Chapter II: Part 2

Calamity went out on the porch and squinted at Clark, who was self-conscious of his appearance. A spotless, white bosom, which bulged badly, a high collar, red four-in-hand tie, and an old cutaway coat covered the upper half of his body. From his waist downward, he remained as usual.

“Did somebody die?” queried Calamity in awe-struck tones.

“What do yuh mean?” growled Clark.

“All duded up thataway. Yuh ought to use glue on that shirt. It kinda gaps open and shows yore red undershirt, Monk. And jist one more thing; yuh better git a lower collar or move yore ears up another notch or two, ’cause yo’re sure sawin’ ’em off close to yore head.”

“My looks are none of yore —— business!” snapped Monk.

“I s’pose not. I remember a dude, back in 1866. He—”

“I don’t care a —— what you remember! Where’s Gregory?”

“I dunno. Said he was goin’ to town.”

Monk moved past Calamity and peered into the living-room.

“No, she ain’t here either,” said Calamity. “I shore appreciate havin’ yuh dress up thataway to come over to see me, but it don’t impress me a —— of a lot. Back in 1866—”

“Aw-w-w-w, stop it!” exploded Monk. “Calamity, I wonder how you ever lived as long as you have.”

“I ain’t never met my match,” said Calamity seriously.

“Mm-m-m-yah! I suppose that’s true,” Monk sat down in a rocking-chair and his bosom immediately bulged beyond his chin.

Calamity chuckled hoarsely and went into the house. He knew that Monk’s patience was stretched to the breaking point. While many of the others felt that Clark was a man who must be treated with great respect, Calamity did not.

In fact, he hated Monk Clark. Not such a strange thing, at that, because Calamity hated nearly everybody. And he was not afraid of anybody. It was not often that Calamity was amused sufficiently to chuckle, but he was now. To think of Monk Clark coming to see Joy Gregory almost made Calamity laugh.

But it was no laughing matter with Monk Clark. He planted his feet against the railing and swore to himself. At times Calamity peered out to see if Monk was still there—and he was. At least Monk was no quitter.

It was late in the afternoon when Hank Gregory came home and found Monk on the porch. Calamity came out, after Monk and Hank had exchanged greetings. Hank noticed Monk’s attire, but said nothing.

“Where’s Joy?” asked Gregory.

“I dunno,” said Calamity. “She rode away jist a short time after you left, Hank.”

“Rode away? Where was she goin’?”

“I never asked her.”

“Huh! No, I don’t suppose yuh did. Go alone?”

“Nope.”

“Didn’t, eh? Who was she with?”

“Cowpuncher.”

“Who?”

“Curley Adams.”

Monk glared at Calamity. He had been sitting on that porch for hours waiting for her to come home. Calamity actually chuckled and went back in the house. The chuckle grated on the soul of Monk Clark.

“—— curly-headed cowpuncher!” he muttered.

“Who—Calamity?”

“Calamity, ——!”

For several minutes there was only silence. Then Monk Clark cleared his throat harshly and leaned closer to Gregory.

“Hank, are you goin’ to let yore daughter marry Adams?”

“Am I goin’ to let her?” Gregory laughed shortly. “Joy is of age, Monk.”

“Of age, eh?”

“Yeah—couple of years past.”

“Means that you ain’t got nothin’ to say about who she marries, eh?”

“Just about that, Monk. Curley is all right, I guess. Just bought the old Box X ranch, I heard.”

Monk snorted with disgust.

“Old Box X! What in —— does that amount to?”

“I dunno, Monk. Anyway, it’s their business. Say, what interest have you got in this matter?”

“Well,” slowly, “I’m free, white and twenty-one.”

“You—uh—say, Monk, you—” Gregory checked a laugh. “Monk, you wasn’t figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, was yuh?”

“What in —— is so funny about that?”

“Oh, I see.”

“I could give her more than a forty-a-month puncher could.”

“I suppose yuh could—mebbe.”

“Why the ‘mebbe’?”

“I reckon she loves Adams, Monk.”

“And yuh think she’ll marry him?”

“I kinda look for it.”

“And starve to death with him on the Box X.”

“No-o-o-o, I wouldn’t say that, Monk. Yuh see, there ain’t nobody ever starved to death in Moon River Valley.”

“All right,” Monk got to his feet and hitched up his belt. “I reckon I’ll be goin’.”

He went down to his horse just as Curley and Joy rode in through the gate.

They continued on up to the porch and dismounted. Curley suppressed a grin with difficulty. It was the first time he had ever seen Monk Clark dressed like that.

“How do you do, Mr. Clark?” said Joy pleasantly.

“Howdy,” grunted Clark. “Well, I’ll be goin’.”

Calamity had appeared on the porch again.

“Don’t hurry away,” said Joy. “Won’t you sit down a while?”

Calamity chuckled again, and Clark swung into his saddle.

“Thank yuh,” he said ungraciously. “I’ve set long enough.”

“Back in 1866, I knowed about a hen that set for two months on a basket of Chiny aigs—” began Calamity seriously.

Clark swung his horse around and galloped toward the gate. Down in his heart was a desire to kill Calamity. Joy’s burst of laughter floated to his ears, and he felt that she knew he had made a fool of himself.

“Go ahead and laugh,” he muttered. “I sure made a —— fool of myself.”

* * * * *

Back in the hills, he stopped long enough to divest himself of the white shirt, collar and tie, which he threw away. Then he knotted a black muffler around his neck and rode on.

At first Clark was in a rage against Calamity. If Calamity had told him that Joy was riding with Curley Adams, it would have been all right, but to keep him sitting out on that porch for hours, dressed up—that was the rub.

And he knew that Joy had laughed at him. A laugh hurt Monk Clark more than a blow—a laugh from a girl. He wondered bitterly if they were all laughing at him now. It was the first time he had ever dressed up to visit a girl—and the last.

He rode past the Box X, but drew rein long enough to look at the place. The setting sun threw long shadows from the old buildings. There was such an air of utter desolation about the place, like the ruins of some ancient dwelling, that Monk Clark shook his big head as he remembered that Curley Adams intended to marry Joy Gregory and bring her there to live.

He rode on, reaching the Tin Cup ranch just at dark. The well-lighted ranch-house, nestled in a group of huge sycamores and cottonwoods, the wide veranda, the huge red stable looming up against the hills, the well-kept fences, all spoke of prosperity, good management—a fit home for any daughter of the ranges. Yet she chose the Box X.

He stabled his horse and walked to the house. The boys were eating supper in the long dining-room, and he halted near the door long enough to hear his name mentioned.

“I tell yuh he went courtin’,” insisted one of the boys. “I seen him. He had on a boiled shirt and a red tie. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Had on his funeral coat, too. I’ll make yuh a little bet that he went to see Joy Gregory.”

He did not wait to hear more, but went to his room, where he changed shirts, took a stiff drink of liquor and sat down to think it over; to think what a fool he had been.

Some of the boys found his horse in the stable and notified Wong, the cook, who hurried up to Clark’s room, and timidly knocked on the door.

“Come in!” snapped Clark.

Wong opened the door and bobbed his head.

“Yo’ like some sluppah, Misser Clark?”

“No!” roared Clark. “Get to —— out of here!”

Wong shut the door softly and padded back to the kitchen, shaking his head slowly.

“Too much love one time—no good,” he decided.

* * * * *

It was the following day that a heavy wagon came creaking down over the grades from the Silver Bell mine. The rear wheels were locked, the team was holding back as much as possible, but even at that there were times when the wagon threatened to run over the team.

On the one seat sat the driver, a stolid-faced, round-headed sort of person, who regularly hauled supplies from Crescent City to the Silver Bell mine, and with him sat the two well-dressed men who had inquired of Skeeter Bill about the stage to the mines.

There was little chance for conversation among the three, as it required all their efforts to cling to the jerking, bouncing seat. While the driver braced heavily against the brake with his foot and held tightly to the lines, he was able to maintain an equilibrium of sorts, but the two passengers had nothing except the wagon-box and the seat to keep them from being flung off the equipage.

Lurching and jerking, the rear wheels almost skidding off the narrow grade, they swung around a sharp curve on to a piece of comparatively level road.

The two passengers relaxed slightly, with sighs of relief, but jerked back to attention when two masked men dropped off the upper side of the road and leveled rifles at them.

“Whoa!” The driver threw his weight on the brake so suddenly that his passengers almost left the seat.

The two masked men came forward, still covering the driver and passengers.

“Git down,” ordered one of the masked men.

The passengers were so cramped from their ride and frightened that they were hardly able to climb down over the wheel. One of them slipped and almost fell off the grade, and a masked man chuckled with amusement.

“Go back past the wagon, all three of yuh,” ordered the spokesman.

Wonderingly they filed to the rear, herded by one of the holdup men, while the other climbed to the driver’s seat, kicked the brake loose and drove away.

They could hear the wagon rattling along the rocky grades, the sound growing more faint until it died away in the distance. For possibly ten minutes more the masked man kept them covered. Then he motioned down the road.

“I reckon I can git along without you fellers,” he said.

“We can go now?” asked the driver wonderingly.

“I don’t care a —— what yuh do now.” The masked man backed around the curve and disappeared.

For a space of time the three men grouped together on the grade, hardly knowing just what to do.

“That was a crazy thing to do,” declared the driver. “Who in —— ever heard of anybody holdin’ up a tote-wagon?”

The two passengers looked at each other helplessly.

“And stealin’ a few hundred pounds of lead,” continued the driver.

“A few hundred pounds of lead,” echoed one of the men. “You fool, that wasn’t lead—it was silver!”

“The —— it was! Why Sam Rugg said—”

“No matter what Sam Rugg said!” snapped the other. “There was approximately a thousand pounds of silver bullion in that wagon.”

“Geeminy gosh! Why did he ever send it—”

The driver took off his hat and mopped his brow. He had wondered why Sam Rugg, superintendent of the Silver Bell, had loaded his wagon with lead bars.

Some one had told him that these two strangers were Belden and Stanfield, owners of the Silver Bell, and he had heard hints that they had come to see why the silver production had fallen so heavily in a year.

There had also been rumors of high-grading—ore stealing—at the Silver Bell, although none of the workmen seemed to know whether there was any truth in the matter or not. But this matter of a thousand pounds of silver was almost beyond the imagination of the driver.

“And it was our own suggestion,” said Frank Belden disconsolately. “It seemed the safe thing to do. There has been a leak somewhere, Ed.”

“And rather a heavy leak, it seems,” nodded Stanfield. “No doubt the high-graders have accomplices at the mine.” He shrugged his heavy shoulders. “I suppose we may as well start walking.”

“Might as well,” agreed the driver. “It’s a —— of a long walk to Crescent City, but it’s mostly all downhill.”

They started down the grades without further comment. Far below them stretched the Moon River Valley, hazy in the morning sun.

“That’s a pretty big steal of silver,” said Stanfield. “I don’t see how they can ever use it, Frank. A thousand pounds of silver won’t be an easy thing to dispose of—especially with some one watching for it.”

“I’ve been wondering about that part of it,” replied Belden. “They’ll have to carry it in the wagon, and it might not be hard to trace that outfit.”

“Might as well save your breath,” advised the driver. “It’s a long walk to town, and that sun is sure goin’ to be hot.”

* * * * *

And while the three men drifted along the grades, Skeeter Bill Sarg and Kaintuck Kennedy were coming up the lower grades out of the valley, heading for the Silver Bell.

Because of the steep road they traveled slowly, stopping at times to give their horses a chance to rest, while they scanned the country. Neither of them had ever been at the Silver Bell mine.

“I never could see why they don’t discover mines close to town,” complained Kaintuck. “They’d save a lot on the haulin’.”

“Yuh ought to take it up with ’em,” grinned Skeeter. “Mebbe they never thought of it.”

“I s’pose not. Any danged fool that’ll dig for a livin’ ain’t got much sense. I might git a patent on it, Skeeter.”

They laughed and rode on up the grades. About a mile farther on they stopped again. Just beyond them, the road circled the head of a deep cañon, swinging back along the cañon rim opposite them. It was about two hundred yards on an air-line across the cañon to the opposite grade, at a point where the road disappeared around another right-hand curve.

And just at this curve stood a team and wagon, where two or three men were working frantically to unload something.

Skeeter and Kaintuck watched them for several moments.

“Whatcha s’pose they’re tryin’ to do, Skeeter?” queried Kaintuck.

“I dunno. Mebbe they broke down and have to unload.”

It was too far for Skeeter and Kaintuck to recognize any of the men. The heavy growth of jack-pines and underbrush grew up against the lower side of the grade, and it seemed as if these men were unloading into this brush.

One of the men sprang from the rear of the wagon into the brush, while another climbed down over the right front wheel, leaving one man in the wagon. These two seemed to be arguing over something.

Another man clambered from the brush at the lower side of the grade and joined the one at the front wheel.

“Four men,” muttered Skeeter.

As if in answer to his statement, one of the men looked across the cañon and saw them.

His discovery seemed to electrify the other three. They ran around the rear of the wagon, while the fourth man climbed over the opposite side of the wagon-box.

“What in —— do you reckon that means?” asked Kaintuck.

“Trouble!” snapped Skeeter.

He had seen a man appear over the top of the wagon, holding a rifle.

They whirled their horses around and spurred them into a run down the grade, heading for a protecting curve, while the rocks beside them splattered lead. The curve was within twenty feet of the two riders, when Kaintuck’s horse lurched sideways, went down on one shoulder, flinging Kaintuck over the edge of the grade and turning a complete somersault.

Skeeter’s horse barely made the turn, its hind feet throwing rocks off the grade, as Skeeter whirled it back against the upper side and fell out of the saddle.

Drawing his gun, he ran back to the curve, calling Kennedy’s name. The horse was dead, its body half off the grade, blocked against a pine snag. But Kaintuck did not answer. Skeeter slid along the bank, trying to get another view of the men at the wagon.

A bullet smashed against the rocks near his head, apprising him of the fact that the men were still anxious to kill him. Skeeter squinted ruefully at his six-shooter. It was about three hundred yards from there to the wagon.

“I’ve gotta lot of chance against rifles,” he grunted, shoving the gun back in his holster.

Another bullet struck the ground near the dead horse, and showered him with gravel. He withdrew around the curve, while two more bullets whined past him.

“Them fellers are sure enterprising,” he announced to himself. “Kaintuck! Hey! Kaintuck!”

But Kaintuck did not answer.

“Went and got himself killed,” mourned Skeeter. “Well, I’ve got to find him, I reckon. I wish I knowed why they’re shootin’ at me, and what they’re doin’ with that wagon.”

Keeping the point of rock at the curve between himself and the wagon, he slipped off the grade and began working back toward the spot where Kaintuck had gone over.

He could not see the team now, and had no idea what the four men were doing. In fact, they were of less interest to him than Kaintuck was just now. He slipped and slid along the side of the hill around the curve, clinging to the jack-pines.

Then he heard a welcome sound—Kaintuck swearing. At least, thought Skeeter, he is not dead yet.

“Where are yuh, Kaintuck?” asked Skeeter cautiously.

“Gee-o-graphically speakin’, I dunno where in —— I am,” replied Kaintuck disgustedly. “Part of me is on the ground and part of me is in a —— tree.”

“Which end is in the tree?”

“South. —— it, I’ve got my ankle hung up in the crotch of a snag, and I can’t hump high enough to get loose.”

“Why don’tcha slip yore foot out of the boot?”

“Think yo’re smart, don’tcha? C’mon down and show me how yuh think I ought to do it.”

Skeeter slid down to him and managed to extricate the boot. Kaintuck slumped down on the ground and grinned painfully. His face was scratched, his shirt badly torn, and one leg of his overalls had been ripped open from thigh to knee.

“Yuh didn’t get hurt none, didja?” asked Skeeter anxiously.

“Didn’t I? Huh! Horse dead?”

“Yeah. Turned over once and quit cold. My gosh, you sure turned a hooligan, Kaintuck.”

“Didn’t I?” Kaintuck laughed convulsively and squinted back toward the grade. “I jist sailed down here, all spraddled out like a flyin’ squirrel, hooked one foot in the top of that snag and went ’round and ’round, like a—say, what became of them jiggers that was shootin’ at us?”

“Still there, I reckon—” dryly. “I went back to take a look, and they shot at me some more. If yuh feel like goin’ back to the road, we’ll take another look at ’em.”

Kaintuck shook his head, rubbing his knee with both hands.

“Nawsir. Them danged fools ain’t got no better sense than to shoot right at yuh, and they’ve got rifles. Say, I shore put a lot of strain on this one leg. I’ll betcha she’s a foot longer than the other one.”

“Can yuh walk on it, Kaintuck?”

Kaintuck got to his feet, grimacing with pain.

“Don’t think I can make it, Skeeter. Mebbe it’ll ease up a little if I set down a while. First time I ever played _pop-the-whip_ with my leg, and I sure took all the kinks out. F’r instance, I used to have a bulge, which was knowed as a knee, but I yanked it all out.”

“Prob’ly be a cripple for life,” nodded Skeeter. “Let a thing like that rest too long and yuh never can get it unhooked. Yuh never can tell about it, Kaintuck. Yore knee might bend the other way, like a stork’s does.”

“Git me a bill and spear frogs,” nodded Kaintuck, flexing his knee. “That doohickey that keeps it from bendin’ the wrong way is all right; so I reckon I’m all right. Let’s try and git back to the road.”

With much swearing, Kaintuck managed to pull himself up the hill, favoring his left leg as much as possible. They worked around the point and reached the road near Skeeter’s horse.

As they stood on the road, debating their next move, they heard the rattle of a wagon coming down the hill.

They exchanged a swift glance and moved in against the rocky bank, drawing their guns.

“Got a lot of nerve,” gritted Skeeter. “Good luck, Kaintuck.”

“Same to you,” said Kaintuck evenly, his six-shooter balanced in his right hand. “They’ll pay for that horse.”

* * * * *

The rattle and crunch of the wagon came closer and closer. They could hear some one talking, the jingle of harness. Then the horses swung almost into them, shied toward the outer edge, and were jerked to a stop.

Skeeter and Kaintuck stepped out, covering the three men on the seat. It was Belden, Stanfield and the driver. Their six arms went upward in unison. “For ——’s sake!” snorted Belden. “Again?”

Skeeter went closer, looking them over carefully.

“Yuh might talk a little,” said Skeeter.

“We might talk a whole lot,” said the driver.

“If we get tired of listenin’ we’ll tell yuh when to stop,” said Skeeter. “It might interest yuh to know that one of yore shots killed my deputy’s horse.”

“One of our shots?” gasped Belden.

“The shots we heard,” said Stanfield. “I’ll bet—”

“We’re not gamblin’,” said Skeeter. “Do some talkin’.”

Stanfield had been leaning forward, squinting at the insignia of the sheriff’s office on Skeeter’s shirt.

“Are you the sheriff?” he asked.

“Yeah. And I’ve got a gun in my hand and a finger on the trigger, and I hadn’t ought to miss yuh at this distance.”

“These are the two men who asked us about the Silver Bell stage,” said Kaintuck.

“I know it,” nodded Skeeter.

“My name is Stanfield, and my companion’s name is Belden. We own the Silver Bell mine. This other man does freighting for the mine.”

“Tha’sall right with me,” said Skeeter. “But that ain’t no reason for yuh to shoot at us.”

“We never did!” blurted the driver. “We ain’t even got a gun.”

“Let me tell him about it,” said Belden. “Several miles up the grades, we were held up by two masked men who took our team and wagon. One man held us there until the other had driven away.

“There was nothing for us to do except to start walking down into the valley. That was quite a while ago. We must have walked five miles, at least. We heard the echo of some shots, and wondered what it meant.

“Just back there a little ways we found our team and wagon in the middle of the road. There wasn’t a soul around; so we climbed in and came on. That’s our story.”

“Sounds pretty good,” nodded Skeeter. “The holdup part sounds kinda funny though. What did they take, except the team and wagon?”

“A thousand pounds of silver bullion.”

“A—a—take down yore hands, gents.”

The three pairs of hands came down and three men sighed with relief.

“Half-a-ton of silver!” blurted Kaintuck. “Gee-e-e mighty!”

“And they unloaded it over there,” said Skeeter. “No wonder they didn’t want us to come along. Of all the danged nerve in the world!”

He squinted off across the hills and rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.

“You can stop them, can’t you?” asked Belden nervously. “They haven’t had time to get far away.”

“And I’d get stopped,” said Skeeter seriously. “There’s four men in the gang—four that we seen. It means that they had some pack horses ready for the stuff. One or two men will act as a rear guard for that stuff, and—” Skeeter shook his head slowly. “Nope, it would be suicide.”

“But you are the sheriff,” said Belden. “It is your duty—”

“Tha’sso? There ain’t nothin’ in my oath of office that says I’m supposed to get killed. Yuh might read about a sheriff that shoved his beak into danger on purpose, but when yuh do yuh can just bet it ain’t old man Sarg’s high-pocket kid.”

Skeeter turned to Kaintuck, who was grinning softly.

“Kaintuck, I reckon yo’re elected to rest a while. Set down in the brush and practice rollin’ ’em one-handed, while I go back to Crescent City, get yuh a live horse and a couple of rifles. Be back as quick as I can.”

He walked to his horse, mounted almost on the run and was out of sight so fast that no one had a chance to offer any suggestions.

“That’s jist like him,” grinned Kaintuck.

“But—but the thieves will be miles away before he can return,” protested Belden. “Is he afraid to—”

“Yuh can take that out and burn it,” interrupted Kaintuck. “Skeeter Bill ain’t afraid, but he’s no —— fool. My horse is dead, and them jiggers have rifles. We’ve got to have an even break, pardner.”

There was no argument left, as far as Kaintuck was concerned; so the driver kicked the brake loose and the equipage proceeded on down the grade, while Kaintuck limped to his dead horse and removed saddle and bridle.

Then he sat down in the shade and wasted much tobacco and cigaret papers. His strained leg gave him a little trouble, but Kaintuck was an optimist, as far as injuries were concerned. He knew it was about eight miles to Crescent City, and that Skeeter Bill would be back as soon as possible; so he made himself comfortable.

Skeeter Bill did not make his return to town at all conspicuous. He rode in at the rear of his office, walked to the livery-stable, where he secured a horse, and came back to his office. It did not take him long to procure two rifles, two belts of ammunition and some extra shells for their six-shooters.

Leaving at the rear of his office he rode quietly out of town, swung back to the road and headed for the grades at top speed. He met the three men with the wagon, but did not stop to talk.

Kaintuck was still wasting tobacco when Skeeter rode up, but pocketed the rest of the sack and proceeded to saddle the horse.

“Anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.

“Yeah.”

“What?”

“I find out that some cigaret papers are tougher than others. Yuh shore made good time, Skeeter. Meet the wagon?”

“Uh-huh.”

Kaintuck belted on his rifle cartridges, stuffed the loading-gate full of 30-30’s, levered one into the chamber, and announced himself ready.

* * * * *

They rode back to the spot where the wagon had been unloaded, dismounted and led their horses off the edge of the grade. There was plenty of evidence that the unloading had been done at that spot. The brush had been trampled down and there was an abundance of horse tracks a little further down the hill, where a heavy growth of jack-pines had masked them from the road.

“All unshod horses,” said Skeeter, after examining the spot where the packing had been done.

They picked up several empty cartridge shells from the grade, and found them all to be 30-30 caliber.

“We’ll just have to follow ’em down the hill,” said Skeeter. “They’ll all stick together and mebbe we can trail ’em.”

There was an old game trail leading toward the bottom of the cañon, starting almost from the spot where the packing had been done, but there were no horse-tracks on it. In fact, it showed no tracks of any kind.

“They’ve got to get out of this cañon,” declared Skeeter. “We’ll take the old trail and take a chance on cuttin’ their tracks further down.”

“Mebbe,” nodded Kaintuck. “They prob’ly had reasons for not takin’ the trail.”

Skeeter started down the trail, leading his horse, but had only gone a few feet when he stopped. In the middle of the trail was the imprint of a man’s boot sole, clearly etched in a film of dust.

It was the print of a right boot. Skeeter squatted down and studied it, while Kaintuck moved in close and looked it over.

“That feller sure left his imprint,” said Skeeter. “He runs his heels over on the outer edge, Kaintuck.”

“How do yuh know, Skeeter?”

“’Cause it shows that he does. Prob’ly run ’em over bad. See that line through the heel mark? He didn’t want to take ’em to a shoemaker and have a new heel put on; so he squared up that heel on the outer edge, fitted in a piece of sole-leather and filled her plumb full of nails. And to make it last a while, he took a big nail, cut it short and nailed it close to the edge. Yuh can see the head of the nail.”

“Yeah, that shore is it,” agreed Kaintuck. “But how can yuh tell it wasn’t done by a shoemaker?”

“’Cause it’s a bad fittin’ patch. And a shoemaker would ’a’ put on one of them iron jiggers, shaped like a half-moon instead of a ten-penny nail.”

Skeeter grinned widely at his own acumen and led the way down the trail. There were no more tracks in the trail. They reached the bottom of the cañon and began their search for horse-tracks.

The game-trail passed through an open swale at the bottom of the cañon, but as far as they could discover no horses had passed through the swale.

“Well, they couldn’t cross below nor above here,” complained Kaintuck. “The brush is so danged thick yuh can’t even see through it.”

Skeeter climbed up on the side of the cañon, searching for another opening where the pack train might have crossed, but as far as he could see there was no place. He mounted his horse and rode back over the game-trail to the grade, where he dismounted and searched for the spot where the horses had gone down the hill.

The ground was fairly hard, but the prints were plain enough where the loading had been done. For several minutes Skeeter puzzled over the problem. The game-trail was the one way down, and it did not seem reasonable that the thieves would slow their getaway by traveling over down-timber and brush. The old trail had been packed so hard that Skeeter’s shod horse only showed the calk marks, except at the upper end of the trail where a miniature slide had left a dirt patch large enough to show the imprint of the patched-heel boot.

Anyway, he could find no tracks away from where the horses had milled around during the packing up of the silver.

“Must ’a’ had wings,” he told himself.

An idea suddenly came to him, and he went back to the trail, where he examined it closely. A grin flashed across his lips and he mounted hurriedly, riding as swiftly as possible back to Kaintuck, who was still searching near the open swale.

“Git yore horse,” called Skeeter. “These jiggers muffled their horses’ hoofs. No wonder there ain’t a mark of any kind.”

Kaintuck mounted and they spurred down the narrow trail. Not a hundred yards further along the trail they found where a horse had slipped a chunk off the trail, leaving the fresh dirt exposed.

“I thought of that, while you was up the hill,” said Kaintuck wisely.

“That’s why yuh spent all yore time lookin’ somewhere else, I suppose,” laughed Skeeter.

“Well, anyway, we’ll be in a —— of a fix as soon as we run out of trail,” said Kaintuck. “They won’t foller this old deer-trail forever.”

“I thought of that quite a while ago,” said Skeeter.

They followed the old trail to a point where it disappeared, and there they lost all chance of picking up the horse-tracks. The ground was hard, and the muffled hoofs made no marks. There was nothing for them to do, except to follow the slope down into the valley, trusting to luck to pick up the tracks again.

But luck was not with them. After hours of hard riding, circling back and forth across the hills, they reached the banks of Moon River, which they followed back to Crescent City. It was after dark when they stabled their horses and went out to eat.

* * * * *

They found Frank Moran in the restaurant, and after they finished their meal Moran went to the office with them and Skeeter told him the story of the silver robbery.

“I heard it talked about,” said Moran. “These two men who own the mine told all about it when they got back. I guess every one around here has heard about it.”

Skeeter stretched his legs and puffed on his cigaret.

“It kinda looks to me like the counterfeiters had picked enough stuff to keep ’em moldin’ dollars for a long time,” he observed. “It ain’t nothin’ that I’d hang a man for, but dang ’em, they killed Kaintuck’s horse and darned near got Kaintuck. I can’t forgive ’em for doin’ that.”

“It shows that they’re desperate men,” said Moran.

“Yeah, I s’pose they are. Slick, too. They muffled their pack-animals’ hoofs.”

“Is that so?” Moran grew interested. “Couldn’t you find a track?”

“Not a horse-track, except where they packed up. They shoot 30-30 rifles, and they shoot straight.”

“Yo’re danged right they do,” agreed Kaintuck, flexing his sore leg. “I’m goin’ to declare open season on counterfeiters right now.”

“You heard anythin’ new?” asked Skeeter.

Moran shook his head.

“Got any more letters from Shorty Long?”

“No. Kinda expected to hear from him today, but no mail came. I’m danged if I can find out anythin’.”

“It looks to me,” said Skeeter slowly, “as though somebody at the mine is workin’ with ’em—somebody who put ’em wise to the shipment of this silver. Do you know the superintendent, Sam Rugg?”

“I’ve seen him,” said Moran. “He’s a big, hard-faced sort of a jigger, with a black mustache.”

“Uh-huh,” Skeeter squinted at his boots for several moments. Then—

“Moran, have you accomplished anythin’ since you’ve been workin’ on this case?”

“Just what do yuh mean, Sheriff?”

“What I said. You’ve been punchin’ cows and workin’ at the different ranches; but have yuh done anythin’? Have yuh even got a suspicion of where this money is bein’ made?”

Moran was inclined to get a trifle peevish at Skeeter’s tone, but thought better of it and was forced to admit that he had accomplished nothing.

“It isn’t a thing yuh can come right out and show your flag,” said Moran. “You know how long I’d last if it was known that I was a detective.”

Skeeter nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I guess that’s right.”

“You can see how hard it is to get a clue,” said Moran.

“Well, I dunno. I’ve got several, Moran.”

“You have?” This was interesting.

Skeeter nodded and began manufacturing a cigaret.

“Mind tellin’ me what they are?” queried Moran.

“I’m goin’ to tell you the same thing I told Kaintuck; to go out and get some for yourself.”

Skeeter grinned widely at Moran, who was at a loss just what to say.

“And I ain’t got me none yet,” complained Kaintuck. “It kinda looks like when they parceled out the brains I was out fishin’. Skeeter is real smart.”

Moran laughed shortly.

“That ain’t hardly fair, Sheriff. This case is mine, and I don’t like the idea of a sheriff getting a clue and keepin’ it from me.”

“Tha’sso?” Skeeter grinned at the ceiling. “Yo’re like that picture of the kid in a bathtub, reachin’ for a slippery bar of soap. Won’t be happy till he gits it. Well, I’ve got my bar of soap, Moran.

“I dunno much about the manufacture of bad money, but I do _sabe_ holdup stuff. These jiggers are awful smart. At first I had an idea they was smarter than me, but they ain’t. Nawsir, I’m jist as smart as they are.”

“Well, that’s good—” thus Moran, just a little peevish—“I wish you’d tell me what you’ve stumbled on to, but if you won’t, you won’t. I’m willin’ to put my cards on the table, face up.”

“You ain’t got any cards,” grinned Skeeter. “If I didn’t hold more cards in this game than you do, I’d call for a new deck. Aw, yuh don’t need to get sore, Moran. I’m no detective, but I’ve got somethin’ to work on—and that’s more than you’ve got.”

“Anythin’ is more than I’ve got,” Moran grinned and got to his feet. “If it gets to be more than you can handle, let me in on it. Uncle Sam is dependin’ on me to clear up this case, and I hate to fall down completely, yuh know.”

“All right,” promised Skeeter. “Mebbe a little later I’ll tell yuh what I know. But I want to be sure first.”

They shook hands and Moran went away. Kaintuck squinted at Skeeter and shook his head.

“You shore bragged about yourself a lot, cowboy. I dunno what got into yuh.”

Skeeter laughed at Kaintuck.

“Mebbe I threw a scare into him, Kaintuck. He’d hate like —— for a ordinary sheriff to clear up a case that he couldn’t handle.”

“You kinda usin’ a spur on him, eh?”

“Yuh might say I am. I was scared you might mention that boot-track in the trail, Kaintuck. Let him find his own clues. He’d prob’ly go around the country, killin’ folks jist for a chance to look at the bottom of their heels.”

“Aw, ——, he wouldn’t do a thing like that, Skeeter.”

“Yuh never can tell what a detective like him might do.”

* * * * *

It was the following day that Monk Clark came back to the Gregory ranch; but this time he did not wear his Sunday garments, nor did he go to the ranch-house. Hank Gregory was at the stable when Clark rode up, and Calamity was helping Joy plant some roses in the front yard—much to Calamity’s disgust.

“What do you know about roses?” asked Joy, straightening up from a bush and pushing her hair back from her eyes.

Her hand was dirty and it left a streak on her nose.

“What do I know,” grinned Calamity, “about roses? Lemme tell yuh about some roses I set out in—”

“1866,” finished Joy quizzically.

“A tub,” corrected Calamity. “It was in the summer of 1866, if I remember. Say, Joy, here comes Monk Clark. If yuh act like yo’re workin’, he mebbe won’t come up here. That is, unless yuh want to see him.”

“I don’t,” declared Joy.

“He’s got a lot of money.”

“I suppose he has,” Joy picked up the shovel and began digging around the bush.

“And he ain’t so bad lookin’,” added Calamity thoughtfully.

Joy dropped the shovel and looked closely at Calamity.

“Are you pleading Monk Clark’s cause?” she asked.

“My ——, I should say not! I was just kinda feelin’ sorry for him, tha’sall. Geemi-nee-e-e, he sure must love yuh! Any man that’ll wear what he wore over here—”

“Quit it, Calamity! He’s going down to the stable where dad is. I hope he stays there until he gets ready to go home.”

Calamity squinted toward Clark, who was riding up to Hank Gregory, and turned back to his job of criticizing Joy’s botanical efforts.

“I came past the Box X,” offered Clark, after the customary greetings had been exchanged.

“Yeah? Understand Curley is fixin’ things up over there.”

“He’s got a lot of fixin’ to do, Hank.”

Gregory laughed shortly and squinted toward the front of the house, where Joy and Calamity were arguing over the placing of a certain bush. Clark scowled toward them, but turned away.

“I don’t know how yuh stand for that —— old fool around here,” said Clark. “He’s no good.”

“Calamity? Oh, he’s all right. Did yuh see Curley as yuh came past, Monk?”

“Yeah. I didn’t stop. He’ll starve to death on that ranch—if nothin’ worse happens to him.”

Gregory squinted at Clark closely.

“Meanin’ what, Monk?”

“Well, yuh never can tell what might happen to him.”

“Uh-huh.” There was a note of suspicion in Gregory’s voice. “I hope nothin’ happens to him, Monk. Him and Joy are goin’ to get married as soon as he gets the old place fixed up.”

“Tha’sso?” Clark spat viciously. “Mebbe they will.”

For several moments, the two men looked closely at each other. Gregory looked toward the house, his eyes narrowed against the sunlight. Then—

“I dunno what yuh mean by that, Monk. I told Curley that it would be all right with me. If Joy wants him, she sure can have him.”

“I didn’t say anythin’,” replied Clark. “It’s a free country. And another thing, Hank—you better not get too short with me. I play square with my friends, as long as they remain friends. I know too much about you, _sabe_?”

Gregory’s lips shut tightly for several moments and he looked toward the house, while Clark grinned softly.

“I _sabe_ all that,” said Gregory softly.

“Might not listen well to some folks,” suggested Clark.

Gregory shook his head.

“No, I reckon not. I’ve often wondered about it, Monk. I dunno whether I killed that sheriff or not.”

“That part don’t matter, Hank. There were three of yuh. Two of yore outfit died in their saddles. If it hadn’t been for me, you’d have been hanged. Just stop and remember that I kept yuh under cover until the chase had died down enough for you to make a getaway. They’re probably still lookin’ for the man who killed the sheriff—and you was the only survivor.”

Gregory nodded slowly.

“That’s true, Monk. But I wasn’t guilty of doin’ anythin’ wrong. I didn’t know them two fellers had stolen horses until it was all over. When a man begins to shoot at me, I shoot at him.”

Clark smiled wisely.

“That’s all very fine, but you’d have a fine time explainin’ that to a jury in Badger County.”

“Prob’ly—” slowly. Gregory’s eyes were steady as he looked straight at Clark and said:

“Monk, why bring this up now? You ain’t aimin’ to hold a club over me, are yuh?”

“I just wanted yuh to know how I stand.”

“That happened almost ten years ago, Monk.”

“I know it. Almost long enough for us to forget, eh? But not quite, Hank.”

“Uh-huh,” Gregory laughed bitterly. “Almost like somethin’ yuh read about, Monk. You know enough about me to send me to the penitentiary, and yo’re willin’ to use that knowledge to make me do what yuh want me to do, eh?”

“I don’t think yo’re a —— fool, Hank,” coldly.

“No? Well, I am —— in some things, Monk.”

Gregory shoved himself away from the stable wall and came closer to Clark.

“There are some things in which I don’t show a lick of sense. When yo’re playin’ yore cards, Monk—remember this.”

Clark scowled heavily. He had not counted on this.

“Just what things do yuh mean, Hank?” he asked.

“Anythin’ affectin’ Joy and Curley.”

“Oh. Well, go ahead and be a —— fool, Hank. If you want that girl to starve to death with a rattle-headed cowpuncher, it’s yore business, I reckon.”

Monk Clark picked up his reins and climbed into his saddle.

“Yuh can tell the sheriff that I’m here when he wants me,” said Gregory.

Clark laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t be a fool. I’ve been yore friend a long time, Hank. I didn’t think you’d turn me down. But if I happen to feel like it, I’ll tell the sheriff.”

He turned his horse and rode away. Joy and Calamity stopped their labors long enough to watch him ride down the road. They were laughing as they resumed their planting. Gregory leaned against the stable wall, his mind going back to a day, almost ten years before.

* * * * *

It happened in a little county in a far corner of the State. Gregory was riding through, and joined with two congenial fellows, who were well mounted. Almost without warning they were fired upon by several mounted men.

Without any inkling that he was with two horse-thieves, Gregory returned their fire. The battle did not last long. Both of the thieves were shot from their saddles. Gregory saw one of the posse fall.

It was only through the speed of his horse that Gregory had been able to escape the posse. Monk Clark, who had been one of the posse, recognized Gregory’s horse when Gregory came to his ranch that night.

Believing that honesty was the best policy, Gregory told his story to Clark, who seemed to accept Gregory’s explanation. It was then that Clark told him that the sheriff had been killed and that his story would not save him if the authorities knew where he was.

The two horse-thieves were dead; so their testimony would not be available. Clark explained that the sheriff was well liked in that country; so well liked, in fact, that he—Gregory—would probably not be accorded a fair trial.

For over a week, he remained in hiding, until the excitement had died down, before leaving the ranch. Clark had kept him posted, and Gregory knew that they were looking for him for the killing of the sheriff.

Gregory had made his way back to the Moon River country, and later Monk Clark had acquired the Tin Cup outfit. But in all this time, Clark had never—until today—mentioned the incident.

It had been the natural thing for Gregory to assist Clark in any way possible, and Gregory had thought that Clark believed his story at the time of his escape. But guilty or innocent, Gregory knew that he could never prove it to a jury.

He wondered if Clark would use his knowledge. Gregory had never told it to any one else. Joy’s mother had died before this happened, and Joy was living with her mother’s sister in another State.

Gregory knew now that Monk Clark wanted Joy, and that he would do everything possible to prevent Joy from marrying Curley Adams. Gregory knew that Joy disliked Monk Clark and would be greatly amused at even a hint of her marrying him.

But Gregory was not worried about Monk doing anything to Joy. What he could and might do to Curley was a different matter. He knew Monk Clark for a determined man, and it seemed that Monk’s conscience was fairly flexible.

He wanted to tell Curley to be on his guard, but it would be a difficult thing to explain without telling more than he cared to tell. It was nearly supper time when Curley rode in and announced that he was tired of his own cooking.

He exhibited some bruised fingernails as evidence that he had been working.

“Sawed my knee-cap three times today,” he declared. “I’ve heard of architects puttin’ their souls into their work; but I’m puttin’ my flesh and blood in mine. Every darned nail I’ve got is hinged in the middle. What I need is a wide-faced hammer and some tacks.”

“Joy cooked some apple pie,” announced Calamity. “When we git through with the crusts I’m goin’ to sew ’em together and make a cover for my old saddle. Rawhide! Whooee! I knowed a cook back in 1866 that made a pie and—”

“You was in the penitentiary in 1866,” retorted Joy.

“Shore I was. This feller was the penitentiary cook, Joy. This cook says to me, ‘Calamity, I’m——’”

“The penitentiary cooks don’t speak to common prisoners.”

“Is that so? Huh! He wasn’t any better than I was. We was both in for the same crime—killin’ a man.”

“The same man?” grinned Curley.

“Yessir. By golly, it shore was a queer deal. Happened in a saloon. Me and this here cook are facin’ the bar, when a jigger walks in on the other side of me. Him and this cook has had trouble, and the cook is layin’ for him.

“I seen this cook pull his gun, and the other feller backs away from the bar. Well, sir, I steps in between ’em and tries to block the cook from shootin’, but it wasn’t no use. This danged cook shot me through the arm and the bullet killed this jigger as dead as a petrified fish. We both got sent to the penitentiary for it.”

“Calamity, yo’re an awful liar,” said Curley. “Why should they send you to the penitentiary for what the cook did?”

“Well, sir,” grinned Calamity, “the jury said that it was through me that this feller got killed, so I—ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Calamity did a jig-step into the kitchen, slapping himself on the leg.

“That is like most of Calamity’s stories of 1866,” laughed Joy. “He will chuckle over it to himself for a week.”

“And swear at everything and everybody the rest of the time,” grinned Curley.

“That’s true, Curley. But Calamity is awful human. Get him alone and he’s different. He doesn’t really hate any one.”

Gregory came in and shook hands with Curley. Joy went to the kitchen to help Calamity with the supper, and Gregory took Curley out on the front porch.

“Curley, I want to warn yuh to look out,” said Gregory.

He had spoken so abruptly that Curley looked at him in amazement.

“What about, Gregory?”

“I can’t tell yuh any more, Curley. Mebbe I’m barkin’ up the wrong tree— mebbe not. But you know how easy it is to frame a crime on to a man. Keep yore eyes peeled, son.”

“This ain’t another 1866 joke is it?” asked Curley.

“I wish it was a joke.”

Curley scratched his nose and looked thoughtfully at the man who was soon to become his father-in-law. Gregory was not joking, Curley knew. He glanced back toward the door.

“Nothin’ concernin’ Joy, is it?”

“If anythin’ happened to you, it would affect her, don’t yuh think?”

“Well—yes. Can’t yuh give me any more information?”

“No. It may only be a suspicion, son. I hope it is. But I had to tell yuh.”

“But why would any one want to frame a crime on me?”

“Yo’re figurin’ on marryin’ Joy, ain’t yuh?”

“You bet!”

“Uh-huh. Never stopped to think that there might be other men who would like to do the same thing, have yuh?”

“Oh!”

Curley’s eyes widened momentarily and he started to say a name, but shut his lips tightly. He knew what Gregory meant, now. And Gregory knew that there was no need to mention any names.

“I’m much obliged,” said Curley slowly. “I’ll kinda keep my eye peeled—thank yuh.”

Calamity was yelling for them to “come and get it!” so they changed the conversation and went to the dining-room.

“I heard that yuh busted a feller in the jaw the other day, Curley,” said Calamity. “That new feller on the Tin Cup.”

“Moran,” said Gregory.

“It wasn’t anythin’,” smiled Curley. “He got fresh.”

“Yeah, I heard he did. Worked for the Lazy H a while. I seen him ridin’ with Sam Ertle. Know anythin’ about him?”

“Not much, Calamity. He was with the Tin Cup while I was there, but we didn’t have much to do with each other. He came to work while I was sick in bed.”

“You had quite a time, didn’t yuh?” observed Gregory. “Monk Clark thought yuh was goin’ to have pneumonia.”

“I guess I did almost have it. They kept me in bed for over a week.”

“And I came very near coming home,” said Joy. “I didn’t get a letter from you for over two weeks.”

“Well, I couldn’t help it, Joy. By golly, I sure was helpless. That Crescent City doctor didn’t know what to do. The boys took turns settin’ up with me. It was mighty fine of ’em.”

“How’s the ranch comin’?” asked Calamity.

“Kinda slow. Gee, I never knew there was as many things to be repaired. It’s worse than building a new place. But I’ve got one room rain-tight, I think. It’s fun though.”

“That’s what love does to yuh,” said Calamity. “I remember a feller that fell in love back in 1866—”

But that was as far as he got, because Curley reached for the coffee-pot, and Calamity subsided with a chuckle.

Curley did not tell Joy what her father had told him. He knew that Gregory had meant Monk Clark, and he wondered just what Monk would be able to do. They had always been friendly enough—as friendly as Monk usually was with any of his cowboys.

Curley had urged Joy to marry him at once, but she told him to wait until he had fixed up the old ranch. Calamity nearly floored them all by offering to come down and help Curley with his carpenter work.

“Well, that’s sure fine,” said Curley. “But do you know anything about carpentering, Calamity?”

“Do I? Huh! Say, I knowed a carpenter in 1866—”

All of which was sufficient proof that Calamity knew all about the building trade.

* * * * *

That same afternoon Skeeter Bill sat on a counter in Mike Gower’s store, playing with a three-legged gray cat whose name was Shy. Old Mike lounged on the counter and puffed at his old pipe, which sizzled like a frying egg.