Chapter III

The next day Ma Holton tried to get Hashknife to take back the deed, but he only laughed at her.

“But it belongs to you,” she persisted. “You paid your own money for it, Hashknife.”

“What’s a dollar?”

“Oh, I know all about that. It only takes a dollar to make it legal, but you never bought the Diamond H for a dollar. Why do you do all these things for us?”

“I’m kinda funny,” admitted Hashknife seriously. “Nobody ever understood me very well. But don’tcha worry about that, Ma. Mebby some day I’ll tell yuh all about buyin’ this ranch.”

“We’re gettin’ a lot of fun out of it,” added Sleepy.

“Well,” said Ma dubiously, “I hope you are, boys. I know I can’t stand many more shocks.”

Uncle Billy accepted without a question, because he thought there was something behind the whole deal. Not that he wasn’t properly grateful.

“Been saved from the poor-farm twice in a week,” he declared. “If I was a bit superstitious I’d prob’ly figure that it ain’t the place for me.”

A Diamond H yearling came down to the stream behind the stable, and it did not take Hashknife and Sleepy long to convert it to some perfectly good veal, which they hung in a cooling shed.

“Have Ma make out a grocery list and we’ll stock up the old place,” said Hashknife. “We won’t go to any poor-farm as long as our credit is good and the yearlin’s wander down.”

They patched up an old buckboard, harnessed Sleepy’s saddle horse with an old Diamond H sorrel which had been in harness for a year and started for Medicine River. The brake-blocks were so badly worn that the brake was useless, and the lines would not stand a heavy pull, so they staged a runaway from the Diamond H to the War Paint hitch-rack. At times they were completely off the road, but they clung to the seat and whooped like a pair of wild Indians.

At the War Paint rack Sleepy’s horse proceeded to kick the dash-board off the antiquated vehicle, much to the amusement of Medicine River town. Sleepy flexed his weary arms and swore he was the best driver in the world.

Cherokee Lee was in town and lost no time in having a talk with Hashknife. Cherokee had talked with Anderson, who had told of the transaction.

“I don’t _sabe_ why yuh done it, but it sure was a fine thing for to do,” said the sheriff. “Anderson said he wondered how it was that a cowpuncher had twenty-five hundred dollars so handy, and I told him he could prob’ly satisfy his curiosity by askin’ yuh where yuh got it,” Cherokee chuckled deeply.

“He’d probably be surprized to know how much money I’ve got,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Prob’ly.” Dryly. “Anyway, it ain’t nobody’s business, and I’ll bet that’s what he got told, if he asked yuh.”

The stage came in from the north and Hashknife noticed that Charley Deal, the gambler, was a passenger. He shook hands with the sheriff and went to the War Paint. Hashknife and Sleepy loaded the buckboard with groceries, but decided to stay in town a while.

They met Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard in the Medicine River saloon. Yakima still had his right hand bandaged, but did not seem to bear any malice toward Sleepy.

“How’s the Diamond H?” asked Yakima.

“Inchin’ along,” grinned Hashknife.

“How’s the mechanic?” asked Sleepy. He wanted to find out how Yakima felt. But Yakima only grinned and glanced at his bandaged hand.

Sleepy challenged Hashknife to a game of pool, and the other two cowboys soon left the saloon.

“Yakima is a forgivin’ sort of a cuss,” observed Sleepy.

“Yeah?” Hashknife squinted at the layout of balls and chalked his cue thoughtfully. “Look out for him, cowboy. He’s cold sober, and he ain’t forgot. A feller like him is just wise enough to play ’possum. Keep yore eye on Allard, too.”

“Oh, he ain’t pullin’ no wool over my eyes.”

They finished their game and went to the War Paint. Charley Deal was running the poker game and Yakima Reed occupied one of the chairs. Bill Stivers was also in the game, and nodded to Hashknife.

“Here’s a good poker player,” laughed Yakima, looking at Hashknife.

Deal looked coldly at Hashknife, but did not seem interested in Yakima’s remark. There was a vacant seat at the table, but Hashknife made no move to occupy it.

“If I had his luck I’d never do anythin’ but play poker,” said Yakima, grinning widely to cover the sneer.

Hashknife grinned and nodded.

“Yeah, and if I didn’t have any more nerve than you’ve got, I’d never play it, Reed.”

Yakima flinched and his eyes narrowed angrily, while the other players lost interest in the game momentarily. But Yakima controlled his temper.

“Thasso?” he said softly, tensely. “I’ll play my nerve against yore luck, Hartley.”

“All right.” Hashknife slid into the chair opposite Yakima and bought chips. Stivers shifted uneasily in his chair. This had all the earmarks of trouble. Allard had moved in behind Yakima’s chair and Sleepy took a similar position behind Hashknife.

After a few hands had been played Stivers cashed in his chips and drew out of the game. This left only Deal, Hashknife, Yakima and another cowboy, Cliff Montell, who worked for O’Leary.

“I play poker for pastime,” declared Stivers. “That —— game ain’t pastime.”

Deal watched the play closely, raking out the percentage for the house on each pot, playing conservatively. Montell, in the parlance of poker, played his cards “close to his belt-buckle.” In other words, he kept out of the pot until he had a good hand.

But not so with Yakima and Hashknife. They contested nearly every pot, with Yakima slowly losing.

“Nerve against luck,” smiled Hashknife, as he drove Yakima out of a pot with a twenty dollar bet. “I had a set of fours that time—four diamonds.”

Sleepy watched the dealing. He knew that Hashknife would deal honestly, but kept his eyes on Yakima and Charley Deal, whose long slender fingers hinted of an ability to do queer things with cards.

But as far as Sleepy could see, the professional gambler was playing a square game. At least he was not winning. But it was his deal which brought the game to an abrupt close.

* * * * *

Hashknife picked up three kings and opened the pot. Yakima studied his hand closely, exposing it to Chuck Allard, indicating certain cards, as though asking Chuck’s advice. Chuck nodded and Yakima discarded one card, flipping it carelessly to the table.

“Gimme one card,” he said.

“One to me,” said Hashknife.

The dealer took three cards, but dropped out when Hashknife made a small bet, and got up from the table to get a drink at the bar. Yakima made a substantial raise. He seemed tensed, like a runner waiting for the starter’s gun.

Hashknife squinted at him closely, a half-grin on his lips, as he called the bet. It was the first time that Hashknife had merely called on the first raise.

“Show ’em to me,” said Hashknife. Yakima relaxed slightly and spread two small pair.

“Three kings.” Hashknife exposed a king of clubs, king of hearts and a king of diamonds, but did not show the other two cards in his hand. He mixed them up in the discards, raked in the pot and told the dealer to cash in the chips.

“Quittin’, are yuh?” sneered Yakima.

Hashknife had got to his feet.

“Yeah, I reckon I will, Reed. I don’t care to play for pastime.”

He took his winnings and walked out, followed by Sleepy, who did not understand why Hashknife had quit. They untied the team and went out of town in a cloud of dust. But this time they were able to control the team. It was up grade most of the way, and the load was fairly heavy.

“What did yuh quit for?” asked Sleepy. “You was cleanin’ up that game.”

“Didn’t you see it, Sleepy?” Hashknife’s dusty face broke into a wide grin.

“I didn’t see anythin’, Hashknife. What do yuh mean?”

“It was kinda well framed up, Sleepy. The gambler knew what was goin’ to happen, so’ he moved out. Yakima showed Allard his hand and they agreed on a one-card discard, if yuh remember.

“We both drawed one. Yakima didn’t help his hand. I helped mine.”

“Yuh did? Yuh showed—”

“I showed my original three kings. Yakima figured on callin’ me, don’tcha see, Sleepy? He wanted me to spread my hand.”

“No, I don’t see,” wailed Sleepy. “You talk foolish. You had him beat, so what in —— difference did it make who called?”

“Just this difference, Sleepy.” Hashknife grinned. “Yakima Reed discarded one card—the king of spades. After the draw I had that king.”

“You had that king of spades?”

“Uh-huh. Yakima had Chuck to prove that it was the same card.”

“But it was dealt to yuh, Hashknife.”

“Sure thing. And if I’d ’a’ spread it with the other three, Yakima Reed would ’a’ shot me, prob’ly.”

“Well, it sure escaped my eye,” admitted Sleepy. “That darned tin-horn gambler framed it, eh?”

“Between ’em. It sure worked out fine, except that I looked for trouble and they set the stage too nicely. It was just a case of beatin’ ’em at their own game. As you mentioned a while ago, Yakima Reed is sure a forgivin’ sort of a cuss.”

“But what made yuh suspect that it was a frame-up?”

“Well, for one thing, the dealer left the game. He could ’a’ called for a drink. Another thing, it was the first time that Yakima had showed Allard his cards, and in the third place I seen the dealer palm Yakima’s discard. It was smooth work, but not smooth enough. I didn’t want to lose the pot, nor I didn’t want to kill anybody, so I called Yakima, made him show his hand and only exposed enough of my hand to win the pot.”

“Well, yo’re lucky, I’ll say that much, Hashknife.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky. But I’m gettin’ so darned smart that I can make my own luck, cowboy. And that’s about all there is to luck.”

“Mebbe that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Next time I see Yakima Reed, I’m goin’ to bust him one for luck.”

“Yuh may have to,” grinned Hashknife.

They unloaded their groceries at the ranch-house and unhitched their mismated team. The sheriff had been at the ranch during their absence and had questioned Uncle Billy and ma about the purchase of the ranch. It was evident that Cherokee Lee shared Anderson’s curiosity as to where Hashknife had secured the twenty-five hundred dollars.

He was probably more curious after a talk with the old folks.

“I told him I didn’t know a darned thing,” grinned Uncle Billy. “Ma showed him the papers. He knew about somebody sellin’ ma the ranch. I reckon Miller or Anderson told him.”

“Let ’em wonder,” said Hashknife. “If he wants to know where we got the money, we can refer him to certain jobs, that paid us more than that amount.”

“I told him that it wasn’t anybody’s business,” said ma. “And I told him I knew that the money was honestly earned.”

Ma Holton had a big supper for them and during the meal she insisted on Hashknife’s taking back the deed again. But he laughed at her and refused.

“Well, let me give you a mortgage on the ranch, Hashknife. Tell me how much you paid and I’ll have it drawn up.”

“Not me,” protested Hashknife. “I hate mortgages. Anyway, you don’t owe me a cent. And more than that, Ma Holton, if you start this argument again, me and Sleepy are goin’ to saddle our broncs and ride away.”

“Hide the dern thing!” exploded Uncle Billy.

Ma grinned and put the papers away, while Hashknife sprawled on the couch and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

Ma Holton came back to Hashknife and he grinned at her.

“I just want to say,” she said slowly, “that the Diamond H will always be a home to you boys. No matter where you are, this is your home, and we’ll always be mighty glad to have you home with me and Uncle Billy.

“Yo’re danged right!” exclaimed Uncle Billy. “And if yuh ain’t got money enough to come home on, write, and we’ll send it, if we have to sell the last cow we own.”

Hashknife got to his feet and held out his hand to ma.

“That’s the best pay I ever got for any job,” he said. “Me and Sleepy have always been a pair of range tramps, Ma. Many and many a time have folks asked us where our home was. Sometimes it kinda hurts to stop and think it over, when folks ask that question.

“Everybody ought to have a home, somewhere in the world, where somebody would welcome yuh back. We’ve never had any—me and that bow-legged saddle-slicker. But we’ve got one now. Sleepy! Do yuh hear?”

“Aw-w-w, I heard,” Sleepy blinked thoughtfully. “It makes yuh feel kinda funny to have a home. Christmas, New Years and Thanksgivin’ we can come home, cowboy.”

“And eat,” said Hashknife. “That’s all you think about.”

It was about nine o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy left the ranch-house. The sky was cloudy and the night so dark that they had to feel their way across the yard to the bunk-house.

“Like a stack of black cats,” declared Sleepy, as they pawed at the bunk-house door-knob.

Hashknife was half-way across the room, trying to locate the table-lamp, when something crashed down on his head, dazing him so badly that he went to his knees. He struggled to his feet, his hands coming in contact with some one, but another blow dropped him cold.

* * * * *

When Andrew Jackson Polk crossed the street to the War Paint saloon the next morning, he found Bill Stivers, the deputy sheriff, having a drink with Charley Deal. Polk excused himself for intruding and accepted their invitation to have a drink. The poker game of the day before seemed to have been the topic of conversation, which was resumed after Polk’s drink had been poured.

“Yakima was sore,” declared Stivers. “Allard was sore, too. Somethin’ happened in that last pot to make Hartley quit.”

“Maybe not,” said Deal. “He was ahead of the game.”

“No, it wasn’t that, Charley. Parker Miller told Cherokee somethin’ about this Hartley, and it don’t sound like Hartley is the kind of a whippoorwill who will quit just because he’s ahead.”

“What did Miller tell Cherokee?” asked Deal.

“Enough to cause Cherokee to trail with Hartley in anythin’ Hartley wants to do. Oh, Cherokee checked up on everythin’, and he found that Miller didn’t lie.”

“It seems,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, “that we are entertaining quite a prominent man.”

“He’s prominent in some ways,” laughed Stivers.

“What about his partner?” asked Deal.

“Gun-man,” said Stivers.

“Yeah? What are they doing here?”

“Well,” grinned Stivers, “I never got well enough acquainted with ’em to ask that question. They came here to run the Diamond H ranch for the Medicine River Bank, and it may be that old man Holton has hired ’em to work for him.”

“They wouldn’t hardly be stayin’ around at forty a month.”

“Maybe they’re tryin’ to find out who killed Miller.”

“Yeah,” nodded Deal. “They might be, at that.”

Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard and another cowboy came in. Deal set up the drinks.

“We were talkin’ about that poker game yesterday afternoon,” said Stivers to Yakima. “What do yuh reckon caused Hartley to quit when he did?”

Yakima grimaced sourly.

“Mebbe he was scared.”

“Mebbe,” said Stivers doubtfully. “He didn’t look scared.”

“Well, don’t ask me—ask him, Bill.”

“Uh-huh. Well, yuh don’t need to get snappy about it, Yak. He sure gave yuh all the action yuh wanted.”

“Did he? Called one raise with three kings. I don’t call that action.”

“I’d say he was pretty good to yuh—and you with two pair.”

“Oh, what the —— do you care?”

“Not a thing. Let’s have a drink.”

But before the bartender could put out the glasses Uncle Billy came in, hatless, coatless, breathless.

“Where’s Cherokee?” he panted.

“Cherokee? What do yuh want of him?” asked Stivers.

“—— fool question! Where is he, Bill?”

“I left him at the restaurant, Uncle Billy.”

The old man turned around, stepped out of the saloon and went running up the sidewalk, while the men came from the saloon and watched him enter the restaurant. Hashknife’s sorrel horse stood at the hitch-rack, its sides heaving from a fast run.

Stivers was halfway to the restaurant when Uncle Billy and Cherokee Lee came out, and he joined them.

“What’s wrong?” asked Stivers.

“Come on and we’ll get our horses,” said Cherokee. “Be with yuh in a minute, Uncle Billy.”

They ran down the street to their stable, where they saddled hurriedly and joined the old man. Yakima, Allard, Deal and Polk had come to the hitch-rack and questioned Uncle Billy as he mounted his horse, but he refused to answer.

Cherokee and Stivers came galloping up the street and Uncle Billy spurred in beside them, while the four men stood at the hitch-rack and wondered what it was all about.

“Somethin’ is wrong at the Diamond H,” was all that Cherokee had told Bill Stivers.

They dismounted at the ranch-house and went down to the bunk-house, which showed signs of conflict. The table had been smashed flat, the lamp had been upset and broken. There was a splotch of blood on the inner side of the door, a pool of blood near the broken table, and the bedding had been dragged from both bunks.

“I—I found one blanket out in the yard,” faltered Uncle Billy. “It had blood on it, too. Their six-shooters are here. One was on the floor near the stove and the other was under the bunk. Prob’ly lost ’em in the fight.”

“What do yuh make of it, Cherokee?” asked Stivers.

The sheriff shook his head, “I dunno, Bill. It looks like somebody had jumped Hartley and Stevens in the dark. Probably laid for ’em.”

“They left the house about nine o’clock,” said Uncle Billy. “We never heard any noise, never knew anythin’ was wrong until I came to call ’em to breakfast. They didn’t answer the gong, yuh know.”

Ma Holton came down from the house and stood beside the door.

“Any news of them?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mrs. Holton,” said the sheriff. He came outside and looked all around, but there was nothing to indicate that there had been any struggle in the yard.

“Somebody sure tore up that bunk-house,” said Stivers.

“I don’t mind that part of it,” said Ma Holton. “But I do want my boys back again. You don’t suppose somebody killed them, do you?”

“No-o-o,” drawled Cherokee. “Somebody took ’em away, it looks like to me. If they killed ’em, they’d leave ’em here.”

“But why would they take them away, Sheriff?” asked Uncle Billy.

“I dunno. There’s a lot of things I don’t know about this deal.”

Cherokee and Stivers mounted their horses and circled the ranch, hoping to pick up some evidence which would assist them in making a search. But they found nothing. The ground was so dry and hard that a horsetrack would hardly show.

“If you killed a man at the ranch and wanted to hide the body, where would yuh take it, Bill?” asked Cherokee.

Bill laughed and shook his head.

“I dunno, Cherokee. I’d prob’ly be so danged scared that I’d leave it where it fell.”

“You ain’t much help to me, Willyum.”

“I thought yuh wanted a deputy, not a murderer.”

“Well, I s’pose yuh are better thataway,” admitted Cherokee. “About all we can do is to ride and look, so we might as well act like officers of the law.”

And while Cherokee and Bill Stivers headed back in to the hills, Hashknife Hartley twisted and turned, fighting for an extra fraction of an inch slack in his ropes. He had been conscious for several hours, but unable to make much progress toward loosening his bonds.

“Yo’re all right, ain’t yuh, Sleepy?” He had asked that question a dozen times in an hour, and a dozen times he had received the same answer—

“Like —— I am.”

Neither of them had any idea of where they were, nor how they got there. Their experiences in the bunk-house were about the same—a smash on the head. They were both well aware that they had been hit and that their assailants had not spared any pains in hog-tying them; but all this had failed to dampen their sense of humor.

“Ma will be worried,” said Sleepy painfully.

“I’m kinda worried myself,” said Hashknife, and a moment later gave a yelp of joy.

“I ain’t got no hair left on the back of my head and all the skin is off my nose, but by golly, I’ve got the bandage off my eyes.”

He hitched himself against the wall and blinked tearfully. It was semi-darkness in the only room of what seemed to be a small log cabin, without a stick of furniture, no windows and one door. The floor was of clay.

* * * * *

Sleepy was lying near him, tightly bound and with a cloth tightly tied over his eyes. “What do you see, pardner?” asked Hashknife.

“See, ——! Don’t try to be funny.”

Hashknife was close enough to see that Sleepy’s bandage was blood-soaked, as was one side of his head and face. His own face was stiff from blood and dirt and his head pounded painfully every time he made a move.

He explained the details of their prison to Sleepy, who thanked him very kindly and wanted to know what time it was.

“Forgot to wind my watch,” said Hashknife. “Why don’tcha try to get loose?”

“Why? No use. I’ve got all the skin rubbed off my wrists now.”

Hashknife managed to roll over to Sleepy and to set his teeth in Sleepy’s blindfold. Hunching one shoulder against the ground, he managed to worry the bandage over the bridge of Sleepy’s nose.

“Hey!” yelped Sleepy. “Leggo my nose! Whatcha trying to do, peel me? Ouch! —— yuh, Hashknife!”

But Hashknife kept jerking until the cloth was off Sleepy’s eyes, and that worthy swore roundly.

“Why didn’t yuh pull it the other way?” he wailed. “I’m a lot narrower thataway. One of my eyebrows is rolled up in that darned rag, I’ll betcha.”

“You can see, can’tcha, Sleepy?”

“Yeah, I can see—what there is to be seen.”

They looked at each other and grinned foolishly.

“Yo’re a —— of a lookin’ thing,” declared Sleepy.

“So are you, pardner.”

“Ho, hum-m-m!” Hashknife squinted up at the ceiling. “It’s day-light, Sleepy. You can see some light seepin’ in. By golly, I wonder why they made this shack so air-tight. No window at all. Even the chinkin’ is a solid job.”

“Architecture don’t interest me right now,” Sleepy groaned and shut his eyes. “I’ve had a lot of headaches, but this is the prime ache of ’em all. How are we ever goin’ to get loose?”

“We ain’t,” declared Hashknife. “Yuh can always read about how the hero found a busted bottle or somethin’ like that, and sawed his bonds, but they took the bottle away from here. I reckon we’ll stay here until somebody comes along.”

“And mebby they won’t turn us loose, Hashknife.”

“Mebby not. I wish I knew where we are and who put us here.”

And, as if in answer to Hashknife’s wish, there came the _cut, cut, cut, cut, ca-dar-cut!_ of a hen.

They looked at each other quickly, wonderingly.

“Lady Godiva!” exploded Sleepy.

“Sounded more like Mary Garden, Sleepy. But it can’t be either of ’em. Say! Sleepy, look at this shack! Think how it would look from the outside!”

“It would look fine to me, pardner.”

“I don’t mean that—I mean the shape of it. By ——, this is the little log cabin that Uncle Billy said he built and intended to make into a smoke-house.

“Ha-a-a-ay! Uncle Billy! Whooee-e-e-e!” Hashknife yelled at the top of his voice. Sleepy joined him and together they fairly shook the roof.

And Uncle Billy heard them. The little shack was so tightly built that their voices were muffled, and it took Uncle Billy and ma quite a while to locate them. The door had been padlocked, but Uncle Billy did not wait to hunt for a key. He took an ax-handle and pried out the staple.

Ma Holton cried over them, while Uncle Billy cut the ropes and helped them to their feet, and then they limped to the house to receive first aid. Both of them bore scalp wounds, painful swellings, and were stiff and sore from their bonds, but they laughed and told all they knew of the assault.

“More dinged funny things happenin’ around here,” declared Uncle Billy. “I don’t _sabe_ none of it. Say, we found yore guns in the bunk-house, and everythin’ was all torn up around there. Looks like there’d been a bullfight.”

Hashknife and Sleepy limped down to the bunk-house and viewed the place.

“It sure looks cyclonic,” laughed Hashknife.

“I dunno,” Uncle Billy scratched his head foolishly, “You boys ain’t carryin’ on none to speak about. What in —— was it all about, anyway?”

“That’s part of the joke, Uncle Billy,” grinned Hashknife.

“Well, it may be a joke, but I don’t know when to laugh.”

“We’ll tell yuh when.”

As they started back toward the house Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers rode in and dismounted.

“Well, for gosh sake!” exploded Cherokee. “We’ve been curryin’ the hills for you two fellers.”

“And they were locked up in my little log shack over there,” explained Uncle Billy.

Hashknife told Cherokee what had happened to them, and the sheriff scratched his cheek reflectively.

“Yeah, that’s all right, Hartley. But who hit yuh?”

“It was too dark to see, Sheriff. They knocked us so cold that we slept real sound.”

“Uh-huh. But what did they hit yuh for?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Aw-w-w!” Cherokee scratched the other cheek. “Didn’t, eh?”

“Hartley, did this have anythin’ to do with the poker game yesterday?” Thus Bill Stivers.

“Poker game?”

“Between you and Yakima Reed.”

“Where would yuh find any connection, Stivers?”

“Gosh, I dunno.”

“They tied yuh up and left yuh in that log shack,” said the sheriff. “Why did they do that? It don’t sound reasonable.”

“Mebbe you don’t see things like they do,” grinned Hashknife.

“Prob’ly not.” Dryly. “I wish I saw things like you do.”

“Then you might get hit on the head,” laughed Hashknife. “Too much knowledge is a bad thing sometimes, Sheriff. I wish that you and Stivers would go back and tell everybody that yuh can’t find us. Tell ’em about how the bunk-house looks, and that yuh found pieces of rope and blood spots in the little log shack. Yuh might say that the door looks like it had been busted open from the inside, and all that.”

“Yeah, we might do that,” nodded the sheriff. “I dunno why we should lie about it though.”

“You don’t need to lie. You couldn’t find us, could yuh? And you can see the pieces of rope and the blood spots out in the log shack, if yuh care to look.”

Cherokee grinned softly, “All right, Hartley. But you better get found pretty soon. There’s a dance in Medicine River day after tomorrow night, and yuh don’t want to miss it. All the pretty girls will be there.”

“Somebody will find us by that time,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy sure do put up some exhibition of dancin’, and we hate to miss a chance to entertain the natives.”

Cherokee and Bill mounted their horses.

“Any special person yuh want me to tell this story to?” asked Cherokee.

“No-o-o, just make it kinda general.”

“All right, Hartley. Get over yore bruises and I’ll introduce yuh to some mighty pretty girls. So-long.”

They rode away and the two cowboys went back to the shady porch with Uncle Billy, where they joined Ma Holton.

“How would yuh like to go to a dance, Ma?” asked Hashknife.

“Dance? Me? Bless your heart, I ain’t danced for so long that I couldn’t do it. Anyway, I haven’t anything nice to wear Hashknife.”

“You’ve got plenty of good clothes, Ma,” said Uncle Billy.

“Let me furnish yuh with clothes, Ma,” suggested Hashknife.

“For goodness sake, what do you mean, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh yet, ma. It’ll be askin’ quite a lot, but I hope yuh can do it. I’ve been wonderin’ a lot about how to work this deal, and this dance gives me a good idea.”

“All right,” ma laughed and patted Hashknife’s arm. “Your old ma will do most anything for her boys. Go and wash your faces and get ready to eat.”

“We’ll talk this over later,” said Hashknife seriously. “It might be too dangerous, and by golly, we ain’t goin’ to take any chances on gettin’ yuh hurt.”

“A few more shocks won’t hurt me,” laughed ma. “I’m getting used to them.”

“I hope this will be the last one,” said Hashknife. “I’m gettin’ tired of ’em myself.”

* * * * *

Cherokee Lee was as good as his word. He and Stivers stabled their horses and went to the War Paint. It seemed as though everybody in Medicine River knew that something had gone wrong at the Diamond H, and was waiting for someone to bring the news.

Even Anderson, the banker, and Andrew Jackson Polk came to hear what Cherokee Lee had to say.

“Dunno a darn thing about it,” declared Cherokee. “They left the ranch-house last night about nine o’clock. This mornin’ they was gone. The bunk-house was all torn up inside and blood over everythin’. Their two six-shooters were on the floor and the place sure looks like a battle-ground. Me and Bill searched all around, and in a little log shack near the stable we found pieces of rope and more blood spots. The door had been padlocked, it seemed, but the staple on the hasp had been shoved out. It kinda looked to me as though somebody had been locked in there and had managed to knock the staple loose.”

“And you couldn’t find them?” asked Anderson.

Cherokee shook his head. “Nope. Me and Bill circled the hills, but couldn’t find ’em, Anderson. It sure looks funny.”

“Are their horses still there?” Thus Chuck Allard.

“Yeah, I reckon they are. Uncle Billy rode one of ’em down here after me this mornin’.”

“That’s right,” nodded Yakima. “I noticed that.”

“Perhaps they have left the country.” Andrew Jackson Polk’s suggestion did not meet with favor.

“On foot?” queried Stivers. “Any old time a cowpuncher walks!”

“Well, what’s the answer?” Jim O’Leary did not care to listen to speculations.

“I wish I knew,” said Cherokee. “They’ve prob’ly been murdered and thrown in the brush. I reckon my best bet is to set on a hill and watch for buzzards.”

Cherokee evidently thought that he might as well romance a little on his own account when he found he could do it seriously.

“If they were dead, how could they bust out of the shack?” said O’Leary.

“Nobody said they busted out of the shack,” said Cherokee. “I said it looked thataway to me. Somebody busted out. Somebody had also been tied up in there, somebody that bled quite a lot. Kinda looks like somebody had been taken in there, all tied up.”

“Tied up and murdered, eh? And then taken out and hid?”

“Well, mebby that was it. Jim, for gosh sake, don’t start any argument with me. I dunno any more about it than you do.”

And this settled the argument as far as the sheriff was concerned, although the others continued the discussion after the sheriff and his deputy had left the saloon.

“It sounds rather queer to me,” declared Anderson. “Hartley paid me twenty-five hundred dollars for the Diamond H ranch and had the deed made out to Mrs. Holton. He paid me with two one-thousand-dollar bills and the five hundred in smaller ones.”

“Thousand-dollar bills?” O’Leary laughed. “Never seen one in my life, I don’t believe. Anyway, I don’t reckon they’re common pocket-pieces among cowpunchers.”

“Well, he had two of them.”

Several of the cowboys suggested that a search be made, but no one seemed to step forth as a leader, so the idea was abandoned. Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers remained in their office for the afternoon, finishing up some clerical work and wondering what was behind all this trouble at the Diamond H.

“I’ve got a hunch that somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” said Cherokee. “That long-geared cowpuncher has some ideas, I’ll betcha, Bill. He grins at yuh with his mouth, but his eyes don’t twinkle. He looks plumb through yuh.”

“He plays poker jist like that,” declared Stivers. “His eyes and mouth don’t work together. And didja ever notice that his hand is always swingin’ real close to his gun. Somebody said that Stevens was a gun-man, and he may be, but Hartley is the jigger to look out for.”

“Well, we don’t need to look out for him, Bill. I’ll bet he knows who knocked ’em out. Miller told me to let him alone. I wish we knew who killed Parker Miller. Hartley was the first man to look at Miller after he was shot, and I’m wonderin’ if Hartley ain’t got some idea who done it. But he won’t answer questions, that’s a cinch.”

“If he knows, why don’t he do somethin’?” asked Stivers.

Cherokee shook his head and resumed his work. He was a perfectly good sheriff, but there was not a shred of detective ability in his make-up.

That the case had caused a certain amount of interest was manifested the next day when several of the ranchers dropped in at the Diamond H. But Hashknife and Sleepy had kept a close watch and went into hiding.

Cherokee and Stivers dropped in, accepted the absence of the two cowpunchers as a precautionary measure, exchanged a few words with the old folks and rode away. Jim O’Leary and Cliff Montell rode in later on and were welcomed warmly by the old folks. And while they talked came Frank Laskey and Andrew Jackson Polk, driving Anderson’s buggy mare hitched to a top-buggy.

Laskey’s explanation to the effect that Mr. Anderson was curious to know how things were and did not have time to come himself brought a grin to Uncle Billy’s face. Anderson had not forgotten Uncle Billy’s wrathful denunciation.

“Well, that’s shore nice of Mr. Anderson,” said Uncle Billy. “You tell him that everythin’ is fine as frog-hair, Frank.”

“All right. But is there any news of the missing men?”

“Nope.”

“What is your personal opinion, Uncle Billy?”

“Well,” the old man knocked the dottle out of his pipe against the porch railing, “pers’nally, I think it’ll rain.”

O’Leary’s laugh irritated Laskey.

“It isn’t a joke, is it?” he demanded.

“If it is, we ain’t seen it yet.” Thus Uncle Billy, soberly. “But we might as well laugh as cry. Still, I’ve got a hunch that them two boys will take a mighty lot of killin’.”

“Exactly,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “Just now it is a case of _corpus delicti_. But if they are not dead, why do they not come back?”

“Yo’re gettin’ into the question class, too, are yuh?” Jim O’Leary laughed. “Let me tell yuh somethin’: If Hartley and Stevens ain’t dead, —— pity the men who failed to do the job when they had a chance. Of course, if they had the chance.”

“And,” said Polk judicially, “if they knew who the men were.”

“Oh, sure, that figures in on it,” agreed O’Leary.

“If we only knew what it was all done for,” said Ma Holton. “Those two boys had no quarrel with any one around Medicine River.”

“Hartley had a quarrel with Yakima Reed,” said Montell. “And I heard that Yakima took a swipe at Stevens the other night and busted his hand on the War Paint music-box.”

“Which was not sufficient cause for a murder,” said Polk.

“Well—” Jim O’Leary shook hands with the old couple—“I’ve got to be goin’ on, folks. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry. Yo’re comin’ to the dance tomorrow night, ain’t yuh? By golly, it’ll seem like old times to see yuh down there again. Everybody will be there, and Medicine River ain’t forgot the Holton family, yuh betcha.”

“A whole lot depends,” said Uncle Billy. “Me and ma think a lot about them two boys, and we’d kinda hate to go dancin’ when they’re—well, you know how it is, Jimmy.”

“Sure, I know. Anyway, we’ll hope for the best. So-long.”

Laskey and Polk said good-by and drove away at the same time. Uncle Billy laughed gleefully, as he filled his old pipe.

“Anderson sent his hired man, Ma. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I sure told him where to head in at, and he was scared to come again.”

“Anyway, it was nice of him to inquire,” said Ma.

“Yeah, nice! Just like most folks think it’s nice of them to attend a funeral. They don’t go out of respect. Curiosity, I tell yuh. Anderson wanted his curiosity satisfied.”

* * * * *

Uncle Billy repeated the conversations to Hashknife and Sleepy, who had hibernated in the cellar, along with some old magazines, blankets and an oil lamp. The cellar entrance was a trap-door in the middle of the kitchen.

“Anderson got curious and sent Frank Laskey out to see what it was all about,” Uncle Billy told them. “Polk rode out with him.”

“Anderson got curious, did he?” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah, but he never came out himself. By golly, he sure got told a few things the last time he was out here and he don’t care to hear ’em again.

“Jim O’Leary said he pitied the men who done this to you boys. Mebby Jim don’t believe that yo’re dead, ’cause he said they made a mistake in not killin’ yuh while they had a chance. He thinks you’ll make it hot for ’em, Hashknife.”

“What makes him think we know who done it, Uncle Billy?”

“I dunno. Do yuh?”

“We didn’t see ’em, nor hear ’em talk.”

“Then how—” Uncle Billy rubbed his nose and went back up the stairs. He had been with Hashknife long enough to know that Hashknife answered no questions.

The following morning Cherokee Lee brought a posse with him, consisting of Bill Stivers, Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard, Cliff Montell and Andy Halpern, another of O’Leary’s cowboys. They stopped at the ranch-house, while Cherokee questioned Uncle Billy.

“Nothin’ new,” said Uncle Billy, sizing up the posse. “Takin’ quite a crew with yuh, ain’t yuh, Cherokee?”

“Lookin’ for buzzards,” said Cherokee seriously. “Everybody seems to think that we ought to keep on lookin’, so I’m takin’ enough men along to find most anythin’.”

He took them down to the bunk-house and showed them the evidences of the attack, and then over to the log shack, where they examined the hasp and agreed that it had been forced from inside the shack, as the staple had been forced out sidewise from the soft wood.

“Wasn’t a very good fastener,” said Yakima Reed, examining the staple.

“I wasn’t intendin’ it for a jail,” said Uncle Billy. “I was goin’ to make a meat house out of it, and yuh don’t need a time lock to keep a ham from bustin’ loose.”

The posse laughed at Uncle Billy’s retort and rode away to search the hills.

“They might have gone crazy,” said Montell. “Looks like the work of a crazy man, Cherokee. What’ll we do if we see ’em?”

“I dunno—ride like —— for town, I suppose,” Cherokee said it seriously.

“What for?”

“Get another drink and a fresh start, I reckon.”

* * * * *

A dance in Medicine River was something to date time from. From miles around came the ranchers, bringing their families, even unto the dogs. The dance-hall was located above the general store, and the upper floor of the adjoining building was utilized as a dining-room, where the ladies of the town served a chicken dinner at midnight.

Steve Morris, the rotund justice of the peace, was floor manager, and did the “calling” for the square dances, while two fiddles, a banjo, an accordion and a bass viol rendered their own version of popular dance music.

There were few really good dancers in Medicine River. Frank Laskey, by virtue of having danced somewhere in the East, was possibly the most graceful male dancer, according to the female idea. Andrew Jackson Polk was also fairly good, except that his movements were a trifle too staid and dignified.

The rest of them just danced, perspired, limped and drank hard liquor. It seemed that there was a steady procession of males from the dance-hall entrance to the War Paint saloon, and the air of the dance-hall was redolent of a breath-killer called “Sen-sen,” which, when mixed with the fumes of bad whisky, made a combination that was almost anesthetic to the innocent bystander.

And bad whisky played a big part in the Medicine River dances, giving Steve Morris plenty of chance to exert his authority. Too much attention to another man’s girl meant immediate trouble, and there was also a great danger of two couples claiming the same position in a quadrille.

Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers divided their time between the dance-hall and the War Paint, promoting peace as much as possible. No man had ever been jailed in Medicine River for merely fighting, and there was no such a charge as disturbing the peace.

As usual the War Paint’s gambling games were doing a big business. A dance meant that every cattle-man would advance his men some money, if they needed it, and they always did. And the War Paint was in business to see that none of it ever went back to the ranch.

Cherokee Lee’s posse had ridden back late that evening, tired, but thoroughly satisfied that they could find nothing. To the boys from O’Leary’s ranch it meant a long ride out to the ranch for their dance clothes, so they compromised by buying shirts, collars, neckties and some perfume at the store and making their changes in the rear of the War Paint.

To Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard the dance meant nothing. They were not going to dance, anyway. There was considerable discussion over the missing cowboys among the men who lived farther away from Medicine River and had not heard about it.

“Well, we didn’t find anythin’,” declared Yakima. “I thought that —— sheriff was goin’ to keep us out all night. Gimme a drink, bartender.”

Charley Deal was off shift and was drinking. But he was one of those cold-blooded individuals whom liquor does not thaw. Always a good dresser, just now he was immaculate—a direct contrast to Yakima and Chuck, who told him of their fruitless quest.

“Cherokee thinks they’re dead,” said Chuck squinting at his empty glass. “He was always lookin’ for buzzards.”

“Looking for buzzards?”

“Yeah. Let’s have another drink. He thinks that the buzzards will locate the bodies, Charley. You goin’ to dance tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“They’re dancin’ now,” stated a perspiring cowboy, who pushed in beside them to get a drink. “Gosh, that shore was a swift ol’ quadrille. The old floor is as slickery as grease. Gimme some sody for a chaser. All right, ginger ale will do. Here’s go.”

He gulped his drink and hurried back. Bill Stivers came in with Andrew Jackson Polk, who was also dressed for the occasion, and Deal invited them to drink.

“Not tonight, thanks,” grinned Stivers.

“Why not tonight?” queried Deal coldly.

“Just a li’l idea of mine,” laughed Stivers. Deal watched him walk back to a crowd around the roulette wheel and turned to Polk.

“You haven’t any idea, have you?” he asked.

“I have an idea that a drink might do me good.”

They drank together, along with Yakima and Chuck, who seemed to be trying to get as many drinks as possible in a short length of time.

“You fellows better go easy,” advised Deal. “No use being a pair of fools.”

“All right,” choked Yakima. He and Chuck left the bar.

“Not a brain in the pair,” said Deal disgustedly, although he had drank more than both of them.

Above the noise of the saloon they could hear the shrieking of the orchestra and the deep-toned voice of Steve Morris, calling the changes.

“Going to dance?” asked Polk.

“Later—maybe.”

The music stopped, and a few moments later the panting dancers came to the saloon, crowding, laughing, indulging in rough horseplay, as they mopped at their foreheads, tugged at tight collars and demanded service.

* * * * *

Two men came from the darkness near the hitch-rack and halted at the corner of the saloon. One of them was small, slender, wearing ill-fitting clothes and a sombrero pulled low over his eyes. The other was unmistakably Hashknife Hartley.

For several minutes they stood there. Another dance was on, and not until it ended and the men were filing into the saloon that Hashknife patted his companion on the shoulder and gently urged him forward.

There was no word spoken between them. The little cowboy went timidly in, was almost knocked out of the doorway, when another cowboy came out and went singing across the street.

Once inside the saloon the little cowboy moved to a point of vantage and seemed to be intently watching the faces from beneath his sombrero brim. No one noticed him. As the dancers left the bar the little cowboy joined them, came outside and walked to Hashknife, who had drawn back into the shadow.

“Well?” questioned Hashknife anxiously. In reply the little cowboy drew him to the window, where they could get a partial view of the bar.

“Third from the end,” said the little cowboy.

Hashknife laughed softly, drew his companion aside, and they went down the street, keeping in the shadow.

A few minutes later Cherokee Lee came down from the dance-hall and stepped out on the sidewalk to run face to face with Hashknife. Cherokee grunted with surprise, but Hashknife drew him down the street before any one else could see him in the lighted entrance.

“Well, what kind of a lie do yuh want me to tell now?” grinned Cherokee.

“A whopper, Sheriff. Will yuh do it?”

“Hm-m-m, I dunno. Prob’ly. My soul is about as black as I can make it now, Hartley. What do yuh want done?”

Hashknife laughed. “I want yuh to put a man in jail.”

“Who?”

“Frank Laskey.”

“For gosh sake, what for, Hartley?”

“Just for fun. I want yuh to go up in the dance-hall and make the arrest. I don’t care how many folks hear it.”

“Uh-huh?” Cherokee cleared his throat raspingly. “Well, that’s all right—but what’ll I arrest him for?”

“Listen, Cherokee,” Hashknife’s voice had lost its joking tone. “You can wink at Laskey if yuh want to when yuh arrest him. Yuh don’t need to announce what he’s arrested for, but kinda let folks know that he’s under arrest.”

“Is it a joke?” queried Cherokee. “Yuh know he can make a lot of trouble out of a thing like that, Hartley.”

“Laskey won’t—not when he finds out why it was done.”

“Uh-huh. Well, all right, Hartley. Want me to do it now?”

“Just as soon as yuh can. I’m dependin’ on yuh, ’cause I can’t be there to see yuh do it.”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” laughed Cherokee. “Shall I put him in jail?”

“Oh, sure. Make the thing look good, Sheriff.”

Cherokee went back to the doorway, wondering if he was doing the right thing, and swearing at Hashknife under his breath for asking him to make a scene in the dance-hall.

Hashknife crossed the street and met Sleepy near the hitch-rack.

“All set?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Yeah. Didja see Stivers?”

“He’s in the War Paint. I just told him to keep his eyes open, thasall.”

“That’s enough. C’mon.”

The music had stopped, and they could hear sounds of commotion, as several men came down the creaking stairway from the dance-hall. Men were coming out into the street as Hashknife and Sleepy walked around to the rear of the War Paint and went in through the open door.

Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard were drunkenly engrossed in a game of bottlepool; so engrossed, or so drunk, that they did not pay any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who moved in between the pool-table and the end of the bar.

Charley Deal was standing with his back against the bar, his elbows braced on the top, a cigaret dangling from his lower lip. A big poker game was in progress. Hashknife could see Andrew Jackson Polk standing behind Jim O’Leary, intently watching the play.

Bill Stivers was watching the roulette game and had not seen the entrance of Hashknife and Sleepy. In fact, no one had noticed them. Yakima Reed swore at a missed shot and dropped his cue, which clattered to the floor. He stooped to pick it up and when he lifted his head he looked straight at Hashknife and Sleepy.

An expression of bewilderment flashed across his face and he turned his head to see if Chuck Allard had seen the same thing. But Chuck was hunched down, squinting at the pool-balls. Yakima turned and looked at them again, blinking foolishly.

“Well, look who’s here!” he blurted.

His exclamation was loud enough for every one in the room to hear. Deal turned his head and looked at them coldly. Stivers began walking slowly toward them. But before any one fully realized that the missing cowboys were here in the flesh, a man came in from the front and halted midway of the room.

“Say!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Cherokee Lee has arrested Frank Laskey and took him to jail!”

The announcement disrupted the games. Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved, but their eyes took in the occupants of the room.

“Frank Laskey!” exploded one of the poker players. “What has he done?”

“I dunno.” The cowboy shook his head. “The sheriff won’t tell. Arrested him while he was dancin’ and put him in jail.”

“He talked too much,” said Hashknife.

Every one in the room turned at the sound of his voice, which carried conviction. Deal squinted narrowly, but did not move.

“Talked too much?” queried Jim O’Leary, starting to get to his feet.

“Stay where yuh are, O’Leary,” said Hashknife. “Laskey turned state’s evidence tonight.”

“Turned what?” blurted another man.

“Evidence on what?”

“What do yuh mean?”

The questions came in a volley.

“He said—” Hashknife hesitated for a moment—“he said that Green framed it all and he told who Green is.”

For a moment there was complete silence, broken by Charley Deal’s sudden shift of position. His right hand flashed inside his coat and came out holding a revolver.

But as it flashed in the yellow lamplight, the room shook from the concussion of Hashknife’s six-shooter, and Deal’s gun clattered to the floor. It had all been done so quickly that the crowd had not moved.

Yakima Reed, still holding his billiard cue, was staring at Hashknife. In fact he was still staring when Sleepy’s right uppercut caught him and knocked him flat.

As Yakima crashed to the floor, Chuck flung his cue at Sleepy and drew his gun. Dodging the cue probably saved Sleepy’s life, because Chuck’s first bullet ripped his collar.

Backing toward the rear door, Chuck tried to shoot again, but Sleepy’s gun was powder-burning the pool-table top, as he sent shot after shot at the retreating Allard, who crumpled just inside the doorway.

Still the crowd did not scatter. Deal still leaned against the bar, his cold nerve still fighting to keep him upright. Andrew Jackson Polk had not moved. He seemed a disinterested spectator until he heard Hashknife’s voice—

“Polk, yo’re next. Pick yore medicine.”

The lawyer’s eyes slowly turned to the menacing gun muzzle. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Charley Deal swayed sidewise and fell full length. The room was hazy with powder smoke, when Cherokee Lee came in.

“My ——, what’s been goin’ on?” he gasped.

“Put yore handcuffs on Polk,” said Hashknife coldly.

“On—on Polk?” faltered Cherokee.

“As quick as yuh can.”

Cherokee went slowly forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. Polk made no attempt to escape. He seemed old, dazed, shaking his head as though trying to remember what it was all about.

“I heard the shooting,” said Cherokee.

“Yuh better put some cuffs on this jigger, too,” said Sleepy, indicating Yakima, who was showing signs of returning consciousness.

“But what’s it all about?” Cherokee asked.

“Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard murdered Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “Allard has paid for his part in it, but yuh better put a rope on Yakima, Sheriff.”

It did not take the crowd long to find a rope, and Yakima awoke to find himself well trussed, and a crowd willing to tie another around his neck. But Cherokee talked them out of a lynching and took his prisoners to jail.

Yakima refused to talk and Polk seemed unable. They stumbled into the jail, where Frank Laskey’s pale face looked at them through the bars.

“I’ll have to put you fellers together in a cell,” said Cherokee to Polk, as he unlocked the other cell.

“Laskey didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, did he?” asked Cherokee, after locking the cell-door. “I don’t _sabe_ what the joke was all about, Hartley.”

“Yeah, Laskey had plenty to do with it,” said Hashknife. “It was Laskey who furnished the original mortgage of the Diamond H to make the forgery from. Deal sold the ranch to Ma Holton. He was the only man in the town who was a stranger to her.

“Deal, Yakima and Allard stole the Diamond H cattle, took ’em to Silver Lake, where they shipped ’em. Polk was the smart man of the crowd. He made out the legal papers for the ranch sale. He had a theory that most robbers give themselves away by spendin’ the money right away, so he made ’em put the money all in his safe.

“The day that Ma Holton came back to the Diamond H, Charley Deal pulled out of the country. He couldn’t afford to have her recognize him. I reckon the gang thought that as soon as she found out that she had lost all her money, she’d vamoose and Charley could come back.

“Anyway, just to play safe, they raided the ranch and stole the papers. It kinda had me guessin’ for a while. Then came the murder of Parker Miller and the bank robbery. Laskey said that those robbers were masked. I figured that Miller was killed because he recognized them. And then I figured that he recognized ’em because they wasn’t masked.

* * * * *

“They came in the back door. It ain’t a usual thing for a back door in a bank to be open thataway. Laskey said he opened it on account of the heat. He did, like ——. He opened it so that Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard could come in, take the money he had already sacked up for ’em, shoot Miller, and sneak back into Polk’s office, where the money was put in Polk’s safe.”

The jail was crowded with interested listeners; the dance forgotten.

“How do yuh know it was in Polk’s safe?” asked Cherokee.

“Because,” Hashknife laughed, “I hit Polk over the head, unlocked his old keylock safe with his own key, and took the money out to the Diamond H ranch.”

“My ——!” Stivers began to see a light. “That was the night we told Polk that he had been dreamin’.”

“How much money was there?” asked Cherokee weakly. Disclosures were coming almost too fast for him to keep track of them.

“Eighteen thousand dollars.”

“Eighteen thousand!”

“And that’s what they came out to the ranch after the other night,” laughed Hashknife. “It was under the doorstep of the bunk-house, wrapped up in a piece of canvas—except for the twenty-five hundred dollars I spent for the Diamond H.”

“I told ’em!” crowed O’Leary. “Didn’t I tell Polk and Laskey that—”

The jar of a pistol shot stopped O’Leary from repeating what he had told Laskey and Polk. Cherokee sprang to the cell bars and peered inside. He turned back to Hashknife.

“Dang it, I thought his arrest was a joke, Hartley, so I didn’t search him for a weapon. The law won’t try Frank Laskey.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife. “I wanted at least one prisoner, and I wanted his arrest to shock Charley Deal into admittin’ that he was Green. Why, I even had Ma Holton identify Deal. She thought he was the same man.”

“But she couldn’t be sure—not sure enough. And I knew that they could stand pat and ruin all my schemes. I had the money, but that was all. I knew that the theft of it would bring Green back. And Charley Deal was the only man that came back, so I called him Green and worked everythin’ from that.”

“By golly, don’t you feel sorry?” said Cherokee. “Mebbe it’s a lot better for Laskey. Anyway, two out of five is a pretty good average.”

Anderson shoved his way to the front. He was trembling with excitement, hardly able to talk. Some one near the door had told him that Laskey had shot himself.

“This is terrible!” he exclaimed. “Three men dead. And what good has it done?”

“It pays for the murder of Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “And I’ve got about seventy-five hundred dollars that belongs to yore bank, Anderson.”

“Seventy-five hundred? Why, that’s what was stolen. This is really wonderful!”

“Aw, ——!” blurted Hashknife, and shoved his way out through the crowd.

Yakima Reed came to the bars of his cell and stared out at the crowd which moved in closer to look at him.

“I’d like to say somethin’,” he said.

“You better keep still until yuh get a lawyer,” advised Cherokee.

Yakima spat painfully, “The —— I had! Say, if I hadn’t listened to a —— lawyer I wouldn’t be where I am now. I jist want to say that I’d like to know who in —— told all this to Hartley.”

“He was right, wasn’t he?” asked Cherokee.

“——, yes! I wanted to kill the both of ’em the other night at the Diamond H but Polk thought we’d never find that money if we did, so we dumped ’em in the log shack.”

“Yo’re tellin’ quite a lot,” warned Cherokee.

“Aw, what’s the difference? We were awful suckers to not fade out of the country when we heard that they’d got out of that shack. Me and Chuck wanted to pull out, but Polk—say, if any of you fellers ever figure on pullin’ off a crooked deal, don’t take the advice of any —— lawyer.”

“Which one of you fellers killed Miller?” asked Cherokee.

“Neither one of us. Laskey done it himself.”

“Tryin’ to save yore neck?” asked O’Leary.

“It’s the only neck I’ve got, Jim.”

“Well, we’ll leave it to the law,” said Cherokee.

“Then I lose. You better take this lawshark out of my cell, before I plumb ruin him, sheriff. He’s settin’ there, thasall.”

Over at the War Paint hitch-rack four people grouped together beside an old buckboard.

Hashknife leaned back against a front wheel of the buckboard and puffed on his cigaret.

“Yuh can take eight thousand dollars and buy enough stock to kinda build up the old brand again,” said Sleepy, grinning at the little cowboy who had removed his sombrero, exposing the white hair of Ma Holton.

“I—I can’t stand many more shocks,” she said wearily.

Uncle Billy began chuckling, “I never thought I’d live to see my wife wearin’ boots and overalls and goin’ into saloons.”

“And I wanted a dance with ma this evenin’,” complained Hashknife. “Been lookin’ forward to it quite a while.”

“Blame Uncle Billy,” said ma.

“I’ll take it,” said the old man. “After what’s happened I’ll take blame for most anythin’.

“Well, let’s go home,” suggested Hashknife. “A lot of these Medicine River cowpunchers heard me say that the money was under the bunk-house doorstep—and I want to put my head on a piller tonight and feel sure that somebody ain’t goin’ to start another mystery here.”

A few minutes later, while the dance orchestra rattled into the “Irish Washerwoman” and the stentorian voice of Steve Morris ordered, “Right hands to your partners—grand right and left,” a decrepit buckboard, drawn by a mismated pair of horses, rattled out of town. And behind it rode two cowpunchers, who, for the first time since they became range tramps—were heading home.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, August 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]