Chapter II

The following morning Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses and rode away from the Diamond H. Hashknife was curious to find out approximately how many head of Diamond H cattle were left in the hills, and he also wanted to get away where he would have plenty of room to think about things.

“I feel like a danged thief and a liar every time I look at them old folks,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t like this deal.”

“If yuh think I do, yo’re crazy,” said Hashknife. “I never seen two people as happy as they are. Act like a pair of kids. Oh, well, it’s just another case of what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”

“But it sure is hard on the innocent bystander, Hashknife.”

“We’re not innocent, Sleepy. We’re as guilty as ——. Parker Miller is guilty along with us. There’s a reg’lar man—Miller. He’ll prob’ly have to account to the stockholders as soon as this report gets circulated, but he’s game to play with us.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Hashknife. This is just another deal where we’ll pull out with less than we had when we went in. When we get old, I hope to gosh we’ll be surrounded by a lot of —— fools like us. I like half-witted cowpunchers.”

“Don’t get vain,” advised Hashknife. “Next thing I know you’ll be puttin’ corn starch on yore face after shavin’, and knock out a front tooth so yuh can lisp.”

They grinned together and headed for the tops of the ridges, looking for cattle wearing the Diamond H mark, but there were few. In three hours search they counted twenty head. Their ride had brought them to the west of Medicine River, so they decided to ride down and see what they might hear in town.

Parker Miller’s first duty that morning was to take Frank Laskey, the cashier, into his confidence. He knew that Laskey would hear of the sale and probably deny it. Laskey was an undersized, pale-faced person, slightly round-shouldered from leaning over a desk-top.

Miller explained the deal to Laskey, who seemed surprized that Miller would enter any such agreement, but agreed to do his part.

“I won’t deny it,” said Laskey. “I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong about that mortgage. But you won’t be able to keep this secret very long, Mr. Miller. The stockholders—”

“The stockholders be ——!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Frank, did you ever hear of Hashknife Hartley?”

Laskey squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“No, sir. That tall cowboy is named Hartley, but I have never heard his given name.”

“Well, that’s Hashknife Hartley, Frank. Did you ever read ‘Sherlock Holmes’?”

“Detective stories? Oh, yes, I’ve read a few. Do you mean that Hartley is a detective?”

“They tell me—” Miller smiled and leaned back in his chair—“they tell me that Hartley started in where Holmes left off.”

Laskey smiled and adjusted his tie.

“Possibly.”

“Probably,” corrected Miller. “Anyway, Frank, we’ll wait and see.”

Laskey went back to his work which amounts to considerable in a cow-town bank where the cashier does the work of paying teller, receiving teller and the other things which are handled by departments in the big banking institutions.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode in and tied their horses to the War Paint hitch-rack. Several other horses were nodding at the rack, indolently switching their tails at the flies and trying to get their heads in the meager shade afforded by the top-pole of the rack.

There were several cowboys in the saloon, where a fair-sized poker game was in progress, but none of them paid any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who sat down against the wall to have a smoke.

“I hear that ol’ lady Holton done bought the Diamond H,” said one of the players.

“Yeah,” drawled the dealer, “and that ain’t all. Last night Steve Morris went out and married her to the old man agin. It kinda looks like the old ranch was comin’ back onto the map.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard. They were both drunk. Yakima was boisterous, but Chuck seemed rather unnerved from his potations.

“Yah-hoo-o-o!” screamed Yakima. “We are the people and we must be respected! Gimme a drink, before I wreck the place.”

“Aw, don’t yell,” advised Chuck.

“C’mere!” Yakima grasped Chuck by the arm and nearly tore his sleeve off. “Don’t tell me what t’ do, you—you—aw, I can’t think of what yuh are right now. Have a drink.”

Yakima invited those at the poker game to have a drink with him and, while they advanced to the bar, Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the street and crossed toward the bank. Andrew Jackson Polk was coming out of the bank and nodded to them.

“How’s law and order?” asked Hashknife, grinning.

“All right, suh. I hear you-all had a marriage at yo’ ranch last evenin’.”

“Yeah, we did. You should ’a’ been there.”

Polk laughed and nodded.

“It would have been interesting. But no one told me.”

As Polk started toward his office, which was the next building from the bank, Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard came from the saloon and started toward them. Polk merely glanced at them and walked on, but Yakima yelled at him—

“Hey! Polk! I’ll buy yuh a drink!”

“No, I thank yo’, suh.”

Yakima laughed and they came on across the street, while Polk went into his office.

“He won’t drink with us, Chuck,” complained Yakima. “Lawyers are too dignified to drink with a cow-hand. F’r a plugged dime, I’d go and make him drink with me.”

“Aw, let him alone.” Chuck did not seem to be looking for trouble. “Let’s go and get somethin’ to eat.”

“Aw-w-w right. How do-o-o.” Yakima nodded to Hashknife and almost lost his balance.

“How are yuh?” grinned Hashknife. Yakima was a cadaverous specimen of the genus cowboy, loose-jointed, unkempt. A lock of tow-colored hair hung below the band of his sombrero and interfered with his vision.

“I’m jus’ right,” declared Yakima belligerently. “’F I was any better I’d have to be held.”

Hashknife turned away, realizing that Yakima was just in the proper condition to start trouble, and he had no desire to fight with the drunken cowpuncher. As Hashknife turned away, Parker Miller came out of the bank and called him aside.

“Go down to the store,” said Miller. “I’ve given Jim Leeds orders to fill your wants, and he’s put up a bunch of staples. Might hire a livery-rig to take them out with. Find out from Mrs. Holton just what she wants, and tell her that the Diamond H credit is good at the grocery store. I suppose they’ll need credit.”

“That’s sure good of yuh,” nodded Hashknife. Yakima and Chuck had gone to the front of Polk’s office and were arguing between themselves.

“Miller,” said Hashknife, “have yuh any idea who Green might be—the feller who signed that bill-of-sale?”

“No. I was afraid to ask too many questions last night. Maybe you can get a description. Have you got anything to work on?”

“Not much. It kinda hinges on Green. I’ll see if I can find out what he looked like and let yuh know.”

“All right, Hartley, good luck.”

He went back in the bank and the two cowboys sauntered down to the store, which was on the same side of the street. Jim Leeds, the storekeeper, nodded pleasantly and indicated several boxes of stuff.

“Miller said to fix up a lot of staple stuff,” he said. “If yuh can think of anythin’ I’ve overlooked, just say so.”

Hashknife examined the articles. Miller had not been stingy in his order.

“Looks like enough to feed an army,” grinned Hashknife. “I know we’re short of food out there and this will fix us up in fine shape. Thank yuh very much.”

“Let’s buy a can of salmon, some crackers and a can of peaches,” suggested Sleepy. “I don’t want no restaurant cookin’.”

“Suits me,” nodded Hashknife.

* * * * *

They opened the cans and ate off the counter, while Jim Leeds talked to them of the Medicine River range. There had never been any serious trouble in that part of the country, it seemed.

“Didja ever know a feller by the name of Green?” asked Hashknife. “Used to work in the bank here, I think.”

“Green? Nope. Never worked in the Medicine River bank. I’ve been here since the town started twenty-five years ago and there ain’t been no Green workin’ in that bank.”

“Mebbe I’m mistaken in the name.”

“Must be. Parker Miller was cashier for about twelve years. Old Ase Wheeler died and they made Park the president. That was three years ago. They hired Frank Laskey for cashier.”

“Miller is a nice feller,” said Sleepy, spearing in the can for the last peach.

“Best there is,” nodded Leeds. “Clean as a hound’s tooth. Want more crackers?”

“Nope,” said Sleepy, waving them aside. “Loaded to the gills.”

“Yuh ought to be,” said Hashknife, “yuh ate most all them peaches. Well, I reckon we better hire a rig to haul all that plunder out to the ranch, Sleepy.”

“I s’pose. I’d rather set in the shade now and dream of a time when I’ll have money enough to eat canned peaches three times a day. I’d sure make a peach-eatin’ millionaire.”

Sleepy slid off the counter and stooped to dust the cracker crumbs off his clothes when he suddenly straightened at the sound of a muffled shot, or what seemed to be the report of a gun.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I dunno.” Leeds squinted thoughtfully. “Might have been a shot. Shucks, some cowpuncher is always drillin’ a hole in the floor at the War Paint. Makes a good vent for scrub-water.”

Hashknife walked to the doorway and looked across the street at the War Paint. Everything looked peaceable. As he turned back they heard some one shouting in the street.

It was Frank Laskey and he was halfway across the street to the War Paint, when the three men reached the door, running and looking back toward the bank.

“Somethin’ wrong at the bank!” snapped Hashknife. “C’mon.”

They ran up the sidewalk and were almost to the bank when several men came running from the saloon, headed by Laskey, who was yelling something about a hold-up.

Hashknife, Sleepy and Leeds halted, while from Polk’s office came Polk and the two drunken cowboys. The men all crowded in through the bank door. Hashknife managed to squeeze in behind Laskey.

There was an odor of powder smoke in the air. Parker Miller was seated at his desk, sprawled forward, his head buried in his arms. Hashknife vaulted the railing and went to him. The room was in an uproar, as the crowd questioned Laskey.

Parker Miller was dead. It did not take Hashknife long to determine this, and he held up his hand to stop the crowd from coming inside the railed-off space.

“Miller is dead,” he told the crowd. “Stay where you are until the sheriff comes. C’mere, Laskey.”

Laskey was all out of breath, trembling with excitement, but he came willingly.

“Everybody keep still and let him tell his story,” said Hashknife. “You’ll never get it straight this way.”

“They came in the back door, I guess,” panted Laskey. “No one was here, except Miller and myself. There was two men. I think there was three, but the other stayed with the horses. They were masked.

“I didn’t see them until one stuck a gun in my face. The other had a gun pointed at Miller. They told me to hand over all the money I had. Just a few minutes before that Miller had told me to fix up a package of currency which was to be expressed to Cheyenne. They got it all.

“I tried to hide it, but it wasn’t any use. I don’t know how much they got, but it was quite a lot. I couldn’t see what Miller did, but I heard one of them tell him to keep his hands on the table, and then I heard the shot.

“I thought they were going to shoot me, too, so I dropped on the floor as they ran out the rear door. Then I ran across the street and gave the alarm.”

Laskey was panting and clinging to the railing as he finished his breathless tale.

“What makes yuh think there was three of ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“There was some silver,” said Laskey. “One of them said that it was too heavy, but the other said, ‘Aw, ——, the three of us can take care of it.’”

At this juncture Cherokee Lee came in and shoved his way through the crowd. He went straight to Miller and lifted his head. The blue hole in the middle of the forehead told its own story. The sheriff turned to Laskey.

“Talk a little, Frank,” he said softly.

As swiftly as possible the nervous cashier repeated his story.

“Aw, what the ——!” snorted a cowboy. “While all this story-tellin’ is goin’ on them three —— are headin’ into the hills.”

Hashknife squinted at the crowd. The two drunken cowboys seemed to have sobered, and Cherokee Lee had no trouble in gathering a sufficient posse for his needs. He did not swear nor lift his voice above his usual soft drawl as he told the boys to get their horses and go with him.

Hashknife and Sleepy did not offer to go, and the sheriff did not ask them. Every one seemed shocked at the murder of Parker Miller and the people of the town thronged the sidewalk in front of the bank while the doctor made his examination.

Andrew Jackson Polk was so excited that he legged his way across to the War Paint and bought himself a drink: Which was an unusual thing for him to do in the middle of the day.

“I heard the shot,” he told Hashknife and Sleepy. “I was havin’ an argument with those two drunken cowboys. They insisted on me having a drink with them. It sounded as though some one had struck the side of my office.”

“Do yuh think the sheriff will catch ’em?” queried the bartender.

“I hope so,” said Hashknife. “They evidently had their getaway all planned out, and they sure had plenty of time to slide out of sight. Was Miller a married man?”

“No suh.” The drink had calmed Polk. “It is a fortunate thing that he had no dependents.”

“Well, it sure is a terrible thing,” said the bartender. “Miller was awful well liked by everybody.”

“Not everybody,” said Hashknife. “They shot him down without giving him a chance, shot him at his desk, when his hands were in sight. I tell yuh, they’ll pay for that piece of work. They may dodge the sheriff and all that, but they’ll make a slip.”

“The perfect criminal doesn’t live,” said Polk wisely. “They make a mistake some where. Those men secured a lot of money, it seems. It is unlikely that they are men who can stand to have a fortune and not spend it unwisely. My theory would be to watch for three men, or, possibly one or two men, who are exhibiting too much money.”

“No, they can’t stand prosperity,” agreed Hashknife. “Are there plenty of hidin’ places back in the hills around here?”

“There must be, if yuh know the country,” said the bartender. “It’s all hills and brush.”

“And they wasn’t takin’ many chances by comin’ in the back door,” mused Hashknife. “They could look out the big windows and see any one comin’. Prob’ly some one who has planned it a long time.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street with Polk and stopped in front of his office. The doctor and three other men were removing Miller’s body from the bank, while a curious crowd looked on.

Hashknife walked down between Polk’s office and the bank. It was an alley, about ten feet wide. The rear door of the bank was almost in the center of the rear wall. To the right was a high tight-board fence which enclosed the rear of the general store.

To the left was the rear of Polk’s office, and beyond that was the rear of the stage-office, a small corral and a stable. Almost in a direct line with the alley, and about two hundred yards away, was the rear of a large stable, a corral, and beyond that was a small cottage.

There was plenty of room for the bandits to have made their getaway. Not a fence barred their way to the hills beyond the town, where numerous, brushy cañons would give them a cover. But there was nothing out there to give any idea of which way the men had gone, so Hashknife went back to the street where he found Sleepy listening to Andrew Jackson Polk reciting the murder to a newcomer. The drink had caused Andrew to become eloquent, and he pictured the tragedy with appropriate gestures. In fact, he even attempted to imitate the sound of the gun.

Laskey had accompanied the body to the doctor’s office, but now he came back and unlocked the bank. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him inside. Laskey was completely unnerved and did not seem to know what he was doing.

“You better lock up and go home,” advised Hashknife. “Yo’re shakin’ like a leaf, Laskey.”

“I know it. Do you think they’ll catch those men?”

“Mebby. Do yuh remember enough about ’em to give me any kind of a description?”

“No, I don’t think so. They were masked you know.”

“Yeah. Why do yuh reckon they shot Miller?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he tried to get a gun. The man told him to keep his hands on the desk.”

“Uh-huh. Did Miller have any enemies, Laskey?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do yuh usually keep the back door open?”

“Not always. It was awful hot in here today; so I opened it to let the breeze blow through. I meant to close it, but I was busy.”

“Uh-huh. Did Miller tell yuh about the Diamond H ranch?”

“Yes—this morning. I promised to keep still about it.”

“Makes it look kinda bad now, eh?”

“I don’t know what will happen now. I’m so nervous I can’t even think straight. Maybe I better lock up and go home.”

“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.

They left Laskey and went to the livery-stable, where they secured a rig. Leeds helped them load the stuff in the wagon and they went back to the ranch, leading their saddle-horses behind the wagon.

“This sure is ——,” complained Sleepy. “Kinda puts our scheme in the hole, cowboy.”

“It sure looks thataway, Sleepy. With Miller alive we had a chance to keep goin’ for a while, but I’m kinda scared that our cake is all dough right now. But don’t let the old folks know.”

* * * * *

Cherokee Lee and his posse scoured the Medicine River hills, but without success. It was a big country, and they had no idea which direction the bank robbers had taken in their flight from town.

The death of Parker Miller was a big blow to every one, as he was known far and wide and liked by all the folks of the cattle country. Morton Anderson, of Rangervill, the biggest stockholder of the Medicine River bank, took charge of the institution, but retained Frank Laskey.

Anderson was a hard-headed business man and sentiment had no part on his views of life. Hashknife had a talk with him about the Diamond H and found that Anderson had not been told about Ma Holton’s purchase.

“The bank will take the loss,” said Anderson curtly. “We will sell at the first opportunity, but of course we know that the ranch is not worth the amount of the mortgage.”

“And that’s the fly in the axle-grease,” Hashknife told Sleepy. “Anderson don’t know yet.”

Uncle Billy had come to town in the buckboard after the mail and he came to Hashknife.

“I wonder if we can round up about fifty head of stock and have ’em in the pasture by next Wednesday?” he asked.

Hashknife squinted down at him, wondering what was coming next.

“I jist got a letter from Joe Ables,” explained Uncle Billy. “He’s a buyer from Chicago and he’s bought from me before. Said he’d be here at that time and wanted to make me a price on that many head.”

“Fifty head?” Hashknife scratched his long nose. He knew that Uncle Billy would have to know at least part of the deception.

“Uncle Billy, I hate to have to tell yuh this, but you’ve got to know,” he said slowly. “There ain’t over thirty head of Diamond H cattle left, and most of ’em are runts and old cows.”

Uncle Billy gawped at him, “Why—why—what do yuh mean?”

“Just that, Uncle Billy. The last year you ran that ranch, somebody stole yuh blind. I reckon yuh was so busy drinkin’ liquor and playin’ poker that you didn’t know nor care. While you was wearin’ out that ten thousand dollar mortgage, somebody was takin’ all yore stock.”

“Yo’re jokin’ me, ain’t yuh, Hashknife?”

“I wish I was, old-timer. The bank knows.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Billy blinked painfully. It seemed incredible. Yet he knew that Hashknife was not lying.

“And Ma bought—” He looked at Hashknife. “They sold her that ranch, Hashknife. By ——, they knew they was beatin’ her. Say, I’m goin’ over to that bank and—”

“Not now, Uncle Billy.”

“Right now! Why, that’s downright robbery, I tell yuh.”

“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “You can’t do a thing by goin’ over there. I’ve got a scheme, Uncle Billy, and that would ruin it. You keep still about this. Don’t even tell ma. If you let anybody know about this, it’ll ruin everythin’.”

“You’ve got a scheme? All right. But jist the same they—”

“Do this for me, Uncle Billy. I’m for yuh—yuh and ma. Please.”

“Well, all right,” he conceded grudgingly. “I don’t _sabe_ it, but I’m willin’ to keep my mouth shut. But lemme tell yuh somethin’: I’m shore—”

“That’s fine; so am I. Now let’s forget it. It’s a secret, eh?”

“If you say so, Hashknife. But —— it, I’d like to know where all them cattle went.”

“You quit worryin’ about that,” advised Hashknife, “and for gosh sake, don’t let ma know.”

“No, we’ve got to keep it away from her,” admitted the old man. “I won’t say a word.”

It was with relief that they watched the old man drive out of town. They felt sure that he would not tell Ma Holton.

“We’re slippin’, cowboy,” said Sleepy. “Somethin’ is goin’ to break pretty soon. If yo’re such a danged good detective, why in —— don’tcha detect somethin’?”

“What can be done?” grinned Hashknife. “Gimme somethin’ to work on.”

“I ain’t got nothin’.”

“Then don’t chide me, feller; I’m just human. Here comes that disciple of Blackstone.”

Andrew Jackson Polk was strolling down the sidewalk, picking his teeth diligently. He had eaten an early supper, it seemed.

“Hyah, judge,” greeted Hashknife.

“Evenin’, suh, evenin’,” he nodded pleasantly. “How is everything at the Diamond H?”

“Finer than frawg-hair,” grinned Hashknife. “How’s yore business these days?”

“Just faih, thank yo’. I see that ouah estimable sheriff has just ridden in. I suppose he is still hunting fo’ the miscreants who robbed the bank.”

“I reckon so,” nodded Hashknife. “But I guess he ain’t havin’ much luck.”

“No, suh, they seem to have made good their escape.”

“For a while,” said Hashknife.

“Yo’ evidently believe in the theory that murder will out.”

“It’s a cinch, Polk. If it had been done by one man, I’d say he had a reasonable chance for escape.”

“I see. Yo’ think that one of them will make a slip?”

“I think they have.”

Polk squinted closely at Hashknife.

“Yo’ think they have?”

Hashknife nodded. Polk cleared his throat and smiled widely.

“It would be interesting to know in what way, Mr. Hartley.”

“Yeah, it prob’ly would,” Hashknife grinned softly. “Mebbe I’ll tell yuh one of these days.”

“I see. Yo’ have whetted my curiosity, Mr. Hartley, and I would like to buy a drink. Will you join me, gentlemen?”

“If yuh won’t ask questions,” smiled Hashknife. “Don’t try to get me drunk enough to talk, Polk.”

“Oh, not at all, I assure yo’. While I am curious, I am also willing to let yo’ tell me when yo’ are ready.”

“Well, that’s pretty reasonable for a lawyer,” laughed Hashknife.

They had their drink, but nothing more was said regarding the murder and robbery. Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to Polk’s office and sat down to enjoy a smoke.

Polk’s office was a large room, partitioned through the center, which gave him living quarters in the rear half. His furniture was meager, consisting of an old roll-top desk, a few chairs, an antiquated book-case, filled with miscellaneous law-books, and a small safe.

His living quarters was furnished with a small stove, table, two chairs and a single bed. There was one big window at the rear and a rear exit on the left side of the room. There was still enough cooking odors left to prove that Andrew Jackson Polk liked onions.

“I suppose you get quite a lot of legal work, eh?” said Hashknife, after their smokes were going good.

“At times, suh.”

“Did yuh ever know a feller named Green around here?”

“Green? No, suh—not here.”

“Uh-huh.”

The talk drifted to common gossip of the range and in a short time Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the War Paint where a sizable poker game was in progress. There was one vacant chair at the table and Hashknife decided to test his luck.

* * * * *

Yakima Reed was winning steadily and frowned when Hashknife bought a supply of chips. Yakima realized that another hand in the game would possibly change the run of the cards. There were two other cattlemen besides the dealer in the game, and Hashknife knew that they were not playing for pastime.

Five dollar jack-pots is a stiff game, and Hashknife played cautiously. There was no limit. Twice, hand-running, Yakima Reed fought out the pot with Hashknife, only to find that Hashknife held the winning cards. Each time he had forced Hashknife to bet all of his chips.

“What the —— good is a limit, when the other feller is short of money?” he demanded. “Yuh can’t scare anybody with a hundred dollars.”

“Were you tryin’ to scare me?” asked Hashknife innocently. “I didn’t know it.”

The other players grinned and it angered Yakima.

“I’ll make yuh play cards,” growled Yakima, opening the next pot for twenty-five dollars. It was merely a coincidence that Hashknife was the only player to stay with Yakima.

Yakima drew one card. Hashknife studied his hand for several moments, adjusting the sequences of the cards.

“I forgot to ask when I bought into this game,” he said. “Do yuh play straights and flushes?”

The dealer nodded, holding the pack ready to deal Hashknife his draw cards.

“Well, I’ll play these,” said Hashknife indifferently.

Yakima squinted narrowly at Hashknife. It was poor poker policy to bet against a pat hand, but Yakima had caught a trey, which gave him three treys and a pair of jacks. He wondered if Hashknife did have a straight or a flush, or was he bluffing.

“You opened it,” reminded Hashknife.

Yakima bet twenty-five.

“Must ’a’ helped,” mused Hashknife aloud. “Drew to two pair, or held a kicker to a set of threes. Let’s make it an even hundred.”

Yakima grinned, shoved in seventy-five more and began counting out another stack of blue chips. He flirted ten of them into the pot and leaned back.

“Hundred more, eh?” Hashknife grinned, called the bet and added his remaining chips.

“Do any of you fellers know where I’ll find a man named Green?” asked Hashknife. The players looked at him. Yakima had started to count out chips enough to call Hashknife’s last bet, but now he picked up his cards and squinted closely at them.

“Never heard of a Green around here,” said the dealer.

“That’s funny,” said Hashknife. “I was told he was around here.”

Yakima looked at the pot, gnawed at the corner of his lips for a moment and threw his hand into the discard.

“It was a fool thing for me to ask about straights and flushes,” said Hashknife rather mournfully, as he drew in the pot, “But I had to be sure.”

Yakima growled angrily.

“All right, all right. I know that kind of talk. But I didn’t have anythin’ myself.” Yakima lied to cover his reasons for not calling Hashknife’s last bet, instead of admitting that he was afraid that Hashknife was holding a straight flush.

“Didn’t yuh have anythin’?” laughed Hashknife. “Shucks! I thought I stole a pot, and I had yuh beat all the time.”

He turned over his cards, exposing a pair of deuces. Yakima swallowed heavily and shoved his chips over to the dealer. Two deuces against his trey-full!

“Quittin’?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.

“Yeah, by ——! I can’t play against that kind of luck.”

“Luck, nothin’. You didn’t have anythin’.”

“All right,” Yakima cashed in his chips and turned to the bar. The other players smiled covertly. Yakima had been having a run of luck and they were not sorry to see him leave. Sleepy was at the bar, trying to operate a nickel-in-the-slot box, but with little success.

“Have a drink,” invited Yakima.

“I’d just as soon,” Sleepy grinned and gave the music-box a parting slap of his hand.

“That thing is busted,” said the bartender.

“So’m I,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve put three nickels in the darned thing. Gimme a see-gar.”

“What’s the matter with the liquor?” queried Yakima.

“I dunno,” innocently. “I’m no chemist.”

“I don’t care to buy cigars for anybody.”

“I’ll take this in place of the music,” Sleepy told the bartender, and went back to tinker with the box.

Chuck Allard came in and joined Yakima. He had been drinking.

“How’ja come out?” queried Chuck.

“Ne’mind how I come out.” Yakima swallowed a big drink of liquor. The loss of that big pot had left him very sour against every one.

“Yuh quit winner, didn’t yuh?”

“Did I? All right, if you know so —— much about it.”

“Been all right, if yuh hadn’t got scared.” This from Sleepy, who still tried to induce the box to function.

Yakima turned and squinted at Sleepy. “Got scared, eh?”

“Panicky—yea-a-ah—panicky.”

Yakima moved closer to Sleepy and looked at him intently. Yakima Reed was known to have a hair-trigger disposition. The man who was dealing at the poker game stopped his distribution and watched the three men at the bar. As far as they could see, Sleepy was paying no attention to Yakima.

“Got scared, did I?” repeated Yakima. “Do you know what I think of you, feller?”

Sleepy shook his head, as he tinkered with the slot.

“Pers’nal opinions never interested me, pardner; they’re prejudiced. If you had an opinion from several folks I might care to listen. I wish my folks had educated me in mechanics. I’ve got fifteen cents in—”

“—— you! Listen to me!” Yakima advanced on Sleepy, who looked sidewise at him.

“All right,” said Sleepy pleasantly. “Whatcha goin’ to do—sing?”

“I’ll sing you to sleep!”

Yakima spoke as he drew back his right fist and drove it at Sleepy’s head. But Sleepy was not unprepared, even if he did seem to be, and the fist only met space—and the corner of the music-box.

Yakima jerked back his hand, the knuckles badly cut, his arm almost paralyzed. It took the fight out of him, at least for the moment, and as he hugged his fist under his left elbow, his face grimacing with pain, the music-box began playing the “Washington Post March.”

Sleepy had stepped back, watching Yakima closely, but now he grinned widely.

“Ain’t that pretty?” he asked everybody. “That feller—” indicating the suffering Yakima—“is a born mechanic.”

Yakima swore feelingly, but the fight was all taken out of him. His right hand dropped to the butt of his holstered gun, but he drew it away quickly, realizing that it was in no shape to grip a gun-butt.

“Everythin’ is goin’ to be left-handed with yuh for a while,” said Sleepy solemnly. “But yuh sure did wake up that music-box, and I’m obliged to yuh.”

* * * * *

Yakima left the War Paint, walking stiffly on his high-heels, his shoulders hunched, and with Chuck Allard trailing behind.

“You got out of it pretty lucky,” confided the bartender.

“Out of what?” Sleepy stopped whistling with the music.

“Why, out of your fight with Yakima Reed.”

“Fight?” Sleepy screwed up his face wonderingly. “I never had any fight.”

“Well, you—” The bartender rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“You must ’a’ been seein’ things,” said Sleepy. “Didja ever have yore tonsils and adenoids tended to?”

“My what?”

“Yore medulla oblongata.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You ought to be examined.”

“What for?”

“Oh, just make it kinda general.”

Sleepy went back to the pool-table and began playing alone, while the bartender looked at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered if there was any truth in what Sleepy had said.

It was about an hour later that Hashknife cashed in his chips and declared he was going to have something to eat. He was about two hundred dollars ahead of the game, but promised that he would come back and win some more.

In the meantime Yakima and Chuck had been sojourning at the Medicine River bar where the bartender had dosed Yakima’s hand with iodine and bandaged it. And that, together with numerous and sundry drinks, had caused Yakima to forget everything except his hatred of a man who played a pair of deuces as hard as any man should play a full house, and of a man who did not have sense enough to know when he had a fight on his hands.

“You better leave ’em alone,” advised Chuck. “They’re _hyas cultus_, I tell yuh.”

“They inshulted me,” declared Yakima.

He had shifted his gun to his left side, but had been forced to reverse his holster, which put the gun between the belt and his thigh.

“Listen t’ me,” said Chuck. “You ain’t no good with yore left hand, Yak; and yo’re drunk, to boot.”

“Thasso?” Yakima rocked on his heels and lifted his eyebrows wisely. “Lemme tell yuh, I’m not drunk—and I’m good with either hand. C’mon and see me do it.”

“Good-by.” The bartender offered his hand across the bar. “I’ve heard about them two fellers. Cherokee Lee and Parker Miller was in here one day and I heard ’em talkin’.”

“I’ll run my own business,” declared Yakima.

“I’m not interferin’ with yuh,” assured the bartender. “You’ve been a good customer of mine, and I wish yuh well.”

“Aw ——!” Yakima turned to Chuck. “Yo’re with me, ain’tcha?”

“Well, yeah, I—I’m goin’ with yuh, Yak.”

“Yo’re goin’ to back my play, ain’tcha?”

“Well, it’s like thish, Yakie. Yuh shee, they never insulted me and I—I ain’t so very mad at anybody. And I’m drunk. Yesshir, I’m too drunk to fight for anybody but me—and I ain’t mad. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, c’mon, you laughin’ hyener. C’mon and see me clean house with the War Paint.”

They staggered outside, weaving their erratic way up the narrow sidewalk to the War Paint, where Chuck stepped aside and let Yakima go in first. The music-box was stilled and all interest seemed to be in the poker game.

But there was no sign of Hashknife and Sleepy. The bartender came from watching the game and wanted to serve them, but Yakima waved him aside.

“Where’s them two gobblers?” he demanded to know.

“Which ones?” asked the bartender.

“Hartley and Stevens.”

“Oh, they went to eat supper, Yakima. Probably be back pretty soon. They’ve been gone quite a while now.”

“We’ll wait,” said Yakima.

Cherokee Lee and his deputy, Bill Stivers, a heavy-set, square-faced young man, came in. Yakima invited them to have a drink, which invitation was accepted. They had been riding in the hills, still trying to discover the hiding-place of the men who had killed Parker Miller.

Cherokee noticed Yakima’s bandaged hand and remarked about it.

“Yakima had a terrific fight,” declared Chuck. “Oh, it was jus’ somethin’ awful, sheriff.”

Yakima scowled and tried to make Chuck keep still, but he failed. So Cherokee Lee heard of how Yakima missed Sleepy’s head and started the music-box. Cherokee smiled softly and advised Yakima to leave those two cowpunchers alone.

“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ him,” declared Chuck.

“I’ll run m’ own business,” said Yakima darkly.

“All right,” drawled Cherokee. “Try and not have anybody behind yuh when trouble busts, Ya-a-akima. You ain’t thick enough to stop a forty-five, and I notice that’s the size them two jiggers are packin’.”

Yakima accepted another drink and sat down against the wall to wait for Hashknife and Sleepy. It was another case of the spirit being strong, but the flesh weak; and Yakima Reed obeyed the call of the sandman. Chuck Allard laughed gleefully and challenged Bill Stivers to a game of pool, but went to sleep in a chair, after his first shot, with the billiard cue clasped in his arms.

Hashknife and Sleepy came back from their supper and shook hands with Cherokee Lee who introduced to them Bill Stivers. The four of them sat down at a vacant table and the sheriff told of his wasted efforts.

“We’ve combed every inch of these hills,” swore Cherokee. “Them jiggers sure didn’t hole up in the Medicine River country. Me and Bill know this country as well as any man here.”

“You liked Parker Miller, didn’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“The best,” said Cherokee softly. “The bank offers five thousand dollars for the murderers, dead or alive, and the county adds another thousand. But it don’t look like anybody will collect.”

“Why do yuh reckon they killed Miller, Sheriff?”

“I dunno, Hartley. Laskey said they told Miller to keep his hands where they were. Mebbe they thought he was reachin’ for a gun.”

“He didn’t have any gun in reach. They shot him square between the eyes, and his arms were on the desk. Sheriff, he never moved, except to fall forward.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. What does it mean to you?”

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“It just made me wonder.”

Cherokee studied Hashknife for several moments. Finally, leaning across the table and lowering his voice—

“Hartley, what do you know about this?”

“I don’t know a thing, Sheriff.”

“Uh-huh. Miller told me that you had a reputation as a range detective, and I was kinda hopin’ that you’d find somethin’. But this deal don’t offer much for a feller to work on.”

“No, it sure don’t, Sheriff.”

* * * * *

Their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the poker players, and they looked around to see Andrew Jackson Polk staggering in past the bar. He was dressed, or rather undressed, in a faded suit of red flannel underclothes and carrying a brown derby hat in his right hand.

His hair was disheveled and he seemed dazed, as he braced one hand against the bar and stared around.

“Drunk and dressed up!” snorted Bill Stivers, as they got up and started toward Polk.

“Say! What’s the matter with you, Polk?” asked the bartender.

Andrew Jackson Polk felt of his head, which seemed rather tender to the touch, and blinked painfully.

“I—I got knocked down and robbed,” he croaked.

“Have a drink?” asked the bartender.

Polk nodded. The men watched him gulp down a big drink and waited for him to speak. Chuck Allard awoke. He blinked at Polk and got unsteadily to his feet, staring at the queer looking lawyer.

“Thasall ri’,” nodded Chuck foolishly.

His hat fell off his head, but he made no effort to recover it. And, without taking his eyes off Andrew Jackson Polk, he walked unsteadily out of the saloon, talking softly to himself.

Cherokee Lee came in close to Polk and took him by the arm.

“What’s the matter with you, Polk?” he asked.

“I’ve been knocked down and robbed,” he declared hoarsely.

“Tell us about it,” said the dealer of the poker game.

Polk gulped thirstily and caressed his head, where a swelling the size of an egg was plainly visible.

“I—I was in bed,” he said. “I went to bed early. My window was open. Something woke me up and I heard some one outside the window call my name. I got up and went to the window where I stuck my head out to see who wanted me.”

“And somebody petted yuh with a club, eh?” supplied Sleepy.

“I—I didn’t see what they had,” said Polk. “Something hit me, I know that. And when I awoke I was lying on my bed.”

“Walked in his sleep and hit his head,” said Stivers.

“No, suh!” Polk was indignant. “My safe was wide open.”

Several men came in, followed by Chuck Allard, and all gazed curiously at Andrew Jackson Polk, except Chuck, who seemed afraid to trust his eyes.

“Chuck came to the Medicine River saloon and told us that somethin’ was wrong down here,” laughed one of the men.

“He said if there wasn’t he was through drinkin’,” laughed another of the newcomers.

Chuck goggled at Polk for a moment and began laughing. He was greatly relieved.

“Yore safe was wide open,” prompted Cherokee. “Mebby yuh left it open.”

“No, suh!” Polk squinted around, and for the first time he seemed to realize how he looked.

“I—I must be dreaming,” he said thickly.

“I reckon yuh are,” agreed Cherokee. “That’s what I had in mind all the time, Polk. You better go back to bed before yuh catch cold.”

“Yeah, suh, I—I better.”

He shuffled outside, while the crowd laughed boisterously. It was surely a good joke on Andrew Jackson Polk, and the bartender invited every one to partake of the War Paint’s hospitality.

Yakima Reed awoke when Chuck bumped his head against the wall, but hardly knew what it was all about.

“Lemme ’lone,” he grunted. “I’m all ri’, I tell yuh.”

“Git up, yuh sleepin’ beauty,” demanded Chuck.

Yakima roused sufficiently to get out of his chair. He did not want another drink and he proceeded to tell the whole wide world that he didn’t.

“Thasall right,” agreed Chuck, pulling Yakima’s hat down over his ears. “Yo’re on yore feet, so let’s go home before yuh bog down again.”

“Don’ wanna go home. Noshir. Gimme room! Where’s a vic’im?”

“You don’t need no victim. We’re goin’ home and we’re goin’ right now, _sabe_? You come with me, or yo’re goin’ to be awful, awful sorry, Yak. Heed me, cowboy, heed me!”

Yakima nodded slowly and let Chuck lead him away. The crowd laughed, drank a “how” to the giver and went back to their games. But Hashknife did not play again, and a little later he and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode back to the Diamond H.

And for the first time since he had found out that Ma Holton had been duped Hashknife was so light-hearted that he sang all the verses of the “Dying Cowboy” and Sleepy assisted at times. They finished the last chorus as they rode up to the stable, and from within came the long drawn _cock-a-doodle-dooo-o-o_ of their baritone chicken.

Hashknife laughed softly as he yanked off his saddle. Sleepy grinned to himself, because it was not often that Hashknife let him in on a secret.

* * * * *

The next few days were spent at the ranch, doing some general repair work. The whole place was in bad repair; so Hashknife and Sleepy became rough-carpenters, post-hole diggers and hewers of poles. For once in their lives they worked willingly at something that would have been distasteful at any other time.

Uncle Billy followed them from place to place, marveling at their fondness for manual labor, and trying to find out what they had done toward making the Medicine River bank come to time. Ma Holton knew nothing of Uncle Billy’s worries. She was content to work around the ranch-house and plan for the future.

Wednesday came and with it came Joe Ables, the cattle-buyer. He was a big rough-looking person, with a hearty laugh and a deep bass voice. He drove in from the north in a buckboard and chuckled joyously at sight of Uncle Billy, who looked at him in dismay.

“Hello, you old pirate!” he whooped, as he shook hands with Uncle Billy. “By gee, I’m glad to see yuh again, Uncle Billy. The stage-driver told me yuh was back at the ranch again. I just drove from Silver Lake, and the men who made that road ought to be prosecuted.”

“I got yore letter,” said Uncle Billy, trying hard to think what to say.

“Everybody gets ’em,” boomed Ables. “I sure blow a long horn.”

Uncle Billy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy and Ables shook hands heartily.

“Ain’tcha goin’ to stop a while?” asked Uncle Billy.

“Thanks, Uncle Billy, but I’ve got to keep goin’. Buyin’ cows is a dog’s life. Look how thin I’m gettin’.” Ables laughed heartily. “How’s all the little cowlets comin’ these days?”

Uncle Billy shook his head sadly.

“It’s like this, Joe—”

“I know,” said Ables quickly. “Ain’t much range gossip that don’t come to my ears. I sure was sorry, old-timer. Been a long time since I came through here, but about a year ago I seen one whole train of Diamond H beef, and it made me kinda homesick for the Medicine River range.”

“Whole train of Diamond H beef?” queried Hashknife. This was getting interesting.

“About thirty cars, yeah. That was before I knew anythin’ about Uncle Billy’s troubles, and I thought somebody was steppin’ in on my territory, so I hunted up the man who bought ’em. Yuh see, Uncle Billy always sold to me.

“Anyway, I found out that Harry Peters had bought ’em for the Castleman outfit; so I went on a still hunt for Harry. I know him so well that he told me all about the mortgage trouble. It seems that he bought ’em at Silver Lake from a man who had bought ’em from the bank.

“That’s one reason I’ve been to Silver Lake. Harry told me he got ’em cheap, and I’m lookin’ for cheap cattle,” Ables laughed softly.

“Didja buy some?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope. Maybe Harry lied to me—I dunno. Anyway, I couldn’t find the man he bought from, and nobody seemed to know who he was.”

“What was his name?”

“Green.”

Hashknife and Sleepy looked at each other quickly. Uncle Billy paid no attention to the name, and it meant nothing to Ables, except what he had told them.

“And yuh couldn’t find him, eh?” Thus Hashknife.

“Nope. Cost me an extra two days. I’ve never made Silver Lake before, and I’m not goin’ again.”

“Railroad in there?”

“Branch. Twenty miles from main line. Lumber mostly. I’ve got to work fast around here, because I’m due down in the Rainbow country the last of the week. When I get back to Chicago, I’m goin’ to crawl all over Harry Peters.”

“Yuh might get down and rest yore feet,” suggested Uncle Billy, but Ables shook his head.

“When yuh get more cows, don’t forget me,” said Ables.

“I’ll kinda keep in touch with yuh. Pleased to meet you two gents.”

They shook hands with Ables and watched him drive toward town, humped in his jiggling buckboard.

“The bank sold my cattle, did they?” mused Uncle Billy aloud. “They sold everythin’ worth while and then unloaded the place on Ma. By ——, I’m gettin’ pretty mad, Hashknife.”

“Keep cool,” advised Hashknife. He managed to talk Uncle Billy into keeping quiet about the cattle sale, but the old man threw up both hands in desperation.

“Yeah, I’ll keep still,” he agreed. “I dunno why I promise to do it. Yuh make me tired with yore grinnin’, Hashknife. Ma talks about what we’re goin’ to do, and I set there and nod like a darn fool. She’ll find out, I tell yuh.”

“Not from any of us, Uncle Billy,” assured Hashknife. “We know how to keep a secret—the three of us.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

Hashknife questioned Uncle Billy about the town of Silver Lake, and that afternoon he and Sleepy saddled their horses, told Uncle Billy not to look for them until they came back, and rode north.

* * * * *

It was about thirty miles and they did not blame Ables for kicking about the road. But they pushed their horses hard and were at Silver Lake for supper. Practically the whole town and the surrounding timber country was owned by one corporation and had been a thriving lumber town, but the timber was nearly all gone, along with the future of Silver Lake.

There was only one saloon left in the town and this one was doing little business. Hashknife immediately struck up a conversation with the bald-headed bartender, who was willing to talk.

“You fellers ain’t lookin’ for jobs here, are yuh?” he asked.

“All depends,” smiled Hashknife. “Is there any cows around?”

“Not around here.”

“Used to be, didn’t there?”

“Not enough to make it a cow-country. Used to be a ranch back in the hills about two miles from here. I dunno who started it. That was before my time around here.”

“Who owned it?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno.” The bartender appealed to a young lumber-jack who was playing solitaire. “Olsen, do yuh remember who owned that cow-ranch on the west side of the lake?”

“No,” Olsen shook his head. “There was an outfit there about a year ago, but they didn’t stay long. Shipped all their cattle. Said something about the cows gettin’ poisoned by eatin’ larkspur, or some darned thing. They wasn’t here long enough to get acquainted.”

“Was the man named Green?”

“I dunno. Don’t think I ever heard his name.”

“How many cows?”

“I dunno how many. I know they shipped from here and closed up the ranch.”

And that was about all they could find out about the short-lived cattle ranch and the man named Green. The next morning they had a talk with the postmaster, but without results. He knew that somebody had occupied the old ranch, but no mail had come to them at Silver Lake. In fact, he did not remember seeing any of them.

“Somebody by the name of Green stole the Diamond H cattle, drove ’em to that deserted ranch and made a sale,” said Hashknife, as they rode homeward. “It was a cinch. Uncle Billy was drinkin’ and gamblin’ and never missed ’em. That cattle-buyer swallowed the story of the bank sellin’ the cattle to Green, which he naturally would—and there yuh are, cowboy.”

“Took nerve to do it,” declared Sleepy. “Them Diamond H cattle were well known.”

“Took brains to plan it,” said Hashknife. “We’re up against somebody with brains, I’ll tell yuh that, Sleepy.”

“We’ve got brains, too,” grinned Sleepy. “I hope yore scheme works out. It looks to me like you was doin’ a —— of a lot of guessin’, but mebby yo’re right. We could split that six thousand reward.”

“We could split a lot more than that, if we wanted to be crooked, young feller.”

“And nobody would ever be the wiser, Hashknife.”

“Except us, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, we’re our greatest drawback.”

And when they arrived at the ranch that afternoon they found that their secret was no longer a secret. Anderson had been out to see them, and Ma Holton knew that she did not own the Diamond H ranch. A chance remark by Ables who knew Anderson had caused Anderson to question Laskey, and the truth of the whole matter came out.

Anderson was furious over it. He lost no time in riding out to the ranch to fire Hashknife and Sleepy, but did not find them there. He and Uncle Billy almost came to blows when the old man accused the bank of double-dealing, and Anderson rode away swearing all kinds of things.

Ma Holton seemed dazed over the shock. She realized that all her money was gone, and with it had fled all her hopes.

“I bought it honestly,” she repeated several times. “I paid all my money. I haven’t anything left. Mr. Anderson says we’ll have to move out right away, because he is going to close up the place. Why, we haven’t any place to go. Isn’t it funny to not have any place to go?”

“Yeah, it shore is funny,” said Hashknife grimly. “It almost makes me laugh, Ma.”

“And you knew it all the time, Hashknife?”

“Yeah, we knew it, Ma. Miller showed us that you had been robbed. We tried to keep it a secret until we was able to try and find the guilty parties, ’cause we didn’t want to hurt yuh.”

“Well, that was nice of you, anyway. Oh, boys, I don’t want you to think that I blame you in any way. You have done a lot for me and Uncle Billy, and we thank you. But it’s all over now. We’ll get along somehow, we always have.”

“Anderson said he’d bring the sheriff and put us out,” said Uncle Billy bitterly. “Dang his hide, I almost busted him in the nose.”

“But he was right,” said ma. “We don’t own it, Uncle Billy.”

“No, we don’t own it, but we’ve got feelin’s left.”

“And he came out to fire us, eh?” grinned Hashknife.

“You betcha.”

Hashknife laughed and patted Ma on the shoulder.

“We’re goin’ down and have a talk with him, Ma.”

“Well, lemme tell yuh, he’s mad,” declared Uncle Billy.

“I—I hope the sheriff don’t come up here,” said Ma. “We’ll get out as soon as we can. The Lord only knows where we’ll go.”

“You have supper ready when we get back,” said Hashknife. “Yuh might not have to move out.”

“What do you mean, Hashknife?”

Hashknife grinned at her. “I’m goin’ to talk a little, Ma. And when I talk real serious-like, I mostly always get results.”

They walked out, leaving the old couple staring after them, and went to the bunk-house. A few minutes later they rode toward Medicine River. Hashknife squinted seriously ahead, his jaw jutting belligerently.

“Yuh goin’ to take a chance, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah, I sure am. I’m willin’ to gamble that I’m right.”

“I’ll trail with yuh, tall-feller.”

* * * * *

It was after banking hours when they arrived at Medicine River, but Anderson and Laskey were still in the bank and let them in. “You was out at the Diamond H today,” began Hashknife.

“I was!” snapped Anderson. “I found out what has been going on and I went out there to——”

“Now, this won’t get us anywhere,” interrupted Hashknife. “You told me you would sell the Diamond H as soon as possible, didn’t yuh? All right—how much?”

“Huh-how much? You want——”

“Yore best price, Anderson. I know what it’s worth.”

“Well, there’s a ten thousand dollar mortgage——”

“There was, yuh mean. I came here to talk prices. Set yore own price and don’t go hog-wild on values. The ranch ain’t worth a —— to the bank; so don’t start any arguments with me.”

“You are rather high-handed, young man.”

“Y’betcha. I always am when I’ve got money in my pocket. How much?”

“Wait a minute.” Anderson walked to the rear of the bank and conversed with Laskey, while Hashknife and Sleepy waited impatiently. Finally Anderson came back to them.

“Do you know how many head of Diamond H cattle there are in this range?” he asked.

“Not over thirty head—mostly culls.”

“That’s what my report shows. If you really want to buy the ranch, it is for sale—twenty-five hundred.”

“You’ve sold it,” declared Hashknife. “Can yuh make out a deed right away?”

Anderson called to Laskey, “Frank, see if Polk is in his office. If he is, have him come here right away.”

It did not take Laskey long to bring the lawyer, who made out the necessary papers, and Hashknife handed Anderson two one thousand dollar bills and five hundred in smaller currency. The deed had been made out to Mrs. William Holton.

“Pretty big bills for this country,” said Anderson. “Don’t see many of that denomination around here.”

“They’re hard to get cashed,” grinned Hashknife. “We usually carry a lot of ’em around with us.”

Polk examined them closely, as did Laskey.

“Didja get over yore nightmare all right, Polk?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah, suh. Funny, wasn’t it. I’d have sworn it wasn’t a dream.”

“I know how yuh felt,” laughed Sleepy. “I’m always dreamin’ about bein’ out in company with nothin’ on but my underclothes. You sure looked foolish. I’ll betcha Chuck Allard swore off drinkin’ that night. He took one look at yuh and walked out.”

But Andrew Jackson Polk failed to see anything funny in the recollections of Sleepy Stevens. Hashknife offered to buy a drink, but the invitation fell flat; so he and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode back to the ranch.

Ma Holton had supper ready for them. She was trying to be cheerful and met them with a smile, but they knew that she was wearing the smile for their sake. Hashknife and Sleepy ate supper alone.

“We wasn’t hungry,” said Uncle Billy simply.

Hashknife grinned and handed the papers to Ma Holton.

“Here’s an appetizer, Ma,” he said. “Read ’em and grin.”

The two old folks unfolded them under the light and held their breath as they read the printed lines, while Sleepy choked over his food and tried to whistle a tune.

“For the consideration of one dollar?” Uncle Billy looked at Hashknife in amazement. “You—you paid——”

Ma Holton dropped the papers in her lap and her hands trembled as she removed her glasses. She was unable to speak, but both boys were adept in sign language, and nodded violently.

“But for—for one dollar!” blurted Uncle Billy. That was the only part of it that he did not seem to understand.

It was a situation that neither of the boys were prepared to meet, so they fled for the door and smoked their after-supper cigarets, as they sat perched on the top-pole of the corral fence, while the big, yellow moon peeped over the Medicine River hills.

“Yo’re awful crooked, don’tcha know it?” said Sleepy softly.

“Yeah—and I’m awful happy, too,” chuckled Hashknife.