Chapter II: Part 2

“Good ——, don’t set there and tell me about it! Ain’t I been thinkin’ about it until m’ ears ring? Do yuh think I’m so —— ignorant that I don’t realize things like that? Hank, I dunno—” Armadillo’s voice softened. “It’s terrible. I s’pose the best thing to do is to throw that —— rooster away and eat supper in Arapaho City.”

* * * * *

While the sheriff rode back to Arapaho City with the body of his deputy sheriff and Hank Ludden went back to the Hard Luck ranch, trouble was brewing in another part of the Twisted River range, Scotty McLeod’s ranch.

It was a little ranch—just a two-room shack and a tumble-down stable, but within the fenced enclosure, bubbling from under a spreading sycamore, was a big spring which flowed water which did not freeze, even in the coldest weather.

It was not hot water, but cool enough to drink at any time, yet it was practically the same temperature all the year around. And it was located on what the Five Box outfit claimed as their range.

In other words, Scotty McLeod was a nester, a fighting Scot who defied the Five Box to put him off his little ranch. “Dutch” O’Day, owner of the Five Box, had tried in many ways to oust Scotty, but all his efforts had failed.

Not satisfied to hold the ranch and run his few head of stock, Scotty, angry at the Five Box, had secretly brought in a dozen sheep which he close-herded. To flaunt a dozen sheep in the face of the Five Box was like dangling a red rag in front of an angry bull.

Cowboys had taken long shots at the sheep in Scotty’s front yard, but without any casualties. Perhaps it was because they feared Scotty’s skill with a rifle that they did not come close enough for a good shot at the sheep.

But on this day Scotty had been to town, and in the meantime his sheep had managed to get out of the yard. Scotty noticed that about half of them had vanished when he returned; so he intended to fix the fence before cooking himself a meal, resolving to round up the lost sheep right away.

He was absorbed in the latest newspaper while his coffee-pot boiled over when he heard a noise at the door. Looking up, he beheld the face of Ben Corliss, foreman of the Five Box, a big, lean-faced man with a broken nose. Corliss carried a six-shooter in his right hand, with which he motioned to Scotty.

Corliss was a much bigger man than Scotty who was what might be termed undersized. Scotty’s hair was a flaming red and the color of his chin was almost the same tint, which exaggerated the blue of his eyes.

“What do ye want?” asked Scotty coldly.

“C’mere, nester,” Corliss motioned him outside. “Don’t make no fool break for a gun, McLeod.”

“I’m no fool!” snapped Scotty.

He followed Corliss out in the yard where he beheld his best sheep, now nothing more than an inanimate drag on the end of Corliss’ lariat rope.

“There’s four more back in the hills—dead,” said Corliss. “If you think you can turn sheep loose in these hills, you’ve got another think comin’.”

“They got away,” said Scotty simply. “I was in town.”

“Got away, eh?” Corliss backed to the carcass of the sheep and removed his rope which he coiled and threw over the horn of his saddle.

“You better imitate the sheep, McLeod. We’ve tolerated you about as long as we care to. _Sabe?_ We need a reason to wipe you out, and yore sheep furnished it. Now, you high-tail it out of here before we come back.”

“Ye mean to come back, do ye?” Scotty smiled softly. “Well, I’ll try to meet ye with a gr-r-rin, Cor-r-r-lis.”

Scotty began burring his r’s, which indicated that he was getting angry.

“Yeah, we’ll be back,” snarled Corliss.

“I’ll tr-ry to be here.”

“Yuh will, eh? Fine. Walk down to the gate with me, McLeod. I’m not goin’ to take any chances on you pottin’ me with yore rifle from the house.”

He forced Scotty to go with him to the gate and stand there while he mounted his horse.

“Now you just try runnin’ back to the house,” laughed Corliss. “The rest of my outfit are settin’ out there in range of here, and they’ll make a sieve of yore shack in about a minute. So go slow, you sheep-lovin’ pup.”

Corliss touched the spurs to his horse and galloped away, while the little Scot ducked low and ran swiftly toward his doorway, zig-zagging his course. A moment later he knew that Corliss had not lied.

A bullet struck in the gravel just beyond him, throwing up a little spurt of dust and hitting the house a resounding thwack! Another struck near his feet, ricocheted and broke one of the shack windows.

But before another one could throw gravel in his face, he dived through the doorway, rolled across the floor and lifted his rifle from where it stood in a corner of the room.

Then he ran back, wriggled out through an open window and ran to the corner where a scraggly bush gave him a little cover. He could see Corliss riding along through some heavy cover, and just beyond him he could see two horses. A man got into a saddle and seemed to be waving an arm at Corliss.

But Corliss was riding into heavier brush now, and Scotty could not see him plainly. The other man had shifted his position, which rather confused Scotty, but as he squinted at the brushy hillside he could see a moving horse. He was not exactly sure as to the identity of the rider, nor whether there was a rider, but decided that at least he would make somebody move quickly.

Scotty did not look any farther. He lifted his 45-70 rifle, swung the muzzle against the corner of the house, caught a quick sight and squeezed the trigger.

The big rifle jerked violently and its crashing report was flung back by the hills, while a cloud of smoke drifted back into Scotty’s face.

He lowered the muzzle quickly. He could see a saddle horse, but there was no sign of the rider. The horse turned and ran over the brow of the hill. Farther to the left some one was shooting at the house, and Scotty could hear the bullets hitting the walls. He levered in another cartridge and waited for some one to expose himself.

* * * * *

The entrance of the sheriff with his dead deputy caused Arapaho City to wake up. Joe Lane had been a favorite in the town, and his demise was more or less of a shock to every one. The sheriff went straight to his office, where several men helped him place the body on a cot.

To all their questioning the sheriff turned a deaf ear until the coroner had been notified. Then he gave them this short statement:

“Hank Ludden caught him rustlin’ cattle and shot him. Hank didn’t know who he was. There was two other men with him, and they were operatin’ at the old U6 corral.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the crowd which grouped around the doorway of the sheriff’s office, and it seemed to Hashknife that no one believed the sheriff.

“Rustlin’ ——!” snorted a cattleman. “Good excuse.”

The sheriff looked sharply at the speaker, but did not reply. He had expected just such sentiment.

“Speakin’ of shootin’,” remarked a fat-faced cowboy, whose legs were too short for his barrel-like body. “I jist rode in from the Five Box, and I shore hears a —— of a lot of shootin’ goin’ on over toward that nester’s place. Sounded like Fo’th of July.”

“Prob’ly somebody takin’ pot-shots at the —— shepherd,” laughed another. “I hear he’s got twelve sheep. He’s sure due to grab a harp pretty soon.”

The coroner arrived, and the sheriff ushered him in, shutting the door against the rest of the crowd, which resented such practise and repaired to the nearest saloon to talk things over.

Hashknife and Sleepy lingered until the sheriff came out, which was about a minute after the rest of the crowd had vanished. He squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, stopped as if waiting for them to ask a question, and then walked to his horse.

“You goin’ over to the nester’s place?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff paused and looked at them. It was rather unusual for a stranger to interest himself in this way.

“Why?” he asked shortly.

“Thought we might ride along and talk with yuh.”

“Well—” The sheriff paused. “Talk about what?”

“Oh, cabbages and kings, mebbe.”

“Cabbages? What’s the joke, stranger?”

“No joke. Wait until we get our horses and we’ll ride out there with yuh. It might interest yuh to know that we was the two men that Hank Ludden missed, when his horse moved.”

“Ye-e-eah?” The sheriff’s mouth opened widely, and his right hand slipped from his hip, where it had been resting.

“He mistook us for the two rustlers,” explained Hashknife quickly.

The sheriff’s mouth resumed its normal expression and he nodded slowly.

“Go get yore horses,” he said.

And then he added as an afterthought when he realized where their horses were tied—

“Swing around the town and meet me outside, will yuh?”

They mounted and left Arapaho over the same route they had used in entering. A quarter of a mile from town they overtook the sheriff who spurred his horse to a gallop.

“We’ll talk later,” he yelled at them. “Prob’ly have more time later on.”

That arrangement was all right with Hashknife and Sleepy. They realized that here was a sheriff who knew the value of swift action, and they appreciated the fact that he could wait to hear what they had to say.

About a mile from town the road to the nester’s ranch turned sharply to the left, while the main road continued to the Five Box. There was no let-up in speed. The sheriff sat his horse well, scanning the country as he rode.

Suddenly he jerked his horse sharply, almost blocking the two men behind him.

“Didja hear that shot?” he asked.

It came again, the echoing bang of a rifle, and not so far away.

“C’mon!” The sheriff roweled his horse and they went pounding up the old road, heading for the sound of the guns.

“Mebbe some —— fool is target shootin’,” yelled the sheriff, “but we’ve got to find out.”

The road led down through a ravine, twisting in and out of the brush, came out into a little valley, studded here and there with oak clumps, sloping gently upward toward where the nester’s cabin was located.

The three riders drew rein and scanned the surrounding hills. To the right of them and up on the side of the steep hill a huge outcropping of granite jutted out. And, as they scanned the hills, from behind this granite dike came the _whang_ of a high-power rifle.

The three men instinctively ducked their heads. Hashknife and Sleepy grinned foolishly at each other, while the sheriff whirled his horse and rode closer to the foot of the hill.

“Hey!” he yelled. “What in —— do yuh think yo’re doin’ up there?”

From among the rocks lifted the head and shoulders of a man. He peered down at them, wondering, no doubt, what it was all about.

“_Spow-ee-e-e-e-e!_”

A bullet ricocheted off the rock beside him, and he ducked like a rabbit, while from farther up the valley came the roar of a black-powder rifle cartridge.

“What in —— is goin’ on around here?” yelled the sheriff.

“Go up and muzzle that —— nester!” yelled the man behind the rock. “You dang near got me killed. Who in —— are you, anyway?”

“I’m the sheriff!”

“Oh, that’s different. This is Corliss, Pete. Go up and stop that —— nester, will yuh? He’s killed Oscar Naylor, and he’s got Moon down in a coyote hole across the cañon.”

“Yuh say he’s killed Naylor?”

“An hour ago, yeah. Look out for him, Pete. That —— fool can hit yore belt buckle at half a mile.”

No doubt this was a gross exaggeration of Scotty’s marksmanship, but showed what Ben Corliss thought of it after an hour of swapping lead with him.

The sheriff drew out a none too clean white handkerchief, grasped it by one corner and turned to Hashknife.

“You better stay here, gents. This nester might ’a’ gone crazy or color blind, and he sure can shoot.”

“Better all three go,” said Hashknife. “Take it slow, I’d say. Show him we ain’t tryin’ to rush him.”

“Good idea. C’mon.”

* * * * *

They went slowly up the road and soon came in sight of the little shack. The sheriff held up his flag of truce, waving it gently, while Hashknife and Sleepy rode one on each side of him, expecting any moment to have the nester fire upon them.

But nothing happened, and they dismounted at the gate. Several dead sheep were scattered around the yard, attesting to the fact that all the shots had not been fired at Scotty. Both front windows had been shot out.

“Hey! McLeod!” yelled the sheriff.

“And what would ye be wantin’, wavin’ your white rag and comin’ slow?”

Scotty had stepped out from the rear of the house and was looking them over.

“Oh, it’s the sher-r-riff, eh?”

“Yeah,” nodded the sheriff, walking toward Scotty.

“Did ye silence thim br-r-rave cowpunchers?” he asked, waving one hand in the general direction of his enemies.

“They’re all through, McLeod. What started all this?”

Scotty rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“Me sheep, sheriff. Several of thim got away, and the Five Box outfit killed ’em. Ben Corliss came with one of ’em on a r-r-rope, and he warned me to leave. He forced me to accompany him to the gate, and when I started back, his cohorts star-r-rted shootin’ at me. I got in the house, took me gun and returned their fire. We’ve been at it over an hour now, so I guess there’s been no harm done.”

“Corliss says you killed Oscar Naylor.”

“I don’t know about that. We had it hot and heavy for a while. They’ve killed all me sheep, I think, and my house will leak like a sieve in the next rain.”

“Give me your gun, McLeod,” ordered the sheriff.

The Scot frowned slightly, but grinned as he handed the gun across.

“I’d as soon, sheriff. I shot me last cartridge a while ago.”

He glanced toward the gate and his face hardened. Corliss was walking toward him, rifle in hand.

“You dir-r-rty pup!” gritted Scotty.

Corliss paid no attention to him, but spoke directly to the sheriff.

“Moon just yelled that he had found Naylor, and he’s dead.”

The sheriff sighed deeply and looked at Corliss.

“What’s yore side of this, Ben?”

“Go ahead and lie,” said McLeod.

Corliss scowled and started toward Scotty, but the sheriff stepped between them and held out his hand to Corliss.

“Give me yore gun, Ben. Yore six-gun, too.”

Corliss handed over the two weapons, looking sharply at Hashknife and Sleepy, two men he had never seen before. The sheriff knew that Corliss was wondering who they were, but he was in no position to say.

“The nester’s sheep got loose,” explained Corliss. “You know how we feel about sheep, Pete. We stopped some of ’em and I roped one, which I brought down here with me. I told McLeod what I thought of a sheep-raising nester, and told him he better call it a day and pull out of here.

“I made him walk to the gate with me because I didn’t want him too close to his rifle when I was ridin’ away. As soon as I pulled out he ran into the house and started shootin’ at us. Naylor and Moon were up there on the hill, and he got Naylor the first shot. Anyway, Moon says he got him with the first shot.

“Naylor didn’t know that McLeod had run back for his gun, so he didn’t have a chance in the world. I wasn’t back to ’em when the shootin’ started, and he drove me off that side of the valley. That’s how I happened to be up there behind that granite cliff where yuh found me.”

The sheriff turned to McLeod.

“How about it, McLeod?”

“Par-r-rt true, par-r-rt lies, sheriff. They were shootin’ at me before I got back to the house. I was lucky to get in there alive. If Naylor didn’t know the shootin’ had started, he must have been deaf, because there were several shots fired before I got me gun, and there was more fired before I had any chance to take par-r-rt.”

“Yo’re a liar!” snapped Corliss.

“Drop that, Ben,” warned the sheriff. “This is no place to discuss it—not between you and McLeod.” He turned to McLeod. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to arrest you, McLeod. I’m not sayin’ that you were not justified in what you have done, but a man has been killed, and that demands an investigation.”

“I suppose so,” nodded McLeod. “I’m not sorry, sheriff. They forced me to it, and if I killed a man, he had his chance the same as the rest of us. It was war-r-r, and no favors. Perhaps I’m sorry it was Naylor instead of Corliss, because I had no quarrel with Naylor.”

“You’ll hang just as high for Naylor as for me,” said Corliss angrily.

“But with less satisfaction,” replied Scotty coldly.

The sheriff turned to Corliss.

“You go back and help Moon bring Naylor’s body down to the road. We’ll saddle McLeod’s horse and meet yuh there.”

“All right, sheriff.”

Corliss turned and hurried back, while the four men went to McLeod’s little stable and let him saddle his own horse. Scotty did not complain, until the sheriff assured him that he would get a fair trial.

“Will I?” he asked coldly. “With a cattlemen’s jury?”

“The sheep were against yuh, pardner,” said Hashknife kindly. “That was yore mistake.”

“I’ll admit it,” said Scotty. “I’m bullheaded. Since I’ve been here I’ve fought to live. The Five Box is a big outfit for one nester to fight. I was whipped a long time ago, but I didn’t know it.

“I was a fool to bring the sheep. It was like takin’ a big roll of bills from your pocket, placin’ thim on the table behind your poker chips, tryin’ to frighten a gambler. I wanted to make the Five Box fightin’ mad,” Scotty laughed bitterly. “I think I made a big success of it, too.”

“And the witnesses are two to one,” reminded Hashknife.

“Aye, that’s true. But so was the shootin’.”

“And yuh never can tell,” agreed Hashknife smiling at Scotty’s optimism.

They led Scotty’s horse back to the other horses, where they all mounted and rode back down the little valley. Down near the spot where they had discovered Corliss, they found Corliss and Moon with the body of Oscar Naylor. Moon was a short, heavy-set cowboy, with a round face and an upturned, brown mustache.

* * * * *

There was a certain resemblance between the face of Jim Moon, nicknamed “Honey,” and that of the usual artists’ conception of the Man in the Moon. But Honey Moon was neither smiling nor beaming. He scowled heavily at Scotty McLeod and waited for the sheriff to speak.

The sheriff’s examination of Naylor was brief.

“Dead as ——,” he said coldly. “Rope him to his saddle and we’ll go to town.”

“Ain’t yuh goin’ to arrest that —— nester?” asked Honey Moon.

His voice was husky, high-pitched.

“Tub o’ lar-r-rd!” snorted Scotty.

“The nester is under arrest,” said the sheriff. “If you’ve got any remarks to make to my prisoner or about him, don’t let me hear ’em. I’ve taken charge of him, Honey, and it’s up to me to protect him. _Sabe?_”

“Oh, all right,” grudgingly.

Hashknife liked Pete Darcey for that remark. It showed that the sheriff was playing square with his prisoner.

“And I want you boys to pack a message to Dutch O’Day,” said the sheriff as they roped Naylor’s body to his horse.

“You tell O’Day that I’m holdin’ him responsible for anythin’ that might happen to McLeod’s few head of stock or to his little ranch while McLeod is in my charge.”

“You don’t think O’Day would bother his —— stuff, do yuh?” asked Corliss indignantly.

“No matter what I think, Corliss. You take the message.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him all right. But Dutch O’Day ain’t a man who—”

“I’m not askin’ for any pedigree, Corliss. I know O’Day as well as you do. I’m not makin’ him responsible for only his own acts. I’m includin’ the Five Box outfit.”

“Oh, all right. Do yuh want me and Honey to go to town with yuh, Pete?”

“Not unless yuh want to.”

“We better go,” advised Honey Moon. “Naylor was my bunkie, and I want to see that nester behind the bars.”

The sheriff tied-off his lash-rope, picked up the lead rope on Naylor’s horse and mounted his own animal. Corliss had been rolling a cigaret, his eyes squinting inquiringly at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Pete, who are these two men?” he asked abruptly.

The sheriff looked at Hashknife and Sleepy, frowned slightly and rubbed the back of his hand across his chin. He knew no more about them than Corliss did.

Hashknife grinned slowly and shifted in his saddle.

“We’re the Smith brothers,” he said easily. “I’m the tallest, and he’s—” pointing at Sleepy—“the shortest.”

Hashknife said it so earnestly that every one took it for granted until Scotty McLeod’s sense of humor caused him to snort audibly. The sheriff turned his head and looked at his prisoner reprovingly.

“Friends of the nester, eh?” growled Corliss, who had misconstrued Scotty’s snort.

“Yuh never can tell,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Well, we better be movin’ along,” said the sheriff, and the cavalcade headed for Arapaho City.

Several times during the trip Hashknife caught Scotty McLeod looking at him, a grin on his lips. Scotty was evidently still amused at Hashknife’s self-introduction.

When almost to town Hashknife spurred in close to the sheriff and told him of seeing Joe Lane fall from his horse and of their narrow escape from Hank Ludden’s bullet. The sheriff listened closely, but made no comment.

“Do you know anybody around here?” he asked.

“Not a soul, Sheriff.”

“Lookin’ for work?”

“Nope. We might take jobs, but we’re never lookin’ for work.”

The sheriff grinned and shook his head.

“I dunno what you’ll be able to find around here, Smith. You sure showed up on a lively day. This is the most killin’ we’ve ever had in one day. I know I’ve got to appoint me another deputy, dang the luck.”

They rode in to the main street of Arapaho City and to the front of the sheriff’s office. The word spread quickly, and they had hardly dismounted when men came running from all directions to stare at the cavalcade and ask questions.

They crowded around the body of Naylor, questioning the two cowboys from the Five Box, while the sheriff took Scotty McLeod through his office and locked him in a cell at the rear.

But the crowd could get no satisfaction from questioning Corliss and Moon, so they surrounded the sheriff when he came out.

“Back up, you fellers!” snapped the sheriff. “Some of the Five Box outfit got smart with McLeod, tha’s all. Give me room to unlash that body, will yuh?”

“The nester killed Naylor?” asked one of them.

The sheriff did not reply, but busied himself with the ropes.

“Here comes Mrs. Lane,” said one of the crowd, as if warning them. The talking ceased, and several men stepped off the sidewalk, glancing quickly at the tall, slender girl who was hurrying toward them.

She was wearing a kitchen apron over her white dress, and there was a smudge of flour across her nose and cheek.

She stopped short when the crowd moved aside and she could see the body roped to the saddle. The sheriff turned and looked at her, but his glance strayed quickly away and around the crowd as if looking for some one to help him handle the situation.

The woman came closer, her eyes wide with apprehension. She stumbled over a warped board, stopped. A breeze blew a lock of hair across her eyes and she brushed it back with a trembling hand. A man swore softly and moved away, going slowly across the street. Two more followed his example, glad to get away.

“Pete, what—is—it?” Mrs. Lane spoke haltingly.

The sheriff looked at her. His lips twisted painfully.

“This is—is Naylor,” he said. “You knew Naylor, Mary.”

“Yes, I—I knew him.” Her voice was strained, hoarse with emotion as she came slowly forward to the edge of the sidewalk.

“I—I knew Naylor. You say that is Naylor? Somebody—” she tried to smile, choked—“somebody said it—it was Joe. But it wasn’t Joe. It was Naylor. Oh, I’m sorry it—it had to be anybody.”

“Yes’m.” The sheriff looked appealingly around. This was making it worse. Some one had told her that Joe was dead, and now the shock would be just double. She was trying to smile, and he was going to tell her the truth. He moved toward her, came to the edge of the sidewalk, his hands clenched tightly.

“Mary,” he whispered, “I’ve got to tell yuh the truth. I was intendin’ to come right to yuh, right after it happened, but this other deal came up and I didn’t have time. Joe got—”

The sheriff stopped and turned away. He could not bear to look at the expression of her face. She knew now. The smudge of white flour was not visible now. Her lips were compressed tightly and her eyes were staring vacantly into space.

* * * * *

Hashknife stepped to the sidewalk beside her. He expected her to faint. She interpreted his move and looked up at him.

“Thank you,” she whispered bravely. “I’m all right.”

“You’ve got nerve,” said Hashknife softly. “Keep hangin’ on to it, ma’am.”

“Where is Joe?” She turned to the sheriff, who was mopping his brow with a gaudy-colored handkerchief.

“They moved him down to the doctor’s home,” offered one of the men.

“Mary, you hadn’t better go down there,” advised the sheriff. “You wait until yuh kinda get over the shock.”

“Get over the shock?” Her lips trembled and she choked back a sob. “How did it happen? Who did it?”

“Good ——!” muttered one of the men hollowly.

And while the woman waited for some one to tell her, the crowd drifted across the street, singly and in groups, leaving only the sheriff, Hashknife and Sleepy to tell her.

It was too much for the sheriff, who turned to Hashknife.

“Yo’re a stranger here, Smith. For ——’s sake, take her away from here and tell her about it. If you’ll do this for me, I’ll never forget it.”

“But—but what is it all about?” asked Mary Lane blankly.

Hashknife touched her on the arm.

“If yuh want to walk down to the doctor’s office, I’ll go with yuh, ma’am. Mebby it’ll be easier for me to tell yuh all about it.”

Without any comment she walked with him, while the sheriff and Sleepy looked after them, thankful that Hashknife was game enough to accept the delicate task of explaining things to her.

“I think it was an accident.” Hashknife could think of no better way to break the news to her.

“You mean, he was accidentally—”

“Yes’m. Anyway, it looks thataway to me. Yore father was lookin’ for rustlers, they tell me, and he runs into three of ’em. Somehow they got away from him, and after—”

“My God!” Mary stopped and stared at Hashknife. “You mean that my father shot Joe?”

“Well, I tell yuh I think it was an accident. Yore dad seen this man ridin’ along and he—”

But there was no use in going farther, and he knew it.

“That’s why they wouldn’t tell me,” she said painfully. “All those men walked away, looking so queerly at me. My own father shot Joe. He thought Joe was a rustler, and they—”

She shuddered and Hashknife grasped her arm.

“No, I’m not going to faint,” she told him. “You are a stranger and you don’t know about things. They all know that my father disliked Joe. They’ll say that he killed him out of spite.”

“I don’t think your father would murder a man.”

Mary Lane looked at Hashknife, her eyes filled with horror and pain, but her lips were firm now.

“No, he wouldn’t murder,” she said slowly. “He thought Joe was a rustler, and Joe can’t prove he wasn’t.”

Hashknife shook his head. Two men were crossing the street from a hitch-rack, and Hashknife recognized one of them as Hank Ludden. The other was Armadillo Jones. Mary Lane saw them, and turned her head away.

They came to the edge of the sidewalk and stood together looking at Mary. Armadillo squinted at Hashknife, and there were tears in his eyes, or it might have been caused by the sun and the dust.

Mary looked up at Hashknife and said:

“I will go the rest of the way alone. Thank you for telling me, Mr. Smith.”

She turned and walked away, not even looking at the two men. They followed her with their eyes until she turned the corner, going past the old blasted cottonwood which pointed a crooked forefinger skyward as if promising a retribution.

“You shore raised ——,” declared Armadillo, slowly and distinctly. “Never even looked at us.”

“Can yuh blame her?” asked Ludden hoarsely.

“Well, my ——, I never shot any of her relations!” retorted Armadillo hotly. “Jist because we’re pardners, it ain’t my fault if yuh shoot somebody.”

Hank Ludden turned and walked slowly back toward the hitch-rack. Armadillo squinted at Hashknife and turned his head to watch Hank cross the street. After a moment he hitched up his belt, spat reflectively and followed Hank.

Hashknife went back to the sheriff’s office. They had placed the body of Naylor on a cot. The bullet had torn its way through the man’s body, making a wicked wound, but the sheriff was unable to say whether the man had died instantly or not.

“I seen Naylor fall,” said Moon, who had come back to the office after Hashknife and Mrs. Lane had walked away.

“I wasn’t far from him. We seen Corliss comin’ back, so we swung around, intendin’ to ride over the ridge, when all to once I hears the bullet hit Naylor.

“He didn’t say anythin’—jist fell off. I swung my horse around to go back to him, but that —— nester started heavin’ bullets so close to me that I unloaded off my bronc and dug myself in. My gosh, that jigger sure can shoot straight.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, and in a few minutes the sheriff joined them.

“Goin’ to eat somethin’,” he told them. “C’mon and have a bite with me. Have a cup of coffee or anythin’. I want to hear how Mary Lane took the news.”

* * * * *

They walked down to the Pekin Café, where the Chinaman with the Irish name grinned at them and hastened to take their orders.

“I told the lady all about it,” said Hashknife. “Yuh can imagine how she’d take it, can’t yuh? But she didn’t scream nor faint, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“She’s got nerve,” mused the sheriff. “Mary loved Joe Lane. I ain’t never been married, but if I ever do, I hope my wife will like me as well as Mary liked Joe.”

The sheriff sighed deeply and drummed on the table with his big fingers.

“This has been a hard day for Arapaho City. Two dead men, a broken heart and a man in jail.”

“What will they do to the nester?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno.” The sheriff squinted gloomily at the wall. “The sheep will hurt his chances with a jury.”

“Only twelve sheep,” said Hashknife.

“Numbers won’t matter, Smith. Sheep are hated in this country. If one of the Five Box had killed McLeod, it wouldn’t be worth my while to arrest them, because any jury in this county would turn ’em loose.

“I had to arrest McLeod. Perhaps he wasn’t to blame. I know those Five Box boys, and they’re wild as ——. But I had to do it, as much to save him as anythin’. They’d go back and kill him sure. This way there’s a chance for him to get off with manslaughter.”

“Yuh spoke about Dutch O’Day,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah. Dutch owns the Five Box outfit. He’s a wizened, little old Irishman, with temper of the devil. Several years ago he got both legs broke in a runaway. Wheels went over both legs below the knee.

“The bones were crushed pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, they didn’t knit well. The doctor managed to save his legs, but little good it did him. He’ll never walk. All day long he sits on the porch of the Five Box ranch-house and curses everything and everybody. Got a big Chink cook who carries Dutch where he wants to go, and takes care of him. Dutch curses Long How, calls him How Long, but the Chink just grins.

“Once in a great while Dutch comes to town. It ain’t often. He thinks everybody is laughin’ at him, but they’re not, of course. Who would laugh at a cripple? His mind must be twisted a little over his trouble. He probably egged the boys into makin’ an attack on McLeod. Dutch has tried to force McLeod off that place, but didn’t quite make it. Dutch wants that spring for a winter waterhole.”

“Why didn’t he buy McLeod out?” asked Hashknife. “It would be worth it to the Five Box, I’d think.”

“Buy ——! Do you think Dutch O’Day would buy from a nester? Not that it wouldn’t be the square thing to do, Smith. But the principle of the thing would be all wrong. If McLeod goes to the penitentiary, the Five Box will take back that spring, but I think O’Day is wise enough to order hands off until the case is settled.”

“How many punchers does O’Day usually have?”

“Four. Oh, sometimes he puts on extra men. Corliss, Moon, Naylor and Dayne have been with him a long time. I dunno who he’ll get to take Naylor’s place.”

“What kind of a feller is this Corliss?”

“All right. He’s the foreman. You’ve got to credit him with havin’ patience. Anybody that’ll take orders from O’Day must have patience. He has to handle most of O’Day’s business because O’Day can’t get around. Corliss is all right. He’s a darned good cowman, knows his business. Today is the first time he’s ever got wild, and that was probably because he had orders from O’Day.”

“I’ve never seen that Five Box brand,” said Hashknife. “What does she look like, Sheriff?”

The sheriff took out the stub of a lead pencil and an envelope. He drew an oblong, three times as long as its width. Across this at right angles he drew another of the same proportions, which made a square center with the same size squares on each side. It might have been called a cross brand, except that all sides were of equal length.

“That’s the Five Box brand,” said the sheriff. “It was Dutch O’Day’s own idea. He said he was goin’ to have a brand that nobody could alter and get away with it.”

“It sure looks like he’d got it,” grinned Hashknife. “Most any rustler would balk at changin’ that darned thing. I’d like to meet Dutch O’Day, Sheriff.”

“The —— yuh would! Well, mebby you’ll get a chance. We’ll see that he comes in for McLeod’s hearin’, and you’ll probably hear him at his very best. He can hate louder and harder than any man on earth.”

“Any special person?” asked Sleepy.

“The one who just spoke to him last.”

Hashknife and Sleepy grinned and leaned back to let Pat put their orders on the table.

“Yo’ no like soup?” asked the Chinaman.

“Compulsory?” grinned Sleepy.

“Jus’ same noodle today. I hear somebody get kill, eh?”

“Joe Lane and Oscar Naylor,” said the sheriff. “Two dead men in town today, Pat.”

“Shoot each othah, She’iff?”

“No-o-o.”

“Whisky?”

“No-o-o.”

“Hm-m-m! Ve’y solly fo’ Joe Lane. Naylor owe me tlee dolla.”

The Chinaman shook his head sadly and shuffled back to the kitchen. He didn’t feel sorry for Naylor. He felt sorry for himself, and it would be difficult for another cowboy to get credit at the Pekin Café.

* * * * *

It was two days later that McLeod’s hearing was held, and in the meantime the “Smith brothers” had demonstrated to the poker-playing element of Arapaho City that they knew one card from another.

Corliss offered to take them on at the Five Box ranch, but they declined the jobs. It was all right with Corliss. He had told O’Day about them, and the old Irishman had told him to offer them the customary forty dollars a month.

About fifteen minutes before McLeod’s hearing was to take place, Dutch O’Day came to Arapaho City, driving a wild pair of buckskin horses to a buckboard, while beside him sat a big Chinaman, clinging with both hands to the seat.

O’Day drove up in front of the War Paint saloon, jerked the horses back on their haunches and swore at the Chinaman for being slow in getting around to their heads. Hashknife and Sleepy were in front of the saloon, and they were willing to agree with the sheriff’s description of O’Day.

He was thin to the point of emaciation, his bony shoulders threatened to tear holes in his colorless shirt, and there was not enough meat on his face to hide the contour of his skull. But his features were typically Irish, and Hashknife wondered if somewhere beneath that wormwood and gall there wasn’t a spark of humor and kindness.

“Tie thim up, ye —— heathen!” he shrilled at the Chinaman who was fussing with a rope.

He twisted his head and glared at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Who th’ —— are ye starin’ at, ye saddle-slickin’ dummies?”

“You’d make anybody stare,” said Hashknife coldly. “I’ve been told that yo’re the meanest old —— in this country, but I think they’re wrong.”

“Ye do, eh?” O’Day leaned forward, his thin lips twisted in a snarl. “And jist why do ye think they’re wrong?”

“They didn’t cover enough territory, O’Day.”

“Oh!” O’Day leaned back and squinted at Hashknife, his face twisted with impotent wrath. “Ye don’t think they did, eh? By ——, if I was able to get out of this rig, I’d pay you out for that.”

“If you’d been able to get out of that rig, somebody would have killed you a year ago. You’ve gained a sweet reputation, O’Day. Just because yo’re a cripple you think you have the right to curse everybody, say what you please. But you haven’t. Yo’re just a little atom in the scheme of things. Hard luck has soured you, or you think it has, but down in yore soul is the wish that you could come back, that you could have the good will of every one, be a man among men in spite of yore condition.”

O’Day listened to Hashknife, his mouth half open, as if to interrupt. But he held his tongue. The Chinaman finished hitching the team and had come back to the wheel. O’Day shifted his eyes from Hashknife to the Chinaman, squinting at him closely. Then—

“Did ye get thim tied, How Long? Ye did? Thank ye kindly. Now, if ye are ready, How Long, ye may assist me across the way.”

The Chinaman looked curiously at O’Day. It was the first time that O’Day had ever spoken to him in that tone. It had always been with a curse. He leaned inside the buckboard, lifted O’Day easily and started across the street with him. And O’Day twisted his head, looked back at Hashknife and actually laughed.

“You see how easy it is, O’Day?” called Hashknife.

The smile snapped out like the turning out of an electric light.

“Go to ——, will ye?” snarled O’Day, and turned away to swear at How Long.

Hashknife shook his head, still smiling.

“I’m right, Sleepy. O’Day doesn’t hate the world. He hates O’Day. He sits at his ranch all the time, knowing that he has made every one dislike him, knowing that no man can speak a good word for him. He can’t get out and win back his friends. They won’t go to see him. The bitterness of his soul is against himself, and he takes it out on the world.”

“He’s sure a perfect cross between a polecat and a badger,” said Sleepy, who was very practical. “It’s too bad the wagon didn’t run across his neck.”

There were only three witnesses examined at the hearing, Moon, Corliss and McLeod. It was a case of two witnesses to one; two men who swore that McLeod opened fire on them without warning, and that it was either the first or second shot that killed Naylor.

McLeod told his story in a straightforward way, but the law accepted the Five Box version, and Scotty McLeod was bound over to the superior court, charged with murder.

Hashknife walked back with McLeod and the sheriff, and when McLeod was again locked in his cell, Hashknife asked him to go over his story again.

“But I’ve told the truth,” insisted McLeod. “I can’t tell ye any more than I have.”

“What’s the idea, Smith?” queried the sheriff.

“I believe McLeod’s story, tha’sall. I hate to see an innocent man sent up or hung. He has told his story. I’ve heard it twice, but I want to ask questions, if I may.”

“It’s all right with me,” said the sheriff. “I can’t make McLeod talk.”

“I’ll talk,” nodded the prisoner. “Ask the questions.”

“How did yore sheep get out?”

“Sure, I dunno that.”

“I do. I was out there yesterday. The dead sheep are in the corral, and there’s no way for a sheep to get out except through the gate.”

“Ah-ha! So they turned me sheep out, eh?”

“Mebbe.”

“You mean they wanted an excuse to start trouble with McLeod?” asked the sheriff.

“Somethin’ like that. McLeod, you say they were shooting at you as you ran back toward the house?”

“Aye, several shots. I fell into the house, took me gun, fell out through a back window and went to the corner.”

“Were they still shootin’ at the house?”

“Aye, they wer-r-re.”

“They tell me you’re a good shot, McLeod. Did you draw a good bead on Naylor?”

“I dunno who he was. Corliss told me that his men were in the hills ready to kill me if I ran back for my gun. I could see some men. I dunno how many. I drew down on one who was on a horse, and I wasn’t quite sure of my aim. It was a long ways.”

“And you saw the man fall?”

“I did not. I saw a riderless horse, so I thought I had hit somebody.”

“You didn’t know how many men were in the hills?”

“I did not. I didn’t know how many there were until it was all over, and you came with the sheriff.”

“I reckon that’s about all,” said Hashknife.

“But that won’t help McLeod any,” said the sheriff. “Even if the Five Box boys did turn the sheep loose to get a reason for startin’ trouble, it won’t help McLeod much at this trial.”

“Possibly not. But it shows that they intended to start trouble,” Hashknife turned to McLeod. “Did you ever meet Dutch O’Day?”

“No, I never have. I’ve minded my own business, and I’ve had no occasion to go to the Five Box.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and the sheriff went back to the office. The sheriff sighed and sat down in a chair.

“Well, that much of it is over. This afternoon they bury both Naylor and Joe Lane. I was just wonderin’.” The sheriff squinted at the ceiling. “Just wonderin’ what interest you’ve got in this trouble, Smith?”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, lighted it carefully and inhaled deeply before looking at the big sheriff.

“You don’t mind, do yuh, Sheriff?”

“——, no! But I was just wonderin’ if you two happened to drift in here or were yuh sent here. Yuh don’t need to answer it either way. Mebby I was thinkin’ out loud.”

“We drifted in,” said Hashknife slowly. “Mebby there was a reason, but nobody sent us. A week ago we didn’t know anythin’ about the Twisted River country.”

“Yore business is yore own,” said the sheriff. “Excuse me for talkin’ about it. Are yuh goin’ to the funerals?”

“Nope. We didn’t know either of ’em. And we’re not morbidly curious.”

“I reckon yo’re right. I’ve got to go. Folks are talkin’ about me and my rustlin’ deputy, and I’ve got to stick with him to the last sod.”

“You don’t think the old man killed him on purpose, knew who he was, do yuh?”

“My ——, no! If you could have seen the look on the old man’s face when he seen it was Joe Lane! No, Hank Ludden is no murderer. I’d bank on it, Smith.”

Hashknife left the office and wandered up the street. Old Dutch O’Day was sitting in his buckboard, talking with Corliss. Hashknife saw them look toward him and exchange a few words. Then Corliss nodded his head and walked toward the door of the War Paint saloon.

Hashknife intended to ignore O’Day, but O’Day would have it otherwise, and called to Hashknife.

“How’s yore disposition?” asked Hashknife.

“What in —— do you care?” retorted O’Day.

“I just wanted to know before I stopped, O’Day. I might throw a rock at a peevish old badger, but I’d not stop and waste words with him.”

“Come back here!” snapped O’Day. “You’re the first —— man I’ve seen in a year that had guts enough to tell me where to head in.”

Hashknife came back and leaned against a front wheel.

“Corliss offered ye a job, didn’t he?” asked O’Day.

“Yeah,” indifferently.

“Mebbe ye don’t want a job.”

“Mebbe not.”

“Ah-h-h-h-h!” O’Day cleared his throat angrily. “Ye’r too —— cool! That —— heathen pair o’ legs of mine has gone down to the Pekin Café to ta-alk Chinese wid another of the same breed, and I’m left here to the mercy of every gallinipper that—that—” O’Day spat viciously and glared at Hashknife.

“Why don’tcha smile for a change?” asked Hashknife. “I’d be a little careful at first, if I was you ’cause it’ll wrinkle yore face the other way and might break the skin.”

O’Day glared with impotent wrath, his hands clenched in his lap. But as Hashknife had surmised, back of his bitterness was a spark of humor, and it was forced to the surface.

“Ye almost made me laugh,” he said, choking a trifle.

“I’m not tryin’ to make yuh laugh. I’m tryin’ to make yuh think, O’Day.”

“Think?” O’Day stared at him and his face twisted with bitterness. “My ——, man, what do ye think I’ve been doing since I lost me legs? Think? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s all there is left for me to do—think.”

Hashknife turned his head and looked at Hank Ludden and Armadillo Jones who were crossing the street from a hitch-rack.

“I’d rather be in your fix than in Hank Ludden’s,” said Hashknife softly.

“Ye’d rather? And why would ye, man?”

“He killed his daughter’s husband.”

“I know he did. Joe Lane was a rustler.”

“No matter what he was, O’Day. They say that Ludden worshipped his daughter. She married against his wishes and he has never been to see her. She loved her husband enough to give up her father, and he killed her husband. Ain’t that worse than not bein’ able to walk? Yore pain was physical, O’Day. Any ache in yore soul has been put there willingly by you.”

O’Day turned his head and squinted at Ludden, squinting thoughtfully. Then he turned back and nodded.

“Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. “God knows I’ve hurt no one except with my tongue. I wonder does the man realize what he has done.”

“I think so, O’Day. I watched his face the other day when his daughter passed him by. I felt the pain in it myself, and I’m kinda salty. And the pain won’t pass like the pain of a physical hurt. But I don’t think he’ll curse the world for something that he can’t help.”

“Here comes my Chinese legs,” said O’Day softly. “I hope he had a good visit with Pat Ling.”

The big Chinaman came up to them, looking inquiringly at O’Day, waiting for his orders.

“We’ll be going, How Long,” said O’Day, and then to Hashknife—“If ye care to, come out to the Five Box, Smith. If ye need a job for you or your pardner, come and get it. I’m glad I stopped ye when I did. So-long.”

Hashknife stepped closer and held out his hand. O’Day hesitated, glanced around, as though wondering who might see it, and grasped Hashknife’s hand.

“The first handshake in years,” he said huskily. “Perhaps it’s because ye are a stranger. No, by ——! Ye knew what I am—was—and ye—” O’Day turned to the Chinaman. “Don’t drive too fast, How Long. Me legs are hur-rtin’ me.”

Without another glance at Hashknife, O’Day drove away. As far as Hashknife could see them, O’Day had not turned his head. Hashknife stepped on the sidewalk in front of the saloon and leaned against a post, rolling a cigaret.

Arapaho City was getting ready for the double funeral. Down in front of the livery stable, a man was washing the antiquated hearse, its two remaining black plumes standing askew on opposite corners of the equipage. As Hashknife watched the cleaner, another man brought out two gray horses which they proceeded to hitch to the hearse.

Several men were going around the old cottonwood heading for the doctor’s home where the services were to be held. Rigs were arriving regularly, but were turning off to the right before reaching the main street.

Across the street from Hashknife, sitting close together on a bench, were Hank Ludden and Armadillo Jones. The proprietor of the general store came out, wearing his cutaway coat and an antiquated derby hat. He locked the door, glanced quickly at the two men on the bench and hurried up the street.

* * * * *

The hearse went past, rattling badly from disuse, the two gray horses swinging away from each other as the driver checked their natural tendencies to go fast. The two old men watched the hearse turn the corner, but it seemed to Hashknife that neither of them spoke to the other.

Sleepy came from the saloon with Honey Moon and Corliss, followed by Layne, a skinny, bow-legged cowboy, who carried his left arm stiffly bent at the elbow, as though about to strike at something or somebody. His nose had been broken at some time, giving him a disk-faced appearance.

“Goin’ to the funeral, Smith?” asked Corliss.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Nope, I’m not curious.”

“I ain’t goin’ either,” said Sleepy.

“We’ve kinda got to go,” said Honey Moon dolefully. “Yuh see, Naylor ain’t got no relation, not that we know about, and it ain’t a reg’lar funeral unless somebody mourns. Naylor was a good feller and he deserves a send-off.”

“C’mon,” grunted Layne. “Let’s git it over with. I’m glad Dutch O’Day didn’t decide to go to the funeral. He’d likely cuss the minister before it was over with.”

The three cowboys went down the sidewalk, rattling their spurs, mounted their horses at the hitch-rack and rode around the corner. The sheriff came up the opposite side of the street until he noticed the two old men on the bench, when he crossed the street and came up to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“I didn’t want to pass ’em,” he told Hashknife. “I got close enough to see old Hank’s face, and that was enough for me.”

“I guess that’s right,” nodded Hashknife.

“Well.” The sheriff sighed deeply. “I reckon I’ve got to go and set on the mourner’s bench, boys. These things ain’t so easy for me.”

“You won’t be on the mourner’s bench,” said Hashknife. “It’s over there in front of the store.”

“I reckon yo’re right at that. So-long.”

The sheriff went on, his Sunday boots creaking a protest. Hashknife rolled a fresh cigaret, his expression deadly serious as he spread the tobacco carefully along the crimped paper. Sleepy glanced at him and began rolling one for himself.

“I’m ready,” said Sleepy seriously, “to add my quit-claim deed to that other one on the Arapaho City signboard. Anybody can have my share of the —— thing.”

Hashknife shook his head, squinting thoughtfully, the unlighted cigaret hanging to his lower lip. Slowly he drew a match from his pocket and snapped it to a light with his thumb nail.