Chapter V: Part 5

“Then you think Joe was a thief?”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” Armadillo floundered badly. “I don’t know what I think, Mary. I’ve talked it over with yore dad until I dunno whether I’m afoot or on horseback. I wanted to be the one to tell yuh. Yore dad is settin’ down there in the jail, lookin’ at the wall, wonderin’ what’ll come next. I told him I was goin’ to see yuh, and he said it wouldn’t help any, but for me to tell yuh he was sorry.”

“Sorry, Armadillo?”

“Well, that’s about all he could tell me. Hank never was a good hand at expressin’ himself except with profanity. Bein’ sorry means a lot for him to admit, Mary.”

“But what can I do?” asked Mary helplessly.

“Go down and talk with him, girl. He’s yore dad. Stick to him. He didn’t hurt yuh on purpose, honest he didn’t.”

“I don’t believe he did,” she said slowly. “It hurt me so much that I haven’t been able to think.”

“I’ll betcha that’s right, Mary. It sure was tough. I jist wondered how yuh was gettin’ along for money, yuh know.”

“Oh, that part of it is all right, Armadillo. The county is going to pay me—”

She hesitated. The sheriff had told her not to talk about it.

“Yeah, I heard they was,” said Armadillo with great satisfaction.

He wondered how the sheriff had fixed it up. Mary looked at him, wondering how much he knew. If he had heard of the generosity of the county, it was no longer a secret.

“Yes,” she said, “it is wonderful. It seems that they don’t believe Joe was dishonest, because they are going to pay me three times what Joe’s salary would have been. Just think of it! Three hundred and thirty dollars a month!”

Armadillo gulped heavily, blinking his eyes. Three hundred and thirty a month!

“But please don’t mention it to any one, Armadillo. The sheriff said the county didn’t want it generally known.”

“I sh’d think not,” muttered Armadillo blankly.

Mary got her hat and accompanied Armadillo down to the jail, where they found Hashknife in charge, the sheriff having gone to the Five Box ranch.

Hashknife shook hands with Mary, although he had never been introduced, and offered them chairs.

“I’m runnin’ this place right now,” smiled Hashknife as he closed the front door and locked it.

He took a key from the sheriff’s desk and walked to the door which connected the office with the jail.

“I’ll let my star prisoner come out here to yuh,” he told them. “The key will be in the lock, and when yuh get through talkin’ yuh can lock him in again. This may not be accordin’ to Hoyle, but there’s a lot of things done around here that ain’t been accordin’ to Hoyle.”

He walked back to Ludden’s cell, swung the door open and told Ludden he was wanted in the office. Wonderingly the old man headed through the doorway, while Hashknife closed the connecting door and went quietly out the rear.

Hashknife had no fear of Hank Ludden escaping, and he did not want the meeting of father and daughter to occur in the presence of McLeod. Not that it would make any difference, except that Hashknife had an idea that it might better be held in private.

He went to the War Paint where he joined Sleepy. Several more cattlemen had ridden in and were discussing Hank Ludden’s arrest and the death of Amos Hardy, who was well known. None of them was in sympathy with the law regarding the arrest of Ludden.

They were willing to take it for granted that Hank had shot Joe Lane for rustling cattle, and they indignantly wanted to know what they were to do in case they caught a rustler red-handed.

“Git up a petition orderin’ him to leave the country,” decided a bandy-legged cowboy seriously. “Or yuh might speak severely to him.”

“And git arrested for slander,” grunted another, which caused a general laugh.

It was a short time later that the sheriff and doctor came back with the body of Amos Hardy, which was left at the doctor’s office. Hashknife joined the sheriff, and they were almost to the office when Mary and Armadillo came out.

“I left ’em alone to talk with Hank,” explained Hashknife.

“Tha’sall right,” said the sheriff. Mary greeted him with a smile and a handshake.

“I hope yuh ain’t sore at me, Mary,” he said.

She shook her head quickly.

“Not a bit. It isn’t anything you could help.”

“I’m sure glad yuh feel thataway. Come again.”

“I surely will.”

They went on, and the sheriff looked quizzically at Hashknife, who shrugged his shoulders.

“Armadillo brought her,” he said. “I’m glad for Ludden’s sake.”

“So am I.”

* * * * *

They went in the office and sat down. The sheriff stretched wearily, his big hands dropping loosely in his lap, while his sad eyes contemplated the opposite wall.

“Hardy was dead, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. Musta landed down in that cañon on his head. The team and buckboard are still there. Too much liquor.”

The sheriff took a bundle of papers from his pocket and placed them on his desk. From another he took a sum of money, a pocket-knife, a watch.

“Amos Hardy’s personal effects,” he said sadly.

“Mind if I look at ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“Certainly not. Go ahead.”

Hashknife examined all the papers, which consisted of some personal letters, business letters, telegrams, business cards. He looked them all over carefully and put them back.

“We’ve got to send word to his firm,” said the sheriff. “Nobody around here knows where Hardy’s home is.”

“I never heard,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “When do yuh give Hank Ludden a hearin’?”

“Tomorrow mornin’. Court opens the next day, and we’ve got to find out if Hank has got to stand trial. There ain’t a lot of cases on the calendar, and we can’t hold Hank Ludden for another three months.”

“I don’t see how they can hold him,” mused Hashknife. “He says Joe Lane was stealin’ cattle. How can the law prove that Joe wasn’t. It looks to me like a foolish case.”

“I reckon so, Hartley. But there’s so much talk about it that the prosecutor has got to do somethin’. Old Hank won’t hire a lawyer.”

“Prob’ly don’t realize what it means. I’m naturally interested, because I told him I’d try and change the luck of the HL ranch.”

“You’ve got a job, Hartley.”

Hashknife smiled softly and rubbed his nose. “I did have,” he said slowly. “See yuh later.”

He left the office and the sheriff squinted after him.

“He did have,” muttered the sheriff. “Did have, eh? Now what did he mean by that, I wonder?”

Hashknife’s words were food for thought, and the sheriff of Arapaho tried to digest them. What did Hashknife know that the rest of them did not know, he wondered? Was he bluffing or did he really know something?

“I don’t think he’s bluffing,” decided the sheriff. “That long, lean, question-eyed whippoorwill has seen somethin’. He’s got a reputation that he didn’t get from settin’ still.”

Hashknife went up the street and was standing in the doorway of the general store, when Honey Moon and Dayne rode in and tied their horses at the War Paint hitch-rack. They waved at Hashknife as they went to the saloon—Honey Moon waddling along like a duck while Dayne went stiffly, his crippled arm giving him a peculiar appearance.

Some more cowboys came up the other side of the street and went in the saloon. Hashknife puffed on a cigaret, his eyes half closed, as he tried to map out his next move. The cigaret burned his lip, and he spat it out.

Across the street he went and into the War Paint. Sleepy was at the bar with the rest of the cowboys, and the conversation was still about the arrest of Hank Ludden. The Five Box boys were anxious to hear all about it, and the bartender, acting in the capacity of a town crier, was giving them plenty of information.

“Aw, that’s a rotten deal,” declared Honey Moon. “They can’t never cinch the old man.”

“The —— they can’t!” Thus the bartender. “The law can cinch anybody. They could cinch me or they could cinch you. You ain’t got a chance agin’ a smart lawyer.”

“Yeah, and they’ll get you, too,” said Sleepy seriously. “Don’t yuh know it’s a crime to serve the kind of liquor you do? I’ve heard that you bought that barrel of whisky seven years ago, used out of it steady ever since, and you’ve still got two-thirds of it left.”

Sleepy hadn’t heard any such thing, but he delighted in an argument. Before the spluttering bartender could frame a fitting defense, Hashknife came in beside Sleepy and offered to buy a drink. The acceptance was unanimous.

“You were talkin’ about Hank Ludden,” reminded Hashknife. “Didja ever stop to think what a conviction of him would mean to things out in the ranges?”

“Sure thing,” nodded Honey Moon. “It’ll mean that a man will be scared to shoot at a rustler, unless he has a couple of lawyers along with him and permit from the court.”

“That’s just what it’ll mean, Moon. Now here’s what we’ve got to do, boys. The case is awful weak on both sides, but we can’t take any chances. Every one of you fellers bring in all the punchers yuh can. By golly, we can sure make it so uncomfortable for the law that they won’t dare hold him. _Sabe?_”

“We’ll sure do that,” said Honey. “There’s too danged much law around here, anyway.”

They drank to success. Hashknife’s scheme appealed to all of them, and Hashknife drew Moon aside.

“Have O’Day come in, too, will yuh? He can protest just as hard as the rest of us, and the fact that he took the trouble to come down here will kinda add power to us.”

“I’ll tell him,” grinned Moon. “Yuh never can figure out what Dutch O’Day will do. He thinks yo’re a little tin god, Hartley.”

“I am,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Oh, yeah,” Moon’s fat face expressed only a blank stare.

He didn’t know whether Hashknife was serious or not.

“I’m pretty smart,” said Hashknife. “Prob’ly a lot smarter than most folks, but I can’t help it. I was born thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” Moon nodded foolishly. “Well, I’ll tell the boys.”

“Thank yuh,” Hashknife walked to the rear of the room and began practising on the pool table, while Moon went back to the bar, wondering what kind of an egotistical fool Hashknife really was.

All the wonderful stories he had heard of Hashknife’s ability were immediately discounted. He nudged Sleepy and attracted his attention.

“What kind of a feller is yore pardner?” he asked.

“Hashknife?” Sleepy squinted sideways at Moon. “I’ll tell yuh the truth, Honey—he’s about half-loco.”

“Honest?”

“Well,” Sleepy shrugged his shoulders, “a feller wouldn’t say that about his pardner if it wasn’t true, would he?”

“Um-m-m-m,” Moon glanced at Hashknife thoughtfully. “No, I don’t reckon yuh would. But I’ve heard so much about him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Sleepy turned and looked at Hashknife before replying. “That was quite a while ago, Honey. He used to be good. Yeah, he sure used to be a dinger. But now?” Sleepy shook his head sadly.

“Told me he was a tin god,” whispered Moon.

Sleepy choked. In fact he strangled, and there were tears on his cheeks before he could swallow again.

“He thinks he is,” said Sleepy hoarsely. “He’s all right if yuh leave him alone.”

“Sure.”

Moon and Dayne left the saloon. Sleepy went back to Hashknife and they racked up the balls for a game.

“What was Honey Moon whisperin’ to you about?” asked Hashknife.

Sleepy leaned on the table and laughed so hard he missed the cue ball.

“He thinks yo’re crazy, Hashknife. Did you tell him you was a tin god?”

“I admitted that I was,” grinned Hashknife.

The grin vanished as he slowly chalked his cue, and his eyes looked somberly toward the front of the room.

“I might be, at that, Sleepy. The Tin God of Twisted River, if I guess right.”

Sleepy straightened up and looked keenly at Hashknife.

“Is it almost time to say ‘when,’ cowboy?” he asked softly.

“Almost,” Hashknife nodded thoughtfully. “I’m all set, pardner. Mebbe I’m wrong, but I can almost read what’s written after certain names in the Big Book. It ain’t plain yet, but plain enough.”

“I _sabe_,” said Sleepy seriously.

He knew that Hashknife’s work had not been in vain, although Hashknife had given him no inkling of what he had found out. It was not like Hashknife to tell any one what he was doing, and Sleepy had learned to follow blindly to the end.

“Do yuh know the name of the man who sent yuh the letter?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Don’t need it now.”

They stood for several moments, looking at the layout of colored balls and making no effort to continue play. Then Hashknife missed an easy side-pocket shot and dropped the cue ball in a corner pocket. Sleepy studied the layout for several moments, ignoring the fact that the cue ball was not in sight. All of which showed that their minds were not on the game. Then, as if by mutual consent, they put their cues in the rack and walked outside, where they sat down in the shade with their backs against the wall.

* * * * *

That the cattlemen of Twisted River wished to keep their rights, so far as killing off rustlers was concerned, was attested by the fact that the ranges were well represented in Arapaho City the following morning.

The arrest of Hank Ludden was considered a direct slap in their faces, and a conviction would establish a dangerous precedent. So they had come to attend the hearing of Ludden and to protest vigorously.

Macey, the prosecuting attorney, had got wind of Hashknife’s scheme, met him at the sheriff’s office and pointed out that he, Hashknife, was trying to interfere with the law.

“Nothin’ of the kind,” laughed Hashknife.

“With the room filled with hostile cowboys, do you think a justice of the peace would dare decide against Ludden?”

“Well, you’ve got no case against him.”

“Very well. Then let the case decide itself. If we have no case against him, why bring all these cowboys?”

“Don’tcha like to act in front of a big crowd?” grinned Hashknife. Then seriously, “Macey, I came here to find the answer to a mystery.”

“You did, eh?” The lawyer smiled indulgently. “I don’t believe in mysteries.”

“No, I s’pose not. Lotsa folks don’t believe in Santa Claus, but they always get up early Christmas mornin’ and take a good look around to see what has been left for ’em.”

The lawyer laughed. He had an exalted idea of his own importance, but he was just a trifle curious about the mystery.

“Just what mystery were you trying to solve?”

“You’ve heard of Hard Luck ranch?”

“Yes. But as far as any mystery is concerned, no.”

“Perhaps it ain’t no mystery to you when cattle disappear month after month, and nobody knows where they went.”

The lawyer smiled.

“I’ve heard something of it. Perhaps there is a mystery in that. The other happenings were merely coincidences.”

“Certainly. I’m not tryin’ to find out how it is that men get killed accidently, and all that. That’s none of our business. But losin’ cattle, that’s different.”

“I see. But what has that to do with the trial of Henry Ludden?”

“He killed a rustler, didn’t he?”

“It seems to me,” said the lawyer solemnly, “that we are not getting anywhere with our argument. I tried to point out to you the folly of trying to stampede my court with a lot of indignant cowboys, and you get me into an argument over some mystery.”

“Which shows that you ain’t so awful narrow,” laughed Hashknife. Then seriously, “Macey, here’s the way yore case stands right now. Hank Ludden ain’t got any defense. He can’t prove that Joe Lane was at that old U6 corral. He can’t prove that any one was there, nor that a single head of cattle was in the corral. If you say that he met Joe Lane alone on the hills and killed him, he can’t prove that you’re wrong.

“Nor can you prove that yo’re right. It’s yore imagination against his word, and —— only knows what a jury might do. Do you want a conviction, whether the old man is guilty or not, or do you want justice done?”

The lawyer studied Hashknife for several moments.

“If you can prove it to my satisfaction—justice, of course.”

“Good. Now quit wailin’ about the cowboys stampedin’ yore courtroom. Forget the dignity of the court, and let me run part of the show to suit myself.”

“But you can’t—”

Macey started to protest, but the sheriff interrupted him.

“Let Hartley alone, Macey. I dunno his proposition, but I’m behind his play right now.”

“Well,” dubiously. “A court of law has a certain dignity to uphold, whether it is in a big city or on a cattle range.”

“It won’t lose any dignity,” Hashknife smiled softly. “See yuh later.”

Hashknife crossed to the War Paint, where a goodly crowd were already filled with good cheer. Honey Moon drew Hashknife aside and informed him that O’Day would be there soon.

Corliss, limping a little from his accident, shook hands with Hashknife.

“You got off lucky,” said Hashknife.

Corliss nodded quickly.

“I jumped just in time. How soon does that hearing start?”

“Pretty soon, I reckon. Get yore boys down close to the front where we can sort of look things over close, will yuh?”

“Sure thing.”

Hashknife motioned to the bartender, who came down to the end of the bar.

“Can I borrow that blackboard back by the pool table?” asked Hashknife.

The bartender squinted at the rear wall, where a blackboard, about three feet square, was suspended with a wire from a nail. It was used for keeping pool scores.

“Borrow it? Sure yuh can. But you’ll bring it back, won’t yuh?”

“Sure,” Hashknife lifted the wire off the nail, picked up a stick of chalk, and walked out through the back door, carrying the blackboard, while the bartender squinted after him, wonderingly.

“What in —— is he goin’ to do with the blackboard?” asked Dayne, who had seen Hashknife depart.

“I could answer something else a lot easier than that,” grunted the bartender, and went back to his clamoring patrons.

Hashknife circled the saloon, crossed the street and went into the building that was used as a courtroom. The door was open, but no one was in the room. There were a few benches, but most of the seats were chairs. A wide aisle down the center was the only mode of inlet and exit.

The room was about fifty feet long and thirty feet wide, with a space of about fifteen feet deep railed off for the judge, jury and those immediately concerned in the case. The judge’s desk was an old roll-top affair on a level with the rest of the room.

* * * * *

Hashknife walked back to the desk and looked at the back wall. There were plenty of protruding nails on which to hang his blackboard. He selected one to the left of the desk which would allow the board to hang about five feet above the floor.

The blackboard was the same on both sides, and was scarred from much usage. Hashknife carefully drew some cabalistic marks on it, before hanging it, with the marks turned to the wall. Then he sat down on a front seat, rolled a cigaret and waited for the time to come.

He had only been seated a few minutes when Sleepy came in. He sauntered down to Hashknife, squinting at the blackboard, and sat down.

“Goin’ to do some examples for the class?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded.

“Dutch O’Day just drove in,” offered Sleepy. A noise at the door caused them to turn. The big Chinaman, Long How, was coming in, carrying O’Day.

“C’mon down here,” called Hashknife, and the Chinaman came grinning down the aisle, depositing O’Day on a front seat.

“Thank ye, How Long,” said O’Day, adjusting himself carefully. “Ye may run down to the Pekin Café and enjoy yer old friend. I’ll send for ye when this is over.”

Long How smiled and went shuffling out.

“Ye heard about Hardy, of course,” said O’Day. “The poor ——. Too much liquor. Corliss tells me that Hardy was comin’ out to pay me back for what I said to him,” O’Day sighed. “Ah, it’s true that when ye try to cook up a great heat against a man, ye may get scorched yerself. I know it, Hartley.

“They tell me that things may go against Hank Ludden. We’ve not spoken for two years, but I’d like to tell him that I’m for him.”

“He’d appreciate it, O’Day. His daughter was down to see him yesterday, and I hope things are right between them.”

“I hope so. She’s a nice girl. I’ve seen her grow up, Hartley, but the other day was the first time I realized it.”

Men were beginning to drift in, and among them was Armadillo Jones, who came down to the front, selected his chair and sat down defiantly. Hashknife noticed that Armadillo shifted his holster so that his gun rested across his lap. He glared at O’Day, but grinned at Hashknife and Sleepy.

The prosecuting attorney came in, carrying a book and some papers. He squinted at the blackboard, but said nothing. Armadillo’s eyes followed every movement of the lawyer, and the little man’s eyes were filled with hate.

The seats were filling rapidly, and the lawyer glanced at the crowd apprehensively. Finally he came to Hashknife, speaking to him in whispers:

“I don’t like the looks of this. If you have any influence over these men, I hope you will speak to them before the hearing begins.”

Hashknife nodded.

“I’ll see that yore case ain’t hurt.”

“Thank you.”

The three men from the Five Box came down the aisle, looking over the empty seats. There were twelve jury chairs at the left side, facing the judge’s desk, and the three cowboys clattered over to take possession of three seats.

“My ——, I’d hate to be on trial with a jury like that!” yelled a cowboy back in the crowd. It caused a general laugh, much to the embarrassment of the three cowboys, who did not realize that they were making themselves conspicuous. Honey Moon got up and opened the window near them. Some one clapped his hands in applause, and Honey slipped back to his seat, wiping the perspiration from his brow.

Then came the sheriff, Hank Ludden and Mary Lane. The roar of conversation ceased abruptly, and the last half of their walk to the table beside the judge’s desk was made in silence. They sat down, and Armadillo moved over to join them.

Ludden looked old and tired, but there was a smile in his eyes, as he leaned over and listened to what Mary was saying. His long, gray hair was unkempt, and his big hands were locked together on the table, as he peered at the crowd beneath his heavy brows.

The justice who was to hear the case came bustling in. When not acting in his official capacity, he handled part of the affairs of the Arapaho-Casco stage line. He was too fat to be dignified and too unversed in court procedure to even be calm.

He wiped his brow, nodded to the prosecutor and sat down heavily. From back in the room a man called—

“Remember, Hank, we’re with yuh.”

Hank Ludden smiled. The prosecuting attorney shot a quick glance at Hashknife, who got to his feet, walked to the blackboard, where he printed in large letters—

ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS BOARD IS
THE ANSWER TO THE TWISTED RIVER MYSTERY.

Then he put the chalk in his pocket and stepped aside. Every eye in the room was on the board, and from different parts of the room came droning voices as some read it aloud. The judge and prosecutor stared at the board and at Hashknife.

“Well, turn it over!” yelled an impatient cowboy, and the conversation roared again, as men asked each other what was meant.

“What’s the mystery?” asked Corliss. “Let us in on it.”

Hashknife leaned back against the wall and looked at the prosecutor.

“Mind if I talk a few minutes?” he asked.

“It looks as though you might have to talk,” said the prosecutor.

Hashknife grinned at the crowd.

“This little social gatherin’ was for the purpose of seein’ whether the law could try Hank Ludden for the murder of Joe Lane,” began Hashknife easily. “The law didn’t have no case, and Hank didn’t have no defense.

“Now, I’ve got to go back a few months to a time when a man wrote me a letter from Arapaho City, warnin’ me not to come and take charge of the HL ranch. I didn’t _sabe_ it. Amos Hardy had told Hank Ludden to try and get me to come, and gave Hank my address at Calumet.

“Hank’s letter had a return address on it, so he got his letter back. The other letter had none, and that’s why I got warned off a job I never took.”

Hashknife laughed softly and looked around. Every man was leaning forward, listening intently.

“So,” continued Hashknife, “we came here to see why we wasn’t wanted, and we ran into a killin’. We seen a man fall in the road, and a few minutes later, Hank Ludden tried to kill the both of us. He thought we were the two men who had been with the one he had shot.

“But we got away, circled back to the road, and I think Hank chased us to town, where he got the sheriff and went out to find that he had shot his son-in-law. After we got away from Hank Ludden, another shot was fired, off to the west of us.

“But we got to town. The sun was in our eyes, and the horse and rider appeared so sudden-like and the horse went into the brush so quickly that we didn’t see what color it was.

“But,” Hashknife paused, scanning the crowd, as though trying to make up his mind what to say next, “I am goin’ to prove to you that Hank Ludden never killed Joe Lane!”

* * * * *

It was like dropping a bomb-shell in the room. For a moment there was silence, then a roar of wonderment, a laugh. Hank Ludden got to his feet, staring at Hashknife.

“Never killed him?” queried the sheriff. “What do yuh mean?”

Hashknife held up his hand as a signal for silence. It was difficult to silence the room, but Hashknife waited.

“I am goin’ to prove that Joe Lane was killed by the rustlers. Now keep still! I never got up here to answer questions.”

“Next thing, you’ll be sayin’ that McLeod didn’t kill Naylor,” snorted one of the audience.

“He didn’t!” Hashknife’s reply snapped like a whip.

It left the audience goggle-eyed. They stared at him, as if he had gone crazy. Hashknife’s eyes flashed to the three Five Box cowboys and found them staring wide-eyed at him.

“Then who killed Naylor?” demanded a man on the second row.

“Hank Ludden!”

“For ——’s sake!” exclaimed a high-pitched voice. “What’ll he tell next?”

“What makes yuh think so?”

“How in —— could he?”

“Hank wasn’t at McLeod’s place!”

“Yo’re crazy!”

The questions and arguments came too fast for any of them to be intelligible.

“Shut up!” The sheriff sprang to his feet and roared his order at the crowd. “Set down! Now, keep still!”

Hashknife’s lips grinned, but his eyes were as hard as flint as he waited, watching every movement. O’Day was staring up at him, his lips twitching, while Sleepy cautiously eased his gun loose in its scabbard, wondering what was coming next, but ready for anything.

Ludden had not resumed his seat, but was leaning one hand on the table, staring at Hashknife, wondering if it could possibly be true. The sheriff’s orders had caused the crowd to quiet enough for Hashknife to proceed.

“Hank Ludden saw three men at the old U6 corral,” said Hashknife. “They were misbrandin’ cattle. He shot one and the other two got away.

“Joe Lane, on his way to the Five Box, heard the shootin’, and started toward it. He ran into the two rustlers, who killed him, probably thinkin’ he was workin’ with Ludden.

“These rustlers knew that one of their bunch had been shot. They had to get him. For the sheriff to find him would be to incriminate all of them, so they substituted Joe Lane’s body for that of their companion. Hank Ludden didn’t know it, ’cause he never looked at it until the sheriff was with him.

“These two rustlers took the body of their companion with ’em. They had to alibi him, so they picked a fight with Scotty McLeod, to blame him and—”

Hashknife whirled, turned the blackboard around, disclosing a heavily chalked HL brand, with thin chalk lines added to it, which builded it into a perfect Five Box brand.

The denouement came so suddenly that Moon and Dayne were stricken dumb. But not so with Corliss, whose brains had worked out all these schemes for them. There were but two ways out of the room, the main aisle and the open window, and Corliss knew he could never make the window.

And, knowing that only a miracle could save him, he was on his feet before the blackboard had completely turned, whipping out his gun as he came, fairly screaming an oath at Hashknife, who had drawn so swiftly that it was an even break between them, but Sleepy’s six-shooter crashed out before either of them could shoot, and Corliss whirled sidewise, his gun falling to the floor.

Moon and Dayne dashed for the window, but Moon’s grasp was inches short.

Both Hashknife and Sleepy were shooting at them, and at that distance there was little chance of a miss. Both Dayne and Moon were making a desperate effort to keep going. Dayne was partly shielded by Moon, who was more intent on escape than fight.

He whirled, falling with his back against the wall, and his one shot skittered along the table-top, filling old Armadillo’s eyes with splinters. Dayne’s gun clattered to the floor and he threw up his one good arm in a token of surrender, his two shots having gone wild, but he was surrendering to a higher power than the courts of law of Arapaho.

Hashknife vaulted across the body of Corliss and drew Moon and Dayne apart. A look sufficed. He turned back to Corliss, who had managed to lift his head and was trying to speak. Hashknife held up his hand for silence, and the struggling crowd stopped long enough for Corliss to be heard.

“O’Day didn’t know,” he said painfully, his eyes closed. “It’s all right. Moon said you was—a tin—god—”

That was all. The courtroom quickly cleared, while the doctor went to work and the crowd waited outside for Hashknife. Two men carried O’Day to the edge of the sidewalk. He seemed too stunned even to ask questions, and his face was twisted painfully over the shock of it all.

* * * * *

Hank Ludden, Mary Lane and Armadillo were inside a circle of men, who insisted on shaking their hands, and Hank Ludden hardly seemed to know what it was all about. The sheriff came from the courtroom and halted near Hashknife, who had come out just ahead of him.

“Hartley, how did you figure all that out?” he asked.

The crowd gathered around him, imploring him to tell them.

“I told most of it in there,” said Hashknife. “There had to be a way to change the HL brand. It was awful simple to make it into a Five Box. I found out that O’Day was crippled and let Corliss handle his sales and all that. What could be easier than for Corliss to steal HL stock and sell ’em with O’Day’s stuff?

“If I had known where to get in touch with Amos, I might-a checked up on his buying, and found out that he bought more Five Box cattle than O’Day got paid for, I reckon. But I wasn’t so sure that O’Day wasn’t mixed-up in the stealin’ from the HL.

“And when I did figure out that Corliss was the guilty party, Amos Hardy shows up and proceeds to get drunk and stick around with Corliss, so I had no chance to find out anythin’.

“Amos Hardy paid cash. O’Day got paid for his cattle, and Corliss, Naylor, Dayne and Moon got paid for HL cattle. They tried to kill me and Sleepy at McCallville.

“Corliss was clever, but made the mistake of tryin’ to kill us through a saloon window. They ruined the firin’-pins on the rifles we borrowed from the sheriff so as to cripple us for long range work. They figured we’d ride back through Crow Rock Cañon in daylight, and they could pick us off. And we might-a done it too, if they hadn’t overplayed their hand by shootin’ through the window.

“They put a note in McLeod’s coat, feelin’ that me or the sheriff would find it. It sent us to McCallville and almost got us killed.

“I wanted to be sure and I couldn’t feel sure until Hardy was killed. He said he had a list of every shipment he had ever bought from Dutch O’Day, and he was goin’ to show it to O’Day yesterday. When the sheriff brought O’Day’s effects back, that list was gone.

“Corliss killed Hardy to get that list. He couldn’t afford to have O’Day know how many cattle had been shipped, because it would be a lot more than O’Day’s list showed. So Corliss killed Hardy, took that list and blamed the runaway.”

“But I knew nothin’ about it,” O’Day’s face twisted painfully. “I didn’t know it, lad.”

“I was sure yuh didn’t, O’Day. If you had been guilty, Corliss would not have killed Hardy.”

Hank Ludden came over to Hashknife, peering at him from beneath his shaggy brows.

“Hartley,” he said slowly. Just that. It was enough. Hashknife held out his hand and they gripped tightly.

“I’m glad I didn’t get yore letter, Hank,” smiled Hashknife. “It was written in the Big Book that the man who told you about me had to die first.”

“Yes,” said Ludden simply.

Mary did not speak, but the look in her eyes, as she gazed at Hashknife, was payment enough.

“Ah, I’m sorry,” muttered O’Day. “Ludden, my men robbed ye for a long time. Put my brand on yer stock. Of this I had no knowledge, but ye’ll not lose. I’ll make good. It’s about all there is left in life for me to make good.”

The tall, thin, county treasurer pushed his way through the crowd and held out his hand to Mary Lane.

“Congratulations,” he blurted. “The—I was just talking to one of the commissioners who was in there—in the courtroom. They have—er—” He winked boldly at Hank Ludden, who had given him the check to issue in monthly payments to Mary. “They have decided to go right on paying you—er—another one hundred and ten dollars per month.”

Mary looked at him blankly and at the sheriff, whose mouth was wide open like a fish out of water. Then the sheriff turned and went striding toward his office. It was too much for him. Hashknife and Sleepy overtook him before he reached the office, and he was talking to himself, something about four hundred and forty dollars per month, but did not explain to them.

“I’m goin’ to turn McLeod loose,” he muttered. “He’ll sure be glad to have yuh tell him all about it.”

He swung open the door and stepped inside, but Hashknife and Sleepy kept right on going toward the livery stable.

Their room rent was all paid up and they had no baggage to get. Swiftly they saddled and rode out of Arapaho City, circling the town and going away the same way they had come to the town.

The crowd was still in front of the courthouse, probably wondering what had become of Hashknife and Sleepy, but they were doing what they had done many times before—getting away ahead of thanks and hero worship.

They pounded across the Twisted River bridge and along the dusty road, passing the spot where Joe Lane’s body had been found and drawing rein only when they saw the old sign—

Arapaho City

“This is a quit-claim deed for my share of the darned thing,” read Sleepy. He glanced sidewise at Hashknife. “Shall we get off and sign it, cowboy?”

Hashknife shook his head slowly, looking back down the old road. “No-o-o, I reckon not, Sleepy. Arapaho City and the Twisted River country is pretty good now.”

“Pagans,” said Sleepy seriously.

“What do yuh mean?”

Sleepy grinned and reached for the makin’s of a cigaret.

“Worshipin’ a tin god,” he said.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, October 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]