Chapter III: Part 3

“We can’t leave now, Sleepy. I can’t go away and remember them two old men over on that bench, and that white-faced woman. I’d always be lookin’ back, wonderin’, you know, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, I know, cowboy.”

“And there’s a letter I’ve got to answer.”

“When?”

“Just as soon as I find his address.”

Sleepy nodded and hitched up his belt, indicating the saloon door with a jerk of his head.

“All right,” said Hashknife. “I need one just now.”

They went into the War Paint. There were only two human beings left on the main street of Arapaho City; two old men who humped together on the little bench, straining their eyes toward a spot beyond the old cottonwood where they could see the first few rigs of the funeral procession, lining up for the cemetery trip.

* * * * *

The next day Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to the old U6 corral. The sheriff had given them directions, and they had little trouble in finding the place, as an old road, nearly grown up with weeds and brush, led from the main highway to where the old ranch-house once stood.

A few Five Box and HL cattle were at the old waterhole, and a magpie chattered at them from a high pole of the corral. They drew up beside the old fence and Hashknife glanced at his watch.

“It took us almost an hour to reach here, Sleepy,” he remarked.

“That’s prob’ly a world’s record,” said Sleepy dryly.

“What’ll we do now? Go back to Arapaho and brag about it?”

Hashknife replaced his watch and ignored Sleepy’s sarcasm.

“All right, I’ll give us three cheers,” grinned Sleepy.

They went around to the corral gate, looking for evidences of the branding fire, but there was none.

“Tracked out or wiped out,” said Hashknife.

He squinted at the top of the ridge from where Hank Ludden had first seen the rustlers at work.

“That must be where the old man’s horse came out and put the rustlers on the run,” said Hashknife. “It’s too bad he came alone after them.”

“It’s too bad he came at all,” replied Sleepy. “He’d ’a’ saved himself a lot of misery by stayin’ home that day. What’ll we do next?”

“From what the sheriff said, the HL ranch must lie almost due north of here. So we’ll kinda angle out through the hills and visit old man Ludden. I’d like to have a little talk with him.”

They circled to the left of the butte and headed north, riding slowly. After the first mile the hills were more open, covered with a fairly good growth of bunch-grass and dotted here and there with live-oak, the creek bottoms heavy with cottonwood and a few sycamores.

Cattle grazed on the open slopes of the hills, stopping their feeding to gaze with deep suspicion upon the two riders. In each group there seemed to be one or two more suspicious than the others, and these would start running away, followed by the rest.

“There’s a lot more Five Box than HL’s,” observed Hashknife as they skirted the side of the bunch-grass hill. They came out on the crest and drew up to scan the country to the eastward.

They were high enough up to locate Arapaho City and to see the hills behind Scotty McLeod’s place. Between them and Arapaho City was the green, snake-like line of Twisted River which swung in southeast, passing close to the Five Box ranch.

They rode down the ridge, crossing the head of a deep cañon and came out on a flat mesa which led them out to a view of the Hard Luck ranch far down in the mouth of the little valley, its elevated position making it plainly visible.

Hashknife led the way, following the higher ground until they struck the slope which led down to the ranch-house. Old Armadillo was in the yard greasing a buckboard. He had a smear of axle grease on his chin, and his hands were gobby with the same substance in spite of the fact that he was using a stick to apply it to the axle.

He paid no attention to their approach and did not look up until several moments after they had stopped beside him. Then he straightened up, placed the grease can and stick in the buckboard and felt tenderly of his back.

“Gittin’ so —— old that I squeak,” he said. “Been puttin’ off greasin’ that dinged e-quipage f’r a long time, jist ’cause it creaks m’ back. Gittin’ old, I reckon. Gittin’ old jist like that —— buckboard. But nobody can grease me and take out the squeaks.

“Well, are yuh goin’ to set there or are yuh goin’ to git down and give them horses a rest? Yore names are Smith, and yo’re brothers. Howdy. I’m Armadillo Jones, meaner ’n —— and as dangerous as a sage-rabbit.”

The two cowboys dismounted and shook hands gravely with Armadillo, trying not to laugh. Then he handed them a rag to wipe their greasy hands with, and they all laughed.

“Where’s Ludden?” asked Hashknife.

“Hank? He’s up at the house, settin’ there.” Armadillo spoke the last two words softly and looked toward the house.

“You know about it, don’tcha?” he asked.

“Yeah, we know about it,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, I dunno. Hank was younger ’n me before this happened, but right now I’m a yearlin’ beside of him. Don’t want nothin’ to drink nor eat—jist sets.”

“Hit him hard, eh?”

“Jist like a ton of brick with a muzzle velocity of ten thousand feet per second. Wait’ll I hook that —— wheel on and I’ll go up with yuh. Mebby it’ll do him good to hear a strange voice.”

Hashknife helped him put on the wheel and they went to the front of the house where they found Ludden sitting on the porch, slumped down in a chair, a dead pipe between his lips. He turned his head and looked at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Hank, these here are a couple of Smiths,” said Armadillo. “Gents, I make yuh used to Hank Ludden.”

“Don’t get up,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand.

Ludden shook hands listlessly and waited for them to say what they wanted of him. Armadillo scowled at Ludden.

“Well, good ——, Hank!” he blurted. “This ain’t no way to meet anybody. Shake yoreself, can’tcha?”

“Please don’t, Armadillo,” replied Ludden. “I—I reckon I was half asleep when yuh came up—dreamin’.”

“That’s all right,” smiled Hashknife. “We just dropped in to say howdy and see how things are goin’.”

“To see how things are goin’?”

“I can tell yuh they ain’t goin’ worth a ——,” said Armadillo.

“Shucks, that’s no way to look at it,” grinned Hashknife. “Remember that every cloud has a silver linin’.”

* * * * *

Hank Ludden turned quickly.

“Not every cloud. Not some clouds that I know, Smith.”

“Let’s forget the clouds for a while, Ludden. Did you ever hear of a man named Hashknife Hartley?”

“Hashknife Hartley? Why, I—I—”

“Yo’re —— right yuh did!” snorted Armadillo. “Last Spring yuh—”

“Yes, I knew of a man by that name. I wrote him a letter. But what has that to do—”

“You wrote to him at Calumet?” interrupted Hashknife.

“Yes, that was the town.”

“It’s funny I didn’t get it. We just left there a short time ago.”

“Nothin’ funny about it,” said Armadillo. “Hank wrote on the envelope, ‘After ten days return to Hank Ludden, Arapaho City,’ and that’s what they done.”

“Are you Hashknife Hartley?” asked Ludden.

“That’s me.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” Ludden stared at him closely. “Then if you didn’t get that letter, how did yuh know I wrote to yuh?”

“Mebby, I’m a mind reader,” smiled Hashknife. He did not want to tell them about the other letter.

“I don’t believe it!” snapped Armadillo. “No —— man can read yore mind. But,” he added seriously, “that kinda fits in with what Amos Hardy told yuh, Hank. He said that Hashknife Hartley was worse’n a palmist, when it comes to puttin’ the deadwood on a rustler or a killer.”

“Amos Hardy, eh?” Hashknife smiled. He knew Amos, the big, roly-poly cattle-buyer for an eastern packing house.

“Know him, don’tcha?” asked Armadillo.

“Yeah, I know Amos. But we haven’t seen him for over a year. It seems to me that you wanted me to come out and take charge of the HL ranch.”

“Did we?” Ludden’s teeth gripped tightly on his pipe stem. “If you didn’t read my letter, how in —— did yuh know what we wanted?”

“Mind readin’,” drawled Armadillo dryly.

“Hardy told him,” declared Ludden.

“We haven’t seen him for over a year,” reminded Hashknife.

“Mind readin’,” reiterated Armadillo. “But what difference does it make how he found it out, Hank? We’re in a —— sight worse hole than we was in April.”

“No one was ever in a worse hole,” gloomed Ludden.

“Job had boils and the whale swallered Jonah,” offered Hashknife seriously, and Armadillo laughed.

“Yuh can draw a boil to a head, and I never did believe that whale yarn no more’n I believe yo’re a mind reader. It ain’t none of my business how yuh found out that Hank wrote yuh a letter last Spring, and I don’t give a ——.”

“That’s the spirit,” grinned Hashknife. “Where was yuh when Amos Hardy told yuh so much about me?”

“Right here on this porch.”

“Thasso? Who was present?”

“Me and Hank and Hardy.”

“Nobody else heard what he said, eh?”

“Not a soul.”

“Hardy came alone,” nodded Ludden.

“Is Hardy well known around here?”

“Ought to be.” Thus Armadillo. “He’s been buyin’ beef in the Twisted River country f’r years. Shows up about twice a year.”

“Any other buyers?”

“——, yes! But Amos is so well known that he gets what he wants. He used to buy quite a lot from us, but lately we ain’t sold none.”

“And a —— good reason for not sellin’,” added Ludden.

“Where do yuh ship from—when yuh ship?”

“Casco. We have to drive twenty miles to a railroad. It’s all good travelin’. They’ve been sayin’ that a branch is to be built in to Arapaho, but I don’t reckon it ever will. The railroad intended to come in thisaway, but they couldn’t get out of this pocket without goin’ out through Crow Rock Cañon, and that’d cost a lot of money. So they swings to the east from Casco and misses this spur of the Twisted River mountains.”

“What towns are between here and Casco?”

“Bend and Lone Tree. It’s about eight miles to Bend, five from Bend to Lone Tree and about seven from there to Casco.”

“Cattle raised all up the valley?”

“Yeah. Little alfalfa raised, but mostly stock. All small outfits, the JME, K8, 103, Box X, Diamond Z, and 7 Bar 9.”

Hashknife drew out pencil and paper and asked Ludden to enumerate the brands again, while he drew them out on the back of an old envelope.

“I told yuh in my letter that I wanted yuh to take charge of the HL,” said Ludden earnestly. “That still holds good.”

“This proposition has gone past that stage,” replied Hashknife, pocketing his envelope. “You need a man at large, not in charge. Has anythin’ ever happened to cause yuh to think that Joe Lane was a rustler?”

Ludden sighed heavily and shook his head.

“No, Hartley. It was an awful shock to me. I don’t reckon I’ll ever get over it. I know I’ll never notch a sight on another human bein’. They can steal all my cows if they want to.”

“By ——, they can’t steal mine!” snorted Armadillo. “I could pot-shot the rest of the world and never hit a relation of mine. Ain’t got none. Paw said he was the last bud on the fambly tree, and he married an orphing. I’m the result, Armadillo Jones, meaner’n ——!”

“What will yore daughter do now?” asked Hashknife of Ludden.

“—— only knows. They ain’t got much. Joe’s salary was enough to keep ’em, but there’s no salary now. I dunno what she’ll do, Hartley.”

“Couldn’t yuh induce her to come back here?”

“Here?” snorted Armadillo. “Why, she won’t even speak to us!”

“She’d be welcome, wouldn’t she?”

“Welcome?” Armadillo pronounced the word softly and looked at Ludden. “Jist like rain is welcome in July when the whole range smokes from the heat—when the water-holes are all dry and the cottonwood leaves curl up on the tree. That’s jist how welcome she’d be at the HL.”

“That’s welcome enough,” said Hashknife. “We’ll mosey on back to town, I reckon.”

Armadillo urged them to spend the rest of the day and have supper with them at the HL, but Hashknife explained that he was too busy to attend social functions.

“Social, ——!” snorted Armadillo. “Don’t let that part of it stand in yore road.”

“I dunno what there is for yuh to do,” complained Ludden. “I killed Joe Lane for stealin’ cattle, and there ain’t enough HL cattle left to make much difference. There’s two rustlers left, and they’ll be smart enough to keep quiet for a while.”

* * * * *

Sleepy argued that side of the case with Hashknife as they rode back to Arapaho City, but got little satisfaction out of it. Hashknife had told Sleepy about his conversation with Dutch O’Day, and their talk drifted to Scotty McLeod.

“They’ll sure send him over the road,” declared Sleepy. “A cattle jury won’t give him a chance, and that’s the kind of a jury they’ll draw here. Somebody was sayin’ that Lane and McLeod were pretty good friends.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Huh! I wonder if—”

Hashknife squinted at the sun, estimating the time of day. Perhaps it was easier than taking out his watch.

“Wonder if what?” queried Sleepy.

“Just wonderin’.”

They rode across the rickety old bridge over Twisted River, and were almost to Arapaho City when they met the sheriff.

“I was just goin’ out to the HL,” he told them. “Got tired of settin’ around and thought I’d go out and talk with Hank and Armadillo a while.”

“We just came from there,” said Hashknife. “I was thinkin’ about ridin’ over to McLeod’s place and takin’ a look around.”

“Yeah? McLeod’s place, eh? Wasn’t yuh out there day before yesterday?”

“Uh-huh. But I didn’t go in the house.”

“Didn’t yuh? Hm-m-m-m. What do yuh expect to find in there?”

“Nothin’.”

The sheriff shifted in his saddle and spat reflectively.

“Nothin’, eh?” he mused, his keen eyes searching Hashknife’s lean features. Then—

“Smith, who are you, anyway?”

“One of the Smith brothers,” seriously.

“——!” The sheriff expressed his disbelief explosively. “Names don’t mean nothin’. You ride in here on a wave of crime, turn down jobs, help me take a man and then go pokin’ around like a danged detective lookin’ for a clue. Mebby yo’re just the Smith brothers, I dunno. But I don’t mind tellin’ yuh that I ain’t the only one in Arapaho City who wonders who in —— yuh are.”

Hashknife grinned and produced the makings of a cigaret.

“Smith is as good a name as any,” he said slowly. “Our own names won’t mean anythin’ to yuh, Darcey. Nobody sent us here, nobody is payin’ us for what we’re doin’. We’re just what we look like—two driftin’ punchers.

“We busted in on two killin’s. Nobody can tell us what we want to know, so we go huntin’ for the answer. If we find it, we’ll let yuh know. If we get killed, it’s our own fault.”

“Fair enough,” nodded Darcey. “If yuh don’t care, I’ll ride to the McLeod place with yuh. But if yuh think yuh can clear McLeod, you’ve got a job on yore hands.”

“I hadn’t thought much about it,” grinned Hashknife. “Was Joe Lane friendly with McLeod?”

“Well, yeah. McLeod is a likable Scotchman if yuh don’t rub him the wrong way. Joe liked him. McLeod has traveled quite a lot and Joe liked to talk with him. But what does that mean?”

“If Joe Lane stole cows, he didn’t do it alone.”

“Oh-ho! And yuh think—I see. But there was three of ’em.”

“Mebby we can find out who the third one was, Sheriff.”

“Mebbe,” hopefully.

They turned to the right near Arapaho City and cut across the hills to McLeod’s cabin. No one had bothered to bury the sheep, and the odors were none too inviting.

The cabin doors were unlocked, swinging half open. They went in and looked around. Most of McLeod’s few belongings were in the rear part of the building. His bed had been carefully made.

On the rough table a million ants were making merry with an open can of syrup, and the top of the stove was covered with coffee-grounds from the last brewing which Scotty had been forced to ignore.

There was no furniture to speak of. An old trunk with a broken lock, covered with an Indian blanket, stood near the head of the bed, used as a table. Hanging on nails near the head of the bed was a well worn pair of overalls, an old black coat and a battered sombrero hat.

Hashknife walked around the room, examining things, while the sheriff and Sleepy watched him. He lifted the lid of the old trunk and examined the few things within it, a gray coat and vest, a nearly new pair of boots, some old odds and ends of wearing apparel.

Hashknife closed the trunk and lifted the old black coat off the nail. In the inside pocket he found a miscellaneous bunch of old letters, bearing British stamps. Hashknife did not read these letters. But among the envelopes was a folded sheet of paper, which almost escaped his eye.

He unfolded this and scanned the short, penciled note, which read:

Have them thear at east end of Crow Rock canyon next Friday sure
don’t try to run as menny as last time and go easy.

Hashknife smiled softly and handed the paper to the sheriff, who read it blankly, while Sleepy looked over his shoulder.

“What do yuh make of it?” asked the sheriff.

“Hey!” snorted Sleepy. “Ain’t that the same writin’ as in that letter you got, Hashknife?”

Hashknife laughed and nodded his head. The sheriff looked gravely at Hashknife and handed back the note.

“So that’s yore name, eh? Hashknife Hartley?”

“I didn’t suppose you’d ever heard of me,” said Hashknife.

“I have. Yuh see, I’ve been a sheriff for almost four years, and we do hear things once in a while. Was you sent here by the cattle association?”

“Nope.” Hashknife drew out the letter he had received in Calumet and handed it to the sheriff.

“Compare the writin’,” suggested Sleepy, which they found to be identical. The sheriff read the letter and listened as Hashknife told him about Hank Ludden’s returned letter. The one he received, of course, had no return address.

Then Hashknife told him that Amos Hardy had suggested to Ludden that he get in touch with Hashknife Hartley.

“Well,” said the sheriff gravely, “I’m glad yuh came. But you better not tell anybody who yuh are, Hartley. This letter sure is a warnin’ that yuh can’t disregard.”

“It didn’t scare me much. The man who wrote me that letter ain’t never quit lookin’ for me to show up here, and I’ll bet he knows who I am right now.”

“Do yuh think so? Huh. Who do yuh think wrote it?”

“That remains to be found out. How far is it from here to Crow Rock Cañon?”

“About three miles. The cañon cuts plumb through the range, and it’s about two miles through. Do yuh reckon this letter was Scotty McLeod’s instructions on movin’ cattle?”

“Can yuh think of anythin’ else he might take through the cañon? It tells him to not run as many as before and to go easy. Must be somebody over there who takes ’em off his hands.”

“Sure,” nodded the sheriff. “It ain’t far from the east end of the cañon to McCallville. I’ll betcha Scotty runs a bunch through the cañon at night, turns ’em over to somebody at the other end of the cañon and they handle ’em from McCallville.”

“And today is Thursday,” mused Hashknife. “This letter tells him to have ’em there on Friday. The question is, what Friday did he mean? Is it tomorrow or was it last Friday, two, three, four weeks ago tomorrow? No date on the letter, nothin’ to show when the cattle were to be moved.”

“Makes it kinda tough,” agreed the sheriff. “But it sure puts McLeod up against some hard travelin’. He’ll have a hard time explainin’ away that note.”

“McLeod says he had been to town the mornin’ that Lane was killed. He told us about that part of it, Sheriff. If he can prove that much, it’ll help him. A man can’t be in two places at the same time.”

“Not if it can be proved, Hartley. But you know it would only take about forty minutes for a man to make the ride from Arapaho City to the old U6 corral. McLeod won’t be able to find a man who can swear within an hour of the time he was in Arapaho, because his being there wouldn’t be of enough interest for any one to make a note of it.”

“Is there any one who can swear what time Joe Lane left Arapaho City and where he intended to go?”

“Joe told me he was goin’ out to the Five Box ranch to look at a horse. One of the boys out there has a three-year-old sorrel that Joe liked, and Joe wanted to buy it. But I’ve no idea what time Joe left town.

“His time was mostly his own. I never pinned Joe down to regular hours. I have no home, so I spend most of my time at the office. He was usually where I could find him.”

“Did he ever talk much about the rustlers?”

“No more than the rest of us did, Hartley.”

“How did he feel toward Hank Ludden?”

“He felt that the old man had too much sense to stay mad all his life. Joe didn’t hate Ludden. At least, he never seemed to. He wanted Ludden to be friends with Mary because he knew it hurt Mary for the old man to feel as he did. Joe liked old Armadillo Jones, meaner’n ——.”

* * * * *

The sheriff laughed as he quoted Armadillo’s description of himself. Hashknife grinned and walked to the door where he examined a bullet scrape along the casing. Then he crossed the room, took out his pocket-knife and dug out a battered 30-30 bullet which had barely buried itself in a seasoned board.

“Thirty-thirty,” said Hashknife, tossing the bullet to the sheriff. “McLeod swore they were shootin’ at him as he ran for that back door. It kinda looks like he might have told the truth.”

Hashknife went outside and looked for more evidence. In the doorstep was another bullet hole, and in the door-frame was embedded a pebble the size of a small marble which might have been driven in by a bullet striking the ground short of the door.

He showed these to the sheriff, who nodded gravely.

“It looks like McLeod told the truth,” he admitted. “But how would a jury look at it, Hartley? There’s nothin’ to prove when those shots were fired. It might have been months ago.”

“No, that’s right. Well, we might as well go home.”

The sheriff secured some nails and fastened the doors tight. There was nothing in the place which might tempt a thief, but the sheriff thought it would look better to have the doors nailed shut.

Back at their room in the Arapaho hotel, Hashknife stretched himself full length on the bed and stared at the ceiling, while Sleepy proceeded to play solitaire with an old dog-eared deck of cards on the little table.

For an hour there was no conversation, no sound except the soft riffling sound as Sleepy shuffled the cards or when Hashknife moved slightly, causing the bed to creak. Then Hashknife said aloud—

“We can get to the east end before dark.”

“East end of what?” Sleepy lifted his head quickly.

“Crow Rock Cañon.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“We’ll borrow a couple of rifles from the sheriff. Put up them cards, cowboy.”

Hashknife twisted off the bed and reached for his hat.

“If anybody brings a cow through that cañon, we’ll be there to welcome ’em, Sleepy.”

“Friday jist means tomorrow to you, does it?” wailed Sleepy.

“We can’t be there last Friday,” retorted Hashknife.

The sheriff was willing to lend them the guns and ammunition, and insisted on going along, but Hashknife persuaded him to stay at home.

“It’s a hundred-to-one shot that we don’t see anybody,” said Hashknife. “If there’s a man over there to receive the stock, he’s prob’ly heard that McLeod is in jail, so we’ll have our trouble for nothin’. If there is a man there—well, two of us will be as good as an army.”

Crow Rock Cañon was visible from Arapaho City, and the sheriff gave them directions as to the easiest way to reach the west end of it. They had Pat, the Chinaman, make them each a sandwich, which they tied inside their slickers, purchased some extra cartridges for their 30-30 rifles, and rode out of town.

* * * * *

Mary Lane had just begun to recover from the shock of losing her husband, and the cold, hard facts of existence were staring her in the face. It had just occurred to her that she had no visible means of support, except her father.

Joe had not been of a saving disposition. She did not know how much money there was in the bank in his name, but she did not imagine it to be any great amount. Joe’s last month’s salary had paid for the funeral, leaving her a few dollars extra.

She had tried to forgive her father for what he had done, but found it impossible to do so. He had shot Joe for a rustler, and Mary would gamble her soul that Joe had been honest.

To her it seemed that her father had merely used this as an excuse to kill Joe.

“And I’m the wife, the widow of a dead thief,” she told herself bitterly. “That’s what they say about me. He shot Joe in the back. Never gave him a chance.”

She stared at herself in her mirror; stared at her own white face with the dark-circled eyes, as if she was looking at someone she had never seen. A few days had changed her from a laughter-loving girl to a tragic-faced woman.

She hated to leave the house, to be seen on the street. None of her old friends had been to see her, and she knew it was because Joe had been labeled a rustler. An officer of the law, a thief!

Her mind only ran in circles when she tried to plan a future. But she had a definite idea of leaving Arapaho City. Just where she might go or what she might do was indefinite. Much depended on how many dollars Joe had left for her.

It was shortly after Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden out of town that she came to the bank. Dutch O’Day and Long How had just driven in and were stopped in front of the bank. The little, wizen-faced Irishman squinted closely at Mary as she walked past, going into the bank.

Long How went in, spoke to the president of the bank, who came out to him. O’Day’s account was worth a certain amount of service. He had come in to draw cash enough for his payroll. It was the first time he had ever talked with the president of the bank and did not curse some one.

The president went in after the required money, and it was several minutes later that he came out with it. He seemed preoccupied. Through the open door O’Day had seen him in conversation with Mary Lane.

As he went back, Mary Lane came out. She stood on the threshold of the bank, deep in thought.

“How do ye do, Mrs. Lane,” said O’Day abruptly.

She looked up quickly. It was the first time he had ever spoken to her, although she had known him for years.

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. O’Day,” she said, hardly realizing that she had answered him.

“Ye’re not!” he declared. “Don’t fib about it.”

Mary Lane almost laughed. It seemed ridiculous for Dutch O’Day, the meanest man in the Twisted River country, to talk so to her. He was smiling at her, and she remembered that O’Day never smiled.

“No, ye’re not all right,” he told her. “Come over closer to me, Mary Lane. Ye see, I can’t come to you.”

She came closer, wonderingly.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For me?”

“Yes, Mr. O’Day.”

O’Day rubbed his chin and blinked thoughtfully.

“Did Joe leave ye any money?” he asked.

Mary shook her head.

“I’m afraid he—he didn’t have much to leave.”

“No, I suppose not. Will ye go back to yer father?”

Mary stared at him for a moment and shook her head.

“No,” she said.

“Ye haven’t talked with him?”

“No.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” O’Day cleared his throat raspingly. “Mary Lane, I dunno just what to say. Ye see, I—” he rubbed his chin violently—“I was just thinkin’ that—well—it, here ye are:

“The Five Box has no women. We’re a rough lot out there. But if ye want a home I’ll give it to ye. I’ve plenty, and I’ve no chick or child to spend it on.”

“Oh, that is awful good of you, Mr. O’Day,” said Mary, and she meant it now. She had ceased to be astonished at O’Day. “But I couldn’t do that. I can get along some way. But I want you to know I appreciate your kindness.”

“I know, Mary Lane. Only don’t forget that the offer still stands as long as ye might need it.”

He turned abruptly, picked up the lines and swung the team out into the street, leaving her there staring after him. He drew the team to a stop in front of the sheriff’s office and spoke to Long How, who grinned, got out and went toward the Pekin Café, glad for a chance to talk with one of his own race.

O’Day squinted back up the street. Mary Lane was turning the corner, going home. The sheriff came to his doorway and nodded to O’Day. They had never been good friends because of O’Day’s vitriolic tongue.

“How is everything, Pete?” asked O’Day kindly.

“All right, O’Day. How is everythin’ with you?”

“Fine. I was just talkin’ with Mary Lane, Pete. She’s up against a tough deal. Joe left her little or no money, I suppose.”

It rather shocked the sheriff to hear O’Day speaking of other people’s troubles. He wondered if O’Day was sick or had gone crazy.

“Well, I don’t suppose Joe did leave much,” admitted the sheriff slowly. “In fact, I don’t reckon he left anythin’.”

“Ye know —— well he didn’t!” It was a return of the old Dutch O’Day. “These —— young fools git married and—but—” he squinted at the sheriff and grinned widely—“We were all young once, Pete Darcey. If they’d have killed me in me twenties, I’d left nothin’.”

“It’s the nature of humanity,” said the sheriff, wondering at the sudden change in the man.

“What salary did Joe Lane get from this county, Pete?”

“Hundred and ten dollars a month,” replied the sheriff.

“And he still has about fourteen months left of your two-year term. Hm-m-m-m. Have ye an indilible pencil, Pete?”

Wonderingly the sheriff gave him the required article, and watched O’Day take out his check book and begin to write.

* * * * *

He finished the check and looked up at the sheriff.

“There’s no chance of gettin’ the county to pay anything to the widow of a dead deputy, is there?” he asked.

“Hardly. Perhaps if he had been killed in upholdin’ the law, O’Day. But Joe wasn’t.”

“To —— wid the law! The man is dead, ain’t he? His widow never stole any cows. Here, Pete.”

He handed the sheriff a check for fifteen hundred dollars.

“Put that in the bank and pay her a hundred and ten dollars every month.”

“But she won’t take it, O’Day. You don’t know her.”

“Tell her that a kind-hearted county paid it to her, Pete. She can’t refuse it then. Keep my name out of it. Tell her not to say anything about it, ’cause the county don’t want it generally known. Ye’r working for a kind-hearted county, and ye don’t know it.”

The sheriff looked at the check and squinted at O’Day.

“Dutch O’Day,” he said slowly, “what in —— happened to you?”

“None of ye’r —— business, Pete Darcey! It’s me own money and I can do as I like wid it, can’t I? But if I hear that you ever told anybody about that check, I’ll ride ye down the first time I catch ye in the street.”

“And I’ll stand still and let yuh, O’Day. Just now I’d like to shake hands with yuh.”

The big, muscular hand of the sheriff enveloped the scrawny, brown hand of O’Day, the meanest man in the Twisted River country, and they shook gravely. Then O’Day drove down to the Pekin Café, where he humped over in his seat to wait until Long How got through talking with Pat Lee, the other Chinaman of Arapaho.

The sheriff went in his office, spread the check out on his desk, and sat down to try and figure out what had happened to Dutch O’Day to cause him to give away fifteen hundred dollars to some one he did not even have a speaking acquaintance with.

But the sheriff was unable to arrive at any logical conclusion except that possibly Dutch O’Day had a hunch he was going to die and wanted to spend some of his money. Anyway, he decided, it was a fine thing for O’Day to do, and there was no question of Mary Lane’s need.

He decided to bank the money and tell Mary that the county had ordered the bank to issue her a monthly allowance instead of having the county treasurer issue the usual voucher check.

So he picked up his hat and went to the bank. It was just at closing time, but the cashier was willing to delay his departure to accommodate the sheriff.

“Here’s a check for fifteen hundred dollars,” stated the sheriff, producing the slip of pink paper. “You credit that to the account of Mary Lane, and give her one hundred and ten dollars a month as long as it lasts.”

The cashier looked at the check, nodding his head, as he turned back to his desk.

“You merely want us to issue that amount per month, eh? No explanation needed, I suppose?”

“I’ll explain to her.”

He wrote out a receipt and gave it to the sheriff, who went outside and started for the office, meeting Armadillo Jones.

“Yo’re the feller I want to see,” grinned Armadillo. “You know how the county does things, Pete. Listen t’ me, feller. I’m danged if I was goin’ to see Mary Lane starve, _sabe_? So I went to the bank a while ago, drawed fifteen hundred dollars of my own money, handed it back to ’em, and fixed it up so’s they’ll pay Mary one hundred and ten dollars per month for the rest of Joe’s unexpired term.

“I fixed it up for them to tell her that the county was payin’ her Joe’s salary, but for her to keep quiet about it, as it was kinda irregular.”

Armadillo laughed softly and shuffled his feet.

“I didn’t let Hank know a danged thing about it. Anyway, it’s my money and I can do as I —— please with it. I got away from Hank, and it didn’t take me long to fix things. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Pretty good, eh?”

The sheriff tried to grin, but failed.

“Yeah, that was pretty good, Armadillo. She—uh—sure needs the money.”

“Sure thing. But here’s what I want you to do, Pete. If she knowed it was from the HL outfit, mebby she wouldn’t take it. So I want you to kinda let on that there’s a chance of the county payin’ her sort of a pension. Will yuh do this?”

“Eh? Oh, sure.” The sheriff rubbed his chin nervously, wondering what Mary would say when she received two hundred and twenty dollars. The thought flashed through his mind that he might intimate that they had doubled Joe’s salary.

“Well, that’s fine,” said Armadillo. “I’ll buy a drink.”

“Thanks, Armadillo, but I ain’t got time right now. Mebby a little later, eh?”

“Aw, sure. See yuh later, Pete.”

Armadillo bow-legged his way across the street. Hank Ludden was crossing the street farther up, and they met in front of the War Paint saloon, where they entered together.

“——’s delight!” snorted the sheriff. “I better think up a good lie to tell Mary, and I can’t think a-tall.”

He walked back past the bank and headed for the other end of town, intending to have a talk with Mary. A tall, thin man came from inside a hallway, and the sheriff recognized him as being the county treasurer, a slow-spoken, clerical sort of a person.

“Hello, Sheriff. I was hoping to see you.”

The treasurer of Arapaho county hitched up his trousers, drew out a handkerchief and blew his nose violently.

“Wanted to see me?” Thus the sheriff indifferently. He did not care a great deal about the treasurer.

“Yes. The—er—treasurer’s office has agreed to—er—do something which is probably irregular, and we will need you to sort of pave the way, as it were.

“Henry Ludden handed us his check for fifteen hundred dollars today, from which we are to pay Mary Lane the salary received by her lamented husband. It is supposed to be paid by the county, otherwise the said Mary Lane might not agree to accept it. And in order that she may understand it, I want you to intimate that the county is going to pay Joe Lane’s salary to her for his unexpired term. Do I make myself plain?”

Pete Darcey yanked his hat down over one eye, while his five-fingered right hand dug deeply into the back of his head, his eyes half-closed, his mouth open.

“We felt sorry for the old man,” explained the treasurer. “It is irregular, of course, but—you’ll know what to say to her, Sheriff. You don’t mind, do you?”

“——, no!” The sheriff leaned against the side of the building and watched the treasurer go briskly down the sidewalk.

“Three of a kind and a joker,” he wailed. “My ——, I s’pose I might as well be good and —— for a three hundred and thirty lie as to be an ordinary liar for a third of it.”

* * * * *

It was supper time when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the little town of McCallville, if it might be designated a town. It was what might be termed a half-street town, as the three buildings were all on the same side of the road—the McCallville hotel, part of the lower floor being the general store and postoffice, the McCallville saloon and the McCallville restaurant.

About two hundred yards away from the town was the depot, a little box-like affair, and farther to the north was a big loading corral. McCallville was not an interesting place. From the lack of paint, repairs and general activity, it was plain to see that the population was not progressive or public-spirited.

The two cowboys rode out to the depot, tied their horses to a telegraph post and sauntered around to the door. The depot agent, a cadaverous looking, weary-eyed man, was asleep in his chair, an open pocket-knife in one hand, a piece of pine board in the other. He had whittled himself to sleep.

The sound of their boot heels awoke him, and he squinted sleepily. Hashknife leaned through the ticket window and grinned widely.

“Hyah was?” said Hashknife.

“Awright. Whatcha want? Ticket?”

“No-o-o. Just drifted in to see if yuh know anybody that’s goin’ to ship some cows soon. We’re lookin’ for a free ride.”

“Shippin’ cows!” The agent spat disgustedly. “There ain’t been a cow shipped from here since it became fashionable for ’em to wear horns.”

“Thasso? Pshaw, I heard that lotsa cows was shipped from McCallville.”

“Was, but ain’t no more. Not for a year or so. Somebody sure lied heavily to yuh, friend. If any cows was shipped from here, I’d sure know about it. I’m high, low, jack and the game around this misnamed shippin’ point.”

“Yeah, I reckon yuh would,” admitted Hashknife. “We’ve been lied to, it seems.”

Hashknife thanked him for the information and they rode down to the loading corrals. To all appearances the corral had not been used for a long time. The hinges of the gates were rusty and the loading platform, a movable piece of planking which was used to connect the loading chute with the cars, had been lying in the weeds for months.

“If Scotty McLeod and his friend stole HL cattle, they sure didn’t ship ’em from here,” declared Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and climbed back on his horse. It was growing dark, and they went back to the hotel, where they ate supper. Only two other men entered the hotel, and from their conversation it was easy to see that they were in business.

After supper they went to the McCallville saloon, where they bought some cigars, only to throw them away later on, and talked with the bartender. To him Hashknife told the same tale he had told to the depot agent.

“Ain’t been shippin’ nothin’ from here,” replied the bartender. “Town is on the bum. You fellers ought to go up to Casco. They ship once in a while, and yuh might get a chance to travel with ’em.”

“Didja ever meet a feller named Scotty McLeod?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender took this under advisement.

“Nope. I knowed a feller by that name in Iowa. He died before I left. It must be a different McLeod.”

“Prob’ly is,” said Hashknife seriously. “This one has red hair.”

“It’s a different one then. Mine had white. He was eighty years old. What are yuh goin’ to have?”

They named their choice. Another man, one of the diners, came in and joined them at the bar. He was the proprietor of the general merchandise store and was not adverse to accepting a drink.

For possibly half an hour they stood at the bar, talking about McCallville which, according to the storekeeper, was on its last legs. Some horsemen went past, bridle chains jingling, the horses going slowly.

The bartender walked to the window, drew aside the curtain and looked out.

“Who was it?” asked the merchant, as the bartender came back.

“I didn’t get a look at ’em. Don’t think they stopped.”

“Ain’t much travel through here, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Not much,” replied the merchant. “I’ll buy now.”

“You want the same, gents?” asked the bartender.

Sleepy shook his head quickly.

“I don’t like to be particular, but I don’t like that kind of liquor.”

“This kind?”

The bartender picked up the bottle rather indignantly and shook it viciously.

“Yeah, that’s it.”

“Sa-a-ay, don’tcha know good liquor when yuh taste it? That’s twenty year old, pardner. Ol’ Crow, by golly!”

“Thasso?” Sleepy’s eyes opened wide. “That accounts for the feathers I’ve got in my mouth. They ort to pick their crows before they bottle ’em.”

“There ain’t no feathers in this stuff, y’betcha. Look at it.”

He handed the bottle to Sleepy, who squinted through it at the light.

“Jist as clear as a—”

_Crash!_

The bottle exploded into a thousand pieces, spraying them all with broken glass and liquor, while from out in the street came the report of a gun. The heavy glass bottle deflected the bullet into the back-bar, where it smashed a few more bottles and splintered a corner of the mirror.

For a second they were all paralyzed. The next second they were all on the floor. Hashknife flung himself backward toward a card table, where he landed sitting down with a gun in his hand.

Steadying himself on his left hand he proceeded to shoot out the hanging lamp over the bar, plunging the saloon in darkness. There was only a few seconds space between the smashing of the bottle and the putting out of the lamp.

“He-e-e-ey! Quit shootin’, you —— fool!” yelped the bartender.

He probably thought both shots had been fired from outside. Hashknife squinted toward the street, across which he could see only the skyline of the hills.

“Shot at me,” he decided. “Mebbe the window glass deflected it a little. Bullet goes past my neck and busts up that bottle.” Then aloud—

“Sleepy!”

“Present,” grunted Sleepy. “I’m settin’ on the merchant. How are yuh, bartender?”

“Down low,” replied the bartender. “And I’m goin’ to stay low, too. I’ve got a sawed-off shotgun in my hands, and I’m sure goin’ to be generous with buckshot if anybody fools around me.”

“Somebody must ’a’ had it in for you,” observed Hashknife.

“Me?” The bartender snorted indignantly. “Who in —— do yuh reckon wanted to kill me?”

“You prob’ly gave somebody a drink of yore Old Crow,” snickered Sleepy. “A feller can’t be too careful in this day and age.”

“Mebby it’s funny to you, but it sure ain’t to me.”

“Nor to me.” Thus the merchant. “Some of that glass cut me in the face. Can’t we light a lamp?”

“After I get out,” said Hashknife quickly.

“No lamp,” declared the bartender. “I don’t suppose there will be another lamp lit in this place tonight. Tomorrow I’m goin’ away and I ain’t comin’ back.”

“Think you’ll go back to Iowa?” asked Sleepy.

“Some’rs back there. Say, why don’tcha go out and see if that assassin is still there.”

“C’mere and give me yore riot gun,” said Sleepy.

“Yea-a-ah? If I wanted a riot gun very bad, I’d sure have ambition enough to go and git one. I may have to come out some time, but that ain’t right now, pardner.”

* * * * *

Hashknife slid back against the wall, walked to the front of the room and peered out through the broken window. The light was good enough for him to see that there was no one in the street in the immediate vicinity of the saloon.

“I reckon the storm is over,” he told them. “Nobody in the street.”

He walked outside and looked around. Several people were standing in front of the hotel, and now they came down toward the saloon, questioning Hashknife. Sleepy and the merchant came out, and Hashknife left it to the merchant to explain what had happened.

The men from the hotel were unable to throw any light on the situation. Hearing the voices, the bartender came out, still carrying his riot gun. He locked the door behind him and announced that the McCallville saloon was closed for repairs.

“Was they shootin’ at you?” asked one of the men.

“Yuh danged right!” The bartender was emphatic. “If one of these men hadn’t shoved a bottle of hootch between me and that bottle, I’d be a lily holder right now.”

“I had a hunch to do it,” said Sleepy seriously.

“We’re bunched up too much,” said one of the men, turning back toward the hotel. “I’d hate to be mistaken for the bartender.”

“That’s the way I feel,” laughed Hashknife.

He started toward the hitch-rack, and Sleepy followed him, while the rest of the men headed toward the hotel.

They mounted and rode north, until they were out of sight of the street, when they swung east again, going slowly, riding knee to knee.

“That was close, Sleepy,” said Hashknife softly. “It missed my neck by an inch. I was leanin’ forward.”

“That’s right. You was at my left, and the bullet came from yore left and behind yuh. What’s the answer, Hashknife?”

“The man who wrote me that letter, Sleepy. The same man who wrote the instructions to Scotty McLeod.”

“The dirty bushwhacker!”

“Sh-h-h! He prob’ly knows he missed, and he’s out here somewhere waitin’ for another chance.”

“What’s our next move?”

“Go through Crow Rock Cañon in the dark, cowboy.”

“Holy cats! Suppose he lays for us in there? We ain’t got a ghost of a chance in there, Hashknife.”

“We have at night. In the daylight he could pick us off. If he works close he can’t be sure. We’ll just have to ride with a gun in our hand. It’ll be as dark as the inside of a stovepipe for two miles.”

“And expectin’ every minute to get a shot in the dark.”

“Mebbe. Anyway, I’ve got a scheme that might help us. It sure is lucky we’ve got a pair of broncs we can depend on.”

There was no moon. They had ridden in over sort of a trail from the east end of Crow Rock Cañon, but they did not know where that trail was now. Ahead of them, sharply etched against the horizon, was the U-shaped cleft in the mountains, where nature had cut a canal-like cañon completely through the range of mountains.

There was little variance in altitude in the floor of the narrow cañon, which was principally of solid rock, although here and there a slide had filled in enough soil to start a growth of jack pines.

In places it was barely wide enough for a single rider to pass between the rocky sides, and again it would attain a width of fifty feet or more. Nature had provided a pass through the Twisted River mountains and then proceeded to fill it with snow in the winter and slides in the spring, which precluded any chance of it ever being a popular pass.

They reached the mouth of the cañon and stopped to give the horses a breathing spell. The last half mile had been a heavy grade, over rocks and through thickets. Behind them the hills sloped sharply toward McCallville, but the valley was only a black bowl, unlighted by the few faint stars. Ahead of them were the steep rocky slopes where the breeze whispered through the pines, and the ink-like blot of Crow Rock Cañon.

Hashknife dismounted and tied his reins loosely to his saddle-horn.

“We’re goin’ to herd ’em through, Sleepy,” he said softly. “Tie up yore reins. In that cañon the devil himself couldn’t tell whether a horse carried a rider or not. We may lose a horse, but that’s better than losin’ a life.”

“It sure is.” Sleepy dismounted and fixed his reins. “Two miles ain’t far to walk. Shall we pack our rifles?”

“Nope. A six-gun is enough, Sleepy. All set?”

They led their horses to the mouth of the narrow cañon, where Hashknife put his horse in the lead and clucked to him sharply. A moment later the mouth of the cañon was empty, and only the slither of hoof and boot came from the inky depths to show that men and beasts were passing through.

There was no possibility of fast traveling. The lead horse picked his way slowly around the rocky turns, while Hashknife and Sleepy traveled within reach of the second horse.

They were unable to see anything. In that deep cleft even the faint starlight was cut off. It was like traveling through the bore of a great tunnel. There was no conversation except an occasional grunt when one of them came in sharp contact with a corner at one of the right-angle turns.

They were possibly a third of the way through the cañon, when Sleepy’s horse stopped short and both men bumped into it. A quick investigation showed that Hashknife’s horse had also stopped.

For possibly ten seconds neither man moved. It was plainly evident that there was something ahead of the horses. Touching Sleepy on the arm, indicating for him to stay where he was, Hashknife worked his way slowly past the horses, whispering softly to them. At the head of his horse he stopped and tried to penetrate the darkness, listening closely. But there was only the soft murmur of the breeze from high up on the cliffs.

Then he moved slowly ahead, one arm outstretched. Suddenly his hand came in contact with a wire which had been stretched across the narrow cañon, and before he realized what he was doing he pulled sharply on it.

From just ahead and to the right came the flash and report of a gun. Hashknife ducked low, jerking at his gun, while from around the horses came the slither of Sleepy’s boots on the rocks as he shoved past the startled horses.

“Hashknife!” he called sharply.

“All right, pardner,” replied Hashknife. Sleepy came in beside him.

“Did you fire that shot?” he asked.

“Nope,” Hashknife chuckled softly and guided Sleepy’s hand to the wire. “Feel that.”

“For gosh sake! Barb wire, eh? They came through ahead of us,” whispered Sleepy. “Where did that shot come from?”