Chapter III: Part 3

“Who threw that box?” asked Marion.

“Jimmy Hastings,” said Joe Beebee. “I seen him, teacher.”

“Yo’re dern right I throwed it,” piped Jimmy bravely. “And it didn’t hit where I meant for it to either.”

“He threw it right at me,” declared Joe.

“Yo’re a lyin’ chuckwalla!” shrilled Jimmy. “I throwed it at Ella Hall. She stuck out her tongue at the teacher.”

Marion struck the side of a seat with a ruler.

“Be quiet, all of you!”

She came slowly over to Jimmy and looked down at him.

“Why did you do that, Jimmy?”

He looked up at her, his blue eyes very brave and earnest.

“I don’t let nobody run a blazer on you,” he said.

Marion walked away and sat down at her desk. There was no punishment meted out that time. Joe Beebee stayed around the schoolhouse that night until Andy Hastings took Jimmy home, and Marion knew he had been instructed to wait and see if Tex Blanco came after the little boy.

That night Mrs. Cooper asked Marion to ride to Garnet with her on Saturday.

“I want to see if I can get somethin’ different for a new dress,” she told Marion. “Hootie won’t keep no stock. Says that everybody sends to a mail-order house for their stuff, anyway. We can get an early start from here and git back early in the afternoon.”

Marion was glad to go. Hootie heard about the trustees’ waiting until nine o’clock for Tex and gurgled with joy. It was his idea of a good joke. Of course, he did not know why Tex didn’t come.

“I had a invite for you, Marion,” he told her. “Cleve Tolman asked me if I thought you’d go to Garnet with him to a dance tomorrow night.”

“I don’t reckon Marion wants any second-hand invitations,” said Ma Cooper quickly.

“Not any, thanks,” laughed Marion.

“I can tell him that?”

“Certainly.”

“Well,” laughed Ma Cooper, “I had the same thing put to me by Oscar Johnson, and I told him he better ask you himself. They’re all scared of you, Marion.”

“And Lester Cline wants to meet you,” grinned Hootie. “I told him he’d wait a long time for me to introduce him. He’s my rival in everythin’, except kerosene. Some day he’ll burn out, like I did, and then he’ll quit handlin’ it.”

The next two days were uneventful. Things were going smoothly at the school. Marion saw nothing of Tex Blanco, but she did see Cleve Tolman and, by his cold nod, she concluded that Hootie had told him her decision regarding the dance invitation.

Came Saturday morning, and the ride to Garnet. Mrs. Cooper was a capable driver, and Hootie’s buckskin team, hitched to a buckboard, desired nothing so much as open road and plenty of it. Mrs. Cooper weighed down one side of the seat so badly that Marion felt herself perched high on the opposite side, where she clung to the seat with one hand, her hat with the other.

They made the trip to Garnet in record time, and spent the rest of the forenoon in shopping at Garnet’s two small stores, and watching one train go through. They ate at a Chinese restaurant, where they met Windy March. He had been at the dance the night before, and was red eyed.

“Shore had a good time,” he told them. “You should have been there, Miss Evans.”

“Why didn’t you ask her to go?” queried Ma Cooper.

“Why-uh—by golly, I didn’t think she’d go. I heard she turned down Cleve Tolman.”

“News,” pronounced Ma Cooper, “shore does get around. Was Cleve Tolman there, Windy?”

“Nope. Annie Hall came with Lester Cline. Oscar Johnson came alone and hated Lester all evenin’. Annie won’t go with Oscar since he tried to kill her in Pat Lynch’s buckboard. She’s kinda walked with a hitch ever since.”

“Treat ’em rough, that’s Oscar,” laughed Ma Cooper.

Windy finished his lunch and went out to his stage duties. He drove out of town about fifteen minutes ahead of them, going toward Pineville.

“We’ll let him get well ahead,” said Ma Cooper. “That road ain’t wide enough to do much passin’ on, and we don’t want to eat his dirt all the way home.”

The buckskins were still willing to travel, and they knew they were going home. Mile after mile they reeled off at a steady trot, fighting against the pull of the bits, until they came to a stiff pull up a winding grade, where they slowed to a walk.

Once over the top they surged into a trot again, across the mesa. At the far side of the mesa, where the road wound down to the valley level again, Ma Cooper drew up the team for a breathing spell.

* * * * *

Below them the yellow ribbon of road wound in and out through the clumps of brush, and far beyond, marked by a patch of green, was the B Arrow ranch. Farther along was the green ribbon that marked the course of Stormy River.

“Why, there is the stage down there!” exclaimed Marion, pointing down the hill. “See it down there, just beyond that little ravine.”

“I see it,” said Ma Cooper.

Theirs was almost a bird’s-eye view of the stage, which was not over three hundred yards from them, on an air line. It appeared as if the driver was sitting very straight on the seat, with both hands in the air. For several moments they watched the scene below them. Then Ma Cooper fairly exploded:

“A holdup! Can’t you see it, Marion? My Lord! There’s a man just back of the stage. Can you see him?”

“Yes, I can see him,” said Marion nervously.

They saw the driver’s arms drop down, and the stage lurched ahead, the driver still sitting stiffly, apparently looking straight ahead.

“But where is the man who was behind the stage?” pondered Marion.

“He hit for the brush. I’ll betcha they saw us.”

For possibly ten minutes they sat and watched the brushy country below them, but caught no sight of the man. Far out toward the B Arrow ranch trailed the dust cloud of the fast traveling stage.

“Well, that’s that,” declared Ma Cooper. “That’s the first holdup I ever seen. Giddap, broncs.”

“But aren’t you afraid to pass that spot?” asked Marion.

“Good grief, no! They’ve pulled out a long time ago.”

They stopped where the tracks of the stage had turned slightly off of the road.

“This is the place where they stopped,” said Ma Cooper.

But Marion did not express an opinion. Her eyes were riveted on something just beyond the fresh tire marks of the stage, where the sunlight flashed back the colors of a fire-opal.

Slowly she dismounted from the buckboard and went over to it.

“What is it, Marion?” asked Ma Cooper.

Marion came back with the heavy Colt revolver in her hand.

“Either Windy or the robber dropped it!” exclaimed Ma Cooper, “and it don’t look like a gun Windy March might own. Golly, ain’t them handles pretty? Say, what’s the matter with you, Marion? Too much sun?”

Marion tried to speak, but finally shook her head, as she rested one hand against the wheel of the buckboard.

“What in the world is the matter with you, honey?”

“Didn’t you ever see that gun?” asked Marion weakly.

“Not to my knowledge; did you?”

“It—it’s Tex Blanco’s gun.”

“Whooee-ee! Tex Blanco’s gun? Then Tex—”

Ma Cooper did not finish. She leaned across the seat and touched Marion on the arm.

“Get in here,” she said.

Marion obeyed, holding the gun in both hands.

“I didn’t know how you felt, honey,” said Ma Cooper. “That evidence would send Tex up for several years. This here is our secret. We’ll throw that gun in the river and forget it.”

Marion nodded dumbly.

“You are awful good, Ma Cooper.”

“You forget that part of it. I’m not so good. I’m jist human, honey. Just remember that we never seen no holdup. Are you sure about that gun?”

“I think so, Ma. He—he carried one just like it.”

“Any man is a fool to pack a gun you can identify him by, anyway. And that’s a gaudy thing. I never had any jewelry half as gaudy as them handles. Giddap, broncs!”

* * * * *

While Ma Cooper and Marion Evans drove on to Pineville, Windy March galloped his four horses down the main street of town and drew up at the post office. Windy had experienced his first holdup, and he wanted everybody in the town to hear about it.

Luckily the sheriff and his deputy were at the office. They came on the run, when someone yelled through their doorway that the stage had been robbed. Inside of three minutes the stage was surrounded, listening to Windy tell how it happened.

“Jist at the bottom, this side of the mesa,” he told them, “rope tied across the road, belly high to a bronc, and with a cloth danglin’ from it. My leaders comes to a stop. And then I hears a voice from the brush a-tellin’ me to put up my hands and keep lookin’ ahead. They also tells me that if I look around I’ll see Saint Peter.

“Not bein’ wishful to see him, I does as I’m told. I’m sure there’s two men, ’cause I hears ’em whisperin’. They shore took everythin’ they wanted. My little old strong box is gone, I know that much. Then they told me to look east and keep lookin’ east, or I’d git a quick chance to visit some of my very, very old ancestors. After a while I hears one of ’em say:

“‘All right; look up the road again.’ And then I seen that the rope was gone.

“‘Drive straight ahead and don’t look back,’ said one of ’em, and that’s what I done. I tell you, they knowed what they was doin’. I never seen a danged one of ’em, and their voices sounded like they had a bad cold.”

“At this side of the mesa, eh?” queried the sheriff.

“Jist at the bottom, Sheriff. I reckon you can see where I swung a little off the road.”

The sheriff and the deputy ran to the stable, saddled their horses, equipped themselves with rifles and headed out of town. The sheriff knew that there was little use of trying to do anything, but it seemed that the public expected them at least to make a show of doing something.

Just at the Stormy River ford they met Ma Cooper and Marion, and waited for the buckboard to make the crossing. Ma Cooper drew up the team.

“Did you just come from Garnet?” asked the sheriff.

“We shore did,” laughed Ma Cooper. “All the way.”

“How far were you behind the stage, Mrs. Cooper?”

“I dunno. Windy drove away about fifteen minutes ahead of us. Why?”

“He was held up at this side of the mesa. You was lucky not to run into it.”

“Good grief! Held up, you say? What did they get?”

“I didn’t stop to find out. We’re just ridin’ foolish, I suppose.”

They lifted their hats and rode on across the river, while Ma Cooper chuckled to herself.

“Well, I didn’t have to lie, did I, honey? They didn’t ask me if we saw it. And if we hadn’t seen them first, they might have seen you dump that gun in the river, if you had tried to dump it. Now, what’ll we do with it?”

“I shall keep it,” said Marion, “down in the bottom of my trunk, Ma. It’s as safe there as it would be in the river.”

“That’s fine. Wrap it up in a piece of paper and get it in the trunk as fast as you can. Half the people in this country prob’ly know Tex Blanco packs that kind of a gun, and if the sheriff knew you had it, he’d put two and two together and figure you found it at the holdup.”

“I could swear that Tex Blanco gave it to me.”

“Don’t be silly! Even in this country, men don’t make girls presents of .45 Colts. Keep it hid.”

“Oh, I suppose I’m foolish,” said Marion. “It doesn’t make him any less the criminal.”

“You’d be surprised to know how many honest men are criminals, honey. And a man ain’t a criminal until he’s caught. Go ahead and be foolish. That’s a woman’s privilege, when a certain man is concerned.”

But the sheriff found nothing, except where the stage had turned out—and a woman’s tracks in the sand. There were men’s tracks too, but they meant nothing in the dust and sand. The woman had a small foot and wore high heels.

The marks of the buckboard, with its narrow tires, also cut the outside of the road, and the tracks led from these.

“What do you make of them?” asked Oscar, the deputy.

The sheriff shook his head thoughtfully.

“I dunno. Them two wimmin stopped here in the buckboard, and one of them walked over there. The tracks show she walked straight out there and straight back. She either found somethin’, or she walked out there to look at somethin’.”

“Mebby we better ask ’em, Pat.”

“Mm-m-m. You don’t know much about wimmin, do you, Oscar? If you did, you’d know better. Either their answer wouldn’t be worth a damn to us, or they wouldn’t tell.”

“That ain’t Mrs. Cooper’s feet prints,” said Oscar. “She wears a flat heel shoe.”

“You ort to be a detective, Oscar.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. I could do as well as Sears did. Do you reckon this holdup was pulled by the bunch who sent the note to Sears?”

“I hope so, Oscar. I’d hate to think that there was two tough outfits in our little county. Now lemme see. They’d likely pull southwest from here, so we’ll take a little ride down thataway and see what we can pick up.”

But after an hour or so of fruitless riding, they swung in past the B Arrow ranch, where they found Andy Hastings putting a new brace on the big ranch house gate. He was working alone, so they stopped to talk with him.

After a few minutes of general conversation the sheriff asked him if Tex was at home.

“I ain’t seen him today,” said Andy. “He went to the dance at Garnet last night, I think. Prob’ly got into a poker game and stayed all night. What’s new, Pat?”

“Nothin’ much, Andy. How’s the little kid gettin’ along in school?”

“Jimmy? He’s doin’ fine. Tells me he’s had several good fights already, and thinks education is a great thing for a man. He’s shore strong for the new teacher. Wants to give her a horse, so she can go ridin’ with him.”

“Lotsa punchers around here feel the same about it,” grinned Oscar. “She could have a swell remuda, if she’d jist do a little acceptin’. I’d start it with a couple good broncs, myself.”

“I’ll betcha,” grinned Andy.

“Here comes Tex now,” said the sheriff, as a horse and rider came into view down the road.

Tex was riding slowly and, as he drew closer, they could see that his face was rather pale. His gray sombrero was drawn rather rakishly over one eye and he did not smile. It was rather unusual for Tex not to smile. He merely nodded shortly to them and rode through the gate. They watched him dismount stiffly at the stable and lead his horse inside.

“Must ’a’ had a hard night,” smiled the sheriff.

“I sh’d say he has!” exclaimed Andy. “It ain’t like old Tex to act thataway. Hm-m-m. Well, it’s his business.”

“Shore is,” nodded Oscar. “See you later, Andy.”

“Yeah. Drop in any time.”

They rode on toward Pineville and, when they were out of earshot of the ranch, Oscar turned to the sheriff.

“What do you think of that?”

“Think of what, Oscar?”

“Tex has been in a mixup, Pat. Didn’t you notice how he was wearin’ his hat? Coverin’ a bump, I’ll betcha. And his neckerchief had blood spots on it, too. And not only that, but he didn’t have no gun in his holster.”

“I didn’t notice,” confessed the sheriff.

“And he looked as though he had slept in his clothes.”

“Oscar, you ought to be a detective.”

“Well, mebby that’s true, but I ain’t.”

“Do you think we ought to go back and ask Tex what happened to him?”

“Not now, Paddy. With that expression on his face, I’d be scared to even ask him what time it is. That’s the first time I ever seen Tex without his smile.”

“That’s true. Keep still about them tracks in the sand, Oscar. And don’t say anythin’ about Tex. If we’re ever goin’ to put the deadwood on anybody, we’ve got to stop tellin’ the world what we suspect.”

* * * * *

“Well, I’m jist a-tellin’ you, so you would know.”

Luke Jones straightened up and kicked the oven door shut with a bang. Standing in the kitchen doorway was Shorty Gallup, a limp cigaret hanging in the corner of his mouth.

“You think so, do you?” he sneered.

“I don’t think nothin’ about it—I know! You may be foreman of this old TD ranch, but I’m foreman of this kitchen. Don’t come around here a-tellin’ me what to do, or how to do it. By golly, I was cookin’ food for he-men when you wasn’t weaned yet.”

“Oh, you can cook, if you want to, Luke. But you’re layin’ down on the job. Cleve knows it. We was talkin’ about it last night.”

“The hell you was! You and Cleve, eh? Lissen t’ me, Shorty. Any old time I don’t suit Cleve Tolman, he can come and tell me and not send a dirty-eared puncher to pack his messages. Yes, you are. You ain’t washed farther back than the front of your face since you owned your first pair of chaps. You jist run along and be foreman of the cows.”

Shorty snorted disgustedly and went down to the corral, where Eddie Grimes and Matt Sturgis were fooling around with a hammer-headed buckskin. Shorty sauntered into the corral and leaned against the fence.

“Whatcha goin’ to do with him?” he asked.

“Goin’ to ride him,” grunted Matt, working up the rope.

“Eddie goin’ to ride him?”

There was a sneer in Shorty’s question. Eddie did not pretend to be a bronc rider.

“I’m goin’ to ride him,” said Matt.

“I thought so.”

Shorty came over, took hold of the rope and shoved Eddie aside.

“You better go and set on the fence,” he said roughly, and then added maliciously, “and let the men do the work.”

Matt laughed. Eddie let loose of the rope, but made no move to get away.

“Git out of here!” snapped Shorty. “Ain’t you even got sense enough to take an order?”

“Not that kind of an order,” replied Eddie evenly.

Matt turned and looked at Eddie, whose back was partly turned to him, and winked at Shorty.

“What kind of an order do you need?” queried Shorty.

“White man’s talk, Shorty. You talk like a baby.”

Shorty had gathered up the slack of the lariat, and now he slashed Eddie across the face. It was a cowardly thing to do, but did little damage, except to blind Eddie for a moment. In that moment Shorty dropped the rope and sprang in, trying to hit Eddie with his fists.

Eddie backed away, blocking the blows with his elbows, bobbing his head up and down to escape the flying fists, but quickly got set and came back, swapping punches with Shorty.

Neither of them showed any science. It was just a case of slug, slug, slug with both men trying to send over a finishing blow. It was Eddie who landed it. One of his wild uppercuts crashed against the point of Shorty’s jaw, and the TD foreman went to his haunches.

Almost at the same moment, Matt Sturgis smashed Eddie between the angle of his jaw and the ear, and Eddie went down on his hands and knees, too dazed to realize that Shorty had surged to his feet and was trying to kick him.

“That’s kinda dirty, don’tcha think?” asked a voice.

Shorty turned quickly, blinking his still dazed eyes at the two cowboys who had ridden up close to the fence and were looking at him with great disapproval. Eddie got to his feet, wondering what it was all about.

The men were strangers to the cowboys in the corral, but Shorty was still so dazed and angry that he blurted—

“Don’t horn in on somethin’ that’s none of your business.”

“I suppose not,” said the taller of the two riders easily, “but just the same it shore looked like a dirty trick to me, pardner.”

“Well, I’ll be damned!”

Shorty came over closer to the fence and stared at the strangers.

The one who had done all the talking was well over six feet tall, rather slender, with a long, serious face, level gray eyes and a wide mouth. The other was shorter, broad of shoulder, with a rather blocky face, creased heavily with merry wrinkles, his blue eyes rather large and inquiring.

The tall one rode a tall gray horse, the short one a sorrel, and behind them was a bay mare, carrying a pack. Both men were dressed in range clothes and both needed a shave.

Eddie Grimes walked over to the gate and let himself out of the corral, while Shorty and Matt considered the strangers.

“Jist about where did you come from?” demanded Shorty.

“That,” said the tall, gray-eyed one, “is our business, if you’re so particular about personal business.”

“Is that so?”

Shorty felt his damaged jaw. Matt Sturgis had nothing to say, but shifted uneasily from one foot to the other under the steady stare of the gray eyes.

“Is that the road to Pineville out there?”

Matt nodded quickly. The tall cowboy gave Shorty a sharp glance, before he turned his horse and rode away from the corral. Eddie Grimes was coming from the bunkhouse, carrying his war sack in one hand. He called to the strangers—

“Are you goin’ to Pineville?”

“Shore am,” replied the tall cowboy.

“Wait a minute and I’ll ride with you, if you don’t mind; I’m through with this place.”

“You’re right you are!” yelled Shorty.

Eddie looked toward the corral, laughed shortly and looked at the strangers.

“He’s the foreman of this ranch.”

They waited until Eddie had saddled his horse, while Shorty and Matt watched them from between the poles of the corral. Eddie rode up to the kitchen door and called to old Luke, who came to the doorway.

“I’m pullin’ out, Luke,” he said.

“Yeah? Well, be good to yourself, Eddie. I don’t blame you.”

“I’ll probably see you soon again, Luke.”

“Shore. I may not stay long m’self. _Adios._”

Eddie rode toward the gate and the strangers followed him out.

“This is the TD ranch,” explained Eddie as he fastened the gate behind them. “The foreman’s name is Gallup, Shorty Gallup. That other polecat is named Matt Sturgis. My name is Eddie Grimes.”

He swung back on his horse and the tall cowboy shook hands with him.

“My name’s Hartley,” he said. “My pardner is Stevens.”

Eddie shook hands with him, and they headed for Pineville.

* * * * *

“I’m glad you showed up when you did,” grinned Eddie. “You see, I wasn’t lookin’ for Matt to pop me thataway.”

“And Mr. Gallup was aimin’ to put the boots to you, I observed.”

“I guess he was.”

“We came across the range from Piney Lake,” said Hartley. “Never been over here before. We struck that creek this side of the summit and followed it all the way to the ranch.”

“Lobo Creek,” said Eddie. “Quite a trip over from Piney Lake.”

“Took us two days. How are things over here, Grimes?”

“All right, I guess. I’ve been with the TD for quite a while. Everythin’ was fine until Buck Dennig got killed and Cleve Tolman hired Shorty Gallup as a foreman.”

“Not much good, eh?”

“Overbearin’ little pup. He got whipped a short time ago by Frank Judd, of the B Arrow. Thinks he’s a fighter and is always lookin’ for trouble. I’ll have to come back and get my wages from Tolman, I suppose.”

“How did this Dennig get killed?”

“Murdered. Somebody smashed him on the head one night and stole ten thousand dollars from him. Nobody knows who done it.”

“Hashknife, we must be in a land of milk and honey,” laughed Stevens. “Cowboy packing ten thousand!”

“Well, it ain’t a common thing,” laughed Eddie.

“Don’t mind Sleepy,” grinned Hashknife Hartley. “He’s always jumpin’ at conclusions.”

“Buck was the first man I ever knew who carried that much money,” said Eddie.

“Wasn’t anythin’ done to find out who killed him?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Sure. The sheriff talked with the prosecutin’ attorney and they both talked with Cleve Tolman. They held an inquest and decided that Buck had been murdered. Then the cattle association sent a detective over here, and he lasted long enough to be warned out of the valley.”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“You’ve had quite a lot of excitement around here, it seems.”

“Plenty. Day before yesterday the stage was held up between Garnet and Pineville and three thousand taken. The sheriff rode down, looked over the spot where the robbery had taken place and came home.”

“A very unmoral place,” sighed Hashknife.

“You ain’t a preacher, are you?” asked Eddie quickly.

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“Not by any means, Grimes. My father was a minister. He rode the Milk River range, packin’ the Gospel and a Winchester. Sort of a bunkhouse sky pilot, you know. Me, I’m just a puncher, tha’sall.”

“Lookin’ for work?”

“Bein’ kinda lazy—no. We might take a job.”

“There’s a vacancy at the TD, you know.”

“Yeah, I know; but I’m afraid the foreman might not want my services. Anyway, there’s two of us.”

“That’s right. I’m afraid you’ll have a hard job gettin’ on here for the winter.”

“Mebby we won’t want to,” said Sleepy Stevens. “I shore don’t want to spend no winter in a place where they hold up folks. I scare easy.”

Eddie Grimes looked sidewise at the broad shoulders and the square jaw of Sleepy Stevens, noting the heavy Colt in its weathered holster, the easy sway of the body, a sway which is only acquired by years in the saddle.

“I’ll bet you do,” agreed Eddie.

“Any old time they start trouble, I’ve shore got a lot of goin’ away to do,” said Sleepy seriously.

Just before they reached Pineville they met Cleve Tolman, riding alone. He looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy, but Grimes did not introduce him.

“I quit the TD a little while ago,” he told Tolman.

“Quit, eh. Kinda sudden, wasn’t it, Eddie?”

“I suppose you might say it was, Cleve. Had a run-in with Shorty. Him and Matt kinda double teamed on me.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Tolman looked him over curiously. “You don’t seem to be hurt much.”

“No, I didn’t get hurt much, Cleve.”

“Shorty fire you?”

“I quit. And I don’t mind tellin’ you that you’ll lose more men, unless you fire Shorty.”

“I’ll run my own business,” said Tolman shortly.

He looked straight at Hashknife, but Grimes did not offer to introduce them. Tolman reached in his pocket and drew out a wallet.

“I owe you about thirty-five dollars,” he said, and gave the money to Grimes.

“You better tell Shorty to lay off of Luke, or you’ll lose your cook,” said Grimes, pocketing the money.

“I can run my own business, Grimes.”

“Mebby you can, Cleve.”

“No mebby about it.”

Tolman nodded shortly and rode on.

“That’s the man who inherited Buck Dennig’s half of the TD,” said Grimes, as they rode on toward town.

Hashknife looked curiously at Grimes, but did not ask him just why he said that. It sounded as if Tolman might have had something to do with Buck’s demise.

“Wasn’t anybody hurt in the stage robbery, was there?” asked Hashknife.

Grimes laughed shortly.

“No shots fired. Windy March was scared half to death, I reckon. Got something to talk about for the rest of his life, though.”

* * * * *

They rode to Pineville, where Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses and secured a room at the Pineville Hotel. The sheriff had seen them ride in, and he was just a little curious about who they were; so he appeared at the hotel, where Grimes had also secured a room, and Grimes was accommodating enough to introduce them.

“I saw you come in,” said the sheriff. “Prospectin’?”

“No-o-o,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “You see, we ain’t got no shovel.”

“I noticed you didn’t.”

“We rode in over the divide from Piney Lake,” said Hashknife. “Follered down Lobo Creek and hit the TD.”

“Aimin’ for Pineville, eh?”

“Well, not exactly; just aimin’ to hit this valley.”

“Never been here before?”

“Never have, Sheriff. Nice little town you’ve got here.”

“’Sall right, Hartley. Goin’ to be here awhile?”

“Couple days, prob’ly. We’re just lookin’ around.”

“Fine. Make my office your headquarters while you’re in town, will you?”

“Thanks.”

The sheriff went away, and they headed for a restaurant.

“It strikes me that your sheriff is full of questions,” grinned Hashknife.

“Oh, shore,” laughed Grimes. “Pat’s a question box. But he’s all right. You’ll like him fine. He’s got a big Swede deputy, and they quarrel all the time. Both good men, but they don’t think very fast.”

“Pat is kinda touchy about the killin’ of Dennig and this stage robbery. He don’t know which way to turn, so he stands still. Mebby that’s the best thing to do, after all.”

They ate their meal and wandered around the town. The stage came in, and with the driver was an angular person, with a black mustache and a large nose. Hashknife, Sleepy and Grimes walked past the stage, while Windy was taking off the mail, and spoke to the black mustached passenger.

“Hello, Alex. How’s everythin’ in Wallgate?”

“All right, Eddie. How’s everythin’ at the ranch?”

“Same as ever. I quit today.”

“The hell you did! What’s the matter?”

“Too much foreman.”

The man laughed, as he climbed down from the stage.

“I don’t blame you,” he said seriously.

“How’s your brother, Alex?”

“Gettin’ along fine, Eddie—thanks.”

They strolled along and Grimes told them that this was Alex McLean, one of the TD cowboys, whose brother had been very sick at Wallgate, twenty miles south of Garnet; and McLean had been down to see him.

“Alex is a good man,” declared Grimes. “About the first time Shorty tries to ride him, he’ll bust Shorty wide open.”

McLean watched the three men walk down the street, and turned to the post office, where he met the sheriff.

“Hello, Alex,” grinned the sheriff. “How’s your brother?”

“Gettin’ along fine, Pat. Wasn’t as bad as they thought he was. Kinda hard to kill a McLean. Do you know who them two strange cowboys are with Eddie Grimes?”

“Oh, I met ’em awhile ago, Alex. Hartley and Stevens. They came in from Piney Lake. Came over the divide and follered Lobo Creek to the TD.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Alex lifted his black brows slightly, shut one eye and appeared to be thinking deeply.

“Piney Lake, eh? They told you that, Pat?”

“Sure.”

“Hm-m-m-m. Piney Lake, eh? By golly, they shore cut one big circle. I seen ’em in Wallgate three days ago.”

“In Wallgate, three days—you shore about that, Alex?”

“They ain’t a pair to mistake very easy, Pat.”

“Three days ago, eh? And they rode in from Piney Lake. If they left Wallgate three days ago, they couldn’t have got to Piney Lake short of two days, even if they went over Lobo Pass, and that’s the way they came back.”

“That’s right, Pat.”

“Mm-m-m-m. Alex, do me a favor, will you? Don’t say nothin’ about this to anybody? You heard about the stage bein’ stuck up for three thousand dollars, didn’t you?”

“I did.”

“Well, don’t say anythin’.”

“That’s an order with me, Pat. I’m headin’ for the ranch right away, and if you want me, I’m there. _Sabe?_”

“Thank you, Alex.”

* * * * *

Alex was not very reliable. He had a number of drinks at the Stormy River Saloon and took a quart of liquor with him when he went to the livery stable after his horse. Several of the boys were at the TD, when he arrived, and they all went to the bunkhouse with Alex, who was just drunk enough to be talkative.

“I seen Eddie in town,” he told Shorty, who felt of his tender jaw and took a deep drink. “Said he quit.”

“I fired him,” declared Shorty. “Wasn’t worth a hoot. He ain’t got no nerve.”

“Throwed in with a couple strangers,” said Alex.

“Thasso?” Shorty did not mention the fact that he had seen the two strangers.

“Did you bring that bottle specially for Shorty?” asked Bud Severn.

“Take it,” growled Shorty, passing it to Bud, who took a drink and passed the bottle to Matt Sturgis.

“Who were the strangers?” asked Bud.

“I dunno,” grinned Alex. “Couple awful liars, Bud. Said they come over the hill from Piney Lake. That’s a two day trip.”

“You’re drunk,” grunted Bud. “Or did they tell you they made it in a day?”

“They didn’t tell me nothin’; but they told the sheriff they come over the hump from Piney Lake.”

“Better cache that bottle,” advised Bud.

“Think I’m drunk, do you?” grinned Alex. “Well, listen t’ me, will you? I seen them two jiggers in Wallgate three days ago. If they came here from Piney Lake, they shore flew. My gee-og-ri-fee may not be the best there is in the world, but—”

“They couldn’t do it,” declared Shorty.

“That’s what the sheriff thinks.”

“Ain’t none of his business, if a man wants to lie,” said Bud. “Gimme back that bottle, Matt.”

“Mebby he’ll make it his business,” grinned Alex. “You must remember that two men held up the stage two days ago, and it’s only twenty miles from Wallgate to Garnet.”

“Well, that’s different,” grunted Bud, wiping off the neck of the bottle on his sleeve.

“But why in hell would they come back here?” queried Alex. “That beats me.”

“Mebby they thought there was more easy money in this valley,” laughed Shorty. “Is the sheriff goin’ to jail ’em?”

“I dunno. He told me to keep it under my hat, so I ain’t told nobody outside of my own gang.”

“You’re a lot like the feller who said he had confided his secret to only one party, the Republican party,” laughed Bud.

“Well, I know it won’t go no further,” said Alex, trying to get the cork in the empty bottle.

“You better lay down and sleep it off,” advised Shorty.

* * * * *

In the meantime the sheriff was undecided what to do. Hashknife and Sleepy came down to his office and made themselves at home, talking intelligently about his office and its duties; so much so, in fact, that he was just a little suspicious that they were pumping him.

They did not mention any of the things that had been worrying him, and finally they went away, promising to come again. He went to Heffner’s office and laid the facts, as he had them from McLean, before the prosecuting attorney, who sucked on the butt of a cheap cigar, his feet on the desk top.

“No evidence there,” decided Heffner. “Man has a perfect right to lie, Pat. At least that seems to be the general opinion in a cow country. Do they look like suspicious characters?”

“No, they don’t, Mort. The tall one looks plumb through you, and the other one laughs at you. But it strikes me that if they wanted to rob a stage, all hell wouldn’t stop that stage from bein’ robbed. I saw the brands on their horses and looked ’em up in the registry, but they ain’t from this State. They’re goin’ to be here a few days, so they told me.”

“Well, just keep an eye on ’em, Pat. If they start gambling, watch their money. That three thousand was mostly in twenty dollar gold certificates.”

“I’ll watch out for that. Have you been doin’ any thinkin’ about Buck Dennig’s money, Mort? Somebody around here has that money; and the man who has it is the man who killed poor old Buck. But I can’t think of anythin’ to do.”

Heffner shook his head slowly.

“Not an idea, Pat. I wish we had a detective. I don’t mean one like Sears.”

“He wouldn’t stand a chance—no more than Sears did.”

“Not if he was known. Sears was a fool to tell who he was.”

“What else could he do? He was a stranger here.”

“That’s true, Pat. I suppose we’ll have to go along in our dumb way, leaving it unsolved.”

But Pat didn’t agree with him. Heffner was too much inclined to let things slip along. The sheriff had very little detective ability, usually thinking in a single track way, but he had known and admired Buck Dennig for a long time, and he wanted to convict the man who had murdered him. And he had also done considerable speculating over those tracks he had found beside the road, where the stage had been robbed. For some reason he thought that Marion Evans and Mrs. Cooper knew something.

Hashknife and Sleepy wandered around and finally entered Hootie Cooper’s store, where they purchased some tobacco. Hashknife eyed Hootie closely. He had noted the name on the store sign, and now he said:

“You don’t happen to be any relation to Jim Cooper, who runs a store in Mizpah, Arizona, do you?”

Hootie’s eyes opened wide and his face broke into a wide smile.

“Jim Cooper of Mizpah is my brother. You know him?”

“Bought tobacco from him all last winter,” laughed Hashknife. “My name’s Hartley, Mr. Cooper.”

They shook hands warmly, and Sleepy was introduced.

“I thought you two looked alike,” said Hashknife.

“Well, I’ll be darned!” exploded Hootie. “And you know old Jim, eh? Older ’n me. Ain’t seen him for five year. How was he?”

“Fine, the last time we seen him.”

“Well, gosh! Say! I’m shore glad to meetcha. Didja just arrive here?”

“Today.”

“Stayin’ at the hotel?”

“Goin’ to,” smiled Hashknife.

“Good. You’re both comin’ over to my house and have supper with us tonight. I’ll tell Ma right away. No, you can’t lie out of it. We’ve got to talk. I shut up this shebang at six o’clock, and you meet me here. Nobody there, except Ma and the schoolma’am. Mighty nice girl, too. She’s folks.”

“Well, that’s shore nice of you,” smiled Hashknife.

“Shucks! Ma’ll be glad to see you. She likes Jim. She was jist sayin’ the other day that I ought to write a letter to Jim, but he’s owed me one for four year. We ain’t much on letter writin’. You meet me here at six, or I’ll shore comb this town for you.”

They promised to meet him at that time, and went to the hotel to shave and clean up a little.

“Gotta look smooth to greet the schoolma’am,” laughed Sleepy.

“Yeah, and you’ll prob’ly fall in love with her,” grinned Hashknife, emptying his war bag in search of a clean shirt. “You mostly always do, Sleepy.”

“Not with schoolma’ams, cowboy. There’s where I draw the line.”

Sleepy began industriously stropping at his razor, whistling unmusically.

“How do you like the looks of this place, Sleepy?” asked Hashknife.

“Cow town and no trimmin’s. Some nice folks. Say! I was just wonderin’ about this Jim Cooper of Mizpah. I don’t remember him, Hashknife.”

“You remember Mizpah, don’tcha?”

“Well, we was there that one day, Hashknife.”

“Sure. Remember the windstorm that day?”

“Yea-a-ah. Say, I forgot that. Wasn’t it a dinger? That was the time the sign blowed off the store and almost landed on us, wasn’t it?”

“That’s the time.”

“But I don’t remember no Jim Cooper.”

“His name was on that sign.”

Sleepy chuckled softly and began lathering his face.

“You shore got a memory, Hashknife,” he said.

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I seen them two words, painted in big letters, Jim Cooper, sailin’ right straight for my head, so I ought to remember him. Mebby we didn’t meet Jim Cooper, but we shore met a signboard by that name.”

“And now, you’ve got to talk all evenin’ about Jim Cooper.”

“Not necessarily. We can change the subject. You can get in a corner and talk to the teacher.”

“Any time I do! I may be a lady’s man, but I’m no teacher’s pet. You can have her.”

“Is that a promise?” laughed Hashknife.

“Yeah, and a gift, cowboy.”

* * * * *

They met Hootie at the store at six o’clock and went home with him. He had told Mrs. Cooper about them, and she welcomed them pleasantly.

“Small world, ain’t it?” she laughed.

“Funny how you just happened to mention Jim to Hootie. Lotsa Coopers, you know.”

“Yeah, I know it,” smiled Hashknife, “but Jim Cooper had the biggest sign I ever seen. Letters two feet high.”

“He would have,” chuckled Hootie. “Prob’ly spent a lot of time across the street, lookin’ at that sign.”

“Gents, I want you to meet Miss Evans,” said Mrs. Cooper. “Miss Evans is the schoolteacher. Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens.”

“Oh, I am pleased to meet both of you,” said Marion.

“So’m I,” said Sleepy foolishly.

Hashknife caught his eye and said softly—

“And a gift, Sleepy; remember.”

Marion excused herself to help Mrs. Cooper, and Sleepy whistled softly.

“Mamma mine, what a looker!”

“Ain’t she nice?” said Hootie softly. “Jist as nice as she looks, too.”

“How do you keep the cowboys away?” asked Hashknife.

“They’re scared of her. She’s too pretty, Hartley.”

“Mm-m-m-m. That’s a new way of gettin’ rid of ’em.”

“Oh, they’re shyin’ around. Do you know—” Hootie dropped his voice and moved in closer—“wimmin are queer? She could prob’ly pick any man in this valley, and I’ll be darned if I don’t think she’s stuck on Tex Blanco.”

“Not knowin’ Tex Blanco, I don’t _sabe_ your remark,” smiled Hashknife.

“Oh, that’s right.” Hootie rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “I dunno how I come to mention it to you, anyway, bein’ as you’re a stranger. Anyway, this Tex Blanco is supposed to be a pretty bad _hombre_. Lotsa folks think he killed Dennig. I don’t know a thing about it, but he ain’t thought much of around here. Owns the B Arrow ranch, you know.”

“Beauty and the beast, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“Well, I dunno about that. But ain’t it funny that she would pick _him_?”

“It probably isn’t a bit funny to her.”

“No, that’s right.”

Mrs. Cooper called them in to eat supper. She seated Sleepy beside Marion. It ruined Sleepy’s meal. The talk was general, but Sleepy said nothing. Hootie talked with Hashknife about Jim Cooper, and Hashknife bravely kept up his end of the conversation, even if he didn’t know Jim. Ma Cooper believed in the stuffing process, and both cowboys did their best to please her.

Marion helped Ma Cooper clear away the dishes, leaving the three men at the table, enjoying a smoke. Sleepy’s face was still damp with perspiration and he felt like a man who had just been dragged from a watery grave. The women had gone into the living room, while the three men were in a deep discussion. They heard a man’s voice.

The discussion stopped quickly. Hootie listened for a moment.

“The sheriff,” he said softly, but made no effort to get up from the table.

The sheriff was saying:

“I thought I’d just drop in for a minute, Mrs. Cooper. There’s somethin’ that’s been botherin’ me. It’s about that stage robbery the other day. You was the only folks over the road jist after the robbery, you know.

“Well, me and Oscar went right out there. You remember we met you at the ford. Well, we found where the stage had been robbed, and we found where you had swung off the road a little in your buckboard. And one of you, I reckon it was Miss Evans, got out of the buckboard, walked about ten feet off to one side and then came back to the buckboard. Anyway, I reckon it was Miss Evans, because she’s the only woman in this country that wears them sharp pointed, high heels. Now, Miss Evans, jist what did you find out there?”

The three men strained their ears for her answer.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she faltered.

“Certainly not!” snapped Ma Cooper. “Of all things! You got a lot of nerve, Pat Lynch.”

“I just wanted an answer,” said the sheriff mildly.

“Well, you’ve got it, ain’t you?”

“Nope.”

Marion started to say something, but Ma Cooper stopped her.

“You let me talk to him.”

“Well, you tell it, Mrs. Cooper,” said the sheriff.

“There’s nothin’ to tell. You’re crazy.”

“Mebby. But the tracks are there. Mebby you forgot about tracks.”

“Mebby,” said Mrs. Cooper shortly.

“All I’m tryin’ to do is to find out what Miss Evans picked up. The tracks show—”

“Since when did you start bein’ a trailer?” asked Mrs. Cooper. “Readin’ tracks—the idea!”

“Oh, I could read ’em plain enough.”

Hootie got to his feet, and the two cowboys followed him through the doorway. The sheriff was standing beside the door, and he reddened slightly at sight of the three men.

“You ain’t tryin’ to pin somethin’ on the wimmin, are you, Pat?” grinned Hootie.

The sheriff shifted his feet nervously.

“I just came to ask a question, Hootie.”

“I heard you say that before, Pat. Well, you got your answer, didn’t you?”

“I got a kind of an answer.”

“That’s all anybody ever gets from a woman.”

The sheriff sighed.

“I reckon so,” he said.

He twisted his hat in his hands for a moment, before looking at Ma Cooper.

“I wish you’d think it over, Mrs. Cooper,” he said. “You know there’s a law against destroyin’ evidence. Compoundin’ a felony, they call it. Think it over, will you? Good night.”

He opened the door and stepped outside, closing the door behind him. Hashknife was watching Marion closely, and he knew she was frightened. She looked appealingly at Mrs. Cooper, caught Hashknife’s steady gaze and turned her head away.

* * * * *

“What’s it all about, Ma?” asked Hootie.

“You heard what he said, didn’t you? That’s all I know. C’mon, Marion. Gee, he sure settled my supper. I thought we was goin’ to be arrested.”

Marion followed her into the kitchen, and they shut the door between that and the dining room. Hootie filled his pipe thoughtfully, frowning to himself. Finally he grinned at Hashknife and shook his head.

“Wimmin are funny, Hartley.”

“I suppose they are—most of ’em.”

“That sheriff had his nerve—accusin’ women,” declared Sleepy warmly.

“Well, he won’t get anythin’ out of Ma,” chuckled Hootie. “That woman can keep a secret.”

“Do you think she’s got one to keep?” smiled Hashknife.

“If she ain’t, I don’t know her. Any time Ma gets mad and talks real fast, she’s coverin’ up somethin’. But it ain’t nothin’ bad. Nossir. Compoundin’ a felony! Mebby he thinks Ma and Marion held up the stage. Tonight I’m goin’ to ask Ma for my split of the three thousand, or I’ll squeal on both of ’em.”

Hootie laughed and dropped his pipe on the carpet.

“Set down, boys. I dunno what we’re all standin’ up here for, when there’s plenty chairs. I’ll bet Pat Lynch forgot that I told him you was goin’ to eat supper with us. I told him you was a old friend of my brother Jim, down in Mizpah, Arizona. He don’t know Jim.”

“Pretty good sheriff, ain’t he?”

“Fills the office. Never caught nobody that I ever heard about, but we ain’t had much crime. Yeah, I reckon Pat is as good as the average.”

Ma Cooper and Marion stayed in the kitchen long enough to regain their composure before coming back to the living room, but it was easy to see that Marion was disturbed.

“Did you ever hear a more ridiculous thing?” asked Ma Cooper. “The nerve of Pat Lynch! Why he acted as though we held up the old stage.”

She turned to Hashknife.

“I don’t know what you boys will think of us,” she said.

“I think you’re mighty good cooks,” smiled Hashknife. “As far as the sheriff is concerned, let’s forget him.”

“Aw, he wouldn’t know a woman’s track from a buggy track,” said Sleepy. “Hoppin’ on a woman thataway! And even if you did make tracks in his old sand, and if you did pick up somethin’, and if you did—did—”

“Now, you’re all tied up in a string,” laughed Hashknife. “He means well, folks.”

“Well, you know what I mean,” said Sleepy lamely.

They stayed about an hour after supper, and went back to their hotel.

“Ain’t she a dinger?” asked Sleepy, sprawling on the bed. “Mamma mine, ain’t she a peach, Hashknife?”

Hashknife slumped down in a chair, his shoulders even with his ears, as he puffed on a cigaret, his eyes half closed.

“What do you suppose she picked up, Hashknife?”

But Hashknife did not reply to Sleepy’s question. And Sleepy would have been greatly surprised if he had, because Hashknife was not strong for suppositions.

“Jist my luck,” mused Sleepy, staring at the ceiling. “Here I am, a honest, industrious, clean-minded cowboy, with a big heart and a soul filled with lovin’ kindness, comin’ in jist too late. Mopped out of a chance of matrimony by a danged outlaw. Virtue is its own reward, I suppose.”

“Then you think she picked this Tex Blanco, because it was sort of a last resort, do you?” asked Hashknife.

“I never thought about that. Are you goin’ to bed?”

“I sure am, Sleepy. I can hear them blankets callin’ to me right now.”

“Yeah, and you hear somethin’ else callin’ to you.”

Hashknife smiled softly, as he drew off his high-heeled boots.

“We’re a queer pair of birdies, Sleepy,” he said. “Always goin’ some place and never gettin’ there.”

“‘And we pray to the god of the trails untrod,’” quoted Sleepy.

“That’s it, cowboy, the trails untrod, the other side of the hill. I’m gettin’ gray hairs and I like to set down and talk about the old bunch. That’s a sign of age, they tell me.”

“Shore is,” said Sleepy, tugging at a boot. “Old age! that’s somethin’ I hate to look forward to. We can’t afford to grow old, Hashknife. You must have been forty your last birthday.”

“Forty-one. And you’ll be forty pretty soon. The span of a man’s life is three score years and ten, they say.”

“A peaceable life,” grunted Sleepy. “Not our kind.”

“A peaceable life. Must be great to just drift along from one day to the next, puttin’ up money for old age; no dangers, nobody shootin’ at you—just peace every day.”

“Suppose we try it some day.”

“Some day, sure. Get in; I’ll blow out the lamp.”

They had been together a long time, these two. Drifting up and down the open lands of the West, from the Alberta ranges to the Mexican border, always on the move, never content to stay long in any place.

Hashknife was originally from the Milk River country in Montana, while Sleepy was from Idaho. Fate drew David Stevens to the Hashknife ranch, where he met Henry Hartley, who was nicknamed after that brand, and together they started out to see what was on the other side of the hill.

Because of the fact that he seemed always awake, Dave was nicknamed Sleepy. They were intensely human, those two, and their sense of humor had carried them over many hard bumps. They had gambled with fate and had won so many times that they were confirmed fatalists.

Hashknife was the leader. Born with a keen mind, he had developed it through observation, and studying human nature, especially human failings, to a point where the mere mention of a mystery would cause him to abandon any other plans he might have to solve it.

But Hashknife was not a manhunter. He had no interest in reward notices, no extreme dislike for a criminal. To him crime was just one of the things that happen in the world, according to the pendulum of fate.

Together they would solve a mystery—and ride on. They asked no reward. Sometimes they would work for a cattle outfit for awhile, gathering a few dollars before riding on. Their partnership had not been remunerative. In fact, they were poorer in pocket than they were the day they rode away together. But they did not care. They realized that they were pawns of fate, moving hither and thither around the board, doing their little bit to help to make the world better.

“We’ve never been in a place where they wouldn’t welcome us back, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Mebby, when we’re old, we’ll swing back, goin’ over the hill from the other direction.”

* * * * *