Chapter II: Part 2

“That wall-eyed bronc you sold to Clay Hardy. Yuh see--” Chet helped himself to Leather’s tobacco and papers--“Clay and Murtch runs into me and Wooden-shoe, and they asks us to have a drink. We got to talkin’ about that wall-eyed bronc, and Wooden-shoe, like a danged fool, tells ’em that he was the original owner. He says that you won it from him in a poker game out here.”

“Well, s’pose he did,” asked Wheezer. “What then?”

“Murtch asked Wooden-shoe who he got the bronc from and Wooden-shoe jist naturally can’t say. Murtch says it’s kinda funny, bein’ as the bronc has got a D-Bar-D brand on its shoulder and no other marks.

“Well, Wooden-shoe’s drinkin’, which makes him foolish and he tells Murtch to go to ----. Then Murtch arrests him for stealin’ a D-Bar-D horse.”

“And that’s a ---- of a note!” exploded Wheezer.

“The D-Bar-D outfit is over in Foster County,” volunteered Chet dismally. “Murtch says that the brand never was put on very deep, and the hair covered it.”

“And if the D-Bar-D keeps a sale record--Wooden-shoe is in bad shape,” said Leather. “Dang the luck, I don’t know how we overlooked that brand. Cinch to burn on the two sides to that bar and make it a DAD brand.”

“Which won’t get Wooden-shoe out of jail now,” Chet reminded them sadly.

“We vented a lot of D-Bar-D’s, if I remember,” said Wheezer thoughtfully, “and if that outfit comes over to identify that wall-eyed bronc they’ll likely kinda look around for more.”

“Yuh can’t identify a vented brand,” said Chet.

“No, but yuh can get ---- suspicious of an outfit with as many as the NR has on the range. Believe me, gents, I’m plumb ready to pull m’ freight.”

“What we need is a lawyer,” grinned Leather.

“I betcha we do,” Chet was serious.

“Might hire Eph Williams,” grinned Wheezer.

“Yeah, we might do worse,” nodded Leather. “He’s just crooked enough to defend a bunch of horse thieves and get away with it. I s’pose he’d want us to give him a bill of sale of the animals we stole.”

Chet kicked off his boots and stretched out on the bunk, where he proceeded to snore loudly. It was too early to dress; so Leather and Wheezer crawled back under their blankets again, and in a few minutes there was a trio of snores.

It was about eight o’clock when Leather and Wheezer got out of bed and slid into their clothes. Chet still snored loudly, but they did not wake him up. Wheezer went to the window and looked toward the ranch-house.

“Horse and buggy up there,” he announced. “Reckon the sweet lady’s guardian angel has arrived already.”

They finished dressing and went up toward the house. Eph Williams backed out of the door, carrying one end of a trunk, the other end of which was being carried by a Chinaman.

Williams merely glanced at the two cowboys and went back into the house, followed by the Chinaman.

“Well, whatcha know about that?” grunted Wheezer.

They walked around to the back door, where they found Ma Coogan sitting on the wash-bench. Her old face was streaked with tears, and she was wearing a very old alpaca dress, which she had not worn for years, and beside her on the bench was a little old hat with a moth-eaten feather.

She looked up at them, but did not speak. Leather frowned and hitched at his belt as he and Wheezer looked at each other queerly.

“I--I’m goin’--somewhere,” said Ma Coogan painfully. “They got a Chinaman.”

She did not look up at them. Leather turned away and rubbed his chin violently. Then he whirled on Wheezer.

“Go down and wake up Chet and saddle the horses. We’ll have to bust that jail and get Wooden-shoe out and----”

Wheezer whirled to go back to the bunk-house, but Leather stopped him.

“Wait. That won’t do no good either. I was going to kill that ---- lawyer, but that won’t help Ma.”

“Bless your hearts,” Ma looked up at them. “Sure, ye don’t need to worry about me.”

“No, I reckon not,” said Leather softly, “but we don’t want to have to eat Chink cookin’, Ma.”

“But the Lord love ye, we’re all fired.”

“That’s right. I’ll have to see that lawyer. Set still.”

Leather hurried around the house and Wheezer almost trod on his heels. Williams and Miss Cleveland were on the porch, and the Chinaman was putting the trunk into position to load it on to the back of the buggy.

“Whose trunk is that?” asked Leather.

“Mrs. Coogan’s,” said Williams defiantly.

Leather strode out to the Chinaman and pointed at the trunk.

“Roll it back to the porch, John.”

The Chinaman squinted at Leather and then at Williams.

“Didja hear what I said?” asked Leather.

“Yessah.”

The Chinaman tried to grin, but it was a weak effort.

“Then roll it back like I told yuh to do.”

“Just a moment.”

Williams grew very indignant and came down the steps.

“Let that trunk alone.”

“Roll it over to the porch, John,” ordered Leather. And then to Williams:

“Yo’re on thin ice, pardner. Keep out of the argument.”

The Chinaman rolled the trunk back to the porch.

“Now, get into that buggy,” ordered Leather, and the Chinaman lost no time in obeying. He had lived long in the range-country and knew better than to refuse an armed cowboy.

“You are just wasting your breath,” stated Williams with a weak smile. “Being armed, you have the advantage--for the moment.”

With a quick twist of his wrist, Leather flipped the gun from his holster and tossed it aside.

“Now, whatcha say?” he asked softly.

“My dear man, there is no use of a quarrel.”

Williams spread his hands and shrugged his shoulders. He tried to be friendly, but it was all lost on Leather.

“Yo’re seven-eighths coyote and--no, I won’t say that either. There’s two skunks in Broken Butte, and yo’re both of ’em.”

“You seem determined to quarrel with me, I see,” said Williams sadly. “I am only doing my duty, Kleig.”

“Yeah?”

Leather considered Williams for a space of time and nodded slowly.

“I reckon yo’re all right, Williams. I never trust a man that’ll back down. Shake, will yuh?”

Leather shoved out his hand, and Williams, a look of wonder on his face, shook hands solemnly with him. Wheezer swallowed with great difficulty and kicked himself on the ankle to see if he was asleep. Miss Cleveland’s face expressed astonishment, and even the Chinaman’s expressionless face changed its placid contour for a moment.

“I want to talk with yuh kinda private,” said Leather softly. “Mebbe we better go down to the bunk-house, eh? C’mon, Wheezer.”

Williams swallowed painfully, wonderingly and looked at Miss Cleveland, but followed behind them to the bunk-house steps, where they sat down.

“I ain’t never hired a lawyer before,” stated Leather, “and I dunno just how to go about tellin’ him things. Is it a fact that what yuh tell a lawyer is kinda--uh----”

“I think I know what you mean,” nodded Williams. “Whatever you tell me will be sacred.”

“Yeah, that’s the word I was huntin’ for,” grinned Leather. “Yo’re educated, Williams, and I sure like to talk to educated folks.”

Wheezer choked over his cigaret and dug his heels into the dirt. He wanted to yell out loud. Williams accepted the compliment as his just due.

“It better be sacred,” said Leather, “or four good punchers will swell the census of the penitentiary.”

Williams pricked up his ears, but tried to appear unconcerned.

Leather glanced sideways at him, but Williams was rubbing his chin thoughtfully and trying to control his elation. He had been insulted many times by these four wild-riding cowpunchers, and he was more than willing to have them bare their guilty secrets.

“I ain’t doin’ this so much for us as I am for the lady,” explained Leather slowly. “She thinks she inherited somethin’, pardner.”

“Ahem-m-m!”

Williams cleared his throat raspingly, but waited for Leather to continue.

“It dates back quite a while,” continued Leather. “Yuh see, old Nick Ralls wasn’t no saint. The NR wasn’t no payin’ proposition and old Nick was just about at the _hondo_ end of his rope when we showed up.

“We kinda made him a proposition. It’s hard for a cattle-rustler to dispose of stock these days, don’tcha know it?”

“I--er--shouldn’t be surprized,” nodded Williams.

“Anyway,” continued Leather, “here’s what was done. The four of us misbranded every danged critter we could find. We worked plumb over into Foster County. ’Course we didn’t steal a lot of Broken Butte cows, but there’s a few.

“We branded ’em with the NR iron, and Nick Ralls was to do the sellin’. His idea was to make the old NR look like a regular cow-ranch and sell out the whole works. Then he was to split the money; _sabe?_”

Williams squinted painfully at Leather. Somehow he could hardly believe that statement, and wondered where the joke came in. But Leather’s face was serious.

“You--you are not joking?” asked Williams.

“Don’tcha believe it. I ain’t tryin’ to excuse us. The NR owes us plenty of money, which we’ve got to collect, but I just wanted yuh to know how we stand, and how the lady--well, yuh can see what she inherited.”

“Yes, yes!” Williams seemed to be doing a lot of fast thinking. “Do you think there is any danger of an investigation? Is there--nobody suspects you, do they?”

“Here’s the point.” Leather tapped Williams on the shoulder and lowered his voice. “Yesterday we sold a horse to Clay Hardy. We didn’t know it, but that horse had a D-Bar-D brand on its shoulder. Murtch arrested Wooden-shoe Van Dorn and throwed him in jail.

“Murtch is goin’ to send word to the D-Bar-D outfit, over in Foster County, and find out how it comes that we had that horse.” Leather pointed out toward the hills and laughed grimly. “Them hills are full of D-Bar-D cows, with the brands vented and the NR run on.

“If that outfit comes over here to see about that wall-eyed bronc, they’ll start lookin’ for other stock they’ve lost, don’tcha see?”

“That’s right. But you vented the brands----”

“Yeah, and there’ll be a ---- of a lot for us to explain if they find out about all them vented brands. It’ll look kinda bad, don’t yuh think?”

Williams got to his feet.

“You sit tight, all of you,” he ordered. “I’ll stop Murtch, if it isn’t too late.”

He hurried toward the buggy, sprang in beside the Chinaman and whirled the horse around. Miss Cleveland called to him, but he put whip to horse and turned out of the ranch-house gate on two wheels.

Leather watched him disappear in a cloud of dust and then looked wonderingly at Wheezer.

“He--he’s in a hurry,” observed Wheezer.

Leather looked back up the road and nodded slowly, as a smile creased his thin features.

“Whatcha want to--” began Wheezer, but Leather stopped him.

“Don’t talk to me, Wheezer! Lemme think, will yuh? I’ve got an idea, but some of the parts are missin’.”

Chet Wells opened the door behind them and blinked into the sunlight.

“Leather hired Williams for our lawyer, Chet,” said Wheezer solemnly.

“Yeah, I heard it,” nodded Chet. “I heard old fish-eye’s voice; so I glued m’ ear to the door. Whatcha tryin’ to do--put us in the penitentiary, Leather?”

“He won’t talk to yuh,” stated Wheezer. “He’s thinkin’, Chet.”

“She’s about time he done a little thinkin’. He sure didn’t do any thinkin’ when he told our shame to that danged lawyer.”

Leather got to his feet and went to the house. Ma Coogan was still sitting on the wash-bench, waiting for Williams to take her away. She looked up at him and he grinned softly.

“Ma, you take off that dress,” he ordered kindly. “You can’t cook no breakfast, all dressed up thataway.”

“Cook breakfast? The Lord love ye, I’m----”

“Williams has gone back with his Chinaman, Ma. You go right back and fry us a flock of eggs. Mebbe there ain’t goin’ to be no change.”

“Do ye mean that, boy?” Ma got to her feet and put a trembling hand on his arm. “Ye’re not jokin’, are ye?”

Leather shook his head.

“No, I’m not, Ma. You’re still the chief cook of the NR ranch. The lawyer feels kinda different than he did a while ago.”

“Sure, I dunno what to say.” The old lady’s eyes sparkled with happiness as she looked around and picked up her old hat. “It’s like wakin’ from a bad dream, so it is. God is good to me, Leather Kleig. I’m goin’ to fry thim eggs--now.”

She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him, the tears running down her face, but went on into her beloved kitchen. Leather blinked uncertainly and shoved down on his cartridge-belt, after which he went around the house and picked up the six-shooter he had discarded.

Jane Cleveland was standing on the porch and she looked curiously at him. He grinned at her and gazed down the road.

“The lawyer went away in a hurry,” he observed. “I reckon I better carry Ma’s trunk back into her room.”

“I do not understand it,” she said.

“Neither do I,” he admitted, swinging the trunk back on to the porch, “but I reckon it’ll be all right, ma’am.”

He deposited the trunk in Ma Coogan’s little room and came back to the porch, but Jane Cleveland had gone to her room.

It was about three hours later that Wooden-shoe rode into the ranch and dismounted at the bunk-house. He was grinning widely.

“Bust out?” queried Chet.

“Huh!” Wooden-shoe grinned knowingly. “Much obliged to yuh. That sheriff was mad enough to eat hay. How did you fellers manage to sneak in and vent that brand last night?”

“Eh?” grunted Wheezer. “Whatcha mean?”

“Aw-w-w!”

Wooden-shoe turned the horse around and showed them the left shoulder of the animal, where a hot iron had completely destroyed any possibility of ever deciphering the original brand.

“That’s a good joke,” grinned Wooden-shoe. “Murtch was awful sore. He said it was a ---- good thing that he hadn’t sent word to the D-Bar-D. He knows who done it, but he can’t prove it, and he knows that, too.”

Chet and Wheezer looked inquiringly at Leather, but he merely grinned and nodded.

“Well, what’s the answer?” queried Chet wonderingly.

“Our lawyer is workin’,” Leather said with a chuckle.

“Kinda looks like it,” admitted Wheezer. “But lawyers come pretty high, don’t they? How are we goin’ to pay him, Leather?”

“I dunno--yet.”

* * * * *

That afternoon the four cowpunchers saddled their horses and headed for Broken Butte. There was nothing for them to do at the ranch--and they still had money left.

Miss Cleveland had spent most of the day in the shade of the porch, reading, while Ma Coogan lifted her quavering voice in song in the kitchen.

Half-way to town they met Eph Williams, driving toward the ranch. He drew up his horse and smiled, or rather smirked at them.

“You sure got into action real fast,” said Leather, “and we’re sure much obliged to yuh, Williams.”

“Yes, I think it was well handled, Kleig. Now, my advice to all of you would be to leave this country as soon as possible. In defense of my client I shall bend every effort to protect what is legally her property.

“As far as your salary claims are concerned, I am afraid they can not be met. Miss Cleveland has no money, and Nick Ralls left nothing but property, which would be hard to dispose of right away.”

“Yeah, that’s right, I reckon,” nodded Leather, “but it ain’t hardly fair to us. I’ll tell yuh what we might do: We might each take twenty-five head of beef steers and sell ’em. They’re worth about twenty dollars on the hoof right now.”

“Well--” Williams smiled weakly--“I’d hardly advise that either.”

“How many would we take for Ma’s share?” queried Chet seriously.

“Hard to tell.” Leather rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Ranch cooks gets about fifty per month, and if yuh figure that out for ten years and divide it by twenty--it would be quite a few cows.”

“Be about three hundred head,” said Chet. “We’ll take four hundred head of NR steers and call it square.”

Williams shook his head quickly.

“No, that would not be hardly fair to Miss Cleveland. She had nothing to do with this matter, and all claims against the estate must be in a form that the court would consider. Verbal agreements are, I am sure, something that would hardly be considered in a court of law.”

“Well, we’ll kinda hang around,” stated Leather. “Yuh never can tell what might happen. I think that old Nick was plumb loco when he wrote that will.”

“Not at all, Kleig; he was perfectly sane--perfectly.”

“I dunno how he got thataway,” grinned Wheezer. “He sure was always loco before.”

They rode on toward town, and Williams went on toward the NR. Leather was very thoughtful. There was the germ of an idea in his mind--a far-fetched feeling that it was a bright idea, and he grinned softly under the brim of his sombrero.

There was a big poker game in progress in the Shoshone when they came in. Battler Morgan, “King” Cole, a big horse raiser from the south end of the range, Jim Kelly, owner of the general merchandise store, Clay Hardy and Spade Hollister.

A number of men were watching the play, among them being Murtch. He scowled at the four cowpunchers, and moved around to the far side of the table. Spade Hollister glanced up at Leather, who was standing almost behind Clay Hardy, and half-nodded in recognition. Leather watched Spade closely--especially when he was dealing. His long, slender fingers dealt with baffling speed, but there was little chance for crooked play.

“Deal ’em a little slower, if yuh don’t mind.”

Clay Hardy was losing and inclined to be nasty about it.

“I didn’t learn poker in a hay-loft,” said Spade softly, and King Cole laughed heartily.

Clay Hardy scowled, as he picked up his hand, but did not reply. Leather glanced down at Hardy and noticed that Hardy’s holster was empty. A closer inspection showed that Mr. Hardy had the gun on his lap.

Leather’s lips tightened perceptibly. It looked to him as if Hardy was anticipating trouble. Leather glanced at Murtch who had moved from behind Hollister and was almost directly behind King Cole.

Clay lost that pot and swore softly at his luck. Spade glanced keenly at Hardy and flashed a look at Murtch.

“Spade’s the one Clay’s watchin’,” observed Leather to himself, “and Spade knows it.”

Battler Morgan dealt and the pot was passed. Hardy failed to deal openers and the deal passed to Kelly. On Kelly’s deal, Cole passed. Spade deliberated, but passed, and Battler opened moderately.

Hardy tilted the pot heavily, which caused Cole and Kelly to pass, but Spade called the raise and boosted the pot a hundred dollars. Battler passed and Hardy called. It took all of his chips, except one small stack of whites.

Leather watched the draw closely. Hardy tossed his discards on to the table, spinning them just a trifle too far, and two of them slid in front of Hollister, who brushed them aside.

Spade drew one card and Hardy drew three. He peered at the corners of his cards and his right hand drew off the table and dropped to his lap. Spade passed. For a moment Clay Hardy’s eyes squinted grimly at Spade and his lips tightened. Then--

“Pass,” he said softly.

Spade flipped his cards over. He had three kings and a pair of nines. Hardy leaned across and looked at them. Then he exposed his hand.

“Aces and sevens,” muttered Battler.

“Yeah, aces and sevens,” said Hardy, “and they’d ’a’ been good, if that ---- tin-horn gambler hadn’t stole the king I discarded.”

For an instant there was a dead silence. Then Spade jerked back in his chair. Quick as a flash, Clay Hardy’s hand came up over the table-top, gripping a revolver, but before he could level it at Hollister, Leather had flung himself across Hardy, blocking him and tearing the gun out of his hand.

Then he upset Hardy, who went sprawling and cursing against the corner of the wall.

Leather staggered sidewise, caught his balance and faced the crowd. The players had got to their feet and were looking at Hardy, who was swearing vengeance and getting to his feet.

“Lucky thing yuh blocked him, Kleig,” said King Cole. “He sure gets his gun quick.”

Leather was facing Hardy now, and Hardy was frothing with anger, but mindful of the gun which Leather was holding against his ribs.

“Yeah, he gets a gun quick,” smiled Leather, “but he got it off his lap--not out of his holster.”

“He stole my discard!” panted Hardy. “I tell yuh----”

“You’re a liar,” said Leather softly. “I watched him. You discarded into him to get an excuse to kill him. You wasn’t goin’ to give him an even break.”

“What’s that to you, you horse-thief?”

Clay Hardy spat out the question loud enough for every one in the place to hear. Leather did not move for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating just what to do. Then he handed King Cole the gun he had taken from Hardy.

“Put that in his holster,” he said softly.

Cole looked curiously at him, but stepped over and dropped the gun into Hardy’s holster. Hardy’s hands were hanging loosely at his sides, and he was hunched forward staring at Leather, who had lifted his right hand waist-high above the butt of his holstered-gun.

“Hardy,” Leather’s voice was low pitched, “you’re a dirty coyote pup. You spoke out of turn just now, and I’m givin’ yuh a chance to see if you’ve got guts enough to reach for a gun. I’m waitin’.”

Hardy’s face looked pinched and white now, and he was breathing fast. His eyes flashed around, as though wanting some one to interfere. Then his eyes came back to Leather Kleig and his knees quivered.

Then his hand came slowly up to his mouth and the back of it trembled across his dry lips. He turned and went out of the door, striking his shoulder against the side, like a drunken man who is not sure of his step.

“He’s whipped,” stated King Cole hoarsely. “Didja ever see a man get scared thataway? My ----, it sure was worth seein’.”

“Yeah, he sure turned yaller,” agreed Battler, turning back to his chair. “I s’pose that busts up a perfectly good game.”

Murtch had nothing to say. Spade Hollister seemed to watch him closely, but Murtch did not look toward him. Battler cashed in the chips and invited every one to have a drink, but Murtch went out without accepting the invitation.

Spade Hollister came over to Leather and stood beside him at the bar.

“Kleig, I’m much obliged to you,” he said.

“Tha’sall right,” said Leather gruffly. “I wouldn’t ’a’ said a word, if you’d ’a’ stole that king.”

Spade looked curiously at him and back to the bartender, who was taking their order. Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe were at the bar, chuckling among themselves over what had just happened.

They drank and moved away from the bar. Hollister looked at Leather, who started away from the bar. He half-smiled and stepped over beside him.

“Kleig, if I can ever help yuh in any way--just speak the word.”

Leather turned and looked keenly at him.

“Spade Hollister, I’d ’a’ done that for any man. I’m no angel, but I’d have to hate ---- out of a man to stand by and see him murdered. I s’pose you know what it was all about, don’tcha? Then yuh know who to look out for. If I need yuh--I’ll yelp.”

“And I’ll come,” nodded Spade as he turned and walked over to a roulette lay-out.

The other three cowboys edged up to Leather and they grouped together near the door.

“Cowboy, yuh sure work fast,” applauded Wheezer, slapping Leather on the shoulder. “And yuh sure put the fear of ---- into Clay Hardy.”

“Yeah, but look out for him,” cautioned Wooden-shoe. “He’s whipped, but he ain’t dead. That gambler sure owes you a lot. In another second he’d have been plugged.”

“And what for?” questioned Wheezer. “He’s a plumb stranger here, ain’t he? What’s Clay Hardy gunnin’ at a stranger for, I wonder?”

Leather shook his head and turned to King Cole, who came up to him. Cole grinned and slapped Leather on the shoulder.

“Kleig, I hear that you’ve got a female boss out at the NR. It can’t be done. If you fellers need a new job, come down to the KC horse outfit and go to work. It’s the same old forty-a-month and eats.”

Leather smiled and shook his head.

“Yuh heard Clay Hardy call me a horse-thief, didn’t yuh Cole?”

“Yeah, and yuh never denied it. Yuh never did steal many horses, did yuh?”

“Half a dozen, mebbe.”

“Pshaw, that don’t make yuh a horse-thief. Some folks draws the line too close.”

Cole laughed at his own wit and went to the door, where he turned.

“That offer holds good. Come any old time.”

“Thank yuh, Cole,” grinned Leather.

“Well, that’s a job, if we need it,” said Chet.

“If we need it,” nodded Leather.

The cowboys went back to the games, but Leather did not play. He took a seat against the wall, where he tilted back and appeared to be half-asleep. Once he counted his money carefully and stowed it away in the watch-pocket of his overalls.

There was no sign of Murtch nor Hardy. The afternoon wore away, and the oil chandeliers of the Shoshone were lighted. It was Saturday night and there was a heavy influx of cowboys.

The three-piece orchestra began screeching, and the dance-hall girls were out in force, mingling with the men. Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe were firmly implanted in different games; so Leather crossed the street alone to a restaurant. The waiter was the same Chinese that Williams had brought to the ranch, and he grinned in a friendly manner at Leather.

“No _sabe_,” he told Leather seriously. “Catchum job quick, lose ’m allesame.”

“Yuh didn’t last long, that’s a fact, John.”

“No last. Man swear alletime. Velly mad, I t’ink. W’at you like eat, eh?”

“What did he say about us, John?”

“No talk ’bout you--talk ’bout God. Yo’ _sabe_?”

“Religious, eh?”

“’Ligious? Yo’ mean--same like wo’ship?”

“Yeah, like worship, John.”

The Chinaman grinned and shook his head.

“No like. Yo’ wan’ soup?”

Leather finished his meal and went outside. He was a trifle cautious, for fear that Clay Hardy might try to ambush him. He knew that Clay would welcome a chance to get even for what had happened in the Shoshone, but he was sure that Clay would never face him in the light.

He strolled up the street and was going past the Broken Butte hotel, but stopped and stared in the window. Then he whirled around and went quickly inside. Ma Coogan was sitting in one of the hotel chairs against the wall, her hands folded in her lap.

She looked up as he came in and a smile wreathed her wrinkled old face.

“Sure I’ve been wonderin’ if I’d see you,” she said.

“Well, what are you doin’ here, Ma?” he demanded.

“I was brought here by the lawyer. Ah! I think it’s no use, Leather. He came this afternoon and had a long talk with Miss Cleveland, and thin--” Ma Coogan stopped and shook her head sadly--“and thin they loaded my trunk in the back of the buggy and made me come along.”

“I see.” Leather’s face hardened and he squinted thoughtfully. “He waited until we were gone. Have you got a room here, Ma?”

She shook her head.

“Leather, I have no money. Ye well know that Nick Ralls only gave me a home and----”

Leather turned and strode over to the desk.

“Give this lady a room,” he demanded. “She’s got a trunk somewhere. Here--” He tossed a twenty dollar gold piece on the desk--“that’s enough for now. When that’s gone, I’ve got more.”

“Yeah, sure, I’ll fix her up,” said the frowsy-looking clerk. “Dollar a day’s the best we’ve got.”

Leather went back to Ma and handed her another twenty.

“Yuh got to eat, Ma. This feller’ll fix yuh up for a room. Now don’tcha worry about anythin’.”

He patted her on the shoulder and escaped out of the door before she fully realized what he had done.

* * * * *

“Yo’re a ---- of a gunman, ain’tcha!” Murtch snorted angrily, but it had little effect on Clay Hardy, who sat hunched up in one of their office chairs, chewing tobacco violently. He only increased his mastications per minute.

Murtch jerked a chair into position and flopped down, facing Hardy.

“Everythin’ worked wrong,” complained Hardy nervously. “If that ---- Kleig hadn’t come in when he did and put the whole thing into a jam.”

“Yuh had an even break with him.”

“Yeah--with him.”

“Scared of him, eh?”

“I ain’t no crazy suicide, Murtch.”

“You was plumb scared to breathe, Clay.”

“Uh-huh. You’d ’a’ been the same. He’s got under yore hide, and yuh never call him for it, Murtch. How did I know that Kleig was goin’ to block me?”

“You was a fool to have that gun in your lap.”

“Yeah,” nodded Clay seriously, “I was a fool to have a gun a-tall. I ought to pack a doughnut.”

Murtch laughed hoarsely.

“Well, I reckon it kinda spoils our plans, but there’s more than one way to skin a cat. We’ve got the goods on that NR gang, if we want to use it.”

“Yo’re the boss, Murtch. All I ask is that yuh don’t get me into no mix-up with ’em. They don’t use no judgment. Law and order don’t mean nothin’ to that bunch, and a sheriff’s star looks like a bulls-eye to them.”

“I’d hate to hear what folks will say about you, after the way yuh acted in front of Kleig.”

“I’d a ---- sight rather be able to hear ’em say I backed down than to not hear ’em say I was crazy to try to beat Kleig on the draw.”

“Well, there might be somethin’ to that. Let’s go and see what Williams has got to say.”

They locked up the office and went up the street to Williams’ place. He had but lately arrived from the ranch and greeted them with a grin.

“I brought the old woman down with me,” he explained. “So that’s that much done. I’ll take the Chink out there again in the morning. What did you do on that other proposition?”

Briefly, but with sundry oaths, Murtch told of what had happened in the Shoshone. Hardy made no comments. Williams scowled deeply and tapped on the table-top with his finger-tips.

“What do yuh advise?” asked Murtch.

“Sitting tight. There has been too many mistakes. There will be a howl raised when they find that the old woman has been discharged. Miss Cleveland did not want to stay out there alone, but I assured her that everything would be all right.”

“Well, I hope yo’re right,” nodded Murtch getting to his feet. “If that bunch get drunk, yuh never can tell what they’ll do. They think a lot of the old woman.”

“Pshaw! What does a horse-thief care about an old woman? They’ve got enough to look after, if they keep themselves out of jail.”

“All right. We’ll figger things out in the mornin’. Come on, Clay.”

They went out and closed the door. Williams lighted a frayed cigar and opened his safe, which was set into the wall behind his desk. It was an old-fashioned safe, which opened with a key.

He took out a mass of papers and looked them over in the light of his lamp. For a long time he studied them and then replaced them in the safe, after which he pocketed the key.

As he turned down the lamp, preparatory to blowing it out, there came a knock on the door. He hesitated for a moment and seemed about to call out, but changed his mind and went to the door. He turned the knob and looked outside.

There was no one in sight. He leaned out and glanced down the street. Then something crashed down upon his head and he fell backward into the room.

* * * * *

It was about three o’clock in the morning when Wheezer, Chet and Wooden-shoe decided to go back to the ranch. None of them had seen Leather, and, as his horse was missing from the hitch-rack, they decided that he had preceded them to the NR.

The gods of the green cloth had not been good to the trio, and there was little merriment within them as they left Broken Butte.

“I’m as clean as the dew,” said Wheezer sadly. “I spent m’ substance in tryin’ t’ make two-pair beat three of a kind.”

“Yuh ought to play roulette,” observed Wooden-shoe. “Get yuh a little system, that’s all yuh need.”

“How much you got left?” demanded Chet.

“I still got my system left--and a four-bit piece.”

“I sure hope that Leather’s got some money left,” said Chet. “My pesos has all gone where the woodbine twineth and the pelican trilleth to its mate.”

They unsaddled their horses and went up to the bunk-house door. It was bright moonlight, almost as light as day, and their eyes beheld a great and varied assortment of things piled on the steps.

They looked the things over carefully and grunted their amazement.

“Looks like somebody done moved us out,” observed Wheezer. “What’s on the door?”

He climbed over the stuff and studied a square of white paper which was tacked on the door. He scratched a match and read the message aloud.

“Notice. Any one entering this building without my permission
will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law.”

Wheezer whistled softly and looked back at them.

“And she’s signed by Miss Jane Cleveland, owner of the NR ranch.”

“Door locked?” asked Chet.

“Locked ----! It’s nailed tight.”

“Well,” observed Wooden-shoe optimistically, “it’s a good thing that it ain’t Winter and zero weather.”

“That’s a ---- of a thing to be joyful about.”

Wheezer climbed back and sat down on a pile of blankets.

“I wonder where Leather is.”

“Prob’ly asleep in the barn,” said Chet. “That ---- lawyer sure foxed us, didn’t he? That whippoorwill ain’t workin’ for us, that’s a cinch, and I’m goin’ to curry him to the queen’s taste. Yessir, I’m goin’ to hit him so hard that he’ll have a permanent part in his hair.”

“I hope,” said Wooden-shoe, “he dies before his time comes.”

“Let’s go down to the barn and join Leather in the hay,” suggested Wheezer. “Mebbe there ain’t no notice on the hay-loft.”

They filed down to the big barn and crawled into the loft, which still contained a ton or so of hay, but Leather was not there.

“Prob’ly never left town,” said Wheezer as he burrowed into the hay. “Gosh dang it, we’ll wake up full of fox-tail, I betcha.”

He was facing the opening of the loft, a doorless opening, about six-feet square, which gave him a view of the ranch-house yard and the big gate. The moon was partly obscured for a few minutes, which made objects rather hazy, but he saw a horseman coming toward the gate, traveling slowly.

“Here comes Leather,” he stated. “Let him see the notice, et cettery, and then listen to him cuss.”

The others shifted their positions to watch him. He was almost under the arch of the gate, when a streak of orange-colored flame seemed to spurt up at him from a brush-tangle just beyond, and the thud of a revolver shot broke the stillness.

The boys in the loft were unable to see just what did happen, but the rider was shooting now. Another spurt of flame came from the tangle. Three times the rider’s gun spat fire, the reports mingling with those from the brush.

“My ----, what’s goin’ on?” gasped Wheezer, almost falling out of the loft opening.

“There he goes!” exclaimed Chet.

The rider had turned and was riding rapidly away, the sound of the galloping horse dying away in the distance.

They tumbled out of the loft and raced toward the gate, each man carrying a gun in his hand. Out through the gate they ran and stopped in the road.

“Over here!” panted Wheezer. “He was shootin’ from that bunch of--look out! There he is.”

A man was lying sprawled on his face in the tangle, and the moonlight glinted on his revolver, which was lying on the ground near him. They did not need to turn him over to see it was Clay Hardy.

“Whatcha know?” panted Chet. “The dirty bushwhacker!”

“Yeah, he shot first,” agreed Wheezer. “I seen him shoot first. Wonder if he’s dead.”

“Feel of his heart,” said Wooden-shoe. “If it ain’t beatin’, he’s dead.”

“It sure takes brains to know that!” grunted Chet.

Wheezer turned him over and felt of his heart. It was beating jerkily.

“He ain’t dead--yet. What’ll we do with him?”

“Take him to a doctor,” suggested Wooden-shoe.

“And go to the pen for shootin’ him?” queried Chet.

“He got cultivated on the head,” stated Wheezer. “A bullet sure danced a jig on his noodle, but I don’t reckon it went through. Was that Leather?”

“Looks like it might ’a’ been. Him and Hardy had a run-in, and I’ll betcha Hardy sneaked out here and laid for him. He never budged when we came through.”

Chet walked back down the road, where a number of cottonwoods made a black blotch against the sky. Just to the left of them grew a tangle of stunted willows.

“Here’s his horse!” called Chet, and went over into the willows after it.

They could see the outlines of the ranch-house, but the shooting had not caused any one to light a lamp nor come to investigate.

“I’ll betcha that Cleopatra’s scared stiff,” said Wheezer.

“Cleopatra ain’t got a ---- thing on me if she is,” declared Wooden-shoe. “I’m scared, too, y’betcha.”

Chet came back with the saddled horse and they boosted Clay Hardy aboard.

“We’ve got to have ropes to hold him on with,” said Chet, as they tried to balance the swaying figure. “We’ll take him over to the barn and rope him on good, and then we’ll saddle up and take him to town.”

* * * * *

It took Eph Williams a long time to wake up from the smash on his head. He had been hit a solid clip and things were rather hazy in his mind for some time. It cost him considerable pain to crawl over to his chair, where he sat and recuperated.

He was not in the best physical condition and he cursed himself weakly, while he wondered what had happened to him. A bump the size of an egg on his head attested to the fact that something had hit him--and hit him hard.

Gradually he recovered sufficiently to try to analyze what had really occurred. He knew now that some one had knocked him down. Who it was and why, he did not know. He examined the contents of his pockets, but everything was intact. The safe was locked, the papers on his desk all in place.

“Must have been a personal matter,” he observed thankfully, but was unable to blame any certain person. A lawyer of his type makes many enemies.

He secured some water and bathed his head carefully, after which he took a bottle of whisky from his desk and indulged freely. It was nearly daylight now. He looked at his watch, tried to put his hat on over the knob on his head, but decided it was too painful; so he went outside bare-headed, locked his office and went down to see Murtch.

Murtch was not ready to get out of bed, and he swore peevishly at Williams, who persisted on hammering on the front door of the office. Finally Murtch came and opened the door.

“Now, what in ---- do you want?”

“Somebody hit me on the head,” explained Williams.

“Yeah?” Murtch was very sarcastic.

“Prob’ly didn’t want to hurt yuh, so they hit yuh on the head.”

“Must have had a gun or something,” said Williams, feeling tenderly of his recently acquired swelling.

“What’s the joke?”

“No joke,” Williams shook his head. “I tell you, I got knocked down in the doorway of my own office. Look at my head.”

Murtch examined the swelling and his demeanor changed.

“Come on inside.”

Murtch lighted a lamp and drew on his pants and boots.

“Now, who hit yuh, Eph?”

“I don’t know. A while after you left I heard some one knock. I went to the door, stuck my head outside--and got hit. I tell you, it made me sick.”

“Huh!”

Murtch drew out his watch and glanced at it.

“You must ’a’ been knocked out quite a while.”

“Yes, I think so. I didn’t come down here right away, because I was too sick. I haven’t the slightest idea of why it was done. I was not robbed and there is nothing missing from my office.”

“That’s danged queer,” observed Murtch. “Yo’re sure they didn’t take anythin’?”

“Not a thing. Where is Clay Hardy?”

“I dunno. He got sore at me and went away. Mebbe I talked a little too tough to suit him.”

Williams rubbed his sore head and thought deeply.

“Those cowpunchers have likely gone back to the ranch,” he said thoughtfully, “and I’ve promised to bring that Chinaman out there this morning, but I don’t feel like it.”

“I’ll take him out,” offered Murtch.

“You will? Well--” thoughtfully--“perhaps that would be better. You see, I nailed up the bunk-house door, after I moved out all their things, and put a trespass notice on the door.”

“And yuh think it would be better, eh? No wonder yuh don’t want to go out there. Moved ’em out and nailed the door, eh?”

“Miss Cleveland suggested it.”

“The ---- she did! I thought you was supposed to be her adviser.”

Williams tried to grin, but it was a sorry effort. Murtch looked again at his watch.

“What time does that Chink restaurant open?”

Williams shook his head.

“What difference----”

“Lot of difference. If I can get that Chink now, I can get him out there on the job before they wake up.”

“We can find out. If they’re not up, we’ll wake ’em.”

Murtch put on his coat and they went to the restaurant. There was no sign of life, so they went to the rear, where the proprietor and his hired help slept in a sort of a shed-like annex.

Murtch hammered on the door and a sleepy-eyed Celestial shuffled into view. It was the proprietor of the restaurant, and to him Murtch explained what he wanted.

“Yo’ want same boy like yo’ take before?”

“Yeah, the same one. Catchum good job. Same ranch.”

The Chinaman turned and hurled a volley of words toward the rear of the shed. Began a conversation which lasted fully a minute. Then the proprietor shook his head.

“Boy say no.”

“Lemme see him,” said Murtch, and a moment later the Chinaman came to the door.

“Good job this time, John,” explained Murtch. “You go with me and take charge of the same ranch-house.”

“Same place we go before?”

“Yeah, same place, John.”

“No can do.”

“No can do! Whatcha talkin’ about? This good job?”

“No can do,” said the Chinaman stolidly, and went back to his bed.

The proprietor shut the door softly and barred it from within.

Murtch and Williams went back to the street.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” queried Murtch. “There ain’t no other chinks and we can’t get a white cook. If you’d had any sense you’d ’a’ left the old woman there.”

“Things are in an awful tangle,” agreed Williams. “An awful tangle.”

“Now, that made a ---- of an impression on my mind,” said Murtch angrily. “You’ve balled up everything. I’ll go out and explain things to Miss Cleveland. She’s got such ---- good ideas, such as nailing up bunk-house doors and posting notices--mebbe she’ll see a way out of this.”

Murtch hurried after his horse and rode toward the NR ranch. It was daylight now, and Murtch hoped he would not meet any of the NR cowpunchers. Not that Murtch was afraid, but their rough humor was too pointed to suit him.

About two miles out of town he ran into them. There was no way to dodge them, so he drew up in the center of the road and tried to think of a reason for being there so early in the morning. He inwardly cursed Eph Williams for nailing that bunk-house door.

Then he saw that there was a fourth man, roped to his saddle and riding in an unusual position. They drew up near him, their faces very serious, and waited for him to speak. He knew at a glance who the fourth rider was and he frowned wonderingly.

“Somebody shot him,” offered Wheezer. “We found him and was takin’ him to the doctor.”

Murtch rode in closer to Hardy and tried to get a look at his face.

“He ain’t dead, is he?”

“Wasn’t when we started,” said Chet, “but he ain’t in the best of health right now.”

“No?” Murtch glanced around at them. “Where did yuh find him?”

He emphasized “find” very strongly.

“None of that!” snapped Wheezer quickly. “We didn’t have nothin’ to do with it. Hardy tried to bushwhack somebody and got leaded for his trouble.”

“Did, eh? Who was that somebody?”

“We dunno.”

“Dunno, eh? Where’s Kleig?”

“Dunno that either.”

“Thasso?”

“Why argue with the danged fool?” queried Wooden-shoe. “He’s got his mind fixed. Give him his second-hand deputy and let’s go back and finish our sleep.”

“That’s a good idea,” agreed Wheezer, handing the lead rope to Murtch. “He can take better care of Hardy than we can.”

“Wait a minute!” snapped Murtch. “You can’t pull nothing like that. You come back with me--all of yuh.”

“Yuh mean to arrest us?” asked Wheezer.

“That’s what I mean to do.”

“All right,” grinned Chet. “We’ll remember it.”

Murtch clamped his jaws and looked them over. Here were three men who had no respect for him nor the law. He knew it would be useless to insist on them going back to Broken Butte with him; not only useless, but dangerous as well. But he was willing to try and bluff them.

“Yuh know what it means to resist an officer?”

“Did somebody resist yuh, Murtch?” asked Wheezer.

Murtch studied them for a moment and tightened upon the lead rope.

“All right,” he said meaningly. “I asked yuh to come with me and yuh refused, remember. Next time I want yuh I’ll bring men enough to take yuh.”

“Kind of a mass meetin’, eh?” grinned Chet. “Mebbe we won’t stay for yore party, sheriff.”

“You’d be ---- wise not to!” snapped Murtch as he turned and rode away, leading Hardy’s horse.

The three cowboys watched him for several minutes, but he did not look back. Then they whirled their horses and went back toward the ranch.

“We’ll pack what stuff we want and fade out,” said Chet. “There’s no use takin’ any chances. If he once gets us behind the bars--_adios_.”

“What about Leather?” asked Wheezer. “I ain’t goin’ to fog away without hearin’ from him. If he was the one that nailed Clay Hardy he’ll show up or send us word.”

“What do you think, Wooden-shoe?” asked Chet.

“I been wonderin’. Ain’t it kinda funny that the sheriff advised us to pull out of here? That ain’t accordin’ to my idea of what a sheriff ought to do. He can’t hold us for what happened to Clay Hardy.”

“If he does, he can,” observed Chet. “And if they ever put the deadwood on us for all this rustlin’--whooee! Nawsir, I can’t see myself waitin’ for him to come out with a posse. Williams knows that we loaded this range with cattle, and I don’t trust that jasper a-tall. Mebbe Leather had the right idea in tellin’ him--I dunno.”

* * * * *

They found Miss Cleveland on the porch of the ranch-house, and from her appearance, she had slept little. She was not the imperious lady of the day before, and seemed rather glad to see the three punchers.

“Howdy,” greeted Wheezer, as they dismounted. “Nice morning, ain’t it, ma’am.”

“Yes, it--it’s very nice. Did you just come from town?”

“Well, not quite from town, ma’am. Yuh see, a man got kinda shot up down there by the gate this mornin’, and we had to take him in.”

“A man got shot! Oh, I heard the shots! Who--how did it happen?”

“Some feller pulled the trigger,” explained Wheezer. “Jist like blooie, blooie, blooie! Three times.”

Wheezer held out his hand and went through the motions of pulling the trigger three times.

“But who was it?”

“Nobody you know, ma’am,” said Chet. “One feller laid for the other one. Didn’t amount to nothin’.”

“But I want to know who it was.”

“The one that got shot was Clay Hardy, the deputy sheriff.”

“Was--was he trying to make an arrest?”

“Prob’ly,” said Wheezer dryly. “I wouldn’t put anythin’ past that sheriff’s office.”

The girl looked inquiringly at them and adjusted her tumbled hair.

“Did you see Mr. Williams this morning?” she asked.

“Old fish-eye?” Chet shook his head. “We’re layin’ for him, and I’ll betcha he don’t show up. Wonder when Ma is goin’ to have breakfast ready.”

“Oh!” Miss Cleveland looked curiously at him and frowned slightly. “Didn’t you--er--Mrs. Coogan is not here. Mr. Williams took her to town last night.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Chet rubbed his chin and nodded slowly. Wheezer and Wooden-shoe squinted at each other and back at Miss Cleveland.

“Went to town, did she?” asked Wheezer. “That’s funny.”

“Mr. Williams took her,” repeated the girl. “He said he would bring me another cook early this morning.”

“Said he would,” parroted Wheezer. “Whatcha know?”

“Ma’am,” said Wooden-shoe, “I don’t reckon you _sabe_ about Ma Coogan. Mebbe folks has told yuh wrong.”

“You lemme do the talkin’,” Wheezer interposed impatiently. “You don’t want no Chinese cook. You----”

“Are you running this ranch?” asked Miss Cleveland, but her voice was a trifle weak, and she seemed to force herself to be stern.

Wheezer laughed softly and shook his head.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t. Yo’re the owner and boss, but we know this here ranch better than you or that fish-eyed lawyer does. We seen that notice on the bunk-house door and we seen all our stuff piled outside.

“Thassall right. We ain’t wailin’ about that part of it. Ma’s old, ma’am. This is her home. She’s been here a long time, don’tcha know it. Mebbe you had a mother, and if yuh did, and if she was old like Ma, and----”

Wheezer stopped and scratched his head. He had about run out of words. Miss Cleveland bit her lip. She seemed very thoughtful, and the boys waited for her to speak.

“And Ma didn’t have no money,” said Chet softly.

“I--I’m sorry,” said the girl. “I--oh, don’t talk to me! I had to stay alone in that house all night and I never slept at all, and ---- such a place!”

She whirled on her heel and fairly ran into the house, leaving the three cowpunchers gawping after her.

“She cusses jist like a human bein’,” said Chet wonderingly. “She said, ‘---- such a place!’ I betcha she’s mad at the old NR.”

They sat down on the steps and rolled smokes. There was no use in them staying at the ranch, and they knew of no place to go.

“We’re in a ---- of a fix,” declared Wheezer.

“Wooden-shoe can cook,” observed Chet. “If I could cook I’d go into the kitchen and cook.”

“I ain’t et nothin’ since yesterday noon,” complained Wheezer. “My insides are paralyzed from inaction.”

“I wonder if she’d let me cook?” questioned Wooden-shoe.

“You try it and see.” Miss Cleveland spoke from the doorway. “I had a can of corn for my dinner and I haven’t had anything since. I don’t know how to cook.”

“Lemme at that kitchen,” grinned Wooden-shoe. “I’m plum familiar with food. If the lawyer comes you tell him to tie his chink to the corral-fence, ’cause there’s a horse-thief in the kitchen.”

“Honest?” Miss Cleveland stared at him.

“Well, about as honest as a horse-thief ever gets,” grinned Wooden-shoe, and jingled his spurs into the kitchen.

* * * * *

Murtch lost no time in taking Clay Hardy to a doctor--old Doctor Chisholm, the only M. D. in Broken Butte. He was a tall, very severe old man, whose spectacles were forever threatening to slip off the end of his long nose.

He made a quick examination of Clay Hardy, who had never regained consciousness, and shook his head.

“Sher-r-riff, this is no job for a sur-r-r-geon. Ye are wantin’ the coroner.”

“Is he dead?” asked Murtch quickly.

“I ha’ never seen a deader one, sir.”

Murtch shook his head wearily.

“Well, you’re the coroner, Doc.”

“Aye. How did ye say he came by his wounds?”