Chapter IV: Part 4

“I’ll tell yuh in a minute.” Hashknife worked his way along the wire and found where it circled a small jack pine. He ducked under the wire and followed it a few feet, where it ended at a piece of the broken ledge.

Working his fingers down in the ledge he managed to dislodge a short revolver, around the trigger of which had been looped a single strand of the wire. He came back along the wire to Sleepy and squatted down on his heels while he explained about the set-gun.

“I happened to be lookin’ toward it and seen the flash go up. Bushwhackers don’t usually shoot in the air, Sleepy.”

“All right, cowboy. But what does it mean?”

“It was meant to stop us. They felt sure our horses would stop at the wire. We’d get off and run into it, shootin’ off the gun. _Sabe?_ And that would stop us from goin’ ahead, ’cause we’d feel sure that a reception was bein’ planned for us. They want us to be in this cañon at daybreak.”

“Which would give them a sweet chance to pick us off from the sides, eh? Let’s go.”

It did not take long to remove the wire, and they started on, hardly knowing what to expect now. But nothing impeded their progress. After what seemed an interminable length of time they came out of the cañon, mounted quickly and rode down the slopes toward Arapaho City.

It was still too dark for any danger of ambush, so they traveled southwest past McLeod’s cabin, and struck his road to town.

* * * * *

Arapaho City was in darkness. They stabled their horses and went to their room at the hotel, where Hashknife produced the revolver which he had taken from the rock crevice, and they examined it.

It was of a cheap make, brightly nickeled, and of .38 caliber. Only one cartridge had been placed in it. And on the bottom of the butt, evidently engraved with great care, were the initials S. McL.

“Scotty McLeod’s gun, eh?” mused Hashknife, as he lighted a cigaret over the chimney of the lamp.

“—— fool to put his initials on a gun!” snorted Sleepy.

“But he didn’t set it,” grinned Hashknife. “The man who set it didn’t expect us to take it along. We’ll talk with McLeod in the mornin’.”

“But what I don’t see is this—What good did it do us to go to McCallville, Hashknife?”

“Well, we met some nice people, got shot at, collected a nice, shiny gun and got home safe. What more would yuh want in one evenin’? I feel that we’ve been entertained, Sleepy.”

“Tha’sall right. I appreciate their efforts and all that, but what do we gain by it? There wasn’t any chance of McLeod takin’ cows through Crow Rock Cañon tonight. I don’t believe there has been any cows through there. Wasn’t any sign of cows through there.

“If you went to McCallville to get shot at, yuh sure got yore wish. An inch further to the left, and you’d be of no further use to me. But I don’t see what good it done yuh.”

Hashknife grinned slowly, as he drew off his boots.

“I just wanted to find out if they was waitin’ for Scotty McLeod or for me.”

“Do yuh know now?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “of course, there’s always a chance that they were shootin’ at the bartender. But the bartender never had any idea of comin’ through Crow Rock Cañon tonight.”

“He’s prob’ly half way to Iowa by this time,” laughed Sleepy. “He’ll brag about that all the rest of his life, and I’ll bet he’ll tell it so many times that after while it’ll be one of the biggest killin’s ever pulled off in the west.”

“Prob’ly wear his hair long and call himself ‘Two-Gun Ike’ or somethin’ like that,” grinned Hashknife. He had taken off his boots and was examining a blister which he had contracted in his two-mile walk. Sleepy rolled into bed with a sigh of relief.

“It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t do somethin’ to our horses,” said Sleepy. “They were the only two at the hitch-rack in McCallville.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“It looks as if they saw a possible chance to kill or cripple one of us there in the saloon. And if they failed to do this, the fact that they shot at us in there might cause us to wait until daylight. What they wanted us to do was to ride through that cañon in daylight.”

“Yuh mean they wanted to pot-shoot us in that narrow pass?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded quickly, “It looks like it to me. I’m just wonderin’ if they wasn’t playin’ a cinch game.”

He got off the bed and walked to the corner of the room, where they had left their rifles.

He examined one of them closely, opening and closing the action, investigating with his finger. Then he took the other one and gave it the same inspection. Then he stood it against the wall, walked back to the table, blew out the lamp and rolled into bed.

“It’s a good thing we didn’t do battle with ’em, Sleepy,” he said seriously. “They plumb ruined the firin’-pins on both of them rifles.”

“The —— they did! Can yuh beat that?”

“I’m goin’ to try and do it, Sleepy.”

“Uh-huh. Say! Were them pins all right when we got the guns from the sheriff?” The idea was so good that Sleepy sat up in bed.

“That’s a question I’ve been askin’ myself.”

“Oh, ——!” Sleepy subsided heavily.

“I’m always late. By golly, I’ll bet that when Gabriel blows his horn and says, ‘Sleepy Stevens, come forth,’ I’ll come fifth.”

“I’m glad you thought of it, anyway, Sleepy.”

“Oh, so am I. I gave you a chance to swipe my thunder.”

“Good night, Sleepy.”

“I thought of that quite a while ago myself. Good night.”

* * * * *

The following morning Amos Hardy, cattle buyer, arrived in Arapaho City on his semi-annual buying trip. Amos was short, fat, with a big, smiling face, a typical good-natured fat man, but with an uncanny judgment concerning the weight and worth of cattle.

He wended his way to the Arapaho Hotel, where he ate his breakfast, after which he went to the War Paint saloon to renew old acquaintances. Amos was a mixer, a hail fellow well met. He shook hands with the bartender, bought a handful of very bad cigars, and listened to the news of the Twisted River range.

The bartender knew it all, and Amos Hardy soon knew as much as the bartender.

“Joe Lane dead, eh? Lucky Joe. Hm-m-m. Gosh, that’s too bad. I didn’t know this Naylor. McLeod, I didn’t know either. And Hank Ludden killed Joe Lane, eh? That’s bad. How’s Joe’s widder? All right? Pretty girl. She won’t be a widder long.

“Is Hank Ludden still runnin’ the Hard Luck ranch? He is? Stick there in spite of it all, eh? Huh! Well—” Hardy shifted his cigar and puffed thoughtfully—“this kinda looks as though the hard luck still sticks to the HL. Have yuh seen old Dutch O’Day lately?”

“He was in the other day. We don’t see much of him.”

“Mean as ever, I suppose. I never was out to see him but once. My, my! Boy, he’s got the worst tongue I ever heard. He cursed me in and he cursed me out. I wouldn’t go out to see him if he’d give me a trainload of cows.”

And so Amos rambled on, getting a few drinks under his wide belt and acquiring plenty of local knowledge which would be food for conversation later on.

He was beginning to shorten his drinks when Corliss rode in from the Five Box and came to the War Paint.

“H’lo, Corliss,” greeted Amos. “How’s the cow business?”

Corliss laughed and shook hands with him.

“O’Day was sayin’ yesterday that it was about time for you to be showin’ up, Hardy. How are yuh, anyway?”

“I’m jus’ right, old-timer. Have a drink. I’ll bet that ain’t all that O’Day said about me.”

Corliss laughed and shook his head.

“I reckon he don’t like you, Hardy. But don’t let that bother yuh.”

“Nothin’ bothers me,” expansively. “As long as he’ll sell me good beef he can cuss me and be darned to him. Well, here’s to the pit of your stomach and may it never rust out.”

And while Amos and the foreman of the Five Box drank to each other—including, of course, the bartender, who bought every third time—Hashknife and Sleepy had breakfast at the Pekin Café, after which they took their rifles to the sheriff’s office.

The sheriff was anxious to hear what they found at Crow Rock Cañon, and Hashknife told it to him in detail, showing him the revolver which carried McLeod’s initials. Then he opened the rifles and pointed out the disabled firing-pins. It had only taken a few moments’ work with a screw driver to put both rifles out of commission.

“Uh-huh.” The sheriff nodded thoughtfully. “Hartley, yo’re not buckin’ ignorance in this. They’re not overlookin’ anything.”

“Except that we’re still alive,” added Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s true. Let’s go back and have a little talk with Scotty. He’s eatin’ breakfast.”

Scotty greeted them with a smile and came up to the bars, carrying his cup of coffee.

“How are they treatin’ yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Very well considerin’ my position in the matter.”

“I was just wonderin’ if you owned a six-shooter, McLeod.”

“A six-shooter? No, ye wouldn’t call it that. I’ve a five-shooter.”

“Nickel-plated .38, with yore initials on the butt?”

Scotty nodded quickly, squinting at Hashknife.

“Ye’ve been in my tr-runk, it seems.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“You hadn’t ought to put yore name on a gun. It might cause yuh trouble.”

“That gun shouldn’t cause any one trouble. Ye couldn’t hit the wall of a house at ten paces with it.”

“I reckon that’s true,” grinned Hashknife. “I found it in Crow Rock Cañon yesterday.”

“Ye did? My gun?” Scotty shook his head. “I’ve never been in Crow Rock Cañon in me life and I’ve never carried that gun anywhere. It wasn’t worth carryin’.”

“Yuh never was in Crow Rock Cañon, eh? Never went through to McCallville?”

“Never,” Scotty shook his head. “I’ve never been in McCallville in me life and I’ve had no occasion to go to Crow Rock Cañon although I know where it is. If ye’r not jokin’ with me, some one must have searched through me trunk and took the gun. I’m sure it was there just before I was arrested.”

“I guess they did,” agreed Hashknife.

Back in the office the sheriff shook his head.

“I’m thinkin’ that Scotty is an awful liar. I haven’t mentioned that note to him, and he’ll probably lie when I do.”

“Probably,” agreed Hashknife. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens next.”

They left the office and wandered to the War Paint saloon, where they ran into Amos Hardy and Corliss. Hashknife would have given much to have known that Hardy was in town so that he might have avoided him, but it was too late now.

Hardy was expansively drunk, and he yelped with delight when he caught a glimpse of Hashknife and Sleepy.

“——’s hinges!” he yelped, shoving away from the bar, his fat face wreathed in a smile, his legs a bit uncertain. “Hashknife, you old bed slat! Welcome to our reception! Sleepy, you old hedge-hog! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! Shake uncle Amos’ paw and say yuh feel pleased to meet him. Greeting and salutations.”

He wheezed and pawed at them, stepping on Sleepy’s toes in his exuberance of joy.

“Keep yore feet down!” growled Sleepy. “Ain’t the rest of the world wide enough for yuh without walkin’ on me?”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” Amos guffawed widely and tacked back to the bar, waving both hands at Hashknife and Sleepy.

“C’mon and get it. Ha, ha, ha, ha! By golly, it sure is fine to meet a friend. Yes-sir, it sure—”

He squinted at Corliss, shut one eye tight and turned his head to look at Hashknife.

“Misser Corliss,” he said solemnly, “I want you to meet Misser Hartley and Misser Stevens. Gen’lmen, thish is Misser Corliss. He’s foreman of the Five Box.”

Hashknife shook hands with Corliss, a half-grin on his lips, and Corliss laughed.

“Smith brothers, eh?” he chuckled.

“Smith brothers?” Amos squinted at Corliss.

He was not so drunk that all reason had fled.

“He-e-ey!” he snorted. “What in —— have I done now?”

“Killed the Smith brothers,” laughed Hashknife.

“Oh!” Amos goggled drunkenly. “Is it all right?”

“Sure.” They stood at the bar and had their drinks.

“That Smith idea was sort of an inspiration,” laughed Hashknife.

“A man has a right to a name,” said Corliss. “Let’s have another.”

* * * * *

One more was just one too many for Amos, and Corliss took him across the street to the hotel, where he registered for Amos and put him to bed.

“I sure hope the deaths of the Smith brothers won’t cause a fallin’ off in the Hartley and Stevens families,” said Sleepy as they sat down in the shade of the saloon porch.

“It won’t hurt none, Sleepy. The men who were lookin’ for us already knew us, so the rest of the bunch don’t matter. I’d like to know who Amos talked to about us after he spoke to Hank Ludden about writin’ that letter to me.”

“Probably won’t remember.”

Corliss came back from the hotel and joined them.

“I tucked Amos in his little bed,” he grinned. “Meetin’ him almost made me forget what O’Day told me. He said if I met you fellows to tell yuh to come out and see him.”

“What’s the idea?” asked Hashknife.

“I’ll be darned if I know, Hartley. Of course, you haven’t known O’Day very long and you wouldn’t see any change in him, but somethin’ has gone wrong with the man.

“I’ve kept my job because I was able to stand for his disposition. For years, ever since he got hurt, he’s been the meanest old —— on earth. Nothin’ suited him. He’d cuss yuh for doin’ wrong and he’d cuss yuh for doin’ right.

“There was only one satisfaction, and that was the fact that we could get away from him. He cursed everybody, everythin’. Even subscribed for several newspapers so he could get somethin’ to curse about.

“Sent east for one of them air-rifles so he could shoot the dogs. Shoot a horse just to see it jump, and then laugh about it. He wanted to hurt somethin’. No one ever came to see him the second time.

“But now—” Corliss shook his head slowly—“I dunno what’s the matter with him. He don’t swear any more. Not even at How Long, the Chink. Asked us to come up to the ranch-house and play poker with him. Honey Moon won forty dollars from him last night, and O’Day never even swore about it.

“Honey thinks the old man is goin’ to die. I tell yuh it’s pretty noticeable when How Long sees it. He don’t _sabe_. I asks him what he thinks and he says:

“‘No _sabe_. Long time, nobody good. Plenty mad. How Long cook bad, dlive bad. ——— Chinaman not worth kill. Swear plenty from evelything. Now, How Long velly good cook, dlive nice. No swear at How Long. Say ‘please.’ Yo’ _sabe_? How Long velly good Chinaman. Like fine.’

“And that’s how the Chink feels about it, Hartley.”

Hashknife grinned.

“Mebby he got tired of bein’ bad.”

Corliss grunted shortly.

“Mebbe.”

“I’d just as soon ride out and see him,” said Hashknife. “It sure must be a novelty to have O’Day ask yuh out there.”

“Novelty, ——! It’s a shock. If yuh want to go out right away, I’ll be ready as soon as I get the mail.”

Hashknife and Sleepy got their horses and rode away with Corliss. He seemed a different man than he was the day they met him at Scotty McLeod’s place after the killing of Naylor. Except for the broken nose, Corliss would have been a good looking man. The muscles of his big torso rippled beneath the thin shirt, and he held his body straight in the saddle.

The talk drifted to Scotty McLeod’s troubles as they passed the old road which led to McLeod’s little shack.

“I dunno what you fellers thought of us that day,” said Corliss. “It kinda looked as though we had started somethin’ we couldn’t finish, didn’t it? You know how cow-men feel about sheep, even a few sheep. It was like a slap in the face.

“I’ll admit that I was a little sudden.” Corliss laughed. “It was worth it to see the expression of that nester’s face when he seen the sheep on the end of my rope. I made him walk to the gate with me. I figured I could get out of sight before he could get back to the house and grab his rifle, but I was all wrong.

“He went back there like a scared rabbit goin’ to a hole, and it was only about ten seconds until he was throwin’ lead. And he’s a good shot. Moon and Naylor were further back on the hill. They thought everythin’ was all right.”

“About how far did he have to shoot at Naylor?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. Must ’a’ been between two hundred and two hundred and fifty yards—mebbe more.”

Hashknife nodded. He had estimated it at about that distance.

“I have heard that Joe Lane was very friendly with McLeod.”

“I dunno much about that,” said Corliss. “Joe Lane was all right. Bein’ a deputy sheriff kinda swelled his head, but outside of that he was all right, I reckon.”

“Did you ever suspect Joe Lane of rustlin’?”

Corliss shook his head quickly.

“No. I don’t suppose anybody else ever did, Hartley. There’s nothin’ now, except Hank Ludden’s word for it. But I don’t think Hank would lie about it. Joe was his son-in-law.”

“And there were two other men, Corliss. Ludden says there were three in the bunch.”

“That’s what he says, and he’s prob’ly right. Who they are and where they went is a question. There are a lot of riders in the Twisted River range, Hartley. There’s six outfits between here and Casco. On the other side of the range are several more outfits within a day’s ride of here. Pickin’ out two men from that bunch would be quite a job.”

They rode in at the Five Box ranch and tied their horses at a corral fence. The Five Box ranch-house was a one-story, rambling sort of place, with a wide veranda around the front and one side. Behind the house was a big stable and to the left of this was a series of corrals. The bunk-house was a long, log building, about a hundred feet away from the ranch-house, and was the only log building in the group. It was evidently at one time the ranch-house building as all the rest of the group were of frame construction and paint had been used lavishly. The house was blue and the stable was red.

“Yuh ought to paint the bunk-house white and change the brand to US,” suggested Hashknife, as they dismounted.

“Might be a good idea,” laughed Corliss. “O’Day hates red and blue, so he used them colors. It gave him an excuse to curse the ranch along with everythin’ else.”

They followed Corliss up to the ranch-house veranda, where they found O’Day, snuggled down in an easy chair, watching How Long who was trying to plant a rose bush in the front yard.

* * * * *

O’Day greeted them with a smile although he did not offer to shake hands with them. He looked even smaller, humped down in that big chair. Perhaps it was because he was not wearing a hat, and his thin, colorless hair was sticking up on his head, like some fox-tail grass.

“Sure, I’m havin’ the ——’s own time,” he told them. “Did ye ever have to do any gardenin’ by Chinese proxy? Ah, it’s a task. How Long is a fine Chinaman, but he has an Oriental idea of doin’ things. Sure, he came near plantin’ my rose bush upside down.”

Hashknife laughed and sat down on the veranda, bracing his back against a post, while Sleepy sat down on the steps.

“Goin’ to have a rose garden, eh?” asked Hashknife.

“Aye,” O’Day squinted against the sun, and the heavy lines of his thin face seemed to deepen. “Dutch O’Day and a rose garden. Well, I’ve looked at thistles long enough, and it’s time I was lookin’ at the rose.”

“That’s the right idea,” said Hashknife seriously.

O’Day nodded slowly, squinting at the Chinaman who stood out in the yard, shovel in hand, waiting for his orders.

“If ye put yer feet in the hole, ye’d take root, How Long,” laughed O’Day. “Put the root of the bush in the hole and fill in the dirt. But before ye do that, go and get some fertilizer.”

The Chinaman looked blankly at O’Day, who turned to Corliss.

“Will ye go wid him. By the time I’ve explained what fertilizer is, the bush will have died.”

Corliss laughed and motioned to the Chinaman, who followed him. O’Day watched them go and turned back to Hashknife.

“Smith,” he said slowly, “I want to thank ye for sayin’ what ye did to me the other day. It made me so —— mad that I got to thinkin’.”

“I’m glad yuh thought,” said Hashknife. “But our names are not Smith. My name is Hartley and my pardner’s name is Stevens. The Smith part of it was only a joke.”

O’Day squinted closely at Hashknife.

“Hartley? Now where did I hear—what do they call ye?”

“They usually call me Hashknife.”

“Aye! Hashknife Hartley. I’ve heard the name, and I’ve also heard of things ye have done, lad, ye and yer pardner. Well, well! No wonder ye wasn’t afraid to throw me reputation into me teeth. Smith brothers!”

O’Day laughed softly and shook his head.

Honey Moon came clattering up the side steps and along the veranda, while around the corner came Corliss and the Chinaman, carrying fertilizer for the roses. O’Day called to Corliss, who came up to them.

“I want you two boys to meet Hashknife Hartley and his partner, Stevens,” said O’Day chuckling softly. “They’re not the Smith brothers.”

“I knew that before we left town,” laughed Corliss.

“Oh, ye did, did ye?” grunted O’Day. “Well, Moon didn’t.”

“I shore didn’t,” laughed Moon. “I dunno what it’s all about, but I s’pose it’s all right.”

“Ye don’t? Honey, I’m surprized at ye. Didn’t ye ever hear of Hashknife Hartley?”

“Well, I may be ignorant,” laughed Moon, “but I don’t—”

“Do you?” O’Day spoke to Corliss, who shook his head.

“All I know is that Amos Hardy called ’em by those names. He came in on the mornin’ train and got dead drunk.”

“Aye, it’s about time for him to come through. Mebbe I better let him sober up and tell yuh who Hartley is, because he travels all through the cow country, and he’s likely heard a lot more than I have.”

“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ worth tellin’,” said Hashknife. “Hardy would prob’ly lie a lot about us.”

“I’ve heard,” said O’Day seriously, “that most of the lies they tell about you are the truth.”

“Suppose you tell us,” suggested Corliss.

“I’m the biggest liar of them all,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re just a pair of ramblin’ punchers, tha’sall. A feller in Calumet called us a pair of tumbleweeds, and that covers us.”

“Do they lie about what ye done in the Thunder River country and up north of Wind River and the jobs here and there for the last few years? What about the Mission River gang? Do they lie about that? I could name ye a few names if ye wish.”

“Don’t do it, O’Day,” smiled Hashknife. “I do not know how it has been told to yuh, so I can’t tell whether it’s true or not. But me and Sleepy never talk about ourselves. He don’t think I amount to much, and I know —— well he don’t. So there yuh are.

“If we’ve made reputations for ourselves, it wasn’t because we went seekin’ ’em. That part of it was the last thing on our mind. It hasn’t paid us in money. Sometimes we have a hard job to get money enough to buy a fresh horse.”

“Ye mean that ye don’t get paid for what ye do?”

“We don’t hire out,” smiled Hashknife. “There’s no agreement between us and the rest of the world.”

“That’s —— poor business,” said Honey Moon.

“We’re not in business.”

“I wouldn’t take a chance on bein’ killed unless I was bein’ well paid, y’betcha.”

“Wouldn’t yuh?” smiled Hashknife. “Do yuh ask for a raise in salary every time yuh top a bucker? Do yuh demand more money to chase a cow down the side of a cañon than yuh do for drivin’ one along a flat piece of road?”

“That’s different.”

“The principle is different, but the result is the same. It don’t make much difference whether yuh die from a bullet or a broken neck.”

“All the same, I’ll take a chance on my horse keepin’ its feet,” said Moon.

“And we take a chance on a rustler or murderer bein’ a bad shot or a slow one.”

“That idea is all right,” smiled Corliss, “but some day you’ll meet one that shoots straight and shoots quick.”

“Then I’ll be a memory,” grinned Hashknife.

* * * * *

The Chinaman had finished planting the bush. O’Day thanked him kindly, and the big Long How went away, grinning widely.

“I’m goin’ to get more roses,” said O’Day. “I’ll borrow some of me hard workin’ punchers and attach ’em to the wood end of some shovels. Then I can set here and look out at roses and smell ’em. That’s all there is left in life for me—just to set down and look on.”

“Why don’t yuh get some artificial legs?” asked Hashknife. “Yore knees are still good.”

“Pegs, do ye mean?”

“Not pegs—legs. Yuh might never become a foot racer, but yuh could walk all around. They’re made with braces and some springs, and yuh wear shoes on the feet. Mebby yuh’d have to pack a cane, but what if yuh did?”

O’Day smiled grimly.

“I’ve never seen anythin’ like it, but I believe ye, Hartley. Now where could I buy ’em?”

“I don’t just know. I’ll tell yuh who could get ’em for yuh, and that’s Amos Hardy. He goes east after his buyin’ trip is over, and he’d sure do it.”

“Mebbe not for me.” O’Day was thinking of the only time Amos Hardy had been at the Five Box and they had quarreled over the price of hides.

“He’d do it for me,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll tell him as soon as we get back.”

“Thank ye, Hartley. But I’d like to have a talk wid Hardy meself. He knows the cattle business, and I’d like to talk over the situation wid him. Suppose—” O’Day turned to Corliss—“ye bring him out here? You or one of the other boys take the buckboard in to Arapaho and bring him back.

“We quarreled a long time ago, and he’s not been here since. Hardy’s firm pays cash for everythin’ they buy, and it saves time. He takes mostly everythin’ we have for sale, and his prices are as good as anybody offers. Corliss, ye might tell him that I was wrong on the price of hides, and that I’m sorry for the things I called him.”

“All right,” nodded Corliss. “I’ll ask him to come. Mebbe he won’t, O’Day. Hardy is kinda touchy, yuh know.”

“Not knowin’ him very well, I dunno how his feelin’s are. But I think he’ll come.”

Corliss and Moon went off the veranda and headed for the stable. Dayne had just ridden in and was unsaddling.

“What do ye think of the Five Box, Hartley?” asked O’Day.

“Comfortable sort of a place. I like this long porch and the one-story buildings. The cattle business is good now.”

“Aye, it’s all right when you’re all right. I loved the feel of a good horse between me legs, the trail dust in me nostrils, the smell of the chuck wagon. I love the sight of the cattle along the skyline of the ridges, the roundup crews of dirty, sweatin’ punchers, the song and the arguments. Aye, and I loved the fights.

“But I disliked the loadin’ pens, Hartley, the long strings of cattle cars, the bawlin’ cattle, rattlin’ their horns agin’ the side of the cars—big, helpless hulks, goin’ away to die. Ah, I may be a fool, but I disliked it. The money I got for them gave me little enjoyment.

“Since I’ve been hurt I haven’t even seen a cattle train. I’ve not seen a cow loaded since then. So many are taken at a time, and I only know that there’s that many less Five Box cattle in the Twisted River hills.”

Hashknife smiled softly. It was the first time he had ever seen that kind of sentiment in a cattleman.

“The day of the big herds is passin’,” said O’Day sadly. “In a few years there’ll be no big ranges left. Nesters will be raisin’ fruit and vegetables where we raised cattle. Barb wire is comin’ in, Hartley. This country can be irrigated, and irrigation will break up the ranges.”

“That is true,” nodded Hashknife. “But it will be quite a while yet. The world must have meat, and it takes the ranges to furnish it in big quantities. I’ve been curious to know just why yuh invented the Five Box brand.”

O’Day laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“I wanted somethin’ that no cow thief could alter into some other brand. I’d defy anybody to take a runnin’ iron and change it so that it would look like any other registered brand.”

“Well, you sure got it,” grinned Hashknife. “It’s visible enough.”

O’Day shifted himself to an easier position and lowered his voice.

“Hartley, what are you workin’ on here?”

“Workin’ on?” Hashknife looked up at O’Day. “That’s hard to say, old-timer.”

“I see. Ye’re not workin’ for Hank Ludden, are ye?”

“I’m workin’ for the right side,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’m not sure yet just who is in the right.”

“I don’t think I understand ye,” said O’Day.

“That’s about all I can tell yuh.”

“It’s none of me business, of course. I’d like to hire the two of ye. I know I’m goin’ to need a prod once in a while because I’m not cured. I’m tryin’ to change me disposition, but it’s a hard pull. It’s easier to be mean than kind after ye’ve been mean for so —— long.”

“Thank yuh for the jobs,” said Hashknife. “But we wouldn’t be worth much to yuh, O’Day. We’d be leavin’ soon. Yuh can’t scratch an itchin’ foot and look at the same scenery.”

Came the rattle of a buckboard, and Corliss drove past the corner of the veranda, stopping his team long enough to ask O’Day if there was anything he wanted in town. The team was a half-broken span of sorrels, threatening any moment to throw themselves, under the strong pull of the lines.

They shot away from the ranch, and the buckboard faded out of sight in a cloud of dust.

“Won’t ye stay for supper?” asked O’Day, when Hashknife and Sleepy got to their feet.

“Not today, thanks,” said Hashknife. “We’ll come out again.”

“Make it soon, boys. Thank ye for comin’, and if there’s any help ye want, don’t hesitate to ask for it. And thank ye for suggestin’ the legs. I’d try anythin’. My ——, after settin’ in a chair as long as I have, I’d try wings if somebody would suggest ’em.”

* * * * *

A couple of hours sleep was sufficient for Amos Hardy, and he came back to the War Paint saloon, where he met Armadillo Jones. After a drink to renew old acquaintance, Armadillo told him about Hashknife and Sleepy being in Arapaho and that they were handling the troubles of the Hard Luck ranch.

Amos dimly remembered introducing them to Corliss by their right names, and asked Armadillo if they were traveling incognito.

“You better have another drink,” said Armadillo. “Mebbe one more drink of War Paint’s best will unravel yore words so a white man can _sabe_ ’em.”

“I just wanted to know if they were usin’ different names.”

“Oh, yeah, Smith.”

“Uh-huh!” grunted Amos. “I reckon I made a _faux pas_.”

“A foo paw, eh? We’ll pass that one and have the drink. You don’t ache any place do yuh, Amos?”

Amos shook his head slowly as he drank his liquor. Then he wiped his lips thoughtfully and said—

“I reckon I’m _de trop_ with Hashknife.”

Armadillo dropped his glass on the bar, blinked violently and headed for the door.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Amos.

“I’m goin’ to git me a booktionary, and then I’m comin’ back and worry you a while.”

Amos laughed and invited the bartender to become his bottle partner.

“I want everybody to be happy,” said Amos. “You can’t run out on me unless yuh shut up the shop. I never get drunk until I get to Arapaho City. It’s so darned far away from the rest of the world that nobody knows what I do.”

“You buyin’ cattle?” Thus the bartender.

“Y’betcha. I need five hundred head. Spot cash.”

“Lotta money. Got it with yuh?”

“I suppose yuh want to play single-handed stud, eh? Nope. Money’s in the Arapaho bank. Signed check is in my pocket. I draw what I need. That’s how we get the pick of the beef.

“These old cow-men are funny. They want money, not checks. My firm carries a balance in every bank where we do business. Oh, not a big balance, of course. But when I start out, I’ve got a hunch where I’ll land the stuff, so they play the game with me and have the money all set. They’ve sure got confidence in little Amos.”

“You just about buy all the stuff around here, don’tcha?”

“Any place I go, I land the business. I’m too fat to be a crook. Honest Amos Hardy. It’s took me all my life to win that name, and I wouldn’t be crooked for less’n a million. Drink welcome, —— knows you’re hearty.”

Corliss came in as they were drinking, and Amos whooped with joy.

“It was a great Democrat victory, and I’m about to be inaugurated,” he told Corliss. “This time I’ll put you to bed.”

“That’s a job,” said Corliss, who was a trifle proud of his ability to carry liquor. They had several drinks, and Corliss delivered the message from O’Day.

“Go out to see that old reptile?” wailed Amos. “That old jug of profanity? Me? Sa-a-ay, feller! Huh! Have another and you’ll see things different.”

Corliss did not urge him. He knew what happened to Amos the one time he had been out there and he did not blame him for not wanting to go back again. But the more liquor Amos drank the more indignant he became.

“Can yuh beat that?” he wailed. “Asks me to come out there to see him. Don’t he think I’ve got any feelin’s? What does he think I am? I’m s’prized at yuh, Corliss, for askin’ me.”

Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Arapaho City and entered the War Paint during one of Amos’ discourses. Amos whooped with joy and insisted on dragging them to the bar and telling all about Dutch O’Day wanting to see him. Hashknife made no comment, but let Amos wail as loud as he wanted to.

The sheriff drifted in and joined the crowd of which Amos insisted on being toastmaster.

“I’m a nightingale,” he told them. “I’m a whippoorwill and a nightingale, mixed with a strain of canary and medder lark. My voice sounds to me like the tinklin’ of bells.”

“Cow bells,” said Sleepy. “And as a birdologist, yo’re all off the grade. Yore pedigree right now is one hundred per cent. crow with a touch of buzzard. You’ve been eatin’ birdseed when yuh should have been lookin’ for somethin’ that had been dead a week.”

Sleepy was willing to admit that Amos Hardy was a good cattle buyer, but he hated to hear even a drunken man brag about himself. But Amos did not care. Sleepy’s sarcastic remark went in one ear and out the other.

“I know what I’m goin’ to do,” declared Amos. “I’m goin’ out to see Dutch O’Day.”

“Yo’re crazy,” said the sheriff. “You let O’Day alone.”

“Thasso?” Amos flared drunkenly. “Crazy, eh? Like —— I am! I’m just drunk enough to talk to that mummy-faced old chuckwalla. Las’ time he told me a few things—thish time I’m gonna tell him a few. C’mon, Corliss.”

“You better stay here,” advised the sheriff. And advice was something that Amos would not take—not in his condition.

“Don’t tell me what to do!” snorted Amos. “I’m free, white and twenty-one. I’ve spent a lot of money with the darned old caterpillar, and I’m goin’ to tell him all about his ancestors.

“I’ve got a list of every shipment I ever bought from him, every darned cow! And I’m goin’ to show him how much money I’ve spent with him. By golly, he can’t curse me and keep m’ trade. C’mon, foreman of the Five Box.”

* * * * *

Corliss shook his head at the sheriff, but followed Amos outside and over to the buckboard, where Amos insisted on driving. But Corliss shoved him to the other side of the seat and took the reins himself.

As he turned the half broke team away from the hitch-rack, Amos leaned forward, whipped off his hat and struck one of the horses across the rump, which caused the team to whirl wildly and almost upset the buckboard.

“A nice feller when he’s sober, but a —— fool when he’s drunk,” declared the sheriff as he and Hashknife started for the office, followed by Sleepy.

“He’ll sober up before he gets back,” said Hashknife.

“He prob’ly will. Did yuh go out to see O’Day?”

“Yeah. Found him havin’ roses planted in the front yard.”

“My ——! Roses? Must have gone crazy. Say, I told McLeod about that note yuh found. He started to deny it, but shut up like a clam. Old Armadillo came down here a while ago. I was out, so he took it upon himself to go back and talk to McLeod. I suppose Armadillo thought it was all right. After he went away I told McLeod about that note.”

“Started to deny it?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. Then he shut up about it. Said he’d like to see the tall one of the Smith brothers.”

“Oh, he did, eh?” Hashknife surmised that Armadillo had told McLeod who the Smith brothers were, but he did not tell the sheriff.

“Mind if I talk with him alone?” asked Hashknife.

“No-o-o, I reckon not. Go ahead. If he tells yuh anythin’, I know you’ll tell me.”

“You think so, do yuh?” said Hashknife to himself, but to the sheriff he merely nodded.

Sleepy and the sheriff sat down in the office, while Hashknife went back to McLeod’s cell. McLeod had heard them come in, and was at the bars.

“You wanted to see me?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes. Armadillo Jones told me who you were, and that you were tryin’ to find out who was stealin’ from the Hard Luck ranch.”

“Quite an order, don’tcha think, McLeod?”

“It has never been done. A while ago the sheriff accused me of bein’ one of the thieves. Where did ye find that note?”

“In yore coat, hangin’ on the wall of yore cabin.”

McLeod’s amazement was genuine. He scratched his red hair violently and squinted at Hashknife. He felt that Hashknife was telling the truth, although he, McLeod, knew nothing about the note.

“That beats the ——!”

“It does,” agreed Hashknife, grinning. “But unless it can be explained, yo’re up against it awful hard, McLeod.”

McLeod shook his head.

“But I can’t explain it. Neither can I explain how ye happened to find me gun in Crow Rock Cañon. I’ve never been there, I tell ye. I’ll admit in court that I shot at a man, but I’ll insist that he got what was comin’ to him, but I’ll admit no rustlin’.”

“You were a good friend to Joe Lane?”

“Yes. I liked the lad. He often came out to see me.”

“He was killed for stealin’ cattle.”

“That’s tr-r-rue. But does that make me one? Man, there’s a plot to make things awful har-r-rd for Scotty McLeod.”

He shook his head sadly, a dismal expression in his blue eyes.

“It’s bad enough to be hung for killin’ a man, but I’ve no likin’ to be branded a thief in the bargain. The prosecutin’ attorney was in to see me this mornin’, and he asked me who my attorney might be. I’ve no attorney. What good would one be to me? All the ar-r-rguments in the world would only bring it back to the fact that I defended myself and killed a man.”

Hashknife laughed softly as he rolled a smoke.

“It sure looks bad for yuh, McLeod. I told Ludden I’d try and find out who was stealin’ HL cattle. That’s a big job. I’ve got a theory, tha’sall. I don’t believe you was with Joe Lane. You say you was in town, and must have left here shortly before Lane was killed. I’m goin’ to believe that, whether any one else believes it or not.”

“Are you goin’ to try and prove that I’m not a thief?”

“I’m goin’ to try it, McLeod. Everythin’ is against me, but I’ll do what I can. Don’t say anythin’ about it. Keep still about that note and the gun. _Sabe?_”

Hashknife went back to the sheriff and Sleepy, but told the sheriff that McLeod had nothing new to tell. While they were talking a man came in whom Hashknife recognized as being the prosecuting attorney.

They went away, leaving him with the sheriff, and strolled up to the general store, where they made a few purchases and were going back to their room, when the sheriff hailed them.

“This is a —— of a note!” he snorted. “The prosecutor says that there’s too much talk about the killin’ of Joe Lane. He says that it ain’t never been proved that Joe Lane was stealin’ cows when Ludden killed him, so now he demands that I arrest Ludden.”

Hashknife whistled softly.

“Gee, that’s too bad. But I can see his viewpoint, Sheriff. We all took Ludden’s word for it.”

“I s’pose that’s true, Hartley, but my ——, I hate this job of mine! Oh, well, I suppose if I arrest enough of ’em, I’ll get the guilty ones after while. This —— prosecutor will bring a charge of murder against old Hank, as sure as ——. He ain’t got no heart, liver or lights when it comes to makin’ a case against somebody.”

“They’re all alike,” said Hashknife sadly. “I like to settle all my cases out of court.”

“Yeah, I hear yuh do,” meaningly. The sheriff sighed deeply. “Well, I s’pose that’s the best way. But I’ve got my orders, and I’ve got to do it. Old Armadillo will prob’ly hit me with the grind-stone or a two-faced ax before I can get Hank off the ranch. By ——, it sure is Hard Luck ranch.”

* * * * *

Much against his will the sheriff rode away to arrest Hank Ludden. Sleepy and Hashknife went to their room and sprawled on the bed, where Hashknife smoked innumerable cigarets and ignored all of Sleepy’s questions.

“Thinkin’, eh?” Thus Sleepy indignantly. “Well, there’s sure a-plenty to think about. By golly, I could almost set down and do some thinkin’ myself—almost. Rotten deal for Ludden. He never killed Joe Lane on purpose. This’ll set a fine example for the rest of the rustlers.

“Pretty soon a sheriff will have to take out a license as an executioner in order to compete with crime. Hank Ludden up and shoots a cow thief instead of kissin’ him, and they throw Ludden in jail. By golly, I’m sure goin’ to set on my gun-hand in this country.”

“How in —— can yuh expect a feller to think?” demanded Hashknife indignantly. “You sure do flow vocally, pardner. Ho, hum-m!”

Hashknife sat up on the bed and dusted the tobacco from the folds of his shirt.

“Conscious again, eh?” grunted Sleepy. “I suppose you’ve got it all figured out now, and all we’ve got to do is to go out and put the handcuffs on the criminals. My golly, yuh sure do go in a trance, tall feller.”

“I ain’t got it all clear yet,” grinned Hashknife.

“Have yuh got any of it clear?”

“Clear enough for me, but not enough for a jury. They need a lot of facts, while all I need is a hunch. It’s too stuffy up here, so I’ll play yuh a game of pool. I need somethin’ to take my mind off the troubles of the world.”

They left their room and went across the street to the War Paint. All was serene in Arapaho City, drowsing beneath a warm sun. Only two or three men loafed in the saloon, and the bartender sprawled across the bar, reading a love-story. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the rear of the room and began playing pool. It was one form of relaxation that appealed to Hashknife, who was able to banish all else from his mind in the serious business of trying to figure out bank and combination shots. Neither of them was a good player.

They were in the midst of their second string of fifty markers when Dayne of the Five Box came clattering in, the rowels of his big spurs jangling over the rough floor.

“Does anybody know where the doctor is?” he asked loudly.

Hashknife and Sleepy stopped playing, while the rest of the men in the saloon denied all knowledge of the doctor’s whereabouts.

“Somebody sick?” asked the bartender, marking the place in his paper-backed novel.

“Aw, that —— fool cattle buyer got himself killed, I think. I’ve got to get the doctor to pass judgment though.”

“Amos Hardy killed?” The bartender was shocked.

“I think so,” Dayne leaned on the bar, bracing himself with his crooked elbow.

He rubbed his broken nose and squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, who came up to the bar, still carrying their cues.

“How did it happen?” asked Hashknife.

“’Bout a mile this side of the ranch.” Dayne spat dryly. “Hardy was drunk. He wanted to drive, but Corliss wouldn’t let him. They had quite a quarrel, so Corliss says, and when they was goin’ around a turn in Sweetwater Cañon, Hardy grabbed the whip and slashed the team with it.

“That team wasn’t more ’n half broke, yuh know. Corliss tried to hold ’em, but he broke a line, the right one, and throwed all the pull on the left. Corliss jumped, and all he got was a skinned leg. It’s about forty feet straight down to the bottom, and all rocks. One horse was killed and we had to shoot the other. O’Day told me to get the doctor out there as soon as I could, but I can’t find him. Don’t reckon it’ll do Hardy any good, ’cause he’s too dead to skin.”

One of the men reported that he had seen the doctor go in to the general store across the street, and Dayne left his interested audience to hurry to the store. Hashknife and Sleepy went back to their unfinished game, but did not complete it.

They had known Amos Hardy for a long time, and his death had taken away their desire to play pool. Dayne found the doctor at the store and they went away together.

It was about two hours later that the sheriff came back to town, bringing Hank Ludden, and accompanied by Armadillo Jones, who was mad enough to fight the world. Ludden was lodged in a cell across the hall from McLeod, and the sheriff and Armadillo were back in the office when Hashknife and Sleepy came and told them what had happened to Amos Hardy.

The sheriff threw up both hands.

“What next?” he wailed. “By grab, I’m sick of all this trouble!”

“You and me both!” snorted Armadillo. “Lemme git my hands on that —— prosecutin’ attorney. I voted for that polecat. Actually did. Thought he had brains. Arrestin’ old Hank! My ——, the old man is grievin’ his heart out over killin’ Joe Lane, and now a —— fool of a lawyer has him arrested.”

“Well, I can’t help it!” snapped the sheriff. “It wasn’t my idea, Armadillo.”

“Nobody blamin’ yuh, is there? I voted for you, too.”

“Yeah, and if yuh think I’m thankin’ yuh for that vote, you’ve got another think comin’,” retorted the sheriff. “If I ever run for this —— office, I hope I don’t get a vote.”

“Yuh prob’ly won’t,” said Armadillo, and added dryly, “not if I have anythin’ to say about it.”

Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at the repartee. It was like a little terrier snapping at the heels of a great dane. They were the best of friends, but both of them were so exasperated that they used each other as an outlet.

“I’m goin’ up to see Mary Lane,” declared Armadillo. “I’m goin’ to gird up my loins and tell her who’s which.”

“It won’t do yuh no good to wish more trouble on her,” said the sheriff. “She’ll find out anyway.”

“Of course she will. But I want her to know jist how her daddy feels about the shootin’. It’d make a —— of a lot of difference to Hank if Mary would come down and see him. That —— old fool would set right there and let yuh hang him, ’cause he thinks there ain’t nothin’ left in the world.”

“Well, she won’t never come,” declared the sheriff.

Armadillo squinted closely at the sheriff. “You won’t do anythin’ to stop her if she wants to come, will yuh?”

“Of course not.”

“All right.” Armadillo spat violently, hitched up his belt and went bow-legging his way out of the office.

It was not a job to Armadillo’s liking, but he knew it must be done. He had really wanted an excuse to talk with Mary. Somehow he could not believe that Mary would refuse to see her father. At least, he thought, she would not refuse to see him.

* * * * *

He turned the corner at the old cottonwood and went out to Lane’s house, a little, one-story, unpainted cottage. There was little style to the Arapaho residential architecture. The front yard was enclosed with a picket-fence, many pickets being missing, and the gate sagged from one hinge.

It creaked loudly, when Armadillo opened it, and he looked apprehensively toward the house. Nothing happened. There were a few rose bushes in the front yard, and Armadillo stopped to examine them for no reason except that it delayed him.

He heard the front door open, but did not look up. Another bush drew his immediate attention. Finally he lifted his head and looked at Mary Lane, standing just outside the door. For several moments they looked at each other. They might have been total strangers, as far as recognition was concerned.

Armadillo looked back toward town, removing his hat and rubbing the side of his head with the heel of the same hand. He turned back and looked at Mary.

“What do you want?” she asked softly.

“I had to come, Mary,” he said simply. “They said yuh wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with us any more, but I—” He smiled slowly—“Yuh know I never was any hand to believe what I heard.”

“I never said such a thing, Armadillo. But after what happened, you—”

“Oh, I _sabe_ all that. It sure was an awful blow. It almost killed yuh, Mary. I know it did. It almost killed Hank Ludden, too.”

Mary’s lips shut tightly and she looked away.

“It made him a hundred years old, Mary. He’d give his life to bring Joe Lane back. We was a pair of —— old fools, Mary. We was jealous of Joe Lane, I reckon. We didn’t realize that both of yuh was young.”

“But it’s too late now,” she said painfully. “I’m sorry about Dad. I might have been wrong, too.”

“Yeah, it sure looks like it was too late, Mary. Yore dad was arrested today for the killin’ of Joe.”

“What?” Mary came closer to Armadillo, searching his face, wondering if she had misunderstood.

“Yeah, it’s true, Mary,” he said slowly. “He’s in jail. The prosecutin’ attorney made the sheriff do it. He said that there was no proof that yore dad had shot Joe while Joe was in the act of stealin’ cattle. They’ll give Hank a hearin’ tomorrow, ’cause court opens the next day.”

“But they don’t think that Dad did it—” Mary hesitated, shaking her head, her eyes wide. “Armadillo, do they think that Dad lied?”

“That’s what they think, Mary. But they’re crazy.”