Chapter IV: Part 4

“And I’m not huntin’ ’em, Sleepy. What do yuh think of that? I ain’t lost no bandits. It’s nothin’ to me how many pay-rolls they steal.”

“Then don’t say nothin’ more about that girl, Hashknife. Ever since you got a look at her, you’ve spoke about her several times.”

“Pshaw! I didn’t realize it, Sleepy. Mebbe I just remarked about her folks all bein’ in jail.”

“Let ’em stay in jail,” grunted Sleepy heartlessly. “They prob’ly robbed that train. We didn’t come here to—”

“I know that sentence by heart, Sleepy. And you ought to know my reply. But that don’t alter the fact that she’s one pretty girl.”

“There yuh go!” gloomily.

Johnny Grant had spotted them and was coming their way, slightly unsteady on his legs, but grinning widely.

“C’mon and have a drink,” he urged. “I jist runs four-bits into a ten-spot in the black-jack game. If yuh don’t drink yuh can have a see-gar. But I warns yuh, their see-gars are a lot older than the liquor they sell. C’mon up to the bar and meet some of the folks.”

Neither of them wanted a drink, but they did want to be friendly with Johnny Grant and his crowd; so they elbowed their way to the bar. Ed Gast and Bill Bailey, of the X Bar 6, were at the bar, and Johnny introduced them, after which he deposited his money on the bar, and demanded action.

“Beatin’ that game is as easy as holdin’ up a train,” he declared, chuckling. “Runs four-bits up to ten dollars, and sticks my thumb at m’ nose at the dealer.”

Hashknife noticed that the sheriff was at the bar, and that Johnny’s remark interested him.

“Except that yuh can’t very well lose at holdin’ up a train,” added Eskimo Swenson, who had caught the sheriff’s reflection in the mirror. “If yuh ever get the money in yore hands, yo’re as safe as a church. Political affluence shore as —— don’t make a sheriff a man-catcher.”

Realizing that this conversation was for his benefit, the sheriff moved away from the bar, while the AK boys chuckled over their drinks. Even Sleepy Stevens shed his pessimistic attitude and grinned.

“These are home folks,” he said to Hashknife. “It appears that the sheriff ain’t standin’ very well with the AK.”

“Aw, he’s all right,” said Oyster. “Scotty’s as good as the average sheriff, except that he’s too serious. He’d give his right eye for a chance to prove first degree murder agin’ the whole AK outfit, because we devil him. He’s—”

The men at the bar jerked around when from out in the street came the unmistakable sound of a revolver shot.

“Somebody celebratin’,” decided Johnny Grant, as the sheriff and several men moved to the doorway and went outside. They gulped their drinks, and went out into the street, where the only lights were those from the saloon and store windows.

“Somebody tryin’ to be funny,” grumbled the sheriff.

He went back into the Oasis. Some men had come from Moon’s store across the street, evidently wondering who had fired the shot. Two men with a lantern were fussing around a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop. One of the men came across from the store and went into the Oasis. It was Chet Le Moyne.

“Well, I reckon it was some puncher wishful of makin’ a noise,” decided Johnny Grant. They turned and were going back into the saloon, when some one called from the hotel, which was across the street, and about a block north of the Oasis.

“C’mere!” yelled the man. He was evidently calling to some one in the hotel. “Come out and help me with this feller!”

“That sounds like somethin’ wrong,” said Hashknife. “Let’s go and see what it is.”

They hurried up the street and crossed to the hotel, where several men had gathered around a man who was lying flat on the ground.

“He’s been shot,” they heard one of them say. “Better pack him into the hotel and send for a doctor.”

A man scratched a match, but it flickered out. Hashknife shoved him aside, dropped on his knees beside the man, and ignited a match, with a snap of his thumb-nail. The illumination showed a gory face, gray as ashes, where the blood had not stained.

“My ——!” blurted Johnny. “It’s Jimmy Legg!”

He dropped on his knees beside Hashknife, grasping Jimmy’s shoulders.

“Hey! Jimmy!” he exclaimed.

“Don’t shake him!” roared Eskimo. “You big idiot!”

“Somebody go and find a doctor,” ordered Hashknife. “We’ll take him in the hotel.”

They carried him into the little hotel office, where there was light enough for them to discover that Jimmy Legg had missed death by a very scant margin. The bullet had struck him just above his left ear, slanted along his skull, and had furrowed deeply for about three inches.

Some one had gone after a doctor, and in the meantime Hashknife secured a basin of water and a towel, with which he mopped some of the blood away.

“I heard that shot,” said the proprietor of the hotel. “I thought it was somebody just makin’ a noise. Say, I seen that young feller talkin’ to Miss Taylor not five minutes ago. They was just outside the door there.”

“To Miss Taylor, eh?” Johnny blinked at the lamp. “Is she here now?”

The commotion in the office attracted Marion’s attention, and she was standing in the hallway door when Johnny spoke.

“I’m here,” she said. “What do you want of me?”

The cowboys removed their hats, as Johnny went toward her.

“You was talkin’ with Jimmy Legg a few minutes ago?” he asked.

“Why yes.” She was unable to see the man on the floor.

“Well, he got shot,” said Johnny bluntly.

“Shot?” Marion jerked forward. “Did somebody—not dead?”

“He ain’t badly hurt, ma’am,” said Hashknife. “The doctor will fix him up in no time.”

Marion came forward to where she could see. Her face was white and her two hands were clenched tightly, as she looked at Jimmy Legg, stretched on the floor.

“Why, I just left him a minute or so ago,” she whispered. “Where did it happen?”

“Jist out in the street,” replied Johnny.

“By ——, I want to find the jasper that shot the poor devil!”

“If yuh do, don’t keep it to yourself,” growled Eskimo.

Marion stopped at the desk, bracing herself with one hand.

“Who would shoot him?” wondered Eskimo. “He wouldn’t hurt anybody. If it had been one of us—”

“That would be justified,” finished Johnny Grant.

Jimmy Legg lifted his head and stared around, blinking his eyes.

“What was it?” he whispered.

“Somebody took a shot at yuh,” said Johnny quickly.

Jimmy Legg felt of his head.

“Hit me, didn’t they?”

At this moment the doctor arrived, ordered them to carry Jimmy to a room, and proceeded to fix up the wound. Marion insisted on helping him, and Jimmy blinked his gratitude.

“Did you see the man who shot at you?” asked Marion.

“I never knew I was shot, until I woke up, Marion. You had just gone into the hotel, and I started to cross the street, when I saw a big flash, like an explosion. But I never heard the noise.”

The doctor washed and sewed up the wound. It was a painful proceeding, but Jimmy gritted his teeth and did not make a sound.

“You better get a room here at the hotel and go to bed,” advised the doctor. But Jimmy refused.

“I’m all right,” he insisted. “It aches a little, but not enough to put me in bed. Gee, it sure knocked me out!”

“And you’re lucky to be alive,” said the doctor, packing his kit-bag. “An inch further to the right, and you’d have no top on your head right now.”

The crowd was just outside the door, waiting for the doctor to finish, and they crowded in, hardly giving the doctor a chance to wiggle his way out into the hall. Jimmy held out his hand to Marion, disregarding the clamoring cowboys.

“Thank you,” he said. “It was nice of you to stay with me.”

Marion colored slightly, and her reply was drowned in Johnny Grant’s greeting.

“Hyah, Topknot! Howsa head, Jimmy?”

“Don’t jiggle me!” laughed Jimmy. “My face is so tight I can hardly laugh.”

“Don’t laugh,” advised Eskimo. “Now who do yuh know that might hate yuh enough to shoot yuh, Jimmy?”

Jimmy frowned painfully at the floor, and when he looked up he caught Marion’s eye. Tex Alden’s threat came back to him—

“The Blue Wells country is sure damp for your kind.”

Jimmy tried to smile, but it was only a grimace.

“I dunno,” he said slowly. “I haven’t had any trouble with any one here, except that day I accidently shot at the sheriff and the lawyer.”

“But that was an accident,” said Johnny. “Nobody blames yuh for that. Somebody wanted to kill yuh, kid.”

“Maybe,” faltered Jimmy, “they mistook me for somebody else.”

As Jimmy spoke he was looking at Marion, and he switched his eyes to Hashknife, who was watching him closely. The eyes of the tall cowboy seemed to bore into him, and Jimmy turned away.

“You was talkin’ with Miss Taylor just a minute or so before yuh got shot, eh?” Oyster Shell had an idea.

“Yes,”

“Uh-hah!”

“What’s that got to do with it?” demanded Johnny.

“Aw, let’s go and get a drink,” suggested Oyster. “Jimmy is all right. How about yuh, Jimmy?”

“I’m fine,” replied Jimmy. “Except that my feet don’t track and there’s a ton of rocks on my head—I’m as good as ever.”

They moved out of the hotel and headed for the Oasis, where Jimmy was the center of attraction. Le Moyne and Dug Haley were there. Johnny introduced them to Hashknife and Sleepy, and they all drank to the poor aim of some bushwhacker.

After a few more drinks the AK boys decided to go home. Jimmy’s head was bothering him, and Johnny Grant decided that a bunk was the best place for Jimmy Legg. Before they left, the sheriff and deputy bustled in, having just heard of the shooting, and wanted a detailed account of it.

“Aw, whatsa use?” wailed Eskimo. “Somebody popped Jimmy on the head with a bullet, and that’s all there is to it. Unless petrification sets in, he’ll be able to fall off a horse agin’ tomorrow—as usual. C’mon.”

And the sheriff was obliged to get his information from those who knew as much about it as the AK boys did. He went back to his office with Al Porter, and they sat down to discuss it.

“Well, who do yuh think tried to kill the tenderfoot?” queried Porter.

“If we didn’t have three men in jail, facin’ a charge of holdin’ up a train, I’d say that this here Legg person was the fourth one of the gang, and that some of ’em tried to bump him off for somethin’.”

“Well, I’ll be ——!” snorted Porter. “If we can’t hang it on to the Taylor gang, that might be worth workin’ on, Scotty. But who are these two strange cowpunchers who rode in with the AK gang tonight? Johnny Grant acts kinda friendly with ’em.”

“I don’t know, Al. I reckon I’ll hit the hay. Tomorrow we hold a hearin’ for the Taylor gang, and we’ll see what we’ll see. You better feed that —— dog before yuh go to bed, or he might mistake old Judge Parkridge for a strip of jerky. —— knows, he looks like one.”

IX—COMPLICATIONS

The Taylor hearing was more or less of a farce, but it left Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, the half-breed, high and dry in the Blue Wells jail until the next term of court. Old Judge Parkridge, near-sighted, more than slightly deaf, a mummified old jurist, set their bail at one thousand dollars cash, each—bail which no one would furnish.

There was no evidence against them, except the fact that they had the dog, and that they could not prove that they had spent the night on Yellow Horn Mesa. So they were formally charged with train robbery and held until the next session of court, which would not be held for three weeks.

Apostle Paul Taylor cursed the judge, who could not hear it, and went back to the jail, followed by Buck and Peeler. Marion was broken-hearted, but did not show it. She sat down in the sheriff’s office and tried to reason out just what to do. The Double Bar 8 could not afford to hire men, and she could not do the work alone.

The sheriff did not try to solace her. He was tongue-tied in her presence. Then Tex Alden showed up. He had not been at the hearing, but had been told all about it.

“That’s sure tough, Marion,” he told her. “I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do—I’ll send some of my men down to run the ranch for yuh, and it won’t cost yuh a cent.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Alden.”

Tex colored quickly. It was the first time she had ever called him “Mr. Alden.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “What have I done?”

“You know what you did,” she retorted. “Please don’t bother yourself about my affairs.”

Tex stared at her wonderingly.

“Well, for gosh sake!” he blurted. “Hm-m-m-m! Whatsa matter now?”

But Marion turned away from him and stared out through one of the dirty windows. Tex whistled softly and walked outside. He stopped, turned, as if to go back, but changed his mind and went on up the street, whistling unmusically between his teeth, his brow furrowed.

Lee Barnhardt, the lawyer, was coming from his office, and met Tex in front of the general store.

“Wasn’t that a —— of a verdict, Tex?” he asked

“Verdict? Oh, yeah.” Tex looked thoughtfully at the lean-faced attorney. “I’m wonderin’ who’ll run the Double Bar 8 until after the trial, Lee?”

“I don’t know; never thought about it, Tex. Say, did you hear about that AK tenderfoot getting shot last night?”

“Legg?”

“Yes. Some one shot him last night, almost in front of the hotel.”

“Yea-a-ah? Kill him?”

“No,” Barnhardt laughed. “Skull was too hard, I guess. He had been standing there, talking with Marion Taylor, and just after she went into the hotel, some one shot him. But he was able to ride back to the AK; so I guess he’s all right.”

Tex took a deep breath and looked back toward the sheriff’s office. Marion was coming up the street. He turned to Barnhardt.

“I hadn’t heard about it, Lee. I left just after the trainmen had identified the dog.” Tex turned on his heel and went across the street, disappearing in the Oasis saloon.

Marion joined Barnhardt and they walked to his office. The girl did not like Barnhardt, but her father had engaged him to handle their defense. Hashknife and Sleepy had talked with several of the cowboys, and it was their opinion that none of the cattle outfits would put on extra men until the round-up.

Hashknife went to the sheriff’s office and had a talk with Scotty Olson. Hashknife had heard the cowboys talking about the Double Bar 8, and the fact that there was no one, except the girl, to run the ranch. Hashknife explained to the sheriff that he and Sleepy would be willing to run the Double Bar 8, at least until the round-up started, and without wages.

“What’s the idea?” queried Scotty. It looked fishy to him.

“Merely helpin’ out,” smiled Hashknife. “It’ll save us a hotel bill, and we might as well be workin’ as settin’ around a saloon.” Scotty smoothed his mustaches and admitted that it would be a great help to the Taylor family.

“C’mon in and meet Apostle Paul,” suggested the sheriff.

Hashknife followed him to the cells and was introduced to Marion’s father, who scrutinized Hashknife closely, when the sheriff explained what Hartley and his partner were willing to do.

“I thought mebbe Tex Alden would help us out,” said the old man.

“Yuh can hang that idea up in the smokehouse,” said the sheriff. “Tex met yore daughter a while ago, and she kinda snubbed him up real short, Paul.”

“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’ll be ——! See if yuh can get holt of her, Scotty.”

The sheriff left Hashknife with Taylor, while he found Marion. The old man had little to say to Hashknife, and the conversation dragged heavily until the sheriff brought her in and introduced her to Hashknife.

“Did Tex offer to help us out?” asked Taylor.

Marion nodded quickly.

“He did; and I refused his offer. And he knows why I refused it, Dad.”

“Gosh a’mighty—why?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I jist wanted to know if he did. Mr. Hartley and his pardner offer to help yuh run the ranch at least until the round-up starts, and it shore looks generous—comin’ from strangers.”

“It certainly is generous!” exclaimed Marion. “Dad, I think I can get Nanah to stay with me.”

“That’ll be fine. I’m much obliged to yuh, Hartley, and I’ll not be forgettin’ this favor. We’re shore up agin’ a hard deal. How soon can yuh go out to the ranch?”

“I broke a State record on saddlin’ a bronc once,” grinned Hashknife. “Our animals are in the livery-stable, and I know Sleepy is plumb willin’ to give up that bed at the hotel.”

“Then we’ll all ride out together,” said Marion. “My horse is there too.” Hashknife found Sleepy at Moon’s store and introduced him to Marion. Lee Barnhardt was there, and heard Hashknife explain to Sleepy that they were going to run the Double Bar 8. The lean-necked lawyer’s brows elevated momentarily, and he wondered why Tex Alden hadn’t handled that end of the deal.

Sleepy went with Marion to get the horses, while Hashknife secured paper and envelopes from Moon, and wrote a letter. Lee Barnhardt sat on a counter across the room, and wondered who this tall cowboy might be. Lee did not believe in philanthropy, and he wondered just why these two cowboys should offer to work the Double Bar 8 for nothing. He watched Hashknife, who hunched over the counter, taking much time over the composition of his letter.

Lee moved over to that counter and bought some tobacco he did not need. Hashknife sealed the letter and began directing the envelope. Lee walked slowly past him, getting a flash of the address on the letter, which was directed to Leesom & Brand, Attorneys at Law, Chicago.

If Lee Barnhardt expected to find any clue to Hashknife’s identity, he could hardly find it in the address of a letter, but he smiled queerly as he walked to his office and sat down, twiddling his thumbs.

But it was not a pleasant smile, and his head sunk into his collar until the wattles of his wry-neck protruded. For about ten minutes he sat thus, totally absorbed in his own thoughts, which were finally broken by the entrance of Tex Alden, who had been depleting the stock of the Oasis saloon until he fairly reeked with alcoholic fumes.

“What do you know about them two fellers goin’ out to the Taylor ranch?” he demanded of Barnhardt.

“Eh?” Lee looked up quickly. “Oh, yes. What about ’em?”

“That’s what I want to know, by ——!”

“You’re sore about something, ain’t you, Tex?”

“Yo’re —— right I am! Who authorized them two punchers to run that place?”

“Well, I didn’t. It wasn’t any of my business. Tex, you don’t need to get drunk and come roaring into my office. I never sent them out there. It seems to me that Miss Taylor was perfectly willing to have them go out there. And they talked with old Apostle Paul. Don’t hop me; hop them.”

“Hop, ——!” Tex leaned on the desk and glared at Barnhardt.

“Go to it, Tex. Hop anything you want to, but leave me out. Did you offer to run the ranch for her?”

“I did, —— it!”

Lee smiled at Tex’s flushed face.

“What did she say?”

“None of yore —— business!”

“Mm-m-m-m! Must have been a good reason.”

“Who are these strange punchers?”

Lee shook his head.

“How would I know? They’re going to run the Double Bar 8 for nothing. Rather charitable for a pair of strangers, don’t you think, Tex?”

“Too —— charitable.”

“That’s my opinion. But I don’t know a thing against ’em.”

“Know anythin’ for ’em?” bluntly.

“Not a thing, Tex. Marion is a mighty pretty girl, and—”

“Drop that!” snapped Tex angrily. “Leave her out of it.”

“Oh, all right. But she didn’t talk as though she hated either of them. I heard her talking to them in Moon’s store a while ago.”

Tex’s black eyes snapped angrily.

“I want to know a few things,” he said evenly. “I’m no —— fool!”

“Well, you’ll not find out anything from me, because I don’t know anything to tell you, Tex. I’m no judge of human nature, but I’d go easy with those two men. I don’t think you can scare ’em. They’ve probably got a reason for running the Taylor ranch—for nothing.”

“They can’t scare me, by ——!”

“They probably won’t try,” smiled Barnhardt. “Anyway, they have no reason for trying to scare you. Tex, does their names mean anything to you?”

“Their names? Hartley and Stevens? Not a —— thing.”

“Ask Plenty Goode about it?”

“What would he know about ’em, Lee?”

“Do you remember one night out at the X Bar 6, just after Goode had hired out to you, and I was there? We were talking about rustlers and horse-thieves, and Goode told us some of the things that happened in the Modoc country. He lived at Black Wells, I believe. Don’t you remember the names now, Tex?”

“Lee, I believe yo’re right. What was it he called the tall one?”

“Hashknife.”

“That was it! But are these the same men, Lee?”

“I heard the tall one called by that name a while ago.”

“Huh! What do yuh reckon they’re doin’ over here?”

Lee smiled crookedly.

“I dunno, Tex; but it has probably got something to do with the train robbery. And if I had held up that train, I’d sure hate to have these men on my trail. Ask Goode more about them, Tex.”

Tex nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Suddenly he jerked ahead, his eyes boring into Barnhardt.

“Why should I worry about ’em? They can’t hang anythin’ on to me, by ——!”

“Oh, all right,” sighed Lee. “I know I’d like to have that eight thousand dollars back from you. You better give it to me pretty quick, because I can’t cover it up very long.”

“Why can’t yuh? The round-up count can be long. You handle all the business for the X Bar 6, and you can add those cattle to your report. They don’t know the sale was made.”

“Compound a felony, eh? Turn crook for you, Tex?”

“Turn ——! Listen, Lee.” Tex leaned across the desk and poked a finger at Lee’s nose. “Yo’re as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch. You’d double-cross yore best friend for a dollar. Don’t swaller so hard! I mean what I’m tellin’ yuh. You told me about that Santa Rita pay-roll, because you wanted yore cut out of it, and yo’re sore because yuh didn’t get it.

“I haven’t any eight thousand dollars —— yuh; I ain’t got no way to get eight thousand dollars. And what’s more, I don’t think I’d give it to yuh if I had it. Now, roll that up in some tar-paper and smoke it. Any old time you start playin’ saint to my sins, yo’re goin’ to get in wrong. Now, think it over.”

Tex surged away from the desk, and went out, scraping his spurs angrily, while Lee Barnhardt looked after him, gloomy-eyed, his lips compressed tightly. Finally he sighed and shook his head.

“Lee, your sins are finding you out,” he said softly. “That poor fool is trying to bluff you—and he almost did.”

X—HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY, PHILANTHROPISTS

“This old place is sure pleasin’ to the naked eye,” said Hashknife the following morning, while Sleepy washed his face noisily at the old wash-bench near the kitchen door. “I like this old patio, Sleepy. Them walls were sure built to ward off bullets.”

“Yeah, and we’re in a peaceable neighborhood,” grunted Sleepy, his eyes shut against the sting of soap-suds, while he pawed awkwardly along the wall, trying to locate the towel, which Hashknife had deftly removed.

“Where’s that —— towel!” he roared. “Gimme that, before I scalp yuh. Dang yuh, Hashknife, you’ve got a —— of an idea of humor. Ow-w-w-w! Please! My ——, if I ever git m’ eyes open ag’in, I’ll scalp yuh.”

Sleepy danced violently, his dripping hands held at right angles to his body.

“Whatsa idea of the ghost-dance?” queried Hashknife soberly. “The towel is there on the wash-bench, where yuh left it.”

This was palpably a falsehood, but Sleepy pawed his way to the bench, found the towel, and wiped his burning eyes.

“You hadn’t ought to use laundry soap in yore eyes,” said Hashknife reprovingly. “Whatcha cryin’ about?”

“You stole that towel! Yeah, yuh did! Oh, well!” Sleepy shrugged his shoulders. “A feller that ain’t got no more sense than to throw in with a danged—”

“Halt!” snorted Hashknife. “Say it, and I’ll wash out yore mouth, Sleepy.”

“Oh, yuh will!” Sleepy glared at Hashknife, who was in line with the kitchen door, where Marion stood, laughing.

“Ex-cuse me, Miss Taylor,” said Sleepy. “If you’d lived with Hashknife—uh—I mean, if you—” Sleepy floundered and wiped his eyes.

“You’ll excuse him, Miss Taylor,” said Hashknife seriously. “He ain’t very bright. Ever once in a while he gets a dirty look in his eyes, and has to wash ’em out, yuh see. As a friend he’s all right, but when yuh want mental companionship, I’d as soon have that burro yuh call Apollo.”

Marion laughed, and invited them in to breakfast. She introduced them to Nanah, a portly Indian woman, whom Sleepy dubbed “Carrie Nation,” because she held a hatchet in her left hand, while she shook hands with the other.

“She’s related to Peeler,” explained Marion.

“Relate by marriage,” said Nanah solemnly, as if to amend Marion’s statement.

“Nephew?” asked Hashknife, helping himself to a stack of hot-cakes.

“Son,” said Nanah seriously.

“Relate by marriage!” exploded Sleepy.

Nanah did not smile. She spilled more batter on the griddle, examined the pitcher closely, as she glanced at Hashknife’s plate, possibly fearing she had underestimated their hot-cake ability, and said:

“Somebody say Peeler rob train. —— lie! Too lazy.”

“And that’s the most perfect alibi I ever heard,” laughed Hashknife. “Nanah, I’ll bet any jury in Blue Wells would turn him loose on that kind of evidence.”

“What do you think of the case?” asked Marion.

Hashknife shook his head.

“I dunno, Miss Taylor. It kinda looks to me as though the sheriff had kinda gone off half-cocked. That old judge ought to be restin’ in a cemetery. I dunno how any community could stand for an old mummy like him. He ain’t human. There ain’t nothin’ against ’em, except that darned dog, and the fact they were not home that night.”

“But they surely couldn’t convict on that evidence.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m!” Hashknife masticated thoughtfully. “I dunno. I’ve seen queer things happen. I ’member a case where one man was suin’ another for stealin’ his wife, and the cow-jury brought in a verdict of manslaughter against the prosecutin’ attorney.”

“A-a-a-aw, don’t lie like that!” protested Sleepy. “You never seen nothin’ of the kind.”

“Well, I’ve seen things just about as bad. I don’t trust humanity—not cow-jury humanity. If I was goin’ to win that case, I’d do it out of court, Miss Taylor.”

“But how could that be done?” asked Marion eagerly.

“Find the men that done the job.”

“An easy thing to think about,” observed Sleepy, leaning back to let Nanah slide a pile of hot-cakes on his plate.

“But the sheriff won’t do anything now,” said Marion. “He feels that he has done his duty.”

“Prob’ly a good thing he won’t,” grinned Hashknife. “Any man that wears a mustache like Olson does, couldn’t find his own socks inside his boots. That man has all gone to hair.”

“Samson wore long hair,” reminded Sleepy. “He was strong.”

“Strong—yea-a-ah! But did he have any brains? He didn’t. If he had any brains he wouldn’t have let that woman monkey around him with a pair of shears. Just to prove that he was thick—he slept through the hair-cuttin’. Can yuh imagine that?”

“I think Wade, the railroad detective, was more responsible for the arrests than Olson was,” said Marion.

“I’ve seen him,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s one of them kinda jiggers that don’t care whether he gets the guilty man or not, just so he gets somebody. That feller used to be a policeman in Los Angeles. They take the uniform off a policeman—and he’s a detective.

“Do yuh know that the idea of numberin’ houses in a city was started by a police department? It was. Their officers was always gettin’ into the wrong houses; so they numbered ’em. Nanah, you make gosh-awful good hot-cakes. Yuh do so. You Navajo?”

Nanah nodded quickly.

“Do you speak Navajo?” asked Marion.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Nope. Speak a little Nez Perce, Flat-head, Sioux, English and Profane. Yuh have to wear a rag around yore head to learn Navajo.”

“And pack a snake around in yore teeth,” added Sleepy.

Marion laughed at the expression of Nanah’s face.

“I not bite snake,” declared the squaw seriously.

“That’s right,” said Hashknife. “Don’t-cha do it, Nanah.”

They shoved back from the table and rolled cigarets, while Nanah and Marion cleared away the dishes.

“If you were going to try and find the men who held up that train—where would you look?” asked Marion.

Hashknife smiled over his cigaret.

“That’s hard to say. I’d have to do a little addition, subtraction and division. Didja ever get far enough in school to work on problems where they let X equal the missin’ numbers?”

Marion smiled.

“Yes, I have, Mr. Hartley.”

“Well, then, don’t call me mister. My name’s Hashknife. Now that yuh know me well enough to call me Hashknife, I’d say that I’d let about four X’s equal the missin’ bandits, and work out the problem from there. We’ve got the dog. Workin’ backwards from a dog, yuh ought to get quite a lot.

“In the beginning I’d like to ask yuh what yuh know about a feller who is workin’ for the AK outfit who is named Jimmy Legg.”

“James Eaton Legg,” said Marion solemnly. “He said it sounded like a cannibal. I don’t know a thing about him, except that he came to Blue Wells the night of the robbery. Johnny Grant took a liking to him, and took him out to the AK, where he’s been falling off horses ever since. He says he’s going to learn to be a cowboy, if he lives long enough—and that’s all I know about him.”

“Not much,” mused Hashknife. “Nice boy?”

“Certainly he’s nice,” said Marion, without hesitation.

“I s’pose so,” smiled Hashknife. “Bein’ as yo’re the boss of this outfit, suppose yuh tell us what yuh want done today.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Suppose you spend the day in getting used to the place.”

“All right. Mebbe we’ll corral a few horses and look ’em over. If we handle the round-up for the Double Bar 8, we’re goin’ to need a remuda.”

“Sure. Suppose you ride back to Blue Wells some time today and bring back the three that are in the livery-stable. We forgot them.”

“That’s right. How about the chuck-wagon?”

“Oh, I forgot about that. We have always used the X Bar 6 outfit wagons. Tex Alden has always insisted that our outfit was too small to run their own chuck-wagon. But this year—”

Marion’s pause was significant. Hashknife realized that everything was not right between the Taylor family and Alden.

“He didn’t invite yuh to share his chuck, eh?”

Marion shook her head slowly.

“I guess we’ll get along all right.”

“Y’betcha,” warmly. “We’ll kinda look things over, Miss Taylor.”

“And now that we’re well enough acquainted for you to call me Marion—”

“Oh, all right,” laughed Hashknife.

He joined Sleepy in the patio, and they inspected the stables and corrals, with Apollo following them like a dog, trying to nip the brims of their hats.

It was possibly half an hour later that Lee Barnhardt rode in at the ranch, and the Blue Wells attorney was a sight for sore eyes. His mount was a sway-backed sorrel, with a long neck and a whispy tail. Barnhardt did not wear chaps, and the action of the horse had wrinkled his trousers, until the bottoms were up to his knees, showing an expanse of skinny leg and a pair of mismated socks. On his head he wore a sombrero, which was too small for him, and a flannel shirt, so large around the neck that one could easily catch a glimpse of his collar-bone.

He nodded pleasantly to Hashknife and Sleepy and dismounted, allowing his trousers to resume a normal attitude toward his legs.

“I just rode out to see how things were going,” he explained. “I spoke to Mr. Taylor about it.”

“Well, yuh don’t need to apologize,” grinned Hashknife. “Of course yuh got here pretty early in the mornin’ to find anythin’ goin’ on. That’s quite a bronc you’ve got.”

“Yes; he’s all right. Not much for looks, but reliable. Is Miss Taylor at home?”

“I think you’ll find her in the house.”

“Thank you.”

Barnhardt dusted off his clothes, with a flap of his hands, and headed toward the house, while Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other.

“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “is the attorney.”

“I’m disappointed,” said Sleepy seriously.

“Yuh don’t need to be, Sleepy. Hello! Here comes the next chapter.”

Jimmy Legg had arrived at the Double Bar 8, with his head swathed in bandages, his sombrero cocked at an angle. He slid out of his saddle, hitched up his belt and gazed soberly at the two cowboys.

“Hello,” he said.

“How’s the head?” asked Hashknife.

“Gee, it sure was sore this morning. I didn’t sleep much last night. I guess I was scared,” Jimmy grinned widely. “Got to thinking how close I came to getting me a harp. Honest, it was an awful dream. You see, I’m not musical at all.”

The two cowboys grinned with Jimmy. He looked at the lawyer’s horse quizzically.

“Who rides that thing?” he asked.

“An attorney from Blue Wells,” said Hashknife.

“Oh, Lee Barnhardt? Well,” Jimmy hitched up his belt, “it looks like him. They’ve both got the same shape neck.”

“Yuh hadn’t ought to make fun of a horse,” said Sleepy.

“No, I suppose not. Really, I shouldn’t make fun of anybody. I ought to put in most of my time being thankful I’m alive. I am, too. I’ve got to go and have the doctor dress my head, but I thought I’d stop and see Miss Taylor. She’s going to need some help around here, and I thought I’d offer my services. The AK really don’t need me.”

“What can you do?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy shuffled his feet.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I really don’t know. Unless, of course, she has some horses that need to have some one fall off them. Johnny Grant says I’m the best he has ever seen. He says if you’re a champion rider there’s always a dispute over it. But if you’re a champion faller-off, you’ve got a cinch title.”

The two cowboys laughed at Jimmy, or rather, with him.

“Can yuh handle a rope?” asked Hashknife.

“Not on a horse. There’s too many things to remember. I always fell off, trying to keep from tripping my own horse. On the ground, I’m pretty good. Eskimo says I can heat a branding-iron handle hotter than anybody he ever seen. And that about lets me out, I guess.”

“Well, yo’re honest about it, anyway,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh live long enough, you’ll prob’ly be a top-hand about the time they stop raisin’ cattle and start on sugar-beets.”

“I’d have an even chance with the rest of the cowboys at raising sugar-beets, I suppose.”

“You sure are an optimist, pardner,” laughed Hashknife. “I hope Miss Taylor can use yuh. We need an optimist around us.”

“Fine,” grinned Jimmy. “And I’d learn just as much about being a cowboy.”

“And maybe live longer,” said Sleepy. “Things that might make others shoot— make us laugh. You better tie up yore bronc.”

Jimmy tied his horse to a ring in the patio wall, and they went inside the patio, where they found Marion and Barnhardt. She shook hands with Jimmy, who protested that he was better than he ever was. Barnhardt looked him over coldly, but no one bothered to introduce them.

“I’m looking for a job,” laughed Jimmy. “I told Mr. Bonnette that I was going to offer my services to you, and he said it would be all right with him. He was very nice about it.”

“He knows the salary,” said Hashknife. “We split it three ways.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you, Jimmy,” said Marion.

“Don’t mention it, Marion.”

Barnhardt cleared his throat raspingly. He wanted to voice an objection, but had none. Hashknife’s eyes were smiling, but his mouth was serious, as he watched the lawyer’s face.

“I think we are being well taken care of, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion, her eyes dancing.

“Oh, hu—er—yes, indeed.” Barnhardt mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. “Very, very well, Miss Taylor. I—I guess I will be going along.”

“Come again,” said Hashknife cordially. Barnhardt flashed a glance at him, as he held out his hand to Marion.

They walked to the patio gate and watched Barnhardt ride away, sitting stiffly in his saddle, his horse trotting, every jerk of which drew Barnhardt’s trousers up nearer his knees, and caused his ill-fitting sombrero to shift from side to side.

“Looks like the joker in a deck of playin’-cards,” observed Sleepy.

“He means well, I think,” said Marion, as they turned back.

“Means well to Lee Barnhardt,” smiled Hashknife.

“I don’t like him,” said Jimmy. “Oh, it isn’t because of anything he has ever done to me,” he hastened to say. “But it is just something about him that—well, I don’t like him.”

“Shall we show our new member to the bunk-house?” asked Hashknife. “I like him a lot better, since I’ve heard he don’t like lawyers.”

“Oh, my remark does not cover the entire profession,” said Jimmy quickly.

Marion laughed and went into the house, while Hashknife and Sleepy introduced Jimmy to the bunk-house. They sat down and rolled cigarets. Jimmy was not very adept, but he managed to make his own smoke.

“You know Miss Taylor pretty well, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy colored quickly.

“Well, not awful well.”

“Well enough to call her Marion.”

“She asked me to call her that. But that’s all right, isn’t it?”

“It’s all right with me. But it got under the hide of that lawyer.”

“It’s none of his business.”

“No-o-o, I suppose not, Jimmy. Have you any idea who shot yuh?”

Jimmy started to speak, changed his mind, and shook his head.

“I heard,” said Hashknife slowly, “that two prominent young men in this community had declared their intentions of marryin’ this young lady.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Jimmy quickly. “Tex Alden and Chet Le Moyne. But that doesn’t make any difference to me.”

“I see,” Hashknife grinned widely. “You’ll make it a three-cornered affair, eh?”

“Not at all. You see, I—I hardly know the lady. She was nice to me, and I appreciate it. But I never said I wanted to marry her.”

“You’ve met Chet Le Moyne?”

“Yes, I’ve met him. We were introduced at the Oasis saloon.”

“Where did you meet Tex Alden?”

“I never was introduced to him, but I—I talked to him here.”

“Yeah? And he told yuh to keep away, didn’t he?”

Jimmy looked at Hashknife in amazement.

“Why, how did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” smiled Hashknife. “I knew you’d correct me, if I was wrong.”

Jimmy rubbed his nose and grinned foolishly.

“That’s one way of finding out, I suppose. Yes, he did tell me to keep away from here.”

“And that night you got shot.”

“Gee! Do you think he shot me?”

Hashknife smiled softly over the manufacture of another cigaret, but did not answer.

“What do you think I ought to do?” queried Jimmy.

“Just forget it,” replied Hashknife. “You don’t know anything about it, Jimmy.”

“I know, but—” Jimmy hesitated awkwardly. “But he—whoever fired that shot—wanted to kill me, didn’t they? Don’t you suppose they’ll try again?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Gee, that puts me in a fine position!”

“Yea-a-ah, it does. You ought to grab a train and high-tail it out of this country.”

Jimmy thought it over seriously, the smoke from his cigaret drifting up into his eyes.

“No,” he said finally, “I won’t go. I’ve never injured any one, and I’m not going to run away.”

“And take chances on bein’ killed?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Yes; it’s all right. I might be lucky.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Jimmy, as he said,

“Young man, you belong. I wouldn’t blame yuh if yuh ran away. We’re just a pair of ordinary human beings, but we’re backin’ yore play.”

“Gee, that’s nice of you! I’m not much good—not alone. I didn’t come here with the idea of becoming a gunman, but I wish somebody would show me something about a revolver. It tries to jump out of my hand every time I shoot it, and I can’t hit a five-gallon can at ten feet. Really, a fellow should know something about a gun—if somebody is trying to kill him.”

“It might come in handy,” smiled Hashknife. “Neither of us are good shots, but we can show you how to point a gun.”

“Fine! And to draw one real fast, like Johnny Grant can?”

“I’ve never seen Johnny Grant draw a gun. I’ve found that it isn’t all in the speed. Too much speed wastes the first shot. Never reach for a gun, unless you mean to use it, and when you do reach, draw and shoot deliberately. Split-second gunmen don’t hit anythin’. And another thing, Jimmy—don’t shoot, unless yo’re in the right. Bein’ right to start with will win nine times out of ten. You know it and the other man knows it.”

“I think I know what you mean, Mr. Hartley.”

“I’m glad yuh do—and my name’s Hashknife—to them that belong.”

Jimmy grinned widely. It was the first time that any one had even intimated that he might “belong,” and his heart filled with gratitude toward this tall, serious-faced cowboy, who had admitted him to the brotherhood of cowpunchers.

“But you’ll never make a cowpuncher out of yourself, by gettin’ pitched off every bronc yuh see,” declared Sleepy. “Bein’ a cow-hand don’t necessarily mean that yuh can ride anythin’ that wears hair. Nobody’s goin’ to blame yuh, if yuh don’t ride bad ones. That’s only a small part of the business—the fool part, Jimmy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” admitted Jimmy. “I wasn’t born to ride buckers. I was just wondering how you two men happened to be cowboys.”

“Circumstance, I reckon,” said Hashknife. “I was born on the Milk River, in Montana. My dad was a preacher, Jimmy. Not the kind of a preacher you’ve known. He wore overalls and boots, and when he wasn’t ridin’ from place to place, packin’ his gospel, he was workin’ like —— at somethin’ else to make a livin’ for the family, because preachin’ didn’t pay dividends.

“There was six of us kids, and I was the oldest; which meant that I was shiftin’ for myself when I was twelve. I naturally didn’t get over-educated. But I competed against men, and they taught me things. There wasn’t anythin’ to do in that country, except punchin’ cows; so I naturally learned the business.

“In fact, I was about eighteen years old before I knew there was anythin’ else in the world. Then I started driftin’, learnin’, and fightin’ my way. I got whipped a lot of times, but I learned a lot of things; some of it from books, but a lot more from humanity. It’s been a hard school, Jimmy—and it still is; a school where yuh never graduate.”

“I never thought of the world in that way, Hashknife.”

“That’s the way she is,” declared Sleepy. “I got off in about the same way Hashknife did. My folks wanted to honor Idaho; so they moved over near Pocatello before I was born. I went to school, when they could find a man who was brave enough to teach the risin’ sons—which wasn’t no ways regular. The last teacher we had was a horse-thief, and he almost got me mixed up with him in a deal.

“I jist kinda growed up, got some wildeyed ideas, and follered a bunch of geese South. I had a lot of corners on me, and inside of three years I had ’em all knocked off. In three years more I had hollers where there used to be bumps. About that time I decided that there was a —— of a lot of other folks in the world; so I sawed off my horns and held my elbows close to my sides, when I went through a crowd. I eventually drifted to the Hashknife outfit, where I finds my pardner. I dunno just how or why he picked up with me, but we’ve been together ever since.”

“I felt sorry for yuh,” said Hashknife solemnly.

“Yeah, and I’ve felt sorry for myself ever since.”

From out in the patio came the raucous bray of Apollo, as if he had joined the laugh. The three men sauntered out into the patio, where Apollo was nosing around in a water-bucket. He looked them over suspiciously and angled crab-wise toward Sleepy, who was wise in the ways of a burro.

“Git away from me, yuh —— relic,” snorted Sleepy, slapping at the burro with his hat. Marion came from the house, laughing at Sleepy’s antics, and they grouped together at the well.

“Apollo is a family heirloom,” laughed Marion. “No man knows his age. The Indians say he was here when they came, and he has never grown old, except in appearance.”

Marion put one arm over the burro’s neck and rubbed his nose with her hand.

“He loves me,” she said.

“And I heard a man say once that a burro didn’t have any sense,” smiled Hashknife.

Marion colored slightly.

“They’re the wisest of animals,” declared Sleepy.

Came the sharp thud of a blow, as if something had struck the burro with a heavy impact, and the ancient animal dropped as if its legs had been suddenly yanked from under its body. In fact, its fall was so sudden that Marion jerked forward, lost her balance, and fell sprawling across its neck.

And as she fell, from somewhere back in the hills, came the report of a rifle shot. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that no one moved for a moment. Then Hashknife flung himself forward, grasped Marion in his arms and ran back to the shelter of the bunk-house, with Sleepy and Jimmy following.

They stopped against the bunk-house door, staring at each other. Marion was dazed but unhurt.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Yo’re not hurt?” asked Hashknife anxiously.

“I’m not hurt. I—I just fell down. But what—”

“Good gosh, that sure was a close one!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Some dirty coyote—”

“Shot at me,” finished Jimmy nervously. “That bullet went past my ear—I felt it.”

“But—but—” faltered Marion.

“Stay where yuh are,” cautioned Hashknife.

He ran into the bunk-house, and came out in a minute, stuffing cartridges into the loading-gate of one of the ranch rifles.

“Oh, be careful about showing yourself,” cautioned Marion.

“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife.

He moved along the patio wall, slipped out through the gate, while Sleepy took a rifle from the bunk-house, swearing disgustedly over the fact that Hashknife had taken all the cartridges.

“It came from the hill back of us,” said Marion. “Poor old Apollo!”

“Yeah, he’s a goner,” said Sleepy softly. “Well, that’s about all yuh ever could do to make him die. If old age was ever goin’ to kill him, he’d ’a’ died forty years ago.”

There were tears in Marion’s eyes as she looked at the sprawling figure of the ancient burro. Worse than useless, he had always been a part of the Double Bar 8. It was the razing of a landmark.

Suddenly the ancient one shuddered, lifted its misshapen head and goggled foolishly. Then it got slowly to unsteady legs, staggered a few feet, thrust out its head, opened a cavernous mouth, which showed a few crooked teeth, and brayed defiance to all rifle-shooting bushwhackers.

“My ——!” snorted Sleepy. “A rifle can’t even kill it!”

Marion was laughing and crying alternately, and Sleepy grasped her by the arm to prevent her from going out to the burro.

“It just creased him,” explained Sleepy. “See where that blood streak runs down his neck? That bullet went through his neck just over the vertebrae, knocked him plumb out for a while, but he’s as good as ever now.”

Apollo looked reproachfully at Sleepy, stretched his neck tentatively and moved over to the shade of the wall, evidently none the worse for his experience.

When Hashknife left the patio gate he hugged the wall, circling to the rear of the bunk-house, from where he ran to the stable. He decided that the shot had been fired from a point on the hill, near the upper end of a small cañon. It was about the only spot on that side where a man could get elevation enough to enable him to see the center of the patio.

There was plenty of brush on the slope behind the stable; brush tall enough to conceal him from any one on the slope; so Hashknife did not hesitate to head directly for the spot he had in mind. There was no more shooting, but Hashknife could not be sure that the bushwhacker had not seen him start from the patio; so when he was half-way up to the break of the cañon, he went carefully, taking advantage of the heaviest cover in sight.

Hashknife realized his own danger. It was almost impossible for him to move without making a noise in the dry brush. And he did not know what moment a bullet might search him out. Working to the right, he came to the cañon rim, where he sprawled under a bush, listening closely.

Near him a flock of quail scurried about in the brush, their peculiar call, ventriloquistic, “Sit right there!” echoing back from the cañon-walls. One of them passed within inches of his rifle muzzle, a nervously jerking handful of blue and bronze, evidently puzzled at this sprawled figure of a human, which did not move.

The quail were working up the slope. Peering beneath the brush, Hashknife could see the little blue fellows running from cover to cover, while their calling became more faint. Hashknife slid farther out on the rim, and was about to get to his feet, when he saw the flock of quail whir up from the brush, and come hurtling down the cañon, swinging in below him, scattering badly, and beginning their warning cries again.

Something or somebody had disturbed them. Then he heard the sound of something coming down through the brush toward him. He got to his haunches, swinging his rifle into position as a horse and rider broke through the brush, almost against him.

The black horse snorted wildly, as Hashknife arose, covering the rider with the rifle. The man jerked back and his hands went above his head, while the horse surged back. The rider was of medium height, slightly gray, his bronzed face heavily lined, one cheek bulged with a chew of tobacco. He quieted the horse, spat explosively and shut one eye as he looked down at Hashknife.

“Well?” he said rather defiantly.

“Not so well,” said Hashknife coldly. He circled the horse, but there was no rifle in sight.

“What’s the idea?” queried the man. “That’s what I want to know. Who are you, pardner?”

“M’ name’s Goode. G-o-o-d-e. Called ‘Plenty.’”

“Yeah? Good rifle shot?”

“Fair.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife considered Mr. Goode. He was not a soft-looking person.

“Of course, it’s none of my business, but I’m just curious to know who, or which one of us, you tried to kill a while ago, Mr. Goode?”

“Me?” Goode spat thoughtfully. “That’s a queer question, my friend with the cocked Winchester. ’S far as I remember, I ain’t tried to kill anybody for a long time.”

“No-o-o-o?” drawled Hashknife. “I hate to call a man a liar.”

“Prob’ly,” dryly. “I hate to be called one, when I’ve got my hands in the air.”

“Sure. Yuh might care to tell me how yuh happen to be right here about this time.”

“Cinch. I’m from the X Bar 6 outfit. Me and Ed Gast was back toward Yaller Horn Mesa today, and when we’re on our way back I decides to ride down to the Double Bar 8. Ed went on to Blue Wells; so I cuts a straight line for here. Satisfied?”