Chapter V

Hashknife rode back toward town, deep in thought. He drew out the letter he had purloined from the 76A mail and looked it over again. It was directed to Cleve Lavelle and post-marked Black Wells. Inside was a single sheet of paper, on which was written in lead-pencil:

$75 dols. Plese remit.

It was unsigned. Hashknife grinned as he touched a lighted match to a corner of it and watched it burn to ashes. Then he rode on into Modoc and tied his horse to the Rest Ye All rack.

There were three horses at the rack, which looked as if they might have traveled a long ways. Hashknife noticed that two of them bore a Cross-Arrow, while the third was branded with three parallel bars on the left hip. He had seen these brands at Black Wells. It was evident that some of Black Wells had come to Modoc, and he wondered if it was any of the gang that were in the Welcome saloon when Sleepy had bombarded the place.

Modoc was a well-patronized town on Saturday. There were many men in the Rest Ye All, but Hashknife decided not to go in. There was no use of running into trouble; which would probably result if he ran into some folks he knew in Black Wells.

He crossed the street and ran into Breed, who seemed visibly worried. He jerked his thumb in the direction of the hitch-rack at the Rest Ye All.

“Jud Mahley and a couple of other hard roosters came over from Black Wells t’day, Hartley. They’re in the saloon, drinkin’ hard liquor and keepin’ an eye on the door. Sleepy and Sody are down at the Elite saloon, singin’ songs to a bartender, who don’t care for music.”

“Well, he ain’t hearin’ any,” laughed Hashknife.

Breed grinned shortly and squinted the length of the street.

“I know. But there’ll be ---- to pay, if them two meet Mahley and his two friends. I figure that they came here to get even for what happened to Mahley. He’s a dirty coyote, Hartley; and the two men with him ain’t no better. What had we better do?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “I reckon we better find a preacher and have him pray a few times for Mahley and his two gun-men. I dunno much about Sody Slavin, but I know that Sleepy is able to protect his own hide.”

“I wasn’t worryin’ about Sody,” grinned Breed. “He’s a big, fat son of a biscuit-shooter, but he’s a humdinger in a fight. You kinda figure in this, too, don’tcha?”

“Oh, that don’t matter. I’ll kinda keep out of sight, I s’pose.”

Breed laughed and hitched up his belt. He felt better about it now.

“You ain’t worryin’, are yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“No-o-o, I reckon it’ll be all right. Had supper yet?”

“Nor dinner,” grinned Hashknife. “Plumb forgot it. Let’s get Sody and Sleepy and all go to eat together. It’ll give us a good chance to keep ’em away from Juddie and his gang.”

“That’s the ticket.” Breed was enthusiastic, but became dubious.

“I seen ’em a while ago, and they wasn’t open to suggestions. Mebbe you can convince ’em, I dunno.”

They found the two cowpunchers in the Elite, leaning against the bar, while Sody was trying to tell Sleepy a story about Christopher Columbus. It dealt with Columbus’ feat of standing an egg on end. Sody had the egg. The bartender, a sleek, fat individual, with a scant growth of hair, well plastered down, was interested in the narrative, and none of them paid any attention to the coming of Hashknife and Breed.

“Well, how’d he do it?” asked Sleepy, owl-eyed. “Yuh can’t stand no aig on end, Sody. It ain’t built thataway, I tell yuh. Old Chris must ’a’ had a hen that laid a flat-ended aig.”

“Noshir,” Sody wagged his head wisely. “Here’s how he done it.”

Sody grasped the egg firmly in his ham-like hand, held it aloft in triumph.

“Wa’sh me closely,” he chuckled. “There’s no mushtash to desheeve the eye. Ol’ Chris jus’ took the aig--thusly, and----”

Thump! Sody brought his hand down hard enough to have broken a much tougher article than an egg, and the contents of the fruit of the hen-house squirted all over the interested bartender.

He backed against the back-bar, clawing the yolk out of his eyes, while Sody looked goggle-eyed at the crushed mass in his palm. Sleepy moved back, his nose twitching.

“Didja see her stand on end?” asked Sody foolishly.

“I didn’t see it,” said Sleepy. “But I betcha it could. My ----, that aig was old enough to whip the hen that laid it.”

“You’ve gotta lot of nerve,” wailed the bartender, brushing furiously at the bobby-goo on his white vest. “Next time yuh want to tell stories, keep away from here. My ----, that’s a strong egg!”

Sody reached across the bar and dragged the palm of his hand across the edge to dislodge the remnants of the egg, while with the other hand he held his nose.

“Well, ’f here ain’t m’ fambly!” exclaimed Sleepy, catching sight of Hashknife. “Yo’re late, cowboy. Sody jist showed us how to stand an aig on end. C’mon and have a drink.”

“You’ve had a plenty,” grinned Hashknife. “You and Sody are invited to eat supper with me and the sheriff.”

“We ain’t under arrest, are we?” queried Sody quickly.

“Not yet--but the evenin’ is still young. C’mon.”

“There’s somethin’ wrong,” declared Sleepy wisely. “They want to keep an eye on us, Sody. Whatcha s’pose it is?”

“I dunno, and I don’t care,” declared Sody. “I’m hongry--but not for aigs. Waugh! A voice from the tomb. C’mon, let’s go.”

They went up the street to a restaurant and ordered their meals. Sleepy was suspicious. He knew that there was a reason for bringing them up there, and in a few minutes Hashknife told them.

“Great lovely dove!” exploded Sody. “That lop-eared whangdoodle came back here? Mamma mine, what we’ll do to him will be a joy for the Cannibal Islands. Where are they, Hashknife?”

“Set still,” ordered Hashknife. “You two jiggers are goin’ to promise me that yuh won’t start no trouble. Until the proper time, Mahley and his gang are as safe as a church; _sabe_?”

“Oh, yeah!” snorted Sleepy indignantly.

“They came back here to get even with us--and we’ve got to take it, eh?”

“No, I don’t mean that, Sleepy; and you know I don’t. Keep away from Mahley and his men. You don’t need to butt into ’em, do yuh?”

“It would be a lot of fun,” muttered Sleepy. “I want to take a shot at that bat-eared pelican. He ain’t no good, dang his hide.”

“But yuh won’t take no shot at him, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “I told yuh not to, and you mind me real fine.”

“All right,” Sleepy nodded violently and upset a glass of water with his elbow. “I’ll keep my paws off him for yore sake, but if you kill him without givin’ me and Sody a chance at him we’ll see that Sandy Claws don’t come to yore house next Christmas.”

They ate their supper and went back to the street. Hashknife noticed that the three Black Wells horses were missing from the hitch-rack, and sighed with relief. He felt sure that Sleepy and Sody would proceed to forget what they had promised--and prove a good alibi later on.

Sody seemed to have an idea that the Elite bartender might be getting lonesome; so he and Sleepy headed down there, while Breed and Hashknife sauntered down to Breed’s office and went inside.

* * * * *

It was growing dark and Breed lighted a lamp. They sat down and smoked for a while, discussing things in general. The talk drifted around to Bud Daley and his troubles.

“They convicted Bud on a silver rosette, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” nodded Breed. “Didn’t yuh ever see it?”

He flung open a drawer of his desk beside Hashknife and took out the rosette, which had been thrown in on top of some papers. Hashknife examined it closely. It was a hand-made thing and very distinctively hammered and engraved.

“There was no argument about the ownership,” said Breed as Hashknife examined it under the light of the lamp.

He had one hand in his pocket, but now he withdrew the hand.

“Funny how a thing like that will convict a man,” he mused. “Bud made it with his own hands; hammered it out to suit himself, and the danged thing made an outlaw out of him. Well--” he turned and dropped the shining ornament back into the drawer and shoved it shut--“it’s the little things in life that do the damage.”

“It sure looks thataway,” nodded Breed. “But for some reason I ain’t worryin’ about catchin’ Bud. He’s worth three thousand to the man that finds him, and I kinda hope he won’t be found. Funny thing for a sheriff to say, ain’t it?”

Hashknife laughed softly.

“I’m glad yuh feel thataway, Breed. Mebbe you’ll be disappointed, but I don’t think so.”

“Anyway, I’m not huntin’ for him, Hartley. I probably won’t be the next sheriff of Modoc.”

“Keep yore shirt on,” grinned Hashknife. “Everybody in the county ain’t agin’ Bud Daley; and yuh might still get a vote or two.”

“All right, Medicine-Man,” laughed Breed. “We’ll wait and see what happens.”

They went over to the Rest Ye All and moved about the gambling-room. It was a big night and the games were well patronized. Lavelle was there watching the play. He glanced nervously at Hashknife and Breed, and Hashknife noticed a slight pallor about his face.

Lavelle was not a quiet dresser at any time, but tonight he sparkled with sartorial splendor. He nodded shortly, as Hashknife and Breed passed him, but Hashknife did not speak. Lavelle looked after the tall cowpuncher, a half-sneer on his lips. He noted the big, holstered six-shooter which seemed to cling tightly to Hashknife’s thigh, hanging at just the right angle for a quick draw.

He wondered where Sleepy and Sody were. They had been around earlier in the day. Not that he wanted to see them come in. They were too rough, too boisterous to suit Lavelle; but he rather wanted to know where they were and what they were doing.

Hashknife placed a few bets on the roulette and won the majority of them. But he did not care for roulette. It was all luck, when the wheel was honest. Hashknife preferred to match his brains with others at draw or stud poker. But both big games were filled.

He stood around for a while, watching the games and talking with the players. Breed suddenly disappeared. Hashknife looked for him, but he was not in the house; so Hashknife took a seat near the wall and proceeded to smoke a cigaret.

It was about fifteen minutes later that Sleepy and Sody came in. They seemed in a hurry and there was little evidence in their actions that they had ever taken a drink. They saw Hashknife and came straight to him, drawing him away from the crowd.

“It’s all off with Bud, unless we act quick,” whispered Sleepy. “That ---- Mahley found out where Bud is and has told the sheriff.”

“How did Mahley find out?” queried Hashknife.

“He told Breed that the doctor told him. Breed just left with a livery-rig, but he told me to tell you. Now, we’ve got to do somethin’ real fast, Hashknife.”

“What can we do?” queried Hashknife. “The sheriff knows where Bud is, and Bud’s too sick to move. We can’t fight the sheriff.”

“We can go down and kill that ---- doctor,” said Sody seriously. “Me and Sleepy are gunnin’ for Mahley and his two pet skunks, as soon as they show up back here.”

“Breed took a livery-rig, eh?” mused Hashknife. “He must figure on bringin’ Bud back with him. How long has he been gone?”

“About ten minutes,” said Sleepy anxiously. “We can still beat him to the JM, if we cut the hills.”

Hashknife shook his head slowly and squinted back at the windows of the Rest Ye All.

“No, it wouldn’t do us any good, boys. Killin’ Mahley won’t stop Bud’s capture. We’ve just got to let ’em go ahead; and in the meantime, let’s go back and see if Lavelle’s luck is still good.”

Both Sody and Sleepy grumbled over what they were going to do to Jud Mahley and his two companions, but they followed Hashknife into the gambling-house.

Lavelle was watching the stud-game, and Hashknife stopped near him. Lavelle glanced quickly at Hashknife, but turned back to the game.

“You ain’t playin’ much these days, are yuh, Lavelle?” asked Hashknife.

His voice was loud enough for those at the game to hear, and the dealer looked up at Lavelle, who turned quickly to Hashknife.

“Well, what about it?” Lavelle’s voice held a trace of annoyance.

“Ain’t takin’ chances on bad luck,” grinned Hashknife.

Lavelle stared intently at the table for several moments, as if trying to make up his mind what to say. One of the players shoved his chips over to the dealer, who stacked them quickly and shoved the correct amount in coin across to the player.

“Looks like easy money,” grinned Hashknife.

“Try it!” snapped Lavelle, indicating the vacant chair.

Hashknife laughed softly, but did not accept.

“I was just wonderin’ whether it was yore personal hoodoo, or whether the house was just havin’ a run of bad luck.”

Lavelle shifted uneasily. Some of the players laughed, and it angered Lavelle. He disliked being laughed at. Suddenly he looked at Hashknife, a sneer on his lips.

“What’s all this talk about hoodoos, Hartley? If you’ve got money enough to make it worth while, I’ll gamble with you.”

“From what I’ve seen around here, it don’t take much,” laughed Hashknife. “A dollar runs into hundreds pretty quick.”

“I don’t gamble with pikers,” said Lavelle coldly and turned away.

“Same here,” laughed Hashknife. “So there ain’t no chance for us to clash.”

* * * * *

Lavelle turned and came back to the table. He was mad. At a signal from him, the dealer got up and let Lavelle sit down in his place. Swiftly Lavelle arranged the chips to suit himself, broke open a new deck of cards and looked up at Hashknife.

“I thought I’d bluff yuh into dealin’,” grinned Hashknife, sliding into the vacant chair. “You ought to be easy to beat.”

The muscles around Lavelle’s thin mouth twitched slightly, but he did not reply. His hands trembled visibly as he shuffled the cards. The other three players seemed amused, and grinned at the circle of spectators. Sody and Sleepy were in that circle; Sody stolid in his interest, Sleepy alert, because he knew that this gambling challenge was not at all like Hashknife.

Hashknife drew out a roll of bills and tossed five of them across to Lavelle.

“Give me twenty blues,” he said.

Lavelle accepted the hundred dollars and shoved the small stack of blue chips across the table, each chip worth five dollars.

“Cash mine in, Lavelle,” said one of the players. “I can’t see clear enough to bet only five-dollar chips.”

Lavelle smiled coldly and counted the man’s chips. One of the other players shuffled uneasily, but decided to stay. The other grinned and separated his chips into two piles.

“One’s velvet,” he said. “I’ll play close to m’ stummick.”

Four blue chips decorated the center of the green-covered table, and Lavelle began the deal. Hashknife did not look at his hole-card. Monte Sells and Brent Allard came in from the bar and stopped to look at the game.

On the second round, both Hashknife and Lavelle received aces, hearts and diamonds. Hashknife flipped three blue chips to the center. Lavelle stayed, but the other two dropped out.

“I’ll high-spade yuh for ten dollars, Lavelle,” challenged Hashknife, but Lavelle ignored him.

The ace of clubs fell to Hashknife, while Lavelle drew a small card. Hashknife bet five blues, but Lavelle dropped.

“Looks easy,” grinned Hashknife, raking in the pot. “I’m better off than the boys were who had inside information that the big pay-roll was goin’ to Dixon that night.”

Lavelle’s eyes flashed questioningly at Hashknife, but he was stacking his chips carefully and did not look up. Brent Allard shot a swift glance at Monte Sells, and their eyes met.

On the next deal Hashknife passed without looking at his hole-card. Lavelle gave him a curious look, but Hashknife only grinned and said:

“Luck’s a funny thing. Now, take Bud Daley, as an example; he’s unlucky. Somebody stole all his cows, and there’s a lot of folks who don’t know yet who stole ’em.”

Lavelle scowled heavily as the player at Hashknife’s right won the pot and raked it in with a laugh.

“Is this a poker game or a lecture?” growled Lavelle angrily.

Hashknife grinned widely and rested his elbows on the table.

“I like to entertain folks, Lavelle,” he said. “Don’t mind me; go ahead with the deal.”

The onlookers were beginning to enjoy it. Lavelle was noted for his cold, hard nerve, and it amused them to see him so angry that his dealing was jerky. Hashknife peeked at his hole-card and laughed loudly.

“I’ve got a card in the hole that looks like Jud Mahley,” he announced. “Jud Mahley in the hole, Lavelle. Deal ag’in; this is sure gettin’ good.”

Hashknife seemed to pay no more attention to his hand, but called the bets as the cards dropped. He had two jacks in sight, while Lavelle’s hand showed a pair of eights. The other two players quit. Hashknife bet twenty dollars, and, after due deliberation, Lavelle conceded the pot to Hashknife, who uncovered his hole-card--a deuce of spades.

“Thought I had a knave, didn’t yuh, Lavelle? You knowed that Mahley was a knave. Ha-ha-ha-ha! He’s a dirty deuce, too.”

Lavelle shut his jaw tightly and shuffled the cards in a savage way.

“Leave some of the spots on ’em,” cautioned Hashknife. “Jist ’cause yo’re mad--don’t ruin the pretty cards.”

After the next hand, the other two players decided that the pace was too hot for them, and dropped out. Lavelle cashed in their chips, leaving himself and Hashknife to a single-handed battle.

“Speakin’ of Jud Mahley,” said Hashknife seriously. “There’s a lot of pickpockets in Black Wells.”

He looked around as if challenging somebody to dispute his statement. Sleepy was grinning widely.

“We know it, don’t we, Hashknife?” he laughed.

“Danged right. Whisky dopers, too. I understand that somebody in Modoc has got to pay seventy dollars damage to the Welcome saloon. That’ll take off some of the profit from Bud’s cows.”

Lavelle had dealt two cards and was waiting for Hashknife to make his bet. Lavelle’s eyes looked strained and there were tiny beads of perspiration about his temples. The crowd around the table, with the exception of Sleepy, did not know what it was all about, but they were more interested in Hashknife than they were in the two-handed stud-game.

“That’s what happens when yuh lose yore luck,” continued Hashknife, tossing some chips to the center. “Feller gets to worryin’ about it and snags himself in his own loop. Bud didn’t have bad luck--he had some bad friends. Now the sheriff has gone after him. He’s sick in bed, with a bullet-hole in his leg. They’ll bring him back pretty soon. You callin’ my last bet, Lavelle?”

Lavelle was staring at the pot, holding the cards tightly in his hand. He had called Hashknife’s last bet; but now he called it again. Which showed that Lavelle’s mind was not on the game.

“Yo’re of this game, but not in it,” laughed Hashknife. “But yuh might as well leave that fifteen dollars in the pot, ’cause I’ll get it anyway. You ain’t even got poker sense, Lavelle.”

Lavelle flushed hotly and looked around. The former dealer was at his elbow, and Lavelle started to get out of his chair.

“Goin’ to change dealers, eh?” sneered Hashknife. “Afraid to trust yore luck any further, are yuh, Lavelle? Yo’re a ---- of a gambler, you are. Why don’t yuh git some buildin’ blocks and play behind the bar, where nobody can see yuh?”

Lavelle snapped back into his chair, his face white from the sting of Hashknife’s insults.

“You want to play poker?” he snarled angrily, “You game to play a man-sized game of cards? By ----, I’ll show you some action. Buy enough chips to make it worth while, you mouthy fool!”

Hashknife leaned across the table and laughed into Lavelle’s face.

“You can be bluffed, Lavelle. Right now yore heart is yaller from the gall yo’re usin’ to brace it up.”

Hashknife drew out a billfold and took out three one-thousand-dollar bills, which he tossed carelessly across to Lavelle. The ring of onlookers crowded in close to look at the money.

“My ----!” exploded a cowpuncher. “Thousand-dollar bills! I didn’t know they was that much money in the world.”

“They’re a safe size,” laughed Hashknife. “If yuh stole one, you’d have a ---- of a time disposin’ of it in this country.”

Lavelle squinted at the money closely.

“How big do you want to play this?” he asked.

“Man-size,” laughed Hashknife. “You name the amount. I’m in favor of hundred-dollar chips and no limit.”

Sleepy moved in a little closer and tossed a cheap billfold on to the table in front of Hashknife.

“Here’s another the same size,” said Sleepy indifferently. “Give him plenty of action, cowboy.”

Hashknife grinned up at Sleepy and nodded his thanks. Lavelle flashed a glance at Sleepy, but continued to count out chips. His fingers trembled slightly and a chip fell to the floor as he shoved thirty chips across to Hashknife.

It was the biggest price ever paid for poker chips in Modoc, and it did not take the whole room long to find out that something out of the ordinary was going on at the stud table.

It was out of the ordinary for cowpunchers to have as much money as Hashknife and Sleepy had shown, and many of the onlookers glanced significantly at each other. But the money had been honestly earned. It was their pay for cleaning up a crew of rustlers in the Ghost Hills, which had happened but a short time previous to their arrival in Modoc. Hashknife had insisted on taking the money in thousand-dollar bills, because it would be more difficult for them to get one cashed. Both he and Sleepy had visions of saving enough to buy them a little outfit and go into the cattle business.

* * * * *

The crowd grew silent as the game began. Lavelle’s face was a set mask under the yellow light of the big lamp. Hashknife’s grin hid any emotion he might have felt, and he handled hundred-dollar chips as if they were pennies.

Hand after hand they played, one player or the other conceding the pot, after two or three cards had been dealt. Neither man was winner as yet; but every one knew that sooner or later they would get the cards they were looking for.

“Kinda funny about Charley Morse,” observed Hashknife, as he peered at his hole-card. “The feller that killed him didn’t have a shotgun until he came to Modoc. Yuh see, he didn’t have nothin’ agin’ Charley Morse nor Breed. He wanted to kill me or my pardner. It was just another fool mistake. Killers all make mistakes.”

The crowd was listening intently, wondering. Lavelle shifted in his chair, looking nervously at Hashknife as he said hoarsely--

“You calling my bet?”

Hashknife rolled two chips to the center, and they promptly circled and rolled back to his side of the table.

“They know where the luck is,” laughed Hashknife. “They want to come back to me, Lavelle.”

Lavelle muttered a curse and dealt the next card. The board showed that Hashknife had a jack and a six, while Lavelle had a pair of tens.

“Twenty miles of railroad,” laughed Hashknife. “Yore bet.”

After a moment of hesitation, Lavelle shoved five hundred dollars to the center. Hashknife laughed softly and fingered his chips.

“Mahley in the hole,” he muttered. “A jack and six in sight. That beats a pair of tens, so I call.”

He shoved in five chips and grinned widely. Lavelle studied Hashknife’s hand, a half-smile on his lips, as he said--

“Are you playing table-stakes, Hartley?”

Hashknife laughed softly and leaned back in his chair.

“You make your bets, Lavelle. I’ve got over six thousand here.”

Lavelle flipped off the next two cards, which showed another six for Hashknife and a trey for himself. Hashknife’s hand showed a pair of sixes and a jack, while Lavelle’s showed a pair of tens and a trey.

“Yore tens are still good,” grinned Hashknife.

Lavelle shoved five chips to the center. Hashknife laughed as he shoved in five chips to cover the bet and then added ten more as a raise.

“My ----!” exploded a cowpuncher. “Raised him a thousand!”

Lavelle moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue and stared hard at Hashknife, who was rolling a cigaret with hands that did not tremble. Again Lavelle looked at the pip on his hole-card. It was a six spot. He realized that there were big odds against Hashknife having a six spot in the hole.

And he remembered that Hashknife had said that he had a “Mahley” in the hole. The last time it had been a deuce; this time it might be a jack. Lavelle’s fingers trembled over his chips.

“That bank robbery was a funny deal,” said Hashknife, and Lavelle looked up quickly.

“Funny thing that Bud would pick the vault to lose that silver rosette in,” continued Hashknife thoughtfully. “It’s too bad that the cashier didn’t live long enough to tell who done it. He knew, too.”

“Oh, for ----’s sake, shut up!” snarled Lavelle. “What’s all the talk about, anyway?”

“I’m tryin’ to take yore mind off yore bad luck,” laughed Hashknife. “I want yuh to call that thousand; but yo’re afraid to do it, when yuh stop to think. You know where yore luck went, but that don’t help yuh any, Lavelle. Yuh get kinda sick in the stummick, when yuh think about it, don’tcha?”

Lavelle’s eyes narrowed, as he shoved ten chips into the pot.

“Bluffed yuh into it, eh?” Hashknife laughed triumphantly. “Yuh didn’t do that because yo’re brave; yuh did it because yo’re plumb scared to death.”

“What in ---- are you talking about?” said Lavelle hoarsely.

“Yore luck. Go ahead and deal.”

Lavelle picked up the deck and dealt two more cards. A gasp went up from the crowd, when they saw that Hashknife had drawn another six, while Lavelle had another ten-spot.

Lavelle stared at the two hands and a smile of triumph flashed across his lips.

“What about luck now, Hartley?” he asked nervously.

Hashknife lifted his eyes from an inspection of the two hands and grinned widely.

“Yore three tens bets, Lavelle.”

There was no nervousness in Hashknife’s voice--only amusement. Lavelle hesitated. He had faced many a man across the green cloth, but this man was different from the rest. That third ten had brought the courage back into Lavelle’s heart, but now he felt it oozing away again.

* * * * *

The crowd moved slightly, and Hashknife looked up to see Jud Mahley and his two companions crowding in for a look at the table. Hashknife glanced at Sleepy and Sody. They had seen Jud. Sleepy flashed a glance at Hashknife, who turned back to his game. He was not worrying about Jud Mahley now.

“A lot of folks wondered why Bud Daley wouldn’t tell where he was the night of the bank robbery,” said Hashknife, as if talking to himself. “I can tell ’em. I know. I know where that rosette came from, and I know who planted it.”

The crowd stirred nervously. They were hearing something. On the fringe of the crowd a man questioned another. He wanted to know if he had heard rightly. Still, Lavelle did not bet.

“Take yore time,” said Hashknife softly. “I’ll entertain the crowd while yuh figure it out. Yuh know, it took me quite a while to figure out why Bud Daley was taken away from the sheriff.”

Lavelle jerked up his head.

“What in ---- do I care about Bud Daley?”

Lavelle’s voice was almost a whine. Perspiration trickled into his eyes, but he did not try to wipe it away.

“Somebody wanted Bud killed,” stated Hashknife. “And it wasn’t because they wanted to avenge the death of the cashier either. Ain’t yuh about ready to back up yore three tens, Lavelle?”

With a nervous jerk of his hand Lavelle tossed some chips into the pot.

“Gettin’ jerky, eh?” Hashknife laughed. “Count ’em, Lavelle.”

“Eight chips,” whispered a bystander.

Hashknife slowly counted the pot and found that Lavelle had bet eight hundred dollars.

“You ain’t got much faith, have yuh?”

Hashknife threw in eight chips and added a thousand-dollar bill from Sleepy’s billfold.

“There’s a thousand that says my sixes win, Lavelle.”

Lavelle swallowed hard and stared at the pot. His nerves were rubbed raw and he wanted to get away. Hashknife was talking again.

“Those pickpockets at Black Wells were disappointed.”

As he spoke he looked up at Jud Mahley. The Black Wells cowpuncher did not have a poker-face, and Hashknife’s statement brought a startled expression to his countenance. He shot a quick glance sidewise toward the door and looked into the face of Sleepy Stevens. Then Mr. Mahley turned his head and studied the wall, but his hands dropped along his hips.

“Folks who don’t know might think it was funny that they would dope and rob a stranger,” continued Hashknife. “They didn’t know us--except from description. I don’t wonder that they want Lavelle to pay damages.”

Lavelle stared at Hashknife, his mouth half-open, as if he were badly in need of oxygen. He seemed to have trouble in keeping his hands on the table. He tipped a stack of chips, and they rattled loudly.

“Sounds like a skeleton,” laughed Hashknife. “Didja ever hear a skeleton rattle, Lavelle?”

“---- you!” breathed Lavelle. “What’s all this talk about? What damages? I never----”

Breed shoved his way to the table, and behind him was Uncle Jimmy--a very angry Uncle Jimmy.

“They got Bud, Hashknife,” he said. “The sheriff brought him in.”

“Don’t worry about it,” soothed Hashknife.

“Don’t you worry about anythin’ either, Hashknife,” laughed Sleepy. “Go ahead and play the game.”

Lavelle shaded his eyes with his hand as he slowly counted out his chips. Then he shoved thirty chips to the center of the table; a thousand dollars to call Hashknife’s raise, and a two-thousand-dollar tilt to the pot.

He did not say a word, but leaned back, dropping his hands to his lap. Hashknife grinned widely as he said:

“You bet that money just like it was the last bet you’d ever make, Lavelle. I wonder if you had a hunch. Gamblers do have hunches, don’t they? I’ve got one, too. But my hunch is backed up by good-luck.”

He leaned across the table, his face suddenly serious, his voice ominous.

“I’m goin’ to call that bet, Lavelle. There’s a black cat settin’ on yore shoulder, look’n at yuh.”

Lavelle twitched quickly, and his eyes flashed sidewise. Hashknife laughed, as he shoved in two thousand dollars. Then something flashed in the lamplight as he tossed an object to the center of the table, where it rattled among the chips.

“I’ll raise yuh that much, Lavelle.”

Lavelle jerked forward, staring at the object. It was the rosette that had been found on the vault floor. Breed gasped and shifted his feet. Lavelle licked his lips and stared at it.

“It’ll take everythin’ yuh own to cover that, Lavelle,” Hashknife’s voice was low, but every one heard him. “That represents a lot of misery, murder and money. You had it once, Lavelle. You got it the night you was out at Bud’s ranch--that night, Lavelle.”

Lavelle did not speak. It is doubtful whether he could have spoken. His eyes met Hashknife’s, and Hashknife was not smiling. He reached slowly into his vest pocket, clenched his hand and extended it across the table and almost under Lavelle’s nose.

“It’ll take everythin’ yuh own to call that last raise, Lavelle,” he said. “But yuh can’t win. The god of luck deserted yuh the night that the train was held up; the night you took Bud Daley away from Dug Breed; the night you had the boys from the 76A hold up the express car so that you could have a chance to take Bud away from the sheriff.”

There was not a sound, except the heavy breathing of the crowd. Lavelle seemed to turn to stone under the accusation.

“You lost your luck that night, Lavelle. It’s here in my hand. You had ’em dope and rob us at Black Wells, thinkin’ I’d have it with me. You had Jud Mahley try to kill me, but he made a mistake and killed Charley Morse.”

“All lies!” breathed Lavelle. His lips barely moved, but his eyes looked straight ahead. “You can’t prove it--you can’t.”

“It proves itself,” said Hashknife. “You stole Bud’s cows to try and break him, Lavelle. Then you robbed the bank to send him to the penitentiary. You dirty coyote, you wanted Bud’s wife. But she told you that she was Bud’s wife as long as he lived; so you took him away from the law, hoping that he would be killed before being taken. Here’s what broke yuh, Lavelle.”

Hashknife opened his hand. It was a piece of silver, about the size of a half-dollar. As swift as the slash of a cat, Lavelle struck Hashknife’s hand aside and flung himself, drawing a gun from the side-pocket of his coat, while the crowd behind him scattered like a covey of frightened quail.

But if Lavelle acted quickly, Hashknife was prepared. His two hands flashed to the edge of the table, as he flung himself forward, throwing the weight of the overturning table into Lavelle, who promptly went over backward, crashing to the floor with his chair under him and the edge of the heavy table across his throat. Lavelle’s gun exploded, sending a bullet screeching along the floor and into the boot-heel of a cowboy, who jumped high from the impact.

The crash of Lavelle’s gun blended with the roar of Sleepy’s six-shooter. Jud Mahley’s right hand relaxed from around the butt of his cocked gun and his close-set eyes blinked foolishly as he tried to reason out why certain things were being done. For instance, why were several men struggling, cursing, fighting beside him; why were men shouting? Then the earth was jerked from under Jud Mahley.

Hashknife rolled the table-edge off Lavelle’s throat and kicked the revolver out of his nerveless hand. Mahley’s two companions were down on the floor, with Sody and Sleepy astride them, while Dug Breed jerked this way and that way, trying to figure out what to do first.

“Well, you danged jumpin’-jack, get us some ropes,” yelled Sleepy. “Do yuh think we want to set on ’em until they petrify?”

Breed turned to obey the order, but men were already producing ropes to tie up Lavelle and the two men from Black Wells. Jud Mahley needed no rope. Monte Sells and Brent Allard had disappeared in the confusion, picking up Frank Asher and Mesa Caldwell at the 76A and leaving only the tracks of four horses to show that they were all through with the Modoc country.

Hashknife gathered up his money from the floor and walked outside, while men tugged at his sleeve and demanded that he tell them the whole story. Uncle Jimmy shoved them aside and grabbed Hashknife with both hands.

“One of them punchers confessed to stealin’ cows!” he blurted. “Lavelle hired ’em to do it. And Lavelle gave Mahley the shotgun to kill yuh with. You sure was right, Hashknife. I’ve got to tell Ma and May.”

He ran across the street toward the sheriff’s office, and Hashknife followed him. The crowd had already got there with Lavelle and the two punchers. Bud was lying on the sheriff’s cot, exhausted from the rough ride, but conscious.

The crowd almost mobbed Bud, trying to exhibit their glee in his exoneration; but he did not know what it was all about. His wife, white of face, her eyes staring with fright, watched them and listened with ears that caught only a jumble of words.

Then Cleve Lavelle and the two cowboys were pushed roughly past her and into the cells at the rear, while Uncle Jimmy almost knocked her down in his joy and excitement.

“Bud is cleared!” he shouted in her face. “Don’tcha know what I’m sayin’? I tell yuh, he’s cleared!”

She tried to smile. It was like a dream. He shook her violently, as if trying to force her to understand. Ma Miller caught him by the arm and yanked him away.

“Don’t shake her, you ninny!” grunted Ma. “What happened, Jim? Tell me what happened?”

She shook him roughly with both hands.

“Don’t shake me, woman!” he exploded. “I’m jist about to bust.”

Hashknife came in and Uncle Jimmy pointed at him.

“He done it--the son of a gun--he done it! I tell yuh, he was the one what done it. I dunno how he done it, but he did.”

Dinah Blewette shoved in and tried to shake hands with Mrs. Daley. For once in his life, Dinah did not try to talk.

“What is it all about?” queried Mrs. Daley. “I--I don’t----”

“It means that Bud is cleared,” explained Sody. “Lavelle was the guilty man. Hashknife Hartley put the deadwood on him.”

Mrs. Daley lifted her head and looked at Hashknife, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. Bud had lifted on one elbow and the men stepped aside to let him see what was going on. They had told him enough to let him know that he was cleared. Hashknife looked at Bud and a smile came to his face, as he said:

“Bud, I’m comin’ back some day, when yo’re well. And I’m goin’ to knock ---- out of yuh for believin’ somethin’ that yuh only heard one side of.”

Bud blinked painfully and looked at his wife, who was coming toward him, her hands outstretched. He knew what Hashknife meant.

“All right, Hashknife,” he said hoarsely. “I hope you’ll come soon; and I’ll take the lickin’ with my hands down.”

Hashknife turned and faced Breed, who gripped his hand tightly.

“Monte Sells and Brent Allard pulled out,” he whispered.

“I know it,” replied Hashknife. “But you don’t need ’em. They were technically guilty, thasall. Mebbe they’ll do better now.”

“They’ll have twelve hours lead,” said Breed meaningly. “Mebbe this will be a lesson to ’em. It ought to, anyway. I reckon we’ll have to settle up Lavelle’s estate and square things with Bud. He owes Lavelle five thousand, and Lavelle owes him for a lot of cows; but we’ll see that Bud gets a square deal and that nobody suffers from it, Hartley.”

* * * * *

Hashknife nodded and walked out, with Sleepy treading on his heels. Some one called their names, but they did not heed. Came the whistle of the southbound train, late as usual. They turned and headed for the depot, where they climbed aboard the creaking smoker and sat down.

A moment later the car lurched ahead, and the lights of Modoc passed from view. Sleepy’s nose squeaked on the window glass as Hashknife said--

“Gimme yore Durham, Sleepy.”

“Why don’tcha buy yuh some once in a while?”

He handed over the sack and leaned back against the seat.

“Where did yuh get that rosette, Hashknife?” he asked.

“From Breed. I took one of the plain ones off my own chaps and had it in my pocket. When Breed showed me that rosette, I palmed it and put the other one in the drawer. I thought it would shock Mr. Lavelle. I had to bluff, Sleepy. I wasn’t sure of it all, but I reckon I guessed right. Here’s what was among that money that the hold-up man gave me that night.”

Hashknife drew out the piece of silver. It was so badly worn that the engraving and inscription was hardly visible; showing that it had been carried and handled much. One side was blank. The other showed the faint outline of a shield, on which was a tiger springing to the attack.

It was surrounded with a ribbon bearing the faint inscription in Latin:

In hoc signo spes mea.

And below was the one word--LAVELLE.

“What does it mean?” asked Sleepy. “I _sabe_ the Lavelle, but I dunno that other jargon.”

“It’s Latin, Sleepy. I had quite a time with it m’self. It’s been a long time since I studied Latin, but I managed to make it out. It means--In this sign is my hope. That shield and tiger must be the family crest of the Lavelle family.

“I knew danged well that nobody but Lavelle would have it; so I had him dead to rights. He made a ---- bad mistake that night. When they doped us at Black Wells, I knew they were tryin’ to get it back for him. Yuh remember, I told him we were goin’ there?

“I knew that Lavelle turned Bud loose that night, but it sure took me a long time to find out why. A streak of bad luck hit the Rest Ye All, and Lavelle got superstitious. I made a guess that he had told Monte Sells that the big pay-roll money was comin’ through that night. He had to have that hold-up pulled off, and nobody but his own gang would do it. He had Jud Mahley with him that night, because Jud was the only one he could trust.”

“And Lavelle was in love with May Daley,” mused Sleepy. “That’s funny, ain’t it?”

“Funny?” Hashknife looked sideways at Sleepy. “What in ---- is so funny about that?”

Sleepy’s mouth formed an unspoken, “Oh!” and he settled down in the seat, while the car wheels sent out their _clickety-click clickety-click_, and the engine whistled dismally around the sharp curves of the Modoc hills. Hashknife sat humped in his seat, his eyes half-shut in speculation.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

“About a range where there ain’t no more trouble, Sleepy. I’m kinda tired of it all now. I’m gettin’ so that I can’t think fast, and m’ gun-hand kinda cramps on me--kinda. Ho, hum-m-m!”

Sleepy glanced sideways at him and grinned softly.

“Yore medicine is still good, Hashknife. When you git so danged old that yuh can’t walk no longer, I’ll put yuh in a wheelchair, hang a sign around yore neck and take yuh along with me.”

“A sign on my neck?” laughed Hashknife. “What do yuh mean?”

“Jist a sign,” smiled Sleepy. “And on it I’ll have printed: ‘_In hoc signo spes mea._’ Only I’ll have yuh find me the Latin word for ‘under’ instead of ‘in.’”

And the medicine-man smiled in appreciation.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 30, 1924 issue of Adventure magazine.]