Chapter III: Part 3

And Cal Severn seemed very unhappy, morose. He had little to say to Hashknife and Sleepy, but vented his spleen on Henry Horsecollar, whose hide was so thick that sarcasm and insult failed to penetrate.

“If I was you, I’d bulldog that _hombre_,” declared Sleepy, disgusted at Henry’s indifference to Severn’s vitriolic tongue.

“He’s hard to comb,” replied Henry. “Fightin’ whelp, that feller is, y’betcha.”

“Then why not pistol-whip him?”

“And be out of a job, eh?”

“----!” breathed Sleepy. “You can’t beat humanity.”

Mort Lee came out to the Diamond-S and talked with Severn. It was a lengthy conversation, and when Mort Lee left the ranch he was so drunk that he lost his hat as he mounted his horse, and did not go back after it. Severn seemed to be cold sober. He studied the hat for a while, kicked it aside and went back in the house.

Hashknife was perched on the corral fence and observed all this. There was nothing strange that Mort Lee should come to see Cal Severn; nothing strange that Mort Lee should get drunk and lose his hat; but it caused Hashknife to think deeply. He wondered whether Mort Lee had seen Shell Romaine, and just why he had been looking for Romaine the day that they had been ambushed at the Romaine ranch.

Why had Cal Severn appeared friendly to Mort Lee, and then kicked so savagely at Mort’s hat after Mort had ridden away? That trifling act whispered to Hashknife that Cal Severn was not friendly to Mort Lee.

Sleepy came from the bunk-house and climbed up on the fence.

“Whatcha worryin’ about?” he demanded of Hashknife. “Yore nose is plumb tied in a knot.”

Hashknife continued to squint thoughtfully.

“The Great Stone Face,” observed Sleepy, “has puzzled scientists for a million years. What is it thinkin’ about? Say, I reckon I talked Henry Horsecollar into stickin’ up for himself, Hashknife.”

Hashknife merely grunted and glanced toward the house, where Cal Severn was standing on the porch. He was looking down toward the bunk-house, and in a moment he left the house and walked down that way. He showed no effects of drink, except that he walked a trifle more erect than ever.

He went into the bunk-house and shut the door behind him.

“Henry’s in for another bawlin’-out,” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno how he stands it, Hashknife.”

“Henry’s a danged jelly-fish,” grunted Hashknife. “He might fight like he did over at Joe Wicks’ place--kinda like an animal protectin’ its mate; but nobody can insult him and make him fight. He’s just about fool-proof.”

“He sure is. Did Mort Lee go back?”

“Uh-huh. Drunker than a whangdoodle. Lost his hat when he forked his bronc, and after he was gone, Severn kicked ---- out of the poor old hat.”

Sleepy grinned and began the manufacture of a cigaret. The bunk-house door banged open, and Cal Severn came out, kicked the door shut and went down to the barn, where he began saddling his horse.

“Look!” gasped Sleepy, pointing at the bunk-house.

Henry Horsecollar was standing in the doorway, dangling to the sides of the door with both hands, while he carefully felt for the one step with his foot. Then he came out, looked all around and weaved slowly toward the corral.

Cal Severn mounted and rode past him, but Henry Horsecollar did not look at him; neither did Severn even give Henry a passing glance. Henry came up to the corral fence and looked up at Hashknife and Sleepy. Henry’s two eyes were swollen almost shut, his upper lip stuck out like a duck’s bill and the two front teeth in his lower jaw were missing.

“You--you--give me thom good advith, like ----!” lisped Henry painfully.

“My gosh, what happened to you?” gasped Hashknife.

“Well,” mumbled Henry, caressing his swollen lip and trying to open his eyes wide enough to see his listeners, “well, I told you he wath a fightin’ thon-of-a-gun, didn’t I? He asked me to thaddle his horth and I thought it wath a good time to atthert my independenth.”

Henry twisted his face and spat painfully.

“I told him to go to ----.”

“And he didn’t want to go?” queried Hashknife.

“He didn’t thay.”

Henry shook his head.

“Anyway he didn’t go thoon enough. By ----, I’m all through taking advith, and that’s a thinch. I’m got thom brains now, y’betcha.”

“Then you ain’t so much loser, after all,” said Hashknife. “Swellin’ will go down, but brains remain.”

“Better go and ask the cook for some beefsteak,” advised Sleepy. “That’ll take out the swellin’.”

“More advith?” queried Henry seriously.

“I’m advisin’ yuh what to do to take out the swellin’, thassall!”

“Thankth.”

Henry squinted painfully toward the ranch-house, squared away and went seeking raw meat.

“He sure stuck up for himself,” observed Hashknife.

“Yeah,” sadly. “I sure feel sorry for Henry. Severn has got him buffaloed for fair. Somebody told Henry that Severn was a ---- of a fighter, and Henry believed it.”

“Lookin’ at Henry,” said Hashknife, “I’d be kinda inclined to think that Henry heard a lot of truth. Let’s go to Moon Flats and see if there is any late scandal.”

* * * * *

Mary O’Hara was standing in the kitchen door, looking off across the hazy hills, when Hashknife and Sleepy rode up and tied their horses to the fence. She smiled wistfully as they came up to her.

“Yo’re lookin’ mighty pretty t’day,” grinned Sleepy.

“Why emphasize ‘t’day?’” asked Hashknife reprovingly, and Sleepy blushed bashfully.

“Pat out huntin’ bushwhackers?” asked Sleepy.

Mary’s smile faded, and Hashknife scowled at Sleepy, who fingered his hat and tried to think of something to say that would mend matters. Ma Haley spied them and came bustling out.

“Why do ye come sneakin’ in the back way?” she asked. “Ain’t the front way wide enough, or--” she glanced at Mary and smiled knowingly--“was there an attraction?”

“There was,” nodded Hashknife. “How is the sick man t’day?”

“Cranky as the ----, if ye please. I think he’s gettin’ well too fast. Won’t ye come in? Pat’s out in the hills today.”

“Sleepy will go in,” said Hashknife. “He likes to talk to you about nursin’; don’t yuh, Sleepy?”

Sleepy squinted closely at Hashknife and was about to protest, but nodded understandingly and followed Ma Haley into the house. Mary watched them go inside and turned to Hashknife as if wondering why he sent them away.

“I wanted to talk to yuh,” said Hashknife softly.

“Yes?”

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife examined the palm of his right hand for a space of time as if wondering just where to begin.

“Things ain’t just right around this country,” he observed. “’Pears to be a lot of unhappiness. Mebbe it ain’t nothin’ I can mend, but I’d sure like to try.”

“What do you mean, Mr. Hartley?”

“I like to see folks smile, Miss Mary. Me and Sleepy are just a pair of common old range tramps--not much good for anythin’, never havin’ anythin’ except the smiles we’ve helped to bring to humanity.”

“I don’t think I understand,” said Mary softly, wonderingly.

“Nobody does,” admitted Hashknife, “until after the smile comes--then they know.”

“But what do you want of me, Mr. Hartley?”

“Well--” Hashknife hesitated--“I’m goin’ to ask yuh a personal question. I don’t reckon you’ll care to answer it, but nobody ever gets real smart without askin’ questions. What did you and Cal Severn quarrel about?”

Mary was staring at him; but her lips shut tight, and she turned away. Hashknife reshaped his sombrero while he waited for Mary to consider the question.

“Why do you ask me that question?”

“Just--kinda--wantin’ to know, miss.”

“Oh!” softly. “Why should you be interested?”

“Well, I can’t just come out and tell yuh, but it ain’t just curiosity. I reckon I know how yuh feel about things. I’m a lot older than you, Mary O’Hara; and I ain’t makin’ love to yuh.”

Hashknife’s homely grin brought a smile to Mary’s serious face.

“But just the same,” continued Hashknife, “I don’t reckon that age ever stops a man from lovin’ a sweet girl.”

“Thank you,” smiled Mary. “I shall remember that.”

They were both silent for a few moments, and then Mary smiled sadly and said:

“I don’t know why you want to know what happened between Cal Severn and me, but I feel that it is not just curiosity; so I will tell you. He accused me of meeting Shell Romaine in the hills.”

She flushed hotly and shut her lips.

“Thank you, miss,” nodded Hashknife. “Thassall. I reckon I’ll go in and see the sick man.”

As he started in through the door he met Sleepy.

“Patient’s asleep,” whispered Sleepy, “and Ma’s in there fannin’ the flies off him. By grab, it’s a cinch to be sick around here.”

“I reckon we’ll drift up-town then,” stated Hashknife. “And don’t forget the smiles, Mary O’Hara.”

“I’ll try to remember them,” she assured him.

“What’s goin’ on around here?” grinned Sleepy as they rode toward the street. “You tryin’ to make a mash on the fair lady?”

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife absently.

They tied their horses to the Moon Flats saloon hitch-rack and went inside. There were several horses at the rack, and among them was Cal Severn’s horse and Mort Lee’s brown mare.

Maldeen, Severn, Monte Barnes, Newt Bowie and another cowboy were playing poker. It was too early in the day for a heavy play, and the rest of the games were deserted. Jim Searles was sitting behind Severn, watching his play.

The bartender had moved all the glassware from the back-bar and was industriously painting a soap picture on the bar mirror, while in front of the bar a couple of the dance-hall girls offered frank criticism of his skill.

The men at the poker game looked up as Hashknife and Sleepy came in, but none of them spoke. The girls moved away from the bar and went to the rear of the room, while Hashknife and Sleepy made known their wants to the bartender.

Hashknife studied the soap picture. It was well drawn, and depicted a bucking horse almost unseating its rider. Hashknife frowned and bent his head over his glass, but in a moment he shot a searching glance at the bartender and said, with a grin--

“‘Soapy’ Evans, I had a hard time rememberin’ you.”

The bartender’s eyes narrowed perceptibly as he stared at Hashknife and said coldly:

“You got the name wrong, pardner; my name’s Hill.”

“Thassall right,” nodded Hashknife. “Hill’s as good as Evans. You can’t hardly help paintin’ soap pictures, can yuh? Remember the one you painted on the lookin’-glass in Bill Bird’s place in Elkton?”

“I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about,” growled the bartender. “I never was in Elkton.”

“My mistake,” said Hashknife quickly. “It was in Bearpaw.”

The argument had been loud enough for those at the poker table to hear it, and Hashknife turned to see Maldeen looking closely at him.

“What’s the argument?” asked Maldeen.

“I called yore bartender Soapy Evans, and he kicked about it.”

Maldeen laughed.

“His name is Hill. He’s been working for me almost two years.”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If two years’ work will change a man’s name from E to H--mine’s Zachariah.”

Maldeen snorted and turned back to his cards, and after a moment Hashknife and Sleepy rattled their spurs out of the front door.

“Where in ---- did you ever know anybody by the name of Soapy Evans?” demanded Sleepy as they sat down on the edge of the sidewalk away from the Moon Flats saloon.

“Never did know him,” grinned Hashknife. “About two years ago I dropped in at the Cross-in-a-Box outfit in Wyoming for a few days. One of the punchers was tellin’ us about Soapy Evans. Seems that he knowed Soapy for a long time, but kinda lost track of him.

“One night a gamblin’-house in a town near there was robbed--safe blowed open. Whoever done the job knocked a watchman on the head and finished up the job by paintin’ a picture in soap on the mirror.

“This puncher said he knowed danged well that Soapy done the job on account of the good drawin’ on that mirror, but he never told on Soapy. I reckon it was partly because he was a friend of Soapy’s and partly because he was afraid Soapy might find it out and come callin’.”

“I betcha this is the same whippoorwill,” declared Sleepy. “He sure acted guilty as ----; don’tcha know he did? And he’s been with Maldeen for two years.”

“Let’s get some information,” suggested Hashknife, and led the way over to Bill Eagles’ merchandise store.

Mort Lee was in there, or rather was just coming out as they went in. Mort was still half-drunk and in a rather hilarious mood. He was wearing a new hat which did not fit him very well, and this fact seemed to amuse him greatly.

He went weaving toward the Moon Flats, taking up much more than his share of the street. Hashknife went up to the counter and replenished his stock of tobacco. Bill Eagles was a squat-figured, dark-faced man with keen brown eyes and a wide-mouthed smile.

“Mort lost his hat,” he volunteered. “Mostly allus does lose his hat when he gets drunk.

“You fellers are working for Cal Severn, ain’t yuh? Thought yuh was. How’s Henry Horsecollar these days? Ain’t seen him lately. Saw Pat Haley ride past a while ago, but he didn’t have no prisoner.

“I jist got some fresh sardines and a barrel of crackers in if you fellers are hongry. Got a lot of nice canned peaches, too. Thirty-five cents a can. Ain’t such big cans, but them peaches are dingers.

“Got two kinds of sardines this time. One kind is in big cans and all kinda gooied up with mustard. Fat Kahler ate two cans and they made him kinda sick. I been wonderin’ if they’re all right.”

Bill Eagles stopped for breath and handed some tobacco to Hashknife.

“How long has Maldeen owned the Moon Flats?” queried Hashknife.

“How long? Hm-m-m--lemme see. Why, I reckon about two years. He bought out----”

“How long has Hill been tendin’ bar for him?”

“Hill? Lemme see. Why, he came here with Maldeen. I allus figured that Hill owned an interest in the Moon Flats.”

“Didja ever see any of Hill’s soap pictures on the saloon mirror?”

Bill Eagles looked blank and shook his head.

“I never seen none. Ain’t sure I know what yuh mean.”

“Pictures painted with soap on a lookin’-glass.”

“No, I never see any.”

“All right; give us some of them mustard-soaked sardines and some crackers.”

“Yuh heard what I said about them peaches, didn’t yuh?”

Bill Eagles did not want them to overlook their dessert.

“And some peaches,” agreed Hashknife, sitting up on the counter.

Bill Eagles spread a piece of paper on the counter and laid out the lunch, keeping up a rapid-fire of comment on range happenings, asking questions and never waiting for an answer.

About fifteen minutes later Monte Barnes and Newt Bowie came into the store. Hashknife invited them to dine, and they lost no time complying. Bill Eagles opened another can of sardines and more peaches and invited himself into the feed without an invitation.

“Game busted up,” Newt informed them with his mouth filled. “Me and Monte won six dollars and forty cents. Severn said it wasn’t interesting to play four-bits-a-stack; so we cashed in and busted up the game. Say, what was you kiddin’ Hill about?”

“Mistook him for another feller,” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah?”

Monte squinted at Hashknife.

“He got mad and wiped out that soap horse after you left. Gosh, that feller sure can draw! Maldeen said it was a ---- of a thing to put on a lookin’-glass, and Hill rubbed it out.”

The conversation turned to Shell Romaine and the express-car robbery.

“Shell came to Moon Flats that mornin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Newt. “Me and Monte run into him early in the mornin’.”

“Wonder where he is now,” said Hashknife.

“I betcha he’s up in the Sulphur Cliff country,” said Monte. “That’s about the only place a feller could hide out around here unless he hived up in the breaks between this place and Mission River, which ain’t noways likely.”

“Where are the Sulphur Cliffs?” asked Hashknife.

“Back on Clevis Creek about ten or twelve miles from here.”

“But why should he stay around here?” queried Hashknife. “Ain’t nothin’ to keep him from pullin’ out of this country, is there?”

“I been wonderin’ about that myself,” declared Monte, “and she kinda looks to me like he was hangin’ around until he finds the old man’s cache. Yuh see, the old man must ’a’ lifted a fortune.”

“Yeah; but Shell must ’a’ had some of that thirty thousand dollars he helped steal from the bank at Sula,” argued Bill Eagles. “What more would he want? My ----, if I had thirty thousand dollars--uh-uh-h-h-h!”

Came the unmistakable thud of a pistol-shot. At the moment Monte was holding half-a-can of sardines, which fell from his hand, caromed from his toe and landed upside down on the none too clean floor.

“Somebody’s shootin’!” exclaimed Bill Eagles.

“Nervous, like old wimmin!” complained Newt. “Actin’ like a pistol-shot was somethin’ unheard of.”

Nevertheless they all moved toward the front of the store and looked out. Doc Maldeen and Jim Searles came out of the Moon Flats, and Searles started for the hitch-rack; but Maldeen called sharply to him, and he stopped. After a short conversation Searles turned and started down the street toward the sheriff’s office.

Hashknife flung open the door and started across the street, with the others strung out behind him. Maldeen looked across at them and went hurriedly back into the saloon.

Inside the saloon they found Mort Lee lying half-under the poker table, flat on his face with both arms flung wide. The elbow of his right arm was resting on a Colt revolver. Cal Severn was standing at the end of the bar, leaning on one elbow, while Maldeen stood near the card-table. The bartender was leaning on the bar with his chin cupped in his hands, looking down at Mort Lee. The air was still acrid from powder-smoke.

The men from the store stopped just inside the door and considered the tragedy.

“He tried to shoot Searles,” volunteered Maldeen, “but Jim beat him on the draw.”

“What was the row about?” queried Bill Eagles.

“Just a fool thing.”

Maldeen shook his head.

“Mort wanted to play Jim a game of seven-up for the drinks. They both had six, don’tcha see, and Jim, who was dealing, turned a jack. Mort swore that Jim cheated. That’s where it started.”

“Jim went to give himself up.” This from Severn.

“Is he dead?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Maldeen nodded. “Drilled plumb center.”

“How in ---- do you know?” flashed Hashknife. “Did yuh turn him over after he was shot?”

Maldeen was flustered for a moment and groped for a reply; but at that instant footsteps sounded outside the door, and Pat Haley came in with Searles. Pat glanced around the room and went straight to Lee. He shoved the table away and knelt down.

“Help me turn him over, somebody.”

Maldeen assisted him, and they placed Lee on his back. Lee’s face was ashen, and the breast of his faded shirt was sloppy with blood. Pat grasped his limp wrist for a moment and looked up at the circle of faces.

“Somebody rustle around and find Dr. Goodsell while we take this feller down to my place. He sure ain’t dead yet. Get a blanket for a stretcher.”

Some one found a blanket; and Hashknife, Sleepy, Monte Barnes and Pat Haley carried Lee down to Haley’s home, where Ma Haley welcomed them with open arms. The doctor was ready for the job when they arrived, and his swift diagnosis showed that Mort Lee had a fighting chance.

Pat Haley singled out Cal Severn and asked him about the shooting. Severn’s evidence was the same as that given by Maldeen--exonerating Searles. Mort Lee was drunk, quarrelsome, but not too drunk to draw a gun. It was a simple case of self-defense.

But Hashknife was dissatisfied, and did not conceal his feelings. Why didn’t some one stop Mort Lee from starting the quarrel? He was drunk and irresponsible; probably fumbled considerably, trying to draw a gun. Why did three other men stand aside and let it end in powder-smoke?

It was in the Moon Flats that Hashknife sounded his queries, which only brought blank or black looks from the witnesses to the affair. Only Maldeen resented it openly, and his resentment took the form of sarcasm.

“Some of these tramp cowpunchers wear kinda long horns,” he observed to Severn, who did not reply, but half-smiled in agreement.

“And some of ’em kinda hookum-cow,” remarked Hashknife meaningly.

Maldeen leaned against the bar and studied Hashknife. There was no doubt in Maldeen’s mind that this lanky cowboy was well able to take care of himself. The wide holster and heavy gun, hanging low on his hip, were too well-worn for ornaments.

“Well, mebbe it was kinda foolish of us,” admitted Maldeen, “but it all happened so quick, don’tcha see?”

Maldeen’s inventory of Hashknife had caused him to assume a conciliatory tone, but Hashknife was not to be won over by soft words.

“Quick, ----! Didn’t they argue over the turnin’ of that jack? They must ’a’ been standin’ up when they was arguin’, or Mort Lee wouldn’t ’a’ fell under the table in that position.”

“Yo’re quite a detective, ain’tcha?” sneered Maldeen.

“No, but I’ve got sense enough to smell a frame-up that’s as raw as this one.”

“What do yuh mean by that?”

Severn whirled on Hashknife, his face black with anger.

“You better take that back!”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife laughed in Severn’s face and shook his head.

“Them are my sentiments, pardner, and I’ll hang on to ’em until Mort Lee gets well enough to tell me I was wrong.”

“‘Tend to yore own knittin’, Hashknife,” said Sleepy. “I’m estimatin’ the rest of the crowd.”

Sleepy had backed against the bar, where he could keep an eye on every one, and he did not want Hashknife to worry about outside-interference.

Just then came the scrape of a boot on the threshold, and Pat Haley came bustling in. He stopped and looked at Hashknife and Cal Severn, facing each other in the middle of the room, and his eyes shifted around the place.

“The doctor,” he said distinctly, “says that Mort Lee will pull through. And I want ye to distinctly understand that the next cripple will have to be shipped to a hospital, ’cause Ma Haley’s extra beds are all full.”

Severn turned and walked away. The tension of the room relaxed, and Maldeen offered to set up drinks; but Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, where they mounted and rode out of town.

“Do you think that was a smart thing to do?” queried Sleepy as they swung into the Diamond-S road.

“What do yuh mean--callin’ ’em on that frame-up?”

“Are yuh sure it was a frame-up, Hashknife?”

“I think so, Sleepy. Anyway I sure got a rise out of Cal Severn. He’ll fight, that’s a cinch.”

“That’s a ---- of a lot of satisfaction,” dryly. “Didja ever stop to think that we came here for a purpose, Hashknife? We didn’t come here to do battle with the natives.”

“No-o-o, that’s right,” admitted Hashknife; “but in the course of human events it become necessary to horn in and show some folks their errors. Mort Lee don’t mean anythin’ to me or you, except that I’d sure like to know why Mort Lee was looking for Shell Romaine, and why Cal Severn kicked his hat.”

“That don’t mean nothin’,” declared Sleepy. “Yo’re allus makin’ a mountain out of a mole-hill, cowboy.”

“Sleepy--” Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and considered his companion seriously--“tell me just how you figure things up to date? Lookin’ at it from yore angle, what does all this shootin’ amount to?”

“Well, I dunno,” faltered Sleepy. “Kinda looks like Shell Romaine was makin’ good, don’t it? The Black Rider is under the sod; Shell Romaine is holed up. Mebbe he mistook me and you for the sheriff and deputy and took some shots at us. The next time he don’t make no mistake, but we put the run on him.

“I figure that Mary O’Hara knowed that Haley was goin’ after Romaine; so she packed a warnin’ to him. It’s a cinch that she likes Shell Romaine--or did like him. It’s a mixed-up deal, Hashknife, but that’s my opinion.”

“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Why did Jim Searles shoot Mort Lee?”

“Drunken row. Searles is a gun-man, that’s a cinch. He got old man Romaine.”

“Jim Searles was the one that identified Cal Severn as bein’ the Sula bank bandit. Then he kills old Rim-Fire Romaine, the Black Rider, and this last time he smokes up Mort Lee, who was the one that packed the news of old Romaine’s killin’. Mort said that he danged near got killed by Searles.

“That part of it was all right. I can imagine that Searles was kinda jumpy over it, and when Mort Lee came bustin’ out of the brush Searles didn’t know but what it was somebody workin’ with the old man.”

Hashknife grinned as he visualized the scene. Mort Lee had said that the twisted cañon and the running stream would effectually cut off the report of a gun from him, and it was a wonder that Searles did not take a shot at the man who appeared there at the moment.

“At that, it was kinda lucky for Searles that Maldeen was with him,” said Sleepy. “There was a reward offered for the Black Rider, and Jim Searles wouldn’t mind collectin’ it--on any promising carcass.”

They were at the forks of the road, where one road led across the river to the Diamond-S and the other to Sula, thirty-five miles away. Hashknife drew rein and considered both roads, while Sleepy looked curiously at him.

“Let’s go this way,” said Hashknife, pointing up the Sula road. “We ain’t never been to Sula, and we ain’t goin’ to be none too welcome at the Diamond-S after what happened today.”

“I dunno why we’re goin’,” declared Sleepy, “but yo’re handlin’ the rudder of this ship, cowboy.”

“I dunno anythin’ about Sula,” confessed Hashknife, “but I might find somebody to answer a civil question.”

They swung into an easy gallop, heading toward the purple haze of the Mission range; following a white ribbon of road, broken by the long, late-afternoon shadows; two tramp cowboys, going out of their way to help some one or to satisfy their own curiosity--or souls.

* * * * *

The departure of Hashknife and Sleepy did not bring any sadness to the Moon Flats saloon. Cal Severn was sore over the accusation that there was anything crooked over the shooting of Mort Lee, but talked little. Searles was told of Hashknife’s insinuations and grew indignant.

“Who in ---- are these two short-horns?” he demanded of Cal Severn. “If I was you, I’d fire ’em bodily off the Diamond-S.”

“The long one,” said Pat Haley slowly, “might not take kindly to it. The small one--ye can’t tell about. Be the hang of his gun, I’d say they’re a pair, them two.”

“Well, they’re headin’ into trouble.”

Thus Maldeen prophetically.

“A man is skatin’ on thin ice,” he added, “when he accuses folks of a frame-up shootin’ scrape. Why should Jim Searles want to kill Mort Lee, I ask yuh?”

“I wish I could tell ye, Doc,” said Pat Haley, “but it’s beyond me, so it is. Mebbe Mort Lee can tell--if he lives and keeps his voice.”

“The doctor thinks he’ll live, does he?” queried Jim.

“That’s what he says,” replied Pat; “but ye never can tell. The doctor has no powers over life or death, except to do what other doctors has done.”

Pat Haley finished his drink and went back home, leaving Maldeen, Severn and Searles alone beside the bar. Jim Searles was ill at ease and helped himself several times from the bar-bottle.

“If I was you, Jim,” said Maldeen. “I’d pull out, while the pullin’-out is real good.”

“Yuh would, eh?”

Searles scowled and rested his elbows on the bar; after which he reached for the bottle again.

“Don’t be a fool,” grunted the bartender. “You can’t afford to get a skinful of hooch, Jim.”

“The ---- I can’t!” indignantly. “Whose skin is this that I’m wrapped up in, I’d like to know?”

He turned and leered at Cal Severn.

“You jaspers are full of advice, ain’tcha? I notice that the long, grin-faced puncher run his li’l blazer on you, Severn. He didn’t take back anythin’ he said, did he? Hah!”

Severn’s brows lifted a trifle.

“Do as yuh like, Jim; only I’d be away from the Mission range when Mort Lee got his voice back if I was you.”

“To ---- with him and his voice!”

Searles was working himself into a rage.

“You and Maldeen were here and seen it all. It’s three ag’in’ one, ain’t it?”

“Don’t get to yelpin’,” advised Maldeen. “Yo’re howlin’ loud enough to be heard all over town. There ain’t nobody goin’ to give you the worst of it, Jim. If you want to stay here--stay.”

“Yo’re ---- right I’ll stay! I ain’t never collected the reward for the Black Rider yet.”

“And yuh likely never will,” said Maldeen. “The county commissioners say that there is not sufficient evidence to prove that it was the Black Rider. They contend that old man Romaine might have tried to imitate the Black Rider, and that the real Black Rider is liable to show up any old time.”

Maldeen laughed and ordered the bartender to serve more drinks.

“That’s a ---- of a way to look at it,” grumbled Searles. “I reckon the only way I can grab off a reward is to go out and catch Shell Romaine.”

“Why catch him?” queried Maldeen.

Searles shook his head and shot a side glance at Severn, who was moodily looking into his glass.

“If he’d ’a’ stole my girl--” began Searles; but the next instant he received the contents of Severn’s glass in his eyes, which was followed up by a terrific smash in the face.

The blow knocked Searles down, but did not knock him out. He spat out blood and profanity and tried to draw his gun, but Severn sprang into him, kicked the gun loose from his hand and flung it across the room. Searles’ face was still swollen from Shell Romaine’s fist, and Severn’s blow did not tend to increase his beauty.

He got slowly to his feet, scowling at Severn, but did not speak; and without looking for his gun he went out of the door.

“That,” said Maldeen slowly, “was a bad move, Cal.”

“Yeah?”

Severn’s face was white with passion.

“Because,” continued Maldeen. “I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could toss a steer by the tail.”

Severn looked down at his skinned knuckles, flexing his fingers slowly.

“He’d be a fool to hang himself, doc.”

“There’s been a lot of fools hung,” said Maldeen, “and they’re still bein’ born every day.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy knew the country through which they were riding only from description; but a weather-beaten sign marked the trail up Medicine Creek. They drew rein and looked over the scene of the killing of the Black Rider.

The road sloped sharply to the crossing with fairly heavy foliage on either side and a box cañon on the right, through which Medicine Creek came brawling its way over rock and drift. Beyond this to the left the country was more open, although fairly well covered with brush.

“She was a good place for a holdup,” said Hashknife as they rode on, “with everythin’ in the favor of the bandit.”

Fifty yards farther on he stopped his horse. There was a slight breeze from the northwest, and Hashknife wrinkled his long nose like a hunting-dog.

“Somethin’ unclean in the world,” stated Sleepy. “Prob’ly a dead cow.”

“Prob’ly,” admitted Hashknife, but swung his horse off into the brush and tried to follow the scent.

Sleepy growled a malediction upon any cowboy that would search for a deceased cow-critter, but followed. About a hundred yards from the road Hashknife dismounted at the side of a dead horse, which still bore a saddle and bridle. The animal had been dead for several days, and was already half-eaten by coyotes and magpies. They examined it closely, silently. The saddle was almost new, but already discolored and warped.

“Horse wears a Box-R brand, and has been shot square in the forehead,” said Hashknife.

“Must ’a’ been shot kinda close,” observed Sleepy, “’cause it’s been powder-burned. Whatcha make of it?”

“Take a look,” said Hashknife, pointing at the front leg of the animal. “Busted half-way between ankle and knee. Somebody had to shoot it.”

“That part’s all right, Hashknife; but why didn’t they take their saddle and bridle?”

Hashknife rolled and lighted a cigaret before he replied.

“Cowboy, that’s the horse that old man Romaine was ridin’ the mornin’ he was killed.”

“Thasso? There wasn’t no horse mentioned in the story.”

Hashknife squatted on his heels and chuckled to himself. It seemed to amuse him greatly.

“Where’s the joke?” grumbled Sleepy. “Settin’ there chucklin’ at a dead horse!”

Hashknife sighed with evident satisfaction and got back on his horse.

“Cowboy, she’s workin’ out,” he declared joyfully. “A dead horse ain’t nothin’, but when yuh find one that is saddled and bridled and left to the coyotes she sure means a lot to old man Hartley’s fav’rite offspring.”

“I’m just with yuh,” complained Sleepy. “I reckon I’m supposed to chuckle with glee and applaud yuh for havin’ a wonderful brain, ain’t I? Yo’re sure a wonder, Hashknife. My ----, I dunno how any human bein’ can have a brain like you got!

“She’s workin’ out, is she? Y’betcha she is, and the sooner we get out of the wind from yore latest find, the better it’ll suit yore silent pardner.”

“Yuh still got faith in me, ain’tcha?” asked Hashknife seriously. “Yuh ain’t doubtin’ me, Sleepy Stevens?”

“Can yuh ask a question like that, Hashknife?”

“Uh-huh-h-h-h.”

“Then guess the answer,” retorted Sleepy. “Let’s go to Sula.”

* * * * *

While Hashknife and Sleepy headed for Sula, Jim Searles mounted his horse and left Moon Flats, smarting from his injuries. Searles was usually cold-blooded, but now he was hot with rage against Cal Severn. He was not a man to take a knockdown without repaying it, and just now his mind was working overtime on plans for revenge.

But Searles was no fool. He knew the temper of both Severn and Maldeen. Curiously enough he held no grudge against Shell Romaine for the knock-down in the stage-office, in which he had lost both teeth and prestige.

He had no destination in view when he left Moon Flats, and suddenly realized that he was nearing the forks of the road, which led to Sula and the Diamond-S.

He checked his horse to a slow walk as he rode down through a wooded swale. Suddenly a man stepped out of the brush beside the road, causing Searles’ horse to plunge sidewise with fright, almost unseating its rider. Searles whirled the horse back into the road and met Shell Romaine face to face.

Romaine was watching Searles closely, coldly, with his hand covering the butt of his heavy Colt revolver, and Searles instinctively lifted both hands even with his shoulders. He knew that Romaine was lightning fast with a gun, and was taking no chances on being misunderstood.

“Whatcha want, Shell?” he asked, and his voice was hardly more than a whisper.

The ghost of a smile crossed Romaine’s face as he said casually--

“Yo’re kinda gettin’ in the habit of havin’ yore face busted, ain’t yuh, Jim?”

Searles’ hand went to his bruised face, feeling tenderly of his swollen lips as he nodded.

“Some friend of yours, Jim?”

“No, by ----!” emphatically.

“I’m kinda lookin’ for news,” said Romaine; “but I expect yuh to lie to me, Searles.”

Searles said nothing, and Romaine considered the remote possibility of a truthful answer. Then he said--

“Is the sheriff huntin’ me?”

Searles shook his head.

“May or may not be the truth,” reflected Romaine out loud. “Who are those two punchers who are workin’ for the Diamond-S?”

“Couple of ---- fools that don’t mind their own business.”

Romaine laughed. There was no possibility that Searles was not telling the truth this time, he was so earnest.

“The tall one ran a blazer on Cal Severn,” volunteered Searles.

“What for?”

Searles refused to say. He caressed his face and wished he was far away from there. He did not care to answer some questions.

“Goin’ out to the Diamond-S?” asked Romaine.

Searles considered the question. He had not intended going there, but he did not care to tell Romaine that he was just riding around; so he nodded.

“Will yuh pack a message to Cal Severn?”

Searles shut his lips tight. He was about to explode a curse at the mention of Severn’s name, but thought better of it, and said--

“Yeah, I’ll pack a message to him, Shell.”

“Then tell him for me--” Romaine spoke very distinctly--“that if he don’t keep away from Marie Wicks I’m goin’ to send him to the undertaker. That’s all.”

Searles stared blankly at Romaine. So Cal Severn was hanging around the breed girl! Searles knew her; knew that she was pretty, and he also knew that she was Henry Horsecollar’s girl. He had no idea of carrying that message to Cal Severn, but there was no harm in agreeing to do so.

“All right,” he nodded. “I’ll sure tell him, Shell.”

“Much obliged, Jim. And yuh might also tell him that it’s ag’in’ the law to furnish liquor to Injuns.”

Searles grinned.

“You _sabe_ quite a lot about things, don’tcha? Yo’re takin’ a lot of chances hangin’ around so close to civilization when there’s rewards out for yuh.”

“I’m not the one that’s takin’ the big chances.”

Searles considered this statement. It might mean a whole lot, or little. Romaine stepped back against the fringe of brush.

“You can go now, Jim.”

Searles picked up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.

“All right, Shell; s’long.”

Romaine did not reply. At a turn in the road Searles looked back, but there was no sign of Romaine. The size of the reward almost tempted Searles to go back and try to take Romaine, but he thought better of it, and rode on.

In fact he rode faster now. He was going to the Diamond-S ranch, and he did not want to be there when Cal Severn came home. He wondered why Shell Romaine did not shoot him on sight. He had sent Romaine to the penitentiary, had killed Romaine’s father, and still Romaine did not seem to seek personal revenge. Searles could hardly understand Romaine.

He rode in through the Diamond-S gate and up to the bunk-house, where Henry Horsecollar was humped up on a box, busily greasing a set of buggy harness. There was a smear of grease across his upper lip, and his bare arms were greasy to the elbow. He spat dryly and looked up at Searles.

“How yuh comin’, Henry?” greeted Searles.

Henry squinted closer and grinned a toothless grin that almost matched Searles’.

“Somebody give you some bum advice, too?” he asked.

Searles felt of his face. He and Henry were both alike in facial disfigurements.

“Nobody gave me any advice,” grunted Searles.

“Mebbe they forgot to, and that’s how yuh got yours.”

Henry laughed as he poured some oil on his hand and applied it to the harness, but Searles did not see the humor of the thing. He squinted back down the road, being sure that Severn was not coming in behind him, and then watched Henry a few moments before he said--

“Man sent a message to Cal Severn.”

“Thasso?”

Henry showed little interest.

“Cal’s in town, I reckon.”

“Well, I ain’t goin’ plumb back there to deliver it to him. I reckon you can tell him, Henry.”

“Shoot.”

Henry wiped his hands on his overalls and leaned back to receive the message.

“A man told me to tell him that he’d better keep away from Marie Wicks, or he’d fill him full of lead.”

Henry did not say anything for several moments. He stared past Searles, looking blankly into space. Then he wiped a greasy hand across his lips and looked up.

“Tell me that ag’in’, will yuh, Jim?”

Searles repeated the message, and Henry’s greasy lips opened and shut as if repeating it after Searles.

“I--reckon--I--heard--yuh--right,” said Henry slowly; and then quickly. “Who sent that message?”

“Shell Romaine.”

“Shell----”

Henry gawped widely.

“Where’d you see him?” he asked.

“Ne’ mind where I seen him.”

Searles grinned knowingly.

“Well--” Henry bent over his harness and fingered at a buckle--“I’ll tell him, Jim. Kinda hot t’day; ain’t it?”

“Yeah, ’tis, Henry. Well, I gotta be movin’. S’long.”

Henry watched him ride out through the gate, where he swung into the hills instead of going back on the road. He blended into the gray of the hills, and Henry turned back to his work.

“S’long,” he muttered, never giving thought to the fact that Jim Searles was a mile away by this time. “I’ll tell him what yuh said.”

For a long time Henry bent over his work, polishing a buckle with the ball of his thumb, a queer tightness about his throat. Shell Romaine had sent that message to Cal Severn. Why did Shell Romaine send the message? Did Shell Romaine want her, too?

He knew now why Cal Severn had ordered him to stay at the ranch. It was to give him a chance to make love to Marie.

“Feller that’d do that won’t play square with a girl,” declared Henry softly. “I’ve gotta buck Romaine and Severn. I ain’t scared of Romaine, but Severn’s got money. Money! No!”

Henry shoved the harness aside and upset the oil-can, but did not pick it up.

“I ain’t no ---- gun-man, and I ain’t got no money; but I’m playin’ square with the girl.”

He got to his feet and leaned against the bunk-house door; a pathetic, lanky figure in his ill-fitting range clothes, his lips set tight with determination. After a while he shook his head slowly, shoved his hands down deep in his overalls and said out loud:

“The only ---- girl I ever had was Injun; and I couldn’t keep her. I’m a ---- of a lover all right.”

Then he stumbled back into the bunk-house.

But Jim Searles was not through yet. He circled the hills, arriving at Moon Flats just before dark and going straight to Pat Haley’s home. Pat was sitting on the porch smoking his pipe, and he looked curiously at Searles, who dismounted at the gate and strode briskly up the gravel walk.

Mary O’Hara came to the door to call Pat to supper, but hesitated as she saw Jim Searles coming up to the porch.

“Hyah, Pat,” said Searles and tipped his sombrero to Mary.

Pat grunted and removed the pipe from his mouth, while his keen eyes studied Searles’ battered face.

“I wanted to see yuh,” said Searles slowly, “’cause I thought yuh might like to know that I seen Shell Romaine today.”

“Ye did?”

Pat stared at him quizzically and shoved the pipe-stem between his teeth.

“Where did ye see him?”

“Back in the hills.”

Searles glanced at Mary, who was leaning against the door, trying to appear at ease.

“Which covers a lot of territory,” remarked Haley. “Would ye mind bein’ more specific, Searles?”

“Well, along the road between here and the river. He stopped me, and we talked a while.”

“Hm-m-m.”

Pat Haley grew curious.

“And why didn’t ye bring him back with ye?”

Searles grinned and shook his head.

“I’m no officer.”

“So ye came to tell me where to find him, eh?”

“Well, I thought yuh might like to know he was still in the country.”

“Which I would,” nodded Pat. “What did he have to say?”

Searles grinned widely.

“He sent a message to Cal Severn, but I don’t jist _sabe_ the meanin’ of it, Pat. He told me to tell Cal to quit makin’ love to Marie Wicks or he’d fill him full of holes.”

For a moment there was complete silence. Searles glanced at Mary’s face, which had gone gray as ashes. Pat heaved himself to his feet, gripping his pipe so tightly that his teeth snapped through the amber stem. Came Ma Haley’s voice just inside the door--

“Have ye no appetites, or do ye think I’m runnin’ a short-order caffay?”

She came out of the door and looked at every one.

“Now, what the ----?” she began, but stopped as Pat stepped off the porch and grasped Searles by the shoulder.

“Who told ye to come here and say that?” he demanded. “Did Shell Romaine tell ye to say that before Mary?”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Searles, yanking away from Haley. “What’s all the fuss about? I was just tellin’ yuh what Romaine told me to tell Cal Severn.”

“And he knowed you’d tell everybody else, eh?”

“Don’t say that,” begged Mary. “Shell Romaine may be an outlaw, but he wouldn’t hurt me. He knew I was engaged to Cal Severn, and he wished--us--luck.”

Pat turned from Mary and glared at Searles.

“What do you know about Cal Severn and Marie Wicks?”

“Not a thing, Pat. I didn’t know I was goin’ to start an explosion, or I’d ’a’ kept my mouth shut.”

“What was it?” demanded Ma Haley. “What about Cal Severn and the Injun lass?”

“We’ll not repeat it,” declared Pat firmly as he turned toward the door. “Good evenin’ to ye, Searles.”

Searles turned and went back to the gate, while Mary O’Hara went softly back into the house. Pat shook his head slowly and stared down at the ground. Ma Haley had heard enough to know that it affected Mary O’Hara and coupled the names of Cal Severn and Marie Wicks. Then Pat said softly, bitterly--

“Sure, it’s broke square in two, Ma.”

“Mary O’Hara’s heart, Pat?”

“No--me good old pipe,” pointing down where it had fallen after the stem had snapped.

“Aw, to the ---- wid yer old pipe!” exploded Ma Haley, and whirled back into the house.

“Aye,” muttered Pat, “to the ---- it is, sure enough. Now I’ll have to buy me some cigy-reet papers and burn a hole in the middle of me mustache. And they’re a poor counterbalance for the lower jaw of a man, so they are.”

He shook his head sadly over the remains of his pipe and went slowly in through the open door.

* * * * *

The following morning in the little town of Sula, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the hotel dining-room and looked over the one long street. Sula was a mining community, although partly supported by the northern end of the Mission cattle range. In front of the stage-station a pack-train of burros were being loaded, and a number of men had congregated there to offer useless advice.

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over there and watched operations until the departure of the pack-train, after which they loitered around the stage-station. The keeper of the station, a little, dried-up-looking person, wearing a badly warped pair of glasses, asked them what he could do for them.

“Not a thing, pardner,” grinned Hashknife. “We’re strangers here. Got in last night after dark, and we’re just kinda lookin’ around.”

“Well--” the man adjusted his glasses and rubbed the palms of his hands on his overall-clad thighs--“you can almost see Sula at a glance.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” grinned Hashknife. “The old-timers just built along the pack-trail. Anythin’ excitin’ ever happen around here?”

The man looked curiously at Hashknife and shook his head.

“No, I can’t say there is. Things are about the same every day. On pay-day the boys come in and kinda razoo the old town, but most of the time she’s like you see her right now.”

“We came here from Moon Flats,” explained Hashknife. “Do yuh know anybody down there?”

“No, not many. They don’t usually come up this far.”

“Know Doc Maldeen?”

“Runs the Moon Flats saloon, don’t he? Yeah, I know him when I see him, but not pers’nally.”

“Been here lately?”

The man squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Not for a month or two. Used to come up here on pay-day. Town’s pretty good for gamblers at that time.”

“What do yuh think about the killin’ of the Black Rider?”

“I dunno. It ain’t been exactly proved that it was the Black Rider, has it? I ain’t seen Searles since that day. Yuh see, he was only drivin’ for about a month, and that was his last trip.”

“Did the Black Rider hold him up any time?”

“Nope. He just tried it once. Wasn’t no use anyway, ’cause we never sent any money on the stage. That mornin’ I was talkin’ to Searles about the Black Rider. It’s a long ways to ride alone, and I don’t blame him for not liking the job.”

“Where did Maldeen do most of his playin’ up here?”

“Up at the Cinnibar saloon mostly. I expect he’ll be up here ag’in about the twentieth of the month--pay-day.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went back up the sidewalk and over to the Cinnibar saloon, where they leaned their elbows on the bar. The bartender, a smooth-haired, silk-shirted individual, greeted them warmly.

“Came in from Moon Flats,” volunteered Hashknife. “Got in late last night, and we’re still clogged with dust.”

“Yeah? How’s my old friend Doc Maldeen?”

“Doc’s fine as frawg-hair. Probably be up here on pay-day.”

“I betcha.”

The bartender examined the part of his hair in the fly-specked mirror, and, finding it perfect, turned back.

“Doc swears that Sula is the best town in the State,” the bartender remarked, “but he never comes to see us except on pay-day.”

“Ain’t he been here since last month?” casually.

“Naw. He waits for the money to come in. He’s some card-player, y’betcha.”

“Lost ten thousand in one hand to Cal Severn the other day--and dealt it himself.”

The bartender grinned widely.

“Brother, don’tcha try to make me swaller that; I know this country too well.”

“She’s a fact,” declared Hashknife. “There’s a number of folks seen the play and seen Maldeen hand out the _dinero_.”

“Well--” the bartender set out the bottle and motioned for them to help themselves--“I don’t doubt but what you fellers are tellin’ me the truth, but I’ll bet the feller that told you lied like ----. Ten thousand! Say, have you got any idea of how much money that is? Ten thousand dollars, ----!”

“I’m sorry to upset yuh thataway,” consoled Hashknife. “Bothered with asthma, aint’cha? Yuh kinda wheeze like yuh was. Keep away from wild flowers and don’t rub a cat’s back any more than yuh have to. C’mon, Sleepy.”

They went out of the Cinnibar, leaving the bartender leaning across the bar and trying to figure out just what Hashknife meant. He finally swept the glasses into the wash-tub beneath the bar, swore softly to himself and examined his hair again.

Hashknife and Sleepy went down to the little hotel and paid their bill to a grouchy old individual, who seemed to be soured on the world and all therein.

“Goin’ away, are yuh?” he asked. “Dag-gone it, seems like nobody stays here any longer than they have to. Which way yuh goin’?”

“North,” said Hashknife, which was untrue. “I was just wonderin’ if I could leave a note with you for Doc Maldeen. Know him, don’t yuh?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

He turned to an old calendar back of his desk and studied it closely.

“He won’t be here for about ten days.”

“Don’t he never come here except on pay-day?”

“Well, I don’t say he won’t, but I will say that he never has. If yuh leave a note I’ll----”

“Ne’ mind--I’ll likely see him before that. Much obliged, old-timer. S’long.”

They went to the livery stable and got their horses. Sleepy had not spoken a dozen words since breakfast, but when they rode out of town, heading back toward Moon Flats, he said:

“Yuh came thirty-five miles to find an honest man and picked on a stage-station boss, a bartender and a grouchy old hotelkeeper. What did yuh find?”

“Three honest men, Sleepy. I never seen such an honest town in my life.”

“Yuh kinda lied a little yourself, didn’t yuh, Hashknife?” reprovingly.

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, when yo’re lookin’ for truth in yore feller men, Sleepy, yuh may have to lie to get ’em to tell the truth.”

“Mebbe,” admitted Sleepy; “but yuh still got me fightin’ my head, cowboy.”

“That’s a good part of yuh to fight--it’s so hard that yuh can’t never do it no permanent injury, Sleepy.”

* * * * *

Cal Severn did not go out to the ranch that night. He was in no mood to meet Hashknife Hartley, and he was under the impression that the two punchers had gone back to the ranch. He was troubled about Jim Searles too, and was sorry that he had knocked him down.