Chapter V: Part 5

After a final inspection, Hashknife blew out the lamp and led the way outside.

“We’ll get our broncs and see if we can catch sight of that jigger and his pack-horse, Sleepy. I’ve an idea he’s the feller we’re lookin’ for, and he won’t travel so awful fast.”

“I’ll foller yuh blindly,” complained Sleepy, as they panted back up the slope to their horses. “I’ll betcha you ain’t got no ---- of a fine idea where we’re goin’, nor what we’re liable to find.”

“You’d win,” laughed Hashknife.

“And that pack-horse sure shows that somebody is pullin’ out for a good long stay, Hashknife.”

“Longer than that--mebbe. C’mon. We’ve got to keep off the ridges, cowboy; so peel the old eye ahead.”

* * * * *

And while Hashknife and Sleepy rode through the moonlit hills, trying to catch sight of the rider ahead of them, Dad Parker and Cliff sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house, talking seriously. Cliff had told them of the attempt to lynch him. Making a clean breast of it, he told Milly and Dorothy of the many things that had happened to him; of how, in a drunken haze, he had bumped into the jewelry store robbery, and of how Hashknife and Sleepy had saved him. He did not spare himself.

“I’m not out of the woods yet,” he told them. “Until the real Trey of Spades is caught--I’m liable to be it. The sheriff had my hat. He still thinks that Hashknife or Sleepy stole it from him, but they swear they didn’t.”

“Where is their interest in it all?” asked Milly.

“I think they’re detectives. Vincent thinks they are, too. They may be Government agents. You know, the Trey of Spades stole registered mail, and Uncle Sam don’t lie down and let a mail robbery go unnoticed.”

Dorothy listened silently to it all. Then:

“You were not in the hills the night I came, Cliff?”

“No. I was rolled up in a blanket, with my hands and feet tied and a gag in my mouth; and you rested your feet on me all the way home that night. I didn’t know much about it. I had been hit pretty hard, and I was soaked with whisky to begin with.”

“You girls better sleep over it,” advised Dad Parker. “It looks worse now than it will in the mornin’. We’re goin’ to church tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m going to town right now,” declared Milly. “Vint needs me. Whether he is right or wrong, I’m going. Will you go with me, Cliff?”

“Sure thing.”

“We’ll hitch up the team,” said Dad Parker slowly, “and all go. I’ll wake Harmony and tell him that----”

“Who’s this comin’?” wondered Cliff. Two men rode into the ranch and came straight up to them.

“Howdy, folks,” called one of them.

“It’s Franklin, of the Diamond V,” said Cliff. “How are yuh, Frank?”

“Travelin’ in good company, too,” laughed Franklin. “Brought the minister with me.”

“The minister?” said Dad wonderingly.

“Yes, the minister,” laughed the Reverend Mr. Jones, dismounting. “This is a queer time to come calling, isn’t it?”

“What brings you here?” asked Dad.

“It appears that a lady is missing,” explained the minister. “She is a singer in the Cheyenne dance-hall. There seems to be considerable apprehension over her absence. Mr. Cole organized sort of a search party, but she is not to be found in Oxbow.

“A number of the boys volunteered to make a search of the surrounding country, and I offered my services; so Mr. Franklin and myself came in this direction.”

“The Countess missing?” queried Cliff.

“That’s her,” said Franklin. “Where are them two punchers that’s workin’ here?”

“They’re in Oxbow,” said Cliff.

“They pulled out for home quite a while ago. Right after the train robbery.”

“Train robbery?”

“Didn’t yuh know about that?” asked Franklin. He told them about the robbery--or what he knew of it.

“Well,” laughed Cliff, “they can’t blame me for that. If it hadn’t been for the preacher, I’d be danglin’ on a rope now.”

“Yuh sure would,” agreed Franklin. “It was an awful fizzle.”

“Mebbe not,” said Cliff dryly. “Farley had Hartley and Stevens in there with him. You fellers got off lucky.”

“They seem like a nice pair of fellows,” said the minister.

“You don’t know half of it,” said Cliff. “If I was the Trey of Spades I’d sure hightail it out of here.”

“What do yuh mean by that?” asked Franklin.

“Well,” laughed Cliff, “Dad thought he hired a pair of cowpunchers.”

“Thought he did?”

“Yeah. Mebbe the Trey of Spades thought so, too. I’ll go down and hitch up that team, Dad.”

“Did Cliff mean that them two fellers are detectives?” asked Franklin.

“He seems to think so,” replied Dad.

“Are you going to town?” asked the minister.

“Yes. We were coming in tomorrow to church--or rather today--but Milly is anxious to see Vincent Roche.”

“We might as well be movin’,” said Franklin. “That bronc of yours needs plenty of time to go anywhere, Jones.”

The minister laughed shortly and mounted.

“We’ll see you at church,” called Dad.

“Not me--yuh won’t,” called back Franklin, as they rode away back toward Oxbow.

“Why won’t you come to church?” asked the minister, after a long period of silence.

“Don’t care for it, that’s why.”

“Don’t believe in it?”

“Mebbe not.”

“Franklin, who do you think shot Vincent Roche?”

“Who?” Franklin laughed hoarsely, as he swung his horse in closer to the minister. “Who do I think shot him? Listen to me you ---- sneak! I know you. Preacher ----! You ride too well, and you’ve got a six-gun under yore vest. ---- you, I don’t know what you know, but I hate a ---- detective!”

As Franklin snapped out his last sentence he fired his gun almost against the minister. The two horses whirled wildly at the crash of the heavy revolver, and the minister went headlong to the ground, sparks of fire drifting from his clothes where the powder had ignited them.

Franklin jerked his horse under control and spurred back to where the minister lay, a blacker blot in the shadow of the sage. The gray horse had only gone a short distance away.

The minister had fallen far enough away from the road to be invisible at night. Franklin looked cautiously around, as if debating what to do next. Then he rode out to the gray horse, caught the reins and led it further back against the hills, after which he spurred on toward Oxbow.

And Franklin might have been surprised to see the minister get to his feet, brush the dust off his black suit and move away from the road, while the wagon from the Maverick ranch went past.

“That is the advantage of a shoulder holster,” said the minister, half-aloud. “The bullet was fired almost against the gun. So it was Franklin, eh? The last man I would have suspected. Well, I suppose I shall have to walk to town.”

And while the minister plodded along the dusty road in the moonlight, Sid Franklin rode into Oxbow, a potential two-time murderer, but with a feeling of security in his heart.

“It’s too ---- bad I didn’t have a trey of spades to stick into his vest,” he told himself. “By ----, it might not be a bad idea to do it after all.”

He strode into the Cheyenne, with that idea in mind.

The crowd had thinned considerably, but there were still a few men playing the games. The floor was littered with cards; so Franklin waited his chance to pick up a trey of spades. In order to allay suspicion he picked up several more, and amused himself by spinning them across the room.

Finally he slipped one into his pocket and sauntered out of the place, stopping at the bar to find out whether any one had found the Countess--which they had not. Then he got his horse and rode furiously back to where he had left the minister.

At first he thought he had made a mistake in the place, but closer inspection showed that it was the right place, but the body was not there. For a long time he sat on his heels, his mind in a whirl. He had been an awful fool he was forced to admit.

He had virtually confessed to the shooting of Roche, and had failed to make sure that the minister’s lips were sealed.

“Held the gun right agin’ him, too,” he told himself. He took the card out of his pocket and looked at it closely. Then he swore hoarsely and tore it into bits.

It was a joker! He had thrown away the wrong card.

“I’ve gotta keep under cover,” he told himself. “And I’ve got to kill that ---- detective before he can tell on me. I’ll go to his shack and finish the job.”

He rode swiftly back to Oxbow, tied his horse at a little-used rack, and made his way around to the minister’s little shack, which was located some little distance from the center of town. He walked boldly to the door and knocked loudly, but there was no response.

“----!” swore Franklin. “He ain’t got here yet. No wonder--I made him walk.”

A light streak had appeared in the eastern sky, proclaiming that daylight was not far away. He noticed this and swore nervously. His future was not half as rosy as that sky was becoming. But still the minister did not put in an appearance. Finally he left the house and walked back to the street. He had made up his mind that there was only one thing for him to do, and that was--flight.

There were several men in front of the Cheyenne, which Franklin avoided. He did not want to waste time in idle words with any one, because time was worth money to him now. He passed between the Rodeo restaurant and the vacant building, walked around to the hitch-rack--and cursed bitterly.

His horse was gone.

* * * * *

And while the Gods of Fate juggled with Sid Franklin’s future, Hashknife and Sleepy rode higher into the hills, traveling over a strange country, following some one whom they knew not. Twice in an hour they had seen the rider and a led horse top the skyline of the hills, and they were sure that it was the same man they had seen leave the D Bar ranch.

He had swung in a quarter-circle, until now he was heading almost west of Oxbow. They had traveled slowly.

“Goin’ to be daylight pretty soon,” observed Hashknife. “If he’s makin’ a getaway, he’ll likely hole up at daylight and we’ll have a chance to look him over.”

They had crossed the railroad near the point where the train had been held up, although they did not know it.

“I thought he was headin’ for the main divide,” said Hashknife, “but he’s swingin’ too far to the left now. There might be a pass over there, where he can go through, but my private idea is that he’s huntin’ a hole to crawl into.”

“I hope he’s been worth follerin’,” said Sleepy. “If we’ve just been trailin’ some prospector, I’ll be kinda peevish.”

Hashknife laughed shortly. It had been hard traveling. The hills were rather brushy, dry; which made it difficult for them to travel with any degree of silence.

Daylight swept away the haze and they found themselves on the slope of a timbered cañon. There was no sign of their quarry, although they sat there and studied the country for several minutes.

“We’ll swing around the head of this cañon,” suggested Hashknife, after studying the broken slope of the opposite side. “If that jigger knows this country, he wouldn’t go down there.”

They rode slowly along the rim, scrutinizing the depths, and were just about to swing back to higher ground, when Sleepy drew up his horse and pointed down through the timber.

“See it down there?” he asked, as Hashknife swung around and came back to him. “See that horse down there?”

“A black horse!” snorted Hashknife, and added: “In a brush corral. Whatcha know about that?”

He dropped off his horse and hunted for a better view.

“There’s a shack down there, Sleepy!” he called softly from where he crouched on the rim of the cañon. “Yuh can’t see it very plain, but it’s there.”

Together they studied the place. It was impossible to get a clear view of the shack, which was quite a little distance below the brush corral.

“We’ll go further up the cañon and see if we can find a way to sneak down,” said Hashknife. “I think our man is down there, and he’s the jigger that took the sheriff’s horse, I reckon.”

“It won’t take us long to find out,” grinned Sleepy.

“If he ain’t already seen us. We better go danged quiet.”

They drew away from the rim, circled wide and came in at the upper end of the cañon, where it was possible to find a fairly easy slope down through the heavy brush.

* * * * *

Sid Franklin leaned on the hitch-rack for some time. He was both frightened and angry. Whether his horse had pulled away and gone home, or whether some one had stolen it, he had not the slightest idea. He could not remember whether he had tied the animal securely or not.

Finally he resolved to steal a horse from the Cheyenne rack and ride back to the Diamond V, where there were plenty of good horses. But he was destined to more disappointment. As he neared the rack, the sheriff, Buck Hardy, and Cliff Parker came out of the saloon and saw him.

“Sid, I want yuh to go with us,” said the sheriff. “Get yore horse right away and bring him around to the office.”

“Huh!” Franklin debated swiftly. He had thought at first that the sheriff meant that he was under arrest, but now he knew that Farley wanted him to ride with the posse.

“Somebody stole my bronc,” he said calmly. “I tied him to the rack around there a while ago, but he’s gone.”

“Did he leave his card?” asked Buck.

“Get yuh a horse at the livery stable,” ordered Farley. “Cliff has to get one, too. And then come down to the office and get yore rifles. Me and Buck will have everythin’ ready.”

Inside of fifteen minutes the four men rode away from the office and headed for the hills to the west of Meteor Creek. There was little conversation.

“No use huntin’ for a trail,” said Farley. “We’ll just swing into the hills and see what we can see.”

They rode for an hour, finally grouping on the crest of a high ridge, where Farley examined the country through a pair of field-glasses. Franklin was watchful, nervous. Farley replaced his glasses in a leather case and turned to Franklin.

“Sid, if you was goin’ to hide out from the law in this country, where would yuh head for?”

Franklin grinned slightly and swallowed dryly.

“I dunno, Jud. I might head for the main divide, I s’pose. There’s lots of hidin’ places in these hills. How about that rocky cañon over there? The one where the creek sinks out of sight.”

“I know which one yuh mean,” said Cliff. “Vint Roche told me that there’s a cabin back near the head of it.”

“I know where it is,” said Farley thoughtfully. “Old Pete Duncan built it. He had an idea of catchin’ wild horse out there in the winter time, and he built it to live in. I never seen it, but old Pete told me the location.”

“Well, let’s go,” said Buck. “I hope to gosh there’s a bed in it, ’cause I’m asleep right now.”

They moved ahead. Franklin’s brow wrinkled in thought as he considered the Thunder Range, towering closer and closer. If the opportunity arose he was going to desert the posse and take chances on finding his way across that range and into a new country. He did not want to go back and face the minister.

Franklin had always borne a fair reputation. He did not have a face that would inspire any great amount of confidence. But he had just enough imagination to picture himself, standing on a breakaway platform, with a knotted rope tickling his ear. It was not a pleasant picture, and his face expressed his feelings.

“You must ’a’ et somethin’ that didn’t set well, didn’t yuh?” asked Buck, who was riding beside him.

“Too much Cheyenne hooch,” said Franklin quickly. “It sure sours on yuh.”

“You ought to quit it,” said Buck. “I sure did.”

“When?” queried Farley, looking back at him.

“Well, I’m taperin’ off,” corrected Buck.

“Yore taperin’ off came danged near bein’ my finish,” declared Cliff. “If it hadn’t been for the preacher, I’d be a ghost.”

“Aw, that was before I quit,” laughed Buck. “I sure pulled what you’d call a ‘fox-pass’ that time.”

“And I never even thanked the preacher,” laughed Cliff. “He was at the ranch about three o’clock this mornin’ with Franklin. We should have brought him along--him and his race horse.”

Franklin spat dryly and looked away, while the rest of them laughed. Far away to the south of them, a rider was skirting the side of a ridge; just a moving speck in that world of sage.

Franklin called Farley’s attention to him, and they stopped to use the glasses. For several moments the sheriff studied the spot, and handed the glasses to Franklin. One glance was enough for Franklin to know that it was his horse, but the distance was too great to identify the rider. He handed the glasses back to Farley.

“Recognize the animal?” queried Farley.

“It sure looks like mine,” declared Franklin. “It’s a red-roan, with a white face, and that’s what mine looks like.”

Farley used the glasses again, but the horse and rider had disappeared into a cañon.

“Goin’ in the same direction as we are,” said Farley. “We’ll kinda edge in on him.”

“Better edge in,” agreed Buck, “or we’ll miss that cañon.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy tied their horses above the brush corral and worked their way silently down through the undergrowth. The tall black horse in the corral looked them over indifferently. It was a racy looking animal. Hanging to a snag near the corral was a saddle, with a loose rope dangling on the horn.

The cabin was well hidden in the brush, but the cover was heavy enough for them to come close without chance of being detected. They were almost to the corner of the cabin, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the arm and drew him down.

A rider was coming down the right hand side of the cañon, and was almost to the bottom. They dropped lower and waited for him to appear again. It seemed that he had stopped and was looking at the cabin. To the right of them was some down-timber and a tangle of brush, and Hashknife crossed swiftly to this with Sleepy on his heels.

This gave them a fairly good view of the front yard of the place, where two horses were standing. Both of them were saddled. On the ground was a blanket and a tarpaulin, thrown aside.

Then Blackie Dahl came from the cabin door and went to one of the horses. He looked around at the left-hand rim of the cañon and back at the cabin. He seemed undecided what to do. Hashknife and Sleepy had forgotten the other man.

Blackie tested the cinch on his saddle and turned to go to the other horse, when he stopped suddenly, looking toward where the other rider had stopped. For several seconds he did not move. Then his hand jerked back to his holster, and his revolver shot crashed out in the stillness of the cañon.

His shot was echoed by another--and another. Blackie turned, reached for his horse, as if trying to support himself, and fell sprawling on his face.

He did not move. The two horses sidled away from him, looking down at their fallen master. One of them nuzzled at him and threw up its head to look at the man, who was coming toward them.

This man was walking quartering to Hashknife and Sleepy so they were unable to see his face. He was wearing a gray shirt, black sombrero, which seemed very new, and wore his overalls tucked into the tops of his high-heeled boots.

He went slowly up near Blackie and touched him with his toe, but Blackie did not move. Then he whirled quickly and went into the cabin. Hashknife grinned widely and started to his feet, but Sleepy drew him back. Riders were coming down over the left-hand rim of the cañon, fairly sliding their horses in their haste.

“Sheriff’s posse!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Keep down.”

The posse dismounted and deployed through the brush, advancing on the cabin. They were almost to the cabin, when the man came outside. He had his back to Hashknife and Sleepy, but the sheriff was plainly visible to them.

“What in ---- are you doin’ here?” demanded Farley. His voice was filled with wonder and anger.

The man did not speak, but his hands dropped to his sides.

“You dirty horse thief!” It was Sid Franklin’s voice. “I’ve got you.”

With an almost imperceptible motion the man drew and fired. A second later another shot crashed out, and the bullet whined off a rock on the side of the cañon.

“Don’t move!” The man snapped his order. He had a gun in each hand now, and his hands were weaving back and forth, as he covered the posse.

“Drop your guns!” he snapped again. “Don’t be a ---- fool, like Blackie Dahl and Sid Franklin.”

“I’ll be ----!” exploded the sheriff, but obeyed.

Hashknife stepped out of his hiding place and began walking toward the man, his gun ready. The sheriff had dropped his rifle, and now reached slowly for his holster.

“Take ’em out easy,” advised the man.

The sheriff laughed and leaned sidewise to get a better view of Hashknife.

“None of that!” warned the man. “I’m no fool.”

“Look behind yuh,” challenged the sheriff. “Yo’re afraid to look behind yuh.”

“Shut up, ---- yuh!” The man was getting nervous. His arms tensed and his shoulders hunched slightly. He wanted to turn, but would not.

“Drop them six-shooters!” he snarled. “---- yuh, be quick.”

And it was then that Hashknife bunched himself and dived into the man like a football player making a hard tackle. They went down, with Hashknife on top, while both guns fired into the dirt as they fell.

The attack had been so unlooked for that the man was completely at Hashknife’s mercy, but he twisted over on his side and Hashknife looked down into the face of the Reverend Mr. Jones. The sheriff, Cliff and Buck were running to his assistance, while from the other direction came Sleepy, laughing joyfully.

“All right, ---- yuh!” snarled the prisoner. “I’ll behave.”

They jerked him to a sitting position, while Buck got a lariat and secured him.

“If you’ve got a trey of spades I’ll pin it onto yuh,” offered Hashknife.

“Thank you, I’m all out of cards,” said Jones.

“You killed Blackie Dahl?” asked Farley.

“Yeah, I killed him. Had to. He shot first.”

“Well, what in ---- was he doin’ here? Who is the Trey of Spades? Who shot Vincent Roche?”

“Hey! C’mere!” Buck called from the doorway.

“Go ahead--I’ll watch him,” said Sleepy.

Hashknife and Farley went into the cabin where Buck pointed at a pile of blankets on the floor.

“For gosh sake! How did she get here?” exploded Farley.

It was the Countess, bedraggled, disheveled, her face caked with blood, but with eyes that tried to smile and a mouth that trembled visibly. Hashknife knelt down beside her and peered into her face.

“Hello, Mr. Man.” Her voice was not very strong.

“How did you get here?” repeated Farley wonderingly.

“Our friend, Mr. Dahl, furnished transportation.” She tried to smile, but it was a dismal failure. “He met me last night, after I left you at the doctor’s home, and I think he hit me with his gun. He is not very gentlemanly, you know.

“I don’t remember much, except that he had me in a cabin. He didn’t know that I was conscious. Anyway,” she grimaced, “he packed me on a horse, just like a sack, and I nearly died. He had me roped on and brought me here. He thinks I’m dead. Yes, he does. I heard him say it out loud. He was going to leave me here.”

“He won’t never do it again,” said Hashknife softly. “He’s all through doin’ things like that.”

“The preacher shot him,” offered Buck.

“The Reverend Jones?”

“The Trey of Spades,” corrected Hashknife softly.

A moment or two of silence, and then came the smashing report of a rifle. The men rushed to the doorway just in time to see Sleepy kick a rifle out of Franklin’s hands. He had managed to get to his knees, but now he slid sidewise.

The pseudo preacher was lying on his face, arms outstretched.

“---- him!” wailed Sleepy. “He shot the prisoner!”

“The dirty spy!” Franklin managed to lift himself on one elbow. “He won’t never have a chance to squeal on me. I--I’ll bet his shoulder holster won’t save him this time. Why, dang his soul----”

Franklin slid back dead.

Hashknife stepped over and turned the other man. He was barely conscious, but managed to smile. Hashknife lifted him up.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Saves time. Most of the money is under the bunk in my shack. The express loot is--is tied to the cantle of my saddle. I--I stole that black horse for a swift getaway. Tell Cliff I’m sorry I had to hit him that night. It was dark. I stole that hat to save him.

“I thought that Blackie shot Roche, but it was Franklin. He admitted it to me. Thought I was a detective. I--I had to make my getaway today, because I couldn’t preach. I’m sorry I--I fooled folks. They do need a preacher pretty bad.”

“Why did you use the trey of spades?” asked Hashknife.

“Superstition. Treys have always been lucky for me. I--I stayed at it too long, I guess. I was afraid somebody might suffer for my trade-mark. You tell the Countess,” he smiled up at Hashknife, “that she picked the wrong ones.”

His head swayed forward and Hashknife laid him down.

“What did he mean--about the Countess pickin’ the wrong ones?” asked Hashknife.

“I will tell you.”

He turned and looked at the Countess, who was leaning against the door. She sighed and felt of her aching head.

“You better set down,” advised Farley.

“No, I’m all right. I’m not a dance-hall girl. Mr. Cole knows who I am. He is a friend of the United States Marshal. I am a Government operative. You would call me a detective, I suppose. So I played the dance-hall girl and let men fall in love with me to see what I might learn. That is what he meant. I guess he knew who I was.”

“And that is why yuh let men fall in love with yuh?” Thus Hashknife. She looked at him closely.

“Perhaps I should have said ‘encouraged’, Mr. Man.”

“And the little birdies sing in the spring, tra, la, la, la,” said Sleepy softly. Hashknife looked at Sleepy closely, and a grin wrinkled his homely face.

“The next place we go, I hope we’ll find peace.”

“As far as I’m concerned--we’re half-way there right now,” said Sleepy.

“What I want to know is this,” said Farley thoughtfully, turning to Hashknife: “Did you suspect the preacher?”

Hashknife smiled softly and nodded his head.

“Yeah--in a way. I suspected Cliff, Vincent Roche and Blackie Dahl. By the way, Cliff, I’ve got a pearl necklace that belongs to you.”

“Have yuh?” asked Cliff. “That’s fine. I wondered where it went. I bought it for Dorothy, and lost it that night.”

“Yuh suspected Cliff and the others, eh?” queried Farley.

“Until I eliminated ’em. Blackie wasn’t smart enough; so I dropped him. Roche got shot, but the Trey of Spades kept on goin’; so that fact eliminated Roche. I never did suspect this Franklin person. I suppose he needed the money. I knew that Roche had been packed quite a distance after bein’ hurt, but I thought Blackie was the one that done it.”

“Vincent Roche is an old friend of my family,” said the Countess painfully. She was keeping up on sheer nerve now. “He knew why I was here, and he was doing everything he could to assist me. I want Miss Parker to know that Vincent Roche was not making love to me.”

Hashknife smiled and turned to Cliff:

“Is there a Mauser rifle at the Diamond V ranch?”

“Yeah. There’s an old one that Vint bought from old Pete Duncan. We used to shoot coyotes with it.”

“Well, that’s what Franklin used on Roche. It seems that Blackie wasn’t to blame for anythin’ worse than turnin’ cave-man.” Hashknife turned to the Countess.

“Blackie took you to the ranch and came back to town, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It was all rather hazy. He roped me to a horse, I know that much. And he thought I was dead; so he was going away and leave the door open. He knew that some one was using this cabin, and he was afraid to stay.”

“But what made you suspect the preacher?” persisted the sheriff.

“The smallest thing yuh could imagine,” grinned Hashknife. “Did yuh ever see him smoke cigarettes? Well, that’s what made me suspect him, Jud. He was a regular feller in everythin’ else. Nobody around here would ----”

“But he didn’t smoke,” declared Jud. “I’ll leave it to everybody that knew him.”

Hashknife stepped over and lifted one of the dead man’s hands--the left one. The thumb and first two fingers of it were yellow from nicotine stain.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” declared Farley. “It--it kinda looks like his is the first cigarette fatality we’ve ever had in Thunder county, by gosh!!”

“How do you suppose he knew who I was?” asked the Countess.

Hashknife smiled at her.

“Because yuh didn’t fit yore job, ma’am. Anybody would suspect you.”

“Is that so?” She tried to smile at him. “And what did you suspect me of being, Mr. Man?”

Hashknife reddened slightly, and Farley stepped into the breach.

“I reckon we better load up the casualties, boys. We’ll have to recover that stolen money, too. By golly, it all worked out fine.”

The Countess was still looking at Hashknife, but he did not lift his head. Sleepy moved in closer to her and from his puckered lips came a few notes of “The Mocking-Bird.”

Hashknife looked up at her and grinned slowly. There was a wistful expression about his eyes, as he went to her and held out his hand.

“I suspected yuh of bein’ a mighty nice girl, ma’am; and I reckon my suspicions worked out. I hope I meet yuh agin’ some day. C’mon, Sleepy.”

“Ain’t yuh goin’ back with us?” queried Cliff, as they started toward their hidden horses back in the cañon.

“I reckon not,” said Hashknife, looking back at them. “We ain’t got nothin’ to go back after.”

“There’s a lot of thanks comin’ to you both, Hartley.”

“Tha’sall right, Cliff. Yo’re welcome. Be good. So-long, everybody.”

They turned and disappeared up through the brush, while the three men and the disheveled looking woman looked at each other wonderingly.

“Funniest thing I ever heard of,” declared Farley.

“What--what is funny about it?” queried the Countess.

“That’s what I say,” grunted Buck. “It may be funny, but it ain’t gettin’ a ---- of a lot of laughs out of me.”

And from the rim of the cañon, the two riders looked back before they rode on toward the high range.

“We’ll find the milk-and-honey land some day, Sleepy.”

“Hm-m-m. Gimme a match, Hashknife.”

They turned and rode away through the purple sage.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 30, 1924 issue of Adventure magazine.]