Chapter IV: Part 4

“Ed Clayton knew that I idolized my children. He knew that I would go to any length to help them. So one day he came to me and asked me to see if I couldn’t help him win June. I gave him the same answer. He did not get angry, nor did he threaten; but he did show me receipts for borrowed money, a total of five thousand dollars, signed with Harry’s name.

“Clayton had loaned Harry all that money. Clayton knew what Mr. Allenby would do, if he knew that Harry had done such a thing. But Clayton did not threaten me. He just pointed out the fact that some one must pay that money. He had loaned it in good faith.

“He said to me--

“‘Mrs. Allenby, I love June more than anything in the world, and I will try to make her happy. I feel sure that a little urging will win for me. And, in that event, I will give you these receipts, and everything will be forgotten.’

“That is why I tried to--oh, I know it was all wrong, but----”

“Yeah, it was all wrong, Mrs. Allenby,” agreed Hashknife.

“But my urging did not help--” Mrs. Allenby was crying now--“and I am glad. It would have been like selling my June. I realized it afterward, but at that time I could only see what might happen to Harry, don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see,” Hashknife got to his feet. “I’m sure obliged to yuh, ma’am. This here is a secret between us.”

“Oh, I hope so,” she said wearily. “I don’t know why I told it to you.”

“Thasall right, ma’am,” smiled Hashknife, as he walked back to the bunkhouse, where he joined Sleepy.

“What was you and the lady chawin’ about, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“Arguin’ about raisin’ chickens. She favored Plymouth Rocks and I held out for Rhode Island Reds.”

“And she cried for her side, eh? Yeah, I seen her wipe her eyes. You can lie faster than I can, Hashknife.”

* * * * *

Hashknife grinned and headed for the stable, where they saddled their horses and started for town. They found Forty Dollar at the sheriff’s office, bewailing everything.

“Swan River has led out another posse,” he told them. “He’s got Allenby, Sepulveda, Merton, Omaha and Hoban with him, and they’re headin’ toward Tecoma. Dunno where in ---- they’re goin’, but they’re goin’, thassall. Swan River made me stay here, dang his old hide. Said somebody had to protect the office.”

He did not get much sympathy from Hashknife and Sleepy; so he paraded the rest of his woes, thusly:

“Ed Clayton is drunk and wants to fight somebody, the big brute. Harry Allenby is drunk enough to brag again, and he wants to help Clayton whip somebody, and there ain’t nobody around here to accommodate ’em. Pinon Meade might fight the two of ’em, if he got drunk enough; but Clayton, alone, is twice as big as Pinon. So there yuh are. On account of my official position I can’t fight ’em. Any news of the lost girl?”

Hashknife grinned at Forty Dollar’s woes and shook his head.

“No news, Forty. You heard anythin’?”

“How the ---- could I, settin’ here all the time?”

Forty Dollar borrowed Hashknife’s Durham and rolled a cigaret.

“It ain’t none of my business,” he said pointedly, “but I was just wonderin’ where you two fellers were when we rode up to the HB this mornin’.”

Hashknife lifted his brows slightly, but his expression remained the same. Then a smile wreathed his lips.

“What makes yuh ask that question, Forty?”

“Curiosity. We was late gettin’ started, and we sure did whang ---- out of our horses all the way. We never passed yuh on the road, and when yuh came up to us, yore horses wasn’t even breathin’ hard.”

“Forty Dollar,” grinned Hashknife, “yore a born detective.”

“Yeah? Well, I do notice some things. I kinda had a hunch that you fellers was pokin’ around. Swan River wondered why yuh wasn’t there to join the posse, and I told him that you wasn’t the kind to run in packs.”

“I reckon that’s true,” laughed Hashknife. “Swan River didn’t say when he’d be back, did he?”

“He didn’t know. Everybody expects him to be headin’ a searchin’ party; so he’s doin’ it. He was just ready to start when Allenby rode in; so they took him along. I reckon Clayton didn’t know they were goin’. Anyway, he didn’t go along.”

They invited Forty Dollar to go over to the Elk saloon with them, but he declined. Swan River had told Forty Dollar to stay at the office, which meant in town, but Forty Dollar translated it literally, and gloried in his martyrdom.

Harry Allenby was at the Elk, still wearing his bandage, which was slightly disarranged, and he was more than partly drunk. Hashknife took him aside and advised him to go home, but Harry would have none of Hashknife’s advice.

“You ain’t runnin’ my business,” he told Hashknife angrily. “I do as I ---- please.”

“That’s yore whole trouble,” said Hashknife. “Yo’re just a fool kid, without brains enough to pound sand into a rathole. You go on home and quit spendin’ money that don’t belong to you.”

The shot went home. Harry’s eyes blinked for a moment and he had difficulty in swallowing; but he tried to bluff.

“What in ---- do you mean by that?” he demanded.

“You know what I mean, Harry. If you want me to tell it, I’ll tell it loud enough for every one to hear.”

“Who told you that?” Harry’s voice was hoarse with anxiety.

“Who told me what?” asked Hashknife.

“That--that--” Harry hesitated, trying to clear his thoughts. “That I was spending money that didn’t belong to me,” he finished lamely. “It’s a lie, anyway.”

“It’s the truth, kid,” Hashknife spoke softly and with conviction. “Yore mother wants yuh to come home.”

“Aw, ----!” Harry turned away and walked outside.

For several minutes he stood on the porch of the saloon, thinking it over, but decided that he didn’t want to go home; so he walked up to the White Horse saloon and went inside.

There were few men in the Elk. Three cowpunchers were playing a game of freeze-out at one of the tables, while “Snowy” Garnette and a railroad contractor were playing two-handed stud. Hashknife and Sleepy drifted to the pool-table and began playing bottle pool.

Their game was about half finished when Harry came back, and with him was Ed Clayton. Clayton had been drinking, but he was not drunk. He and Harry had a drink together, and were at the bar when Hashknife and Sleepy put up their cues.

Hashknife noticed that both of them were serious, and as Hashknife approached the bar Clayton stepped in front of him. In spite of Hashknife’s height, Clayton was half-a-head taller, and weighed at least fifty pounds more.

“Who in ---- told you that I loaned Harry money?” asked Clayton angrily.

Hashknife squinted coldly at Clayton and said--

“I didn’t say yuh did, Clayton.”

“You didn’t?” Clayton whirled on Harry. “Didn’t you say he told you that, Harry?”

“Why, I--I--that’s what he meant, Ed. He didn’t----”

“----!” Clayton turned back to Hashknife. “Where did you get this misinformation, Hartley?”

“I don’t reckon I was misinformed,” smiled Hashknife easily. “It kinda looks like Harry had proved it. I didn’t say who he got the money from--but _he_ did.”

“Is that so?” Clayton sneered openly. “Well, I just want to tell you that it’s none of your ---- business, Hartley. You are taking too much for granted, and I want you to keep your face out of my business, or I’ll bust it wide open.”

“Yore business?” asked Hashknife innocently. “That won’t take much, because it’s already beginnin’ to crack.”

Clayton was rather a sudden sort of person, and believed in the theory that the first punch wins. This tall, skinny puncher was only three feet away, slouched easily, when Clayton’s left fist snapped straight for his jaw. But that easy slouch was misleading, and allowed Hashknife to sway aside while the blow merely swished into empty air.

Hashknife did not lift his hands, but he did step back with a grin on his lips. Clayton blinked and recovered his balance. It was the first time he had missed with the snappy left, which was his stock in trade, and usually put him in a good position to finish the fight without much opposition. The card games ceased immediately. Harry started forward, only to have Sleepy kick his feet from under him and drop him in a sitting position half under a table.

“Git a front seat!” grunted Sleepy.

Clayton forced a smile to cover his chagrin. He did not expect this cowpuncher to put up a fight.

“Yuh hadn’t ought to telegraph yore punch,” grinned Hashknife. “A one-punch fighter like you ought to figure out a system, Clayton. Yuh tried to sneak one on me, but yore eyes and the whole left side of yuh told me what yuh was goin’ to do.”

“Did, eh?” Clayton smiled grimly as he fell into a crouch.

“Stop this one!” He darted at Hashknife, smashing with both hands. It was a disastrous attack. His right fist snapped against the top of Hashknife’s head, the left missed entirely, and Clayton went backward, half doubled up from a punishing smash in the stomach.

He backed out of range, his mouth wide open, as he tried to pump air into his lungs. Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Go in and get him, cowboy,” advised Sleepy. “He’s whipped right now.”

“Like ---- he is!” snorted Clayton, shutting his teeth, and trying to strain the kinks out of his midriff.

“Well, come on and finish it,” invited Hashknife. “If I wanted to whip yuh, I’d ’a’ stopped the fight before this; but it ain’t no fight of my makin’, Clayton.”

Clayton was game, but wary. He had tasted one of Hashknife’s punches, and did not care for another of the same kind; so he elected to try the long-range game. He felt that this cowpuncher knew nothing about boxing. Some one shoved a table away, to give them more room, and Harry Allenby crawled on his hands and knees to the bar-rail, where he sat down, closely watched by Sleepy.

Clayton went in slowly, balanced easily on the balls of his feet, his guard high. Hashknife watched him calmly, guard down. It seemed to anger Clayton to think that this lanky person did not take the fight seriously enough to put up his hands.

Clayton stepped in range, snapping his left at Hashknife’s head. It was rather a weak attempt and Hashknife avoided it easily as he stepped inside the blow, blocked Clayton’s right, and drove another punch to Clayton’s middle.

It was enough to cause Clayton to drop his guard and step back; but this time the lanky cowboy stepped with him, and before Clayton could lift a hand to stop it, Hashknife uppercut him to the point of his jaw, with a full sweeping blow--and the fight ended.

Clayton collapsed heavily, rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling.

* * * * *

“The most complete thing I ever seen,” declared Snowy Garnette, leaving the table and walking to the fallen man. “I knew that Clayton would get whipped some day; but I thought it would take a bigger man than he is.”

The bartender threw a little water into Clayton’s face, and he sat up, gasping. It was a full minute before he realized what had happened. He got painfully to his feet, leaned on the bar for a while, trying to regain his balance, and walked outside, without a word. Harry Allenby followed him, rather disconsolately. His idol had fallen--and fallen hard.

No one asked Hashknife what started the fight. Snowy invited every one to have a drink, and waited on them personally. There had been no loud talking, no swearing. A man could have stood out in front of the saloon and not been aware of trouble within.

“I’ve paid twenty dollars to see a fight that wasn’t half as good,” declared the contractor. “Here’s to one cowpuncher that don’t need to shoot his man to win.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon as soon as possible after the toast. Hashknife disliked adulation--and he did not want to drink any more; so they excused themselves and went back to the sheriff’s office, where Sleepy proceeded to tell Forty Dollar about the fight.

“Jist my darned luck!” wailed Forty Dollar. “Here I been layin’ on my miserable back, readin’ ‘Deserted at the Altar,’ while there’s a fight jist across the street. That ain’t no way to treat a friend. And yuh knocked Ed Clayton out! Can’t git it through m’ head, thassall. Bigger’n you are, every way.”

“Don’t know the first thing about fightin’,” declared Sleepy. “Clumsy as a cub bear. Hashknife slapped him in the stummick and took all the fight out of him. Yaller as a dandelion.”

“Um-m-m,” Forty Dollar was not convinced. “I’ve seen him put up a good fight. Well, I’ve allus said that he’d meet his match some of these days. I used to be a fighter m’self, and I know.”

“Did you meet yore match?” asked Sleepy.

“Did I? Say, I met a whole danged box of ’em. What did Harry think of the fight?”

“I kicked him into a front seat,” grinned Sleepy. “I reckon he wanted to referee; but we didn’t need none. When they tackle old Hashknife, there ain’t but one decision to give. He just pets ’em on the chin, thassall.”

“Braggin’ is bad; but lyin’ and braggin’ at the same time is worse,” declared Hashknife. “Yore loop is draggin’.”

“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh don’t believe me, Forty Dollar--ask Ed Clayton.”

“I’ll take yore word for it.”

“Are you familiar with the 27A brand?” asked Hashknife.

“Me?” Forty seemed amazed. “Say, I’ve been in this country ever since the big trade between the Injuns and the soldiers.”

“What big trade was that?” asked Sleepy innocently.

“Lead f’r lead. What do yuh want to know about the 27A?”

“Where do they brand?”

“Right shoulder. The 7 and the A are connected.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife nodded solemnly, and walked to the door. He could see Ed Clayton and Harry Allenby in front of the White Horse saloon, and as he watched them, Clayton drew back his right hand and knocked Harry into the street.

It was not a knockout punch, but it sent Harry rolling into the dust. He clawed his way to his feet and went staggering across the street. Hashknife called Sleepy and Forty Dollar to the door and told them about it. Clayton went back in to the saloon, while Harry sat down on the sidewalk in front of the general store.

“Harry seems to get it from all sides,” observed Forty Dollar. “His luck is runnin’ kinda muddy, this week.”

Harry leaned against a post and seemed content to stay where he was. In a few minutes Pinon Meade came out of the White Horse, got his horse at the hitch-rack and rode out of town toward the 27A. The three men at the sheriff’s office went inside and sat down again. It was hot out there in the street.

Hashknife tilted back against the wall in his chair and made pencil notes on the back of an envelope, while Sleepy and Forty Dollar started an argument as to who won the Boer war.

It was a perfectly good argument, because neither of them knew just what countries had fought the war. Sleepy contended that the Swedes were the winners, and managed to prove it to Forty Dollar’s satisfaction. Several points were proved by Hashknife, who was so engrossed in his own notes that he “yessed” every question.

Just before dark Swan River rode into Moolock, leading a thoroughly tired posse of men. Their long ride had netted them nothing. They had come back past the 27A ranch, where Sam Bass had left the posse. Allenby was discouraged. He asked for Harry and found that Harry had gone home.

Clayton, showing no ill effects from his fight, talked with Allenby, after which he got his horse and rode away with him toward the ranch. Swan River stretched his tired body and swore witheringly at his luck.

“We went plumb to Tecoma,” he said. “It’s like huntin’ for a needle in a strawstack. Didn’t find out a danged thing. I reckon Allenby is all broke up over it; but I can’t help it, if he is.”

“Let’s eat,” suggested Forty Dollar. “There ain’t been much happened around here since yuh left, except that Hashknife had a fight with Clayton, knocked Clayton plumb out; and Clayton hit Harry Allenby later on. Otherwise it’s been Sunday all day.”

Swan River gawped foolishly at this information, but thought it was a joke and refused to question Forty Dollar. But he soon discovered that it was no joke. They went to the Blue Front for supper and heard the bartender of the Elk giving a vivid description of the battle.

“I didn’t know that there was trouble between you and Clayton,” said Swan River, as they sat down.

“There wasn’t,” smiled Hashknife. “He just wanted to fight.”

“Uh-huh,” Swan River was a bit dubious over this.

He knew that something must have been of sufficient import to cause such a battle; but he was willing to outwardly accept Hashknife’s explanation.

They ate their supper and drifted to the Elk saloon, where they ran into Sticky Clay. He was perfectly sober. A big poker game was in progress, which interested Sleepy and Forty Dollar. Swan River got into conversation with Snowy Garnette, and Sticky Clay drew Hashknife aside.

“You ain’t seen Bud Bell, have yuh?” asked Sticky.

“Nope--not since we were out to the ranch.”

“Un-hah. He ain’t been here today, eh?”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I haven’t seen him. What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’, I reckon. Bud rode away just after that gang was out there, and he ain’t come back. Me and the old man was kinda worried. ---- it, I dunno why we are either, except that there’s so much ---- bein’ raised around here.”

“Bud can take care of himself,” said Hashknife consolingly.

“Ordinarily,” conceded Sticky. “I suppose he’s all right. Yuh see, Hartley, I think a lot of Bud.”

“Sure,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I wanted to ask yuh somethin’, Clay.”

“Ask me somethin’? All right, what is it?”

“About that mixup between you and Harry Allenby. Did you know that Harry was gunnin’ for you?”

“Well--yeah, yuh might say I did. He was just drunk enough to be lookin’ for trouble. Somebody mentioned it to me earlier in the evenin’, and then Pinon Meade led me to look out for Harry. He said that Harry was in the White Horse, makin’ a war-talk.”

“I see.” Thoughtfully. “Is Pinon Meade a friend of yours?”

“Friend?” Sticky squinted narrowly. “No-o-o, I reckon not. Yuh see, a feller like me don’t have friends, Hartley.”

“Why not, Clay?”

“I dunno. Mebbe it’s cause I work for Hank Bell; mebbe it’s ’cause I look like I do. I’m kind of a mongrel, Hartley. Folks call me a gun-fighter--meanin’ that I’m dangerous. It’s jist like somebody sayin’ to yuh, ‘That dog will bite.’”

“From that time on, that dog will be a dangerous animal to you. You won’t never stop to figure out that the dog is good for anythin’, except to bite folks. That’s me. I’ve been branded a gun-fighter; and folks never figure that I eat food like other folks, snore in m’ sleep and wear the seats out of my pants.”

Hashknife did not laugh. There was nothing humorous in Sticky Clay’s simile. It was rather pathetic.

“I reckon I know how yuh feel,” said Hashknife.

“That’s fine,” nodded Sticky seriously. “I reckon I’ll be goin’, Hartley. Moolock ain’t none too safe for one of the HB outfit to be found in. There ain’t no news from that girl, is there?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Kinda tough luck,” said Sticky. “I’d like to feel sorry for Allenby.”

He turned to leave the room when Larry Neil ran in and yelled at the sheriff--

“Hey, Swan River! Clayton and old man Allenby just got here. They found Harry half-way between here and the Half-Circle Cross, and brought him in. He’s all shot to ----!”

The sheriff and Forty Dollar ran for the door, while there was a general exodus in that direction. Hashknife caught Sticky by the arm and whispered in his ear--

“Don’t tell anybody that Bud is missin’.”

“----!” blurted Sticky. “I’d been inquirin’ for him before I met you.”

* * * * *

Sticky hurried away, while Hashknife joined the crowd that were on their way to the doctor’s office to see how badly Harry had been hurt. Swan River tried to keep every one out of the house, but allowed Hashknife to slip inside.

Clayton and Allenby were at the bedside, watching the doctor make his examination, and nodded at Hashknife. Harry had been shot three times and was unconscious. One bullet had ripped through the fleshy part of his left shoulder, another bored through his left shoulder, just beneath the collar-bone, while the third struck lower on the left side and seemed to have skidded off a rib.

“Shot from in front, eh?” observed Hashknife.

“Yes,” said Allenby shakily. “Harry fired two shots at whoever dropped him. When he regains consciousness we will know who shot him.”

“And that killer was a good shot,” said Hashknife softly. “He was sure shootin’ at the kid’s heart. Notice that all three of ’em are on the left side.”

“Sticky Clay is a good shot,” said Clayton meaningly.

Hashknife squinted at Clayton closely, but Clayton did not meet his eyes. The doctor was busily engaged in cleansing the wounds, and Allenby began pacing the small room. Outside, they could hear the crowd questioning the sheriff. Forty Dollar came in to get a report from the doctor, and went back to report to the crowd.

“How soon will he be able to tell us about it?” asked Allenby.

“I don’t know.” The doctor shook his head. “He has lost considerable blood, but the wounds are not necessarily dangerous.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Allenby.

Clayton got to his feet and moved over to the door.

“I’m going to grab a bite to eat, and then I’ll be in shape to sit up here tonight,” he said.

Allenby nodded quickly and took Clayton’s seat beside the bed.

Hashknife walked outside and headed for the Elk saloon. The crowd had dispersed, feeling that Harry had better than a fighting chance; and many of them were back at the saloons, having a drink after the excitement.

Clayton had gone straight to the Elk bar, and Hashknife saw him drinking with Lem Elder. Frosty Welcome, the hotel proprietor, was at the bar, drinking with Joe Egan, his clerk. Frosty grinned at Hashknife and invited him to have a drink.

“I’m celebratin’,” he explained a trifle thickly.

“Birthday?” asked Hashknife.

“Nawshir--not birthday. I’m goin’ out of the ---- hotel business. Tired of it. Yesshir, I’m sick of the business. Joe’s goin’ to run the hotel f’r me, ain’t yuh, Joe?”

“And that’s whatever,” nodded Joe. “I shore can run her, too.”

“What are you goin’ to do?” queried Hashknife.

“Cattle. By golly, I’m a cattleman, I am. Jus’ bought me a ranch, and I’m goin’ to run it. Pay f’r it tonight. Have ’nother drink?”

“I’ll buy this one,” said Hashknife grinning. “Goin’ to give me a good job on this ranch, ain’t yuh?”

“Tha’s a good idea, by golly,” agreed Frosty. “Need a good man. Shay, all jokin’ aside, will yuh take a job? I can’t hire yuh until I own it; but I’ll own it, y’betcha. Here’s a go.”

They drank and placed their glasses on the bar. Hashknife noticed that Lem Elder had left the bar, but Clayton was still there.

“You must ’a’ made money in that hotel,” observed Hashknife.

“Sure, I made money,” agreed Frosty. “But I never made enough to buy a cattle outfit. I had money in the bank, I did. I sold out a cattle ranch over in Ross Basin three years ago, and bought this danged hotel; but I banked most of the money. I’m sick of the hotel, and I’m celebratin’ my recovery, I am.”

“You goin’ to have a big outfit?” asked Hashknife.

“Big enough. I’m goin’ to blot all them ---- 27A cattle, and register m’ old Circle W agin’, I am. Have ’nother drink?”

Hashknife managed to decline another drink, and went away, leaving Frosty and Joe in an argument as to the proper way to run a hotel. Sleepy was watching a poker game when Hashknife nudged him, and they left the place together.

Hashknife led the way to their horses and they rode out of town, heading northeast. Sleepy did not question him now. He knew that Hashknife had discovered something and that he would tell about it at the right time.

“Goin’ to rain,” observed Sleepy, as they traveled over the road which led to Tecoma. “Wish we had our slickers. I hate to get wet.”

“Worse things than gettin’ wet,” grunted Hashknife. Rain clouds blotted out the light from the sky, and they were forced to let the horses make their own way over the road. A wind was blowing in from the northeast, filling their faces with dust from the road.

But this discomfort did not last long. A dazzling flash of lightning, a crash of thunder--and the rain drifted into them in a solid wall of water, which quickly turned the deep dust in a muck of mud. They bowed their heads to the downpour and went on.

“Let up pretty soon!” yelled Hashknife consolingly.

But the storm had no intention of letting up. The lightning and thunder went rumbling away down the valley, but the rain elected to stay. It was nearly two hours after their departure from Moolock. Both cowboys were soaked to the skin, and Sleepy was beginning to grow profanely sarcastic; but Hashknife said nothing in return.

Hashknife was riding on the right side of the road, peering at the fence, which bordered the road. He had been riding thus for several miles, and now he grunted thankfully, as the outlines of a gate caught his eye, and a road turned through it at almost right angles to the one they had been following.

“C’mon,” he said. “Here’s where we turn, cowboy.”

“Thank ---- for anythin’!” exploded Sleepy. “The water is runnin’ out of my boot-tops right now.”

Half a mile off the main road, as they were passing through a brushy spot, Hashknife swung his horse into Sleepy’s animal, forcing both animals into the brush and off the road. A few moments later a rider loomed up in the rain, and went past them, heading toward the main road.

It was impossible to distinguish the identity of the rider. They were about to move back into the road, when another rider, this one traveling at a gallop, went past their hiding-place, fairly splashing them with mud. It was evident that this later rider was anxious to overtake the other.

“Now that the mud-hen parade has gone past--” said Sleepy suggestively.

“We go on,” said Hashknife quickly. “It can’t be far to the ranch. Mebbe I’ve made a mistake, but I don’t think so.”

About two hundred yards farther on they came to the blacker bulk of corrals and outbuildings. From there they could see an open doorway, where the light from an oil lamp illuminated part of a buckboard and team, which was standing close to the porch.

They rode up and dismounted. No one was in sight, but as they entered the house a voice called from the kitchen--

“What in ---- is the matter now?”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy, but did not reply. A moment later the speaker stepped into the room, a look of surprise on his face. He was a medium-sized individual, with a hooked nose and a scraggly beard. His clothes consisted of a badly worn blue suit, a moth-eaten fedora hat and yellow boots. Also worthy of mention was a batwing celluloid collar, of about sixteen-size, while the neck it encircled would have had plenty of freedom in a fourteen.

Circling his waist, mostly hidden by his coat, was a heavy cartridge belt, studded with ammunition, and below the edge of the coat protruded the end of a revolver holster. In his left hand he carried an old, yellow valise, bulging full.

“Huh!” he exclaimed explosively. “Where’d you fellers come from?”

Hashknife did not reply, as he squinted around the room. His gaze came back to the man with the valise, and he said--

“Yo’re the cook, ain’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I’m the cook.”

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife, slapping his wet thighs. “We are hungry as ----, pardner.”

“Thasso?” The cook leaned against the wall negligently. “Well, yore about half out of luck, gents. Right now I ain’t got no time to do any cookin’. I’m the only one at the ranch, and I’m goin’ to town right away. Sorry, but it’s got to be done.”

“We’ll pay yuh for the food,” said Hashknife, ignoring the cook’s statement.

“Will yuh?” The cook scowled impatiently. “Like I said before, I’m goin’ to town, and I’m lockin’ up everythin’; _sabe_?”

“I heard yuh,” Hashknife’s tone changed entirely. “We’ll cook our own meal, and lock up for yuh. How do yuh like that?”

“Not a chance. I’d be a ---- of a feller to leave you two here alone, wouldn’t I? ----, I don’t even know yore names.”

“Mine’s Hashknife Hartley.”

The cook stiffened slightly at the sound of the name and his eyes shifted, as he moistened his lips. Then he shook his head.

“Don’t remember hearin’ it before,” he said, trying to make his voice behave.

“No?” Hashknife grinned widely. The cook shifted his feet, as he placed the valise on the floor, and his right elbow seemed to accidentally catch in his coat and throw it away from his holster.

And as he straightened up his right hand flipped to his gun. It was a swift draw, which proved that the cook’s experience with pots and pans had not caused him to forget how to draw a gun; but it availed him nothing.

His gun came to his waist level, but there was a nervless finger on the trigger; nervless because Hashknife’s bullet had hit the cook dead center before the latter’s gun hardly had left its holster. The cook’s gun spun over on his finger, fell to the floor, while the cook slid sidewise, almost blocking the door to the kitchen.

* * * * * Sleepy coughed from the powder fumes and snapped his own gun back into the holster.

“Neat, but not gaudy,” he commented dryly. “He never knowed what hit him--if that was any satisfaction, Hashknife. Just why did he go after his gun?”

“Scared,” said Hashknife seriously, as he stepped over and looked at the victim. “My name got him, Sleepy. If he was an honest man, it wouldn’t ’a’ made him try to kill me.”

“All right,” nodded Sleepy nervously. “I dunno what it’s all about; but I’m for yuh, tall feller. What do we shoot at next?”

Hashknife stepped over the cook’s body and Sleepy followed him into the kitchen, where an oil lamp gave fair illumination. It was a typical ranch-house kitchen, which had been presided over by a male cook; none too clean and not at all tidy.

Hashknife looked around, and suddenly had an inspiration. He went back, got the yellow valise and opened it on the kitchen table. In it was a couple of shirts, a miscellany of underwear, socks, red neckties; and underneath all this was eighteen hundred dollars in currency, mostly in ten and twenty dollar bills.

“Cookin’ pays well in this country,” observed Hashknife dryly. “Either that, or he has saved about three years salary intact.”

“Seems like a reg’lar diagnosis,” agreed Sleepy. Hashknife sat down, replaced the things into the valise and rolled a cigaret, while Sleepy mechanically rolled one also and wondered just what it was all about.

Hashknife smoked slowly, as he stared at the floor, deep in thought. Suddenly he shot forward out of his chair, landed on his hands and knees on the none-too-clean floor, looking at it closely. Sleepy ducked sidewise, the instinct of self-preservation causing him to also land on his hands and knees.

“What is it?” he demanded quickly.

“Get an ax!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Look outside--at the woodpile, Sleepy. Take the lamp!”

It did not take Sleepy long to acquire the desired article. The woodpile was handy to the kitchen door, as was usual for the convenience of the cook. He handed the ax to Hashknife.

“What’s the idea, Hashknife?” he panted.

“Take a look,” grinned Hashknife. “They’ve got their root-house under the kitchen, and they’ve nailed the door tight. Look at the fresh bruises on the boards, cowboy; and look where they took the hinges off to make it look like it wasn’t a cellar. Get back.”

At the risk of knocking down everything in the room, Hashknife swung the heavy ax into the joint between the boards and tore the nails loose. Straight across one end of the former trap-door he pried up the boards, while Sleepy ripped them loose at the other end.

An odor of ancient vegetable and dry rot drifted up to them, and a rickety stairway showed that Hashknife was right. Throwing the ax aside, Hashknife picked up the lamp and went down the stairs, with Sleepy close behind him, peering into the cellar.

Crash! Something whizzed out of the gloom and knocked the lamp out of Hashknife’s hand, showering them with glass from the smashed chimney, but fortunately extinguishing the light before it could ignite the kerosene.

Then, out of the darkness came something, crashing into them, striking, kicking; taking them so unawares that they went down in a heap, trying to protect themselves in that narrow space. Hashknife ripped out a curse that would have been a credit to a mule-skinner, flung himself forward, and they all crashed to the bottom.

“Sleepy, can yuh light a match?” Hashknife’s voice was muffled, strained.

Sleepy managed to extricate himself from the twisting mass, bumped his head severely on something, but managed to scratch a match, which he held above his head. The air was hazy with dust, but he was able to see that Hashknife was lying across the body of a man, whose face was a mass of dirt and blood. Sleepy squinted beyond, where a girl crouched against the wall, her white face and staring eyes turned toward the lighted match. It was June Allenby.

Hashknife lifted his face and looked at her. Then he slowly lifted himself from the prostrate body, which turned quickly. It was Bud Bell. He peered at Hashknife, his mouth wide open, as he tried to spit out the dirt he had accumulated.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “we’re all here, it seems.”

“Hartley?” Bud’s voice was a whisper. He spat out more dirt and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Sleepy scratched more matches, handed them to Hashknife, and ran upstairs to the living room, where he got the lamp.

“June, we’re all right,” panted Bud. “These men are friends.”

The girl nodded slowly, helplessly.

“They’ve had her here quite a long time, don’tcha know?” Bud felt of his head tenderly. “I--I went huntin’ for her, Hartley. I don’t know what day that was. The last thing I remembered was when I was eatin’ in the 27A kitchen.

“There wasn’t nobody but me and Lew Meeker, the cook, there. I heard a funny noise. It sounded like somebody calling. I asked Lew what it was, I think. Then somethin’ hit me, I reckon. Anyway, I woke up down here.”

“Let’s go upstairs,” suggested Hashknife. “I don’t like the smell of old vegetables. Can yuh walk, Miss Allenby?”

She nodded and made a brave attempt, but failed. Hashknife caught her in his arms and carried her up the stairs, while Sleepy and Bud followed them to the living room, where Hashknife placed her on a rickety old couch.

“They had me all tied up,” she said wearily. “I got the gag loose, and cried for help. In a few minutes they brought Bud down here. I didn’t know it was Bud for quite a while. They hurt him so badly that he did not move for a long time. It was only a little while ago that he--that we found out who each other was. Bud had a few matches.”

Bud nodded in confirmation and looked at the body of the cook.

“We heard the shot,” he said.

“When did they take the ropes off you, Miss Allenby?” asked Hashknife.

“When they brought Bud down. Then I heard them driving nails. It was awful to be down there in the dark.” She shuddered and the tears came to her eyes.

“Yo’re a danged brave girl,” applauded Hashknife. “You ran into a holdup, didn’t yuh?”

She stared at Hashknife for several moments before she nodded.

“You knew the robbers; so they had to kidnap yuh, eh?”

She shut her lips tightly and shook her head.

“Then why did they take yuh with ’em?”

“She won’t talk about it,” said Bud. “I asked her a dozen times. I dunno why, but she won’t tell me.”

“Thasall right,” nodded Hashknife.

“Well, if it’s all right,” nodded Bud, “how did you fellers happen to come out here?”

“Lookin’,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his feet. “Can you drive a team?”

“I sure can.” Bud’s last effort to force a way out of the cellar had not exhausted his remaining strength.

“I hit yore lamp with an old potato,” he grinned. “It was all I could find. There wasn’t a rock nor a club down there.”

“Thanks for all small favors,” said Sleepy. “That spud hit me in the neck and I’ve still got glass in my hair.”

Hashknife put the yellow valise in the buckboard, helped June into the seat and turned the equipage over to Bud. The rain had ceased, but it left miles of soggy road for them to travel back to Moolock.

“We’ll spin along ahead,” Hashknife told Bud. “Make as good time as yuh can and tie in front of the hotel. Let’s hit the grit.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted, spurred into a gallop and began throwing mud, while behind them came the 27A buckboard team, rain-soaked and eager to get warm.

* * * * * Harry Allenby was showing no signs of returning consciousness. He had lost much blood, but the doctor was optimistic over the outcome. Swan River Smith was as anxious as anyone for Harry to talk. He felt sure that Harry knew who had shot him.

“Probably an even break,” was the decision of Forty Dollar, at the Elk saloon. “Harry was due to get it sooner or later. If Sticky Clay hadn’t misjudged his shot, Harry would now be under the little grasslets. Yuh gotta be a dinger to hunt for trouble in this here county, and come out on top.”

“Tha’s whatever, says I,” declared Frosty Welcome, who was due to pass out of the picture very soon. Frosty had gazed too intently at the juice of the corn to remain perpendicular much longer.

“Shush ri’,” agreed Joe Egan vacantly, which proved that he had also run aground on the shoals of John Barleycorn. “Lezhava drink. Whazza matter ’ith ’vrybody? Stop twis’in’ ’round.”

And thus passed Joe Egan, who was to become the proprietor of the Moolock hotel. Some one propped him up in a chair, and in a few minutes they placed Frosty Welcome on his lap.

All of which was a disgraceful proceeding, especially as Frosty Welcome had agreed to consummate a deal with Joe Bass for the purchase of the 27A that night--and Frosty was in no condition to consummate anything.

It seemed that Moolock county was fairly well represented in Moolock town that night, and the drink emporiums were doing a good business. It might also be mentioned that the games of chance were running full blast.

About ten o’clock, which was probably the time agreed upon between Sam Bass and Frosty Welcome to complete their deal, Sam Bass entered the Elk saloon, and found to his chagrin that one-half of the deal was slumbering audibly on the lap of his hired man.

Sam Bass was mad. He shook Frosty viciously, and was rewarded with a louder snore from Frosty and a groan from Joe. The crowd objected to having Sam annoy Frosty. Forty Dollar told Sam to “git to ---- away from there, and let sleepin’ dogs lay.”

Sam went away, swearing to himself, while Frosty cuddled down on the half-dead Joe Egan and continued to sleep deeply. Sam went back to the White Horse, where he found Lem Elder and Pinon Meade. Ed Clayton had just come from the doctor’s office and reported that there was no change in Harry’s condition. He accepted a drink invitation from Sam Bass, who proceeded to tell them about Frosty Welcome.

“And he say he pay me cash for ranch,” said Sam cautiously. “He give me five thousand day before yesterday, and he say he give me rest tonight, ten o’clock. ---- fool too drunk now, can’t wake up.”

“How much time is there left?” Thus Lem anxiously.

Sam looked at his watch.

“Still got an hour and forty minutes. But that ain’t enough, I tell yuh. That ---- fool can’t sober up that quick.”

“It’s about time for Lew to show up, ain’t it?” asked Pinon. “He’s supposed to----”

“Aw, to ---- with him!” Sam Bass did not care to discuss small details.

“What became of Hartley and Stevens?” Thus Lem Elder. “They went away right after the doctor made his examination.”

“Are you sure of that?” asked Clayton.

“---- sure. I’ve been up and down both sides of the street. Their horses ain’t at the racks and they ain’t in none of the buildings.”

Clayton and the three men from the 27A left the White Horse and went back to the Elk. Frosty Welcome had slipped from the lap of Joe Egan and was now reclining on the floor, with Joe’s feet on his head. Sam Bass snorted an oath, as they turned to the bar and ordered their drinks.

Sticky Clay came in and sat down near the door. He looked more sinister than ever tonight. He knew that some one had suggested that he had met Harry Allenby and they had finished their battle; but Sticky was not going to be frightened out of town by their talk.

A few minutes later Hank Bell came in. He looked around the place, saw Sticky and sat down beside him. The four men at the bar noticed these two. Lem Elder drank only half of his liquor, wiped his lips with the back of his hand and declared himself out of tobacco.

“Be back in a minute,” he said, and went out. At the doorway he almost bumped into Frank Allenby, who was coming in. The three men at the bar turned to look at Allenby, and those at the games hesitated in their play long enough to listen.

“Harry is conscious,” stated Allenby wearily. “But he refuses to tell us who shot him.”

The crowd murmured their wonderment, and none of them saw Hashknife and Sleepy, muddy from their long trip, come in through the rear of the room. They came down behind a roulette layout, where half a dozen players were grouped, and stopped.

“Does he know who shot him?” asked Forty Dollar.

Swan River entered as Forty Dollar spoke.

“I’ll bet he does,” said Swan River. “He’s protectin’ somebody. If it was an even break gun-fight, he don’t need to be afraid to tell who got him.”

“Are yuh sure he’s conscious?” asked Pinon Meade.

“Yeah, he’s conscious,” nodded Swan River. “It’s the queerest deal I’ve ever been up against.”

“Most deals look queer,” said Hashknife, coming toward the bar. His face was splashed with mud and his clothes were sticky with the same substance. The crowd centered their attention on him now.

“Where you been, Hashknife?” asked Forty Dollar.

“Ridin’ in the mud,” grinned Hashknife. He turned to Sam Bass-- “There’s some low places on yore road that yuh ought to bridge. A little rain makes a swamp out of ’em. My bronc turned over in one of ’em.”

“In my road?” queried Sam Bass.

“Yeah--out thataway. I don’t blame yuh for wantin’ to sell out. If I had that kind of a road----”

“Who wants to sell out?” Thus Sam Bass.

“You. Frosty told me he was buyin’ yuh out tonight.”

“Frosty?” Sam was both surprised and indignant.

“That’s why he wanted to wake Frosty up,” declared Forty Dollar. “I’ll betcha forty dollars that’s the reason.”

Sam Bass shut his lips. He did not want every one to know that he was selling out. Clayton adjusted his necktie and started to walk away from the bar.

“Better stay where yuh are, Clayton,” advised Hashknife. “You ain’t goin’ no place, yuh know.”

“What do you mean?” Clayton turned and stared at Hashknife, as though wondering what had been meant by that remark. But he stepped back against the bar.

“I was just thinkin’ about somethin’ that might interest yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “It happened over two years ago.”

“Two years ago?” questioned Clayton. “What do you know about anything that happened here two years ago, Hartley?”

Hashknife laughed and shifted his feet.

“Some folks might call it fortune tellin’, Clayton. Didn’t you know that I could see into the past?”

“What kind of bunk is he talkin’ anyway?” asked Sam Bass.

“Do yuh want me to demonstrate what I mean?” asked Hashknife.

“Hop to it,” laughed Forty Dollar. “We’ll all listen.”

“All right. Now I’m goin’ into a trance. Watch me closely.”

The games had all ceased and every one was interested. Hashknife’s expression did not change, except that he looked more serious. Then he began:

“I can see two men ridin’ through the hills. Down in a swale a man is squattin’ beside a little fire. He has two cows hog-tied near him. There’s a runnin’-iron and an old fry-pan on the fire. He takes the hot fry-pan and vents the brands on the right shoulders of the animals. He comes back to the fire, takes the runnin’-iron and draws a brand on each animal, just above where he has vented the original brands.

“Then I see the two men again. They see this man at the fire and he sees them. He jumps up, runs to his horse and mounts. He has lost his hat, but don’t stop to get it. The men circle the hill, tryin’ to head him off.

“These two men chase him through the hills, but he is too smart for them. The two men get separated. One of them circles back to the fire, while the other keeps on after the rustler. The one that circled back, dismounts at the fire. He looks at the animals, and then he looks all around. The fire is almost out.

“He puts the pan and iron into the fire again and puts on more fuel. Then he finds the rustler’s hat. I can tell by his face that he knows who owns that hat. I can’t see what he did with the hat, but it disappears from the picture.

“When the pan is hot again he vents the brand that the rustler put on. It is a big vent now, almost coverin’ the shoulder of both cows. Then he takes the runnin’-iron and draws a brand on each cow’s right hip. Now I can see him scatter the fire, look all around, and begin to look the cows all over again.

“Then I see the other man ride back there, and they are both talking. Now they ride away. I think they are talkin’ about leavin’ the cows there for evidence.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly and grinned.

“How do yuh all like that picture?”

* * * * *

Sticky and Hank Bell had got to their feet, staring at Hashknife, wondering what he meant, where he had secured this information. Clayton’s mouth was half-open and he was breathing like a man suffering from a bad cold.

“What does he mean?” whispered Allenby. “I was one of those men--the one who kept on after the----”

“What kind of foolishness is this?” demanded Clayton. “I was the other man, and there wasn’t anything like----”

Hank Bell was coming forward, staring at Clayton, who drew away from him.

“Hold everythin’, Hank,” advised Hashknife. “I’d advise everybody to hold quiet. This is ----”

Lem Elder came in through the open doorway and was half-way to the bar before he realized that the room was as quiet as a grave. He stopped suddenly, looking quickly around. His lips were twisted into a snarl and the skin seemed drawn tightly across his cheeks.

He looked at Hashknife, who was grinning at him, and his right hand opened and closed spasmodically.

“And that wasn’t all of the picture,” said Hashknife slowly. “I might ask Lem Elder to stand perfectly still. Yuh see it was like this. Allenby wanted to hire a detective. Clayton knew this; so he talked Allenby into lettin’ him get one.

“Clayton wrote a letter to a feller by the name of Seeley. Seeley didn’t last long. That was a mistake, I reckon. He wasn’t supposed to be shot, but the party who shot him thought it was the right thing to do. I’ve got the letter that Clayton wrote to Seeley.”

“What has that letter got to do with it?” asked Clayton. “I don’t care who reads that letter.”

“You should ’a’ asked Seeley to destroy it,” replied Hashknife. “That letter plumb ruined things for you, Clayton.”

“Ruined things?” Clayton’s voice was hoarse. He was afraid, but was trying to bluff. “Where--how did it ruin things?”

“Some folks don’t read between the lines, Clayton--I did.”

“Between the lines?” Clayton’s voice faltered.

“Yeah. Bud Bell went to the penitentiary, as innocent as I was of that charge. You knew it, Clayton. You was the man who came back to that fire and put on the HB brand. You knew who the rustler was. It gave you a hold over him and it put you in a position to steal Allenby’s cattle.

“With the help of these men you stole, shipped and sold all those Half-Circle Cross cows. The men who held up that train stole those two HB horses to make their getaway on, because the horses were so marked that there could be no mistake.

“You shared in that holdup. I don’t know why Elkins, the stage driver, was killed, but he probably tried for his gun when June Allenby accidentally rode in on the holdup. I forgot to ask her about it.”

“Ask her about it?” parroted Allenby wonderingly.

“She’s over at the hotel by this time,” said Hashknife. “I found her at----”

“Look out!” snapped Lem Elder. “By ----, they’re both over there, Sam! We’re stuck!”

It took Lem Elder’s statement to electrify Clayton and the 27A outfit. Clayton threw himself away from the bar, drawing a gun from a shoulder holster, while Sam Bass, Pinon Meade and Lem Elder shifted separately, each one streaking for his gun.

But they were caught between two fires. At the door was Hank Bell and Sticky Clay, blocking their exit in that direction, while Hashknife and Sleepy prevented them from going out the rear.

Clayton was dead on his feet before his gun was out of the holster. From beside the roulette layout, Sleepy was shooting slow and carefully, while Hashknife flung himself against the end of the bar and shifted his gun from man to man, as he emptied it.

Sam Bass went down, and across him fell Lem Elder, flinging his arms wide and knocking Pinon Meade back against the bar, where he sagged for a moment before going down in a crumpled heap.

The room was filled with powder smoke until faces and forms were mere indistinct things. The crowd had had no chance for a getaway, but now they vaulted the bodies and ran outside, while those from the other saloons and business places met them with a volley of questions.

Sticky Clay had been hit twice, but not badly enough to make him want a doctor. Hashknife’s right cheek was bleeding from a splinter which had been thrown from the bar, but Sleepy had escaped without a scratch.

The crowd, realizing that the fight was over, came crowding back in, questioning, coughing, wondering what it was all about. Swan River and Forty Dollar did not stampede with the crowd, and it was Swan River who first examined the four victims. Sam Bass was the only one alive, still conscious, but fading fast.

“Shut up!” roared Swan River. “Sam’s tryin’ to whisper and I can’t hear him.”

Sam Bass was making a valiant effort to say something, but the words were slow in coming. The crowd grew silent, as Sam’s tongue began to function.

“Money--all--in--valises,” he whispered. “Goin’--away--tonight. Sorry--” He swallowed thickly. “Sorry--shot--Elkins. He--went--for--gun. Pinon killed Seeley. I--guess--that’s--all.”