yore foreman and the other man are quittin’ yuh.”

Allenby’s expression indicated that it was none of Hashknife’s business, but he replied evenly--

“They are leaving the Half-Circle Cross because they would not obey orders.”

“Yeah? Well, mebbe we won’t obey ’em either, Allenby. But if you want to take that chance--we’re willin’, eh, Sleepy?”

“We can always quit,” said Sleepy indifferently.

“Well, that is settled,” said Allenby, with a certain amount of satisfaction, as he got up and started for the door. “You will be out to the ranch today?”

“Before supper time,” said Hashknife.

A few minutes later Omaha and Hoban rode into town, with their war-sack, containing their belongings, tied to the back of their saddles. Allenby met them on the street and paid what was due on their salaries.

Clayton was not going back to the ranch; so Allenby left town alone.

“What did yuh take these jobs for?” asked Sleepy, as he and Hashknife saddled their horses at the sheriff’s stable.

“Just a fool notion thasall,” said Hashknife seriously.

“All right,” Sleepy retorted grudgingly. “Forty a month, and take orders from some kid.”

“We ain’t took no orders from him yet, Sleepy.”

“That’s true. I’d kinda like to know what kind of orders he passed out to them other two hired men.”

“Wait and see,” advised Hashknife. “We’ll likely find out.”

About a mile out of town they overtook Allenby, who had driven off the side of the road and was waiting for them.

“I didn’t want to say too much there in town,” he told them. “Freeman told me your names at the time he spoke about me hiring you; so I know you are the same men. I think I need your help now more than I did before, and I just want to say that I’m still willing to pay you the sum of five thousand dollars for evidence that will convict those who have been stealing my stock.

“The men who have been stealing my stock are the same ones that killed Seeley. A conviction for rustling will fasten the murder on them also. For some reason or other, it appears that we have been working at cross purposes. I think you know what I mean.”

“Don’t reckon I do,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“That matter concerning the pinto and gray horse.”

“Oh, yeah. I heard the sheriff sayin’ somethin’ about it. What was it all about, Allenby?”

Allenby studied Hashknife and Sleepy for several moments. Sleepy’s expression was as innocent as that of a child, while Hashknife’s was merely indifferent, as he carefully shaped a cigaret and struck a match with his thumb nail.

“Well,” said Allenby dubiously, “perhaps--but it doesn’t matter.”

He spoke sharply to the team, which surged back into the road, and the two cowboys followed leisurely behind him.

“He’s still got that five thousand,” laughed Hashknife.

“Yeah, and he can keep it,” said Sleepy. “I don’t want no thirty-thirty bullets between my shoulders, y’betcha.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to Moolock the next day. Allenby and his son left early, as they were not sure what time the inquest was to be held. They gave no orders to Hashknife and Sleepy. Allenby told them to get used to the ranch, and to take it easy for their first day.

The two cowboys had instinctively liked Mrs. Allenby, a quiet little woman. June had colored slightly during her introduction to Hashknife as she recognized him, and wondered if he had remembered her meeting with Bud Bell.

Sleepy did not like the Half-Circle Cross ranch buildings.

“Ain’t noways homelike,” he complained. “Makes yuh feel like yore civilized. Even the bunkhouse door don’t squeak. By golly, I’d put some sand into them hinges if I stayed here long. Carpet on the bunkhouse floor and a re-cep-tickle for cigaret butts!”

“It sure is kinda dude-like,” admitted Hashknife. “But you have to excuse Allenby; he’s from the city. If he runs cows long enough he’ll develop squeaky hinges, bare floors and weather-beaten exteriors.”

About an hour after Harry and his father left the ranch, June asked Hashknife if he would saddle her horse. She rode a racy-looking little sorrel, a swell-fork saddle; and her riding clothes consisted of a divided skirt, flannel shirt, cowboy boots and a floppy sombrero.

“_Mucho buena!_” exclaimed Sleepy softly, as she rode away.

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife.

They watched until she disappeared in the hills to the east. There was nothing for them to do except to loaf around.

The inquest at Moolock caused a certain amount of interest, and there was quite a crowd present. Allenby admitted that Seeley was a detective, hired for him by Clayton, the cattle-buyer. Clayton said he had met Seeley a number of times, and knew that Seeley was a man of ability. The sheriff produced and read Clayton’s letter to Seeley, which had been among Seeley’s effects; and the hastily picked coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Seeley had been shot in the back by a party or parties unknown.

There was considerable discussion among the cattlemen, following the inquest. They had ignored Allenby’s statements regarding the number of cattle he had lost lately; but they were forced to admit that it was serious enough to cause a man to get shot in the back.

Neither Hank nor Bud Bell were in town. It might have complicated matters a little, as it was well known that there was bad blood between them and Allenby. The inquest was held about two o’clock in the afternoon, and at about three o’clock the stage from White Eagle, thirty miles away, came into town, with the driver, “Shorty” Elkins, sitting straight in the seat, hanging on with both hands, and with the lines twisted around one foot and held between his knees.

The team went past the stage station, caught the right front wheel into the post of a hitch-rack and jerked to a sudden stop; so sudden that Shorty pitched off over the wheel and fell against the sidewalk, where he stayed until some of the men picked him up.

They straightened him out on the sidewalk and some one poured a drink of whisky between his white lips.

“My gosh!” exploded Larry Neil, an Arrowhead cowboy, “somebody has sure riddled poor Shorty. Somebody get the doctor.”

Swan River Smith arrived, as did Allenby and Clayton. Another drink of whisky, forced between Shorty’s lips, seemed to revive him enough to open his eyes.

“How are yuh, Shorty?” asked Swan River. “Can yuh tell us what happened to yuh?”

Shorty’s eyes were filming, but he was conscious. He tried to lift his hand, but the effort was too much. Several times he twisted his lips, trying to speak. Then--

“June--Allenby----”

He managed to speak her name, spacing it widely.

“What about her, Shorty?” asked Swan River anxiously. “Try it again, son.”

“She--” He spoke the one word, tried to say more, but was unable to open his mouth again.

“Shorty’s dead,” said Swan River softly, getting to his feet.

Fred Hartwell, owner of the stage line, forced his way to the center and looked down at the dead man who had been his driver. Swan River told him all they knew about it, and they watched Hartwell as he examined the contents of the stage.

“The treasure box is gone,” he said. “We won’t know how much has been stolen until we check up with the office at White Eagle.”

The doctor arrived, and after a short examination shook his head, as he listened to a description of how the stage had arrived.

“I don’t see how he lived that long,” declared the doctor. “He must have fought hard against it.”

“But what did he mean about my daughter?” asked Allenby anxiously. “What could he have meant?”

“She wasn’t on the stage today, was she?” asked the sheriff.

“No. She was at home when I left there.” Allenby whirled and ran to his buckboard.

“Some of us better ride to the Half-Circle Cross,” said the sheriff quickly. “Shorty had that girl on his mind for some reason. Dang it, why didn’t he live longer!”

Swan River bowlegged his way swiftly toward his stable, with Forty Dollar right at his heels; while several of the cowboys mounted and waited for the sheriff to ride with them. But far ahead of them went the team of cream colored bronchos, running at top speed, while the lurching buckboard threatened at any time to capsize and throw Allenby and Clayton out into the sagebrush.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the bunkhouse when the cavalcade arrived. The horsemen had almost overtaken the team, and when the two cowboys came outside the yard was filled with riders. Allenby fairly fell out of the buckboard and ran to Hashknife.

“Is June home?” he panted.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, she ain’t. About an hour after you left this mornin’, she had me saddle her horse, and she rode away. I don’t reckon she’s come back yet. What’s the matter?”

Allenby groaned aloud and turned to the sheriff.

“She went riding,” he said blankly.

“That’s all right,” said Swan River. “Which way did she go?

“Went east from here,” said Hashknife, pointing in that direction.

“Straight toward the White Eagle road,” said a cowboy softly.

“We’ll spread out and comb that country,” said the sheriff. “Maybe we can find her.”

Allenby ran toward the house, where Mrs. Allenby had come out on the porch, wondering at the crowd of riders, while the sheriff told Hashknife about Shorty Elkins.

“He tried to tell us about her,” said Swan River sadly. “Somethin’ has happened to her, that’s a cinch.”

“Shucks, this is a civilized country,” said Pete Sepulveda. “I dunno what could happen to a girl around here.”

“Two men have been murdered this week,” reminded Swan River grimly, and several of the men growled audibly.

Hashknife and Sleepy ran to the stable and saddled their horses, while others helped Allenby and Clayton saddle suitable mounts.

It was not over fifteen minutes later that they rode out of the ranch yard, spread out fan-wise and headed east. Hashknife and Sleepy were the last ones to see her; so they headed for the spot where she had disappeared.

About six miles from the ranch they struck the road to White Eagle, which ran north and south. It was here that the riders drew together, searching for the spot where the stage had been held up. The roadbed was so hard that it was impossible to distinguish anything out of the ordinary; so the searchers split into two parties, going in opposite directions.

Hashknife and Sleepy joined Swan River Smith, going toward Moolock, and they were the ones to find the spot. It was in a timbered swale, where a small stream trickled down across the road. The signs were fairly plain here. The stage had swerved half-off the road into softer ground.

To the west of the road a deep cattle trail wound down the swale, where the timber would mask it from the road. Hashknife discovered the trail, and in it were the fresh imprints of a shod horse.

“She came down that trail,” he told the sheriff, pointing out the tracks. “They picked a dandy place for the job, too. It kinda looks like she busted right into the holdup, without knowin’ it was takin’ place. She couldn’t see the road until she came out through them bushes, and they likely seen her first.”