Chapter VI: Part 6

They went after their horses and put them in the stable, after which they borrowed a few blankets from Marion. Jimmy insisted that he be allowed to stand guard with them, but Hashknife decreed that Jimmy sleep in the house, while Sleepy rolled in his blankets at the hay-mow window of the stable, which, since the bunk-house was no more, gave him a fair view of the patio and rear of the house. Hashknife went out about a hundred feet from the front of the house, and coiled up in his blankets in the cover of a mesquite, where he could watch the front of the ranch-house. But nothing came, except the cold, gray dawn, which was a long time coming.

There was an exodus from Blue Wells, when the news of the dynamiting reached there, and the Double Bar 8 held a great gathering of the cattle-clan, who came to view the ruins and to give an opinion. Some of them seemed to think that perhaps Apostle Paul Taylor had had some dynamite stored in the bunk-house, and that it had exploded.

Tex Alden came and viewed the ruins with gloomy eyes; Barnhardt perched on a pile of adobe and crumbled the clay between his fingers, and looked wise. The sheriff talked to every one who seemed to have any kind of a theory—and knew no more about it than he did when he came.

The women grouped around Marion, and “Oh’d” and “Ah’d,” like a lot of old hens clucking over a sudden fright. Hashknife said nothing, but listened much. Le Moyne came to him and tried to find out what Hashknife thought about it, but went away with the feeling that this tall cowboy knew less than any of them.

With Le Moyne was Dug Haley, who quarreled loudly with Al Porter over what dynamite would or would not do. Sleepy Stevens horned into the argument with a dissertation on “the dynamic principles of combustion,” in which he used the words “epiglottis,” “atomizer” and “dogmatic” numberless times; much to the confusion of Al Porter, who was forced to admit that all he knew about dynamite was that “the —— stuff busts and raises ——.”

It was not often that Antelope Neal, owner of the Oasis, went out of Blue Wells, but he did ride down to see what had happened to the Double Bar 8. Neal was a small, gray-haired man, who seldom had anything to say. He was a square gambler, and was respected as such in Blue Wells.

Hashknife noticed that Tex Alden and Antelope Neal stood apart from the crowd for quite a while, talking confidentially, eying him at times, and causing Hashknife to suspect that he was the subject of their conversation.

When the crowd began to thin out, it seemed that Tex tried to start a conversation with Marion, but she evidently preferred the attention of Jimmy Legg, and Tex retired, his lips set in a thin line, his eyes hard and speculative.

Lee Barnhardt noticed that Marion had evaded Tex, and it seemed to amuse the Blue Wells attorney. He sidled in beside Tex, who paid no attention to him.

“Tex, you’re not going to let a tenderfoot tramp cut you out, are you?” he asked, possibly trying to be sympathetic.

Tex’s action was almost as sudden as dynamite. He hooked his right fist against Barnhardt’s jaw, knocking him almost through the patio gate. Needless to say, Barnhardt stayed down. Tex stepped over to him, glanced down, turned to the crowd and studied them coldly. Then, without a word, he walked to his horse, mounted and rode away.

Several men ran to Barnhardt and tried to help him to his feet; but standing up was one thing that Barnhardt did not care about in the least. He sagged weakly, goggle-eyed.

“As cool as a cow-cumber,” said Al Porter.

“Cucumber,” corrected Dug Haley.

“I said what I meant!” snapped Porter. “If you wants to correct me on vegetation, you better mean the same thing that I do.”

“There’s been enough fightin’,” observed the sheriff. “Did anybody hear what caused Tex to hit Barnhardt?”

Nobody had. Some one secured a bucket of water, which they sluiced over the helpless Barnhardt. It made a mess of him, but served to jolt him back to consciousness. After a minute or two he was able to stand on his feet, but his jaw did not function properly. Hashknife examined it but found it was not broken.

“Why did he hit yuh, Lee?” asked the sheriff.

“Idnuk,” said Lee painfully. Interpreted, this might be construed to mean “I don’t know.”

And this was all the explanation he was willing to mumble. He went out to his sway-backed horse, and headed for Blue Wells, riding slowly and caressing his jaw.

The sheriff was the last to leave, and he would have stayed longer, except that the four cowboys from the AK ranch rode in. They had heard of the dynamiting, in Blue Wells. The sheriff did not care for their company; so he rode away.

“My ——, that shore is another wreck of the Hesperus, ain’t she?” said Eskimo Swensen. “Wham! I’ll betcha she made some noise.”

“It came near being serious,” said Jimmy. Johnny Grant grinned widely and slapped Jimmy on the back.

“You derned hoodoo! It looks as though this was the third time they’d tried to kill yuh off. I dunno what they’ll use next.”

“Tie him on a railroad track,” suggested Oyster.

Johnny drew Hashknife aside, and they sat down together on a pile of shattered adobe bricks.

“I’ve been wantin’ to talk with you, Hartley,” said Johnny seriously. “Yo’re workin’ on this hold-up case, ain’t yuh?”

“Well?” Hashknife admitted nothing.

“I heard yuh was; so I’m goin’ to tell yuh what I know about it.”

And while the other boys examined the wreckage, Johnny Grant told Hashknife of that night in Blue Wells, when they got drunk and locked the sheriff in his own cell. And of the incident at the train, when they staged an impromptu battle with the engineer and fireman; not knowing what it was all about.

He told Hashknife of the man who came along the track in the dark, went into the express car and got the dog.

“Somebody cut our broncs loose that night,” said Johnny. “I understand that the sheriff’s horses were also turned loose, and it kinda looks as though it was done to prevent a posse from trailin’ ’em. Of course, they wouldn’t know that Al Porter was in Encinas, visitin’ his girl, and that the sheriff was in jail.”

Hashknife grinned widely and thanked Johnny for his information.

“Thasall right,” said Johnny. “Yo’re sure welcome. Yuh see, we don’t care much for the sheriff and his deputy. They said we ought to be run out of the country; so we kept still about what happened to us. But when they jailed the Taylor outfit, I just got to thinkin’ that mebbe our evidence might help to land the right ones. I didn’t want to give it to Wade, the railroad detective, because he acted so —— smart; but I’m givin’ it to’ you, because you—because I had a talk with Goode, over at the X Bar 6.”

“Well, that may not help us all the way out, but it’s somethin’ to grab on to,” smiled Hashknife. “That feller Goode probably lied a lot about us, but he means all right, I guess.”

“Well,” confessed Johnny gravely, “he sure scared me into tellin’ yuh all I knew.”

“You look like a feller that scares easy,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll betcha all three of you fellers would run from a shadow.”

“Well, yuh can’t do much damage to a shadow, yuh know. We’d like yuh to know that if yuh need three fellers that are strong in the muscle and weak in the head, yuh might call on us.”

“Thanks, Grant. I reckon Nanah and Marion are cookin’ dinner, and if I was you, I’d stick around for the meal. Marion wants to thank yuh for offerin’ accommodations to us on the round-up.”

“George Bonnette done that, Hartley. ’S funny Tex Alden didn’t offer to take care of yuh.”

“I reckon he’s sore about Jimmy bein’ here.”

“M-m-m-m-m-m. Hartley, no matter what yore personal opinion is of Tex Alden, he’s a white man, and a —— of a good cow-hand. Mebbe he’s kinda off-color on account of carin’ a lot for that girl, but he’s a square shooter—all the time.”

“Yeah? He ordered Jimmy Legg to get out of the country. That night Jimmy was shot, just after he had left Marion Taylor, at the front of the Blue Wells hotel. A little later on, a shot from the hill out there almost got him again.”

“I know that,” Johnny shook his head. “If I was goin’ off at half-cock, I’d nod toward Tex, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would, Grant—but I don’t.”

“No? Well, that’s good. I talked with Tex the other day. He admits that it looks as if he done it.”

Marion called to them from the rear door, and they headed for the wash-bench, dropping the subject of Tex Alden.

And while they ate dinner at the Double Bar 8, Lee Barnhardt rode into Blue Wells, stabled his horse and went to see the doctor, who did a little to alleviate the pain in his jaw. Back in his office, he filled his pipe and tried to enjoy a smoke, but flung the pipe aside, because he couldn’t keep his mind on tobacco. It was the one time in his life that Lee Barnhardt was thoroughly mad. Just now he hated everybody, and everything— especially Tex Alden.

And while his anger was at fever-heat, Scotty Olson, the sheriff, walked into the office.

“How’s yore jaw?” asked the sheriff.

“None of your —— business!”

The exclamation seemed to hurt Lee’s jaw, and he clapped a hand to the side of his face, shutting one eye tightly.

“I reckon it’s all well,” said the sheriff sarcastically. “Tex hit yuh a dinger of a punch, didn’t he. I never did see a feller flatten out prettier than you did. My ——, you was jist about as animated as a scarecrow, after yuh pull the braces out of it! I asked Tex a while ago why he hit yuh, and he said for me to ask you.”

“And you came to ask me, did you?” Barnhardt was almost crying with anger. “You haven’t a brain in your head.”

“I thought there was a reason,” said the sheriff mildly. “Of course, if he was jist doin’ it for fun—”

“Fun, eh?” gritted Barnhardt. “I’ll make him think it was fun. He owes the X Bar 6 eight thousand dollars, and he’ll pay it, or go to jail for embezzlement. I’ll show him! And for your own information, I’ll tell you that Tex knew the money for the Santa Rita was coming in on that train.”

“How did he know that, Lee?”

“By ——, I told him it was!”

“How did you know?”

“I guessed it.”

The sheriff sat down and studied the situation, while the lawyer caressed his sore jaw and wondered if he was showing good judgment in telling all this about Tex.

“And you think Tex held up that train, Lee?”

“I didn’t say that, Scotty.”

“No, I know yuh didn’t; but yuh hinted at it. If Tex hears this, he’ll hit yuh with somethin’ besides his fist.”

“I suppose.” Lee looked gloomily at the wall, one eye half shut from the pain in his jaw.

Came the sound of a step at the doorway, and Tex Alden came in. Barnhardt jerked up his head quickly and stared at the man who had knocked him cold.

“Hello, Scotty,” said Tex evenly.

He did not speak to Barnhardt, as he came up to the lawyer’s desk, drawing a bulky package from his pocket.

“I owe yuh that much, Barnhardt,” Tex said coldly. “Mebbe yuh better count it.”

Barnhardt swallowed heavily, but made no move to pick up the money. Tex eyed him for a moment, turned and walked out, without saying anything more. Barnhardt shifted uneasily, but finally picked up the package, walked to his small safe, opened it with a key, and put away the package.

He came back and sat down, making no explanation.

“Tex wasn’t very cheerful,” observed Scotty.

Barnhardt shook his head and sighed deeply.

“I think I’ll take a little trip, Scotty; kinda get away until time for that trial. I’ve been pretty steady on the job for two years, and a little change would do me good.”

“A change does anybody good,” admitted the sheriff. “I’d like to go with yuh. What’ll yuh do, close yore office?”

“I think so. I won’t be gone more than a week, but I think, under the circumstances, I should go away until things clear a little.”

“I suppose so, Lee.”

The sheriff thought it would really be a wise thing for Barnhardt to go away for a while, and he said so to Hashknife that evening, when Hashknife stopped at the office for a few minutes. They were discussing the incident at the Double Bar 8, and Hashknife wondered how Barnhardt’s jaw was feeling. The sheriff told of Tex’s bringing a package of money to Lee Barnhardt, and he also told Hashknife what Barnhardt had said about Tex knowing about that shipment of money.

“I wouldn’t tell that to anybody else,” said the sheriff. “But it appears that you’re workin’ on the case, and yuh ought to know about these things.”

“When does Barnhardt intend to leave?” asked Hashknife.

“He didn’t say; but I expect he’ll leave tomorrow. Between me and you, he’s scared of Tex Alden, and he wants to git away for a few days to let Tex cool off. Lee talks too —— much.”

“That’s a human failin’,” smiled Hashknife.

But Lee Barnhardt did not go on any trip. When he got up the following morning he found that some one had opened his safe during the night, and had looted it of everything it contained. The bank did not have a safety vault; so Barnhardt found himself cleaned out, as everything he owned was in his own safe.

He sat down at his desk and stared at the empty valise, which he had brought along and placed beside the safe. His clothes were packed in a larger valise. He seemed stunned, his vacant gaze fixed upon the half-open door of the safe.

The fruits of two years’ work had been in that safe, when he locked the office the night before. He had never feared a robbery, because a lawyer’s safe usually only held papers, of no value to any one, except to the lawyer.

His dazed condition passed, leaving him in a state of perspiration. He got to his feet and staggered over to the safe, peering within, trying to convince himself that it was only a dream. He went to the front door and gazed out at the street. It was fairly early in the morning, and there were few people in evidence. He heard the train leave the station; the train he had intended leaving on, and he turned away, choking a curse.

He went to his desk, and with shaking fingers he opened a drawer and took out a revolver, which he put in his pocket. He unbuttoned his vest, disclosing a narrow strap across his bosom, attesting to the fact that he was wearing a shoulder-holster. Then he sat down, trying to think just what to do.

“I’ve got to find Tex Alden,” he told himself. “Tex saw me put that money in my safe. —— him, he paid his debt before a witness, and then took it back—took everything in the safe. If he don’t give it back to me, I’ll kill him.”

He flung the two valises behind his desk and walked to the door. Al Porter was coming toward the office. Barnhardt tried to appear indifferent, although he knew Porter would question him. As Porter neared the office, Marion Taylor, Jimmy Legg and Sleepy came riding down the street. Porter came up to Barnhardt, but did not speak, and they watched the riders draw up in front of them.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion. “We looked for you at the depot a while ago. Did you decide to not go away?”

Barnhardt nodded dumbly, because he dared not speak.

“Where’s the tall feller?” asked Porter.

“He went away on the train,” said Sleepy, beginning the manufacture of a cigaret.

“Went away, eh? Gone to stay?”

“No-o-o; just to Encinas.”

Barnhardt swallowed heavily and tried to smile.

“That’s where Al’s girl lives,” he offered.

“He may see her,” replied Sleepy seriously.

Porter stared at Sleepy, wondering if this innocent-eyed cowboy meant anything by that remark.

“We came in pretty early,” said Marion, “and I wonder if the sheriff will let me in the jail.”

“He’s in the office,” growled Porter. “I reckon he will.”

They moved on toward the jail, and Porter turned angrily to Barnhardt.

“That was a —— of a remark to make! You ain’t got no interest in my girl, have yuh?”

“Not a particle.”

“Then never mind about her; _sabe_? You monkey with my business and you’ll get worse than Tex Alden gave yuh.”

“Did you come up here to pick a fight?” queried Barnhardt.

“Any old time I look for trouble, I won’t pick out a —— wide-mouthed lawyer, that’s a cinch.”

Porter turned on his heel and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and rode out of town.

Barnhardt waited until the three riders had left the sheriff’s office, and then went down there. The sheriff looked quizzically at him.

“I thought you was goin’ away this mornin’, Lee.”

“Changed my mind,” said Barnhardt. “May go tomorrow.”

The sheriff nodded and looked at some papers on his desk.

“Hartley went away this mornin’,” offered Barnhardt.

The sheriff looked up.

“Yeah, they said he did; went to Encinas.”

“Yes. I guess he expected me to go on the same train.”

“Prob’ly did. I told him yuh was goin’ away this mornin’.”

Barnhardt went back to his office, his mind still traveling in circles. He knew what would happen if he accused Tex Alden of opening the safe. Tex was hotheaded, and Barnhardt knew he could never best Tex in any kind of a fair fight. If he accused Tex of theft, he’d never get his money and papers back.

So Barnhardt decided to wait and see, even if the waiting did gall his soul. No one, except himself and the man who opened the safe, knew that such a thing had been done. He had thought of having Tex arrested, but decided that his evidence against Tex only consisted of Tex’s knowing that the eight thousand was in the safe. Barnhardt had counted the package of money, when he was alone, and it contained that amount of currency.

Sleepy, Jimmy and Marion did not ride back to the ranch on the road, but circled through the hills. It was early morning, and they were in no hurry to return. A coyote invited them to a race, and they gave him what he was looking for. Only a barrier of mesquite, into which he sped like a gray shadow, saved him from Sleepy’s loop.

Flocks of white-wing doves hurtled past them, heading for the water-holes; quail called from the slopes; a deer broke from a thicket, and after a few short, stiff-legged jumps, headed up a slope, head cocked back, walking jerkily.

They were nearing the ranch when they described a flock of buzzards, circling low over a little ravine, like scraps of black paper, caught in the grip of a whirlwind.

“Somebody lost a cow,” said Sleepy, “and it’s eatin’ time for Mr. Buzzard.”

“I hope it isn’t any of our stock,” said Marion. “We can’t afford to feed any buzzards this year.”

Jimmy evinced a desire to investigate; so he and Sleepy rode down to the ravine, while Marion circled higher on the hill. The air suddenly filled with flapping buzzards, croaking hoarsely; possibly swearing in their own language on being interrupted at their morning meal.

It was not a cow, but a horse, which lay at the bottom of the ravine; a gray horse, partly eaten by buzzards, but with the brand still showing. Sleepy quickly noticed that its right fore leg was broken about half-way between knee and hock. Further investigation showed that the animal had been shot through the head, and that the shooter had held his gun so close that the powder had scorched the hair.

“Broke a leg and had to be shot,” said Sleepy. “Not so very long ago.”

They mounted and rode back to Marion, who had waited for them. Sleepy explained what caused the buzzards to congregate.

“What brand was on the animal?” she asked. Sleepy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Well, it happens to be a Double Bar 8.”

“One of our horses?”

“Yeah—a gray. Weigh about a thousand. Got some dark spots on the rump, and its fetlocks are almost black.”

“Why, that horse belonged to Buck! He didn’t ride it often. But I never heard Buck say anything about shooting it.”

“And pretty close to home, too,” observed Jimmy.

The little ravine where the horse lay was not over an eighth of a mile from the Double Bar 8 stable.

“If the wind had blown down from that direction, we’d ’a’ knowed it before this,” grinned Sleepy.

The discovery of this horse interested Sleepy. He felt sure that Buck would have mentioned it at the ranch. The horse had either fallen into the ravine and broke a leg or stepped into a hole. It was also very evident that the rider had mercifully put the animal out of its misery. And Sleepy wondered who, except some of the Taylor outfit, would be riding a Double Bar 8 horse so near the ranch.

He rode to Blue Wells that evening and met Hashknife, whom he told about the dead horse. They found the sheriff at his office, and he let them in to see Buck Taylor. Buck was glad to see them, but denied knowing anything about the horse being dead.

“I ain’t seen that horse for quite a while,” he said. “He wasn’t exactly a good cow-horse; so I let him drift. Plenty of speed, but he never seemed to _sabe_ what it was all about. Who do yuh reckon killed him?”

“Somebody must ’a’ borrowed him, I s’pose,” said Hashknife.

“Well, I wish we was out of here,” sighed Buck. “With all this shootin’ and dynamitin’, I sure hate to stay here. I’d like to find the dirty snake that’s doin’ it all.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the jail and went to the livery-stable, where they had left Hashknife’s horse that morning. Hashknife had nothing to say about his trip to Encinas, and Sleepy knew that questions were useless. Hashknife always worked on the theory that a secret is safe only with one person.

It was about ten o’clock when they approached the Double Bar 8, riding silently. There was a light in the ranch-house window, and as they drew closer they heard Jimmy’s and Marion’s voices blended in “After the Ball,” accompanied by the old upright organ. The two cowboys drew rein and listened. Off to the left of them a horse nickered softly. They peered in that direction, thinking it was a loose horse.

Then they went on, their horses making little noise in the sandy road, and drew up just outside the patio entrance. They could hear Marion and Jimmy laughing, as Marion tried to strike the right chord on the old organ.

Something prompted Hashknife to walk from his horse to the patio entrance, where he stopped quickly. A man’s voice snapped a warning, a streak of flame flashed toward him, and a bullet crashed into the corner of the entrance.

Two men were running toward the broken place in the wall, stumbling over the débris. Hashknife drew his six-shooter and fired twice, yelling at Sleepy to circle the wall. Another bullet whined off the adobe wall near him, as he started across the patio, heading for where the men had gone out.

Sleepy had dismounted, and he did not think to mount and ride. In fact, he hardly knew what it was all about. He ran around the wall and almost collided with Hashknife, who sprang out through where the dynamite had wrecked the wall.

“What the —— was it?” panted Sleepy.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” whispered Hashknife. “Listen.”

They stood against the ruined wall, straining their ears for the slightest sound. Then they heard the distant thud of running horses, growing fainter and fainter, as the riders faded away in the hills.

Hashknife swore softly, as he told Sleepy of the two men. Some one had extinguished the lamp in the ranch-house, and Sleepy called, telling them that everything was all right.

They found Marion and Jimmy on the back porch, and told them about the two men who had shot at Hashknife.

“Oh, I’m a fine guard!” said Jimmy bitterly. “Sleepy told me to keep an eye open. But we started singing, and—”

“Oh, it’s all right,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt. If we’d only gone over and investigated, when that horse nickered, Sleepy, we’d ’a’ had ’em cinched. But I didn’t look for ’em to come back so soon. That’s sure a puzzle. The further I go into this thing, the worse the fog gets.

“They wasn’t over here by the house. They could ’a’ looked in the window and seen who was in there. They might ’a’ been waitin’ for us to come back, but if they were, why did they let us walk in on ’em? I heard one of ’em snap a warnin’; so it kinda looks as though they didn’t expect us just then.”

“Do you think you hit either one of them?” asked Jimmy nervously.

Hashknife laughed.

“I was shootin’ for general results. A man runnin’ in the dark, jumpin’ through a broken wall, is a hard target. And when yuh hit a man with a .45 in any spot, except his hands, arms, or the end of his nose, he won’t go far; so I’ll admit that I missed ’em.”

For the next two nights Hashknife and Sleepy guarded the place, but no one came. The sheriff visited them, but they did not mention anything about the latest development. Hashknife was very thoughtful all the while, but admitted that he was getting nowhere in his deductions. He talked with Marion about Tex Alden and Le Moyne, and she seemed surprized when he told her that it was the general opinion that there was a rivalry over her between Tex and Le Moyne.

“Why, that is ridiculous,” she told Hashknife. “Mr. Le Moyne used to drop in here once in a while, but he hasn’t been here for over a month, except when they all came out to see the ruins of our bunk-house.”

“As far as Tex is concerned, the opinion ain’t far off, is it?”

Marion flushed.

“I liked Tex all right,” she admitted. “He is nice, as long as his temper doesn’t run away with him. Tex has a bad temper, you know.”

“And he hates Jimmy Legg, because Jimmy Legg happens to be here,” observed Hashknife.

Marion looked at Hashknife, her eyes puzzled. Then—

“You don’t think Tex was the one—” she hesitated.

“That tried to kill Jimmy?” Hashknife finished for her.

“Oh, Tex couldn’t do a thing like that, Hashknife!”

“No?” Hashknife smiled slowly. “Yuh don’t think so?”

Marion shook her head quickly.

“Not even if he was mad. He might be mad enough for a moment to kill some one, but not to shoot from ambush.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I’ll have to mark Tex Alden off my list of customers. It seems that Tex lost eight thousand dollars to Antelope Neal, in a poker game. This was before we came here. Now I’ve been wonderin’ how Tex could afford it.”

“Yes, I heard about it, Hashknife. Tex works on a salary—the salary of a foreman—and he surely couldn’t afford to lose that amount of money. In fact, I don’t see where he got it.”

“I know where he got it,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t see where he’ll ever be able to pay it back.”

Further than that Hashknife would not say, although Marion was curious to hear more about Tex Alden.

That evening Hashknife and Sleepy decided to visit Blue Wells, and talked things over with Jimmy.

“We may be back late,” explained Hashknife. “There’s a two-barreled shotgun in the house, and I saw some shells on a shelf in the kitchen. You load that gun, Jimmy, and keep it handy. Lock all the doors, and be sure that every curtain is down. I don’t look for any trouble, but yuh never can tell.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” declared Jimmy. “And I’m not afraid. If anybody comes fooling around here tonight, I’ll give them a surprize. I’ll make it a point to keep awake.”

They rode to Blue Wells after dark that night, and found the three boys fiom the AK at the Oasis. Being Saturday night, there was quite a crowd in town, and the games were flourishing. Johnny Grant, Oyster Shell and Eskimo Swensen welcomed Hashknife and Sleepy with open arms.

Tex Alden, Plenty Goode and Ed Gast were in from the X Bar 6. Tex was cordial, and talked with Hashknife about the dynamiting. Hashknife knew that Tex was wondering where Jimmy Legg was, and finally Tex asked him if Marion wasn’t afraid to stay at the ranch with only the Indian woman.

“Jimmy’s out there,” said Hashknife.

“Do yuh call that protection, Hartley?”

Hashknife smiled, but said nothing. He was thinking of Jimmy and the short, ten-gauge Parker. Le Moyne and several of the men from the Santa Rita mine were in town. In the course of the evening Hashknife sat in on a poker game, in which Tex Alden, Plenty Goode, Johnny Grant, Scotty Olson and Antelope Neal tried to outguess each other in the pastime. Sleepy and Oyster Shell quarreled for hours over a bottle-pool game, which was being refereed by Eskimo Swensen, who had an injured hand, and was unable to play.

It was within an hour of daylight when Hashknife drew out of the poker game. He had won enough to make it worth his while, and Antelope Neal said he had never been more willing to cash in any man’s chips and have his luck out of the game.

Sleepy was glad to go home.

“I’ve walked a hundred miles around that darned pool table,” he declared, as they left the Oasis. “A pile of blankets will look like a bank-roll to me.”

There was a cold breeze blowing as they rode back to the Double Bar 8, and the crimson glow of the rising sun painted the crests of the eastern hills, as they rode in at the stable and put up their horses.

“Well, it don’t look like any more dynamitin’ had been done since we left,” observed Sleepy, as they walked across the patio toward the rear door of the ranch-house.

“All is serene,” said Hashknife, and as he spoke Nanah came to the doorway.

The Indian woman was a pitiful sight. Her face was streaked with blood, her dress torn, and she staggered wearily.

“For —— sake!” gasped Hashknife. He took her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, Nanah? What happened to you? Where’s Marion and Jimmy?”

There was blood on her hair, and Hashknife could see that a livid welt ran from her right temple and disappeared in her mop of disheveled black hair.

“I do’ know,” she choked. “Men come,” she brushed her hand across her eyes, as though to clear her vision. “Have rag on faces. Knock Jimmy down. Take Marion, go that way.” She leaned one shoulder heavily on Hashknife and pointed east.

“Yuh mean that masked men came and took Marion?”

She nodded dumbly. Hashknife led her to a chair and made her sit down. The room showed signs of a struggle, and there were a number of blood stains on the floor and walls.

“What does it mean, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

“Where’s Jimmy?” asked Hashknife. Nanah shook her head. She didn’t know where he was.

“I hear much noise,” she said dumbly. “I come. Jimmy on floor. I run to door. Man hit me.” Her hand went to her head. “I fall on floor. I do’ know. I look from window, I see.”

“You saw ’em goin’ that way?”

“Yes.”

“How many men, Nanah?”

“I do’ know. I can’t see very good. Too much blood.”

“How long ago, Nanah?”

“I do’ know. Pretty sick in head.”

“She got an awful wallop,” said Sleepy. “Prob’ly got to the window, saw ’em pullin’ out, and collapsed. What’s the program?”

Hashknife ran through the house and came back.

“The shotgun is gone,” he said. “They’ve taken Marion toward Broken Cañon, but the devil only knows just where. Nanah, are you all right? We’ve got to get help. You stay here.”

“Pretty good,” she said. “You go quick.”

They ran back to the stable and saddled their horses. The horses seemed to sense the need of speed, and the two boys mounted on the run. Sleepy stood in his stirrups, his lips opened in a soundless yell. This was action. They swung around the point of a hill, heading up through a swale, a mile or more from the ranch-house. Hashknife spurred in close to Sleepy.

“Get the sheriff and all the boys yuh can get together, and head for Broken Cañon, Sleepy. I’m goin’ back.”

Sleepy did not question him. He had spent too many years with Hashknife to question any action of the tall cowboy. He merely nodded, drew his hat down over his brow and headed for Blue Wells to gather a posse, while Hashknife drew rein, turned around and went back.

The poker game had just broken up, when Sleepy dropped off his horse at the door of the Oasis, and panted out his story.

“Good ——!” exclaimed Tex Alden. “There’s more than one hole-in-the-ground in Broken Cañon! Let’s go!”

Scotty Olson, the sheriff, got his horse, and they rode out of Blue Wells, nine strong; Olson, Sleepy, Tex, Gast, Goode, Johnny Grant, Eskimo and Oyster Shell. There was nothing for them to work on, except that Nanah had said that the men had gone toward Broken Cañon.

XIII—CAPTURED

It would have been difficult for any of Jimmy’s friends to have recognized him, unless they examined him closely. His face was plastered with gore, one eye swelled shut and his lip cut. He had no hat, one sleeve of his shirt flapped behind him, like a streamer tied to his shoulder. He had no saddle. In the crook of one elbow he carried the heavy, double-barrel shotgun. That was the extent of his armament. It was the first time he had ever ridden a bareback horse, and he was having plenty of difficulty in staying on the animal’s back.

Jimmy was still in a daze—but a very determined sort of a daze. All night long he had stayed awake, guarding the ranch-house. Dawn was in sight when he dozed, only to be awakened by a knock on the back door.

“Is that you, Hashknife?” he had asked, and it seemed to him that an affirmative reply had been given. At any rate he had opened the door, only to find himself confronted by three masked men. And before he had time to move, one of the men struck him across the head with a gun barrel, knocking him down. But the blow was a glancing one, and did not knock him out.

Badly dazed he got to his feet, trying to fight, and one of the men drove several smashing blows to his head and face, knocking him out. He had little idea of what happened after that, until returning consciousness gave him a blurred vision of these men taking Marion out of the house. He had tried to get up, but his limbs refused to function.

He saw Nanah crawl to a window, where she managed to look out, before she crumpled to the floor. It seemed years to him before he could get to the window, but his vision had cleared sufficiently to enable him to see the riders going away.

Summoning up every bit of his courage, he secured the shotgun, and managed to stagger to the stable, where he bridled a horse, crawled on its back, and followed them. He was like a man riding through a fog. He had no idea of direction. With his right hand he tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes, but gave it up.

He remembered that there were three men. But that did not matter. He had two cartridges in that shotgun, and he could use the gun as a club, after those shots were gone, he decided. He was no longer the smiling James Eaton Legg, but Jimmy Legg—cowboy. The bookkeeper was gone entirely, and in his place was a bloody-faced young man, who wanted to kill somebody with a shotgun.

Jimmy did not know how long he had ridden. The sun was shining, and his head ached badly. He wanted to stop and lie down, but he kept on going, laughing grimly to himself. The horse stopped, and Jimmy realized that it was standing on the edge of a cañon. He did not know that this was Broken Cañon. Names meant nothing to him. The horse turned to the right and followed the cañon rim. At times they swung far to the right, passing around the head of tributary cañons, but always coming back to the main cañon rim.

Jimmy’s reason was coming back to him now, but it only made the incidents more vivid in his mind. He realized that he had left his six-shooter at the ranch, and that the two cartridges in his gun were all he had.

The horse picked its way among a piled-up mass of big rocks and tangled brush, and came out on sort of mesa. The cañon widened here, its depths purple and gold in the rising sun. On the far side of the cañon were sandstone minarets, gleaming gold-like at the top, banded with red, fading into a deep purple below the sun-line.

But Jimmy had no eyes for the beauties of the sunrise. He could see several people near the cañon rim, a quarter of a mile away, their horses etched in relief against the gray of a huge upthrust slab of gray stone. Then he saw two of the riders turn and ride directly away from the cañon, going at a swift gallop.

He saw the others ride out of sight, as if going down into the cañon. Jimmy felt sure that the first two were men, and if Marion was one of the party, she must have been one of those to go into the cañon. He spurred his horse down through the tangle of brush, heading for that huge gray slab, regardless of mesquite, cactus and other thorny things that tore at his legs.

He reached the spot, and found that a trail led down into the cañon, partly masked by the granite cliff. He could see where it disappeared around a sharp corner, and he wondered how any one could ride down there without being scraped off. But he knew there was only one thing to do—and that was to head down the trail. Clutching the mane of the horse in one hand, and holding his precious shotgun close to his body, he spurred the horse down the narrow trail, leaning away from the cañon depth, but letting the horse take its own gait.

Jimmy had little time to do any observation work. In fact, he had almost forgotten that he was following any one, as his mind was wholly taken up in fear of this rough trail. Suddenly he realized that he was almost at the bottom. He could see the piled-up boulders in the bottom, the glint of a small stream.

His horse slipped, and its pawing hoofs sent a shower of stones off the trail, crashing down through the dry foliage, rattling off the rocks at the bottom. Jimmy had slipped to its rump, but managed to claw his way back. He had dropped his reins, but was not making any effort to recover them for fear of frightening the horse.

Suddenly he felt a tug at his leg, and the horse seemed to fairly fall from under him, while the crash of a shot echoed back and forth from the sides of the cañon. Jimmy sprawled above the horse, falling across his shotgun. For several moments he did not move. Then he drew up his left leg. The bullet had scored him slightly just above the knee-cap, doing little damage.

He tried to crawl away, but the bank was too steep. He turned over on his back, twisting sideways, trying to see below him, but could see nobody. Ignorantly inviting another shot, he crawled to his feet and stepped down past the horse, which was so badly hurt that it scarcely moved. Another shot crashed out, the bullet passing so close to Jimmy that he wasn’t sure it did not hit him. Instinctively jerking aside, his feet flew from under him, and he cascaded down to the bottom of the cañon, taking a conglomeration of brush and rocks with him, which slowed up his progress enough to enable him to reach the bottom, uninjured, except for numerous cuts and bruises and the sacrifice of a goodly portion of his raiment.

But he clung to his shotgun. Nothing short of general cataclysm would make Jimmy Legg let loose of that gun. It was his one hope. He landed in a clump of huge boulders, while over him poured more gravel and rubbish, which had followed in his wake.

In fact, he was so covered with débris that the masked man, holding a ready rifle, who came looking for a dead man, did not see him for a few moments. This man stepped cautiously up on a ledge of rock, about a hundred feet from the sand and brush that covered Jimmy, who lifted the shotgun, pointed it in his general direction and pulled the trigger.

The big shotgun roared like a cannon, kicked Jimmy so hard that it fairly dusted him off. He got to his feet, panting the breath back into his tortured lungs, as he surged forward, looking for concealment. The man dropped off the rock, with a yelp of amazement, possibly tinged with injury. A dozen buckshot are not to be faced lightly.

Jimmy landed behind a boulder, rubbed his shoulder, which was numb from the recoil of the shotgun, and began crawling ahead. He peered over a boulder, and a bullet filled his eyes with rock-dust.

“I guess I didn’t kill him,” observed Jimmy, and angled his way to another boulder. He had only one shot left now. Another boulder seemed to beckon him, and a bullet struck just short of him, cutting his right cheek with flying gravel. Jimmy curled up behind the boulder and took stock of himself.

“This won’t do,” he decided. “I’m doing all the moving. If I could only get to that boulder, I could crawl up the other side and be on a level with him.”

It was a long chance, but Jimmy took it, and he sprawled in behind the cover of brush and rocks, while a ricocheting bullet hummed away up the cañon, like an angry bee. The heavy screen of brush enabled him to crawl up out of the watercourse, and it seemed that this was just what the other man did not want, because he sent bullet after bullet through the brush, picking spots at intervals of a few feet.

But in spite of his bombardment, Jimmy reached the top of the washout, where he sprawled on his face, panting heavily. The man put a few more bullets through the brush, which proved to Jimmy that the shooter did not know that he had reached the top.

Jimmy’s face was bleeding badly, and his mouth was salty from sweat and gore. He found that his leg wound was also bleeding considerably, but gave him little pain. He took time to wrap his handkerchief around it to keep out the dirt.

Then he began crawling again, snaking his way through the brush, trying to see the man who wanted to kill him. He came to the fringe of the brush, and peered out. He could see the man now; that is, he could see his head and shoulders and rifle. He was still watching the place where Jimmy had dropped behind the boulder, before climbing out of the washout.

Farther down the cañon he could see the two horses, and on one was the figure of a girl, evidently roped tightly, because she was having difficulty in looking back toward the scene of conflict.

Jimmy studied the man, and tried to map out a plan of attack. He was about a hundred feet away, but Jimmy thought the target too small to take a chance on his remaining shot. He saw the man look back toward the horses. He was evidently getting impatient. Brush grew fairly heavy along the slope, and Jimmy pondered the chances he might have to work his way to the horses without being seen. It would be a dangerous move, he decided. Anyway, he liked the cover of the boulder-strewn brush, and as long as the man was willing to wait, he would, too.

He saw the man take off his hat and lift it above the top of the rock. It rather puzzled Jimmy. He jerked it down quickly. Then he exposed it in another place. It suddenly struck Jimmy that this man was trying to draw his fire, and his blood-caked features cracked into a grin.

An insane desire to yell at this man gripped at him. He wanted to laugh, to joke this man. But his better judgment bade him be still. He saw the man move forward to another boulder, where he repeated the cap-lifting. Jimmy realized that this man was getting impatient to have the fight finished.

The man kept moving ahead, until he was masked from Jimmy, who crawled out of the brush and headed for the rim of the washout again, trading sides with the other man. For about thirty feet Jimmy crawled swiftly, dropped behind some cover and waited.

It was about five minutes later that he saw the man again. He had moved farther up the cañon, possibly thinking that Jimmy had made his escape. By standing up, Jimmy could get a good look at this man, who was too far away for Jimmy to take a chance with the shotgun; so Jimmy dropped back into the washout, bent down low and headed in the general direction of the horses.

But he had not escaped detection. A bullet sang past his ear, and he stumbled over a boulder, falling sidewise into a cut on the left-hand side of the washout. To the shooter, it possibly appeared as if he had been struck. Jimmy was half-standing, half-lying in the cut, when he heard the drumming of footsteps, as the man hurried forward. There was no chance of concealment there.

It seemed as if the man were almost over him, when he raised up, shoving the shotgun barrel over the rim of the washout. The man jerked to a stop, only fifty feet away, firing his rifle from his hip, just as Jimmy pressed the trigger. The bullet struck just in front of Jimmy’s face, filling his nose, eyes and mouth with dirt, and the kick of the shotgun sent him running backward down the short slope, where he hooked his heel on a rock, and sprawled on his back.

It was several moments before he could get up. He felt weak, nauseated, as he spat out the dirt, blinked tearfully and climbed to the top of the washout. Out there on the flat ground was the man, sprawling on his face, his rifle flung aside.

Jimmy did not go near him. He sighed heavily and headed for the horses, where Marion’s white face and astonished eyes drove every other thought from his mind. Neither of them spoke as he cut the ropes which bound her, and she got stiffly from the saddle, clinging to him.

“You—you came, didn’t you, Jimmy?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Yea-a-ah, I sure did.” Jimmy grinned on one side of his face, because the other was glued tightly with gore. “It was quite a trip. This has been a tough season, Marion.”

It was rather inane conversation, but under the circumstances it was excusable.

The man was trying to sit up, and Marion pointed to him breathlessly. Jimmy went staggering out to him, a loose-jointed young man, who had been hurt so many times that he was numb all over. He picked up the rifle and stepped back, tottering on his feet.

“You better stay where you are,” he told the masked man. “You ain’t so awful tough.”

Jimmy had heard Johnny Grant use that expression, and it seemed to fit the occasion. He turned his head and called to Marion.

“Can you lead the horses up here, Marion? We’ve got to pack this lead-filled person to a doctor, or he won’t live to be hung.”

XIV—WHO GOT THE PAY-ROLL?

When Hashknife turned back to the Double Bar 8 it was because of a single theory. He was fairly positive that Marion had not been kidnaped by those men because they wanted her; but that they had had reasons of more importance to them than the mere capture of a young lady. Hashknife wasn’t sure just what this was, but he had a suspicion—at least, enough suspicion to send him back to the ranch, instead of heading a posse over to the breaks of Broken Cañon.

He rode his horse into the stable, unsaddled quickly, turned it into the corral, and ran to the house, where he found Nanah, bathing her head in a basin of water. He explained to her the necessity of locking the house, covering the windows, and of keeping out of sight.

Without question she obeyed him, and he went back to the stable, climbed to the little loft and sprawled near the window, concealed by a screen of hay. He could not see over the ranch-house, except at a distance, but his little window gave him a fairly good view of the country toward Broken Cañon.

Apollo wandered about the patio, possibly wondering why no one was about. Mocking-birds sang from the twisted vines along the walls, and little lizards scuttled here and there over the débris of the former bunk-house. Hashknife yawned and waited, wondering what success Sleepy had had in gathering a posse.

He had been there over an hour, when his keen eyes detected two riders, who seemed to be coming swiftly toward the ranch from the northeast. Blue Wells was almost directly north. He wondered if some of the posse had turned back from going to Broken Cañon and were coming to the ranch.

When about a mile from the ranch they swung due west, passing from Hashknife’s vision. He went to the rear of the loft, and peered from a crack. The riders came into sight, swinging in toward the ranch again, but disappeared into the cañon where Hashknife had captured Plenty Goode, following the mysterious shot from the hill.

It took them several minutes to cross the cañon, and he saw them draw rein in the heavy cover, where they stayed for about five minutes, evidently studying the ranch buildings. Their elevation gave them a good view of the whole country.

Finally they rode down toward the stable. Hashknife was unable to recognize them, nor did he recognize their horses—a roan and a gray. Softly Hashknife went back to his former position at the window. He heard the riders come in behind the stable, where they stopped. After a few moments he heard them in the stable, talking softly. One of them laughed, but their conversation was too indistinct for Hashknife to hear what was said.

He was so intent on listening that he was not aware they were out of the stable, until he turned his head and saw them going into the patio.

It rather amused Hashknife to see that these men were both masked. One of them went to the ranch-house door, finding it locked. It was evident to Hashknife that these men were sure that every one had left the ranch. They conferred together for a moment, and one of them came toward Hashknife, stopping on the ruins of the bunk-house, while the other man swung up on the wall near the corner of the ranch-house and scanned the country.

Slowly Hashknife slid back across the floor, until he reached the ladder, which led down from the loft. He went down the ladder and walked softly to the door, where he peered around the edge. He could hear the sound of some one digging; the dull thud of adobe bricks being thrown aside, but he could not see either of the men now.