Chapter III: Part 3

“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.”