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Title: Hashknife and the Fantom Riders

Author: W. C. Tuttle


        
Release date: May 14, 2026 [eBook #78685]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: The Ridgway Company, 1924

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78685

Credits: Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HASHKNIFE AND THE FANTOM RIDERS ***

                    HASHKNIFE AND THE FANTOM RIDERS

                              W. C. Tuttle

           Author of “Blind Trails,” “The Loom of Lies,” etc.


A cold drizzle of fog and rain was sweeping in from the ocean, almost
obliterating the guttering arc-lights along the street. Far away sounded
the clanking rattle of a cable-car, screeching around the sharp turns.
An iron-tired vehicle rattled over the cobble-stones, and from far down
the harbor sounded the harsh notes of a fog-horn.

At the front door of an old-fashioned residence, which had been a
magnificent edifice in its time, stood two men, hump-shouldered in the
dripping rain. It was impossible, in that light, to describe their
appearance, except that one was tall and the other very profane.

The tall one, ignoring the call-button, hammered on the door with his
knuckles. They listened for a few moments, and then the smaller one
cleared his throat harshly.

“Aw, to ---- with this country!”

“Raise yuh a stack of blues,” said the tall one dryly.

“’F I ever get out of here--say, ‘Hashknife,’ are yuh sure this is the
place?”

The tall one hammered on the door again, before he said-- “I betcha it
is, Sleepy; but the house is so danged big they can’t hear m’ knock.”

As he started to knock again the door opened softly and a butler, of
very dignified appearance, squinted closely at them.

“Is this him?” queried the smaller of the two men, but the tall one
ignored the question and spoke directly to the butler.

“I been hammerin’ on the door for ten minutes.”

“Pardon me, but you should have rung, sir.”

“Yeah?” The tall man grinned widely. “Well, I might ’a’ whistled, but
I’ll be danged if I ever carried a bell. Is Mr. William Lanpher to
home?”

“Yes, sir. Are you Mr. Hartley?”

“M’ name’s Hartley, yessir.”

“Mr. Lanpher is expecting you, sir. He will see you in the library.”

“My gosh!” exploded the smaller man, “I hope he don’t ask me to read.
You go ahead, Hashknife, and I’ll guard the rear.”

Together they followed the butler into the richly furnished home, where
their soggy, high-heeled boots made no sound in the heavy carpets, and
into a high-ceiled, homey-looking room, where a log fire crackled in the
big fireplace.

“May I take your hats?” asked the butler.

“No, never mind,” grinned Hashknife Hartley. “If we stay long, I reckon
we can hang ’em up ourselves. Did yuh say he was lookin’ for us?”

“Mr. Lanpher will be down in a moment,” assured the butler, as he
silently withdrew.

The tall man rubbed his big hands together and went to the fireplace,
the water still dripping from his wide sombrero. The other man looked
around the room, taking in all the details before joining the tall man
at the fire, where they stood with their backs to the grateful heat and
took stock of the place.

“What do yuh reckon he wants, Hashknife?” asked the smaller man softly.

“I dunno, ‘Sleepy.’ You seen the letter he sent to us at Phoenix. The
secretary of the Cattle Association said that he knowed Lanpher and that
he was all right. Danged if I’d ’a’ ever come to Frisco if I knowed it
was so cold here. Rather face a Dakota blizzard than that danged fog.”

“Lanpher must have money,” observed Sleepy Stevens. “’F I had money I’d
live in the sunshine, y’betcha. I’m wet plumb through. Listen to this--”

Sleepy extended a soggy boot and worked his toes.

“Hear her squirsh?”

Hashknife grinned softly, which almost concealed his eyes in a mass of
wrinkles. His face was thin and bony--almost sad in repose, and bronzed
to the texture of leather from facing the weather of the wide places.

His arms were long and ended in a pair of muscular hands, which seemed
to be always in his way. Sleepy Stevens was shorter, heavier built, with
a deeply-lined face, a calculating pair of blue eyes, and hair which
might be designated as a roan color.

Their garb and actions showed plainly that they were from the cattle
country, although they were wearing “store” clothes, except for their
boots and hats.

“Yeah, I’ll admit that yore feet are wet,” smiled Hashknife, “but you
ain’t got nothin’ on me, cowboy. I’ll bet yuh even money that I’ve got
more water in my boots than you have, and settle it right here.”

“Feller, you’ve done made a bet!” snorted Sleepy, and sat down on the
floor, tugging at his boot.

Hashknife leaned against the mantel, hooked the heel of one boot over
the toe of the other and began to remove his boot, when William Lanpher
came into the room.

So engrossed were the two cowboys that they did not see him until he
said--

“Perhaps I can find some dry foot-gear for you.”

“Huh!” Hashknife stopped and stared at him. “Howdy. Say, you can referee
this bet.”

“Bet?” Lanpher stared at them. “I do not understand.”

William Lanpher was a medium-sized man, of about fifty years of age,
rather fleshy, round-faced and well-dressed. The cities are full of
William Lanphers.

“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly and looked at his partner, “I reckon we
was a little hasty. I bet Sleepy that my feet were wetter than his, but
I plumb forgot to state the size of m’ bet.”

“Write yore bet, cowboy!” snorted Sleepy. “I’ve got half of it up to m’
hip right now, but I’ll almost give yuh odds on what’s left in m’ boot.”

Hashknife worked his foot back into his boot, and Sleepy, seeing that
the bet was all off, swore softly and scuffed his foot on an expensive
Oriental rug, trying to force the boot back on to his foot.

“You are Mr. Hartley,” said William Lanpher, “and I have been expecting
you.”

“I betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “But yore front door is so thick that m’
knock never got through it.”

“I wrote to the Cattlemen’s Association,” said Lanpher slowly. “I wanted
the best man they could recommend.”

“You got both of ’em, mister,” Sleepy grinned and felt of his toes.

“I only asked for one,” smiled Lanpher.

“The good ones comes in sets of twos,” said Sleepy seriously.

“The letter was sent to us at Phoenix,” said Hashknife. “I know Bill
Wheaton, the secretary, real well, and he said he knowed you. We had
a ---- of a time findin’ this house.

“Me and Sleepy got on one of them danged street-cars that goes
----ity-blippin’ along, and we hit a curve and Sleepy fell off and----”

“Fell off!” snorted Sleepy. “I got bucked off, yuh mean. The conductor
yelped, ‘Look out fer the curve!’ But he yelped after I was reachin’ for
the saddle-horn.”

“And I got off to pick up the remains, and the danged car went away
without us. Sleepy said he’d be darned if he’d ride another one; so
we walked.”

“We waded,” corrected Sleepy.

Lanpher laughed and drew some chairs up to the fire, after which he
offered them cigars, but they declined in favor of their own home-rolled
cigarets. Lanpher, once he got settled in his chair, lost no time in
coming down to his reasons for sending for them.

“I own a half-interest in the Circle Cross cattle outfit in the Ghost
Hills Range. Know where it is?”

“I know where it’s located,” nodded Hashknife, “but we ain’t never been
there. I’ve heard of the Circle Cross outfit.”

“I wish I never had,” said Lanpher bitterly. “It has already cost me a
fortune in money, and,” he hesitated, “has cost me more than mere money
could replace.”

“Cow ranches are expensive sometimes,” agreed Sleepy interestedly.

“What seemed to be the real trouble with the Circle Cross?” queried
Hashknife, stretching his long legs out to the fire and rolling another
cigaret.

Lanpher tossed his cigar into the flames and leaned back in his chair.

“Three years ago,” he began, “Jim Trainor and I bought the Circle Cross.
Trainor knew the cattle business--I had the money. It was sort of a case
of him putting his experience against my cash.

“We bought stock from all over Wyoming, and I will assure you that the
outlay of gold was considerable. I knew nothing about the business,
but I knew that Jim did. In fact, I know nothing about it now, except
that--well, my experience was not exactly pleasant.

“One year ago, or about that length of time, the Circle Cross cattle
began to disappear. Perhaps it was longer ago than that, but no matter.
A roundup proved that we had lost a small fortune in cattle.

“Jim started an investigation, but was unable to arrive at any
conclusion. But it served to increase his vigilance and he found that
stock was disappearing with startling regularity.”

“Some smart rustlers cleanin’ yuh out, eh?” smiled Sleepy. “They will do
things like that, Mr. Lanpher.”

“So we discovered,” said Lanpher dryly. “After our own investigations
failed, we called upon the Cattlemen’s Association, and they sent an
operative. He worked as a cowboy upon the Circle Cross, but was unable
to solve the mystery.

“He was taken off the job and another man put on. This man was shot
and killed a week after he went into the Ghost Hills country. He was
found, riddled with bullets, lying in a corral just outside the town
of Wolf Wells.

“There was no clew to his death. Another detective was sent in to take
his place.”

Lanpher paused to light a cigar and Hashknife snuggled deeper into his
big chair.

“Does it interest you?” asked Lanpher.

“We ain’t made no move to walk out,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep her
spinnin’, pardner.”

Lanpher nodded slowly and squinted into the fire.

“I’m no story teller, Hartley. This might be embellished quite a lot,
but I haven’t the ability to use words. That detective was there ten
days when he was killed--shot.”

“One detective was taken off the job and the next two were killed,
eh?” mused Hashknife thoughtfully. “Two out of three is a pretty good
average. Was you there, Lanpher?”

“No. This last killing was done a month ago. It seemed a foolish thing
to ask the association to send in another man; so I corresponded with
Mr. Wheaton. He advised me to get in touch with you.”

“Did the sheriff arrest anybody?” queried Sleepy. “They mostly always
does arrest somebody.”

Lanpher threw his cigar into the fire and leaned forward, elbows on
knees, squinting thoughtfully, as if trying to frame a reply. Then he
nodded slowly, seriously.

“Yes, they arrested old ‘Pinto’ Cassidy.”

Lanpher shut his jaws tightly and got to his feet. He seemed to be
laboring under a strain, as he paced half the length of the room
before turning back to them. Hashknife and Sleepy waited for him to
resume.

“And that is the part of the whole thing that hurts,” he said slowly.
“Cassidy is a squawman. His wife is a Sioux squaw. He owns the Tomahawk
outfit. ---- knows, he had enough Indian about his place, without using
a tomahawk for a brand.”

“You know him very well?” asked Hashknife.

Lanpher ignored the question.

“Cassidy had forbidden any of the Circle Cross outfit to come on to the
Tomahawk ranch. This detective was working on the Circle Cross, and he
was found dead within quarter of a mile of the Tomahawk ranch-house. He
was on Cassidy’s ranch.

“But it is doubtful whether they can convict him, and if they do, it
will not bring our cattle back. I do not think that Cassidy is the
rustler. It is not a one-man job, Hartley, and requires more brains
than any squawman has. In fact, we haven’t the slightest idea where
the stock has gone. That will be your job--to find out.”

“And duck bullets,” added Hashknife, grinning. “You ask quite a lot,
mister man. But you ain’t told us everythin’. What is yore big interest
in Cassidy?”

“Interest!” Lanpher fairly spat the word, as he reached into a pocket
and drew out an envelope.

For a moment he hesitated, but drew out the letter and handed it to
Hashknife.

“I think that will explain it to you,” he said evenly.

The letter was postmarked at Wolf Wells, and read:

    Dad, you might as well save your breath and make the best of
    things. Regardless of what you say or do, I am going to stick
    with Cassidy. And what is more, I am going to marry Lorna one of
    these days. I haven’t seen any of the boys of the Circle Cross
    for quite a while.

    I suppose I am to be classed with Cassidy’s alleged bunch of
    rustlers, as you intimated in your letter. Well, all right, I
    don’t mind. This is a wide, wide world and I am twenty-one.

    Your affectionate son, BEN.

Hashknife folded up the letter and handed it back to Lanpher.

“Do you understand what it means?” queried Lanpher hoarsely.

“Who’s Lorna?”

“Cassidy’s daughter--a half-breed.”

“Well,” Hashknife frowned for a moment and looked up at Lanpher with a
quizzical smile.

“She ain’t never scalped anybody, has she?”

“Scalped?” Lanpher stared at Hashknife. “Why--uh--does this appear as
something--er--funny?”

Lanpher’s face was red with indignation.

“Not exactly funny,” agreed Hashknife, serious again. “But I don’t see
where you ought to chaw up yore own shirt over it, Lanpher.”

“You don’t? Do you think I want my son to marry an Indian?”

“She’s only half-Indian.”

“All right, half-Indian! I don’t want her!”

“Well! You ain’t gettin’ her, are yuh?” blurted Sleepy. “He said it was
a wide, wide world and----”

“Wide world, fiddlesticks! He talks big, because he thinks he’s a man.
Bennie wants to pose. A martyred son, and all that kind of rubbish.
Marry that ---- Indian? I guess not.”

“Pardner, yo’re doin’ a lot of guessin’,” smiled Hashknife. “This here
love thing is a funny old bug. Ain’t nobody ever found a cure for it.
And as far as the Injun girl is concerned, she’s half-American.”

“Her father is Irish as Paddy’s pig!”

“Her mother is American,” reminded Hashknife softly.

Lanpher scowled into the fire and nodded slowly.

“That’s true.”

Hashknife yawned and got to his feet.

“Well, Sleepy, I reckon we better be goin’.”

“Yeah,” agreed Sleepy sourly, “we’ll be wadin’ back down the hill.”

“But we haven’t come to any agreement,” protested Lanpher. “You’ll take
the job, won’t you?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“I don’t think so. It ain’t noways a healthy place to horn into, and
if three cattle detectives have failed, I don’t see where two ordinary
punchers stand a chance.”

“Afraid?” Lanpher’s voice was slightly contemptuous.

“Very likely,” agreed Hashknife dryly.

“And Wheaton said you had the nerve of the ----. I’ll show you his
letter.”

“But he neglected to say that we also placed quite a value on our own
heads,” grinned Hashknife. “Still, it might not be as bad as it looks,
Sleepy. Yo’re always honin’ for action, cowboy; suppose we take this
job.”

“Then don’t blame me if we both get killed, Hashknife.”

“That’s fine!” applauded Lanpher. “I’ll pay you one thousand dollars
apiece to tackle the job. If you show me where our cattle have gone,
I’ll double it. I don’t know you, but Wheaton said you were the only
one----”

“I’m goin’ to whip Bill Wheaton for lyin’ about me,” interrupted
Hashknife. “There’s two liars in Arizona, and Bill Wheaton is both of
them.”

Lanpher laughed as he crossed to a table and wrote two checks.

“That will be the best money I ever spent, I think,” he remarked, as he
handed them to the two cowboys.

“We’ll use the word ‘most,’” grinned Sleepy, squinting at the check. It
was the biggest check he had ever seen.

“Pay to the order of Sleepy Stevens, one thousand dollars. Holy
henhawks! I betcha I won’t sleep a wink.”

“Now, don’t go and spend it foolishly,” laughed Lanpher.

“Nossir.” Sleepy folded it and shoved it deep in his pocket. “That
stays right in the old poke until I can find a place where they sell
rubber-boots.”

They were laughing when the butler came in, apologetic for the
intrusion, and spoke a man’s name to Lanpher.

“Tell him I’ll be out in a moment, Parker.”

“Well, we’ll be movin’,” said Hashknife, picking up his hat. “T’morrow
we’ll head for the Ghost Hills, Lanpher.”

“Fine. I’ll wire Trainor tonight and tell him to----”

“Nope.” Hashknife stopped him. “You lay off that stuff. Me and you and
Sleepy are the only ones that need to know. There’s a danged smooth gang
in there, Lanpher. Remember, they spotted them detectives.”

“Well, that’s true, Hartley.”

Lanpher shrugged his shoulders.

“Go ahead and do it in your own way.”

He led the way out of the room, and as they neared the front door, a man
stepped over and spoke to Lanpher. He was a well-dressed, thin-featured
man, slightly gray at the temples and with a trifle of a limp in his
right leg.

“Good evening, Mr. Lanpher,” he said, and nodded to the two cowboys.

“Hello, Carsten,” Lanpher held out his hand cordially, and then
introduced Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Mr. Carsten is a cattle-buyer,” he explained.

Hashknife nodded and held out his hand to Lanpher, just as the front
door opened and in came two richly dressed women. One of them was a
slender, imperious-looking young lady, and the other a middle-aged
woman, rather fleshily built.

Carsten spoke cordially to both of them, and Lanpher smilingly said--

“Mrs. and Miss Lanpher, I want you to meet Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens.”

“And we’re sure pleased t’ meetcha,” grinned Hashknife, shaking hands
with both of them, although it was obvious that neither of the ladies
cared for the hand-shaking.

“We’re just makin’ a short call,” explained Hashknife. “Thought we’d
kinda wade out to see Lanpher before leavin’ town.”

No one seemed inclined to pick up the conversation; so Hashknife said--

“We’re sure pleased t’ meetcha, and if yuh ever drift over into our
country, drop in and see us.”

The ladies murmured something conventional, but Carsten elevated his
eyebrows a trifle, as he said--

“Just where is your country, Hartley?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh might say it was anywhere in the Western
side of the U. S. A.”

“Sort of drifters, eh?”

“Nope.”

Hashknife shook his head.

“We travel under our own power, Carsten. Good night, folks.”

They went out of the front door and into the fog and rain. The fog-horns
were sending out their eerie wailings down on the harbor, and the street
lights gleamed dully at close quarters or faded to mere halo-like spots
at a few yards distant.

The two cowboys halted on the sidewalk and turned their backs to the
drifting elements.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, his teeth chattering
in spite of himself.

“I dunno what to make of it, Sleepy; but we’ve already made two thousand
dollars out of it. Here comes one of them rattlety-bump cars, goin’
downtown. Do yuh think yuh can ride her on the curves?”

“I’ll ride inside and lock m’ heels,” declared Sleepy. “My gosh, ain’t
Miss Lanpher a dinger. Whooee! The queen of Sheber never had anythin’
on her--except a snake.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was very hot in the town of Wolf Wells, a huddle of unpainted
buildings, strung more or less along a crooked, dusty street. Wolf
Wells was strictly a cattle town, where no one seemed inflicted with
too much morals, and its temperature was very hot in Summer and below
zero in Winter, which probably accounted for the weather-beaten
appearance of the whole place.

A branch railroad wound its crooked way through the Ghost Hills to
Wolf Wells, but the train service seemed in the hands of the train
crews, rather than in any semblance of a schedule. Wolf Wells was the
county-seat.

Just now the town was fairly well-filled with people. It was Saturday,
which accounted for some of the activity, but the majority of the people
were interested in the outcome of Pinto Cassidy’s trial for murder.

The jury, a bunch of hard-bitten cattlemen, were still deliberating,
after thirty hours of being locked up in a hot jury-room. Near one
of the hitch-racks stood Jim Trainor, half-owner of the Circle Cross
outfit, talking to “Fat” Fleager, the sheriff.

Trainor was a big man, broad of shoulder and with a face that was as
inflexible as a piece of granite. His eyes were gray, like the gray of
tempered steel, and his jaw jutted belligerently, as he bit reflectively
at his lower lip.

The sheriff was built after the manner of a bed-slat, and from the
sadness of his thin face, the bloodhound-like eyes, with their heavy
pouches, one might well expect him to be the proprietor of a
non-paying undertaking establishment. Both men were dressed in range
clothes, and Fat Fleager seemed to be continually in danger of losing
his belt, which hung draped around his narrow hips. The waistband of
his overalls seemed to cause him much concern also, and the arm-holes
of his vest continually crawled out over the points of his narrow
shoulders.

They were both looking at a young man, dressed in cowboy garb, who
crossed the street past them and went into a saloon. He was a slender
young man, unshaven, unhandsome, but there was a devil-may-care
slouch to his walk and to the angle of his sombrero. He did not look
at Trainor and the sheriff.

“There’s a ---- fool that’s breedin’ a scab for himself,” said Trainor,
as the young man passed into the saloon.

“Yeah.” The sheriff nodded wearily. “I s’pose.”

“No brains. Old man’s got lots of money. ---- kid could pick out a
society girl for a wife, but he ain’t got no brains.”

“Lanpher got lots of money?” Indifferently.

“Ought to have.”

“Rich kid come to cowland and learned papa’s business, eh?” The sheriff
actually smiled at his own humor.

“Lanpher ought to come out here and kick the kid back to Frisco,”
growled Trainor.

“Uh-huh,” dubiously. “Mebbe it wouldn’t be safe. The kid got drunk last
night in the Lily of the Valley saloon, and he backed ag’in’ the bar,
with a gun in his hand, and recited some startlin’ pedigrees. But nobody
called him.”

“Felt sorry for him, I suppose.”

“Thasso?”

The sheriff squinted at Trainor.

“That kid took seven dollars away from Lonesome Hobbs day before
yesterday, shootin’ with a six-gun. I throwed the tin-cans for ’em
m’self. Hobbs ain’t so danged amachoor, y’betcha.”

“Well, let him go ahead.” Trainor shrugged his shoulders, as if to
dismiss the subject.

“Oh, he’ll go too far, that’s a cinch,” said the sheriff. “Kids always
does. I wish that danged jury would make up their minds pretty soon.
There’s Cassidy’s girl over in front of the hardware store now. I betcha
she’s lookin’ for Ben Lanpher.”

Trainor turned and squinted closely at her. She was about average
height, with a thin oval face, as brown as her maternal ancestors,
but showing little of the aboriginal blood. Her hair was dark and
worn in two heavy braids, but her eyes were blue. Her calico dress
was well-made, even though a trifle gaudy in color, and she walked
with the easy grace of a jungle-bred animal.

“Irish and Injun,” muttered Trainor. “----, what a combination! A
blue-eyed Injun. If she wanted a weapon and you showed her a brick-bat
and a scalpin’ knife, which would she take?”

“That’s a question,” grinned the sheriff. “But she’s a ---- pretty girl,
jist the same, Trainor.”

“Yes, she’s ---- pretty.”

“And she’ll make a good wife for some man.”

“Hm-m-m,” mused Trainor. “I reckon she will.”

Two cowboys were crossing the street and Trainor turned from looking at
Lorna Cassidy to give them a sharp glance.

“Who are those fellers, Fleager?” he asked.

“One feller--the tall one--is named Hartley. I talked with him this
mornin’ at the feed corral. They rode in last night from the Encinas
country.”

“Goin’ to stay here?”

“Lookin’ for jobs, I reckon. The tall feller is a nice spoken sort of
a jigger, but he made me feel like he was laughin’ at me all the time.
There ain’t nothin’ soft and tender about either of ’em.”

“What did he say that made yuh feel he was laughin’ at yuh?”

“Oh-h-h, well--nothin’ much. He was tellin’ about a feller that he knew
who was so durned thin that his clothes wouldn’t stay on him, and so he
wore his union-suit on the outside. He said it sure looked awful, but
gave him the full use of his two hands.”

The sheriff hitched up his pants and belt and spat reflectively, while a
grin flashed across Trainor’s thin lips.

“Anyway,” declared the sheriff, “I ain’t goin’ to try it. Mebbe we
better go over and see if there’s any news from the jury.”

As they started across the street, Hashknife and Sleepy came out of the
saloon and caught up with them. Hashknife spoke to the sheriff.

“You ain’t puttin’ on this kind of weather for our benefit, are yuh,
pardner?”

“This ain’t so hot,” said the sheriff.

“No, it ain’t exactly hot. I knowed a man once that was so danged thin
that----”

“Your name’s Hartley, ain’t it?” interrupted the sheriff. “Shake hands
with Mr. Trainor, of the Circle Cross.”

Hashknife shook hands with Trainor and introduced Sleepy to both men.

“You two fellers just driftin’ through?” queried Trainor casually.

Hashknife grinned and shook his head.

“Feller asked the same thing about a week ago. No-o-o, I wouldn’t say
that we’re exactly driftin’, Mr. Trainor.”

“We’re kinda lookin’ for jobs,” declared Sleepy. “We ain’t askin’ for
work--for jobs.”

Trainor laughed.

“I’m full-handed right now, or will be, as soon as that jury finds out
what they’re goin’ to do. My foreman is on the jury, yuh see.”

“Seems like they was havin’ trouble decidin’ the case, accordin’ to what
I can hear,” observed Hashknife. “Old man Cassidy ain’t very pop’lar, is
he?”

“Not very,” admitted Trainor. “I reckon they’ll cinch him.”

The sheriff shook his head and shifted his chew.

“Nossir, I don’t think so. ’F they was goin’ to cinch him they’d ’a’
done it hours ago. Cow-juries don’t work that-away.”

“They sure don’t,” grinned Hashknife. “They’re just as liable to
bring in a verdict of arson ag’in’ the judge as to settle the guilt
or innocence of old man Cassidy.”

“And still they’re twelve men, good and true,” grunted Trainor.

“Good and true don’t mean that they’ve got any brains.”

“Here comes ‘Lonesome’ Hobbs,” said the sheriff, pointing down the
street toward a short, fat, bow-legged individual, who was coming toward
them as fast as his feet would carry him. As he drew near he removed his
hat, exposing an almost totally bald head, which made him look like a
very fat and very much overheated baby.

“Juj-jury’s made up their dud-danged minds,” he panted hoarsely. “Do yuh
know where the juj-judge is, Fat?”

“He’s over in the Lily of the Valley, I reckon. Better go over and roust
him out, Lonesome.”

“Uh-huh. I’ll git ’m.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street, fanning himself with his
hat, while Hashknife and Sleepy followed Trainor and the sheriff down to
the dance-hall, which was used as a courtroom.

Lonesome’s search for the judge had spread the news that the jury had
reached a decision, and the court filled rapidly. Hashknife and Sleepy
secured seats near the front of the room.

Seated just beyond them was Lorna Cassidy, and in a few minutes she was
joined by a stout, white-haired man, carrying a mass of legal-looking
papers.

“That’s Mitchell, the Frisco lawyer,” whispered a man near Hashknife. “I
heard that young Lanpher hired him to defend old man Cassidy. I betcha
it cost him some money.”

A few minutes later the sheriff came in from the rear of the hall, and
with him was Pinto Cassidy, a little, old, wizened character. Cassidy
was typically Irish of face, and his steady glance at the audience
seemed to carry a fighting challenge to any or all of them.

But his seamed old face softened as he looked at his daughter, and he
smiled softly, patting her on the shoulder. They talked together for
a moment and then Ben Lanpher came swaggering up the aisle to sit
down beside her. He was flushed with drink, arrogant with the feeling
that every one was against him, and looked defiantly at every one in
the room.

The judge came in and stood beside his desk. He was an old man, white of
hair, very dignified. For a moment he looked about the room and rapped
sharply on his desk. The buzz of conversation ceased.

“Just to say to you,” said the judge clearly, “that the court will
brook no demonstration whatever. You will curb your feelings while
within these walls.”

He turned and sat down as the jury filed in. They were a tired-looking
crew of men, stolid, some of them seemingly half-angry. They sat down
in the jury-box and looked expectantly at the judge, who said--

“Gentlemen, have you reached a decision?”

A big, raw-boned cowman, the foreman of the jury, got to his feet slowly
and faced the judge.

“We have not,” he replied evenly, “and we can’t. There’s a ---- fool
among us that----” He looked meaningly at a hard-faced, squint-eyed
cowboy on the end of the row--“that ain’t got enough brains to grease
a needle with. He’s held us up for--well, all the time we’ve been in
there, and we ask that you dismiss us.”

The squint-eyed cowboy continued to study the opposite wall, paying
no attention to the foreman’s words. The judge cleared his throat
raspingly.

“Then you find it impossible to reach a verdict?”

“Yeah, unless we want to foller that half-witted gopher’s ideas and hang
old man Cassidy, judge. If it wasn’t murder to kill a feller like him,
he’d ’a’ been dead eleven times right now.”

“And that’s no ---- lie,” echoed a disgruntled member.

The judge sighed. He had been many years in cow-land and knew there
would be no use to reprimand these men for such language in the
court-room. They were all on the ragged edge, and the only thing he
could do would be to dismiss them, which he did; thanking them for
their efforts.

Ben Lanpher got to his feet and spoke directly to the judge:

“What about Cassidy? Does he get off now?”

The judge shook his head.

“No, I am sorry to say that he will have to stand trial before another
jury.”

“There’s a ---- of a lot of justice in that!” roared Ben angrily.
“Eleven of ’em wanted to turn him loose, and just because one man----”

“Hang on to yourself, Lanpher!” snapped the sheriff, taking him by the
arm. “You’re in a courtroom--not a saloon.”

“That’s right,” gritted the boy. “We might get justice in a saloon, but
we can’t get it here.”

The sheriff turned and looked at the judge questioningly, but the judge
shook his head sadly and turned back toward the rear door. The jury had
got to their feet, and the sheriff crossed quickly to them and moved in
close to the squint-eyed cause of their disgust.

“I’ll walk out with yuh,” said the sheriff.

“You better walk with him,” grunted one of the jury meaningly.

“Yes, and you better stay with him,” added Ben Lanpher.

The squint-eyed one glanced at Lanpher and the lines around his mouth
twitched sharply, but he did not reply. Hashknife and Sleepy left the
courtroom and went back to the street, where men were discussing the
trial.

A cowboy, somewhat the worse for liquor, came up to them.

“Kinda looks like they was goin’ to have a hard time convictin’ old
Cassidy,” he observed. “I’ll betcha that jury had a ---- of a time.
But you mark my word, this ain’t all settled yet.”

“No?” queried Hashknife. “How’s that, pardner?”

“Huh! Lemme tell yuh somethin’. That squint-eyed ‘Smoky’ Cole’ll make
’em pay for what they said about him, y’betcha. He’s plumb salty, he
is. I _sabe_ that jasper. Any time yuh think yo’re runnin’ a blazer on
that son-of-a-gun, yo’re foolin’ yourself, thasall.”

“Bad, is he?” queried Hashknife.

“I’ll nod when yuh ask me that,” grinned the cowboy.

“You knowed him a long time--before he came here?”

The cowboy sobered a trifle and hitched up his belt.

“Tell yuh what I’ll do, I’ll buy a drink.”

“Who does Smoky Cole work for?” asked Sleepy.

“He’s foreman of the Circle Cross. Works for Trainor. I’m named Edwards,
but folks calls me ‘Bility.’”

“Is that yore real name, or is it short for Ability?”

“----, I dunno. Yuh see--”

He grinned and spilled half a sack of tobacco past his cigaret paper.

“Yuh see, I been with the Flyin’ M f’r a long time, and one time some
fellers was thinkin’ about buyin’ old man Shappee out. They was arguin’
about things, when I comes up to see the old man, and one of ’em says--

“‘Is this one of yore assets?’

“And old man Shappee says:

“‘----, no! That feller is a liability.’ ”

The cowboy laughed and spilled the rest of his tobacco.

“Do yuh know what it means?” asked Hashknife.

“----, no! And I don’t care. Let’s go. It got me a name.”

They went into the Lily of the Valley, which was the biggest saloon in
the town, and found Trainor at the bar, talking with Lonesome Hobbs.
The place was fairly well-filled and the games of chance were being
well-patronized.

They accepted of Bility’s hospitality and while they were drinking,
Ben Lanpher came in. He drank two big drinks of raw liquor before he
paid any attention to those at the bar. His eyes were red from liquor
and his jaw sagged listlessly.

Hashknife studied him closely and decided that Bennie Lanpher had the
makings of a bad-man. He had evidently practised with a six-gun until
he had an exalted idea of his own ability, and plenty of liquor had
made him careless.

Ben turned and looked at Hashknife, who smiled softly. Bennie was in no
mood to have any one smile at him, and his weak jaw immediately assumed
a belligerent angle.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he grunted.

Hashknife ignored the question and turned back facing the bar. But
Ben was not to be denied. Something seemed to tell him that this tall
cowpuncher had smiled at him--possibly laughed at him.

He shoved away from the bar and stepped in behind Hashknife.

“See anythin’ funny about me?” he asked.

Hashknife turned lazily and looked him straight in the eyes.

“Yeah, I see a lot of funny things about yuh, young feller. If they
wasn’t also awful sad, I’d laugh like ----”

“Is--that--so?” Lanpher spaced his words widely and his right hand eased
back toward his holster.

“In the first place,” continued Hashknife, “yo’re too young to drink
so much liquor. First thing yuh know you’ll quit growin’ and always
look like a half-baked kid. You ain’t got brain enough to see that
yo’re headin’ plumb into trouble--mebbe a rope. Them is some of the
reasons why I ain’t laughin’ at yuh.”

Lanpher laughed mockingly, loudly and then his teeth fairly snapped.
The room had gone quiet and every one had heard what Hashknife had
said, although he had spoken quietly.

“Take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “I’m a stranger to you and we
ain’t got no quarrel.”

“Backin’ up, eh?” snarled Lanpher. “Next time you laugh at a man, you’ll
find out who he is first.”

Lanpher’s hand was on the butt of his gun and his body tensed forward,
expecting that Hashknife would accept his challenge. But Hashknife’s
eyes squinted just past Lanpher’s head and his left eyelid drew down
quickly in a deliberate wink.

Lanpher’s head twisted as quick as a flash; thinking that there was
danger right behind him, and before he could turn back Hashknife’s left
hand had caught him by the right wrist, while Hashknife’s open right
hand splatted against the side of his jaw, throwing him off his balance
and placing him powerless to do anything, except swear.

And Lanpher did plenty of the latter. Hashknife held him helpless, while
the crowd moved in close to enjoy the sight.

“Yuh got a lot of things to learn before yuh can be a honest-to-gosh
bad-man,” explained Hashknife. “And one of ’em is to never turn yore
head.”

“Lemme go!” wailed Lanpher.

“All right, I’ll let yuh go,” agreed Hashknife, “but you’ve got to agree
to one thing.”

“All right, ---- yuh. What is it?”

“As soon as yuh get yore balance, we’ll both start shootin’.”

The crowd behind Lanpher parted with great alacrity.

But Lanpher did not care for the conditions. Hashknife flung him away
and Lanpher staggered into a card-table before he regained his balance.
Then he went straight out of the door, without looking back.

“That’s tamin’ ’em,” declared Trainor, who had been an interested
observer. “It was just what he needed, Hartley. I’ll buy a drink.”

The crowd went back to their games, but the incident was not forgotten.
Hashknife was a stranger, which was worthy of notice in Wolf Wells,
where few strangers ever came, and he had demonstrated that he was able
to take care of himself in a way that appealed to the range folk.

“I wish I had a job for you fellers,” said Trainor, as they leaned on
the bar, “but I’m plumb filled up right now.”

“We ain’t exactly dependent on a job right now,” explained Hashknife,
“but a feller don’t like to go broke before he lands a job. Who’d be a
good rancher to see about a job?”

“I dunno. Yuh might see old man Shappee. He owns the Flyin’ M, but I
suppose he’s got a full crew.”

“How much of a crew do you have, Trainor?”

“I’m only hirin’ three men now. Nothin’ much to do this time of the
year, except to kinda watch the waterholes. We’re breakin’ a few horses,
too. Usually I have five or six men. I had kinda bad luck lately. Mebbe
yuh heard about two of my men gettin’ shot.”

“Got shot?” Hashknife shook his head. “We ain’t been here long enough to
hear much gossip. Was it for the killin’ of one of them that Cassidy is
bein’ tried?”

“Yeah, the last one. Mebbe he killed the first one, I dunno.”

“He don’t look like a killer.” This from Sleepy.

“No, he don’t, but he’s meaner than a snake.”

“Just in what way?” Hashknife was curious, and Trainor glanced quickly
at him.

“Oh, just mean. He said he’d shoot the first Circle Cross man he found
on the Tomahawk.”

Hashknife grinned.

“He must have a grudge ag’in’ yore outfit, Trainor.”

Trainor grunted an unintelligible reply and turned as some one called
his name. It was an undersized cowboy, with a limp cigaret glued to his
protruding underlip.

“You seen Whitey Anderson?” he asked.

“Not today,” replied Trainor.

“He was lookin’ for yuh about fifteen minutes ago.”

“All right, Shorty.”

Trainor accepted another drink and left the saloon.

“Who’s Anderson?” asked Hashknife of the bartender.

“Depot agent.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

They drifted outside and found Lonesome Hobbs sitting on a hitch-rack.
How he ever got himself up that high was a mystery, but he was up there.
He nodded to Hashknife and Sleepy and slid over to give them room.

“I seen yuh have yore fuss with young Lanpher,” he said huskily. “Bub-by
gosh, he needed a jolt. How’d yuh ever think up that winkin’ idea?”

“Used my head,” grinned Hashknife.

“That’s it,” nodded Lonesome. “Feller’s got to use his brains--if he’s
gug-got any. I can think of the best doggone schemes, but I forget ’em
right when I need ’em bad. Feller told me a good scheme once. Said to
step hard on a feller’s feet, when yo’re fightin’ him and he’ll fall
down. I tried it--once.”

“Didn’t it work?” asked Sleepy.

“Not fer me, it didn’t. I reckon that was only part of the trick; the
rest of it was to keep the other feller from knockin’ ---- out of yuh
until yuh could fu-find his feet. Anyway, that’s how she ’pears to
me.”

They were laughing as Trainor came up to the rack and untied his roan
horse.

“Goin’ home?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. Wish I had a job for you two. Hope you get one.”

“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll swindle somebody out of a few
month’s wages. _Adios._”

“Seems like a right nice sort of a feller,” observed Hashknife, as
Trainor rode away.

“Who, Trainor? Best there is, y’betcha. Danged good cowman, top-notch
puncher and reliable as ----”

“Which is some reliability,” agreed Hashknife. “We’d kinda like to work
for him.”

“Well, I dunno whether I would or not.” Lonesome pursed his lips
thoughtfully. “I’m kinda superstitious, don’tcha know it? I figgers
that things happens three times before they quits. There’s been two of
the Circle Cross punchers killed lately. They was leaded considerable,
too.

“Figgerin’ the way I do, there’s another one to go. It don’t always work
out that-away, of course, bub-but I ain’t the kind of a jasper that goes
dead ag’in’ my own hunches.”

“Why do yuh reckon they was killed?” queried Sleepy.

“Why.” Lonesome leaned his elbows on his knees and shook his head. “I
ain’t prepared to say.”

“Any idea who killed ’em?”

“Well, they’re tryin’ old Cassidy for the last one.”

“Where is Cassidy’s ranch?” asked Hashknife.

Lonesome jerked his thumb in a northerly direction.

“Out thataway. Yuh take the main road out there, and a little over two
miles she forks, but don’t take the right-hand fork, ’cause that goes
to the Circle Cross. Keep on goin’ about a quarter-mile and take the
left-hand road.

“It’s about seven miles to the Tomahawk, and about five to the Circle
Cross. I’d keep plumb away from the Tomahawk, if I was you. They ain’t
a danged bit friendly.”

“But Cassidy is where he can’t hurt anybody.”

“No, he can’t, but there’s young Lanpher livin’ there, and Jimmy
Droop-drawers.”

Hashknife laughed outright.

“For gosh sake, what a name!”

“He’s a half-breed,” grinned Lonesome, “and that name fits him like a
plaster. Jimmy was absent the day they was passin’ around the brains,
but he sure can shoot.”

“You got kind of a sweet lot of folks around here,” observed Hashknife.
“Looks to me like Wolf Wells had enough gunmen to hold up the reputation
of a bigger place.”

“Aw, we ain’t botherin’ with gunmen.” Lonesome spat dryly and shook his
head. “We ain’t afraid of nothin’ we can see, y’betcha. It’s the things
we can’t see that gits under our hides.”

“Such as what?” asked Hashknife.

“Cows that evaporate, for instance.”

Hashknife and Sleepy looked closely at Lonesome, but his face was deadly
serious.

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve heard of evaporated milk. Mebbe
that’s where it come from, Lonesome.”

“Mum-mebbe,” dubiously. “Anyway, it ain’t a fav’rite subject with me,
gents. I reckon I’ll be goin’ back to the office. You ain’t found no
jobs yet?”

He almost fell off the hitch-rack, without waiting for an answer,
recovered his hat, which rolled under a horse, and bow-legged his way
across the street.

Sleepy grinned and looked at Hashknife.

“What do you think of things, Hashknife?”

“Well, it’s too danged early in the game to make any remarks, but I’ll
say there’s a lot of folks around here that might start shootin’ any
time.

“I don’t think a lot of old man Lanpher’s offspring, but I do like his
pardner. Trainor seems like a regular he-man. The sheriff has only one
thing to recommend him, and that is the fact he’s so danged thin that
nobody could hit him with anythin’ bigger than a .22 rifle.

“Lonesome Hobbs is all right. Old man Cassidy might ’a’ killed that
puncher, but I have my doubts. His girl is danged pretty, and William
Lanpher might be danged well honored to think that she’d look at his
slack-headed son. Outside of that, I’m hungry. Let’s go and eat.”

“All right,” agreed Sleepy. “I kinda feel that we’re goin’ to like Wolf
Wells. It kinda reminds me of the old Willer Crick outfit, Hashknife.
Everybody suspicious of everybody else. I sure hope they don’t suspicion
us.”

“They will, if we don’t get a job, Sleepy.”

As they crossed the street, Ben Lanpher, Cassidy’s squaw and Lorna
Cassidy were getting into a light wagon. Lanpher saw them, but did not
look up as they passed. The girl gave them a keen glance and the two
cowboys lifted their hats. As they went into a restaurant, Hashknife
looked back and the girl had turned her head and was watching them.

“I hope she knows us next time she sees us,” said Sleepy, grinning.

“I hope they all do,” replied Hashknife. “I’d hate to be mistaken for
some of the boys from the Circle Cross.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

The Tomahawk was a typical squaw-man’s ranch. There was little semblance
of order in the locations of the ranch-house, barns or corrals, and the
buildings looked as if they might collapse in the next breeze.

The weather-beaten ranch-house, a low, rambling affair, was sway-backed
from old age and the weight of many snows, and the barn stood, as a
cowboy might express it, kinda antegodlin’ to everythin’. The corral
fences were lopsided and badly in need of repair.

A few mongrel chickens strayed around the littered front yard of the
ranch-house, clucking wildly after the winged grasshoppers; a family
of magpies chattered in the cottonwoods behind the barn, while down
in a corral a hungry calf bawled loudly.

It was the day following the dismissal of the jury. In the long
living-room Ben Lanpher humped over in a dilapidated rocking-chair,
staring moodily at a crumpled envelope. His hair was matted, his face
unshaven and his clothes bore evidence that he had slept in them--and
not on a bed.

Lorna Cassidy leaned against the side of the adobe fireplace, looking
with troubled eyes at Lanpher, while near her the squat figure of Mrs.
Cassidy was seated on a low stool. At the far end of the room, sitting
on the floor, with his knees drawn up to his chin, was the half-breed
cowboy, known by the unlovely title of Jimmy Droop-drawers.

Jimmy was a typical half-breed, in which the Indian blood seemed to
predominate strongly. His lower lip was thick and pendulous, his
eyes mere slits above his high cheek-bones, and his garb, with the
exception of his high-heeled boots, badly run-over at the heels, was
entirely aboriginal. It was plainly evident that his beaded-blanket
pants had not been made by a tailor, because the seat was entirely
too commodious--which accounted for his cognomen.

Ben Lanpher crumpled the letter in his hand and got to his feet.

“Well--” He tried to laugh, but it was only a grimace. “Well, that
settles the cathop, I suppose. The old man has cut off my credit--told
me that I could have no more of his money.”

He turned his head and looked at Lorna.

“Well, why don’t somebody say something? I’m too ---- dry even to curse
him.”

“There is nothing to say,” said Lorna softly.

“Ain’t there?” Ben laughed hoarsely. “It means that we won’t be able to
hire a lawyer for the next trial. I’m broke.”

“Why need lawyer?” asked Mrs. Cassidy. “My man never kill cowboy. Only
one man think so.”

“That ---- Smoky Cole!” snapped Ben. “I’ll fill him so full of holes
that he’ll----”

“And who will pay for the lawyer to keep you from hanging?” asked Lorna
quickly.

“You don’t need a lawyer when you kill a man in self-defense.”

“Yo’ look out,” advised Jimmy thickly. “Cole bad man with a gun. Mebbe
yo’ need doctor--not lawyer.”

“Too much talk about kill,” said the stolid old squaw, as she slowly
filled a pipe with plug tobacco. “No good to talk.”

“Tha’s jus’ right,” nodded Jimmy. “Old Minnie know. Big talk, small
medicine.”

“Who were those two men who passed, when we were ready to leave Wolf
Wells yesterday?” asked Lorna.

“Them two?” Ben took a half-filled bottle from his hip pocket and
reached for a tin cup on the table.

“I dunno who they are. Couple of smart cowpunchers, I guess.”

“Ben, why don’t you go back to your home?”

“Huh?”

Ben took the cup away from his lips and stared at her.

“Why don’t I go home?”

“Yes--back to your people.”

Ben laughed harshly.

“Why should I go back to them?”

“They are your people. You don’t belong here. They would be glad to have
you come back.”

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Lorna?”

Lanpher was half-angry, as he got to his feet and walked over to her.

“I told yuh I’d stay here and see that the old man was cleared. Dad
wanted me to stay with the Circle Cross, but me and Trainor couldn’t
get along. He treated me like I was a kid. Told me not to come over
here. Said that you was just a ---- Injun, and that your father would
shoot me if I came on the Tomahawk ranch.”

Lorna turned and stared out of the window, her lips shut tight, as if to
hold back a flood of bitterness. Then--

“Well, I suppose he was right, Ben.”

“What do we care?” laughed Ben hoarsely. “If I want to marry an Injun,
that’s my business, ain’t it?”

Lorna shook her head.

“No, you are just foolish, I think. You go back to your people and
forget everybody in the Ghost Hills.”

“Not by a ---- sight! When I go back to California--to Frisco, you are
going with me, Lorna.”

The old squaw took her pipe slowly from her lips and looked up at Ben.

“You are very big ---- fool, I think,” she declared.

“Is that so?”

Ben turned to the old squaw.

“Mebbe you’d have somethin’ to say about it?”

She nodded slowly and began puffing on her pipe.

Ben shrugged his shoulders and poured himself another drink. He had
imbibed so much liquor during the last two weeks that his system
shrieked for more.

“Why don’t you quit drinking?” asked Lorna. “When you came here you did
not drink.”

“Lot of things I didn’t do then.”

Ben wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laughed uncertainly,
as he looked closely at his almost depleted flask.

“I’ve got to go to town and get more hooch.”

“What will you do when your money is all gone?”

“Do?”

Ben laughed and picked up his hat.

“Rob a bank, I guess. Maybe I’ll join the Ghost Hills gang. By ---- I’ll
bet they’d take me in.”

He turned and walked out of the door, staggering slightly, as he
clumped off the porch and headed for the barn. Jimmy, the half-breed,
walked to the door where he leaned lazily against the sill, puffing on
his cigaret.

The old squaw did not turn her head as Ben went out, but continued to
puff at her pipe, while Lorna moved from the fireplace and stood beside
the table, her shapely fingers picking at the cloth.

“Just a ---- Injun,” she said softly, sadly. “Just that and nothing
more. Am I any different or worse than other girls?”

The squaw knocked the dottle from her pipe and got clumsily to her feet,
which were shod in buckskin.

“You good girl, Lorna. Good Injun just as good as white people.”

“You ---- right!” agreed Jimmy from the doorway. “You jus’ right, Lorna.
To ---- with Trainor.”

Jimmy turned away from the door and came back toward them.

“Ben gone to town,” he announced, and added. “Too much whisky no good.”

He squatted at the fireplace and started to roll another cigaret, but
his trained ears heard a sound outside and he arose swiftly and his
hand swung back to jerk his revolver holster into position.

Came the scrape of a footstep on the narrow porch and Jim Trainor’s
voice called--

“Anybody home?”

“Somebody home,” replied Jimmy huskily. He was just a trifle afraid of
the big man from the Circle Cross.

Trainor’s huge frame fairly blocked the door as he came in from the
porch. Lorna looked straight at him, but the old squaw, after the
manner of her kind, paid him no heed. Jimmy watched him closely.

“Hello, Lorna,” grinned Trainor, “I got to wonderin’ how you folks were
gettin’ along so I came over to see. Where’s Ben Lanpher?”

“He go to town,” said Jimmy. “Go jus’ now.”

“Gone down to get drunk again, I suppose.”

Trainor sat down in the rocking-chair and threw his hat on the table.
He seemed entirely at home, even though his welcome had not been any
too cordial.

“Why do you come here?” asked Lorna.

“Why?” Trainor laughed shortly. “I told you I wanted to see how you were
all getting along, Lorna.”

“That should not take long to find out, Mr. Trainor.”

“No, I guess that’s a fact. Too bad about that jury.”

“Too ---- bad,” corrected Jimmy, and was immediately sorry he had
spoken.

Trainor turned and looked straight at him.

“When I speak to you, I’ll call you by name.”

Jimmy swallowed with difficulty and sidled toward the door. He was not
of a belligerent disposition and he greatly respected Trainor’s fighting
ability. At the doorway he turned and fired a parting shot.

“Next time jury agree, mebbe. You know what Pinto Cassidy said about
Circle Cross men.”

And then Jimmy Droop-drawers faded out of sight. Trainor’s face went
black for a moment, and the ghost of a smile flitted across the old
squaw’s face, but Trainor passed it off with a laugh.

“I hope they do agree,” he laughed, “and I don’t think that Pinto
Cassidy will be so hasty next time.”

“You believe my father killed him?”

Lorna leaned across the table and looked Trainor square in the eyes.

“Well--” Trainor looked away and rubbed his chin with the ball of
his right thumb. “Well, I hope not, Lorna. But if he did he was only
making good his threat. Ed Meeker had no business coming over here.
He knew what Cassidy had said.”

“Who killed the other man--Lloyd Hansen? He wasn’t found on the
Tomahawk.”

“I don’t know who killed him. But your father ain’t accused of that
killin’.”

“Why was he killed?” demanded Lorna.

“Why?” Trainor shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows. But that does not
interest me. Did Ben get a letter from his father lately?”

Lorna turned away from the table and sat down near the old squaw.

“I know nothing about Ben’s mail,” she replied.

Trainor smiled.

“He’s sayin’ that he’s goin’ to marry you, Lorna.”

“I have no strings on his tongue,” indifferently.

“I thought he was lyin’,” smiled Trainor. “His father wrote me that he
had sent word to Ben that his money supply was cut off. It’s about time,
I reckon.”

“Ben is a fool,” continued Trainor, when Lorna ignored his statement.
“His father is wealthy and can give him everything he would want. He
can marry a white girl and live in a fine house; so why should he stay
around here?”

“And marry a ---- Injun,” added Lorna.

Trainor looked keenly at her. He remembered saying those same words to
Ben, and wondered if he had told her.

“Well, you know how city folks look at Indians, Lorna. You don’t look
like an Injun. If I didn’t know different, I’d never know that you had
a drop of Indian blood in yuh.”

“What have the Indians ever done to make a white man look down upon
their blood?” asked Lorna hoarsely. “They only fought for what had
belonged to them for many years. It was not that they wanted to win
more, but to keep what they already owned.

“I know. I have read history in school. I have read many tales of the
Indian--written by men who knew only the one half of the tale--the white
half. The Indian fought in his own way--the only way he knew.

“The Indian was lazy, because that was his disposition, but the squaw
was not lazy. And the Indian was honest and sober until the white
man--that superior race--came to ruin his morals and soul. He taught
the Indian to lie, steal and drink. Perhaps--” Lorna turned away
scornfully--“it will take many more years to bring the Indian up to
the standard which the white man started to teach him many years
ago.”

Trainor laughed loudly and slapped his thigh.

“Lorna, when you turn loose, I wonder if you’ve got any white blood in
yuh.”

“I am never ashamed of Indian blood,” she retorted, “but there are times
when I am ashamed of my white blood.”

“All right,” grinned Trainor. “I don’t blame yuh. Let’s drop the
subject. I never like to argue with a lady.”

“Bad business,” grunted the old squaw.

“That’s right, Minnie,” agreed Trainor, laughing. “Anyway, I like Lorna
too well to argue with her.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

“I’m going to run in real often,” he stated. “Cassidy won’t get another
trial before the next term of court, and that’ll be three months from
now. You’ll probably be needing a little help before he can get cleared,
and I want yuh to understand that the Circle Cross is willing to help
yuh in any way we can.”

“Good!” grunted the old squaw.

But Lorna did not express any thanks for his offer. He looked keenly at
her before he turned toward the door. She gave him a sidelong glance as
he went out through the door, but it was not a look of gratitude.

She heard him gallop away, going back toward the Circle Cross, and then
she sat down beside the table. The old squaw had put away her pipe and
was softly crooning a Sioux cradle-song, a chanting, tuneless thing
that recited the superiority of the Sioux papoose over anything else on
earth. It was one of the first things Lorna remembered, but she
shuddered just now. It seemed so foolish to think that the Indian could
be superior.

“Perhaps,” she told herself, “it is the white blood that rises above the
red and makes me dislike Indian songs.”

The squaw finished the song and started all over again. Lorna got to
her feet and walked to the door, as if to get away from the song, and
as she looked out into the sunlight, two riders, the two men who had
lifted their hats to her in Wolf Wells, were riding up to the house.

Jimmy, the half-breed, was working around one of the corrals, but when
he saw the two men he came up toward the house. Hashknife and Sleepy
took off their hats and spoke to Lorna pleasantly.

“We was just ridin’ around, ma’am, and thought mebbe we could get a
drink of water,” explained Hashknife, “We tried to take a drink out
of the little creek below here, but it was a little too bitter with
alkali.”

“We have plenty of water,” replied the girl, and turned to the
half-breed.

“Jimmy, will you get some water from the well? These men want a drink.”

Jimmy squinted at the two cowboys for a moment before he turned and
went around the house. Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted and came up to
the steps, just as Mrs. Cassidy came over to the door.

“Hello, mother,” smiled Hashknife. “How are you today?” The old squaw
smiled broadly at the title and nodded pleasantly. Hashknife turned to
Lorna.

“This is the Tomahawk ranch, ain’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh. Yuh see, I wasn’t sure. Somebody told us that we’d likely get
shot if we came here, but we don’t believe everythin’ we hear.”

Lorna smiled, but there was little happiness in it.

“I am glad you did not believe,” she replied. “We have never killed any
one.”

“Sure yuh ain’t,” agreed Sleepy heartily. “I can jist look at you
and see that yuh never. Gosh dang it, some folks sure do get things
twisted.”

Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy and a grin spread his lips. Sleepy
saw the grin and shuffled his feet nervously.

“Well,” he said defensively, “can’t you, Hashknife?”

“I never disputed yuh, cowboy,” grinned Hashknife.

Jimmy came around the corner with a bucket of water and the two cowboys
quenched their thirst.

“Best water I ever drank,” declared Sleepy. “Never knowed that water
could taste so danged good. Betcha I’ll be ridin’ this way real often
f’r my drinks. Don’tcha know.” Sleepy was almost confidential. “I
wonder why men drink strong liquor, when water tastes so good.”

“Now, little Dew-drop, don’t get so enthusiastic,” advised Hashknife
seriously, and then to Lorna--

“He’s the same way over everythin’, ma’am.”

“He likes water,” said the old squaw.

“Under bridges,” admitted Hashknife. “Sleepy--say, I plumb forgot to
introduce us. I’m Hashknife Hartley and this here water-soaked pardner
of mine is named Sleepy Stevens.”

“I am Lorna Cassidy,” said the girl, “and this is my mother, Mrs.
Cassidy.”

“We’re sure pleased to meetcha,” said Sleepy, bowing gracefully, but
kicking over the water-bucket at the same time.

“You’ve gotta watch him all the time,” explained Hashknife, as Sleepy
hastened to right the bucket. “He’ll get his feet right into anythin’
that’s got water in it.”

Sleepy stood up, a grin on his flushed face. Lorna was laughing and a
wide grin overspread the old squaw’s face. Jimmy, the half-breed stepped
in and held out his hand to Hashknife.

“I’m Jimmy,” he said. “Nobody speak my name.”

Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with him.

“You’ll excuse me, won’t yuh Jimmy?” asked Hashknife, “and we both thank
yuh for the water.”

Jimmy grinned.

“Plenty water. You want more?”

“No, thank yuh, Jimmy. If there was any more water around here, I’d have
to get a canoe for Sleepy. He can’t swim a lick.”

Jimmy grunted and went away with the bucket. He had no sense of humor,
but he instinctively liked these two cowpunchers. Perhaps it was because
they shook hands with him and treated him as an equal.

“My man in jail,” said Mrs. Cassidy, as if explaining his absence.
“Can’t get out. Too ---- much law.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right, mother,” said Hashknife, “but he’ll get
out.”

“Won’t you come in?” asked Lorna. “It is cool in the house.”

“Betcha we will,” agreed Sleepy quickly. “I’m about fried to a cinder.”

Jimmy followed them into the house and sat down against the wall.

“Ben Lanpher lives here, don’t he?” asked Hashknife.

“He has been staying here,” corrected Lorna. “Do you know him?”

“He was pointed out to me, and they said he was livin’ here.”

“Too much whisky,” grunted the old squaw.

Hashknife smiled and rolled a cigaret. He had been afraid to ask
questions in Wolf Wells for fear that some one might find out that he
and Sleepy were investigating the rustling situation.

“You folks been losin’ any cattle?” he asked.

Lorna nodded quickly.

“Yes, I think so. Dad insists that we have. He told everybody that he
was losing cattle, and two days after that we found a card pinned to
the front door. It had been written with a pencil and told us to keep
our mouths shut or something worse than loss of cattle would come to
us.”

“Don’t talk about it,” advised Jimmy warningly.

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. They knew now why there was no
talk about the rustlers. It was the fear of the unknown that had shut
the lips of the cattlemen. It was a condition that would make every man
suspect his neighbor.

“Where do the cattle go?” asked Hashknife. “You’ve got to have a market
for stolen stock. Is there any way out of here, except by railroad,
where cattle could have been sent?”

Lorna shook her head.

“I can’t talk about it with you,” she said. “You are strangers to us,
and for all we know you may belong to the Ghost Hills gang. Every one
is afraid around here. Two men have already been killed and I think
they were killed by the rustlers, but we have no proofs.”

“Ghost Hills gang, eh?” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Have they ever
been seen by any one?”

“No seeum,” grunted the old squaw.

“Sort of fantom riders, eh?” grinned Sleepy. “I dunno whether we want
jobs in this range or not, Hashknife. I’m kinda spooky m’self.”

“Does kinda make a feller feel creepy,” admitted Hashknife seriously,
“and I don’t blame you folks for not talkin’ too much. I don’t suppose
the sheriff is spendin’ much time tryin’ to round ’em up.”

“He stay home,” grunted Jimmy. “Sheriff smart man.”

Hashknife laughed softly and picked up his hat.

“Well, folks, I reckon we’ll drift along. Can we cut straight across the
hills to Wolf Wells?”

“Yeah,” grunted Jimmy. “No fence, no trail. Not so long as road.”

Lorna followed them to the door and watched them mount.

“Will you come again?” she asked, just a trifle wistfully.

“Unless the ghost riders plug me first,” said Sleepy quickly.

“She meant both of us,” grinned Hashknife, as they rode away. “Sleepy,
you sure do lose what little sense yuh got when yuh see a pretty girl.”

“Well, by golly, she sure is a pretty girl, Hashknife. She’s got
Lanpher’s daughter beat four ways from the jack.”

Hashknife turned in his saddle and looked keenly at Sleepy, who was
looking back toward the Tomahawk ranch-house. Sleepy turned and
encountered Hashknife’s gaze.

“Rope’s draggin’ ag’in, Sleepy,” warned Hashknife.

“Lemme alone, will yuh?” snapped Sleepy, spurring his horse ahead and up
the brushy slope.

“There’s some nice lookin’ girls in the city,” said Hashknife, quoting
what Sleepy had said the night he had met Miss Lanpher.

But Sleepy only grunted. He and Hashknife had been partners for years,
riding the ranges from Alberta to Mexico, and both were still heart and
fancy free. Neither of them had ever been willing to marry and settle
down. No range had ever been home to them for more than a few months at
a time, and neither of them was young.

Both of them bore scars of conflict, and behind them were greater scars,
which they had left in payment of injustice to others. They did not seek
trouble, but, as Hashknife had said:

“There’s an antidote for every kind of poison, Sleepy. Some of it ain’t
nothin’ more than salt-water or soapsuds, but it does the trick. Poison
is poison, whether it’s somethin’ yuh get out of a bottle or somethin’
that grows in yore soul.

“When me and you first started hornin’ into dirty deals, I figured we
was professional trouble-shooters, but I’ve come to the conclusion that
the good Lord intended us as an antidote for range poison. And we’ve
sure cured a lot of hard cases.”

“And never profited thereby,” reminded Sleepy.

“No-o-o, but yuh never heard of soapsuds and salt-water yelpin’ for pay.
We’re just antidotes, thasall.”

Sleepy had a habit of falling in love at first sight, but it never went
beyond that. Both of them realized that the marriage of one would mean
the end of their adventures, and they were not ready to lead a peaceful
life.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Fat Fleager was putting in a bad afternoon. It was bad enough to have
Smoky Cole in town, drunk. Smoky had been drinking alone since the jury
had been discharged, and he was beginning to move around, as if defying
the whole world.

He had imbibed raw whisky for twenty-four hours, and was still on his
feet. Not only was he on his feet, but he was fairly steady on them.
His eye was bloodshot, but not at all bleary.

Fleager had observed Smoky Cole closely, waiting for him to run into
some of the folks who had denounced him in the courtroom. Then came
Ben Lanpher to add to the slatlike sheriff’s troubles. Ben was nearly
drunk when he reached town, and he lost no time in bracing his chest
against the Lily of the Valley bar and filling his interior with
fighting liquor.

Fat lost no time in hot-footing it back to the office and waking
Lonesome Hobbs out of his mid-day siesta.

“Nouk,” grunted Lonesome. “To ---- with ’em both. Let ’em git at each
other, Fat.”

“But me and you have sworn to uphold the law,” wailed the sheriff.
“We’ve gotta do it, Lonesome.”

“I’ll hold her up,” agreed Lonesome, getting off the bunk, adjusting his
hat and selecting a sawed-off shotgun from the gun-rack.

“Where’s all them buckshot shells, Fat?”

“Now whatcha goin’ to do?”

“Shoot ---- out of both of ’em. It’s gettin’ so a fuf-feller can’t even
sleep around here. Where’s the shells?”

“Aw-w-w, go lay down!” wailed the sheriff. “You ain’t no help to me,
Lonesome. You’re either as lazy as the ----, or as bloodthirsty as a
cannibal. I hired yuh as a deputy and all I got was a drawback.”

“Well, whatcha want me to do?” grunted Lonesome. “I only know how to
do two things real well--sleep and shoot. You woke me up, darn yuh,
and now yuh won’t let me know where them shells are. You ain’t noways
consistent.”

“Yuh might use a little brains!” snapped the sheriff.

“If I had brains--” The cot creaked raspingly, as Lonesome stretched
himself out again-- “If I had brains I’d never live in Wolf Wells, I’ll
tell yuh that, Fat Fleager. Anyway, it ain’t no job for a fat man, this
ain’t. All you’ve got to do is stand sideways and nobody can hit yuh.
With me----”

Lonesome lifted his head and looked toward the door, but the sheriff had
gone, and Lonesome did not finish his sentence.

Then he groaned dismally, got off the cot and buckled on his belt. He
was in no mood to be trifled with now. It was his usual siesta time,
and he meant to make it worth losing sleep over.

With Ben Lanpher in the Lily of the Valley, and Smoky Cole in the
Antelope saloon, the sheriff planted himself between the two, which were
half-a-block apart, and made a resolution that they--Ben and Smoky--must
be kept apart.

The fact that one of them did not know the other was in town helped the
sheriff considerably. Lonesome looked witheringly upon the watchful
sheriff and went into the Lily of the Valley, where he found Ben
Lanpher, standing with his shoulder-blades sort of hooked over the top
of the bar, while he considered things of importance.

Lonesome Hobbs was no diplomat. He knew that Ben was just drunk enough
to pick trouble. His bleary eye and the belligerent angle of his
sombrero proclaimed to Lonesome that Bennie was contemplating starting
something.

Lonesome walked up to the bar beside Ben, as if to buy a drink, turned
swiftly and kicked Bennie’s feet from under him. And while Bennie was
going down in a sitting position, Lonesome uppercut him with a right
fist, which landed Bennie into dreamland.

Then, while everything in the saloon suspended operations to watch him,
Lonesome removed Bennie’s gun, flipped out the cartridges and replaced
the gun.

“And that’s some sudden!” exclaimed the bartender.

“Dud-danged right,” admitted Lonesome, and to the crowd--

“When he wakes up, you tell him to high-tail it out of town, ’cause I’m
comin’ back to make both sides of his face match up.”

Then Lonesome went out of there, walking stiff-legged, and headed for
the Antelope. The sheriff was still planted in the same spot, but
Lonesome walked past him, as if the sheriff was a stranger. He spoke
to Lonesome, but got no reply.

Lonesome went into the Antelope and found Smoky in a poker-game. Or
rather, Smoky was half-in and half-out of the game. He was standing up,
leaning across the table and talking in uncertain and very profane terms
over what he declared to be a deliberate attempt to swindle him out of a
pot.

Smoky was just drunk enough to be vile in his language, and dangerous
withal. He was standing up in front of his chair when Lonesome’s right
hand hooked into his gaudy muffler, and a moment later he went over
backward, taking the chair with him, and landed on the back of his head
with a thud.

It knocked all the fight out of Smoky, and his mind was a blank during
the time that Lonesome removed his gun and took out the cartridges.
Smoky had no friends in the place to assist him, and those present
seemed to get a lot of fun out of the incident.

“Tell him to rattle his hocks out of town,” said Lonesome. “He’s been
makin’ himself ob-obnoxious around here, and I’ll be watchin’ the
front door for his goin’. Me and the sheriff is plumb tired of bein’
annoyed.”

Lonesome went out of the door and crossed the street toward the office,
without looking at the sheriff, who was still holding forth between the
two saloons. Lonesome went into the office and planted himself near the
front window, after placing the sawed-off shotgun handy.

It was several minutes later that Ben Lanpher came to the door of the
Lily of the Valley. His right hand caressed the side of his head and he
seemed undecided as to what he intended doing. He took stock of the fact
that the sheriff was between him and the Antelope saloon, but started
walking toward him.

About this time Smoky Cole staggered out of the Antelope, his hat in
his hand. He was also a trifle erratic in his movements, and perhaps
a bit near-sighted after the bump on his head, because he too started
toward the sheriff.

There was nothing for the sheriff to do but to move away from between
them, which he did and did quickly.

“Don’tcha start nothin’!” he yelled. “Don’tcha ----”

But his warning was wasted. The two belligerents had recognized each
other. For a moment they hesitated, then two hands reached for two
guns. Smoky was the faster of the two. His gun was out before Ben had
started his draw, but the hammer fell upon an empty cylinder.

Swiftly his thumb hooked the hammer, and again the dull click of a dead
cylinder. Ben’s gun was leveled now, but his efforts were as unavailing
as were Smoky’s. But Smoky did not hear the click of Ben’s gun, because
Smoky was going away as fast as his legs would carry him.

Ben did not pay any attention to Smoky’s going, because a quick glance
told him that his gun was empty, and he turned to run the other way.
Lonesome whooped with glee and fell backward on the cot, while the
sheriff, after a glance in either direction, hurried across to the
office.

Lonesome sat up and looked at the sheriff, his eyes filled with tears.
The sheriff was a trifle pale and his lips worked soundlessly.

“What’s the matter with you?” choked Lonesome.

“Thank the Lord!” exclaimed the sheriff. “I--I’m glad to hear your
voice, Lonesome. I thought I had lost my hearin’. Them two guns ----”

“Were empty,” finished Lonesome. “Ha, ha, ha, ha! They never thought to
look at ’em, and nobody told that I took out the shells.”

“You took ’em out?”

“Yeah, I took ’em out,” laughed Lonesome, and then told the sheriff what
he had done to both men.

The sheriff went to the door and looked into the street. Ben Lanpher
was mounting his horse, and a moment later rode away toward home. He
was unsteady in his saddle and lost his hat, but did not stop to
recover it.

It was probably ten minutes later that Smoky Cole rode out of the
livery-stable and headed toward home. He was savagely drunk and took
out his spite on his horse, which almost threw him off in front of
the sheriff’s office.

“Well, they’re gone and I hope they never come back,” declared the
sheriff fervently.

“You and me both,” agreed Lonesome wearily. “It’s gittin’ so a
fuf-feller can’t even sleep around here. Next time I’ll take a
hammer and nails with me and nail their pants to the floor. I’ll
betcha they’ll stay put next time I have to git out of mum-my sleep
to correct ’em.”

“You think you’re a little bit of ----, don’tcha?” queried the sheriff
sarcastically.

“Not such a little bit either,” retorted Lonesome. “I’ve got the
stren’th to hold up the law, y’betcha.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in from the other end of town, and the
sheriff watched them ride up to the front of the office and dismount. He
was not exactly sure whether he liked these two punchers or not. Still
their smiles were friendly enough, but he was not sure that they were
not laughing at him.

“Howdy,” greeted Hashknife. “How’s tricks?”

“Tricks are fine,” yelled Lonesome. “I jist pup-played a dinger. Lemme
tell yuh about it.”

And with great gusto and much stuttering, Lonesome told them how he had
treated the two drunken punchers.

“And Fat Fleager thought he’d lost his hearin’, ’cause he couldn’t hear
’em shootin’,” concluded Lonesome. “Mamma mine, I never done nothin’
half as good before.”

“Didja think they’d do that, when yuh took the shells out of their
guns?” asked Hashknife.

“I wasn’t sure of nothin’,” admitted Lonesome, “but it sure worked out
swell.”

“Now they’ll pack a grudge agin’ you,” declared the sheriff.

“And I’ll pack a riot-gun,” said Lonesome laughing.

“Kind of a tough place yuh got here,” said Hashknife, sitting down on
the sidewalk and producing his papers and tobacco. “Cattle fade out and
folks get shot. You kinda got yore hands full, ain’t yuh, sheriff?”

The sheriff nodded slowly and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.

“Yeah, I reckon things are kinda unsettled, Hartley.”

“You fellers find a job yet?” Thus Lonesome, as if to change the
subject.

“Not yet,” grinned Hashknife. “Jobs is scarce.”

“If I wanted a job punchin’ cows, I’d sure pass up the Ghost Hills
range,” observed the sheriff. “There’s lots of better ranges than this,
where there’s always a need for top-hands.”

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “It ain’t noways the
best. The Circle Cross is the best outfit around here, ain’t it?”

“Yeah, I reckon it is. They run more cattle than any other outfit
around here--or did until--say, did yuh go over to the Flying M? Old
man Shappee might have a job for one of yuh. It’s about four miles
east of here. And there’s the 66 outfit about seven miles kinda south
of here.”

“We was just ridin’ around today,” explained Hashknife. “We ran across
the Tomahawk ranch-house, but they ain’t hirin’ nobody.”

“That’s a cinch,” said Lonesome, grinning widely. “They never did hire
anybody. Old Cassidy and Jimmy Droop-drawers done all the work. Mebbe
Ben Lanpher is doin’ somethin’ since old Cassidy git into jail, but I
doubt it. He’s so soaked with hooch that he’s no good to anybody.”

“Who is this here Ben Lanpher?” asked Hashknife.

“Millionaire kid,” grunted the sheriff. “His father owns half of the
Circle Cross. Lives in Frisco, I think. Sent the kid out here to learn
the cattle business and he took a post-graduate course in whisky and
six-guns. He was at the Circle Cross for quite a while, but he got stuck
on Cassidy’s daughter, pulled off a quarrel with Jim Trainor and hooked
up with the Tomahawk. He says he’s goin’ to marry that breed girl, but I
doubt it.”

“So do I,” agreed Sleepy, and added quickly. “He’d never stay sober long
enough for that.”

Hashknife chuckled to himself and tried to catch Sleepy’s eye, but
Sleepy was busy examining his fingernails and would not look up.

“It’s a wonder that his father wouldn’t make him come home,” said
Hashknife. “Somebody’ll kill him if he don’t pull the kink out of his
neck.”

“Well, sir, he’s got a nice father, too,” observed the sheriff. “I kinda
like Lanpher. Not a ---- bit like the kid. He was here about a year or
so ago--him and his wife and daughter.”

“And that daughter is a dinger,” wheezed Lonesome. “Prettiest girl I
ever seen. She sure was a promisin’ lookin’ filly, but Jim Trainor
kinda close-herded her all the time. By golly, there was a lot of
punchers that’d given their right eye to even dance with her. Her ma
high-toned everybody, but papa was sort of a harmless hoptoad.”

Lonesome laughed and shook his head sadly.

“Mamma looked right over my huh-head, when I tried to shake hands with
her. I told her to set her sights lower if she wanted to connect with
me and she got sore. Anyway, I got papa drunk and he confided that he
had high ideas for daughter. I often wonder if he hit what he was
aimin’ at.”

“And they ain’t been here since, eh?” This from Sleepy.

“Nope. Their little son stayed, thasall. And I’ll tell a man that this
country didn’t draw much when they got him.”

“Lots of cattle shipped out of here?” asked Hashknife.

“Ain’t been for a while.” The sheriff shook his head. “Oh, there’s a few
bein’ shipped now and then, but no big shipments. The 66 outfit shipped
some horses the other day, didn’t they, Lonesome?”

“Gosh, I dunno,” Lonesome yawned widely. “I never keep track of them
kinda things. It keeps me busy knockin’ down drunken bad-men.
Ho-o-o--hum-m-m!”

“Why don’tcha try sleepin’ for it?” asked Hashknife.

“Try it?” snorted the sheriff. “My ---- he don’t do nothin’ else but
sleep.”

“Don’t I?”

Lonesome slapped himself on the chest.

“I went out and cleaned up on the bad-men, while the sheriff planted
himself over there on the sidewalk and got cockeyed from tryin’ to
watch both ways at once.”

“Yuh should ’a’ seen him, gents. He seen Smoky comin’ one way and Bennie
the other. Then he yelps:

“‘Don’tcha start nothin’!’ Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Lonesome roared his mirth and the sheriff whirled and went into the
office, quivering with indignation.

“Now he’s mad at me,” wailed Lonesome, “and I suppose he’ll fire me, and
I won’t have no more job than a jackrabbit. That’s just my luck.”

“You think yore kinda ---- smart, don’tcha?” growled the harassed
sheriff.

“Well,” Lonesome sighed gleefully, “it isn’t as bad as I thought it
was. When Fat gets to blamin’ me for bein’ smart, I know everythin’
is all right.”

Lonesome began manufacturing a cigaret and the conversation stopped
for a few minutes. A loaded wagon creaked down the street, stirring
up a cloud of dust. Over in front of the Antelope saloon a couple of
cowpunchers mounted and rode away, arguing loudly over something that
neither of them knew anything about. Up the street a couple of dogs
started a battle, which was a signal to every dog in town to come and
look on.

Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret and motioned with his arm to
take in the whole town.

“Boys, this is the kind of a town to live in. They can all have their
cities--give me the old cow-town.”

“Huh!”

Lonesome flipped away his match and stared at Hashknife.

“Pardner, you’ve got a ---- of an idea of a place to live. You ain’t
been around much, have yuh?”

“No-o-o, not a whole lot.”

“I guess you ain’t.”

“Here comes an old-timer,” observed Sleepy, pointing up the street.
“Betcha he struck the mother-lode.”

It was a bearded old prospector, astride a bony, gray horse, and
trailing him was a decrepit-looking pack-horse, with pack askew and a
limp in one leg.

The one-man caravan came straight to the office and the bearded man
shaded his eyes from the sun, as he spelled out the sheriff’s sign
over the door.

“Howdy, stranger,” said Lonesome. “Somethin’ I can do for yuh?”

“You the sheriff?” asked the bearded one anxiously.

“No, I’m his hired bad-man buster,” grinned Lonesome.

Just then the sheriff came to the door, and Lonesome jerked his thumb in
that direction.

“There’s the sheriff--such as he is.”

“What do yuh want?” queried the sheriff.

“Well--” The patriarch cleared his throat raspingly and leaned forward
in his saddle--“I found a dead man a little while ago.”

The sheriff stepped out nearer him.

“Keep on talkin’, stranger. Where’d yuh find him?”

“Back up the road a piece. Mebbe it’s a couple of miles. He’s layin’ on
his face in the middle of the road. I didn’t move him none, I didn’t,
but I looked at him enough to know that he’s dead. Been shot in the back
of the head, ’cordin’ to what I observed.”

“What did he look like?” queried Lonesome.

“I told yuh he’s layin’ on his face--kinda rootin’ into the dust. Got
on chaps and overalls and a shirt. Jist a little ways before I finds
this here dead man, I finds this in the road.”

He drew a six-shooter from the waistband of his overalls and handed it
to the sheriff. It was a Colt single-action .44 caliber.

“Say yuh found it in the road?” asked the sheriff, examining the gun
closely.

“Yeah. I thinks to myself that I’ve found me a good gun, but when I
finds the dead man, I decides to turn the gun over to the sheriff.
It’s been shot once.”

“I see it has,” nodded the sheriff, and then to Lonesome--

“Get a hack from the livery-stable and we’ll go out after this dead
man.”

Lonesome bow-legged his way across the street and down to the stable,
while the sheriff went back through his office to the stable, where he
and Lonesome kept their saddle-horses.

The old prospector turned and studied the saloon signs across the
street, spat dryly and rode over to the Antelope to quench a thirst
that was probably of long standing.

“Who do yuh reckon got killed, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy, as they waited
for the sheriff.

“Probably that fool Lanpher. Here comes the sheriff.”

They swung on to their horses and joined Fleager, without waiting for
Lonesome.

“He’ll come along after while,” assured the sheriff. “We’ll go ahead and
investigate.”

It took them only a short time to reach the spot, where the man was
lying. On both sides of the road was a heavy thicket of brush and
rocks. The sheriff dismounted and turned the man over.

It was Smoky Cole. Hashknife and Sleepy swung down and the three of
them made a minute examination. Cole had been shot from behind, the
bullet striking him almost at the base of the brain.

“Never knowed what hit him,” declared the sheriff, standing up and
dusting his knees.

“His gun is still in its holster, too,” said Hashknife as he drew the
gun out and looked it over. All the chambers were loaded and the barrel
was clean.

“Kinda looks like he never had a chance, sheriff.”

The sheriff nodded gloomily and began searching for tracks in the deep
dust.

“I wonder where Sandy Claws found that six-gun.”

“Said it was a little beyond here,” said Sleepy. “It was prob’ly beyond
that curve, and we can likely see where he picked it up.”

They left the body and walked up the road, searching for the place where
the old man had dismounted to pick up the gun. About fifty yards beyond
the first turn in the road they found the spot.

“Here’s where the gun was dropped,” observed the sheriff, pointing at
the footprints in the road.

Hashknife was looking a little farther on, and now he crossed the road,
reached into the brush and picked up a black sombrero.

“Here’s a hat,” he called, and walked back to the sheriff.

It was a fairly new Stetson, but badly soiled, and in the sweat-band was
punched the initials “B. L.”

“Ben Lanpher,” declared the sheriff thoughtfully. “That’s his hat. He
probably bushwhacked Smoky and lost his hat and gun in his getaway. And
he was likely so drunk that he never thought to stop and get ’em.”

As they walked back to the body, Lonesome drove into view and managed to
turn his team around near the body.

It did not take Lonesome long to find out all they knew and he shook his
head sadly.

“I knowed it,” he declared. “Yuh can’t mix whisky and six-guns. Well,”
optimistically, “the county ain’t loser none to speak about, Fat.”

“Mebbe not,” grunted the sheriff, and motioned for them to help him put
the body into the hack.

Lonesome climbed back to his seat and the sheriff gave his orders where
to deliver the body.

“Ain’t you goin’ back with us?” queried Lonesome.

“Nope, not now. I’ve got to go and get Ben Lanpher.”

“Goin’ to give him a medal?” grinned Lonesome.

“Goin’ to arrest him for murder.”

“Aw, for gosh sake! You don’t call this murder, do yuh?”

“Well--” The sheriff mounted and adjusted his holster--“well, yuh
couldn’t very well call it self-defense, Lonesome. Smoky never drawed
his gun, and he was shot from behind. No, I reckon Bennie is sure up
ag’in’ it good and strong.”

The sheriff rode on toward the Tomahawk, while Lonesome sputtered at
the team and drove back toward Wolf Wells, with Hashknife and Sleepy
riding behind the wagon.

“Gosh, this sure will be a jolt to old man Lanpher,” observed Sleepy
sadly.

“Yeah,” sighed Hashknife. “I sure feel sorry for them folks. I wonder if
the sheriff knows Lanpher’s address in Frisco.”

“You know it, don’t yuh?”

“Yeah, but I don’t want anybody to know that I do.”

He called to Lonesome and asked him about the Lanpher family.

“I don’t know his address, and I don’t reckon that Fat does either,”
replied Lonesome. “Jim Trainor’d know it.”

“Suppose we ride to the Circle Cross and tell Trainor? He’d probably
want to know about Smoky Cole.”

“That’s a good idea,” admitted Lonesome. “You go ahead.”

Lonesome drove on, and the two cowboys turned and rode back up the
highway toward the Circle Cross.

Hashknife was very thoughtful, but finally turned to Sleepy.

“Cowboy, it kinda looks like we’ve bit off a big chaw.”

“Sure does,” agreed Sleepy, “and there don’t seem to be no handy place
to start chawin’, does there?”

Hashknife shook his head, his eyes squinted thoughtfully.

“No, there don’t, Sleepy. I reckon it’s a fact that a gang of rustlers
are makin’ a cleanup in this range, but everybody is scared to talk
about it.

“It must ’a’ been that gang who killed the two cattle detectives, but I
don’t think they had anythin’ to do with this killin’ today.”

“Mebbe old man Cassidy is one of the gang,” suggested Sleepy.

“Might be. As far as that’s concerned, Ben Lanpher might be one of ’em,
too. It looks to me like Smoky Cole tried to convict old Cassidy at that
trial. He sure stuck for conviction. I’m just wonderin’ if Smoky Cole
didn’t try to make love to Lorna Cassidy, and that was why the old man
drew a dead-line against the Circle Cross outfit.

“Smoky was a mean sort of a jasper, and that would be his idea of
revenge, to hang the old man. Still I don’t think that Ben belongs to
the rustlers, because he wouldn’t hardly steal from his own father.”

“How about that warning that Lorna told us about, Hashknife?”

“Don’t mean anythin’, Sleepy. They’d naturally want everybody to think
they was sufferin’, too. But where in ---- are they disposin’ of the
stock? Workin’ in the dark thisaway is kinda hard, don’tcha know it?
And we can’t ask a lot of fool questions, because we don’t know when
we’re talkin’ to some of the gang.”

They passed the spot where Cole had been killed, and took the right-hand
road at the forks, which wound in and out of the brushy coulées and into
a wide swale on the bank of a creek where the Circle Cross buildings
were located.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was growing late, but there was still enough light to show that the
Circle Cross was no small outfit. The ranch-house was pretentious in
size, the barns, fences and corrals were in good repair, and even the
front yard of the ranch-house seemed well-kept.

“Looks like the teepee of a millionaire,” observed Sleepy, as they
dismounted at the ranch-house.

A fat Chinese answered their knock at the front door and nodded solemnly
when they asked for Trainor.

“Yessah, he in. I call.”

“Who’s out there?” yelled Trainor’s voice.

“This is Hartley,” called Hashknife.

“Come on in and rest your feet.”

They followed the Chinaman into the living-room, and in a few moments
Trainor came in. He was carrying a bottle of liquor and some glasses,
and seemed a trifle unsteady in his walk.

“Glad to see yuh,” he boomed. “Welcome to the Circle Cross, gents. I’ve
just been tryin’ out some new liquor and I find that it has a lot of
authority.”

He started to pour out a glass.

“Say when, Hartley.”

“When!” grunted Hashknife quickly.

“Say, that ain’t half-full, cowboy. Why ----”

“Too late in the afternoon, and we ain’t been fed since breakfast.”

“You ain’t?” Trainor turned and yelled toward the kitchen.

“Hey, Quong! Throw on a couple of steaks. Cut ’em thick, yuh hear me?”

“Yessah, can do,” called the Chinaman.

“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “We didn’t come out here to bum a
meal and a drink, Trainor; we came to tell you that Smoky Cole was
killed a little while ago, and that the sheriff has gone to arrest
Ben Lanpher for murder.”

Trainor stared at Hashknife, started to put the bottle on the table,
but missed, and it fell to the floor, where its contents gurgled out
over a fine Navajo rug.

“Smoky Cole? How did this happen, Hartley?”

Hashknife explained how Cole’s body had been found and how the evidence
all pointed to Ben Lanpher. He told Trainor of the bloodless gun-fight
at Wolf Wells, and that Ben Lanpher had ridden away ahead of Smoky Cole.

“And he shot Smoky from the brush, eh?” Trainor’s jaw muscles bulged
angrily. “Never gave him a chance. Wait a minute.”

Trainor stepped out onto the front porch and yelled at two cowpunchers,
who were down near a corral. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him out and
watched the two men come up to them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never
seen these two, and Trainor introduced them as “Buck” Avery and “Poco”
Saunders.

Avery was a square-faced, pig-eyed, medium-sized man, about thirty years
of age, whose face was badly marked from smallpox.

Saunders was of medium height, but thin-faced and as dark as a Mexican.
His eyes were sullen and the pupils seemed flecked with red. After a
searching glance, which seemed to take in every inch of both Hashknife
and Sleepy, Saunders kept his eyes on Trainor’s face, while Trainor
repeated what Hashknife had told him.

Buck Avery swore witheringly, but Saunders said nothing when they
learned that Smoky Cole was dead.

“We’ll all have a drink and then go to town,” said Trainor. “C’mon.”

But Poco Saunders did not accept the invitation. He turned and walked
back toward the corral, without a word.

“He was Smoky’s bunkie,” said Trainor, which seemed sufficient
explanation for refusing to drink.

“Poco don’t drink much, anyway,” added Buck, “but I feel like a drink
would kinda take the edge off a shock like that. It ain’t that it’s
any surprize t’me, though. Smoky always got mean when he was drinkin’,
but he thought he was such a ---- of a gunman that he’d git past with
anythin’.”

“He was shot from behind,” reminded Sleepy.

“Which’ll make it go hard with Ben Lanpher,” nodded Buck over his drink.
“It’s a fine start for a kid like him, and I feel a lot more sorry for
his folks than I do for him. Yuh goin’ to wire ’em, ain’tcha, Trainor?”

“Just as soon as I get to town, Buck. Let’s go.”

Poco Saunders had saddled his horse and was waiting for them. Hashknife
studied Poco, while Trainor and Buck Avery were saddling, and decided
that Poco was a very sinister-looking young man; and might well be
marked with a danger signal.

Whereas Smoky Cole was a talkative gunman, prone to boast of his prowess
and more or less audible threatening, Poco would probably shoot first
and talk about it later, if at all.

Trainor and Avery rode out from the corral, joined them, and the five
of them headed for Wolf Wells at a gallop. Hashknife showed them where
Smoky’s body had been discovered, and where Ben Lanpher’s gun and hat
had been picked up, but Poco showed no interest in this.

Trainor looked curiously at Poco, who went on without them.

“Hit him kinda hard, I reckon,” he observed. “Him and Smoky were bunkies
for a long time. Poco’s a good puncher, but he ain’t got much sense.”

“Part Mexican?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s got some Mexican blood in him, I reckon,” replied Buck. “Used to
talk it a little once in a while. That’s where he got his nickname.”

They rode into town and went straight to the sheriff’s office, where
they found several men talking with the sheriff. He had brought Ben
Lanpher back with him and had locked him in a cell.

“He was still drunk,” said the sheriff, “and he sure was a meek jasper.
Didn’t object to bein’ locked up, except to tell me he never done it.
Mebbe he was so drunk that he didn’t know when he shot Cole. I dunno.”

“Man never gets so drunk that he don’t remember bushwhackin’ and killin’
a man,” declared Hashknife.

“Dang right he don’t,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “That ain’t no alibi,” and
added sadly, “I wish I’d let their guns alone t’ day. One or both of ’em
would ’a’ got killed, but it would ’a’ been legal. I s’pose I’ve got to
spend most of my time feedin’ and takin’ care of prisoners now. Thank
gosh, we’ve only got two cells. If we get any more prisoners we’ll have
to pasture ’em out some’ers.”

A man came across the street and joined the group. He was a sallow-faced
man, with tobacco-stained teeth and ink-stained fingers.

“I was just comin’ down to send a telegram to Lanpher,” said Trainor,
addressing the newcomer. “You heard what happened, didn’t yuh, Whitey?”

“Yeah, I heard about it. Looks kinda bad for the kid.”

Trainor walked away with Whitey, going to the depot, and Hashknife and
Sleepy put their horses into a corral. At the depot, Trainor sent a long
message to William Lanpher, giving him the details of the trouble.

“There’s a telegram here for yuh, Trainor,” said the depot agent, as he
checked off the words on Trainor’s message.

“I was goin’ to send it out to yuh, if somebody was goin’ out your way.
This’ll cost yuh a dollar and sixty cents.”

Trainor paid for the message and walked out. At the edge of the platform
he tore open the envelope and read the message, a serious frown on his
face. Then he grinned softly and went back up the street.

                   *       *       *       *       *

When Ben Lanpher sobered up he failed to become the least bit
repentant over what had happened to him. Trainor had consulted with
George Mitchell, the lawyer from San Francisco, and had hired him to
defend Ben, but Ben would have none of him.

Hashknife and Sleepy talked with the sheriff about Lanpher.

“He’s loco,” declared the sheriff. “Tells a tale that no jury would
believe.”

“What about?” queried Hashknife.

“Aw, he says he never bushwhacked Cole a-tall.”

“I’d like to talk with him a while,” observed Hashknife, “and see if he
tells the same thing twice.”

“Might be a good idea,” agreed Lonesome Hobbs. “Me and Fat’ll listen and
see what it sounds like.”

“Prob’ly won’t talk to yuh. Mitchell comes down here to have a talk
with him, but he cussed Mitchell plumb out of the jail. Mitchell told
him that Trainor hired him to defend him, and it made Lanpher sore as
----. I’ll see if Ben’ll talk to yuh.”

The sheriff came back in a few minutes with the information that Ben
was willing to talk to anybody who wasn’t connected with the Circle
Cross outfit. They went through the office and into the rear, where
two cells were built in at the back of the room.

Old Pinto Cassidy scowled at them through the bars, but noticed that
they were strangers and became more friendly. Ben came to the barred
door and squinted at Hashknife.

“I know you,” he said hoarsely. “You’re the jasper that winked over my
shoulder. By ---- that seems a long time ago. What did yuh want to see
me for?”

“Ye don’t have to talk with ’em, if ye don’t want to, remimber that,
Ben,” warned Cassidy. “Ye have to be careful who ye talk wid in here.
Sure, it’s a ---- of a place to be in, so it is.”

“That’s all right, Cassidy,” grunted Ben. “I’ve nothin’ to conceal.”

“Then tell us about it,” urged Hashknife. “What did you do after you
left town yesterday?”

Ben forced a laugh and tried to peer around the corner of his door.

“I remember that Lonesome Hobbs played a dirty trick on me. After that I
got on my horse and started home. I was pretty drunk--too drunk to ride
fast, and I had a bad horse.

“I loaded my gun on the way, I remember that because I dropped some
shells and got off to pick ’em up. I had a hard time getting back on
my bronc, but finally made it.

“Then I seen Smoky Cole coming. He was quite a ways behind me, but he
was foggin’ right along as though he was tryin’ to catch me. I didn’t
want him to catch me, because I was just sober enough to know that a
killing out there might look like murder.

“I rode on, but had a lot of trouble with that ---- horse of mine. He
almost threw me a couple of times, and I guess we wasted a lot of time
along that brushy road. All to once, I thought that Smoky was shootin’
at me.”

Ben grinned wearily and shook his head.

“No, I didn’t see Smoky at all, but I sure heard him shoot. I drew my
gun and waited for him to swing around the curve, but I guess I was
just drunk enough to cause me to accidently pull the trigger. Anyway,
I felt the gun kick out of my hand, and then that fool bronc started
to buck again. That was the first time I ever shot off that horse,
and I guess it was scared stiff.

“Anyway, we must have gone real fast, because I remember we were close
to the Tomahawk when I got my reins back again. And that’s all, except
that the sheriff woke me up later on and told me I had killed Smoky
Cole.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigaret.

“That’s the whole story,” sighed Ben.

“And, by golly, it’s a good one, too,” added Cassidy. “You stick to that
story, me lad. I stuck to mine--and look where I am.”

Hashknife laughed at Cassidy. Squawman he might be; a bitter old
cattleman he surely was, but he still retained his sense of humor.

“If Cole had been killed several days ago, you might be a free man now,
Cassidy,” said Hashknife.

“Ah, that’s true, me lad; but I’d suffer a long time in jail, if the
poor misguided lad could be brought back to life. He was but goin’
accordin’ to his own lights, so he was.”

“Then he had a ---- poor light!” snapped Ben.

“A lot of us have,” sighed Cassidy. “Mine has flickered badly at times.
’Tis hard to sit here the long days and know that me old ranch has no
keeper, except Lorna and Jimmy. Sure, that’s no job for a bit of a lass
and a well-meanin’, but poor managin’ lad. They’ll hold me and Bennie
for the nixt term of court, which will be a long, long time away.”

“Don’t worry about that,” assured Sleepy. “We’ll do what we can to help
yuh out.”

“Well, now that’s nice of ye,” said Cassidy, scratching his head as if
wondering why these strangers would promise to help him in any way.

“What do you think of my story?” asked Ben anxiously.

“I dunno,” Hashknife shook his head. “It sounds reasonable, Lanpher--to
me. But they’ll likely hold you for the next term of court. You’ve got
an even break, thasall.”

“That’s all I want.”

As they started away, Cassidy called to them:

“Come again, lads. Ye’r the first folks I ever known in Wolf Wells that
showed common sense. Ye’ll probably not find us out when ye come again.”

“All right,” laughed Hashknife as they passed out and shut the door
behind them.

The sheriff and Lonesome had heard every word, and nodded to the two
cowpunchers.

“Same story,” said Lonesome, leading the way outside. “Ben sure has got
it rehearsed well, or he’s tellin’ the truth.”

“Sounds reasonable, at that,” commented Hashknife. “He shot the gun
accidental, got his hat bucked off. But who in thunder killed Smoky
Cole, if Ben Lanpher didn’t?”

The sheriff scowled and shook his head.

“I dunno of anybody that would bushwhack him, Hartley.”

“It’s kinda gettin’ to be a habit around here, ain’t it? Trainor has
lost two other men in the same way.”

“Yeah,” breathed the sheriff, “---- it! It makes me nervous to think
about it. Feller never knows who’s next.”

The sheriff looked so lugubrious that Hashknife laughed and slapped him
on the shoulder.

“I reckon yo’re safe, as long as yuh don’t antagonize the bushwhackers,”
said Hashknife.

“Huh! Well, I dunno.”

Poco Saunders came into the upper end of town, dismounted at the Lily
of the Valley hitch-rack, and walked down to them. Poco had a queer,
stiff-legged walk, and held his elbows close to his sides.

“Trainor said he wanted to see yuh,” he told Hashknife.

“What’s he got on his mind?” queried Hashknife.

“I dunno. Bronc stepped on his foot this mornin’, and he can’t walk.
Mebbe he wants to hire yuh? I dunno.”

“Did he ask for both of us?” queried Sleepy.

Poco shook his head, turned on his heel and went back toward the saloon.

“He’s a queer jigger,” observed Lonesome; “dangdest feller to run out of
words thataway.”

“He don’t talk much, that’s a cinch,” grinned Hashknife, getting to his
feet. “I reckon we’ll get a bit to eat, Sleepy.”

They walked up to a restaurant and ordered a meal. It was not like
Hashknife to accept a job alone, but the circumstances were different
this time.

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do about it?” asked Sleepy.

“I been wonderin’ a lot m’self, Sleepy. Suppose you go out to the
Tomahawk and help ’em out a little, cowboy. Keep yore eyes open and
yore mouth shut; _sabe?_ I’ll take this Circle Cross job, if that’s
what Trainor wants.

“But--” Hashknife put his hand on Sleepy’s arm and spoke softly--“for
gosh sake, look out. I’ve got a feelin’ that we’re marked right now.
This is goin’ to be our hardest job, Sleepy. Yuh can’t dodge a bullet
that’s fired at yore back--and that’s their game. There’s a dirty
bunch of murderers in these hills, and they’ll hand us a harp if they
get a chance.”

“But there ain’t nothin’ to work on,” complained Sleepy. “They won’t
come out into the open and everybody’s afraid to say what they think.
I’ll find out what I can without askin’ questions, and if I do stumble
on to anythin’ worth talkin’ about, I’ll see yuh real quick.”

They finished their meal and went to the corral after their horses. Poco
Saunders saw them ride past the saloon, but made no move to join them.
About half-way to where the road forked to the Circle Cross, they met
Jimmy, the half-breed, from the Tomahawk.

He grinned widely and drew up his broncho.

“You go Tomahawk?” he asked.

“I’m goin’ out there,” said Sleepy. “Maybe I stay and help for a while.”

“That ---- good! Both go?”

“No,” Hashknife shook his head. “I’m goin’ to work for the Circle Cross,
Jimmy.”

“Not good,” Jimmy shook his head.

“You don’t like the Circle Cross?”

“No, by ----!”

And then to Sleepy--

“I be back soon.”

He spurred his horse ahead and faded out in a cloud of dust.

“The Tomahawk sure does love the Circle Cross,” laughed Hashknife. “No
wonder they drew a dead-line. Find out what it was all about, Sleepy.
Prob’ly just a personal affair, but we’ve got to consider everything
around here. But don’t come bustin’ over with the first thing yuh find
out. Let it soak into yore mind, cowboy.”

They shook hands at the forks of the road and went on their different
ways. They had fought their range-battles together for so long that
they both felt a trifle helpless apart.

“Some day they’ll get us both,” mused Hashknife, as he rode slowly
along the dusty road. “Yuh can dodge bullets just so long, but they’ll
get yuh in the end. Dang Sleepy! If he’ll only keep his darned eyes
open. He needs a keeper, that’s what he needs. Mebbe I won’t like this
Circle Cross job--mebbe.”

He found Jim Trainor sitting in an easy chair on the ranch-house porch,
a bottle beside him and his right foot swathed in bandages.

“Put up your bronc, Hartley,” he called. “You’ve got a job. Buck will
show yuh where to put him.”

Buck Avery called from the bunk-house and joined Hashknife at the barn,
where they stabled the horse.

“Bronc stepped on Jim’s foot,” explained Buck. “Dang fool won’t send for
a doctor, so he can suffer for all of me. Yuh seen Poco, did yuh?”

“Yeah, he sent me out.”

They sauntered up to the ranch-house and Trainor yelled for Quong to
bring two more glasses. Trainor was already half-drunk, but in a good
humor.

“I was wonderin’ if Poco would find yuh before yuh got another job,” he
explained. “You’re a top-hand, I can see that, Hartley. Losin’ Smoky
Cole kinda puts me short-handed, and now I go and get walked on. ----
horse was sharp-shod, too. Pour your own drinks, gents.

“I ought to be gettin’ an answer from Lanpher pretty soon. I found
Mitchell, that lawyer, and told him to take the kid’s case, but the kid
cussed ---- out of him. That sure is appreciation. I suppose things will
have to ride about like they are until Lanpher shows up from Frisco and
looks things over. What do you think of the case, Hartley?”

“Well, it kinda looks like the kid was guilty,” observed Hashknife.
“Mebbe the law will consider that they were both drunk at the time;
but that’s a poor defense. A feller ain’t so awful drunk when he’ll
bushwhack a man and kill him the first shot.”

“Ben Lanpher is a good shot, too,” said Buck Avery. “He never did do
nothin’ but drink whisky and practise shootin’.”

“Two bad things to mix,” declared Trainor thoughtfully, and then--

“Where’s your partner, Hartley?”

Hashknife looked up quickly.

“Did yuh want to hire him, too?”

“Want to--yes; but I haven’t work enough.”

“He went out to the Tomahawk ranch. Sleepy’s always doin’ somethin’ for
folks, and he kinda thought mebbe they’d need a little help. This deal
makes it kinda tough for the Tomahawk.”

“That’s a fact,” Trainor scowled at his glass, shaking his head sadly.
“Yuh know, I should ’a’ sent one of the boys over there to help ’em
out.”

“They’d be welcome,” laughed Buck. “Welcome, like the smallpox.”

“Me and Sleepy came past there a while back,” volunteered Hashknife.
“Wasn’t sure just what ranch it was, but we was kinda dry; so we stopped
for a drink. They treated us fine.”

“You were lucky,” said Trainor, pouring himself another drink. “You work
for me and you won’t dare go over there.”

“They didn’t look dangerous. Nobody there, except the old lady, the girl
and the half-breed puncher.”

“Uh-huh,” Trainor’s voice was mildly sarcastic. “Don’t underrate that
half-breed, Hartley. He’s one of the best rifle-shots you ever seen.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife leaned back against a porch-post and hugged his knees.

“Yuh know, I’ve never seen such a country for crack-shots as this is.
Mostly everybody I’ve heard spoken about has that reputation. If trouble
ever starts there won’t be more’n one box of shells needed to kill off
the whole danged population.”

Trainor laughed boisterously and handed the bottle to Buck.

“We sure can shoot, can’t we, Buck? I betcha Hartley can shoot a few,
too, eh, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Trainor. Me and Sleepy never put
ourselves up to be good shots, but we’re willin’ shooters. Lotsa
folks can out-shoot us, but,” Hashknife grinned softly, “we’re still
alive.”

“And some of them ain’t, eh?” grinned Buck suggestively.

“Every dog has its day,” said Hashknife slowly. “None of us can live
forever. I always worked on the theory that bein’ right gives yuh the
edge on folks that do wrong. That’s why a horse-thief goes to the end
of his rope in a short time. A gunman cuts a short swath. If yuh
notice, they don’t last long, and it’s because they’re all wrong. Look
at Smoky Cole. Look at Ben Lanpher.”

“Your theory don’t work out right, Hartley,” laughed Trainor. “It wasn’t
a case of right winnin’ out there. Ben Lanpher wasn’t any more right
than Smoky.”

“All right--where’s Ben Lanpher? The law got him, and the law is right.”

“Oh, to ---- with such arguments!” blurted Trainor. “Fill up your glass,
Hartley. Here comes Poco. Didja tell him to get the mail, Buck?”

“Yeah, I told him,” said Buck.

Poco rode down to the stable, put up his horse and came slowly up to
the house. He nodded to Hashknife and handed Trainor a telegram. Buck
offered Poco a glass and the bottle, but the flinty-faced cowpuncher
refused with a shrug of his thin shoulders.

“Telegram from William Lanpher,” explained Trainor. “He’ll arrive at
Wolf Wells tomorrow night. Don’t say whether he’s alone or not. ----
it, I told him he ought to take Ben home months ago, but he wouldn’t
do it.”

“Ben is of age,” grunted Buck. “He had a birthday about a month ago and
celebrated it by gettin’ drunk and shootin’ at himself in the Antelope
mirror. There was busted glass all over the place. Somebody said he’d
have bad luck for seven years.”

“Mrs. Lanpher’ll probably come,” said Trainor thickly. “She thinks Ben’s
a little tin god.”

“He’s her son.” Thus Poco Saunders, speaking for the first time since he
arrived.

“He ain’t worth worryin’ about, that’s a cinch,” laughed Trainor.

“Good or bad, their mother worries,” said Poco flatly, and got to his
feet.

He started to say something more, but changed his mind and went down to
the bunk-house.

Hashknife looked after him and squinted thoughtfully. He had disliked
Poco Saunders--until that remark. It showed that somewhere inside that
sinister-looking cowpuncher was a big spark of human nature.

“Good or bad, their mother worries,” repeated Hashknife to himself. “She
thinks that Ben is a tin-god--but he’s her son.”

“Queer sort of a jigger,” said Buck, noticing that Hashknife was looking
toward the bunk-house.

“Poco don’t drink like other folks. He won’t take a drink until he is
ready to get drunk. Then he hides his gun, and proceeds to get goshawful
drunk. He won’t talk much, but he’s no fool, Poco ain’t.”

“No, I betcha he ain’t,” agreed Hashknife. “If I was goin’ to pick an
enemy, I sure wouldn’t pick Poco Saunders.”

“The killin’ of Smoky Cole kinda hit him hard,” said Buck. “He used to
grin once in a while, but now he goes around with the same hard-faced
expression all the time. I’ll bet he’d make a scrap-heap out of Ben
Lanpher, if he had the chance.”

“Aw, to ---- with ’em all!” snorted Trainor. “Hey! Quong! Bring us
another bottle. I’m celebratin’ a busted foot and I need a lot of
liquor.”

“Ex-cuse me then,” laughed Hashknife apologetically, “my stummick ain’t
in good shape, and I never did need much liquor. I’ll go down and get
used to the bunk-house.”

Trainor frowned slightly, but gave a drunken shrug of his shoulders.

“You know your own insides, Hartley. If me and Buck get plumb paralyzed,
you and Poco run the ranch, will yuh?”

“We’ll do our best,” laughed Hashknife, and went down to the bunk-house,
where he found Poco Saunders playing solitaire.

Poco nodded, but kept on with his game.

“Which bunk do I take?” asked Hashknife.

Poco pointed out two unoccupied bunks and began rolling a cigaret.
His tobacco sack was almost empty, so Hashknife tossed a full sack in
front of him. He nodded his thanks and finished his cigaret. Suddenly
he turned and looked straight at Hashknife.

“Do you think that Ben Lanpher killed Smoky Cole?”

Hashknife’s face did not change a line, but his eyes squinted a trifle,
as he replied--

“What makes yuh think he didn’t, Saunders?”

Poco turned back to the table and gathered up the cards.

“I was just wonderin’,” he said slowly. “Lanpher was pretty drunk.”

“If Ben didn’t kill him, who did?” asked Hashknife.

He had asked the same question several times, but no one had given him
the slightest clue to show who might have done the murder. And he was
doomed to disappointment this time. Poco inhaled deeply and shuffled
the cards.

“There was several of that jury that was sore at him,” reminded
Hashknife.

“Not sore enough to murder him.”

“Lotsa folks seem to think that Smoky Cole got what was comin’ to him.”

“Thasso?” Poco scowled thoughtfully at his cards, and turned slowly,
facing Hashknife.

“They say that Smoky wasn’t any good, Hartley. He drank and raised ----
in general every time he got money enough. Smoky was a gunman, and
mebbe, accordin’ to law, he wasn’t just the sweetest little citizen yuh
could imagine; but he was my bunkie.

“Me and Smoky shared the same blanket for a long time. We split
fifty-fifty on everythin’--me and Smoky did. He might ’a’ been an
enemy of society, as the judge said at Cassidy’s trial, speakin’ about
criminals, but he was a good friend of mine.”

Poco shifted his eyes and looked out through the dusty window, where
the last rays of the sunset back-lighted the old cottonwoods beyond
the creek, and the lines of his face softened until he was no longer
the sinister-looking cowboy.

“He was my bunkie--my pal,” he said softly.

“I reckon I understand,” said Hashknife slowly. “I’ve got a bunkie, too,
Saunders.”

Poco turned and looked at him, as he got slowly to his feet and walked
over to the door.

“I know yuh have,” said Poco softly, “and--and yuh might tell him to
look out.”

Hashknife squinted wonderingly, as Poco shut the door behind him.

“What does he know?” wondered Hashknife, half-aloud. “And why does he
tell me to warn Sleepy?”

There was no question that Poco Saunders knew something; that he did
not believe Ben Lanpher guilty of murder. Hashknife wondered if Poco
knew something about the Fantom Riders, who were making inroads on
the cattlemen of the Ghost Hills Range; and was afraid to name them.

“It’s too foggy for me to see through,” he decided, “so I reckon we’ll
have to let nature take her course.”

Came the musical clanging of the cook’s triangle, which announced that
supper was ready at the Circle Cross. As Hashknife stepped outside, Poco
Saunders was crossing from the barn.

“We’ll feed alone t’night,” he observed, motioning toward the front
porch of the ranch-house.

“Trainor and Buck are both paralyzed drunk.”

“Do they make a practise of drinkin’ each other to sleep?” asked
Hashknife.

“No. Trainor don’t drink much, and Buck only cuts loose once a month.
Help yourself to a wash-pan.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

The next day, neither Trainor nor Buck Avery was in any shape for
active duties. Hashknife asked Trainor what he wanted done, and
Trainor was so muddled in the head that he had no coherent ideas. He
finally told Hashknife to do what he pleased; so Hashknife saddled
his gray bronco and headed into the hills, cutting across toward the
Tomahawk.

He wanted to find Sleepy and tell him what Poco Saunders had said; but
most of all he wanted to see if Sleepy was all right.

Circle Cross, Tomahawk and Flying M cattle dotted the hills, but the
Circle Cross predominated. The feed was fairly good and there seemed
plenty of water. It was an ideal range as far as nature was concerned.

As he swung higher into the hills he could see the town of Wolf Wells,
a blur of buildings in the swale-like little valley, and beyond that
drifted the smoke of a train. There was little color in the hills. Even
the foliage of the few trees was of a gray tint that blended into the
gray of the forbidding-looking hills.

“Ghost Hills is the right name for ’em,” he told his horse, as he swung
along a hog-back, which led to the little valley of the Tomahawk ranch.

He found Sleepy humped up in the doorway of the ranch-house, trying to
coax a tune out of a one-string mandolin, while Lorna leaned against the
wall and smiled at his serious efforts.

“Hyah, cowboy!” yelled Sleepy. “By gosh, I’m glad for to see yuh. Git
down and listen to the ‘Cowboy’s Lament,’ done to a turn on one string.”

Hashknife dismounted and came up to the doorway. Lorna nodded to him,
but it was plainly evident that he was not exactly welcome, and he
blamed it to the fact that he was working for the Circle Cross. Mrs.
Cassidy came to the door, bobbed her head and went back to her work.

“Here, you play it, Lorna,” Sleepy handed her the mandolin, and grinned
at Hashknife. “She can play it, too.”

But Lorna did not seem disposed to exhibit her musical ability. She took
the instrument and went into the house.

“Callin’ her by her first name already, eh?” chided Hashknife seriously.

Sleepy blushed and rubbed his stubbled chin.

“Well, there ain’t no harm in that, is there?”

“No-o-o, I s’pose not. Lemme tell yuh somethin’, cowboy.”

And in a few words, Hashknife repeated what Poco Saunders had said.

“What do yuh reckon he meant?” asked Sleepy. “Look out for what?”

“Just that, and no more, Sleepy. I tell yuh, they’re on to us and Poco
knows it.”

“Yeah, and Poco’s probably one of the gang.”

“If he is, why should he warn us?”

Sleepy shook his head violently.

“That’s what I hate about this ---- country, Hashknife. They’re all too
scared to talk. But I found out that the Tomahawk has lost a lot of
stock. And old Cassidy never killed that detective, no more than I did.
There’s a bad, bad gang back in these hills, cowboy; and they swoop out
and strike hard at anybody that horns into their business.”

“Want to pick up and drift out?” queried Hashknife.

Sleepy glanced back at the doorway and shook his head.

“No more than you do, Hashknife. We’ll strike a lead pretty soon. I
tried to pump the half-breed puncher, but he’s close-mouthed like all
Injuns. Mebbe he don’t know any more than we do, but he’s scared to
talk.”

“Suppose we take a ride into the hills,” suggested Hashknife. “We’ll
kinda look around and see what we can see.”

“That’s a pious idea,” agreed Sleepy. “I’ll get my horse.”

Lorna stood in the doorway and watched them ride away. Sleepy waved at
her, but she made no move to show that she had seen him.

“Yo’re free, white and twenty-one,” said Hashknife, “but you ain’t above
takin’ friendly advice, are yuh, Sleepy?”

“Well, I ain’t makin’ love to her--if that’s what yuh mean.”

“Yuh don’t have to make love, cowboy. It’s already made. Do yuh know
what I mean?”

“Yore advice is accepted,” grinned Sleepy. “Let’s forget the female end
of this proposition.”

They rode straight back to the main divide of the Ghost Hills, and swung
in a wide circle. It was a wild range, where an army might be able to
hide without fear of detection. They found two deserted old cabins,
windowless and doorless, where the range horses sought shelter from the
flies; but there were no other signs of human habitation.

It was nearly sundown when they came back to the Tomahawk. Jimmy, the
half-breed, was there and greeted them with a grin. Hashknife did not
dismount, but rode back to the Circle Cross, where he found supper on
the table, Buck half-drunk again and Trainor swearing at his sore
foot. Poco was eating supper.

Buck was just drunk enough to be quarrelsome, and insisted that he was
going down to meet the Lanpher family, or as many of them as were coming
that night.

Trainor was just as emphatic in telling Buck that he was seven kinds of
a fool to even think he was. Trainor appealed to Hashknife.

“He’d be a fine lookin’ thing to meet the owner of this ranch, wouldn’t
he? Wouldn’t Mrs. Lanpher and Helen appreciate havin’ him meet ’em,
Hartley?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I dunno them folks, but I reckon yo’re
right.”

Buck exploded with protestations that he was as sober as a judge, and
called upon Poco to look upon him and see if he--Buck--wasn’t fit to
meet a king and queen.

But Poco refused to be drawn into the argument and Buck subsided in a
chair, where he began to snore.

“I don’t like to ask it of yuh, Hartley,” said Trainor, “but would yuh
mind meetin’ them folks and bringin’ ’em out here? They’ll be in about
nine o’clock tonight,” if the train is on time, which it probably won’t
be.

“You can get a two-seated hack at the livery-stable and lead your horse
back. Yuh won’t be able to miss ’em, ’cause we don’t have many strangers
come into Wolf Wells.”

“Sure, I’ll go after ’em, Trainor. As soon as I get through eatin’ a bit
of supper, I’ll go right down-town.”

“Take yore time, Hartley. I’m goin’ to bed right now. This danged foot
is givin’ me thunder tonight, and I drank too much last night. Feller’s
a fool to drink whisky.”

Hashknife sat down across from Poco and accepted of Quong’s culinary
art. He had not eaten since breakfast, and the fat Celestial grinned
with delight as Hashknife stowed away great quantities of food.

“Belly good,” observed Quong, “Cook plenty--nobody eat. Too much whisky,
yo’ _sabe_? Yo’ eat good, I’m ve’y glad.”

“Then I’ll make yuh glad a lot of times,” laughed Hashknife.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Hashknife took his time, and it was growing dark when he mounted his
gray bronco and headed for Wolf Wells. Just before he reached the forks
of the road he saw a rider pass, going toward town.

It was a little too far for identification, but he noted that the man
was riding a gray or a grayish-roan horse. The rider had disappeared
when Hashknife reached the main road, and he made no effort to overtake
him.

The air was cool and Hashknife had plenty of time to go to town and
arrange for the livery-rig before train-time. He was riding slowly,
scanning the road, near the spot where Ben Lanpher’s gun had been
found, when the whip-like report of a rifle sounded from the left.

Hashknife’s horse swerved quickly, and for a moment Hashknife thought
the shot had been fired at him, but there had been no sound from a
bullet. He dropped off his horse, drew his six-shooter and led the
horse down the road.

There were no more shots. The fringe of timber and brush along the
road masked him from the hillside, but also precluded any chance of
his seeing the shooter.

He led his horse around the first turn and stopped short. Almost at the
same spot where Smoky Cole had been killed stood a man and a horse. The
man appeared to be leaning against the horse, as if bracing himself, but
when he saw Hashknife he threw up a six-shooter and fired.

Hashknife instinctively ducked, but the bullet hummed off through the
brush ten feet away, and the man mounted swiftly although awkwardly and
raced down the road.

Hashknife threw up his gun, but snapped it back into its holster, as he
mounted swiftly and spurred after the rider.

He knew the speed of his gray horse, and felt sure that he could run his
quarry down, if they kept to the road.

“Left handed son-of-a-gun!” snorted Hashknife. “Can’t shoot straight,
that’s a cinch. C’mon, bronc!”

They whirled out into the more open country and Hashknife grinned to see
that the rider was still traveling down the road. But the horse ahead,
even with its long handicap start, was no match for the long-legged
gray, which cut down its lead at every stride.

The rider looked wildly back and even turned in his saddle and tried to
get into position for another shot, but, as the running gray horse drew
closer, he jerked up on his reins and threw up his hands in token of
surrender.

“Don’t shoot!” he called, and Hashknife squinted through a cloud of dust
at the face of Jimmy, the half-breed.

Hashknife moved in closer and noticed that Jimmy’s right arm was
bleeding badly.

“That’s why yuh shot left-handed, eh?” panted Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Jimmy nodded quickly. “Other arm no good.”

“Who shot yuh?”

Jimmy squinted at Hashknife and licked his lips.

“You don’t shoot me?” he asked.

“No. I heard the shot. Then you shot at me?”

Jimmy nodded and felt of his arm tenderly.

“I thought you shoot me, but I guess not. You can’t be two place same
time. Who shoot me, you s’pose?”

“Hard to tell, Jimmy. Is your arm hurt bad?”

“Pretty bad. Almost knock me off horse.”

He rolled up his sleeve and they examined the wound. The bullet had
struck near the wrist and had cut a furrow almost to the elbow. It was
a painful, but not a serious wound; and Hashknife bound it up with a
big handkerchief.

“How in thunder did yuh get hit in that arm?” queried Hashknife. “The
shot came from the left-side of the road.”

“I dunno,” said Jimmy blankly. “I reach up to rub my nose, I think.”

“By gosh, that was close!” exploded Hashknife, “that bullet must ’a’
passed close to yore chin, hooked into yore wrist and kicked loose at
your elbow. Now, who in ---- wants to kill you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy’s eyes were troubled as he thought deeply, but his answer was not
at all evasive:

“I dunno. I never hurt nobody.”

“All right, Jimmy; let’s be driftin’.”

“I go after coffee,” explained Jimmy. “Lorna want coffee for Sleepy.”

Hashknife grinned widely, as they rode on, but deep in his heart he was
afraid that Sleepy might fall in love with this half-breed girl. But he
forgot that as he studied Jimmy and his grayish-roan horse.

It would have been easy to mistake them in that light for himself and
the gray horse, he reflected. Were the Fantom Riders aware that he and
Sleepy were trying to smoke them out, and were trying to ambush them?

If that were the case, they would get them sooner or later. Hashknife
shuddered slightly. He was convinced that they had mistaken their man
and had injured Jimmy. There was no way to guard against an ambush.
They would likely try another place next time. He turned to Jimmy.

“You better see a doctor about that arm, Jimmy. I’ll pay the bill.”

“No,” Jimmy shook his head quickly. “I go back and let Minnie fix it.
She know how.”

“Minnie is Mrs. Cassidy, ain’t she?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you and Lorna related?”

“---- no! My mother and Minnie sisters, thasall.”

Hashknife grinned, but did not try to explain that Jimmy and Lorna were
cousins. Anyway, it would mean nothing to Jimmy.

Hashknife left Jimmy at the general store and went to arrange for the
livery-rig. He knew that Jimmy would not discuss the shooting with any
one. Coming back from the livery-stable he found the sheriff at his
office.

“Lanpher’s comin’, eh?” said the sheriff, after Hashknife had spoken of
meeting him at the depot.

“The rest of the family comin’?”

“I dunno. The telegram didn’t say, but Trainor talks like they was all
comin’.”

“I kinda feel sorry for them folks,” mused the sheriff. “I like Lanpher.
Never did get acquainted with his wife and daughter. I reckon I’ll go
over with yuh and meet ’em.”

Contrary to predictions the train was on time. Lanpher, his wife and
daughter were all there, with innumerable bags and suitcases. Hashknife
was lucky enough to reach Lanpher first, and gave him the whispered
warning--

“Remember, you don’t know me.”

Then came the sheriff, hand outstretched.

“Glad to meetcha ag’in, Lanpher; but not under these circumstances.”

Lanpher shook hands with him, and asked--

“Can we see Ben?”

“Sure thing, yuh can. He don’t know yo’re comin’, but I’ll bet he’ll be
glad to see yuh all. Hartley’ll take care of yore things.”

Hashknife was glad to get them out of his way, while he loaded the
baggage. He drove the team down to the sheriff’s office and waited for
them to finish their visit. They were in there quite a while, and had
nothing to say when they climbed into the two-seater and headed for the
ranch.

Lanpher rode with Hashknife on the front seat, and after they were out
of the town he asked--

“Well, what have you found out, Hartley?”

“We’ve found out that a man’s life ain’t worth a plugged dime, Lanpher.
As far as the rustlers are concerned, they’re as safe as ever. We can’t
find out a thing. I’m with the Circle Cross and Sleepy is with the
Tomahawk; but we’ll both be cowboy angels pretty soon, I reckon.”

“But they do not know what you are doing here,” protested Lanpher.

“Don’t they? That’s fine,” Hashknife laughed softly. “There’s been a
leak somewhere, Lanpher. They sure do know us. You didn’t wire anybody,
did yuh?”

“No, I did not. I was willing to let you two run this to suit
yourselves, Hartley. I wired Trainor that we were coming, but that is
the only wire I have sent him since you were at my home.”

“It’s sure got me fightin’ my head,” admitted Hashknife.

“What do you make of the case against Ben?”

“Well, it looks to me like another Fantom Rider deal, and Ben accidently
happens along and gets the blame for it. He didn’t kill Smoky Cole.”

“I want to thank you for that,” said Mrs. Lanpher brokenly. “It is good
to think that someone besides us believes him innocent.”

“Cassidy is very bitter,” said Lanpher, after a long pause. “He cursed
me in the jail a while ago. He seems to blame me for what has happened
to him, but I had nothing to do with it. The sheriff told me that
Trainor was crippled.”

“Yeah, I forgot to tell yuh that. A horse stepped on him.”

“Too bad. What do you think of the Circle Cross?”

“Dunno yet. Looks like a rich ranch.”

“Rich! Say, you’d be surprized to know what that ranch has already
cost me, Hartley. I’d sell out in a minute, if I could get back what
I’ve spent on it.”

“I’ll betcha. Hills are pretty tonight, ain’t they?”

They drove up to the ranch-house and Trainor hobbled out to meet them,
with the aid of a cane. Hashknife unloaded the baggage and placed it on
the porch, while they went into the house.

Then he drove to the barn, unhitched the horses, stabled them and went
to the bunk-house where he found Buck and Poco snoring a duet. Buck had
a half-empty whisky-bottle on a chair beside his bunk, and one of his
boots had been placed upside down over a bunk-post.

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and sat down on the edge of his bunk to
remove his boots. Poco stirred, sat up, his eyes filled with sleep. He
squinted at Hashknife, grunted a hoarse greeting and slumped back on to
his pillow. One of Poco’s hands was exposed and Hashknife noticed that
there was a circle of whang-leather around his wrist. He looked closer,
when he saw that a leather thong ran from the wrist under the blanket,
and was drawn taut.

Poco’s cartridge belt was hanging from the bunk-post, and over this
was hung a coat, but when Hashknife crossed to the table to light his
cigaret from over the chimney of the oil-lamp, he was able to see that
the holster was empty.

Hashknife went back, undressed and blew out the lamp. He sat on the edge
of the bunk for a long time, but finally crawled between the blankets
and placed his six-shooter under the blanket beside him.

“Poco is scared of somethin’,” mused Hashknife. “He’s got his six-gun
linked to him--and a feller don’t anchor himself to a thing like that
to keep from fallin’ out of bed. Dang him, I’d like to trade talk with
him. But I reckon he’s scared like everybody else--and me included.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

“Buck is goin’ over to the Flyin’ M to see old man Shappee for me, and
Poco is goin’ to drive an extra team to town; so we can get rid of this
livery-outfit. You can go with Buck, if yuh want to, or yuh can stay
here and see what yuh can do about fixin’ up the fence of the brandin’
corral.”

Trainor had hobbled down to the barn, with the aid of a cane; and was
talking with Hashknife while Poco and Buck harnessed the teams.

“Well, yo’re the boss,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll go with Buck if yuh say
so; but it don’t take two men to pack a message. Mebbe I better fix up
that fence.”

“Whatever yuh want to do, Hartley. Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher want to go down
and see Ben; so I’ll go with ’em. Miss Lanpher has a bad headache and
will stay home.”

“All right, I’ll stay here and help Quong run the ranch.”

Poco drove away with the ranch-wagon, while Buck drove up to the house
with the livery-rig, picked up the Lanphers and Trainor and drove away.

Hashknife secured a hammer and nails and worked on the corral for a
time; but Hashknife was no carpenter and the work palled. Anyway, it
was too hot to work. He went back and sat down in the shade of the
bunk-house. Somehow, he felt much safer with a solid wall at his
back.

Miss Lanpher came out on the ranch-house porch and sat down with a
magazine. She glanced idly through it for a while, but put it aside
and looked around.

Hashknife got up and walked to the porch.

“Mornin’, Miss Lanpher. How’s the headache?”

She looked at him closely, frowned slightly and said--

“I do not believe I have ever met you.”

“Yes’m, yuh have,” he smiled. “Me and Sleepy was at your house in Frisco
not long ago. Yore pa introduced us.”

“Perhaps,” she nodded coldly, “but I do not remember you. Are you one of
the cowboys?”

“Well,” Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully, “yuh might brand me
as such. I brought yuh in from Wolf Wells last night, if yuh remember.”

“Oh, you were the driver.”

She picked up the magazine and opened it before she looked at him and
said--

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Hashknife’s smile faded and he studied her for a moment.

“Yes’m, I was just kinda wonderin’, don’tcha know it?”

“Well?” Icily.

“Just kinda wonderin’ if it’s the fogs that make Frisco folks so
chilly.”

She looked questioningly at him, as if at a loss to know what he
meant; but he merely turned, put on his hat and walked back toward the
bunk-house.

“That was a ---- mean thing to say,” he chuckled to himself. “But she’s
prob’ly so high-toned that she’d have to have it explained to her.”

He went back to the corral and spent the rest of the morning hammering
lustily. The ringing of the triangle, as Quong announced the mid-day
meal, caused him to hang up his hammer and admire the collection of
bruises he had acquired.

Quong was standing just outside the kitchen, fanning himself with a
towel as Hashknife came striding across the yard, heading for the
wash-bench.

Suddenly he jolted hard in his stride and jerked sidewise. An angry
bee had buzzed past his head, or what had seemed to be a whizzer of
some sort; but the buzz was punctuated by a loud--

_Whap!_

Quong dropped his towel and jerked away, staring wildly at the
door-casing behind him, where a bullet had drilled a neat hole.

_Zee-e-e-e--blam!_

Then came the thin, far-away crack of a rifle. Quong fairly fell into
the kitchen, and Hashknife was right on his heels.

The second bullet had gone in through the doorway and had torn a gaping
hole in Quong’s big copper kettle on the stove, and the soup was spewing
out all over the hot griddles.

The room was filled with steam and odors of burning grease, plentifully
mixed with Celestial chatter that might be oaths or prayers.

Hashknife grasped a cloth and managed to fling the kettle outside. Miss
Lanpher came to the door from the dining-room, wondering at the turmoil.
She stared around, and Quong caught sight of her. He immediately began
bombarding her with pidgin-English, but Hashknife stopped him.

“Wait a minute, Quong,” and then to Miss Lanpher--

“Miss Lanpher, this is Quong, the cook. Quong, this is Miss Lanpher.”

Hashknife stepped gracefully back and motioned for Quong to continue,
but Quong had forgotten what to say, and turned back to his stove.

Miss Lanpher looked coldly at Hashknife and her eyebrows lifted a
trifle, as she said:

“That was very thoughtful of you, I am sure. But I have known Quong a
long time. I was here several weeks about a year ago.”

“Oh, yeah. Well, it was my mistake, ma’am.”

“Now, what happened in here, Mr. Hartley?”

“Well, Miss Lanpher, somebody took two shots at the cook and ventilated
the soup-pot. Nothin’ serious.”

“Took a shot at the cook?” she gasped. “Why--why how ridiculous!”

“Yes’m, I s’pose it was. Missed him both times, too.”

She called to Quong and he stopped wiping the stove long enough to turn
his head.

“Quong, did somebody shoot at you?”

He looked fearfully toward the door and nodded violently.

“Yessash, two time. I go way bimeby. Too ---- much shoot fo’ me. Soup
all gone; kittle busted. ----’s bells!”

“Quong!”

Hashknife laughed and went to the door, where he managed to retrieve
the punctured kettle with a broom-handle. He dumped out the soup-bone,
and with it came a battered piece of lead--the badly mushroomed bullet
that had busted up Quong’s soup.

Hashknife examined it closely and showed it to Quong.

“Looks like a thirty-thirty, Quong.”

Calibers meant nothing in Quong’s life, but he realized what that
bullet would have done to him. Hashknife showed it to Miss Lanpher,
but it failed to excite her in the least.

“Who would shoot at Quong?” she asked, as if she did not believe it at
all.

Quong turned quickly, a grin on his fat face.

“Mebbyso acclident. Somebody shoot clyote--bullet come heah. What you
t’ink?”

“Now that’s fine,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that’s it, Quong. Too
bad it busted the kettle.”

“You mean that they were shooting at something else and the bullet
accidently came down here?” Thus Miss Lanpher, incredulously.

“There’s a lot of coyotes in the hills,” said Hashknife, evading the
direct question.

“There’s some wolves and a lot of pole-cats, too, ma’am. I wish--say,
Quong; has Trainor got a rifle here in the house?”

“Yessah. One rifle in room. I show you.”

Quong trotted out and came back in a minute with a Winchester 45-70,
which he handed to Hashknife, but Hashknife told him to take it back.

He had thought of going out into the hills and try to find the man who
had fired the two shots, but decided that it would be a hopeless search.

Hashknife also knew that those shots were fired at him and not at the
Chinese cook. He had been in line with Quong, who was in the shade and
probably not visible to the man behind the rifle. From the reports of
the gun, the man was shooting at extreme long range--and shooting only
too well to suit Hashknife.

“They’ll be dynamitin’ the bunk-house next,” mused Hashknife to himself,
as Quong prepared the meal. “I’ve been lucky so far--but can it last?”

Miss Lanpher had retired to the front of the house, so Hashknife ate
alone.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was in the middle of the afternoon when Trainor, Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher
and Poco Saunders came back from town. Hashknife did not go up to the
house, but helped Poco unhitch the team. Poco was as uncommunicative as
ever.

As they came out of the stable, Trainor was hobbling toward them, but
stopped and called to Hashknife--

“What’s this I hear about somebody shootin’ at Quong?”

“Oh, that,” Hashknife laughed and looked back toward the hills, “I
reckon somebody was shootin’ at coyotes. They came darn near hittin’
the Chinaman, though. Lotsa folks are careless thataway.”

“Uh-huh,” Trainor grunted his unbelief. “Shootin’ kinda high, wasn’t
they, Hartley?”

“Kinda.”

“Say, do you really think they were shootin’ at coyotes?”

“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “that’s all a matter of opinion. Mebbe the
shooter felt thataway about it.”

“Uh-huh, I see what yuh mean.”

Trainor turned and went back to the house. Poco Saunders had heard the
conversation, and now he turned and went into the bunk-house ahead of
Hashknife, who shut the door and faced him.

Poco’s eyes narrowed, but he feigned not to notice Hashknife’s steady
gaze. Finally Hashknife said--

“Poco, I’ll trade talk with yuh.”

“Trade talk?” Poco did not seem to understand.

“Yeah. I was shot at twice this afternoon.”

“I had nothin’ to do with that, Hartley.”

“Why do yuh tie yore gun to yuh at night, Poco?”

Poco started slightly, but his face did not betray that he was caught
off his guard.

“Yore bunkie was shot from ambush, Poco,” continued Hashknife. “Are you
afraid of the same thing?”

Poco studied the question thoughtfully.

“Why should I be afraid?” he asked.

“I asked to trade talk--not to answer questions.”

“Why should I trade talk? I know nothin’.”

“All right.”

Hashknife turned to his bunk, but stopped.

“Why did Pinto Cassidy draw a dead-line between his place and the Circle
Cross?”

“I don’t know,” replied Poco; and Hashknife felt that he was telling the
truth.

“Are yuh afraid to talk about the rustlers who have been stealing stock
on this range, Poco?”

“Why talk about ’em?”

“Well, for one reason is this--they’ve killed three men from ambush
already.”

“Three? You don’t think that Ben Lanpher killed----”

Hashknife shook his head.

“Last night Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot in the arm, at the same spot
where Smoky Cole was killed.”

“He was?” Poco squinted thoughtfully, and Hashknife noticed that Poco’s
knuckles were white from their grip on his belt.

“Now, will yuh trade talk with me, Poco?”

But Poco shook his head slowly, his teeth shut tight.

“No, I can’t trade a talk, because I know nothin’.”

As Hashknife turned away, Buck Avery came in. He was half-drunk and was
carrying a bottle in his hand, which he put under his pillow.

“Hyah, cowboys!” he greeted them. “Help yourself to the liquor. Reg’lar
old poultry cocktail, that is. Six drinks and yuh lay. Hartley, yuh old
son-of-a-gun, don’t yuh never drink anythin’?”

But before Hashknife could reply, Trainor came to the door.

“Did you see old man Shappee, Buck?” he asked.

“Yeah; be right with yuh, Jim.”

Buck kicked off his chaps, joined Trainor and they went toward the house
together.

“Buck’s drinkin’ too much,” observed Poco. “He can’t let it alone when
he starts once. Trainor knows that, and he was a ---- fool to start Buck
off the other night.”

“Trainor ain’t picked another foreman yet, has he?” asked Hashknife
casually.

“Nope. Prob’ly pick Buck, though. Buck has been with him ever since he
took over the Circle Cross. Smoky and Buck came here together.”

“How long you been here, Poco?”

“ ’Bout a year. Me and Smoky worked together before.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to stay a year,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s too
much promiscuous shootin’ goin’ on around here to suit me. Everybody’s
scared to talk for fear they’re talkin’ to the person who is doin’ all
the dirty work. It’s a ---- of a country, thasall.”

“Yeah,” nodded Poco solemnly. “I reckon that about describes it,
Hartley.”

Hashknife went outside and sat down on a bench beside the door. Buck was
near the kitchen door, busy at the wash-bench and talking to Quong who
was standing in the doorway. Miss Lanpher was out in the front yard,
looking at a stunted rosebush, and Trainor was walking out to her.

She looked up, as he drew closer and seemed to be talking to her. For a
few moments she listened to him; and then walked past him and into the
house.

“He got froze up, too,” chuckled Hashknife aloud.

“He sure did,” agreed Poco, who had come to the door and noticed it.

“He’s stuck on her pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, he was kinda hard
hit when she turned him down. I don’t see nothin’ to her m’self. Too
danged high-toned. Trainor’s a lot older than she is, and he ain’t so
---- handsome either.”

“If she wants beauty I might stand a chance,” laughed Hashknife.

“Yuh can’t any more than get turned down.”

“I’ve had mine, Poco.”

Trainor walked around to the kitchen door and began talking to Buck, who
threw his wash-pan of dirty water out on to the ground and slammed the
pan viciously onto the bench.

They both seemed angry, but talked in low tones. Finally Buck whirled
and came toward the bunk-house, swearing to himself. As he came up to
the door he looked back toward the house, where Trainor was standing,
looking toward them.

“I’ll drink when and where I ---- please!” snarled Buck, and went into
the bunk-house, where he piled up on his bed and went to sleep.

That Buck had no respect for Trainor’s authority was attested by the
fact that Buck drank at intervals all night, and dug a fresh quart of
liquor from beneath his straw tick the next morning.

He was incoherent in everything, except profanity, and refused to answer
the breakfast call. Trainor’s foot was much better, and he was jovial at
breakfast.

“Hartley, you will go with Lanpher and me today. We’re goin’ to look
over the range. Poco will drive the ladies to town.”

“Somebody ought to stay with Buck,” said Hashknife. “He’s in bad shape.”

“Let him sleep it off!” grated Trainor. “The fool won’t let whisky
alone; so he’s the one to suffer.”

They saddled their horses after breakfast and rode into the hills.
Lanpher was unused to the saddle and knew little about riding, which
handicapped them as far as speed was concerned.

They rode northeast almost to the main divide and swung around through
the breaks, giving Lanpher some idea of what he owned. He had little
to say, except in an undertone to Trainor. In fact, most of their
conversation was handled in such a way that Hashknife was excluded.

Hashknife kept his eyes open and studied the country. On this side
of the range there were few cattle of any brand, although there was
plenty of water and feed. Hashknife remarked about it, but Trainor
merely nodded and did not reply.

Lanpher looked queerly at Hashknife, as much as to say--

“You know the reason well enough.”

Trainor had tied a lunch to the back of his saddle, and they ate at a
spring far back in the hills. During the course of the lunch, Lanpher
remarked--

“Carsten was in to see me not long ago, Jim.”

“That so?”

“Yes. Just a friendly call, he said; but wanted to know what we had that
was for sale.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well, I told him I didn’t know. He said that beef was due to take a
raise pretty soon. I’m not kicking on prices.”

“No.” Trainor shook his head. “We have no kick on the price of beef and
hides.”

They finished their lunch and mounted again. Hashknife grinned as
Lanpher settled himself tenderly in the saddle and braced his feet
solidly in the stirrups.

It was almost dark when they arrived at the ranch-house. Lanpher was
thoroughly tired so Hashknife took care of the horse for him. Poco had
just fed the wagon-team and told Hashknife that they had just arrived
a short time before.

“What’s new in Wolf Wells?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ much. I seen your pardner and the half-breed girl down there
about noon. He’s workin’ at the Tomahawk, ain’t he?”

“Well, I dunno about the work part of it,” laughed Hashknife, as they
entered the bunk-house.

Buck was still stretched out on the bunk and an empty bottle attested
to the fact that Buck was “full as a tick.” Poco tried to rouse him,
but Buck refused to give more than a grunt.

Trainor ate supper with Hashknife and Poco, after the Lanpher family
had eaten, and during the meal the sheriff and Lonesome Hobbs rode in.
Hashknife saw them from the window, but said nothing. They dismounted
and went to the front of the house.

“What’s comin’ off around here?” wondered Hashknife, as he saw three
more riders ride down past the house and tie their horses to a corral
fence.

He recognized one of them as being Ability Edwards. Trainor saw them,
too, and hurriedly finished the rest of his meal. After he went out,
Hashknife said to Poco:

“The sheriff and deputy came a few minutes ago, and just now, three more
men rode in. What do yuh make of it?”

Poco halted with a cup at his lips, slowly placed it back in the saucer
and got to his feet. He went to the door and looked out. Hashknife got
up and went over to him.

The men had grouped a short distance from the porch and were talking
as they looked down the road toward town. In a few moments three more
riders appeared.

“That’s Jud Carey, Bert Elhoff and Honey Simpson, all from the 66
outfit,” said Poco. “Them first three are old man Shappee, Bility
Edwards and Baldy Shannon, from the Flyin’ M. I wonder what it
means.”

“Let’s horn in and find out,” grinned Hashknife.

The three riders dismounted and joined the group.

“Well, I reckon we’re all here,” observed Trainor, “so we might as well
go into the house.”

He led the way into the living-room and the men sat down on the chairs,
or squatted on their heels against the wall. Lanpher had joined them at
the door. Trainor glanced around at the group, but said nothing to Poco
and Hashknife, who had invited themselves.

“Gentlemen,” said Trainor seriously, “I reckon you all know why yo’re
here this evenin’. We’ve all suffered alike in this matter, and I think
the time has come when we will have to step out into the open.

“Mr. Lanpher--” Trainor indicated him--“I reckon most of yuh met him
when he was here before, and yuh know he is half-owner of the Circle
Cross. He advised me to have yuh meet here and try to figure out some
way to handle this proposition.

“I know how yuh feel about it. We’ve all been afraid to talk about
it--or to do much. But I’ll tell yuh it’s comin’ to a showdown. I
don’t mind tellin’ yuh that the two men of mine that were killed were
detectives; sent here by the association.

“Whether or not Smoky Cole was killed by the same gang, we don’t know. I
hope it can be proved on ’em. Yesterday two shots were fired from back
there in the hills. One of ’em hit the casing of the kitchen door, while
the other went into the kitchen and smashed into a kettle. Hartley, over
there, was going toward the door at the time, and my cook was beside the
doorway. I don’t know which they were trying to kill.”

The cattlemen considered this, as they looked at Hashknife and at each
other. Old man Shappee, a typical old cattleman, cleared his throat
raspingly.

“What did you ever do to ’em, Hartley?” he asked.

“It was kinda hard to tell--at that distance,” grinned Hashknife, and
the men smiled with him.

“Now, who has an idea to work on?” asked Trainor.

The men stirred uneasily. None of them seemed to want to commit
themselves. Finally Jud Carey, a lanky, middle-aged man stood up.

“I dunno how anybody could figure out an idea,” he drawled slowly. “It
ain’t like buckin’ somethin’ that yuh can see, Jim. The 66 has lost a
lot of stock, but none of us has been shot at--yet.”

He sat down slowly and lighted a cigaret.

“Aw, ----!” exploded Trainor. “Is everybody afraid to talk? Are we goin’
to set here and shiver in our boots while a gang of bushwackin’ rustlers
shoot our men from ambush and run off our stock?”

“All right--tell us what to do,” suggested Shappee.

“Well,” Trainor hesitated, “I’m ----ed if I know what to do. Lanpher
and I have done what we think is the best thing; but we can’t ask the
association to send more men to the slaughter.”

“How did this gang find out that they were detectives?” asked Bility
Edwards.

“Nobody knows.”

“They’re sure a slick outfit,” observed the sheriff. “I didn’t know that
these men were detectives. Nobody ever told me about ’em. One was killed
near town and the other one on the Tomahawk ranch. It’s almost a cinch
that old Cassidy didn’t kill both of ’em.”

“Cassidy’s a salty old son-of-a-gun, but I’ll bet he never killed that
feller,” said Shappee, but qualified his statement with--

“Unless he’s one of the gang himself.”

“And that’s what we don’t know,” said Trainor.

“Would it do you any good to make up a big posse and hunt every inch of
the hills?” asked the sheriff.

“How would we know but what the men we’re lookin’ for would be ridin’
along with us?” asked Carey.

“I dunno,” said the sheriff foolishly.

“Well, anythin’ is better than settin’ around and bein’ shot at, I
should think,” observed Shappee. “I’m ready to ride or do anythin’ the
majority wants to do.”

“I wish I knew what to suggest.” Thus William Lanpher, who had been a
good listener.

“I have spent money for investigators, who have been killed. This is
very unfortunate. I do not know how much stock you men have lost, but I
do know that we have suffered severely. And, gentlemen, it is not going
to stop, unless we are able to stop it.”

“Yuh can’t expect ’em to draw out of a cinch game, can yuh?” queried
Bility Edwards.

“Why would they kill Smoky Cole?” demanded Lonesome, who had hardly
spoken since he arrived. “Smoky wasn’t no detective.”

“We don’t know that they did,” said Trainor, “but we hope it can be laid
to their door so as to clear Ben Lanpher of the charge.”

“----, he was too drunk to bushwhack anybody that day,” declared
Lonesome. “I reckon they done it.”

“They’re promiscuous all right,” agreed Hashknife heartily. “Night
before last they shot Jimmy Droop-drawers, the Tomahawk half-breed,
while he was ridin’ along the same place that Smoky Cole was killed.”

“For gosh sake!” exploded Shappee, while the rest of them grunted or
cursed in astonishment.

“You didn’t tell me about this,” said Trainor seriously.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, I thought yuh had troubles enough, Trainor.”

“Nobody told me,” complained the sheriff. “Was he hurt much?”

Hashknife explained the extent of his injuries.

“And why did they try to kill the breed?” queried Lonesome dismally.

“My ----, why don’tcha do somethin’, except ask questions?” snorted the
sheriff.

“Show me anybody that’s doin’ better than that,” replied Lonesome. “I’m
askin’ ---- pointed ones, y’betcha.”

Lonesome’s reply brought a grin, but it was short-lived.

Came the sound of a hurried footstep, the door was flung open and Lorna
Cassidy almost fell inside the room. She shut the door behind her and
stood with her back against it.

She was hatless, one sleeve of her dress was torn badly. Her hair was
wind-blown and one of her long braids was wrapped once around her neck;
as though she had ridden fast and far through the wind.

She looked from face to face in that smoke-fogged room, her lips shut
tight, her eyes blazing, until she caught sight of Hashknife, and spoke
directly to him.

“Your pardner was shot--hour--or--so--ago!” she panted.

Hashknife sprang to his feet, as did the rest of the men.

“My pardner--Sleepy. Shot? Not dead?”

She shook her head, her eyes still searching the room.

“No, not dead; hurt bad.”

Hashknife went to her and took her by the arm.

“Don’t hurry,” he advised her hoarsely. “Take yore time and tell us all
about it.”

She nodded, leaning against the door, as she looked from face to face.
She appeared to be looking for some one.

“We were out riding,” she said slowly. “We had been to town and when we
were coming back we decided to take a ride into the hills.

“We saw a man riding alone, but paid no attention to him. As we were
riding down to our ranch, a shot was fired and my horse fell. I hurt
my head a little, and before I could get up another shot was fired
and Sleepy fell off his horse.

“I got him to the house and--” she shook her head wearily-- “My mother
helped me. She heard the shots, too.”

“But how bad is he hurt?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t know. The bullet struck him under the left arm and knocked him
off the horse. He didn’t know anything for a while, but he woke up all
right.”

“How long ago did this happen?” asked Trainor.

“Oh, I don’t know. It was a while before dark.”

“And he hasn’t had a doctor?” queried Hashknife.

Lorna shook her head.

“My mother is better than a doctor. She knows what to do. He knew I came
over to tell you, and he said to tell you that he’s all right.”

“And you didn’t see the man that fired the shots?” said the sheriff.

Lorna looked around the circle again and back at the sheriff.

“Yes, I seen him.”

“Yuh did? My gosh! Who was he?”

“I got up, after my horse fell with me. I was dizzy for a minute, but I
looked back toward the hill and I seen the man riding away. It was the
same man we saw a while before.”

“But who was he?” urged half-a-dozen voices, as the cattlemen crowded
around her.

“Give us his name,” demanded the sheriff.

But Lorna shook her head.

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

“I told Sleepy about it and he said for me to not tell anybody.”

“Well, that’s a ---- of a note!” wailed Lonesome.

Hashknife smiled grimly. He knew that Sleepy, even though badly hurt,
knew that this information would be for them alone.

“You want to be party to a crime?” queried the sheriff. “If yuh don’t
tell, yo’re as guilty as the shooter.”

Lorna backed against the door and looked defiantly at him.

“All right, arrest me.”

“Oh ----!”

The sheriff turned appealingly to the men.

“What can yuh do in a case like that?”

Hashknife turned and went out through the kitchen, heading for the barn.
He saddled and led his horse outside, where he found the cattlemen
waiting for him. Poco brushed past him, saying that he and Trainor were
going along.

Lorna was already in the saddle; so he rode in beside her and they led
the way. There was little conversation. Every man felt that they would
soon know the name of the man who had been terrorizing the Ghost Hills
Range, and they also knew that he would never live to be tried by a
court of law.

Hashknife did not question Lorna, and he felt that these men would have
their ride in vain. If Sleepy did not want her to tell the name of the
killer, it was because this information might serve them to uncover the
whole band.

Near the forks of the road he asked if it might not be well to send one
man after the doctor at Wolf Wells, but she said:

“My mother good doctor. She knows what to do.”

Hashknife knew that many of the Indians were adept at treating gunshot
wounds, and a rangeland doctor is not usually a surgeon; so he agreed
that her idea was probably the best.

It was a silent group of riders that dismounted at the open door of the
Tomahawk ranch-house and filed inside. Sleepy was stretched out on a cot
and beside him sat the Indian woman, Mrs. Cassidy.

Sleepy was very white, but he grinned at Hashknife and looked around at
the crowd.

“Pardner, how do yuh feel?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Fine.” Sleepy’s voice was weak. “They come danged near handin’ me a
harp, Hashknife.”

“Where did it hit yuh?”

“Kinda under the pit of m’ arm and come out over m’ chest. It sure
ripped ---- out of me. I must have cast-iron ribs, ’cause she didn’t
go inside.”

“Then yuh ain’t hurt bad.” There was a note of relief in Hashknife’s
voice.

“F’r a minute I thought yuh was dead, cowboy.”

“You didn’t have nothin’ on me. I seen seven flocks of angels flyin’
in a V-shape over me. I says to myself, ‘Sleepy, yo’re goin’ to be a
migratory bird, instead of a harpist.’”

The sheriff shoved his way to the front and looked down at Sleepy.

“The girl says that yuh know who shot yuh.”

Sleepy squinted up at the sheriff in amazement. He turned his head
slowly and looked at the ring of faces around him.

“Well, I know that somebody did,” he said softly, “but a feller with his
face in the dust can’t hardly see behind him and up a hill.”

“But you seen the same feller before today,” persisted the sheriff. “By
----, we want to know who it was!”

“So do I,” said Sleepy. “I want to be sure.”

“You give us his name and we’ll find out for yuh,” stated old man
Shappee.

Sleepy shook his head and looked appealingly at Hashknife, who turned to
the crowd.

“Gents, yuh can’t bother him no more now. He’s been bad hurt, and he
don’t want to talk.”

The crowd moved back to the doorway and the Indian woman sat down beside
Sleepy, giving him a drink of something that had a most peculiar odor.

There was no question but what the cattlemen were not in the best of
humor. They had come a long way after information and had not received
it.

“I don’t understand why they won’t talk,” said Trainor. “This ain’t a
thing to keep secret. If the guilty one finds out that they are known,
they’ll fog out of the country and we’ll never see ’em again.”

“Well,” Lonesome shook his head sadly, “that sure wouldn’t hurt my
feelin’s, none whatever. They can’t fog too soon nor too far to suit
old man Hobbs’ little son.”

“---- it!” wailed the sheriff dismally. “What’s the good of havin’ a
sheriff.”

“I’ve argued the same question many times,” smiled Hashknife, “but yuh
never can make folks listen to reason. I never seen one yet that was
good for anythin’, except pitchin’ horseshoes.”

“What I want to know is this.” Jud Carey spat dryly and looked around.
“When do we git informed as to who the shooter was?”

“Don’t look at me!” snapped the sheriff. “I’ve asked questions until m’
tonsils are all raw. I don’t see why they’re keepin’ this to themselves,
danged if I do.”

“I reckon there’s nothin’ to be learned here,” said Shappee wearily,
“and it’s a long ride back to the old Flyin’ M. I ain’t as young as I
used to be.”

“Come over and stay with us tonight,” offered Trainor.

“Yeah, and have ma pawin’ holes in the carpet, ’cause I don’t come home.
She’s scared stiff, jist thinkin’ that I might git shot in the back. I
told her that at my age it didn’t make a ---- bit of difference whether
they shot me in the back or the front. I’m much obliged to yuh, just the
same, Trainor.”

“You’re sure welcome to come,” laughed Trainor, and turned to Hashknife.

“You goin’ back with us, Hartley?”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, I reckon I’ll stay here tonight. Mebbe I’ll have to go after a
doctor, but I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ll be over early in the
mornin’.”

They went back to their horses and rode away down the moonlit highway,
which wound in and out of the brushy cañons. Hashknife watched them
until they faded out in the distance, and turned back, closing the door
behind him.

He crossed the room and drew the blanket curtain across the window
near the cot. Lorna had sat down near the fireplace, and a moment
later Jimmy, the half-breed, slipped in the front door and closed it
quickly.

Jimmy was carrying a shotgun, which he leaned against the wall. The
squaw spoke to him in the Sioux tongue and he shook his head.

“Lorna go way, Jimmy watch,” volunteered the squaw in explanation.

“See nothin’,” grunted Jimmy, coming closer to the cot and grinning at
Sleepy.

“You feel good, eh? Minnie ---- good doctor.”

Hashknife walked over and squatted down on his heels beside the cot.

“Yuh want to talk about it, Sleepy?” he asked.

“Ask Lorna.”

Lorna came closer and spoke softly.

“It was Buck Avery.”

“Buck Avery?”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. Buck had been drunk for two days. He
was still drinking that morning, and was dead drunk just before supper.

“I’m sorry, but I reckon yuh made a mistake, Lorna,” he said slowly, and
told them of Buck’s drinking.

“I told her not to tell anybody, and I’m glad she didn’t,” said Sleepy
weakly. “It don’t pay to be too quick in a thing like that.”

Lorna shook her head slowly and stared at the blank wall.

“No talk much,” grunted the squaw. “---- good thing.”

“I seen that man,” persisted Lorna, as if visualizing him now. “He
rode like Buck Avery and he looked like Buck Avery. But this man was
not drunk.”

“Got me the second shot,” grinned Sleepy. “His first one must ’a’ just
grazed me and hit Lorna’s horse in the head. No drunken man fired them
two shots.”

“Which lets Buck out,” declared Hashknife. “He’s been drunk ever since
I went to the Circle Cross. But this sure puts us in one fine fix. The
guilty party will think that we know ’em, and they’ll either pull out
of the country or try harder to wipe us out.”

“Don’t worry sick man,” advised the squaw. “Go to bed.”

“That’s good advice,” admitted Hashknife, and to Sleepy--

“If that bullet tore yuh up bad, suppose I go after a doctor and have
him sew yuh up.”

“I fixum,” grunted the squaw. “No need doctor.”

“That’s a cinch,” grinned Sleepy. “Mother fixed me up fine. I couldn’t
be sewed tighter if they used a sewing-machine on me. Don’tcha bother
about me, Hashknife; you keep yore own skin together.”

Hashknife accepted a blanket from Lorna, kicked off his boots and
rolled up in a corner. He was dog-tired, but his mind refused to rest.
He wondered who rode and looked like Buck Avery.

Mentally he compared every Ghost Hills cowpuncher that he knew, but none
of them looked like Buck. Still, at a distance, there was a similarity
between Buck and Honey Simpson, the silent puncher from the 66. Even
Bility Edwards might be mistaken for Buck.

But his mind always jerked back to Buck Avery, snoring on the bunk,
with the empty bottle beside him and the bunk-house smelling strongly
of liquor. Buck was drunk the night that Jimmy, the half-breed, had
been shot, and Buck had gone to the Flying M ranch at the time that
Quong had nearly been hit.

The Flying M was west of the Circle Cross, while the shots had been
fired from the east. Buck had been to Wolf Wells that day, and had
also carried the message to the Flying M for Trainor.

And last, but not least, there was not a .30-30 rifle on the Circle
Cross. The bullet that wrecked Quong’s kettle was a .30-30. Hashknife
had seen Smoky Cole’s wound, but it was hard to tell what kind of a
bullet had killed him. He wished now that he had examined it more
closely.

He resolved to examine the dead horse in the morning and see if he could
find the bullet. Lorna was sitting by the fireplace, her chin cupped in
her hands and Hashknife studied her profile.

Just beyond her, and to the right, sat her mother, a short, squat,
typical Indian woman. He thought of Pinto Cassidy, with his wizened,
wrinkled, Irish countenance, and wondered what freak of nature had
given these two an offspring like Lorna. She was as unlike either of
them as a child could be.

And then he went to sleep to dream of miles of mesquite clumps with a
bushwhacker behind each one, and him with a .45-70 rifle and nothing
to shoot in it, except .30-30 caliber cartridges.

Just after midnight a severe thunderstorm swept the Ghost Hills, and
the downpour of rain thudded hollowly on the roof of the Tomahawk
ranch-house; but Hashknife slept the sleep of the just, in spite of
it all.

It was barely past daylight when Hashknife awoke and rolled out of his
blanket. The old squaw was already preparing breakfast and Sleepy was
snoring soundly. Jimmy, the half-breed, put in a yawning appearance,
and peered cautiously out of a window.

“Whatcha see?” queried Hashknife.

“I just look,” replied Jimmy.

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and turned to the squaw.

“Mother, how’s the patient gettin’ along?”

She smiled widely and nodded toward the cot.

“He get well now--pretty quick.”

“He sure didn’t git hit in his snorer,” grinned Hashknife, and nodded to
Lorna who had just come in.

She walked over, looked at Sleepy, who awoke and grinned up at her.

“How are yuh feelin’, cowboy?” asked Hashknife.

“Finer ’n frawg-hair. Gimme a cigaret.”

They sat down and discussed the happenings of the evening before, but
Lorna still persisted that the man looked exactly like Buck Avery.

“But,” argued Hashknife, “Buck has been drunk for several days. He was
drunk when we found him yesterday.”

“Lorna know Buck pretty good,” said Jimmy.

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “If it was Buck, he’s headin’ out of
this country right now. He’d hear that Lorna seen him, and he’d sure
fade away fast. But where would Buck fit into the scheme of things?”

No one seemed to have an answer for that question. They ate breakfast
and Hashknife announced his intentions of going back to the Circle Cross
ranch.

“No ---- good,” declared Jimmy.

“Yuh think they’d bushwhack me, Jimmy?”

“Think plenty now,” advised Jimmy.

Hashknife grinned and puffed on his cigaret.

“Mebbe yo’re right, Jimmy,” he finally agreed. “They’d hate to have
me pack information back with me, I reckon. None of ’em know the name
that Lorna had in mind, but they’d know danged well that I’d have it
now. Mebbe we better try somethin’ easy at first.”

Hashknife selected an old pair of overalls, an old shirt and a pair of
boots. Three blankets sufficed for the stuffing of them. He tied a rope
around the dummy under the arms and left a length of rope extending from
each side. Then he surmounted the thing with his own hat, fitting it to
the roll of blanket which extended up through the neck of the shirt.

“Grab hold of a rope, Jimmy,” he ordered, and the half-breed obeyed with
a grin.

“Looks more like me than I do,” laughed Hashknife as he dragged the
dummy over to the door.

“Now, Jimmy, you stand on one side and hold yore rope high and tight
enough to make the darned things stand up like a man. Don’t expose
yourself, young feller. All set?”

Jimmy nodded and drew the rope tight. Hashknife looked back in the room
to see that nothing was in line. Then he shoved the door wide open. The
dummy looked like a cowboy. Perhaps it was a trifle limp-looking at
close range.

It stood there for perhaps five seconds motionless. Then it jerked
convulsively and fell sidewise. From the rear of the room came the
splat of a bullet striking wood, and from the hills came the thin pop
of a high-power cartridge.

Hashknife reached out and drew the door shut. Jimmy stood there,
looking foolishly at a piece of rope in his hand, which had been
cleanly severed. It was a rope made from Maguey fiber, about the size
of a clothes-line, but very hard and brittle.

“Well,” said Hashknife, shoving the dummy aside, “I’ll say that it
worked to the queen’s taste.”

The two women were staring wonderingly at him, but Sleepy was laughing
joyously. Jimmy crossed the room and poked his finger at the spot where
the bullet had bored into the seasoned wall.

“We’re sure hived up for keeps,” said Sleepy, as if rather pleased at
the prospect. Sleepy loved a fight, and nothing pleased him more than
to give odds.

“You ain’t in it, you doggone cripple,” reminded Hashknife. “Yuh don’t
need to start cheerin’ about it.”

Jimmy had moved the curtain an inch and was staring out through the
window.

“See anythin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’. They think you dead--mebbe.”

“Very likely. But they won’t stop at one killin’. They will naturally
think that we all know the guilty man, and they’ll try to stop all of
us. You got a rifle, Jimmy?”

“You ---- right!”

Jimmy went into another room and came back with an old .50-90 Sharps,
which he handled lovingly before giving it to Hashknife.

“That good gun, you bet.”

Hashknife grinned and examined it. He knew the killing power of the old
Sharps, even though they did not compare with the high-power rifle. He
accepted a handful of cartridges from the half-breed.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

“I’m goin’ into the hills,” grinned Hashknife. “I’m goin’ to have a
perfectly good little fight, and yo’re goin’ to lay here in yore nice
little beddie and wish you was along; _sabe?_”

“Aw ----! You’ll go out there and get yore danged hide all filled up
with soft-nose bullets that’s what you’ll do. Ain’tcha got no sense,
Hashknife?”

“Sour grapes,” retorted Hashknife, and to Jimmy--

“Gimme more shells.”

Jimmy gave him several more, which Hashknife pocketed. He rescued his
hat from the dummy and drew it tightly on his head.

“Now, you folks just set tight, will yuh? I’ve got to teach them
bushwhackers that they ain’t got the only rifle in the Ghost Hills.
_Adios._ That means good-by in Spanish.”

“Thirty-thirty,” retorted Sleepy. “That means good-by in any darned
language.”

Hashknife went to the rear of the house, opened a window as wide as
possible, stood up on a chair and fairly dived outside. He landed on
his feet, ducked low and ran swiftly toward the upper corral, running
in a zigzag angle to confuse any one who might be trying to use him
for a target.

He had almost reached the angle of the corral fence when--

_Whim-m-m-m!_

A bullet tore up the ground almost under his feet and _zee-e-e-e’d_
its way up the slope of the hills. It was too close for comfort, and
Hashknife was thankful for the protection of a patch of brush behind
the corral fence.

“Good shootin’,” he panted aloud, as he crawled like a snake fifty feet
from where he had dropped behind the brush.

The shooter was evidently unable to determine just where Hashknife had
gone; so he tore a few splinters off the pole-corral, just taking a
chance on scoring a hit.

Hashknife worked his way the length of the corral and into a bunch of
brush on the side of the hill, where he snuggled into a depression
and prayed for a chance to do a little shooting. He studied the hills
beyond the ranch-house, but could see nothing.

He knew that the man had not seen him take cover on the hill, because
no more shots had been fired. He had watched closely for about five
minutes, when his vigilance was rewarded.

Something moved in a jumble of brush and rocks, but the distance was a
good four hundred yards. It moved again, and this time Hashknife could
see that it was a man.

He appeared to be moving very slowly, and was evidently trying to work
his way higher in order to get a better view beyond the corral fence.

Hashknife estimated the distance and set his sights. It was a long shot
and a small target, as the man did not expose much of his anatomy at a
time.

The old gun kicked viciously and emitted a cloud of smoke; while its
report clattered like artillery, as it echoed from the surrounding
hills.

Hashknife ducked low under the smoke and saw the bullet strike. It threw
up a cloud of dust about a foot below where the target had been.

“Next time, brother,” promised Hashknife, as he shoved in another
cartridge.

But the next moment a bullet splattered into the bank behind him,
causing him to hug the ground tightly. Another struck to his left,
another to his right. The man was trying to find out his location.

Another bullet ricocheted off a rock behind him, while the next one
threw sand in his face.

Hashknife snorted loudly, kicked himself loose from that location and
rolled back down the hill, where he scuttled up the draw a little and
got behind a big rock.

“That danged old smoke-wagon sure advertised my location,” he panted
aloud. “Anyway, I scared him so that he wasn’t exactly sure just where
I was.”

He stayed flat on the ground and recovered his breath, while an
occasional bullet searched along the corral fence, but did no damage.
He knew that the man had not seen him take cover so he felt reasonably
safe.

But inaction soon palled upon him and he looked around for a good place
to try for again. Just to the left of the corral was a jumble of broken
rock and a clump of greasewood, which would make a fine breastworks. It
was about a hundred feet away, but Hashknife took the chance and ran for
it. He fell in behind the greasewood, without a shot being fired.

“That’s danged funny,” he told himself. “What’s happened to m’ friend
with the .30-30?”

There was no question but what the man could have seen him make the run.
He studied the spot where the man had been, but there was nothing there
as far as he could see.

“Gotta make him start somethin’,” he told a lone magpie, which had
stopped on a tall post and was chattering angrily over something.

Hashknife drew his feet under him, gripped the rifle tightly and ran for
the corner of the barn like a rabbit hunting a hole. But there was no
response from the man on the hill. He crawled in through a broken window
and secured a saddle-blanket, which he hung on a pitchfork and tried to
draw a shot by extending it slightly past the corner of the barn.

Then he walked deliberately into the open and headed for the house. But
no shots were fired at him.

“Somethin’ chased him away, I reckon,” he decided, as he went back into
the house.

Lorna and Jimmy met him at the door while Sleepy yelled weakly for
details of the slaughter.

“I shot at him once and scared him away,” laughed Hashknife.

“Don’t lie to a cripple,” wailed Sleepy.

“Well, he just quit shootin’ then,” grinned Hashknife. “Somethin’ scared
him away, and I’m going to see if I can find out what it was. I’ll be
back this evenin’.”

“I’m goin’ to get up tomorrow,” declared Sleepy hopefully, looking at
the old squaw.

“I ain’t sick, am I, mother?”

“You pretty good. Get up bimeby.”

“Yuh betcha. I can ride and shoot as good as ever and I’m danged if I’m
goin’ to let you have all the fun.”

Hashknife laughed teasingly.

“Sleepy, I sure had fun. That son-of-a-gun seen the smoke from this
old rifle and he sure salivated everythin’ in range. _Powee-e-e!_
Bullets everywhere, and me down in a little swale, with m’ stummick
wrapped around my vertebray. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Sleepy swore softly at anybody lucky enough to have fun like that, and
Hashknife went swiftly down to the barn and saddled his horse. Jimmy,
the half-breed, had put up the horse the night before. Hashknife still
kept the Sharps rifle, and rode away with it across the fork of his
saddle.

He pointed straight into the hills to the spot where the man had been
hiding. The downpour of rain the night before had softened the ground
a little, and Hashknife was able to find where the man’s heels had dug
into the dirt.

He trailed the man to the top of the hogback, but there he was forced
to give up the scent. Greasewood and tall sage grew in profusion on
this hog-back, and the man had evidently taken advantage of it, as the
last tracks that Hashknife had found were pointing up the slope.

He mounted again and followed the ridge, watching closely. He rode
around the heads of several brushy coulees and was about to head back
toward the road, when he spied a rider crossing the coulee below him.
Hashknife dropped off his horse and watched closely. The rider went
slowly up the side of the hill, going cautiously and scanning the
country carefully.

“Poco Saunders,” muttered Hashknife, as he adjusted his sights
carefully. “Poco, yo’re coyote bait right now.”

But something in Poco’s actions caused him to hold his fire. He was
leaning down from his saddle, as if searching for something on the
ground. He rode ahead a short distance and from his actions it seemed
that he was following a trail.

Hashknife squatted low in the brush and watched him reach the ridge and
disappear over the other side.

“Now that’s a queer actin’ jasper,” Hashknife told his horse. “Mebbe we
better see what’s ailin’ him.”

He circled the head of the coulee and picked up Poco’s horse-tracks. He
waited a while and finally he saw Poco far down the next coulee, heading
along the side of it, still looking down.

Hashknife looked closely down at the horse-tracks and discovered that
two horses had passed that way.

“Poco’s trailin’ somebody, and I’m trailin’ him,” he laughed. “Kinda
like button, button, who’s got the button.”

He gave Poco plenty of time to get out of sight before he took up the
trail again, which kept bearing toward the road. Finally he reached the
top of the hill, where he could look down at the road, but the trail did
not lead directly down.

He could see where Poco had started down, lost the trail and had come
back to the top again. The trail led along the top for possibly an
eighth of a mile, as if the rider had been looking over the country
below, and headed down a heavily wooded coulee, which opened into a
little swale down near the road.

At the lower end of the open swale was a clump of old cottonwoods, and
it was near these that the trail practically ended. Here were the marks
of footprints, as if the horse had stood there several minutes.

“Heard somebody comin’ along the road,” decided Hashknife, as he went
on down to the road, where all the footprints jumbled into those of the
regular country traffic.

Hashknife noted that he had struck the road just below where the road
forked to the Circle Cross ranch; so he swung to the east and rode
slowly through the hills to the ranch.

He wondered what Poco was doing in the hills and who he was trailing.

“Was Poco doin’ the shootin’?” he wondered. “Did somebody scare him
and was he trailin’ this other party to see what they were up to? Or
did Poco happen in, hear the shots and start trailin’ the shooter?”

As far as he could see, Poco carried no rifle; but at that distance it
would not be possible to see whether there might be one in a scabbard
on the saddle.

“Anyway,” he decided as he rode in at the ranch, “the shooter got scared
and pulled out. They may be goshawful bad, but they can be scared,
that’s a cinch.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

He put up his horse and went up to the house, where he found Buck Avery
eating breakfast. Buck looked unkempt and appeared to be still shaky
from drink.

“’Lo, Hartley,” he grunted, helping himself to more black coffee. “They
tell me yore friend got shot yesterday. How’s he gittin’ along?”

“Fine, Buck. Didn’t hurt him much, and he’ll be out right away.”

“Tha’s good,” mumbled Buck. “Had yore breakfast?”

“Yeah, long time ago.”

“Time f’r another. Hey! Quong! Fry the gent some aigs.”

“Yessah, lite away.”

Hashknife did not object. He was always in the mood for ham and eggs,
and it had been two hours or more since he had eaten.

“Where’s Trainor?” asked Hashknife.

“Gone t’ town with Lanpher. Poco went over to the Tomahawk t’ see how
yore friend is. Didn’t yuh meet him?”

Hashknife shook his head and attacked his eggs.

“No. I came across the hills.”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck gulped his coffee and began rolling a cigaret.

“I’m off the hooch,” he declared. “I’ve seen a whole danged
mee-nag-i-ree pee-radin’ around here the last two days. Caught me two
vi’let colored elephants las’ evenin’, but they gnawed their way out
of the corral.”

He got up rather unsteadily and headed for the bunk-house. Hashknife
laid aside his knife and fork. Something caused him to distrust Buck,
although he could not see how Buck could have done all the deviltry.
He sauntered out and went down to the barn, where he examined Buck’s
horse, but there was nothing to show that the animal had been ridden
that day. It was true that Buck could have removed all traces of
travel; but the animal’s spirits did not fit in with a fifteen-mile
trip.

“If he rode yuh today, he didn’t ride yuh far,” declared Hashknife,
and went outside where he sat down on an old lumber-pile and grew
comfortable over his cigaret.

Mrs. Lanpher came out on the porch of the ranch-house and Hashknife
mentally compared her and her daughter to Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, and
Lorna.

“Too much money and too much convention,” decided Hashknife. “They ain’t
a danged bit natural. Still, they’re mothers, just the same--and this
one’s got a boy in jail.”

He sauntered up to the porch and was surprized to receive a cordial
“good-morning” from Mrs. Lanpher.

“Sure is a nice mornin’, ma’am,” admitted Hashknife, sitting down on the
steps. “How’s all yore folks?”

“Mr. Lanpher has gone to town with Mr. Trainor and Helen has a slight
headache,” she replied.

“What is the latest news from your friend who was hurt last night?”

“Thank yuh kindly, ma’am; he’s doin’ fine. He got kinda ripped up a
little, thasall.”

“I am very glad to hear he is doing so well. I asked my husband to
explain some of these things to me last night, and what he told me
was surprizing, to say the least. Why, the whole country must be in
a turmoil. And nobody knows who is doing it all.”

“No, ma’am, they sure don’t. Yore husband and Trainor are doin’
everythin’ they can, I reckon.”

She nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

“I know little about these things, but it seems that the loss in stock
has been tremendous. But--” she stared across the gray hills and her
lips twitched slightly-- “I--I would not mind it--the money part of
it--if my boy was back with us again.”

“Yes’m, that part of it is kinda hard,” agreed Hashknife. “I’d sure like
to help him, ma’am. But you’ve sure got to take him away from the range
country, when he gets loose.

“Yore boy is all right, ma’am; he’s fine, inside. But he got a lot of
queer notions, don’tcha know it? Somebody told him that he was a good
shot, and he immediate and soon proclaims himself a gunman and goes
seekin’ a victim.

“He got to likin’ whisky, too. It’s bad for kids, ma’am. Ben’s all
right, and I don’t want yuh to think that I’m paintin’ him worse than
I ought to. Yessir, he’s all right.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly. “I feel that you know my boy
well enough to express an opinion. We have been lax with him, I know.
Mr. Lanpher was not at all discreet in the matter of his--er--feelings
toward the half-breed girl. Of course it was absurd for Ben to think of
such an alliance, but it might have been handled differently.”

“Well,” Hashknife settled himself and began rolling a cigaret
carefully. “Well, ma’am, there’s a lot worse things could happen to
Ben. Half-breeds don’t make bad wives. I ’member that old Jake Dickson
married one over in the Button Willer country, and she stood for old
Jake two years before she killed him in a friendly fight.

“And there was old ‘Shep’ Hardy, over in the Skiwaumpus country. He
married a breed girl. Everybody said that no human could get along with
old Shep for thirty days; but she was ca’m and patient with him--which
no white woman would have been--and he annoyed her for darned near a
year before she stole the ladder out of his prospect shaft and left him
there, while she run away with a sheepherder. I tell yuh, they’re fine
wives, if yuh give ’em a chance, ma’am.”

“Horrors!” Mrs. Lanpher shuddered visibly.

“Of course,” amended Hashknife, “he ain’t got her yet, and he may not be
lucky enough to get her; but she’s a fine girl.”

“But to think of Benjamin Lanpher marrying an Indian! Why, it would
never do at all, don’t you see.”

“She sure’s got ancestors,” grinned Hashknife. “I heard a feller
braggin’ once about his ancestors comin’ over in the Mayflower. Called
his family old-timers. He sure paraded his great-grandpas, until a
dark-complected gent spoke up and said that his folks was pretty good
sort of folks, until that darned boat showed up.

“Come to find out, the dark-complected gent had a lot of Delaware
Injun blood in him, and he proved to this Mayflower gent that his
Injun ancestors were free as birds years before the Mayflower gent’s
ancestors quit bein’ branded by their owners.”

“I--I suppose that is true,” agreed Mrs. Lanpher, “but that does not
lessen the fact that we do not want Ben to marry this girl.”

“All right,” said Hashknife. “Neither do I, ma’am. Talkin’ seriously; I
don’t like marriages of that kind. I’ve got a lot of respect for Injun
blood, when it ain’t been tainted. Mixin’ Injun and white blood brings
out the vices of both and the virtues of neither.

“Lorna is a doggoned sweet little girl--too sweet for yore son--the
way he’s been actin’. And I’m whisperin’ my objections to this here
marriage as much for her sake as for Ben. She’s got just as much
right to be happy as he has, don’t cha see? I reckon we all dislike
to see ’em get married. Even Trainor don’t like it.”

“That is one of the reasons that Ben refused to stay here on this
ranch,” explained Mrs. Lanpher. “Mr. Trainor knew what Ben was doing,
so he wrote to us about it. Ben resented it greatly and left the
ranch.”

“That was too bad,” agreed Hashknife heartily.

“You’ve known Trainor a long time, ain’t yuh, ma’am?”

“Mr. Lanpher has.”

“Ma’am, I am goin’ to ask yuh a personal question, if yuh don’t mind.”

Mrs. Lanpher looked curiously at him.

“A personal question?”

“Yes’m: I was goin’ to ask yuh if yore daughter is goin’ to marry
Trainor?”

Mrs. Lanpher’s lips shut tightly, but she smiled a trifle as she shook
her head.

“No, I do not think so. Why do you ask that question?”

“Just kinda curious, thasall.”

“No.” Mrs. Lanpher shook her head and sighed deeply. “A year ago Helen
was not of age, and Mr. Trainor wanted her to marry him. I refused,
because I did not think that she knew her own mind in the matter. And
more than that, Mr. Trainor is twice her age.

“No doubt Mr. Trainor would make a good husband; but with her advantages
I think she could do much better. I explained it fully to Mr. Trainor
and he was gentleman enough to--well, not exactly agree with me--but to
drop the matter.”

“What did Mr. Lanpher think of it?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, he was not at all diplomatic. He said it was absurd--and I think
he told Mr. Trainor just that.”

Hashknife rubbed out his cigaret against the step and got to his feet.
Poco Saunders was riding in through the main gate, heading for the barn.
Hashknife turned to Mrs. Lanpher.

“Ma’am, I didn’t mean to pry into yore family affairs, and I ask yore
pardon. I’ll sure do all I can to open the jail for yore boy.”

“Thank you so much,” she replied. “It was good to just have some one to
talk to, and those family affairs are no secret.”

Hashknife lifted his hat and went to the barn where Poco was unsaddling.
He looked at Hashknife curiously, but said nothing as he hung up his
saddle and came back to the door.

“I been out to the Tomahawk,” volunteered Poco.

“Yeah, I seen yuh,” replied Hashknife easily.

“Yuh did?” Poco squinted reflectively, thoughtfully.

“Yuh did?” He repeated the question. “Where?”

“Back in the hills,” Hashknife was watching Poco closely, but he was
relaxed, as he leaned against the door.

“Back in the hills, eh?” Softly.

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife took a deep breath and hooked his thumbs over his
belt.

“Poco Saunders, we’re goin’ to trade talk this time.”

Poco looked up quickly, but there was no anger, no defiance in his dark
eyes.

“We’re goin’ to trade talk,” said Hashknife, “and yo’re goin’ to talk
first, Poco.”

Poco nodded slowly and a bitter smile flashed across his thin lips, as
he said--

“Where do I begin, Hartley?”

“Start in with this mornin’, Poco.”

“We got up early this mornin’, Hartley. After breakfast, me and Lanpher
and Trainor started for town. Trainor’s got an idea of follerin’ the
sheriff’s idea of makin’ up a big posse. We got almost to town and they
got to talkin’ about Stevens gettin’ shot. Kinda wonderin’ how he is,
yuh know, and they decided that I’m to ride back to the Tomahawk ranch
and see how things are goin’.

“I’m to tell you that they’re goin’ to make up this big posse, and then
I might as well go back to the ranch. Lanpher gets to kinda worryin’
about the women bein’ alone, and all that. I rides back and I’m almost
to the ----”

“What time did yuh leave the ranch?” interrupted Hashknife.

“I dunno. It wasn’t much after daylight. Why?”

“Go ahead.”

“Like I just said, I’m almost to the Tomahawk, when I hears a shot. I
stops and considers things. Mebbe I’m there five or ten minutes, when
there’s more shootin’. I mosey on up the road, and I’m almost to the
ranch, when I see the shooter. He’s quite a ways from me, but I think
he seen me at the same time. Anyway, he ducks real rapid.

“I take things kinder easy, and foller him. That rain made the ground
kinda soft and I’m able to trail him, but it only winds through the
hills and comes back to the road. Then I go back to the Tomahawk and
find you gone. Anythin’ else?”

“Only to say that you told the truth, Poco. Do you want to ask me any
questions?”

Poco considered deeply for a while, and then--

“Who are you, Hartley?”

“Cowpuncher,” grinned Hashknife. “Just a puncher.”

“Uh-huh. Why is somebody tryin’ to kill you?”

Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Poco, I can’t tell yuh, because I ain’t sure. Yuh see, they ain’t never
told me why. Mebbe I’ve got my own ideas on the subject, but a feller is
liable to figure things a little wrong.”

Poco nodded thoughtfully, his eyes squinted. Hashknife studied him for a
moment and then--

“Poco, I forgot to ask yuh one question.”

“Thasso? What is it?” Poco did not look up.

“You asked me who I am--who are you?”

“Me?” Poco’s thin lips fluttered in a bitter laugh. “I’m a ---- fool, I
reckon.”

Hashknife laughed and slapped him on the back.

“Poco, we all are, but we’re just as happy as though we had good sense.
I hate to pry into anybody’s private affairs, but I’d sure like to know
why Smoky held out to try and convict old Pinto Cassidy.”

“Don’t you think he’s guilty?” queried Poco.

“No--do you?”

“I did,” said Poco shortly, and after a few moments of reflection--

“He threatened to kill any Circle Cross puncher that trespassed on the
Tomahawk.”

“Why?”

“I told yuh once that I didn’t know why, Hartley. But I think it was on
account of the half-breed girl.”

Poco turned away and headed for the bunk-house, while Hashknife sat
down beside the barn in the shade, and watched Poco go jerkily along
on his high-heeled boots.

“You’ve got an ax to grind, but I don’t think yuh know where to find the
grindstone,” observed Hashknife to himself. “I’d rather have yuh on my
side than against me, ’cause you come nearer bein’ a cold-blooded gunman
than anybody I’ve seen for quite a while.”

Hashknife had never seen Poco Saunders in trouble, but he felt
instinctively that Poco would be swift with a gun. Every motion
betokened the gunman; cool, calculating, sober and unemotional.

Hashknife felt sure that Poco had been greatly affected by the murder
of Smoky Cole, his bunkie. There was no doubt that Poco did not know
who had killed Smoky, but that Poco was trying hard to find out.

Poco had used the past tense in speaking of his opinion of Cassidy’s
guilt, and Hashknife wondered whether the recent bushwhacking had
convinced Poco that both Cassidy and Ben Lanpher were innocent.

“Well, we’re earnin’ that Lanpher money, that’s a cinch,” observed
Hashknife. “This kind of a job needs armor more than it does brains.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

He got to his feet as Trainor, Lanpher and a third man rode in through
the big gate, and waited for them to come to the barn. It was not
until this third man dismounted that Hashknife recognized him as being
Carsten, the cattle-buyer, whom he and Sleepy had met at Lanpher’s
house in San Francisco.

Both Trainor and Lanpher spoke to Hashknife, but Carsten did not even
look at him.

“Hartley, will yuh take care of the horses?” asked Trainor, handing
Hashknife his reins.

Hashknife nodded and collected the three sets of reins.

“We’ll go up to the house,” said Trainor, and he and Carsten started
away.

Lanpher stooped to take off his spurs and when he stood up, the other
two were half-way to the house.

“I got Carsten aside and told him not to recognize you,” explained
Lanpher hurriedly. “I didn’t want even Trainor to know that Carsten
met you.”

“That’s the stuff,” grinned Hashknife, but added, “Even if everybody
else seems to know what we’re tryin’ to do here.”

“It must be only the guilty ones, though,” protested Lanpher quickly.
“We had a talk with the sheriff and he plans a big sweep of the whole
country very soon. How is Stevens?”

“He’s doin’ fine. That squaw sure beats the doctors.”

Lanpher frowned slightly, but a glad smile chased it away immediately,
as he said:

“Hartley, my boy gets his trial day after tomorrow. We were notified
of it today. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, will defend him. He
gets his trial even ahead of Cassidy’s second one.

“Mitchell is optimistic, but admits that the evidence is greatly
against us. In fact--” Lanpher’s eyes were wistful and his voice broke
slightly-- “In fact, we haven’t any evidence in our favor, except Ben’s
unsupported word. He--he had been rather wild, I am told, and that will
all be against him; but my boy did not commit murder, Hartley.”

Hashknife shook his head in agreement and turned to the barn door with
the horses.

“No, I don’t reckon he did. Ben was just a plumb ---- fool, thasall.
He’s got a hard, hard fight ahead of him, Lanpher, and some of them
recent wild oats are goin’ to make all of yuh sick of the lad’s
sowin’. But you stick with him.

“That prosecutin’ attorney is sure goin’ to hang a red fringe around
the kid, y’betcha. He’ll make you think you raised a locoed bobcat
instead of a boy; but don’t mind him. He’s paid to say nasty things
about folks.”

Lanpher nodded slowly, as he held out his hand to Hashknife.

“Hartley, I appreciate what you’ve said.”

They shook hands solemnly and Lanpher went to the house, where Mrs.
Lanpher and Helen were talking to Carsten and Trainor. Hashknife stabled
the horses and went to the bunk-house, where he found Buck half-asleep
on a bunk and Poco playing his interminable game of solitaire.

Hashknife told them that Lanpher and Trainor had returned, and mentioned
the stranger, who limped slightly with his right leg.

“Kinda thin-faced?” asked Poco indifferently. “Little gray in his hair?”

“Uh-huh.”

Buck cleared his throat huskily.

“Must be Carsten, Poco;” and to Hashknife:

“He’s a cattle-buyer. Works for some Eastern outfit.”

“Sets on a horse like a puncher,” observed Hashknife.

Buck laughed.

“Oh, I reckon, Carsten ain’t no tenderfoot. Feller’s kinda got to _sabe_
horses and cows, if he’s goin’ to mix with cattle-folks and buy their
stock.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” admitted Hashknife.

He sauntered outside and saddled his horse. Inaction palled upon him so
he rode up past the ranch-house and told Trainor that he was going back
to the Tomahawk. Trainor came down from the porch.

“Lanpher just told me that Stevens is gettin’ along fine,” he said.
“We’re glad to hear it. We talked with the sheriff today, and in a
short time we are going to comb these hills so thoroughly that even
a gopher will have to dig deep to keep out of our way.

“You go right ahead over to the Tomahawk and stay as long as yuh want
to. Mr. Carsten, a cattle-buyer, will be here for a few days, and I
will likely be busy with him. Ben Lanpher’s trial comes up Wednesday;
so his father will likely be busy with the lawyer. Poco and Buck can
take care of everything.”

He glanced down toward the bunk-house, and added--

“If Buck will try and stay sober.”

“I reckon he’s sick of liquor,” grinned Hashknife.

“By ----, I hope so! He ain’t got no judgment. Well, so-long, and good
luck.”

Trainor had been drinking a little--just enough to put him in rare good
humor, and Hashknife wondered if he brought some liquor out to Buck.

Hashknife turned at the forks of the road and headed for Wolf Wells.
He wanted to get away from the two ranches and mix with people. He
felt that there was nothing to be learned from the people at either
the Circle Cross or the Tomahawk; so why bother with them?

                   *       *       *       *       *

In the Lily of the Valley saloon, Hashknife found Lonesome Hobbs and
Bility Edwards. Lonesome’s fat face was as placid as a mountain pool
and his eyes were round and solemn. Bility was also very solemn of
demeanor.

They both nodded to Hashknife, who invited them to partake of his
hospitality. It was then that Hashknife discovered that Lonesome and
Bility were gloriously, shamelessly drunk. Lonesome nearly fell down
in merely turning around to the bar.

He looked at Hashknife, wide-eyed and said--

“Gotta roo--roosh-ter?”

“Got a rooster?”

“Yesh,” nodded Bility, “Need one--bad.”

“What for?” Hashknife grinned at their earnestness.

“Fight,” explained Lonesome, trying to make the glass and bottle meet.

The bartender rescued them both, when Lonesome dropped them disgustedly.

“Whitey’s got roosh’er,” said Lonesome. “Pre’y good one, too, y’betcha.
Fight’n rooshter. Yesshir, he’s gone af’er it.”

“Who’s Whitey?” asked Hashknife.

“He owns the depot,” said Bility with great deliberation.

Came the sound of unsteady footsteps, and Whitey Anderson bumped his
way in through the front door. Anderson was in the same condition as
Lonesome and Bility, and in his two hands he carried a
bedraggled-looking rooster.

“C’mon with your fight’n animals,” croaked Whitey. “Bring ’m big and
bring ’m strong. H’rah, f’r my he-hen!”

“Misser Andershon,” said Lonesome gravely, “shake han’s with my ol’
friend Hartley. Very ol’ friend, ’ndeed.”

“How doo-o-o,” drawled Whitey, and let loose of his rooster to shake
hands with Hashknife.

The frightened bird flipped to the top of the bar, volplaned across to
the top of a pool-table and scooted out the back door, cackling wildly.
Lonesome made a grab at it, but missed and fell flat on his face, while
Bility stumbled across him and almost knocked the bar loose from its
moorings.

But Whitey paid no attention to any one, except Hashknife.

“Yesshir, I’m glad t’ meet ol’ friend of Loneshome Hobbs. Whatcha shay
your----”

He looked around and discovered Lonesome trying to get back to his feet.

“Shay, Loneshome, what shay friend’s name? My gosh, you ain’t got
ap’plexy, have yuh? Face’s all red.”

“Who shoved me?” wailed Lonesome, feeling of his nose, which was
bleeding slightly. “Who done it, I deman’ t’ know immed’ly.”

“You fellers go outside to do your bumpin’!” advised the barkeep
angrily. “This ain’t no ---- corral.”

“Where’s m’ rooshter?” demanded Whitey hotly, looking around. “Who’s got
’m? Loneshome have you got ’m?”

“Nug oomp guff,” declared Lonesome, holding one hand tightly over his
nose and mouth.

“He says he ain’t got ’em,” explained Bility solemnly.

“I think he’s a liar, Whitey; let’s shearch him.”

Bility staggered into Lonesome and tried to feel in his pockets, but
Lonesome protested strenuously and Hashknife had to pry them apart.

“Got’m in hish pocket,” declared Bility.

“Can’t be dood,” Whitey shook his head violently. “Can’t put rooshter in
pocket.”

“Tha’s right!” exclaimed Bility. “Too wild. Let’s shing a shong. What
shay?”

“Not in here,” declared the bartender. “You cowpunchers start to sing in
here and I’ll----”

“Don’t go no further.” Lonesome shook a warning finger at the bartender.
“You’ve threatened us s’fficiently, Misser Weed. We unnerstand yore
at’tude perfec’ly; perfec’ly. You are not a frien’ of a workin’ man, so
you ain’t. I refuse to shing in yore housh. C’mon.”

They strung out in single-file, with Hashknife bringing up the rear, and
went into the street. Whitey leaned against the side of the building and
tried to adjust his hat to an even balance.

“Mus’ go back t’ work,” he declared, trying to force himself to a
semblance of sobriety. “I’m workin’ man.”

“Ain’t you goin’ t’ shing?” queried Lonesome.

“Yesh, I’ll shing--shometime--but not yet. Gotta work.”

He shoved himself away from the wall and wended a very erratic way down
the narrow sidewalk.

“Perfec’ly capable man,” declared Lonesome airily, “but he’s curshed
with a thirsht. Ha, ha, ha! Rhymes like a po’m. Curshed with a thirsht.”

“You think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” queried Bility, with drunken sarcasm.

“Yesshir, I am. Betcha I c’n make you laugh.”

“Zasso? Betcha five dollars yuh can’t.”

“Lissen, that’s a bet, now.”

Lonesome shook a finger in Bility’s face.

“Can’t back down, yuh mus’ ’member.”

“Nosshir, I back down from no man. How yuh goin’ do it?”

“Take off yore boots, old shad face. I’m goin’ to tickle yore feet.”

“Tha’s dirty trick,” declared Bility. “That ain’t bein’ funny, you
danged fathead--tha’s torture. But I’ll let yuh try it. I’m numb all
over, anyway.”

He half-fell to the edge of the sidewalk and began tugging at his boot,
which resisted his efforts stubbornly. Lonesome essayed to help him and
Hashknife walked away, leaving them in each other’s arms and the boot
still intact.

Hashknife crossed the street and bought some tobacco, after which he
sauntered down the street to the little depot. He found Whitey Anderson
slumped in a chair, his head dripping wet and his shirt saturated.

“Water-cure,” explained Whitey. “Darn near drowned myself, but it sure
sobered me up. I get with that blamed gang up there and drink too much.
Anyway--” Whitey hooked his toe into the rounds of a chair and jerked
it around for Hashknife-- “Anyway, I’m sick as ---- of this town and
this job. Nothin’ ever happens, except somebody gets drunk and shoots
up things a little. And I mostly always miss that.”

“Wolf Wells seems like a nice town,” observed Hashknife.

“It does? Well, you can have it, as far as I’m concerned. I’m goin’ to
have another station or I quit poundin’ brass.”

Hashknife laughed softly over his cigaret.

“I should think you’d get lots of excitement. Train comin’ in every day
and all that.”

“My ----!” Whitey stared at Hashknife wonderingly.

“Trains comin’ in--sa-a-ay, the only reason they ever come to Wolf Wells
is because there’s a Y here, and it makes the engineer seasick to ride
backward. Never any passengers.”

“One come in this mornin’, didn’t he?”

Whitey grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Uh-huh. That’s right, we did have one today. Yessir, I remember that
Carsten came in.”

“Come very often?”

“Well, not every day,” grinned Whitey. “He comes every month or so--him
and his limp. Yuh know, a horse or a cow stepped on him about six month
ago and busted his ankle.”

“Cow or a horse?” grinned Hashknife. “Don’t he know which it was?”

Whitey chuckled softly and helped himself to Hashknife’s cigaret
makings.

“I don’t think he knows. Yuh see, it was in the dark. They was loadin’
a train of stock out at the loadin’-corrals and Carsten was helpin’. He
sure hollered to beat ----. It kinda crippled him for a while.”

“Does he buy a lot of stock around here?”

“Yeah, I think he does--quite a little. Mostly from the Circle Cross,
though.”

“That’s what cuts down the profits on cattle--the freight,” observed
Hashknife. “By the time yuh pay for a lot of cars from here to Chicago,
yuh ain’t got much left.”

“They don’t pay the freight,” explained Whitey. “The buyer pays ’em so
much F. O. B. They’ve got to load ’em, of course. But I guess they get
a pretty good price, at that.”

“Are most of the cattle shipped from here?”

“No-o-o. Mostly everythin’ north of here ship from here, and the Flying
M and the Circle Cross ship quite a lot, but the last two Circle Cross
shipments went from the siding at Sandy, about five or six miles below
here.

“That siding was put in for the 66 outfit, so they tell me; but anybody
can use it. It’s about as close to the Circle Cross as this is, and if
they pick their cattle from the south range, it’s closer.”

“No town there?” queried Hashknife.

“Nope; not even a shed. Just a loading-corral, that’s all.”

A man came in to argue about an overdue express package, so Hashknife
sauntered back uptown. He stopped to speak with the sheriff, who was
filled with gloom over the fact that his deputy was _hors de combat_.

“Lonesome’s just plain drunk,” he announced. “He’s bad enough when he’s
sober. I found him and Edwards out in the street, with their boots off,
tickling each other’s feet. That’s a ---- of a thing for grown men to
do.”

Hashknife grinned widely and went back to his horse. He had tied the
Sharps rifle to the horn of his saddle and now he rode away with it
swinging in his hand. Instead of keeping to the road he turned into
the hills and rode straight toward the Tomahawk.

                   *       *       *       *       *

It was a broken country and he was forced to travel slowly, but it was
much safer than to take chances of being shot at on the road. He passed
the spot where he had picked up Poco’s trail that morning, and swung
wide around the coulée to come down at the west side of the Tomahawk.
He had no wish to take a chance on being shot at again, although he did
not expect the bushwhacker to be on the job again that day.

He came out on the brow of the hill and drew rein. There was no one in
sight at the ranch-house. The sun was low over the Western hills and the
air was filled with the lazy drone of insects. From down in the hills a
cow bawled softly.

Suddenly the drowsy gray bronco threw up its head, ears forward, as
it glanced almost at right angles, and to the east. Hashknife turned
quickly and looked in that direction.

About four hundred yards away, a man was crossing the ridge; a man who
stooped low in the sage and appeared to be carrying a rifle. He stopped
and appeared to turn in their direction.

Hashknife knew that the man had seen him; so he whirled his horse around
and spurred him into deeper cover. As Hashknife drew up he saw the man
running in the opposite direction, still running crouched over, and
disappeared over the ridge.

Hashknife debated quickly. This man was armed with a rifle, and if it
was the bushwhacker, he knew how to use it. He had a decided advantage
over Hashknife, because he could stop just beyond the ridge and wait
for Hashknife to come to him.

“He must ’a’ been just givin’ it up as a bad job,” decided Hashknife,
“and I caught him pullin’ out. C’mon, bronc.”

Hashknife rode back in the direction of the Tomahawk, but as soon as
he crossed the top of the ridge, he spurred his horse into a gallop
and cut the side of the hill toward where the man had disappeared.
This left another ridge between where Hashknife rode and where the
man had disappeared, and Hashknife felt sure that the man would not
dare to try and cross back to his original position on the slope to
the Tomahawk.

Hashknife rode about eight hundred yards along the side of the hill,
swung back near the top and dismounted, leaving his horse in a heavy
clump of greasewood. Cautiously he went to the top of the ridge and
studied every inch of the country.

To the right of him was the spot where the man had crossed the next
ridge, and Hashknife could see that the man had gone into a heavily
wooded coulée. Minute after minute passed, but still Hashknife’s eyes
studied every bit of brush in sight.

But there was nothing, except the heat-haze of late afternoon. Across
the coulée in a jumble of rocks a ground-hog whistled shrilly, angrily,
as the shadow of a circling hawk passed over the rocks.

Hashknife grinned and reached for his tobacco.

“Everybody’s gunnin’ for somethin’,” he said softly, “but a man is the
weakest of all, when it comes to knowin’ when to duck. The ground-hog
knows what to dodge, and that hawk ain’t got a chance to collect a feed.
I suppose I’d know how to dodge bullets, if my ancestors for several
hundred years back had been dodgin’ ’em a few times per day all their
lives.”

Suddenly he caught sight of a moving object far down the coulée to his
left. It was almost half a mile away, but he was able to see that it
was a man on a pinto horse. As Hashknife watched him he swung to the
right, climbed up a narrow coulée to the top of the ridge, where he
stood, silhouetted against the sky, for several moments. Then he rode
over the ridge and out of sight.

“Man on a pinto,” mused Hashknife. “Too far away for a shot with this
old gun, and, anyway, I don’t know that he’s the man I’m after.”

He watched for about five minutes longer and went back to his horse,
where he mounted and rode to the Tomahawk ranch-house.

They were all glad to see him, especially Sleepy, who was propped up
in a chair, trying to teach Lorna to roll cigarets for him. Jimmy, the
half-breed, was there but, like his aboriginal ancestors, did not ask
questions.

Hashknife explained to Sleepy what had happened to him after leaving
there that morning; told him of following Poco Saunders, and of seeing
the man on the pinto.

“Jimmy,” Hashknife turned to the half-breed, “who rides a pinto horse?”

Jimmy squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“Nobody, I guess. I have pinto long time ago, but him stole, I think.”

“Long time ago? How long is a long time, Jimmy?”

“T’ree, four month, I think.”

Lorna had been an interested listener, but now she exclaimed:

“Why, the man that shot Sleepy was riding a pinto! I did not think to
tell you before.”

“Pinto, pinto, who owns the pinto,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s no pinto
on the Circle Cross. Buck Avery rides a Roman-nosed buckskin and a
jug-headed roan. Poco has a sorrel and a bay; Trainor keeps four others
at the stable, but there ain’t a pinto in the outfit.”

“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “mother says I’ll be ridin’ in a day or so; and
we’ll find out who forks a painted bronc. You need me and my brains,
cowboy.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife grinned widely. “I sure need yuh, Sleepy.”

Lorna and her mother went into the kitchen and Sleepy motioned Hashknife
to come closer.

“I’ll tell yuh why Cassidy drew the deadline with the Circle Cross. It
was because Trainor came to see Lorna and made love to her. He got drunk
and bragged about it in Wolf Wells, it seems, and when Cassidy asked him
if he was goin’ to marry her--well, I reckon Trainor wasn’t.

“Lorna didn’t tell me, but her mother did. Smoky Cole came to see her a
few times, too; but Mrs. Cassidy says that Smoky was nice boy.”

Hashknife nodded slowly and looked straight at Sleepy.

“You ain’t stuck on her, are yuh, Sleepy?”

Sleepy rubbed his hand thoughtfully on his knee, avoiding Hashknife’s
eyes for a moment, but looked up and said:

“No. She’s goin’ to marry Ben Lanpher, if he gets loose. They’ve been
mighty good to me here, Hashknife. The old lady is a dinger, y’betcha.
My own mother couldn’t ’a’ done more for me than she has. If old
Cassidy don’t get acquitted, I’m goin’ down and blow a corner off that
jail. Gotta do somethin’ to show my appreciation.”

Hashknife stayed to supper and spent the evening with them. Bright
moonlight flooded the land when he started back for the Circle Cross,
so he headed into the hills in preference to taking a chance along the
lighted road. There were too many narrow places where a man might lie
in wait with a sawed-off shotgun.

He rode slowly along the moonlit ridges, through the misty-gray-blue
hills; silent, except for the occasional yipping bark of a coyote or
the sleepy bawl of a cow. From far away came the faint whistle of a
locomotive as the train drew near Wolf Wells.

Hashknife stopped his horse and rolled a cigaret. He could think clearer
with a cigaret between his lips. He had the glimmering of an idea--a
solution to the whole problem--but there were many tangles to straighten
out, many loose ends to pick up yet.

“Gawd A’mighty,” he said half-aloud. “I ain’t askin’ nothin’ for me and
Sleepy. That other two thousand that Lanpher offers us ain’t worth
prayin’ for, but if you can see yore way clear to keep them dirty pups
from fillin’ us with lead until I can clean up this layout, I sure wish
you’d do it. Amen. C’mon, bronc.”

Which was the nearest thing to a prayer that Hashknife Hartley had ever
offered--and it was not for himself or his partner--but for those who
would profit more than gold.

                   *       *       *       *       *

The trial of Ben Lanpher for the murder of Smoky Cole was the first case
on the docket and caused much speculation in the Ghost Hills Range. They
came from far and wide to sit in a hot, stuffy court-room and listen to
the bickerings of the attorneys. Mitchell, the San Francisco lawyer, had
worked swiftly in building up a defense, which he knew to be weak and
insufficient. His only argument would be that Ben was too drunk to have
done the deed.

There was no one who could say what kind of a bullet had killed Smoky
Cole. Lanpher had told Mitchell about the doings of the bushwhacking
rustlers, but Mitchell knew that there was little hopes of throwing
the guilt upon a party or parties unknown; especially after Ben’s hat
and gun had been found near the murdered man.

The fact that Ben and Smoky had tried to shoot each other in town, and
that Ben had left town ahead of Smoky, tended to weaken the defense
badly.

Eph Baker, the prosecuting attorney, chewed tobacco and grinned
benevolently upon everybody. Eph was fat, and the hot weather bothered
him considerably, but he realized that little effort would be necessary
to win this case. He had prepared a scathing denunciation of young men
who come to cowland and mix their whisky with six-guns.

It had cost him much in perspiration to prepare this tirade, but the
heart within him rejoiced that he would be directing his verbal
broadsides at “city-folk” and not at the people of the range country.
He felt sorry for the Lanpher family, and especially for the young
lady, but Eph was cognizant of his place in the sun and was going to
make a name for himself, in spite of his feelings.

Ben was a greatly changed young man since his few days in jail. He
realized what his escapades had done for him and there was little
doubt of his sincere repentance. His mother, sister and father sat at
the table with Mitchell, while just away from them sat Ben and the
sheriff.

Sleepy was able to sit in a saddle again and rode in with the family
from the Tomahawk. He was a little pale and had not regained his full
strength, but his six-gun swung at his hip and he prayed for an open
shot at the man who had shot him from ambush.

The sheriff had questioned Hashknife regarding Lorna’s identification
of the man, but Hashknife had evaded the question. Several other men,
who had been at that meeting, tried to find out who she had meant, but
Hashknife told nobody, except Trainor. The night after he had left the
Tomahawk he had met Trainor at the front of the ranch-house and had
told him what Lorna had said.

Trainor was very grave over the information, and tried to remember
some one who might look or ride like Buck Avery, but was unable to do
so. There seemed no doubt in his mind that Lorna was mistaken in the
man, because of Buck’s condition.

They both agreed to say nothing more about it. Buck’s spree was over
and he became a normal being once more. But Poco Saunders did not seem
to relax for a moment. Hashknife felt that Poco was keying himself up
to a point where he was going to kill somebody. Somehow, Hashknife felt
that Poco knew the guilty man--or thought he did--but was waiting until
he was sure.

And Hashknife had not been shot at for a day and a half, which showed
that the Fantom Riders, whoever they might be, had relaxed their
aggressiveness, or decided that he was a hard target to hit. Hashknife
was inclined to favor the former.

The first day of the trial was devoted to securing a jury. Few
challenges were used by either side, and the usual question-- “Have you
formed any opinion as to the guilt or innocence of the defendant?” was
omitted.

Every one conceded that it would be a short trial, because of there
being no witnesses, except those who had seen Ben Lanpher ride away
ahead of Smoky Cole. The old prospector had disappeared into the
hills and no one knew where he had gone. No one knew where he had
come from or who he was, and it was whispered that he might be one
of the rustling gang.

Hashknife rode home that evening with Trainor and Buck, while Sleepy
went back with the Cassidy family and Jimmy. The Lanphers had taken
rooms at the hotel, intending to stay there during the trial. Poco
remained in town, and Hashknife noticed that he was drinking a
little.

Trainor and Hashknife discussed the case on the way home, but Buck had
little to say.

“We’ve got to pull for Ben, thasall,” observed Trainor. “He’s up against
a hard deal and I don’t look for him to get loose.”

“If he gets loose, Cassidy won’t have much trouble,” observed Hashknife.
“Mitchell is goin’ to work from the angle that there was bushwhackin’
done before Smoky was killed and afterward. Mebbe he can convince that
jury that Ben had no hand in it at all.”

“He might,” agreed Trainor.

Later on, Hashknife asked Buck what had become of Carsten and Buck told
him that Carsten had stayed in town to see old man Shappee, but might be
out to the Circle Cross the next day. Buck was not very communicative,
so Hashknife let him alone. It was later in the evening that Poco came.
He had been drinking, but the liquor only served to make him more quiet.
Hashknife was outside the barn when Poco came out and they stood
together for a while without speaking.

“Poco,” said Hashknife seriously, “did you see the color of the horse
you trailed?”

“Color?” Poco studied the question for a while, before he nodded and
said--

“Yeah--a pinto.”

“Who rides a pinto?”

“I’ve been tryin’ to find out,” said Poco slowly.

Quong’s supper triangle stopped the conversation, and the trial was not
discussed at the meal. Trainor seemed greatly preoccupied, Buck a little
sullen and Poco quiet as usual.

Toward the end of the meal, Hashknife turned to Trainor.

“Why do they call this gang ‘The Fantom Riders?’ ”

Trainor laughed shortly.

“I suppose it’s because they work like ghosts, Hartley. Nobody has ever
seen ’em.”

“Has anybody ever tried to find ’em?”

Trainor leaned his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his hands.

“Tried to find ’em?” he repeated slowly, and laughed. “They sure have.”

“There ain’t much brains in the Ghost Hills, then,” observed Hashknife
slowly.

“What do you mean?” queried Trainor quickly, while Buck and Poco grew
interested. Hashknife grinned and pursed his lips.

“Just what I said,” he declared, squinting his eyes away from the smoke
of his cigaret.

“It takes brains to catch ghosts.”

“Mebbe you could catch ’em.” Buck’s remark was sarcastic, but Hashknife
merely laughed at him.

“Sure I could catch ’em--if it was worth my while.”

Trainor laughed and shook his head.

“I’m afraid they’d get you first, Hartley.”

“Thasso? They’ve sure done enough shootin’ at me. What I don’t
understand is how they ever hit anybody. Such poor shootin’ as they’ve
been doin’.”

Hashknife knew that the marksmanship had been good enough, but the
shooter had picked his targets at long range. Buck laughed shortly and
got to his feet.

“Well,” he said, “why don’t yuh go out and get ’em? It’ll be worth yore
while, I reckon. The ranchers would be willin’ to pay yuh well.”

“Go ahead,” grinned Trainor. “The Circle Cross will sure pay yuh a good
reward and the others will chip in.”

“By golly, I might, at that,” laughed Hashknife.

“Lemme know when yuh start in,” laughed Buck, “and I’ll pick out a soft
spot to bury yuh in, Hartley.”

They finished their supper and went outside. It was growing dark and a
slight breeze was blowing in from the north. A lone rider swung in
through the main gate and rode up to them. It was Jimmy, the half-breed,
and he spoke directly to Hashknife.

“You come.”

“What’s wrong now?” asked Hashknife quickly, thinking that the
bushwhackers had been busy again.

“You come,” repeated Jimmy and refused to say more.

Hashknife went straight to the barn and saddled his gray horse. Trainor
came down and offered to go with him, but Hashknife shook his head.

“I’ll find out what he wants, Trainor. Let yuh know later.”

They rode away with the three men watching after them, and went straight
down the road. Jimmy did not speak until they were past the forks and
heading toward Wolf Wells. Then he swung off the road to the right and
said--

“We go here.”

It was just a little below where Hashknife had trailed Poco. There was
no sign of a trail, but Jimmy went steadily on and into a brushy coulée
where willows and cottonwoods grew in profusion. A tiny stream trickled
over the rocks and on both sides the walls were almost precipitous. It
was not a spot that a rider would choose in cutting across the country.
The branches whipped Hashknife across the face in spite of their slow
and cautious pace.

Suddenly Jimmy stopped and Hashknife rode in beside him. They were up
against a brush corral. They dismounted and Jimmy led the way around
to where three poles had been placed across the opening.

And just in front of them, plainly visible even in that weak light,
stood a pinto horse. Hashknife studied the horse for a few moments and
turned to Jimmy.

“Is that your pinto?”

“Mine,” nodded Jimmy, “Tomahawk on left shoulder.”

“How did yuh find him, Jimmy?” Hashknife could not keep the elation out
of his voice, and he placed a hand on the half breed’s shoulder.

“I come through hills from town,” explained Jimmy. “Down there,”
pointing back toward the road, “I find horse tracks. Rain make soft
ground. Track point this way. I find ’nother horse track point this
way.

“I wonder why horse come in this cañon. That’s how I find. I come to you
first. That my pinto, you bet.”

“Good boy!” applauded Hashknife softly. “You’re the smartest man in the
Ghost Hills, Jimmy.”

“---- smart,” admitted Jimmy proudly. “Now I take my pinto.”

“Not yet,” said Hashknife. “We’ve got to leave him here for a while,
pardner. We know where he is, but we don’t want anybody else to know
that we know it; _sabe?_”

“---- right!” exclaimed Jimmy. “I’m smart.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if we’re both smart, we’d better get out of
here right now. C’mon.”

They went back to their horses, mounted and rode out of the cañon. Jimmy
headed for the road, but Hashknife called him back and advised that they
travel through the hills to the Tomahawk.

“Remember, they might be layin’ for us,” warned Hashknife. “We’ve got to
be smart--me and you, Jimmy.”

“You bet,” agreed Jimmy. “I’m smart. Sometime ---- fool. Jus’
alike--mos’ always.”

“And you said a lot of wise words,” laughed Hashknife.

They rode to the Tomahawk and Hashknife told Sleepy what they had found.
Sleepy grinned with delight and fairly hugged Jimmy, the half-breed.

“But,” said Hashknife sadly, “if that son-of-a-gun is as smart as he
seems to be, he’ll spot our horse-tracks. Yuh can’t get into that place
without leavin’ plenty of sign.”

“Well, what’ll we do?” asked Sleepy.

“Be Johnny at the rat-hole,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ve got to be there
when he finds the tracks, Sleepy. We’ll pull out of here before daylight
and kinda drape ourselves on the edge of that cañon.

“We’ll take that old Sharps along, and I’ll bet he’ll stop foolin’
folks. You feelin’ well enough for rough work, or do yuh reckon yuh
better stay here and keep warm?”

“You try to stop me!” snapped Sleepy angrily.

“Pretty ---- well,” stated the old squaw. “Good man--git well quick.”

Sleepy took several naps during the night, but Hashknife huddled in a
chair and smoked innumerable cigarets. The discovery of the hidden horse
had simplified things to a great extent. It meant that the bushwhackers
had stolen the pinto and were using him for their work, instead of using
their own horses, which might be easy of identification.

All night long Hashknife puzzled over different things, trying to
untangle a web of suspicions and bring them to a point where he could
work upon a reasonable basis. There was nothing definite upon which to
rest his suspicions, but he had the glimmering of an idea that might,
if things worked out right, bring results.

                   *       *       *       *       *

He woke Sleepy about two hours before daylight and they rode into the
hills. To satisfy their own curiosity that the pinto had not been
removed they went to the brush corral and looked at the animal.

Then they went back to the side of the cañon, hid their horses and sat
down to wait. Daylight came, but nothing else. At nine o’clock they were
both tired of the vigil. Both of them were to appear at the trial, and
they felt that the pinto would not be moved that day, so they mounted
and rode through the hills to Wolf Wells.

Trainor, Carsten and Lanpher were together in the Antelope saloon when
Hashknife and Sleepy arrived. Trainor invited them to have a drink, and
afterward he and Carsten drifted away together.

Lanpher was frankly worried about the trial, although he tried to appear
unconcerned. Hashknife drew him aside and they sat down together at a
vacant card-table.

“I want to ask yuh a few questions,” said Hashknife easily. “You handle
the business end of the Circle Cross, don’t yuh?”

“Yes,” nodded Lanpher, “I handle most of it.”

“How many head of cattle have you lost?”

Lanpher grimaced bitterly and shook his head.

“I don’t know exactly, Hartley. The last roundup showed a big loss. I
have talked with several other owners and they have lost more or less,
but I think that we have been hit harder than any of them. Of course,
we were the largest owners.”

“You ought to be able to make a good guess at what you’ve lost,”
observed Hashknife. “You’d get a pretty fair count at the roundup, and
you know how much you’ve sold.”

Lanpher drew out a note-book and pencil, and, after making a few notes,
tore out the page and handed it to Hashknife.

“There is the sales for this year, Hartley. I’ll get the approximate
roundup count from Trainor and give it to you later. He will know
exactly what we started with, and what the average increase would
be.

“I have never attended to that end of the thing because I have been
too busy with my other interests. I am not a practical cattle-man, but
Trainor knows every phase of the business, and will be able to furnish
you with facts.”

Hashknife glanced at the notes and put the paper in his pocket.

“I’ve got to check up on the amounts, or the approximate amounts of
stolen stock, so as to get some idea of the bulk these thieves had to
handle,” he told Lanpher.

“Good idea,” nodded Lanpher indifferently, as he got to his feet. “Court
is about to open, I think.”

He walked away toward the court room, and Hashknife sauntered down the
street to the depot. Whitey Anderson was tilted back in an old chair,
his feet on the table and a cob-pipe between his teeth.

“Howdy,” he greeted Hashknife. “Come in and rest your feet. How come you
ain’t at the trial?”

“Danged place is too stuffy,” grinned Hashknife, seating himself on the
counter beside the clattering telegraph instrument.

“I probably won’t be called before afternoon, anyway.”

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and listened to the clicking sounder,
although he did not understand the difference between a dot and a dash.

“Say, I got into a kind of a mix-up over a darned telegram,” he told
Whitey. “Along about the tenth of this month I sent a telegram to a
certain party here in Wolf Wells and he swears he never got it.”

“Swears he didn’t?”

Whitey twisted the pipe-stem between his teeth and looked foolishly
solemn.

“Swears he didn’t get it, eh?”

“Yeah,” Hashknife nodded seriously. “I think the darned jug-head got
it all right, but didn’t want to answer it. Telegrams don’t get lost,
do they, Whitey?”

“Hm-m-m! Might--but they don’t very often. About the tenth, eh? Who was
it sent to, Hartley?”

“Well, I don’t want to say,” laughed Hashknife, “but if I knowed for
sure, I’d make him a little bet that he got it.”

“By golly, I’d know if he got it.”

Whitey got to his feet rather belligerently.

Hashknife laughed softly.

“Don’t get mad, Whitey, but this feller said that you’d likely got drunk
and lost it.”

“Is that so!”

Whitey slammed his pipe down on the counter and drew a bulky,
flimsy-leafed volume from under the counter-top. He began flipping
over the leaves, grunting to himself, while Hashknife peered over his
shoulders, scanning the imprint of the telegrams.

Page after page flipped past, until certain dates caused Whitey to scan
them closer. Carefully they looked them over.

“Did yuh sign your own name?” asked Whitey, going back over certain
dates carefully.

“Yeah, I sure did,” said Hashknife, his eyes shining with sudden
delight.

“Well--” Whitey slapped the book shut and tossed it back under the
counter-- “Well, it never came to this office, Hartley--That’s a cinch.
Where did yuh send it from?”

“Phoenix,” lied Hashknife. “Dang it, I thought this feller just didn’t
want to admit it, but I guess it got lost.”

“Well, you can tell him that I didn’t lose it,” said Whitey
half-angrily. “And you can tell him that I’ve only been drunk twice
since I came here.”

“Aw, don’t mind him,” laughed Hashknife. “He was drunk when he said it.”

Hashknife wandered back uptown, sat down on the board sidewalk and
scribbled a few words on the back of an old envelope. He seemed pleased
with himself, as he softly sang:

    “I loved a maiden, whose hair was like go-o-old,
    And her eyes were as blue as the se-e-e-ea.
    She said she’d be tr-r-r-rue,
    But didn’t say who to-o-o.
    I know now that she didn’t mean me-e-e-e.

    Oh, I’m goin’ to Montana,
    The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
    But a trail’s always shorter
    When I’m singin’ my so-o-ong.”

Hashknife wailed that last soft note and grinned at his own efforts. He
was not musical. In fact, he hardly knew the difference between “Home,
Sweet Home” and “Little Brown Jug,” except for the difference in words.

And it was not often that Hashknife sang; but just now he felt that
he was entitled to lift his voice in song. Trainor was coming up the
sidewalk with old man Shappee and Hashknife joined them. They were
going to a restaurant; so Hashknife went along.

“You won’t have to be a witness,” said Trainor, as they sat down.
“The sheriff and Lonesome testified about findin’ the body, and told
about you bein’ with them. It would only be a case of repeatin’ the
testimony.”

“I don’t reckon that the prisoner has got a chance in the world,”
declared Shappee. “I never seen such a weak defense as he’s got. By
---- I feel sorry for Lanpher; but I’d have to convict him, if I was
on that jury.”

“Looks bad for him,” agreed Trainor. “It looks bad.”

“Well, it’s just so danged weak that the case will go to the jury in
the mornin’,” said Shappee. “It ain’t what you’d call interestin’. Eph
Baker’s got a cinch case and he knows it.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “yuh never can tell.”

“No, that’s a fact. Cow-country juries are funny things.”

After lunch Trainor drew Hashknife aside and tried to find out why
Jimmy, the half-breed, came after him; but Hashknife only laughed and
told him that Sleepy had sent for him.

“Jimmy made it look like somethin’ important,” grinned Hashknife, “but
it wasn’t.”

Trainor lifted his eyebrows slightly, as if in disbelief, but Hashknife
said nothing more. Carsten limped up from the courtroom and announced
his intentions of getting some food, and in a few minutes court
adjourned and Sleepy joined Hashknife.

The Lanpher family came along together and Hashknife noticed that Mrs.
Lanpher had been crying. He went to them and tried to laugh away their
fears.

“There ain’t nothin’ as bad as it looks,” he told her. “You keep on
grinnin’, ma’am.”

“There seems to be little cause for smiles,” said Helen wistfully.
“Everything is wrong.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, ma’am; that’s the wrong way to think. Down deep in yore heart you
know danged well that Ben didn’t do it. He knows he didn’t; but when he
looks at yuh and sees yuh cryin’ and looking gosh-awful sad--well, he
kinda figures that yuh ain’t with him.

“Cryin’ is fine sometimes,” Hashknife turned to Mrs. Lanpher, as though
half-apologizing. “Yessir, it sure helps once in a while. But if you
needed help real bad, would yuh expect to get it from a cryin’ person or
one that smiles?”

“I can see your point,” said Mrs. Lanpher sadly, but trying to smile.

“Certainly, we all can,” said Lanpher.

Mrs. Cassidy, the squaw, Lorna and Jimmy were coming from the courtroom
and the Lanphers moved aside to let them pass on the narrow sidewalk.

Lorna stopped and looked at Mrs. Lanpher.

“Why do you cry?” she asked softly. “Are you afraid?”

Mrs. Lanpher forced a smile as she shook her head.

“I am trying to not be afraid, child.”

Lorna nodded and looked up at Hashknife.

“We are not afraid, are we?”

It was not what she said or the way she said it that made Hashknife
stutter his reply of--

“Yuh--yuh bet we ain’t, Lorna.”

She smiled around at them and hurried to catch up with her mother, while
the Lanphers looked after her.

“There’s the prettiest girl in the world,” declared Hashknife aloud,
although he had meant to say it only to himself. Sleepy was looking
queerly at him and Hashknife blushed hotly.

“Was Ben really going to marry her?” asked Helen.

“Is going to,” corrected Sleepy.

“Not if I can prevent it,” declared Lanpher quickly.

“Which you can’t,” smiled Hashknife.

Trainor and Carsten joined them; so Hashknife and Sleepy walked down the
street and crossed over to the Antelope saloon, where they found Poco
and Buck Avery. Poco was drinking steadily, but the whisky showed little
effect on him.

Several poker-games were in progress, and in a few minutes Carsten
and Trainor came in and took seats in a game. Carsten spoke to Poco,
but only received a black look for his courtesy. Poco was in no mood
for companionship.

Hashknife and Sleepy stayed around town for an hour or so, but did not
go to the courtroom. The place was crowded to the doors and the sun beat
down on the old frame building with great intensity.

Poco watched them mount and ride back toward the ranch and in a few
minutes he mounted and went out of town, sitting very straight in spite
of all he had drunk during the day.

Hashknife and Sleepy went straight to the brush corral and found the
pinto still there. It was evident that the Fantom Riders were not
aware that their hidden mount had been discovered--or perhaps they
did not care.

“Mebbe they’ve found out that we know about the pinto and will quit
comin’ here,” suggested Sleepy.

“They might, but I don’t believe it,” said Hashknife. “Somethin’ caused
’em to lay off us for a while; but they’ll be back. They won’t lay off
us until they’re behind the bars or we’re under the grass.”

“I’ll choose the latter,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve always wished to
have ‘Grandpaw’ carved on my tombstone. But I s’pose I’ll poke my nose
into trouble along with you until somebody’ll select me a tenor-harp,
which won’t match my sopranner voice a-tall.”

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, I don’t reckon we’re born to be shot, Sleepy. We’ve been shot at
with everythin’ except a bow and arrows, ain’t we?”

“And sling-shots,” laughed Sleepy. “But some danged poor shot will nail
us both with a .22 some of these days. That’s fate, old-timer.”

“Well, we ain’t learnin’ nothin’ by settin’ here,” said Hashknife,
getting to his feet. He looked down at the brush corral and scanned
the gray hills, where the heat-haze danced in waves.

“I’ll tell yuh what to do, Sleepy. You go back to the Tomahawk and get a
good sleep. Take it easy until an hour or so before daylight. Then you
take that old Sharps rifle and come down here. Locate yourself where yuh
can watch this pinto; _sabe?_”

“And if anybody comes after it, I’ll shoot ’em loose from their
disposition,” nodded Sleepy eagerly.

“Make sure that it ain’t me, cowboy.”

“Well, I’ll sure know the shape of his jaw before I pull the trigger of
that old dreadnaught, y’betcha. What are you goin’ to do, Hashknife?”

“I’m goin’ to the Circle Cross for the night; but you’ll sure see me or
hear from me early in the mornin’. You better stick to the hills all the
way home, Sleepy.”

“Danged right. I’ve only got one life to give for my country, and I’m
sure goin’ to be stingy with that. Look out for yourself, long feller.”

Hashknife watched Sleepy ride away up the brushy slope, and swung back
across the swale at the bottom of the corral cañon. He rode slowly,
skirting the side of the hill until he reached the other swale above
the road, where he had trailed Poco Saunders.

Near the cottonwood clump he dismounted and looked closely at the
ground. There were a number of horse-tracks, jumbled together; some
hardly visible, which were made before the rain.

Hashknife studied them closely, leading his horse from place to place.
Then he found the imprint of a high-heeled boot, where a man had
dismounted.

“Now what did he get off for?” wondered Hashknife as he scanned the
swale.

The clump of old cottonwoods attracted him, so he led his horse down
toward them. Farther down he found another heel-print, pointing toward
the trees.

He walked up to the clump, dropped his reins and looked around. There
was nothing visible. He entered the clump and studied it from all
angles. The road was not visible from any point in there.

“They didn’t hide here to bushwhack anybody, that’s a cinch,” he
muttered. “Smoky was probably shot from the other side of the road,
and Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot from that direction.”

Hashknife rolled a cigaret and leaned against the bole of one of the
trees. As he passed the paper across his lips he lifted his head and
glanced into the foliage. For a moment he stared intently and the
cigaret slipped from between his fingers.

Just about the height of a man’s reach, hanging closely against the
gray bark of the old cottonwood, was a rifle in a canvas and leather
scabbard. It was so nearly the color of the old bark that it would
hardly be visible, unless seen at close quarters.

Hashknife stepped over and unhooked the strap off the short limb. The
rifle was a Winchester, .30-30, wrapped in oiled cloth, and filled
with cartridges. He examined it closely and noted the peep sights, the
well-kept mechanism and the polished bore.

Then he took out his pocket-knife, opened the screw-driver blade and
grinned widely as he deftly ruined the firing-pin. Then he wrapped the
gun in its oiled cloth, slid it back into the scabbard and replaced it
as he had found it.

He went back to his horse, mounted and circled back a mile into the
hills before striking the road and heading for the Circle Cross. And
for the first time since coming to the Ghost Hills Range, he relaxed
in his saddle and sang softly, all unconscious of his words or music:

    “There’s a range far away in a beautiful land,
    Where cowboys live happy and free-e-e;
    And all decks have six aces
    All the girls’ pretty faces,
    O-o-oh, that is the land for me-e-e-e.

    I’m goin’ to Montana,
    The trail’s mighty long-g-g,
    But a trail’s always shorter,
    When I’m singin’ my song.”

                   *       *       *       *       *

Trainor came to the ranch alone that evening. He said that Buck had
started drinking again and would probably stay in Wolf Wells that
night. The case had gone to the jury that afternoon.

“You’ve got to give Eph Baker a lot of credit,” said Trainor, as they
sat down to supper.

“He didn’t make any plea. He knows that the case is a dead
open-and-shut; so he told the judge and jury that he would not make
any plea. Mitchell had little to say.

“He talked kinda soft to the jury and asked them to remember that murder
had been done from ambush twice just a short time before, and had been
attempted since.

“He pointed out the fact that Ben was just a wild kid and was drunk at
the time. No, Mitchell didn’t have no defense to speak of.”

“Then you think they’ll hang the kid?” queried Hashknife.

“No-o-o; they’ll likely send him up for life.”

“Life’s a long time,” mused Hashknife, sadly. “Didja ever think what
that means, Trainor? It don’t even give yuh a fightin’ chance. Day
after day, day after day--knowin’ that yuh can’t ever get out.”

“Feller had better die fightin’,” nodded Trainor.

“Yeah, that would be better. But what’s after death? Do we go into a
better world, I wonder. I often wonder if cows and horses live in the
hereafter.”

“That’s a ---- of a thing to think about,” grunted Trainor. “Man would
go loco tryin’ to think about it. My theory is this: When yore dead,
yore dead--and that’s all there is to it.”

“Then what’s the use of livin’ and tryin’ to make somethin’ of yourself,
Trainor? What good does it all do yuh? Nossir, I think that there’s
somethin’ else.”

“Why should there be?” growled Trainor.

“Because God had somethin’ in mind when he created man. He gave men and
women a soul--or whatever it is that makes us what we are. Where does
that go when the body dies? Does it die, too? You believe in God, don’t
yuh, Trainor?”

Trainor shoved away his plate and bit off the end of a cigar before he
said:

“I’ve never had time to believe in anythin’ that I can’t see. Whatcha
tryin’ to do, start a revival?”

“Only what yuh can see?” laughed Hashknife. “Then yuh don’t believe
you’ve got a heart inside yuh, eh?”

“----, I can feel that!”

“Some folks claim they can feel God A’mighty.”

“Aw-w-w ----!”

Trainor kicked back his chair and strode into the living-room, while
Hashknife grinned at Quong and held out his cup for more coffee.

Quong grinned and shuffled over with the pot.

“I no _sabe_ Melican God,” he said softly. “I _sabe_ Chinese God, you
bet. Plenty good.”

“They’re all the same, Quong. Do right all the time, help everybody,
sing and smile. That’s God, Quong.”

“You ---- right! You be plenty bad, you catch ---- sure.”

“And yuh don’t have to die to get it either.”

“Nossah. Plenty catchum lite here.”

Hashknife grinned and followed Trainor into the living room, where he
found the Circle Cross owner humped over in a rocking-chair, reading a
newspaper. He grunted at Hashknife, but did not look up.

“When does the sheriff start his posse combin’ the hills?” asked
Hashknife.

Trainor glanced up at him, but turned back to his paper.

“How do I know?” he growled.

“I just wondered.”

Hashknife walked to the front door and squinted off across the hills. He
leaned against the doorway and looked back at Trainor.

“Say, I’ll betcha he don’t never do it, Trainor.”

“Eh?”

Trainor turned his head quickly.

“Why won’t he?”

Hashknife laughed shortly, seriously.

“Trainor, I’ve come to the conclusion that the best thing I can do is to
plumb ruin these Fantom Riders.”

“Yeah?”

Trainor placed his newspaper on the table and swung his chair around.
Hashknife’s statement was worth his undivided attention, but the
half-grin on his lips showed that he was a trifle skeptical.

“Just how do you intend to do this, Hartley?” he asked.

“By exposing the Fantom Riders.”

Trainor squinted closely at Hashknife, as if trying to see if he was
joking; but the tall cowboy’s face was very serious.

“Yeah?” Trainor laughed shortly. “Well, just how are you goin’ to do
that?”

“I ain’t quite sure,” Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and shook his head.
“I’ve got the goods on ’em right now, but I don’t want to tell anybody
until I get set.”

“Got the goods on ’em, eh? Tell me a little about it.”

“Nope. I ain’t just sure enough yet, but I’ll make yuh a little bet
that by this time tomorrow everybody’ll know who’s been doin’ all the
stealin’ and shootin’ around here.”

“That’s worth a bet,” smiled Trainor, “but the odds are all against yuh,
Hartley.”

“I’ll bet even money,” said Hashknife firmly. “I’ve got five hundred
dollars that says I’m right. If you want to cover that amount--go
ahead.”

Trainor laughed and shook his head.

“Not until I know more than I do now. You seem to think you have a
cinch, and I never bet against a cinch.”

“No, it ain’t a cinch, Trainor. I think I know who has been doin’ the
shootin’; and the man or men who have been doin’ the shootin’ are the
same ones that have been doin’ the rustlin’. Tomorrow mornin’ I’m goin’
to ask a few questions in Wolf Wells, and what I learn will either cinch
the case against ’em or bust my theory entirely.”

“Well--” Trainor turned back to the newspaper--“I wish yuh luck,
Hartley.”

“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife and clumped down the steps, going to the
bunk-house.

For a long time he sat on his bunk in the dark bunk-house, humped over
with his elbows on his knees, thinking of what he was going to do.
Piece by piece he knitted the elusive evidence together; his lean jaws
shut tightly, as he debated just what to do.

In all the years that he and Sleepy had untangled range mysteries and
troubles, this was the most fiendish outfit they had ever tried to run
to earth. The cattle stealing end of the thing was on a par with any
rustling trouble, except the clever way in which it had been done; but
the fact that three men had died from ambush; shot from behind,
without a chance to protect themselves, while others had almost lost
their lives, made it entirely different from anything they had ever
encountered.

“They don’t deserve a trial,” muttered Hashknife. “Killin’ ain’t bad
enough. I can forgive a rustler, but I can’t stand for a dirty
murderer.”

Neither Buck nor Poco showed up that night, which was not surprizing,
and Trainor rode away fairly early, after asking Hashknife if he was
going to town with him.

Hashknife was in no hurry. He cleaned his six-shooter carefully, put on
a clean shirt after shaving and took his time about saddling his horse.
Then he rode away unhurried. At the forks of the road he turned toward
the right, as if heading for the Tomahawk, spurring his gray into a
gallop.

But as soon as he galloped around the first curve he reined off the
road and pointed into the hills, circling toward where he had found the
hidden rifle. Here he was forced to slow down to a walk on account of
the rough going.

It was an ideal morning. The early morning mists were still rising up
the sides of the gray hills; a meadow-lark warbled from the cottonwoods,
and a flock of turtledoves, like fast-moving shadows, hurtled past on
their way to a water-hole.

The gray horse threw up its head in alarm when a long-legged jack-rabbit
bounded from under a sagebush, jigged a few times to loosen up its kinks
and faded away into the protective coloring.

But Hashknife was not considering the beauties of nature just then. He
rode very straight in his saddle, his six-shooter swinging loose in his
right hand, while his eyes searched every movement on the brush-lined
hills.

He was nearing the clump of trees in the little swale now, and the gray
had slowed down to a slow walk. Once he drew up and made a motion, as if
to dismount, but did not.

Suddenly a shot crashed out. The gray jerked back and Hashknife
instinctively ducked. There was a brushy ridge between him and the
shooter. For a moment Hashknife thought the shot had been fired at
him, but the next moment came the spattering reports, as two guns
opened a rapid fire.

Hashknife’s first thought was that Sleepy had engaged the enemy.
Forgetful of all danger to himself he spurred the gray into a lunging
run and swept over the ridge and into the swale, circling wide above
the clump of trees.

The tall gray hurdled sage and greasewood, like a born hunter. Suddenly
a horse came sweeping into them, its rider crouched low. Both horses
were running at full speed, crossing each other at almost right-angles.

Two six-guns spat bullets at almost the same moment, and Hashknife felt
the hot sear of a bullet across the side of his neck. A swift sidewise
glance showed the other rider sway in the saddle, but the next instant
horse and rider swept out of sight.

Hashknife tried to stop his lunging mount, but only managed to stop
it almost against the grove of cottonwoods. He whirled in his saddle
and tried to catch a glimpse of the other rider, but in vain. The
gray hills had swallowed him up.

A moment before, two wild riders had almost crashed into each other;
both had fired with the intent to kill. Now a meadow-lark winged its
way into the quiet swale and lifted its voice in song.

Hashknife felt tenderly of his neck and got stiffly out of his saddle.
Lying just a few feet away was the .30-30 rifle and around it was
scattered four unexploded cartridges.

Hashknife smiled grimly and climbed back into his saddle, leaving the
gun where he found it. He jerked out the empty shell from his gun and
replaced it with a fresh one.

Then he spurred into a gallop again and went straight for the spot where
he had told Sleepy to meet him. And the faithful Sleepy was right there,
fairly bursting to know the meaning of those shots.

“---- it, I stayed here,” he wailed. “I’m never where there’s anythin’
goin’ on. What and who was it, Hashknife?”

“Get on yore bronc and come on,” ordered Hashknife and Sleepy lost no
time in following orders.

They spurred down out of the hills and headed for town before Hashknife
yelled back at him:

“Shake up yore old coyote-bait, cowboy. I just swapped lead with Poco
Saunders and I want to beat him to Wolf Wells.”

“Poco Saunders!” yelled Sleepy. “Didja hit him?”

“I hope not. I swapped before I thought.”

“Hope not?” panted Sleepy, trying to urge his horse to greater speed in
hopes of keeping up with the racing gray. “Why in ---- do yuh hope not,
Hashknife?”

“I’ll tell yuh in town,” yelled back the lanky one.

                   *       *       *       *       *

Trainor met the Lanpher family at the hotel. Carsten was with them, and
they were anxiously waiting for news of the jury which had been locked
up all night, battling out the fate of Ben Lanpher.

Many of the ranchers and cowboys were still in town, anxious to know
the verdict, and the Lily of the Valley and the Antelope saloons had
profited greatly thereby.

There was an air of utter despair about the Lanpher family. They
realized that nothing short of a miracle could save Ben from paying
the extreme penalty for the crime.

The fact that the jury was still battling for a verdict showed that some
of the members were unconvinced one way or the other. Lanpher paced the
short lobby of the little hotel, his lips twitching nervously, paying no
attention to the words of comfort from Carsten and Trainor.

Mrs. Lanpher and Helen sat together, staring out of the dusty window,
seemingly resigned to their fate, speaking to no one. Mrs. Cassidy, the
squaw, and Lorna had stayed at the hotel, awaiting the verdict, and now
they came down the narrow stairway, scanning the faces of the group, as
though wondering what the morning was to bring.

Trainor spoke to Lorna, but she did not look at him. After a glance
around the room she went straight to Mrs. Lanpher and Helen, who looked
up at her.

“You worry too much,” said Lorna softly, and then, as though imparting a
great truth:

“Sleepy says to not worry. Everything come out right pretty soon.”

Trainor and Carsten moved in closer.

“Who is Sleepy?” queried Mrs. Lanpher.

“Oh, just a cowpuncher,” said Trainor. “He is a friend of Hartley, who
works for us, Mrs. Lanpher.”

“Just a cowboy?” Lorna spoke softly and looked straight at Trainor.

“That’s all he is,” Trainor seemed slightly angry, and turned away, as
if to dismiss the argument.

Lorna turned to Mrs. Lanpher.

“I don’t know why he says that everything will come out right. He
says--” Lorna smiled softly--“that you’ll always have good luck when
you find a pinto horse.”

“Pinto horse?” asked Lanpher, ceasing his restless pacing of the floor.
“What about a pinto?”

Trainor and Carsten were looking at Lorna, but she did not turn away
from Mrs. Lanpher.

“I do not understand,” said Mrs. Lanpher. “How can a pinto horse bring
one good luck?”

Lorna shook her head seriously.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Lanpher.”

Trainor laughed sarcastically.

“Indian superstition, Mrs. Lanpher,” he assured her.

“That ---- lie!” grunted Mrs. Cassidy blandly, and Trainor’s face went
black with rage at the retort.

“Well,” Lanpher laughed shortly, “Mrs. Cassidy should be a judge of
that, Trainor. Personally, I hope that a pinto is good luck. There
doesn’t seem to be much luck for us here.”

Trainor bit savagely at his underlip and strode out of the door,
with Carsten going out behind him. They crossed to the Antelope and
disappeared. Mitchell, the lawyer, came in and sat down.

“Nothing from the jury-room,” he said wearily. “They seem to be at
odds over something. They are a hard-headed lot of cattle-men, and I
feel that we shall get the benefit of any doubt. Still, our defense
was so weak; so weak that the prosecution was content to send the
case to a jury on our own evidence and plea.”

Lanpher blinked painfully and walked to the door. Mrs. Lanpher was
crying softly and Mrs. Cassidy was looking at her, with a face as
immobile as bronze. Then she said:

“You lose boy--you cry. Mebbe I lose husban’--I no cry. Too ---- much
cry; not ’nough laugh.”

Lanpher had been leaning out, looking down the street, and now he turned
back to those inside the lobby.

“The jury has reached a verdict,” he half-whispered, and there was a
decided catch in his voice, as he added--

“We--we’ll know it all very soon.”

Lonesome Hobbs came puffing up to the door and nodded violently.

“They--they’ve agreed,” he panted. “I--I guess they gug-got hungry.”

He turned and bow-legged his way across the street to notify every
one, while those in the hotel lobby went slowly down to the courtroom;
anxious, but still afraid to hear what the decision might be.

The courtroom filled rapidly. Trainor and Carsten took seats at the
table with the Lanpher family, and in a few minutes the sheriff brought
Ben in the rear door. Ben was pale and appeared nervous, jerky. He sat
down beside the sheriff and stared straight at the wall, ignoring the
sheriff’s attempt at conversation.

The courtroom buzzed with subdued conversation which ceased quickly
when the gray-haired judge came in and sat down at his desk. The judge
appeared tired and worn as he looked down at the prisoner and scanned
the room.

Then with a slow tread the jury filed in past the judge and sat down.
Every eye in the room was upon them, and they seemed carefully to avoid
looking at the prisoner who, after a searching glance, bowed his head.

The judge rapped softly for order, and turned to the jury.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a decision?”

Caleb Hardy, a raw-boned cattleman from the west side of the county, got
slowly to his feet, holding a folded paper in his two big hands.

“Judge, we have,” he said slowly, the lines of his face deepening, as
he looked at the paper. “Yeah, we have. It’s all wrote out on this here
paper.”

He stepped slowly across the intervening space and handed it to the
judge. The room was so still that one might hear the buzzing of flies
on the window-panes, as the judge unfolded the paper and read it. For
a moment he looked at the rear of the room, his eyes half-closed. Then
he looked down at Ben Lanpher and said softly--

“Ben Lanpher, stand up.”

Ben glanced up at him for several moments before he got slowly to his
feet, his hands resting on the table-top. The judge looked down at the
paper and read aloud--

“We, the jury, find Ben Lanpher guilty of murder in the first degree.”

The paper slid from his fingers and he shut his eyes, as if he did not
want to see how Ben Lanpher took the blow.

Ben stared at him, turned his head and looked out across the silent
crowd, his jaw set tight. Mrs. Lanpher began crying bitterly, and Ben
stared at her, as if he did not understand what it was all about. Then
he sat down and leaned forward on his folded arms, while the sheriff
patted him on the back and tried to say words that would not come from
his lips.

The judge turned to the jury.

“Gentlemen, is this your verdict?”

They nodded slowly, and the foreman said hoarsely--

“Judge, it was all we could do.”

Trainor got up and crossed to Ben, offering his sympathy and hope; but
Ben did not look up. Lanpher shoved Trainor aside and threw an arm
around the boy’s shoulder.

The room had been silent, as the audience watched every move of the main
actors in the drama, but now there came the scrape of a footstep at the
front door and Buck Avery came in. He started for the front of the room,
but some one caught hold of him, whispering for him to be still.

But Buck struck the hand aside and started down the aisle, just as the
rear door swung open and Hashknife and Sleepy came in. As intent as the
audience was on the prisoner, they gave more than passing interest to
these two cowboys, who had used the private entrance to get into the
room.

Hashknife and Sleepy stopped near the judge’s desk and looked over
the room. Lorna and her mother looked at them and they both smiled.
Buck had halted about midway of the room in the center aisle, as if
undecided what to do.

“Ben Lanpher, stand up,” said the judge hoarsely.

Ben did not hear him and the sheriff repeated the order. Ben stood
up, his hand on his father’s shoulder, and looked straight at the
grave-faced old judge.

“Ben Lanpher, you have been found guilty of murder in the first degree,
and it is the duty of this court to carry out that verdict. Is there any
reason why I should not pronounce sentence upon you here and now?”

Ben looked away from the judge and down at his father.

“No,” Ben shook his head. “I--I guess--not.”

“There is a reason, judge.”

Hashknife had spoken softly, but his voice carried to the far end of the
room like a trumpet.

The judge turned and looked at him in amazement. Eph Baker, the
prosecutor, was on his feet in a moment.

“I object to this!” he snapped. “What right ----”

“There’s a mighty good reason, judge,” said Hashknife slowly, never
taking his eyes off the crowd.

“If you’ll let me, I’ll tell yuh why. If yuh won’t, I’ll tell it
anyway.”

“I protest against this interference,” insisted Baker, appealing to the
judge, who was staring at the cowboys.

“Set down, you fat hoptoad,” laughed Sleepy, and Baker’s teeth snapped
angrily.

“Well, it is irregular,” hesitated the judge, “but ----”

Mitchell was already on his feet and before the judge.

“Let him talk, your honor,” he begged. “It is a God-sent interference,
if they have evidence.”

“Little bright-eyes over there is havin’ a fit,” said Sleepy, pointing
at Eph Baker, who was struggling to swallow his anger.

Some one in the audience laughed cacklingly and a ripple of laughter
followed. The Lanpher family were staring at Hashknife and Sleepy,
as if afraid that something would interfere with their last-minute
assistance.

“The court will listen,” decided the judge, and there was evident relief
in his voice.

“I’m sure much obliged,” said Hashknife slowly. “We’re sorry to be so
late--but better late than never.”

He cleared his throat and hooked his thumbs over his sagging belt, while
Sleepy moved back until he was against the judge’s desk.

“You’ve all heard about the Fantom Riders,” said Hashknife, a half-grin
on his lips.

There was a perceptible movement in the crowd, a shuffling of feet, the
clink of a spurred heel.

“And you’ve all lost more or less stock,” continued Hashknife. “It’s
been a mystery where them cows went to. The Circle Cross lost a lot
of cows; so Mr. Lanpher decided to hire a cattle detective, and gave
him work as a cowpuncher.

“The Fantom Riders killed him. They hired another. Pinto Cassidy is
charged with his murder, because he was killed on the Tomahawk ranch.
Yuh see,” Hashknife grinned, “Pinto Cassidy drew a dead-line between
his ranch and the Circle Cross.

“Mr. Lanpher kinda run out of detectives. There wasn’t much use, it
seemed. The criminals got wise to ’em as soon as they showed up, and
a feller ain’t got much chance to stay in the game when men shoot
from the brush.

“Me and my pardner--” Hashknife pointed at Sleepy--“We hired out to lay
the ghosts. Nobody, except Lanpher, knew who we were. He hired us in San
Francisco, and we sneaked in here without any brass bands. Not a danged
soul knowed who we were--but they started shootin’ at us right away.”

Hashknife shifted his feet and his eyes narrowed a trifle. His smile was
all gone now. Even Ben Lanpher had forgotten that he was a condemned
murderer, and was watching and listening.

“They even mistook Jimmy, the half-breed, for me, and plugged him in the
arm. They sure wasted a lot of lead and got little results. They plugged
Sleepy once.

“I wondered how they spotted us so quick. I hired out to the Circle
Cross, after Smoky Cole, the foreman, had been killed. Of course, Ben
Lanpher was arrested for that killin’.

“I think I know why Smoky was killed, folks. Smoky was a hard drinker, a
man who didn’t want to be bossed, and he might--talk.”

“Wait just a moment,” interrupted Baker. “Is this all guess work on your
part? If you have proven facts ----”

“Set down!” growled Sleepy angrily. “You can ask some questions after
he’s all through.”

Baker subsided reluctantly.

Hashknife laughed shortly and started to speak, but Sleepy interrupted
with:

“Buck Avery, I wish you’d set down. Yuh make me nervous standin’ there
in the aisle.”

Buck snarled back a short answer, which was not intelligible, and a man
moved over for him to sit down, but Buck ignored him.

“Go ahead, Hashknife; he won’t set down--yet,” said Sleepy, and
Hashknife continued:

“Until we came here, nobody had ever seen the Fantom Riders. We seen
him--on a pinto horse; so we had that much evidence. But nobody around
here, except Jimmy, the half-breed, owned a pinto; and Jimmy’s pinto
had been stolen.

“The shootin’ had all been done with a .30-30 rifle; but they all shoot
the same size ammunition, which made it hard to prove which .30-30 fired
the shots. Are yuh all interested in my story?”

“Keep weavin’, brother!” exclaimed a cowboy earnestly.

“Well, I got to wonderin’ about that dead-line,” said Hashknife
thoughtfully.

“Men don’t draw deadlines just for fun; so I went on a still-hunt for
a reason--and found it. Pinto Cassidy is in jail for killin’ that
detective on Tomahawk property, but he never killed him. It was a ----
easy thing to put that dead man there and lay the blame on the old
man.”

“Can you prove that?” asked Baker quickly.

“I can. But I reckon I’d better let yuh into the mystery of the stolen
cattle. It started over a certain feller wantin’ a girl. Her pa and ma
didn’t want her to marry him; so he decided to get even with pa and ma
by bustin’ up their herds.

“He got kinda stuck on another girl, but because she wasn’t white, he
wanted to love her, but not as a wife. It’s things like that, gents,
that causes dead-lines.”

“What do you mean?” roared Trainor. “You mean to say that I----”

Hashknife ignored him, but Sleepy’s eyes never left Trainor’s face, as
Hashknife continued:

“There was only one man who could have told that me and Sleepy were
comin’ here to work on this case. We met him in Lanpher’s home in
Frisco. He was the link to a weak chain of evidence. I needed him; so
I got a look at a telegram down at the depot. Here it is.”

Hashknife produced an old envelope and read aloud--

“Lanpher makes private shipment of one long one medium. Watch for them
soon.”

“That was the telegram I discovered, and I knowed it was the wire that
caused us to be met with bullets. Then--” Hashknife shoved the letter
into his pocket--“Then Jimmy stumbled on to the pinto. It was back in
the hills in a brush corral, hidden away. The bushwhacker could switch
horses there any old time. It sure was a clever scheme--while it
lasted.

“Old man Luck was kinda with me and I found that .30-30 rifle, hanging
in a tree; where it was easy to get, but hard to find. We had the pinto,
the rifle, the telegram that put us in bad with the Fantom Riders.

“Folks, your cattle were never herded out of the Ghost Hills. They were
loaded right into cattle-cars and shipped to market. They were loaded at
night, shipped at night, and the crooked buyer falsified his reports,
split the pot with a dirty coyote and his hired whelps.

“I know of three trains of Circle Cross cattle that were shipped out of
Wolf Wells and the siding down the line; but Lanpher’s reports show that
only fifteen cars of stock were sold in one whole year. They ----”

“Look out, Jim!” screamed Buck. “They’ve got us, ---- their hearts!”

Buck’s gun flashed in his hand and his first bullet smashed into the
judge’s desk beside Sleepy. The roar of his gun punctuated his screaming
admission of guilt.

Trainor had flung himself sidewise, between Hashknife and the jury,
which proceeded to lie down, fall down or to get out of line in any
possible way, while Carsten drew a gun, seemingly out of thin air,
and flung himself forward only to be met by Sleepy’s first shot,
fired from his hip.

Carsten pitched forward, his gun spinning out of his hand, while over
his falling body whistled the lead from Hashknife’s six-gun.

Trainor, with bullets thudding into his big body, laughed chokingly
through the smoke and tried to make his nerveless finger pull the
trigger of his big Colt. Then he went down sprawling on his face, his
right hand still convulsively gripping the big gun.

Buck Avery had whirled and run to the rear after his first shot. He was
seemingly bewildered as to what to do, but when he saw both Carsten and
Trainor down he sprang through the door out into the street, with
Hashknife, Sleepy and the sheriff racing after him.

They reached the street, only to see Buck vaulted into a saddle and
whirled his horse around. Hashknife fired a shot at him, but it was a
clean miss. Buck was swinging his six-shooter up and down, as if trying
to shoot back at them, when a horse and rider came out from between two
of the buildings near Buck.

It was Poco Saunders, swaying weakly in his saddle, his reins dragging
in the dust. A six-shooter dangled in his right hand and he seemed about
to fall from his saddle; but at the sight of Buck Avery he straightened
up and drove home his spurs.

Straight at Buck he went, and Buck waited for him, both shooting as they
came together with a crash. Buck’s horse went down from the impact, and
Poco fell from his saddle; the riderless horse falling halfway to its
knees and stopping dead still.

Hashknife was the first to reach them. Buck was dead; filled with
bullets from Poco’s gun. They turned Poco over and bolstered him
against Buck’s body; while the crowd poured out of the courtroom and
surrounded them.

Poco was not dead, but he was going fast. He tried to grin up at
Hashknife, and his voice was weak, as he said:

“Shot at you by accident, Hartley--this mornin’. Get Trainor, if yuh
can. He’s the head of the gang. Carsten is another. I helped ’em steal
cattle, but I didn’t have anythin’ to do with the killin’. They didn’t
trust me and Smoky, I guess.

“Either Buck or Trainor killed Smoky, my bunkie. Buck tried to kill
you. That drinkin’ was all a blind, I think. I followed you and Stevens
to the pinto and I seen you find the rifle, I laid for Buck. The rifle
wouldn’t shoot.”

“Poco, I’m sorry,” said Hashknife. “I like you, cowboy.”

“Thank you, Hartley.” Poco looked around at the crowd and tried to
smile. “I reckon I’m all through. They can turn Ben Lanpher and Pinto
Cassidy loose now. I--I’m just a ---- rustler, Hartley; but I never
killed from ambush. I can go clean. And I want yuh to know that Smoky
wasn’t in on the killin’. It was just Trainor and Buck.”

“Trainor, Buck and Carsten won’t do it again,” said Hashknife.

Poco nodded shortly and lifted his head, as if listening, but his eyes
were glazing fast.

“Somebody singin’?” he asked wearily.

“What are they singin’ about, I wonder? Why, I know that song. Gee,
that’s ----”

Poco smiled, but this time the smile did not fade. Hashknife
straightened up, his lips shut tightly, a sadness in his eyes, as he
turned to the crowd.

“They’re all Fantom Riders now, folks,” he said and turned away toward
the Lanpher family near the courtroom door.

Sleepy was talking to Lanpher, as Hashknife came up, and in a moment Ben
Lanpher joined them. He had been turned loose.

“Here’s m’ prize pup-prisoner!” yelled Lonesome, and they turned to see
old Pinto Cassidy coming from the jail, walking alone. He was also free.
Lonesome was behind him, grinning from ear to ear, and doing a burlesque
war-dance.

“That’s ---- good!” blurted Mrs. Cassidy hoarsely. “My man go home now.”

“Sure, I dunno what it’s all about,” protested Cassidy, as Lorna threw
both arms around his neck and her tears mingled with the stubble of his
wrinkled face.

“My ---- I’m thirsty,” choked a lean-faced cowboy, who had been on the
jury. He turned away toward a saloon, and several followed him.

“Hartley, I dunno what it’s all about yet,” admitted the sheriff.
“Danged if it didn’t happen so quick that I never even remembered that
I had a gun. Why, Trainor never even fired a shot. Gosh A’mighty, you
two fellers sure do know how to make a gun hop.”

The Lanphers surrounded them, trying to express their thanks but none of
them could talk coherently. Ben shook hands with Hashknife silently and
turned away to Lorna, who was with her father.

Lanpher was looking at them, as Hashknife touched him on the arm and
spoke softly:

“Shoot square, Lanpher. This is between them.”

“I know,” breathed Lanpher. “It is not for us to say.”

Mrs. Lanpher and Helen had moved in closer, watching Ben and Lorna,
who were talking softly. Ben shook his head, as if not understanding.
He questioned her anxiously, but she shook her head again and turned
away.

Ben frowned thoughtfully.

“Will we be goin’ home now, Lorna?” asked Cassidy huskily.

“Yes,” she said softly, without lifting her head.

Ben looked at her for a moment and turned to his mother.

“She won’t marry me,” he said slowly.

“Why?” asked Mrs. Lanpher foolishly.

“She says she don’t love me.”

“---- good reason!” blurted Mrs. Cassidy.

Cassidy crossed to her and put his arm around her; but she did not look
up at him as she said:

“Love is such a little word, don’t you see. It means today--not tomorrow
or the next day. Ben wants to marry me today. His folks don’t want him
to marry me. He is willing to marry me in spite of them--today.

“I am half-Indian.” She turned and faced them, her eyes half-closed.
“Maybe the Indian half is the strongest. Ben would not love an
Indian--tomorrow. And you will all be much happier. I want to be
happy, too.”

“---- right!” exclaimed Mrs. Cassidy inelegantly.

“Well,” Mrs. Lanpher gave a sigh of relief. “I’m glad it has all turned
out for the best.”

“Yes, for the best,” said Lorna softly.

“But nobody has asked me what I think,” complained Ben. “Haven’t I
anything to say about it?”

“Very little,” said Cassidy. “Go on back to your town and settle down,
Bennie. You’ve been a lucky lad to stay as long as ye have. Come, Lorna.
Are ye ready, Minnie?”

“---- right,” said Minnie, “Mamook klatawa.”

Hashknife and Sleepy were watching Cassidy, Minnie and Lorna crossing
the street, when Lanpher grasped Hashknife by the arm, yanking at him
nervously.

“I’m still in a whirl,” he declared. “It is like waking from a
nightmare, don’t you know it? Why, there isn’t a man left on the Circle
Cross. Four dead men! Can you imagine that?”

Hashknife nodded slowly, sadly. His face seemed to have aged years in a
few minutes.

“Yeah, I can imagine it.”

“Well, I don’t know which way to turn.”

Lanpher nervously fumbled in his pocket and produced a check-book.

“I promised you a thousand apiece, didn’t I? I’m going to double that.
My Lord, it was worth three times that much. I--I mean, it is worth
everything in the world to me.”

Helen and her mother had come to them, and Lanpher turned nervously to
them.

“I--I’m trying to pay my debts,” he explained, showing them the
check-book.

“In money?” asked Mrs. Lanpher.

“That’s--right,” Lanpher’s voice softened and he shook his head.

“Not my debts, mother--my bills.”

He started to write a check, but stopped and looked straight at
Hashknife.

“Hartley, will you and Stevens accept half-interest in the Circle Cross,
and handle my half for me?”

“No, I reckon not,” he said slowly, apologetically. “Yuh see, me and
Sleepy have got so much iron in our system that we’d kinda rust if we
hung around in one place too long. Thank yuh just the same, folks.
It’s a fine offer.”

“Will you come to visit us at San Francisco?” asked Helen. “Our home is
your home now.”

“When you have a dry season,” said Sleepy. “Fog and iron don’t go well
together.”

“Where will you go from here?” asked Lanpher, handing them each a check.
“We want to keep track of you two.”

“Keep track of us?” Hashknife smiled wistfully. “You’ll have a job,
pardner. We’ve been called the antidotes for poisoned ranges. We’ll
likely keep goin’ until our medicine gets too weak. But we’ll let yuh
hear from us once in a while.”

When Hashknife turned he found Sleepy grinning widely at him.

“What did Helen Lanpher mean, Hashknife?”

Hashknife grinned and rubbed his chin.

“I dunno,” he confessed. “Did sound kinda funny. I wish it wasn’t so
danged drizzly in Frisco town.”

“They have a dry season down there,” said Sleepy suggestively.

“I s’pose. I’m havin’ mine right now, cowboy. Let’s bust these checks
and hit the grit. I’m all fed up on tears, and I hate a quiet country
like this. C’mon.”

“It used to be a good country,” sighed Sleepy.

Hashknife laughed softly, glanced back toward the hotel, and they
rattled their spurs across the door step together.


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the February 29, 1924 issue
of Adventure magazine.]



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