Chapter II: Part 2

The bartender left them, and they heard him go down the creaking stairs. Hashknife sat down on the foot of the bed, thinking deeply. Sleepy looked at him curiously.

“Funny deal, eh?” he said.

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife. “I’ll bet anythin’ the bartender knows who shot Wilson. He might have been packin’ a lot of money. One of the men shot him, and they had plenty time to rob him before one of ’em was wise enough to shoot out the light. Shot it out before anybody had a chance to see who they were. The bartender was prob’ly in on the deal.”

“He’s got snaky eyes,” mused Sleepy. “He’d never identify ’em. Unless Wilson lives, we’ll never know who shot him.”

“Yeah, and it’s a hundred to one shot that Wilson don’t live. That bullet hit him just above the heart. I doubt if he’s alive now.”

Sleepy finished undressing and crawled into bed. Hashknife fumbled in his vest pocket and took out an empty tobacco sack.

“You got any Durham?” he asked.

“That’s the sack I let you have, Hashknife; I’m all out.”

Hashknife sighed and got off the bed.

“I’ll go down and see if the bartender’s got any. Be back in a minute.”

He went down the hall in the dark and picked his way down the stairs to the outside door, which was slightly open. There were voices out front, and he stopped at the doorway. Two men seemed to be in low-toned argument on the sidewalk, and he recognized the bartender’s voice.

“I tell you I don’t know who shot him. They was a couple—”

“You said that before, and I don’t believe it even this time.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Jeff.”

“You’d lie to your own father. Why didn’t you stop ’em?”

“It was all so danged quick. They shot out the light, and—well, come in and see that lamp, if you don’t believe me.”

“What about them two waddies that showed up right away and sent the man to San Miguel?”

Ensued a fairly complete description of Hashknife and Sleepy.

“They said they was to meet Wilson here and help him take a shipment of cattle East,” said the bartender.

“You don’t know their names?”

“Nope. I heard the short one call the tall one Hashknife.”

“What?”

“Don’t yell. I tell you they’ve just—”

“What was that name again?”

“Sounded to me like Hashknife.”

“The hell you say!”

There was a period of silence, broken only by the soft scruffing of soles on the wooden sidewalk. Then the bartender said softly—

“What about ’em?”

“What you don’t know won’t hurt you. This is a hell of a mixup, if you ask me.”

“You stayin’ all night?”

“I shore ain’t—if you’ve got a fresh horse to let me have.”

“There’s my brown mare back in the stable. There’s a couple broncs in there that belong to them two strangers, but my mare is in the rear stall.”

“All right. I’ll swap back with you in a few days. S’long.”

Hashknife heard the man go around the building, while the bartender went into the saloon. Hashknife slipped out and followed around the building. He hoped to get a good look at this party, but the man brought out the brown mare, switched his saddle from the back of another animal, stabled the one he had been riding, and left town, traveling west. In the dark Hashknife was unable even to get an idea of the man’s size.

He went back around the building and entered the saloon, just as the bartender was ready to put out the light and close the place. He was a bit startled at sight of Hashknife, but the tall cowboy’s alibi for being down there seemed to satisfy him. He sold Hashknife a quantity of tobacco, closed the saloon and followed him up the stairs.

“I live in the bridal suite,” he grinned, as he stopped at a door, holding a lighted match in his fingers. Then, apparently as an afterthought, “I plumb forgot to have you boys register for your room. It’s the law, you know.”

“Put us down as the Smith brothers,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Oh, all right—thanks.”

* * * * *

Hashknife told Sleepy what he had heard, and the next morning they took a look at the bay horse in the rear stall. It was wearing a Cross 84 brand.

“Kinda makes me figure that the bartender is a liar in the first degree,” grinned Hashknife. “I dunno what it’s all about, but there’s somethin’ danged crooked about it. I wish I knew who the stranger was. He shore knowed me by name.”

“Nothin’ strange about that,” laughed Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded gloomily, as he leaned against the stable door. He did not desire notoriety. In fact, he desired nothing more than to be unsung and uncursed. Just to be known as a cowboy, trying to get along. But, looking down their twisting back trail, which led up and down the West, from Alberta to Mexico, he realized the truth of Sleepy’s remark.

Hashknife, christened Henry, son of an itinerant minister of the Gospel in northeastern Montana, started early in life as a cowboy, drifted from his home range and eventually worked his way down to the cattle outfit after which he received his nickname. Born with a keen mind, a love of adventure, and an overwhelming desire to see what was on the other side of a hill, he met Dave—Sleepy—Stevens, another drifting cowboy, and they rode away together one spring morning, following the trail of Fate.

At times they would handle a case for the cattle associations, clear up the case and ride on, refusing further assignments. They did not care to be under orders from anyone. Again, they would work a few weeks on some cattle ranch, draw enough money to replenish their outfit, and ride on. Always the other side of the hills called to them.

Both of them had known Jack Wilson for years, and when they met him in Clinton it was not difficult for him to talk them into going East with his shipment of cattle. They needed a change. But that deal was all off now, and Sleepy realized that fate had dumped them into trouble again. With the tenacity of a bulldog, Hashknife would dig up and cling to every shred of evidence, until he proved who shot Jack Wilson. Sleepy did not analyze anything, but he had a dogged faith in Hashknife’s ability, a ready gun and the nerve to use it.

The bartender was still in bed when they saddled their horses and headed up the road which led to San Miguel. They had heard of the San Miguel Valley, but neither of them had ever seen it.

There was not a town between Gates Ajar and San Miguel, and at times the road was little better than a trail. It was nearly three o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived at San Miguel. Hashknife inquired at the depot regarding the telegram to Kinnear & Company, and found a reply waiting for him.

VERY SORRY ABOUT WILSON STOP ADVISE FURTHER AS HIS FAMILY LIVES
HERE STOP WILL YOU HANDLE DEAL FOR US AND BUY ONE HUNDRED FIFTY
HEAD BEEF IN SAN MIGUEL VALLEY STOP AM WIRING SAN MIGUEL BANK TO
COVER PRICE STOP ADVISE AT ONCE STOP WOULD SURE BE GLAD TO SEE
YOU AGAIN

—AL KINNEAR

The depot agent directed them to the doctor’s house, where they had taken Wilson, but told them he feared Wilson was dead when he arrived. The doctor confirmed this, and Hashknife wired Kinnear again to wire the doctor a disposition of the body, and also accepted the order to purchase the one hundred and fifty head of beef animals in San Miguel Valley.

Hashknife also wrote out what he knew about the shooting and gave it to the doctor to forward to the sheriff, as Gates Ajar was not in the same county as San Miguel. The old doctor seemed to be an active source of information, and he gave Hashknife and Sleepy a résumé of what had happened to the stage between San Miguel and Sunset City, two days previous.

He had his information from Sanderson, the Sunset City sheriff, who had been in San Miguel, and who had searched every likely spot for that package of money between Sunset City and the point where the stage had been stopped.

Hashknife and Sleepy spent the night in San Miguel, and Hashknife made discreet inquiries regarding the Cross 84, but no one seemed to know anything about the brand.

The next morning they headed for Sunset City. Hashknife remembered what the doctor had told them, and was able to find the spot where the holdup and double killing had taken place.

“Not much mystery about this deal,” said Sleepy. “Holdup man kills the stage driver and is killed himself.”

“And,” added Hashknife solemnly, “the holdup man, just before he died, swallered the ten thousand dollars worth of currency, and the coroner forgot to perform an autopsy.”

“Yeah, I forgot about that,” said Sleepy. “But wasn’t the son of this here deceased bandit mixed up in it?”

“Shore. He came all the way from Oregon to take the money and throw it over the grade.”

“Aw, hell!” snorted Sleepy. “You never believe anythin’ you hear.”

“And only half that I see, pardner. Mistakes are the easiest things in the world to make.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’m glad we’re only down here to buy cows.”

“I’d almost forgot the cows.”

“I’ll remind you of it every little while.”

About a mile north of Sunset City, along the main road, was the old cemetery, surrounded by a broken-down fence, grown up with weeds, many of the wooden headstones sagging drunkenly. As Hashknife and Sleepy came in sight of the cemetery they noticed four men standing close together at a new grave, while a short distance away from them was a woman on horseback.

“If that’s a funeral, it shore ain’t well attended,” said Hashknife, and by mutual consent they swung off the road and came up along the old fence.

The four men were Blue Snow, Graveyard Jones, Smoky Woods and the Reverend Mr. Oscar Sundborg. The lady on the horse was Jerry Falconer. As they rode up, the minister closed his Bible and motioned for Graveyard and Smoky to fill the grave.

* * * * *

He turned from the grave, replacing his hat, but Blue Snow spoke to him and he stopped. Blue took a bill from his pocket and handed it to the minister, who apparently started to refuse, thought better of it, and pocketed the money. He was a sallow blond, with a weak chin and a certain air of sanctimony. The two cowboys had seen Blue give him the money, and as he went past them, Sleepy said seriously—

“What’s salvation worth around here, Parson?”

The minister stopped and looked sharply at them, a trifle belligerently, perhaps, but turned away and walked slowly down to the road. The girl had heard Sleepy’s remark and was looking at the two cowboys when Blue Snow came up to her.

“Jerry, I want to thank you for comin’ here,” he said. “It was mighty kind of you.”

“He was always nice to me,” she said simply. “I don’t see why folks act as they do.”

“I guess you can’t blame ’em,” he replied slowly. “I hope your dad won’t be mad about you comin’ out here.”

“I don’t see what difference that could make to him.”

“I shore hope it won’t, Jerry.”

“Don’t worry about that part of it. I’ll be going now.”

“Goodby, Jerry, and thanks a lot.”

“You’re welcome.”

She rode past the two cowboys at the break in the fence, and they watched her ride down to the main road, turning toward town.

“Gosh!” exploded Sleepy softly. “Beautiful red hair.”

Blue had gone back to the grave, where he talked with Graveyard and Smoky. Blue’s horse was tied at the far side of the cemetery, and as soon as the grave was filled he shook hands with the other two and went to his horse. Hashknife dismounted and walked over to the grave. Smoky leaned on his shovel, perspiring copiously, while old Graveyard tried to arrange a crude headboard. A deputy sheriff’s badge attracted Hashknife’s attention when he looked at Smoky.

“You’re the first Arizona deputy I ever seen actin’ as a sexton,” he said.

“Somebody had to do it,” replied Smoky. “You’d think the old man had cholera, instead of bullets, the way folks act. There ain’t a damn one of us so good we can’t shovel dirt in on top of a bandit. I like that girl’s nerve. Her old man and the old man we jist planted have been enemies for a long time. He’ll prob’ly give her hell for comin’ to the funeral.”

Hashknife smiled at Smoky.

“I dunno the details, pardner. You see, we just got here.”

“There ain’t much details,” said Graveyard, wiping his hands on his overall-clad knees. “Jim Snow held up the stage, pulled a gun fight with the driver, and they both got killed. They buried the driver this mornin’ and this place was filled with folks. This afternoon we buries old Jim—and you saw the crowd. That was his son who jist rode away.”

“Who was the lady?” asked Hashknife.

Smoky grinned widely.

“She’s Jerry Falconer. Her dad owns most of this country, and he shore hated hell out of poor old Jim Snow. Mebbe Jim hated him plenty, too. You see, that money was for the bank, and Falconer jist about owns the bank. He owns the Double Diamond outfit. Lots o’ folks think Jim Snow stuck up the stage to git some of Falconer’s money.”

“I heard about that in San Miguel. Do you know anythin’ about a Cross 84 outfit around here?”

“Ain’t none,” replied Graveyard, spitting at a lizard. The deputy shook his head.

“How much of an outfit does young Snow own?”

“Remains to be seen.”

“The reason I asked you was because I’m buyin’ cattle for Kinnear and Company of Kansas City and I need a hundred and fifty head of good beef.”

“Where’s Wilson?” asked Graveyard slowly.

“Somebody killed him over at Gates Ajar day before yesterday.”

“The hell you say!” snorted Smoky. “Who killed him?”

“Nobody seems to know. His body is at San Miguel now.”

“Well, I’ll be terror-stricken!” exclaimed Graveyard. He shoved his hands deeply in his overall pockets and squinted at Hashknife.

“And you’re takin’ his place, eh? Hundred and fifty head of beef.” He turned his head and looked closely at Smoky. “I’ll betcha Blue Snow can jist fit you out with them there beef critters.”

Smoky grinned widely, started to say something, but changed his mind.

“Did Wilson ask you to do this here buyin’ for him?” asked Graveyard.

“He didn’t live long enough. I wired his boss, who happened to be a man I knew several years ago, and he wired me to do this buyin’ in place of Wilson. You boys knew Wilson pretty well, eh?”

“Pretty well,” agreed Graveyard solemnly.

“Anythin’ against him?” queried Hashknife.

“No-o-o,” drawling.

“No-o-o-o-o,” echoed Smoky, scratching his chin violently. “Graveyard, you better get hold of Blue and let these gents talk beef with him. My name’s Woods—Smoky Woods, deputy sheriff. This here gent is Graveyard Jones.”

“Mine is Hashknife Hartley,” grinning, as they shook hands. “The gent on the horse is Sleepy Stevens. C’mon over, Sleepy, and meet Smoky Woods and Graveyard Jones.”

In the meantime Jerry rode back to town. Ed Reed and Falconer were standing together in front of a store, and Reed tied Jerry’s horse. She knew her father was angry and that Reed was not at all pleased.

“Kinda funny—you goin’ out to the graveyard,” said her father coldly.

“It was anything but funny,” said Jerry.

“Folks will probably have plenty to say about it.”

“It wasn’t hardly the thing to do,” added Reed. “Not under the circumstances, Jerry.”

“Circumstances have nothing to do with it,” replied Jerry coldly.

“Buryin’ a murderer and a thief,” said Reed.

Jerry flared quickly. Stripping off her glove, she took off a ring and handed it to Ed Reed.

“That will end any right you might think you had to criticize my morals, Ed.”

And with that parting shot, Jerry walked past them and entered the store. Reed glowered at the ring, his lips shut tightly, while William Falconer almost exploded.

“Damn women! Her mother was thataway, Ed. You let me handle it, will you? I’ll make her take back that ring. My Gawd, everythin’ is ready for the weddin’—and this had to happen!”

Reed smiled sourly.

“Young Snow is behind this. I happen to know she saw him here yesterday, and they talked quite awhile.”

“The hell she did! I’ll stop that, too. I’ll—”

“She’s of age.”

“She’s my daughter. Don’t you want her?”

“I was goin’ to marry her, wasn’t I?”

“Well—” angrily— “I wouldn’t let no son of a murderin’ thief beat me out of my girl, I’ll tell you that.”

* * * * *

Falconer turned and walked into the store, leaving Reed alone, looking at the tiny gold circlet and small diamond in his big hand. He shut his fist tightly and walked across the street to the Sunset Saloon, where he drank several glasses of raw whisky. He was there when Hashknife, Sleepy, Graveyard and Smoky came in. Smoky nodded to Reed, but old Graveyard did not even look at him. Graveyard and Smoky were carrying their pick and shovel.

“Got him planted, eh?” queried Reed sarcastically.

“We buried him,” said Smoky slowly.

Graveyard turned his head and shot a venomous glance at Reed.

“Blue paid the preacher,” said Smoky, “so there wasn’t any charity mixed up in the deal.”

Jeff Blondell came in, and Smoky introduced him to Hashknife and Sleepy. He accepted a drink, inquiring casually about the funeral. Hashknife looked Blondell over, taking note of the broken nose, cruel mouth and mean eyes, and filed him mentally as a bad actor. Blondell wore his gun low on his thigh, the bottom of the holster tied down to a rosette of his chaps.

A little later Hashknife walked down to the office with Smoky and met Singer Sanderson, the tall sheriff. Hashknife told him about the shooting of Wilson, the cattle buyer. Sanderson knew Wilson. Smoky told Hashknife who Reed was, and that Reed was engaged to marry the girl who had been out at the cemetery.

Hashknife asked about Blondell.

“_Quien sabe?_” replied the sheriff. “Been here quite awhile, acted like he was broke when he came, but got money from somewhere. Don’t work, pays his bills and plays poker most of the time. As far as we know, he’s on the square, and he minds his own business.”

A little later Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses and secured a room at the Sunset City hotel. Old Graveyard was still at the saloon, getting more intoxicated all the time. Finally he flourished his pick dangerously near the polished top of the bar and announced—

“Gentlem’n, I’m goin’ and shell shome cows.”

“Whose cows?” asked the bartender.

“Bar S Bar cows, ’f it’s any of your business.”

Ed Reed pricked up his ears.

“Yesshir,” nodded Graveyard owlishly, “I’m goin’ shell cows to Kinnear, an’ ’f I ain’t, I’m a liar. Goin’ shell hunner’n fif’y head. Gimme ’nother drink, and then I’m goin’ shellin’ cows.”

“There ain’t even a buyer in the Valley,” said the bartender.

“Zazzo? Huh! Hell of a lot you know. He was in here with me. Wilshon got killed in Gates Ajar, and thish is new buyer. Well, here’s m’ regards, an’ may you all die from a fishbone in your windpipes.”

Graveyard swallowed his drink, took a tight grip on his pick and staggered out to his horse. Ed Reed scowled thoughtfully, went outside and saw Hashknife and Sleepy entering the hotel. He sauntered over, and met them outside a little later.

“Are you the new buyer for Kinnear?” he asked Hashknife, who nodded.

“My name’s Reed—foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.”

“Yeah. Glad to meetcha, Reed. What’s on your mind?”

“You need a hundred and fifty head of beef?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“All right, we can fix you out.”

“That’s fine—but I’ve kinda halfway made a deal.”

“With Graveyard Jones?”

“Well, it ain’t his beef, but—name’s Snow, I think.”

Reed laughed harshly.

“Never mind him. I doubt if Snow could sell you that many head right now, and even if he could— Lemme tell you somethin’. The Double Diamond has always furnished Kinnear with beef. In fact, we had an agreement with Wilson to buy nothin’ but Double Diamond in the Valley.”

“And if he bought from anybody else?” suggested Hashknife.

“We’d find another market—and we’re the biggest cattle raisers in this part of the State.”

“In other words, you hogged the show,” said Hashknife coldly.

“We delivered the goods.”

“What other buyers come in here, Reed?”

“None. It wasn’t worth their while.”

“Nice little game of freeze-out, eh?”

Reed shrugged his shoulders.

“Call it that, if you want to; but if you’re so dead set on buyin’ some Bar S Bar stock, I’d advise you to wire Kinnear and tell ’em the situation out here.”

“They probably don’t know it,” agreed Hashknife.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Al Kinnear is a mighty square shooter.”

“Square shooter or not, he wouldn’t cut off his own nose. Think it over.”

Reed turned and walked back across the street. Hashknife grinned softly and looked at Sleepy, who was looking at Reed’s broad back.

“Well, what do you think of that?” grunted Sleepy.

“I think I’ll look over some of them Bar S Bar beeves.”

* * * * *

Old Graveyard was not too drunk to remember what he was to do, and early the following morning Blue Snow came in to see Hashknife. Smoky Woods introduced them. Blue explained that he had no way of knowing much about the Bar S Bar cattle, but he did want to make a sale.

“Things have been pretty rotten around here,” he said. “The Double Diamond have hogged everything, kept buyers away from us, until the Circle J and our outfit are just about broke.”

“I heard somethin’ about that,” smiled Hashknife. “How about Jones’ cattle? If you can’t furnish all the hundred and fifty, why can’t he run in some of his?”

“He could,” said Blue eagerly. “He’s goin’ to help me round up mine, and if you can wait a couple of days—”

“Shore—we’ll wait.”

Hashknife was willing to wait, because he wanted to know more about things in San Miguel Valley. Smoky was a good source of information, and in one day Hashknife had a fairly complete history of the valley. Smoky showed Hashknife the two revolvers used at the holdup, still containing the empty cartridges. Jim Snow’s gun, a .45, contained three empty shells, while Chub’s was a .38 and contained two empty shells.

Blue Snow had told of hearing the five shots fired. Old Chub had been hit once, and Jim Snow twice. Hashknife examined the guns closely, a queer expression in his gray eyes.

“You never found that package of currency, eh?” he asked.

“Nope. Me and Singer hunted every place along the grades, too. Pshaw, I reckon every puncher in the country has sneaked down there and looked. Old Falconer kinda wants to arrest Blue Snow, but he’s scared he’ll never get that money back if he does. If Blue hid it, he’ll never tell. Queer kid, that Blue Snow. He wanted us to give him the old man’s gun. I dunno—mebbe we ought to do it.”

“You keep that gun,” said Hashknife quickly. “Keep ’em both.”

“What for? The case is—”

“Lock ’em up in the safe, Smoky.”

“Huh?” Smoky eyed Hashknife quizzically. “In the safe? F’r gosh sake, what good are they now?”

“You keep ’em where nobody can get at ’em.”

“Well, I’ll tell Singer what you said, but—what do you know, Hashknife?”

“This case ain’t closed, Smoky.”

Smoky told the sheriff what Hashknife had said, and the sheriff took the two guns out and looked them over carefully.

“Funny idea,” he commented. “Ain’t a thing about them two guns. What’s the tall feller got under his hat, anyway?”

“He says the case ain’t closed, and for us to keep them guns hid.”

“He’s a queer sort of a jigger—” thoughtfully. “Well, we’ll foller his hunch; lock ’em in the safe. I just saw Falconer and Reed ride in, and Falconer had blood in his eye. Mebbe he’s sore about Snow gettin’ a chance to sell some stock.”

“I shore hope Snow sells ’em.”

Falconer did have blood in his eye, and he went straight to the little law office of Henry Van Dorn, who handled the affairs of the Double Diamond. Henry was five feet six inches tall, and weighed two hundred and thirty pounds, stripped. He was about forty years of age, nearly bald, very florid and always short of breath.

When Falconer came from the office he joined Reed at the store, and they talked together for awhile. Hashknife and Smoky came across the street from the Sunset Saloon, and Reed spoke to Hashknife.

“Hartley is your name, ain’t it? I want you to meet Mr. Falconer.”

Falconer merely nodded, not offering to shake hands, and came quickly to the point.

“I understand you are thinking of buying some cattle from Snow.”

Hashknife nodded shortly, wondering what Falconer might have to say.

“Before I went too far with that deal, Hartley, I’d look at it from a legal point of view. Those cattle belong to the estate of Jim Snow, and until that estate is settled Blue Snow can’t touch a single head.”

“I forgot about that,” smiled Hashknife. “However, I think Graveyard Jones will be able to fill my order with his brand.”

Falconer laughed heartily.

“Graveyard Jones! He hasn’t that many.”

“Kinda stuck, ain’t I?” grinned Hashknife. “Well, how about your brand?”

“Come out and talk it over at the ranch.”

“All right—tomorrow.”

“Suits me. Are you goin’ to buy for Kinnear all the time?”

“I dunno.”

“Well, you come out tomorrow and we’ll talk beef.”

Hashknife realized that Falconer had the best of the argument, and that Blue Snow had no legal right to sell the Bar S Bar cattle. It would be a bitter dose for Blue Snow, but he would have to swallow it.

That afternoon Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to Snow’s ranch, and found old Skipper Franklyn, the cook and housekeeper of the Bar S Bar. Skipper was seventy, skinny as a rail, with one single lock of hair on his scalp. He was a little man, hawk-faced, with huge gnarled hands, a pessimistic view of life and a wonderful flow of profanity.

“Knowed you the minute I clapped eyes on you,” he told Hashknife. “Blue described you perfect. You’re the buyer, ain’tcha? Git down, both of you. Blue is out, runnin’ down some dogies—him and that ancient mummy of a Graveyard Jones. C’mon in and rest up.”

They followed him into the little ranch-house and sat down on an old horsehair sofa, from which the hair was protruding in spots.

“We’ve had a lotta damn’ grief around here,” offered Skipper. “Suppose you heard ’bout Jim Snow gittin’ killed. Yea-a-a-ah, Jim got leaded plumb t’ heaven. Lotta folks think he went the other way, but I knowed him better than they did.”

Skipper wiped away a rheumy tear and picked up his old cob pipe.

“You don’t think he robbed the stage?” asked Hashknife.

“Robbed hell! No! Jim Snow was headin’ for San Miguel. Not that he ain’t justified, if he did stick it up. That there damn’ Falconer outfit have jist about ruint everythin’ for anybody else around here. They broke Jim, and they broke Graveyard Jones. We’re hangin’ by the skin of our teeth. ’Course I’m sorry old Chub got killed. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. If you don’t believe it, look at m’ teeth. I started out in life with a perfectly good set, now look at the damn’ things. Only three in m’ head, and they never touch. For the last ten year I’ve been jist punchin’ holes in m’ grub.”

“You look healthy,” grinned Hashknife.

“Healthy? Say, I can flop half the smart punchers in this country, even if I was a old bull skinner when they was still wearin’ three-cornered pants.”

“You’ve been around here a long time, eh?”

“Long? My Gawd! They built them San Miguel hills since I come here. This wasn’t no valley in them days. Fact of the matter is, the lowest part of this valley was a hill in them days. Yessir, I’ve been here a long time.”

“You’ve seen a lot of changes,” sighed Sleepy.

“Changes? Well, I’ve seen all there is.”

“You knowed the cliff dwellers, eh?” said Sleepy innocently.

“Know ’em? Huh! I showed ’em where to build their mud shacks.”

Sleepy subsided, while Skipper filled his pipe.

“I’m sorry I didn’t find Snow here,” said Hashknife. “I just discovered that it wouldn’t be legal for Blue Snow to sell me any Bar S Bar.”

“Mind repeatin’ that ag’in?”

* * * * *

Hashknife explained the legal difficulty, and Skipper exploded with wrath. “That’s Falconer! Darn his sneakin’ skin!”

“I’m sorry, but he’s right. I shore wanted to buy Snow’s cattle.”

“And now you can’t do it. Gawd, that’ll be hard on the kid.”

“Did Jim Snow leave any will?”

“’Course not. He never knowed he was goin’ to git killed.”

They sat around for an hour or more, listening to Skipper’s opinion of things in general, and Blue Snow rode in alone. His horse was played out, and Blue was minus his smile, as he shook hands with Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Graveyard went home,” he told Skipper.

Skipper nodded and indicated Hashknife.

“He brought some damn’ bad news.”

“Falconer dug up a legal snubbin’ rope on you,” said Hashknife. “Until this estate is settled, you can’t even sell a horn off one of your cows.”

Blue scowled for a moment, but nodded slowly.

“That’s right. Anybody ought to know that much. But it don’t matter, Hartley. Me and Graveyard have shore covered a lot of territory, and we dug out less than a hundred Bar S Bar. And none of ’em fat enough for beef. There must be a lot more in the hills, but they’ve probably drifted on to the north range.”

“And Graveyard ain’t got enough for a shipment?”

“Not as many as we have. I reckon we’re stuck; but I want to tell you I’m shore obliged to you for offerin’ to take our beef. It was a lot more than this man Wilson ever done, as far as I can learn.”

“Falconer owned him,” growled Skipper.

“Did Falconer ever try to buy you out?” asked Hashknife.

Skipper shook his head violently.

“Not him! He’d freeze us out first. Jim Snow has been hangin’ on by the skin of his teeth. What can you do? Kinnear gits the cream of this country. We could herd out to San Miguel and give the things away, I suppose, or kill ’em here, feed ’em to the coyotes and sell the hides. Either way, we’d lose our shirt on the deal.”

Hashknife understood the situation. It was not the first time that a big outfit had declared a boycott on small stock raisers.

“Mind tellin’ me what you know about that holdup, Snow?” asked Hashknife.

“There’s nothin’ to tell,” said Blue gloomily.

“You heard the shots fired, didn’t you?”

Blue nodded and explained how he happened to be on the grades, and his reasons for not wanting to be seen.

“There was one shot fired,” he said. “Pretty quick after that there were two shots fired fairly close together. I suppose it was more than a minute before the other two sounded.”

“You found the driver on the seat, dead?”

“Yeah, sprawled on the seat.”

“After you got up on the stage, could you see the other body—the body of your father?”

Blue shut his lips tightly for a moment.

“No, I didn’t see it until the horses shied a little. He—he was lying at the mouth of that little gully, and his horse was tied to a bush just beyond him. You couldn’t see him from where I first got on the stage.”

“Did you have a gun with you at the time?”

Blue reached in his pocket and handed Hashknife a pawn ticket on a San Francisco loan office.

“I needed the money worse than I did a shootin’ iron,” he said.

“What the hell are you—a detective?” asked Skipper suddenly.

Hashknife grinned slowly.

“I’m buyin’ cows for Kinnear.”

“You shore ask a lot of questions,” growled Skipper.

They rode back to Sunset City and stabled their horses. Sleepy did not ask Hashknife any questions, but he knew his tall partner was doing much heavy thinking. They found Smoky Woods at the sheriff’s office and sat down with him to discuss the cattle situation. Smoky was mad over the deal, as he wanted, so he said, to have the trust broken.

A commotion had started over in front of the Ace-High Saloon, on the east side of the street, and the three men went out quickly. Several men were in front of the saloon, and among them were Ed Reed and Jeff Blondell. Blondell was mopping his face with a handkerchief and Reed was removing his coat.

“Oh, oh!” grunted Smoky. “Somethin’ has gone wrong.”

Blondell threw the handkerchief aside and stripped off his coat. Both men had removed their belts and guns. More men were hurrying up the street toward the saloon. There was no preliminary action. Reed, the larger of the two, lunged straight at Blondell, swinging both fists. No boxer was Reed—just a slugger. For a moment it seemed that he had Blondell pinned against the wall of the saloon, but he got away, snapping Reed’s head back with a short left to the jaw. Perhaps the blow had more effect than it seemed, because Reed turned awkwardly, dropping his guard, and Blondell lashed out with a straight right punch, which seemed to catch Reed square on the point of the chin. Reed’s shoulders thumped against the wall, and he slithered down to the sidewalk, knocked cold.

Blondell put on his coat, picked up his handkerchief and came past the sheriff’s office, heading toward the Sunset Saloon. His nose was bleeding a little.

Gradually Reed regained consciousness, but even after he got back on his feet he staggered weakly. One of the men put on his belt, while another held his coat and, after a short conversation, Reed went to his horse and rode back past the sheriff’s office, heading toward the Double Diamond.

One of the men came over to the office, grinning widely. He did not know what the fight was about. Reed and Blondell had been drinking together, he said. Neither of them was drunk. Suddenly Reed smashed Blondell on the nose, knocking him down. The men got them outside, where they decided to fight it out with their hands.

“I reckon Blondell got revenge,” grinned Smoky.

“That was a sweet punch,” laughed the man.

“Have they been enemies long?” asked Hashknife.

“Hell, they’ve been good friends all th’ time. This shore was a quick turn.”

Ed Reed went straight to the Double Diamond, feeling a bit sick. It was the first time he had ever been knocked out, and the dose tasted bitter. And to be knocked out by a smaller man! The Double Diamond ranch-house was a rambling old building, nestled away in a grove of ancient live oaks—a picturesque old place, with flagged walks and thick walls.

* * * * *

The bunkhouse, built within the patio, was of adobe, but the rest of the buildings were of frame construction, weathered to a neutral tone. The Double Diamond hired six cowboys, exclusive of Reed the foreman. An old Chinese cook had been at the ranch since Falconer had acquired it. He and Marie, an old Yaqui squaw, ran the house and kitchen. There was no servant problem at the Double Diamond.

Reed stabled his horse, went to the well beside the stable and washed his face. His jaw was swollen a little, but he had no marks, for which he was thankful. Marks might require explanation.

Jerry was out in the patio, playing with a pair of black kittens, when her father came out to her. He had been in a vile humor ever since she had given Ed Reed back his ring. He watched her for awhile, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, lower lip protruding thoughtfully. Then—

“When are you and Ed goin’ to get married?”

Jerry placed one of the kittens on a bench and turned to her father.

“Am I supposed to answer that question, Dad?”

“You bet.”

“Never.”

“Oh, don’t be foolish. Just because he didn’t like to see you—”

“Let’s not discuss Ed Reed.”

“Well, we’re goin’ to, just the same. Everybody knows by this time that you turned him down, and he’s sick about it. He never did anythin’ wrong.”

Jerry stroked the kitten thoughtfully.

“The matter is settled as far as I am concerned, Dad.”

“Yea-a-ah? I suppose the return of Blue Snow settled your mind, eh?”

“Blue Snow had nothing to do with it.”

“And after you went and bought a lot of weddin’ clothes and—”

“I can make them over.”

“I’m not kickin’ about the money you spent.”

Jerry laughed shortly.

“Well, I’m glad that is settled.”

“It is not settled. You’re not givin’ Ed a square deal. Folks are talkin’. They know you was—that you got stuck on Blue Snow years ago. They know I kicked him off the ranch. Now, he’s back, and you bust up with Ed. You know what they’re sayin’, don’tcha? They say you’re still stuck on Blue Snow.”

“You can’t shoot folks for thinking,” said Jerry slowly.

“You ought to—for thinkin’ that way. Son of a murderin’ thief.”

Jerry shut her lips tightly and her hair seemed to flame up from the roots.

“That is what Ed Reed called him,” she said. “You are parroting Ed Reed. Why don’t Ed go and say that to Blue Snow? I’ll tell you this much—I’m not in love with Blue Snow—but I detest Ed Reed.”

Jerry picked up the kitten and went into the house, her father looking after her, a scowl on his brow. Slowly he turned his head and saw Reed in the patio gate. Reed had heard what Jerry said. He came in and the two men looked at each other.

“I reckon I talked too much,” said Reed glumly, “and as far as that goes, you talked too much just now. Let her alone. You can’t drive Jerry.”

“Damn it, you can’t even lead her,” growled Falconer. “What happened to your jaw, Ed?”

Reed felt of his swollen jaw. No use lying about it.

“I smashed Blondell in the nose today. He mentioned the fact that I wasn’t goin’ to get married. He wanted to fight it out, so we went out on the sidewalk. I guess I slipped—” lamely. “Anyway, he—aw—it didn’t amount to much. It’s a little sore.”

“Kinda swelled. Did you see anythin’ of the buyer?”

“They rode in just before the fight, and I think they went out to tell Snow that the deal was off.”

“Did they see the fight?”

“I dunno.”

Reed sighed deeply and felt of his chin.

“This deal has got me all unhooked,” he said miserably. “I know what they are sayin’. I don’t want to start any trouble around here, and today I got to thinkin’ I’d go away for awhile—until it’s forgotten.”

Falconer nodded grimly.

“I know how you feel, Ed. It might be a good thing.”

“I think it is the only thing I can do to keep out of trouble. If you don’t mind givin’ me a layoff, I’ll pull out tomorrow mornin’. Mebbe I’ll be back in a couple weeks—mebbe a month. It all depends.”

“Sure, that’s all right. Where’ll you go?”

“I dunno. Mebbe I’ll pull west, cross the Divide and—”

“Why not go down to Phoenix or over on the Coast to some big town?”

“No, I don’t want big towns. I dunno where I’ll go. But I’ll let you know where I stop.”

“All right, Ed; I’ll give you a check tonight.”

“Thanks.”

Falconer watched the hunched shoulders of his foreman go out through the patio. He felt genuinely sorry for Reed. A vacation would do him good. Falconer decided that he would personally help select the hundred and fifty head of beef for Kinnear & Company. He felt better, until he thought of Blue Snow.

“If she wants to love him, she better love him at a distance,” he told himself. “I kicked him off this ranch once, and I’ll do it again if he ever sticks his nose inside the place.”

* * * * *

Jeff Blondell had nothing to say about the fight. His nose, already misshapen, showed little signs of having been hit by Ed Reed. That evening Hashknife had a chance to see the six cowboys from the Double Diamond. Smoky pointed them out—Harry Bond, Dick Lasher, Molly Malone, Terry McQueen, Bun Parker and Matt Sullivan.

McQueen was a wild-eyed sort of puncher, and Hashknife felt that he had seen McQueen before. Malone was small, scrawny, hatchet-faced, with mean eyes and bad teeth. The rest of the crew were ordinary looking fellows, out for a few drinks and a whirl at the games. Smoky introduced McQueen and Malone to Hashknife, but they did not linger long with him. Malone asked Smoky about the fight between Reed and Blondell. He said he had only heard Reed’s version and wanted the straight dope on it.

“Where’s Reed tonight?” asked Smoky.

“Too sore to come in,” grinned Malone. “I think he’s goin’ away tomorrow for a trip.”

“Business?”

“Naw,” grinned Malone. “You know his girl throwed him down, didn’t you? Well, he’s kinda sour on the world, sore at everybody in it, and he’s goin’ to go away for awhile.”

“I heard she ditched him,” said Smoky. “Wonder what was the trouble.”

“Another man, I reckon—owner of the Bar S Bar.”

“Whatcha know about that?” grunted Smoky, as Malone walked away.

“He seems like a good kid,” replied Hashknife.

“Yeah, he’s all right; but Falconer never would let Jerry marry him.”

“How old is this lady?”

“Well, I s’pose about twenty.”

“And she’s got red hair.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Want to make a little bet with me, Smoky?”

Smoky shook his head.

“I never thought about her age, and I done forgot about that red hair. I’ll jist keep my money, pardner.”

“I thought you was goin’ to try and find out who shot Wilson,” said Sleepy that night as they were going to bed. “You ain’t done a thing.”

“I’m not worryin’ myself about the man who killed Wilson,” said Hashknife. “Do you remember on jist what part of that horse’s anatomy we saw the Cross 84 brand?”

“You mean over at Gates Ajar? Right shoulder.”

“Good! I thought it was, but I wasn’t sure.”

Hashknife still had Wilson’s telegram, which was to notify Kinnear & Company that he was shipping one hundred Cross 84. Where was he going to ship those cattle, wondered Hashknife? The telegram stated that he would try and ship again next week from San Miguel. The mysterious man who had ridden in late at Gates Ajar was riding a Cross 84 horse, and Hashknife wondered if this was merely a coincidence.

“What’s the Cross 84 got to do with this deal?” asked Sleepy.

“Because,” replied Hashknife, “there ain’t a Cross 84 in this State. I looked at the brand register at the sheriff’s office. Wilson was going to ship Cross 84 beef, according to this telegram, and next week he expected to ship from San Miguel. We were goin’ to meet him in Gates Ajar and help nurse a train of cows to Kansas City. Either Wilson was crooked, or he had a touch of sun, ’cause nobody knows of that Cross 84 outfit.”

They went out to the Double Diamond the next morning and had a talk with Falconer. The big cattleman was inclined to be domineering, possibly because he thought he had an advantage, and wanted more than the market price. Hashknife knew prices and he knew cattle, which Falconer soon found out.

“Kinnear asked me to buy this beef,” said Hashknife. “There wasn’t any prices mentioned, but they wouldn’t expect me to offer you a bonus. As far as I’m personally concerned, it don’t make any difference whether I buy your cows or not, Falconer.”

“I don’t have to sell to Kinnear,” retorted Falconer warmly.

“That leaves us deadlocked. I’ll wire Kinnear in a few days and tell him what happened. If he wants to pay you more than he does anybody else—”

“Well, I wouldn’t quarrel over a few dollars, Hartley. I’ve always sold to Kinnear; so I reckon we can get together. How soon do you want ’em?”

They settled the details of delivery at San Miguel, and went back to Sunset City, where Hashknife wrote a wire to Kinnear and gave it to the clerk at the stage station to send from San Miguel. Later in the day some of the Double Diamond cowboys were in town, and one of them told Smoky that Ed Reed had started on a vacation.

Blue Snow and old Graveyard came in that afternoon. Both men looked tired, as they dismounted at the sheriff’s office. Singer Sanderson was at the office, and Blue sat down with him. Blue had his father’s papers, showing the roundup reports for two years, which he spread out on the sheriff’s desk. The fall count showed five hundred and eighty-seven head of Bar S Bar cattle, sixty head of horses. The spring count only showed three hundred and ten head of cattle and forty horses.

“What’s the answer?” queried the sheriff.

“Shrinkage,” said Blue bitterly. “Right now I’ll bet there ain’t over a hundred head of Bar S Bar cows in these hills, and—well, I won’t swear to the horses, but there ain’t no forty head left.”

“Looks kinda funny,” nodded the sheriff.

“Dad knew it, Sanderson. He wrote me that he was gettin’ a bad deal.”

“Who from?”

Blue shrugged his shoulders and looked up at Hashknife, who was in the doorway.

“Do you think your cows have been stolen?” asked the sheriff.

“They’re gone. Cattle usually stay around their own range, unless somebody takes ’em away. Hello, Hartley—” nodding to Hashknife.

“Well, what’s to be done about it?” queried the sheriff.

“I dunno. I thought I’d let you know what it looks like. I’ve got to see a lawyer about the ranch. You knew the Double Diamond stopped me from sellin’ beef to Hartley, didn’t you?”

“I heard they did. What lawyer are you goin’ to get?”

“Van Dorn, I reckon.”

“He’s attorney for Falconer.”

“Yeah, I know he is; but he’s a square shooter.”

“That’s true.”

“Well, he better shoot square with me,” said Blue coldly, as he picked up his papers. “I didn’t know how things were goin’ down here with Dad, or I’d have been here sooner. The Bar S Bar is goin’ to belong to me now, and I’ll stop losin’ stock, if I have to feed a few rustlers to the buzzards.”

* * * * *

Blue left the office and went to find Van Dorn. The sheriff was going to San Miguel on a matter of business, and Hashknife wrote out a telegram to Al Kinnear and gave it to the sheriff to send.

HAVE YOU BOUGHT MANY CROSS EIGHTY-FOUR BRAND AND WHERE WERE THEY
SHIPPED FROM STOP ANSWER AT ONCE AS IT IS IMPORTANT.

—HARTLEY

The sheriff brought the reply back with him the following morning, and it read:

PLACE NAMED GATES AJAR STOP HAVE BOUGHT TWO HUNDRED SEVENTY-FIVE
HEAD.

It was signed by Al Kinnear. Hashknife smiled grimly and pocketed the telegram. This was evidence that the Cross 84, whatever it consisted of, was near enough Gates Ajar to use that station as a shipping point.

“This is how it looks to me,” he told Sleepy. “Wilson was as crooked as the rest of the bunch. He bought stolen cattle cheap, probably payin’ cash, instead of a check, and kept the difference. The man who rode that Cross 84 bronc was the man who was to make the sale—but he was late. Wilson got into a poker game with a couple punchers, prob’ly two of the gang, while he was waitin’ for the main jasper to show up; and they framed to kill him for the cash in his pocket.”

“And the bartender was in on the deal, eh?”

“To the extent of trade, prob’ly—mebbe hush money. He knew who done the killin’, but he wouldn’t tell. He couldn’t afford to tell.”

“Don’tcha think Wilson was one awful fool to want to hire me and you?”

“Mebbe Wilson wasn’t such a fool, at that. Lookin’ at it from a cold-blooded angle, mebbe me and you wasn’t supposed to ever leave Gates Ajar.”

“Oh!” grunted Sleepy softly. “I never thought of that.”

“We’ve stopped quite a lot of rustlin’, Sleepy.”

Blue Snow came in that afternoon; he was at the lawyer’s office when Jerry Falconer came in, driving a spanking gray team and a newly painted buckboard. Hashknife saw Blue Snow come from the office of Van Dorn and meet Jerry in front of the stage station, where they stood and talked for possibly fifteen minutes.

A little later Hashknife met Jerry in a store.

“Dad said if I saw you to invite you and your friend out to supper,” she said. “You see,” she added with a twinkle in her eye, “Dad wasn’t so sure about your credentials; so he sent a wire to Kinnear the other day.”

“Yeah?” curiously.

“I guess he is satisfied now. Anyway, he wants to talk with you.”

“All right, Miss Falconer,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll be out.”

“Come out tonight. Dad likes to talk.”

“Well, we can do that—and thanks.”

“Supper about six o’clock, but come before that, won’t you?”

“Sure. We’re always ahead of the supper bell, ma’am.”

He and Sleepy rode out about five o’clock, and Falconer welcomed them warmly. He did not evade mentioning the wire to Kinnear, but showed them the reply.

HASHKNIFE HARTLEY BUYER FOR US STOP IF YOU’VE GOT ANY
HORSETHIEVES RUSTLERS OR GUNMEN IN YOUR COUNTRY THEY WILL
STAMPEDE STOP BEST REGARDS TO HIM AND SLEEPY STOP YOU CAN BANK
ON HIS INTEGRITY

—AL KINNEAR

Hashknife grinned widely.

“That sounds like Al. We worked together, before he got into the meat business.”

“That telegram interested me,” said Falconer, as they sat down in the big living room of the ranch-house.

“In what way?” queried Hashknife.

“About the horsethieves and rustlers. The sheriff was out here today, and we had quite a talk. Now, I don’t want you to misunderstand me, Hartley. There has always been bad blood between me and Jim Snow. He’s dead now, and his son will probably take his place. I’ve no use for the boy. Jim Snow accused me of stealin’ his horses. That wasn’t true. It hit me hard, bein’ called a thief; so I blocked him from sellin’ his beef. I wanted to break him, and I think I just about put him on the rocks. You’ve heard about it, I reckon.”

“Yeah, I heard quite a lot about it.”

“All right. Blue Snow has been makin’ a rough count, since you tried to buy his cattle. He showed the sheriff a roundup tally for last fall and this spring. And—” Falconer shut his jaw tightly for a moment—“that count shows a big shortage. It revives that old gossip, I tell you! Blue Snow might just as well accuse me of stealin’ his damn’ cows!”

Hashknife eyed him closely.

“What has this to do with me, Falconer?”

“Would a man in my position steal cows?”

“Well,” Hashknife half closed his eyes thoughtfully, “you might as well steal ’em as to keep him from realizin’ on ’em. Accordin’ to my views, a boycott is the same as a steal.”

“You’re pretty damn’ frank with your views, Hartley.”

“You asked my opinion.”

“But I never stole his cows.”

“I never said you did. What have you got against Blue Snow?”

“Against him!” exploded Falconer. “He’s like the old man. I—I had a lot of trouble with him,” he finished weakly.

Hashknife grinned widely.

“He thinks a lot of your daughter.”

“Yeah? What do you know about that part of it?”

“What I’ve heard.”

Falconer leaned back in his chair.

“Well, I dunno,” wearily. “Jerry was to have married Ed Reed, my foreman, this week. Everythin’ was fixed. Why, Jerry even went to Phoenix and bought her weddin’ clothes. She was on her way back—on that stage, when it was held up. Now she won’t marry Ed. It busted him all up, and he’s gone away for awhile. Couldn’t stand it. You see, everybody knew about it, and he thought they was laughin’ at him. He’s a serious sort of a feller.”

“Do you think Blue Snow had anythin’ to do with that?”

“I don’t know. Jerry refuses to give any reason. I sent Blue Snow a note today, warnin’ him to keep away from here.”