Chapter III: Part 3

“Do you think that was the right thing to do, Falconer?”

“That was _my_ business.”

“Oh, shore. But put yourself in his place; what would you do?”

Falconer scowled at Hashknife for several moments.

“If you thought a lot of the girl, and you knew she thought a lot of you—” suggested Hashknife.

“We won’t discuss that part of it.”

“It’s worth discussin’. If I was you, I’d ask Snow to come up here and have a talk about it. Let your daughter in on the discussion.”

“Not a damn’ bit of it! His father murdered a man, robbed the stage. Why, that currency belonged to me, I tell you! Either Blue or his old man got that money. And you ask me to let—— You’re crazy, Hartley.”

“Suppose his father hadn’t killed that stage driver, hadn’t stolen that money—”

“No supposin’ about it—he did.”

“Outside of that, the boy is all right, eh? You merely disliked him because he loved your daughter.”

“Well?”

“That closes the incident. Let’s talk about somethin’ else.”

“I’m willin’. Every time I talk about it, I get sore.”

The conversation switched to shop talk of the cow country. The cowboys finished their supper, and went out. Hashknife heard Malone tell Falconer that he and Terry McQueen were going to town, and wanted to know if he wanted them to get anything at the store.

* * * * *

The old Chinese was a good cook, and the visiting cowboys thoroughly enjoyed the supper. Jerry seemed in good spirits, laughing and talking with Hashknife. Falconer eyed her closely. For the last few days she had been rather quiet, and this was a decided change.

After supper she went with them to the living room and played a few pieces on the organ. Falconer wanted to talk; wanted to tell how he had made a success of his business, and Jerry left the three men together to smoke and talk. Hashknife was sitting near a window opening on the patio, and he saw Jerry pass the window.

From the bunkhouse came the tinkling of a mandolin, the deeper strumming of a guitar. Falconer talked on and on, occasionally stopping to fill his pipe. Neither Hashknife nor Sleepy were interested, but were obliged to listen patiently.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Falconer finished.

“I reckon we’ll be driftin’ back,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.

Falconer protested, got their promise to come back again, and called to Jerry.

“She’d want to tell you good night,” he said, as they walked out to the patio.

Jerry stepped up on the porch as they came out.

“I thought you was up in your room,” said her father.

“It was too warm, Dad.”

“It is warm tonight. Hartley, I’ll call one of the boys to bring your horses.”

“Never mind that, Mr. Falconer,” replied Hashknife.

He turned to thank Jerry for their evening at the ranch, when something seared across his cheek, thudded into the wall behind them, and from somewhere close at hand came the report of a gun. None of them saw it flash.

Hashknife flung Jerry away from the light of the doorway, sprang out at right angles from the steps, drawing his gun. The shot had come from somewhere in the patio. The cowboys were running from the bunkhouse, questioning.

Hashknife was hunched low, heading for the angle of the patio, where a big oak tree threw a heavy shadow. A man was trying to get over the wall. Hashknife heard the scrape of his clothes, the thump of a boot.

“Stop where you are,” ordered Hashknife, and the noise ceased.

“Got him?” asked a cowboy hoarsely.

“Got somebody,” replied Hashknife, as the man stepped away from the shadow, his hands half raised.

It was Blue Snow. They led him over to the house and took him inside. Jerry’s face was white, her eyes wide with fright. Falconer’s eyes narrowed and his voice was vibrant with anger, as he faced the young cowboy.

“Murderin’ folks must kinda run in your family, Snow,” he said.

“I never fired that shot,” replied Blue evenly.

“Where’s your gun?” asked Hashknife.

“Didn’t bring one.”

“Probably threw it away,” said a cowboy. “We’ll take a lantern and see if we can find it.”

They ran to get the lantern. Hashknife’s right cheek was bleeding a little and he mopped away the blood with a handkerchief.

“I guess we’ll take you to town, Snow,” said Falconer. “I suppose that bullet was meant for me.”

“I never fired that shot,” repeated Blue. “I never had a gun with me.”

“Right now is the time to settle this proposition,” said Hashknife. He turned to Jerry. “This is like gettin’ a tooth pulled; it’ll hurt for a minute. Today you met Blue Snow in town and you asked him to come out to see you tonight. Mebbe he asked to come. Anyway, that doesn’t matter. You knew your father would be busy talkin’ to us; so that fixed the deal up fine. Blue crawled over the patio wall near that tree, and you met him out there in the dark. That’s your business—not mine, but I want to get it all straight. How about it, Snow?”

Blue looked at Jerry, his lips shut tightly.

“That is all true,” said Jerry softly.

“Damn’ fine business!” snorted Falconer.

“Now,” continued Hashknife, speaking to Blue, “after Jerry left you—she could see me through that window, and she knew her father would be busy until I got up—what happened?”

“I watched her go to the house and meet you. Then I started to climb over the wall, and that shot was fired from just outside the gate. It wasn’t over thirty feet from me. I saw a little of the flash. Well, it kinda stunned me. I didn’t know what was wrong. But I decided that my best bet was to get out of there; so I—well, you stopped me, Hartley.”

“That’s a pretty good story to make up in a short time,” said Falconer.

“And I’ll bet big odds that it’s true,” said Hashknife.

“Why would I shoot at Hartley?” asked Blue.

“Maybe you didn’t,” said Falconer.

“Why would I shoot at you?”

“I warned you to keep away from here, Snow.”

“Yeah, I got your note. I suppose it was from you. You see, you forgot to sign it—or was you afraid to sign it?”

“I reckon you knew who it was from.” Falconer turned to Jerry. “You’ve made a nice mess of things, haven’t you?”

“You can drop that,” said Blue coldly. “I insisted on comin’.”

“She didn’t have to let you.”

The cowboys came back in, carrying a lantern.

“We can’t find any gun,” said Matt Sullivan. “There’s none in the patio, and he couldn’t throw it very far over the wall.”

“That part of it’s all settled,” said Hashknife. “Snow never had any gun and he never fired the shot.”

“If he didn’t, who did?” demanded Falconer. “You’re too danged quick to exonerate him, Hartley.”

“Well, I was the only one who got marked.” Hashknife laughed.

Terry McQueen and Molly Malone came back from town, and the cowboys met them outside the house, telling them what had happened. McQueen gave Falconer the mail.

“You boys didn’t meet anybody between here and town, didja?” asked Hashknife.

“Not a soul,” replied McQueen. “We rode slow all the way back, but we never seen nor heard anybody.”

“Where’s your horse, Snow?” asked Hashknife, and Blue grinned.

“I’ve got him staked out in the brush.”

“You may as well ride back with us.”

Falconer swore under his breath, but did not protest. He turned away, when Blue shook hands with Jerry.

“Thank you, Mr. Hartley,” she said, as she shook hands with him. “You saved the day.”

“The day ain’t all saved—yet; but we’ve made a start.”

* * * * *

Blue had little to say as they rode back toward town, but when they parted he shook hands with both of them.

“I was a fool to go out there,” he said. “But I shore was lucky to have you there to square the deal for me, and I appreciate what you did. If you can ever use me for anythin’, yell my name. I’ll have a gun with me next time.”

“I may need you, Snow. _Hasta luego_.”

“_Buenas noches, caballeros._”

“Who do you reckon fired that shot?” asked Sleepy, as they went on.

“I haven’t the slightest idea.”

“He’s a good shot.”

“How do you figure that out?”

“Takin’ a chance on pickin’ you out of that group at that distance, and in a bad light.”

“It shore was too close for comfort. Well, they’ve showed their hand, whoever they are, Sleepy. Too danged much publicity. We’ll either have to change our names or get out where nobody ever heard of us. Scared, cowboy?”

“Tremblin’ all over.”

They went to the Sunset Saloon, and Hashknife tried to find out what time Malone and McQueen left town, but no one seemed to have paid any attention to the hour they left. The sheriff listened to what happened at the Double Diamond, but did not seem to have any theory to offer, except that Falconer had lots of enemies, and that the shot might have been intended for him.

Blondell heard Sleepy telling Smoky about the shooting, and came over to Hashknife, questioning him about it. Hashknife told him what he knew of the affair. Blondell had no comments to make, and Hashknife wondered what Blondell’s interest might be. He did not trust Blondell, but he found that Blondell had been around the saloon all evening, which was enough alibi to clear him of any hand in the matter.

Blondell was somewhat of a mystery to every one, but Sunset City had become used to him. To Hashknife he was a sinister figure, getting a living from somewhere—but where? What kept him in Sunset City? According to all Hashknife could learn about him, he seldom left town. It seemed that Blondell drank plenty of liquor, but kept a silent tongue in his head.

“If Blondell ain’t wanted some place, I’m a Chinaman’s uncle,” Hashknife decided. “And, if I’m wise, I’ll keep an eye on Mr. Blondell.”

Hashknife found that Blondell was in Sunset City at the time of the stage robbery; so that excused him. In fact, as far as Hashknife could discover, Blondell’s only fault lay in the fact that he came there broke, got money in some mysterious way, and continued to get it. He minded his own business. His fight with Ed Reed was the first time he had been in any trouble in Sunset City. He never mentioned what it was about, but the general opinion was that Blondell had joked Reed over losing his girl.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode out to the Bar S Bar ranch the next morning, and found Graveyard Jones there with Blue and Skipper.

“Well, they haven’t killed you off yet,” smiled Blue.

“Give ’em time,” grinned Hashknife.

There were a couple of Bar S Bar horses in the corral, and Hashknife took a look at the brand. The brand itself consisted of a short bar, a large S and another short bar. Hashknife called Blue over to him and they stopped beside a light sorrel, on which the brand showed plainly.

“What didja want?” asked Blue curiously.

“Watch this.”

Hashknife drew his forefinger through the first bar, continued the S to an 8, and drew two lines on the last bar. Blue scowled thoughtfully.

“Do that again, will you, Hartley?”

Hashknife did it over again.

“Makes it a Cross 84, don’t it?” queried Blue. “Why—”

“Somebody,” said Hashknife softly, “has been sellin’ Cross 84 beef to Kinnear, and shippin’ ’em from Gates Ajar.”

“Yea-a-h?” Blue hooked his thumbs over his belt, as he studied the lean face of Hashknife. “Are you sure of that?”

Hashknife showed him the wire from Kinnear.

“That was an answer to my wire, askin’ him about buyin’ Cross 84.”

“So that’s where the Bar S Bar has been robbed, eh? They took ’em over the range, altered the brands and shipped ’em as Cross 84. Well, I’m goin’ to Gates Ajar, Hartley.”

“Wait a little while, pardner. I—I don’t think the time is ripe. There’s a lot of Cross 84 beef over there right now, but they can’t ship ’em. It’ll take quite a while to dig up another buyer. Let things drift for awhile, and we’ll go with you.”

“Does the sheriff know about this?”

“Nope.”

Old Graveyard was all excited. He wanted to go right over to Gates Ajar and hang somebody. Skipper insisted that he would go along and tie the knot.

“We’ll go when Hartley gives the word,” stated Blue. “I’m backin’ his play from now on. Has this deal got anythin’ to do with somebody takin’ a shot at you last night, Hartley?”

“I’m afraid it does.”

“Do you think somebody in San Miguel Valley rustled our cattle?”

“Somebody in San Miguel Valley took a shot at me. I don’t reckon any of them Gates Ajar rustlers would ride plumb here to shoot me. How easy is it to get across that range?”

“Easy as shootin’ fish,” replied Graveyard. “All open country to Antelope Pass, and a good trail through to the other side. Why, you could almost drive a wagon over there, without no road. The railroad aimed to come through and take in this valley, but they finally went straight north and swung around to San Miguel.”

* * * * *

Blue decided to go back to town with them, and they went to talk with the sheriff. Hashknife took a pencil and outlined the Bar S Bar, showing the sheriff how simple it would be to alter it to a Cross 84.

“But we’ve got to keep this quiet,” said Hashknife. “If there’s any slip, we’ll never get ’em for the job. They could dig out, leave the cattle and we’d be holdin’ the sack.”

“That’s true,” replied the sheriff. “But what’s our best move?”

“Do you know the sheriff of the county over there?”

“I do. His name is Dick Redman, and I’m not surprised that they were able to ship stolen cattle in his county.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“I wondered what kind of a person he was. You see, he should have served me and Sleepy with a subpena to appear at the inquest over the body of Wilson. Mebbe he passed it up cold.”

“Knowin’ who killed him,” nodded Sanderson, “he prob’ly would.”

Old Graveyard came in later and he went to supper with Hashknife, Sleepy and Blue. The old man was wearing his gun. Blondell came in to supper, nodded to them and sat down at the back of the room. Hashknife noticed that Blondell watched the front windows fairly close, and wondered if he was looking for somebody.

Before they finished eating Terry McQueen, Molly Malone and Matt Sullivan came in to eat. From their conversation it developed that that was payday at the Double Diamond, and they were out to celebrate. As Hashknife and his party went outside, they met Harry Bond, Dick Lasher and Bun Parker, the other three punchers from the Double Diamond.

“Ain’t nobody killed you yet, I see,” remarked Harry Bond laughingly.

“Not yet,” replied Hashknife. “How’s everythin’, boys?”

“Finer’n frawg hair,” said Bun Parker. “Falconer’s comin’ in tonight.”

“He allus comes in to pack us home,” laughed Lasher, as they entered the restaurant.

Smoky had eaten earlier in the evening and he met them at the Sunset Saloon. Sleepy and Blue started a pool game, and the others sat down to watch the play.

Blondell came back from the restaurant, watched the play for awhile, and sat down against the wall. At times he eyed Hashknife speculatively, his sombrero low over his sullen eyes; again he would watch the front of the building.

“Nervous,” decided Hashknife.

The boys came back from the restaurant, and soon a sizable poker game was in progress, but Blondell made no move to get into it. A little later Falconer came in. He seldom drank, but tonight he asked Hashknife to join him at the bar. He nodded coldly to Blue Snow.

“You asked somebody about the Cross 84 brand, didn’t you, Hartley?” he asked.

Hashknife nodded, wondering what this would lead to.

“Today I ran across a horse with that brand, out near my place.”

“Well?” queried Hashknife.

“It was the first time I ever saw that brand, and I knew you inquired about it.”

“Oh, yeah. When Wilson was shot he had a telegram written out. It hadn’t been sent, I reckon. He mentioned the Cross 84, and I was curious to know where that brand was located. It didn’t matter.”

Falconer laughed.

“I thought I was bringin’ you some news. The boys made another search this mornin’, but they couldn’t find any gun. It begins to look as though Blue Snow had nothin’ to do with that shot in the dark.”

“I knew he didn’t.”

Falconer sighed deeply over his drink and shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ women,” he confessed. “I had a run-in with Jerry after you left.”

“She’s got plenty red hair,” said Hashknife.

“Her mother had it, too. I wish Jerry would marry Ed Reed. He’s been like a son to me. I could trust him with everything.”

“She will marry Blue Snow,” said Hashknife.

“Over my dead body!”

“Yeah? Well, it ain’t no killin’ matter.”

“I can’t see what there is about that damn’ kid. Reed was worth a million like him.”

“That might all be true—and when you married Jerry’s mother, there was probably a lot of men worth a million of you.”

Falconer shoved his empty glass across the bar, and studied himself in the mirror of the back bar for several moments.

“I never looked at it that way, Hartley. Mebbe there was. But damn it, all I want is for Jerry to get a good man, and I don’t like Snow’s reputation. He’s a drifter. His father murdered a man I liked and stole a lot of money.”

“That’s a queer way to look at it, Falconer. There’s nothin’ in heredity—not that kind. If your father had been a horsethief, would you give yourself up to the sheriff? You let the girl pick her man. She’s got to live with him.”

“He’s got nothin’.”

“What did you have before you got married?”

“Things are different now,” _evasively_.

“I’ll bet you couldn’t pay the preacher.”

Falconer’s eyes widened a little, as he stared at Hashknife.

“Who told you that?”

“A good guess, wasn’t it?”

Falconer laughed shortly.

“I was afraid for a minute that you was a mind-reader. I was thinkin’ the same thing.”

They both smiled, and Hashknife ordered the drinks.

“I like you, Hartley,” said Falconer slowly. “I don’t believe we’d hitch very long, because you speak right out; but—mebbe I need it. I want you to come out tomorrow and look at the beef I’ve got for you.”

“All right.”

“It’ll take all one long day to drive to San Miguel.”

“Kinnear didn’t say anythin’ about bein’ in a hurry; it’s all right.”

* * * * *

Blondell got up from his chair, stopped and looked at the poker game for a few moments, and sauntered past them, going to the door. Hashknife was standing with his back to the bar, leaning back on his elbows. He saw Blondell stop in the doorway, looking at the lights across the street. Then he stepped down the few inches to the sidewalk—stopped short.

From the right-hand side of the doorway came the report of a revolver shot. Blondell did not move for several moments. He seemed to hunch his shoulders a little, took one slow backward step, then fell half into the saloon.

Hashknife was the first man to reach the doorway. He stepped over Blondell and ran to the corner. The alley was dark. Men were picking Blondell up, carrying him back into the saloon. Men were running from the restaurant, from the stores. A cowboy went running from the saloon, heading for the doctor.

They stretched Blondell out on the floor. Hashknife quickly cut away his coat and shirt. The bullet had struck him on the right side just below the armpit, and apparently had ranged straight through.

“Bad?” queried Falconer nervously.

“I think he was killed instantly,” replied Hashknife. “Probably went on through his heart. The doctor can easily tell.”

The old doctor’s examination was brief. He shook his head, closed his case and dusted off the knees of his trousers.

“The man is dead,” he said crisply. “He never knew what hit him.”

Hashknife sighed and looked down at the battered features of their mystery man, wondering if he would ever know what the mystery was. Someone got a blanket, and four of the cowboys carried the body into a back room, where they placed it on a table.

The cowboys took a drink and stood around thoughtfully. It had ruined their payday. The sheriff and Smoky came just before the body was taken out.

“What can I do?” Smoky asked helplessly. “No use runnin’ around in the dark.”

“Not a bit,” replied Falconer. “You wouldn’t know which way to go.”

“Damn’ queer thing,” muttered Terry McQueen. “Who would kill Blondell?”

“Shoot a man in the back,” growled Malone. “Gawd, he never had a chance!”

“Don’t anybody know anythin’ about Blondell?” asked Hashknife. “He must have some relations somewhere—somebody who would like to know.”

“He never told anybody,” said the bartender. “I’ve known him ever since he came here, but he never talked. Drunk or sober, he kept still. Allus wore a gun. Never smiled much.”

“Did he ever go away for any length of time?”

“Kept a horse in the livery stable, but he didn’t ride much.”

“What brand was on that horse?”

McQueen and Malone looked quickly at Hashknife.

“I dunno the brand,” said the bartender.

“It was a Double Diamond,” said McQueen. “Reed sold it to him.”

“I remember that,” said Falconer. “It belonged to Reed. He told me he had sold it to Blondell. He also sold Blondell a saddle.”

McQueen nodded, and the boys returned to the poker table, trying to force their interest back to cards.

Falconer went across the street to the biggest store, and Hashknife wandered up the street a way, where he sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. He wanted to think, to try to puzzle out why anyone would try to kill him, and why someone had killed Blondell. Who was Blondell and what had he done, he wondered? Did Blondell know someone was looking for him? He had acted nervous.

Why did Malone and McQueen look at him so quickly when he asked what brand Blondell’s horse wore? All the Double Diamond cowboys were in the saloon; so none of them could have fired the shot. It would be difficult to connect Blondell with rustling operations over around Gates Ajar.

Every one agreed that Blondell had had no trouble with anybody, with the exception of his fight with Reed. Reed was gone from the Valley. Anyway, their fight was nearly even. Both men had been knocked down. In fact, Reed probably hurt Blondell worse. It was not a matter to commit murder over; so Hashknife discarded any thought of that incident.

As he sat there in the dark he saw two men go diagonally across the unlighted street above him. They reached the sidewalk and went on to the front of Van Dorn’s little law office. Hashknife heard them unlock the door and go in, closing the door behind them. The shade was nearly down, but he saw the sudden glow of light, as they lighted a lamp.

There had been nothing furtive about their movements; merely a couple of men going into a law office. But something urged Hashknife to go and see what it was all about.

“That’s a funny hunch,” he told himself, as he got to his feet. “I must be gettin’ jumpy.”

He pulled his hat tighter—there was a little wind—and went slowly down the sidewalk. For several moments he stood listening, but could hear no sound from within the office. As he stepped in closer, the lamp was extinguished, and a moment later a man came out so suddenly that he was almost against Hashknife before the cowboy could move.

There was a startled curse, and a revolver was fired so close to Hashknife’s face that the powder burned him. Instinctively he ducked low and flung himself forward, clawing at the man with both hands. He collided with him and they crashed back against the building; but before Hashknife could get his balance, the man swung at his head with the gun; overswung a little, and his hand and gun butt came down squarely on Hashknife’s head.

The blow was sufficient to knock the puncher to his knees, and in a daze he heard the man running. Someone was yelling over near the saloon, probably unable to tell where the shot had been fired. Hashknife sat there long enough to get back his scattered senses, swore at himself for getting knocked down, and finally got back to his feet. He balanced himself against the door frame and lighted a match, before opening the door.

On the sidewalk were several papers and a letter in a legal size envelope, and Hashknife picked them up. Stepping into the office, he lighted the lamp.

Someone had seen him light the match, and several men came running over from the saloon. Hashknife unconsciously shoved the papers into his pocket and looked down at Van Dorn, the fat attorney, who had been struck over the head, and was just beginning to recover. The men crowded in. Van Dorn’s small safe in the corner of the room was wide open, and several papers were scattered about the floor.

* * * * *

The sheriff came striding in, and Hashknife turned to grin at him.

“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded the sheriff. “Who hit Van Dorn?”

Hashknife rubbed his sore head and tried to remember just what had happened. Van Dorn gaped vacantly at the crowd, a trickle of blood running down his nose. He rubbed it off with a pudgy forefinger and looked at it.

“Mebbe the fat feller knows,” suggested Hashknife.

“Somebody socked you?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Sat me down real quick,” grinned Hashknife. “Powder burned me a little, too, when his gun went off in my face.”

“What happened to you, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer nervously.

Two of the cowboys helped Van Dorn to a chair, and one of them mopped his head with a handkerchief.

“He—he hit me on the head,” said Van Dorn foolishly.

“Who hit you on the head?” asked the sheriff.

“A man.”

“Who hit you, Hartley?”

“Same party,” grinned Hashknife.

Van Dorn looked at the open safe, his brows knitted thoughtfully.

“That is funny,” he muttered.

“Remember what happened?” asked Falconer.

“Why, yes, I remember now.”

He rubbed his head for several moments.

“Someone knocked on the door of my house. I went to the door, and there was a masked man. He threatened me with his gun, warned me not to talk, and made me go with him. I—I didn’t know what to do. He brought me down here and told me to open my safe. I tried to explain that there wasn’t any money in the safe, but he made me open it. And then—I guess he hit me.”

“What do you know, Hartley?” queried the sheriff.

“Well, I saw ’em go into the office,” replied Hashknife. “I dunno why I came over here. It was just a hunch. I was tryin’ to hear what was bein’ said in there, when the light went out and a man stepped out so quickly he almost bumped into me. He fired his gun in my face, and when I grabbed him, he socked me over the head.”

“What was in your safe, Van Dorn?” asked Falconer.

“Only private papers,” painfully. “Not a cent of money.”

“It looks as though he had taken all of ’em, except these,” picking up a few and placing them on the desk.

Van Dorn was not attentive. His head was his chief concern, and he did not seem interested in any investigation.

“You better see a doctor,” advised Falconer. “Want to go to his office, or have him come up to your place?”

“I think I’ll go home; I’m sick.”

“How’s your head, Hashknife?” asked the sheriff.

“Oh, I didn’t get hit so hard,” grinned the tall cowboy.

Most of the crowd went back to the Sunset Saloon, where they crowded around the bar and asked one another foolish questions. A murder and a robbery gave them food for conversation. But Hashknife was not interested in their arguments. His hunch was working again, and that hunch told him to keep out of the light.

He went past the hotel entrance and stopped at the corner. From there he could hear the voices over in the Sunset Saloon. Several men were in the hotel office, talking things over. Hashknife knew there was a rear entrance to the upper floor of the hotel; so he went cautiously around to the rear, halting at the corner.

Someone was back there. He could hear him crossing the yard. It was too dark to distinguish objects very well, but he was sure he saw a shadowy figure going up the outside stairs. Of course, it might be someone connected with the hotel.

Moving cautiously, he reached the bottom of the stairs and climbed up to the open door. Peering down the dark hallway he could see a faint glow of light from the front stairway, and could hear the dull buzz of conversation from the office.

Slowly he went down the hall to his door, halting against the wall. He knew the door was partly open, because he could feel the draught. It was evident that the window was also open. It had been shut when he left, and the door had been locked. But the door would be a simple matter for anyone with a pass key or a piece of bent wire. Still, the fact remained that the door was partly open and also the window.

“Queer,” said Hashknife to himself. “If somebody wanted to bushwhack me in my room—why leave the door and window open?”

These thoughts flashed through his mind, as he flattened against the wall near the door, and the answer came in the smashing report of a revolver shot.

_Wham! Wham! Wham!_ Three more shots, the flashes lighting the hall. A space of two or three seconds, followed by another shot—another. Six shots in the space of ten seconds.

Another shot, a choking grunt, and a man stumbled out of the room, backing erratically in the dark. Hashknife dived into him, like a halfback making a flying tackle, and they went crashing down along the wall. Quickly Hashknife caught his arms, but the man made no effort to free himself.

Men were running up the stairs, and one came crowding from the rear, carrying a lamp. Hashknife called for them to hurry. Sleepy, the sheriff and Blue Snow were there. They had been looking for Hashknife. He let go of his captive and got to his feet.

The man was of medium height, swarthy, black haired. He blinked at the light, his lips shut tightly. More men came down the hall, and among them was Falconer. They were all trying to question Hashknife, who knew little more than they did. He went into his room, which was acrid with burned powder, found a match and lighted the lamp.

* * * * *

Lying against the wall, his head almost against the window sill, was Ed Reed. He was still alive, but hit hard. Hashknife picked up his gun, as Falconer shoved forward, his jaw sagging.

“Ed!” he almost shouted. “Ed, what happened? My God, are you hurt bad?”

“Bring the other feller in here,” ordered Hashknife, and they carried him in, placing him near Reed. The two wounded men stared at each other, blinking in the light.

“What’s it all about, Hartley?” asked Falconer. “Can’t you talk, man?”

Hashknife laughed harshly.

“They got their wires crossed, I reckon. Both of ’em layin’ for me, and they got each other.”

No one made any comment. Hashknife swung out the cylinder of Reed’s gun and removed an empty shell. Glancing at it quickly, he turned to the sheriff.

“Go and get the gun Jim Snow used.”

“I’ll get it,” said Smoky quickly. “You stay here, Singer.”

“You’re pretty damn’ smart, Hartley,” said Reed painfully.

“Not very. Why did you kill Jeff Blondell and rob Van Dorn’s safe?”

“You don’t know, eh?”

“Not yet.”

Reed laughed hoarsely.

“You’ll never know from me.”

“You stole Bar S Bar cattle and altered the brand to Cross 84.”

“Did we? Prove it, damn you!”

Hashknife smiled queerly and turned to the other man.

“You’re the man who killed Wilson, eh?”

The man said nothing. Perhaps he was too sick to deny anything.

“Didn’t Wilson play the game accordin’ to your rules?”

“Tell him nothin’,” groaned Reed. “He don’t know a damn’ thing.”

“Let’s see if I don’t. One of you was delegated to kill me tonight. It wasn’t settled jist where the killin’ was to be done; so this friend of yours decided to pull it off here in my room, but didn’t tell you, Reed. Evidently he wanted to keep under cover. You killed Blondell, and you recognized me when we tangled in front of Van Dorn’s office. Mebbe you thought I recognized you. Anyway, you made a guess that your friend had missed out on his end of the deal; so you came huntin’ me.”

At that moment Smoky came in, bringing Jim Snow’s six-shooter. Hashknife opened the gun and examined the empty cartridges, comparing them with the one from Reed’s gun.

“That cinches you, Reed,” he said. “Your gun is loaded with the same brand of cartridges that you used to kill Chub Needham and Jim Snow. For fear that somebody might hear those shots and wonder who fired all of ’em, you put two empty shells in Snow’s gun, makin’ three, with the one he shot at you.

“Blue Snow thought he heard five shots. I figure there was six, and that two were fired so close together that it sounded like one. Chub never fired a shot, but you shot his gun in the air twice. Your first shot killed Chub instantly. A moment later Jim Snow came in sight, headin’ for San Miguel. You swapped shots together, and you hit him. Then you shot again real quick, and he went down.

“But you made a mistake when you put them other shells in Snow’s gun. The firin’ pin on his gun hits dead center, while the pin on your gun hits low on the cap. You stuffed that package of bonds inside Snow’s shirt and kept the money for yourself.”

“That’s what Blondell said,” mumbled the other man. “He said Reed done that job and never split with—”

“Shut your damn’ mouth,” groaned Reed. “You yaller dog!”

“What’s the good of it? We’re cinched. Get a doctor, will you?”

“Who tried to kill me the other night at the Double Diamond?” asked Hashknife.

“Reed,” replied the other man. “Rotten shot. I told him—”

“Wait a minute. Who stole the Bar S Bar cattle?”

The man laughed shakily. He was getting weak from loss of blood.

“Hundred head at the old Ox-Bow ranch near Gates Ajar. Me and Reed and—Blondell.... Find the rest if you can.”

“What about Wilson?”

“He got ’em for half what they was worth.”

“And you didn’t sell the last time, eh? You killed him and took all his cash.”

“Have it your own way.”

“You dirty quitter!” grated Reed, but the other man did not hear him—he had fainted.

Falconer’s face was white, his lips set in a grim line. He would have staked his life on Reed’s honesty.

“Somebody better get the doctor,” said Hashknife. “I don’t think he’ll be of much use to either of ’em, but we better get him. Now, Reed, tell us why you cracked that safe?”

“I’ll see you in hell, first, you dirty snooper!”

Hashknife had shoved his hands deeply into his pockets, and now his right hand came out, holding the few crumpled papers he had picked up in front of Van Dorn’s office. He looked at them curiously. One was a large envelope, apparently containing a single sheet of paper, and on the outside was written in ink, JEFF BLONDELL—PRIVATE.

Some of the men moved in closer, wondering what was coming next. Reed saw the envelope and his face twisted curiously as Hashknife tore it open, taking out the single sheet, folded once. Swiftly he read it. Reed tried to move, groaned hollowly and sank back.

“Will you quit now?” asked Hashknife, but Reed refused to answer.

Hashknife turned to the crowd.

“Listen to this letter, folks:

“To be opened and read only in case I disappear or am killed in
a mysterious way. This is my agreement with Van Dorn, who knows
nothing about the contents of this letter.

“My name is Henry Blondell Jeffries. Two years ago I was
released from the Montana State Penitentiary, where I served a
full term of five years for train robbery. While in the
penitentiary I met a convict named Reed Haskell, who was serving
twenty years for robbery and manslaughter.

“Reed Haskell is Ed Reed, foreman of the Double Diamond outfit.
He and another convict named Tony Blackburn slugged a guard and
escaped. They both know of this letter, which I use as a
safeguard. Either one of them would kill me like a snake, if
they wasn’t afraid this letter would be read.

“Reed Haskell, or Ed Reed, as he is known here, is paying well
for what I know, and if you doubt my word, they can easily
identify him at the pen.—HENRY BLONDELL JEFFRIES, OR JEFF
BLONDELL.”

“And there you are,” finished Hashknife.

The crowd was silent. Reed was staring at the floor, eyes nearly shut.

“I suppose your friend is Tony Blackburn, eh?” queried Hashknife.

Reed nodded shortly, as the doctor came in, carrying his valise.

“One thing more,” said Hashknife. “The night Wilson was killed, wasn’t it Blondell who came over there, ridin’ a Cross 84 horse?”

Reed nodded again.

“He wanted all the money, I suppose?”

“The dirty rat,” whispered Reed. “He had me cinched.”

The crowd moved out to give the doctor more room. Falconer took Blue Snow by the arm and they moved down to the hotel office with Hashknife.

“I’ll make good on them stolen cattle, Blue,” he said. “I reckon your father was right. I’m sorry as hell—and that’s all I can say.”

“That’s enough,” said Blue slowly. “I’d like to ride out and tell Jerry what happened.”

“Fine. She’ll understand. You see, she’s got a lot more sense than her dad.”

Blue turned to Hashknife and they shook hands silently. Falconer watched Blue go striding out through the door, his chin in the air for the first time since he came back to Sunset City.

“He’ll do well,” said Falconer softly. “Blue knows cows.”

“Knows girls, too,” said Hashknife seriously. “It’s a danged lucky thing he came back to this country—lucky for both of you.”

Falconer nodded slowly.

“Yea-a-ah, a mighty lucky thing for me and mine, Hartley. But the luckiest thing in the world that ever happened for all of us was when a long legged puncher came down over the Rattlesnake Cañon grades, lookin’ for a shipment of cows.”

“And tried to bust the trust.”

“It’s busted, Hartley.”

Smoky came in from the street, still excited.

“Terry McQueen and Molly Malone pulled out south, just after all the shootin’ took place,” he panted. “The bartender saw ’em go.”

“I wouldn’t chase ’em,” said Hashknife slowly. “They’ll be dodgin’ all their life, anyway.”

Falconer put a hand on Hashknife’s shoulder.

“Hartley, I need a foreman, and I need two more men. You’re not a regular buyer. Hang your hats at the Double Diamond—you and Sleepy. One of these days I’ll want to step out, and I want a good man to run the business.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully over his cigaret.

“Well, I’ll think it over, Falconer. Will you see that Kinnear gets a good break on them beeves? You know what I mean.”

“I shore will. But—”

“Thank you kindly; and I’ll let you know about the other.”

Some of the men were coming down the stairs, talking, arguing. Hashknife stepped outside, where Sleepy was standing beside one of the porch posts, holding the reins of their two horses. Without a word they mounted and rode down the street, passing out of Sunset City in the darkness.

“I dang’ near accepted a job,” said Hashknife.

“No!”

“Yeah.”

“I seen Falconer talkin’ with you. This deal kinda knocks his horns off, don’t it?”

“Complete.”

“Which way, cowboy?”

“Lemme see. North is San Miguel, east is Gates Ajar. What’s south?”

“A lot of tall hills.”

“Good—we’ll go south.”

And they went down through the darkness of San Miguel Valley, chap knee rubbing chap knee, while the distant stars seemed to tumble down over the tops of the southern hills, which beckoned them on to see what was on the other side. What had just happened was all in a day’s work—tomorrow was merely another day.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, November 1, 1929. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.]