Chapter I: Part 1

THE SHADOW SHOOTER

W. C. Tuttle

Hashknife--Wise, Humorous Adventurer of the
Open Range--Rides Over the Hill Again

“H-e-e-y! What the hell is the matter with this here thing?”

“Soapy” Weed’s voice began a deep bass, rising in a swift crescendo until it hit a note far above the range of anything below a soprano.

Soapy stood in the middle of the AH bunk-house, full in the light of two oil lamps. Balanced on the edge of a table was a packing-case which bore the imprint of a popular mail-order house and at his feet was a smaller case of the same kind.

Soapy’s stubby nose was beaded with perspiration and his blue eyes were filled with anxiety. He was of medium height, weighing possibly a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was of a sandy hue and just now it flared as though in a gale, attesting to the fact that Soapy had shortly emerged through the neck band of a white, stiff-bosom shirt, which was so new and so stiffly starched that the deed had only been accomplished by a supreme effort.

Over the shirt he wore a glaringly new checked suit, the sleeves of which came far above his wrists and the shoulders were far too narrow. Both hands clutched with a death grip on the waist-band of the checked trousers, which were inches and inches too large around the waist.

Seated on a bunk was “Cling” Heffner, a giant of a cowboy. He had been nicknamed “Clinging Vine,” but this had been shortened to plain “Cling.” He was slightly bald, square-faced, with a crooked nose and huge mouth surrounded at each end by deep grin wrinkles--like a gash in parenthesis.

He surveyed Soapy critically.

“Well--holee gee!” he breathed. “You don’t fit ’em, Soapy.”

“And is that all yuh can say?” asked Soapy wearily.

“It’s good-lookin’ cloth, Soapy. I never thought that there sample would ever make up--”

“Oh, damn the cloth! Look at this, will yuh?”

Soapy tried to cross his arms, but the effort was futile. And when he let loose of the waist-band his trousers fell to the floor. He leaned forward and glared at Cling, making no effort to recover the trousers.

“Yuh need suspenders, Soapy.”

“Yea-a-a-ah?”

Soapy kicked the offending trousers against the door of the bunk-house, and Cling grinned widely.

“You look like one of them there quail birds without any tail feathers, Soapy; honest yuh do.”

“Do I?” Soapy was sarcastic. He leaned against the table and glared at Cling. “You measured me for that suit, feller.”

“I follered directions.”

“You did, like hell! Here’s what yuh done. I wear a thirty-nine coat and a thirty-one waist-band. And dang you, Cling, yuh got them figures down on the wrong blanks. Thirty-one coat! My God, that wouldn’t fit a chickadee! And a horse ain’t over thirty-nine around the waist.”

“Some horses are, Soapy. Aw, don’t git hot. Lemme see them pants, will yuh? I can take a tuck in the rear. What’s eight inches, anyway? ’S far as that’s concerned, yuh can gather it up inside yore belt. I admit that the coat fits tight. Sa-a-ay! Eight inches will jist about make it. We’ll take eight inches out of them pants and set it between the shoulders of the coat. Git me a pair of shears and a needle.”

“Na-aa-a-aw! For God’s sake, Cling! You can’t do it. What do you know about sewin’? I’m ruined.”

“Howsa hat?” asked Cling.

Soapy groaned and lifted a pearl-colored fedora from the smaller case, gazing at it critically.

“Put her on, Soapy.”

Carefully and with both hands Soapy lifted up the hat and placed it atop his head, where it sat without visible means of support, except gravity.

“Pull her down,” said Cling.

“Pull hell!” He reached up savagely, clutched the hat in his right hand and flung it as far as the confines of the bunk-house would permit.

“I think you’ve swelled since we took yore measure,” said Cling solemnly. “But if that hat’s a seven and three-eighths, I’ll eat it.”

Soapy sat down heavily on a bunk and held his head in his hands while Cling proceeded to dress himself in a fairly new suit of robin’s egg blue, which bagged so badly at the knees that it looked as though Cling was getting ready to do a broad jump.

“You better shake a laig, Soapy,” said Cling, as he surveyed himself in the cracked mirror. “You’ve got to go out to the IS ranch, yuh must remember.”

“Yeah, I remember,” said Soapy, lifting a doleful face. “I also remember that you took my measure for that dang suit, and yuh got me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants. What kind of a figure do they think I’ve got? And a six and seven-eights hat! Cling, some day, I’m goin’ to kill you.”

“I’m sorry,” drawled Cling sadly. “I’d hate to git killed by a friend, ’specially when I’ve got so much to live for. There’s two things I want to do before I die, Soapy. One is to draw an inside royal flush, and the other is to smash Tuck Hayward right square in the beak.

“I’ve done drawed about seven thousand dollars’ worth of them inside royals in my life, and none of ’em took. If yuh crave hard enough, I’ll let yuh wear that red necktie of mine, Soapy. It’s got soup on the lower aidge, but yuh can button yore vest over it. Aw, cheer up, pardner. Climb into yore raiment. Tell Yvonne that yore suit never showed up.”

“She didn’t know I was gettin’ one.”

“Well, that’s fine. You look like hell in a fedory hat, anyway. Ain’t it enough glory to take Yvonne LeClere to a dance, without addin’ a checked suit? My God, she’s a pretty girl! Why, I’d--I’d take her to a dance if I never had a thing to wear, Soapy.”

Soapy sighed deeply and began putting on the suit he had worn for Sunday best for three years. Its original color had been black, but time and lack of proper care had changed it to a sickly green. However, Soapy retained the dress shirt and added a high collar, which caused him to act as though he had a stiff neck. Added to this was the red tie, with the soup spots on the lower “aidge.”

The tie immediately climbed to the upper edge of the collar and stayed there, in spite of Soapy’s efforts to make it stay down.

“I shore look like hell!” snorted Soapy.

“Not as she has been propounded to me,” said Cling seriously. “Yuh look a little stiff around the neck--tha’sall. Don’t set down hard or you’ll slice yore ears off. Mebby after yuh sweat a little she’ll loosen up. C’mon, we better get goin’.”

They went out to the stable and saddled their horses. Johnny Colburn and “Slim” Benito, the cook at the AH, had already gone to Chongo. Old “Ace” Hart, owner of the AH, was too old to care about attending a dance. It was payday on all the ranches, and the boys of the AH always said that Ace was so sorrowful on that day he must stay at home and hang crape on himself.

Soapy and Cling mounted their horses and rode away toward Chongo town but separated at the forks, Cling riding south across Silver River to the town, while Soapy rode north to the IS ranch to bring Yvonne LeClere to the dance.

The IS was located about four miles north of Chongo, while the AH was about the same distance from town, slightly north of east. Soapy was not in a good humor, due to the misfit of his new suit and hat. It had taken him quite a while to accumulate that forty dollars which they represented, as Soapy was not a frugal soul and forty a month does not allow for much saving.

“She’s a total loss,” he told his horse. “Won’t even make good cleanin’ rags for a six-gun. If old P. T. Barnum was alive he’d shore pay a whoppin’ salary to the man who could fit into that suit. Thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants! And a hat fit for a peanut! But that’s what yuh get for lettin’ a waddy measure yuh.”

And then Soapy’s thoughts drifted away from the suit and centered on Yvonne LeClere. He couldn’t for the life of him quite understand why Yvonne should accept his invitation to the dance; why he was favored above the rest. Soapy was not at all vain or egotistical. He could look at himself in a mirror and see himself as others might see him. He was neither handsome, graceful, intellectual nor wealthy; just a forty-a-month cowboy trying to get along. He had known Yvonne before her father sent her away to school, where she had stayed four years, but they had never been intimate friends. She had been sort of a wild kid, with big black eyes, red lips and a mop of unruly black hair. She rode like a wild thing; rode any horse she could mount, much to the amusement of old Frenchy LeClere, who swore great oaths that Yvonne could ride better than any puncher in Silver River Valley.

Old Frenchy was proud of Yvonne. His eyes always snapped when her name was mentioned.

“She’s de LeClere blood,” he would declare, striking himself on his broad chest. “Better man den Joe. Joe--well, she’s not so good. She’s not bad boy--Joe; jus’ wild.”

Silver River Valley had its own opinion of Joe LeClere. Joe was five years older than Yvonne, who was barely twenty. He was dark, with black eyes and a cruel mouth. And he was wild, was Joe LeClere; wild rider, wild drinker, wild gambler. He trailed with a wild crowd.

Frenchy LeClere did not remonstrate with Joe, because Joe was of age now. But one day when Joe was eighteen his father knocked him down with the neck-yoke of a wagon. After doctoring him back to consciousness he said:

“W’en I say somet’ng, I mean no! No, she’s not yes. Nor she’s not maybee. Me, I’m not like strike child wit’ feest; so I’m tak’ neck-yoke and hit you so--hard, maybee you remember for t’ree year more that I am boss. After dat I’m don’ give hell. You can’ go way and say I’m don’ raise you right, by God!”

And Joe had remembered to the best of his ability. In spite of his wild blood, he had a lot of respect for his big, spade-bearded, white-haired father. The neck-yoke probably did much to gain this respect.

Soapy rode in at the ranch-house and Frenchy LeClere met him at the doorway, his broad figure back-lighted by a huge lamp on the table.

“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed rumblingly. “By gosh, ’ere’s de cowboy come for you, Yvonne! Shak’ leg! Come in, Soapee. H’all polish up, eh?” He slapped Soapy on the shoulder so hard that the cowboy half flinched.

“Hyah, Mr. LeClere!” he grinned.

The old man lifted his bushy brows and stared at Soapy.

“So-o-o? Mistaire LeClere, eh?”

“Gotta be polite,” grinned Soapy.

“Biccause you tak’ my girl to de dance, eh? You never mind be polite to me; you be polite to her.”

“Shore thing, I will,” said Soapy seriously.

“Rest de feet, eh?” grinned Frenchy LeClere, indicating a chair.

Soapy sat down on the edge of the seat, while the old man sat down in an ancient rocker, which creaked ominously under his weight.

“Joe at home?” asked Soapy after a silent moment. The old man frowned slightly, but finally lifted his brows and looked at Soapy.

“She’s not here--no. Joe she’s spend mos’ time in town. I dunno,” he shook his head sadly. “She’s h’all right biffore de railroad come to Chongo. Railroad bring de gambler, de women. Mak’ new building, too. Chongo grow beeg. I’m sorry. We ’ave de nice li’l town, h’everybody happy; now she’s h’all go to hell, I’m guess.”

“I don’t like it myself,” said Soapy earnestly.

“Bimeby comes de barb-wire, nester, mebby sheep.”

“I’ll pull out ahead of that.”

“You are yo’ng; you can go some place. But I am old and I mus’ stay. I’m t’ink Yvonne he’s coming now. You bring de buggy?”

“By golly, I never thought of it! I ain’t never taken--”

“Never min’; you tak’ my rig, Soapee. You talk wit’ Yvonne w’ile I’m hitch up de horse.”

And before Soapy could protest against it, Frenchy went out through the rear of the house. A moment later Yvonne came in. She stopped just inside the room and smiled at the speechless Soapy.

She was wearing a flame-colored silk dress which fit her perfectly, a black lace mantilla gracefully draped over her head and shoulders, causing her to look more Spanish than French. Her big eyes sparkled and her red lips parted to show a flash of white teeth as she smiled at the dumbfounded cowboy.

“How do you like me?” she asked.

“My God!” breathed Soapy. “You--well, I’ll--hello, Yvonne.” He smiled foolishly and blinked at her.

“Oh, hello, Soapy.”

“Gosh! I--say, I saw a picture once that looked just like you.”

“Yes? Where’s Father?”

“He’s--uh--say, Yvonne, I plumb forgot to bring a rig, and he--he’s gone out to hitch up one.”

Yvonne laughed softly and crossed to an old mirror.

“You are not used to taking ladies to dances, eh?” she said, not turning her head.

“I shore ain’t. Gosh, that’s a pretty dress, Yvonne. You’ll have all them Chongo women green with envy. I--I--” he looked down at his suit--“I ain’t--yuh see, I got a new suit today. Had her shipped from Chicago. But Cling Heffner measured me for it and he shore got the figures shifted. They sent me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine pants. What you think of that?”

Yvonne laughed with him and turned from the mirror.

“Never mind clothes,” she said. “You look fine.”

“I guess I don’t _look_ fine, but I shore feel fine. I reckon I know how Cling would feel if he ever drawed a royal flush in the middle.”

“That’s luck,” she said.

“Shore--so is this.”

“What do you mean, Soapy?” She looked straight at him.

“Why, me gettin’ a chance to take you to a dance. I’ll bet there’s men in Chongo that would give a leg to have my chance.”

Her eyes clouded a trifle and she turned back to the mirror.

“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “I--I didn’t want to go with any of the men from Chongo. This is my first dance here since I came from school, you know.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I shore had a horseshoe with me when I asked yuh to go, Yvonne. By golly, you shore do look fine. If that danged suit had only--”

“That’s Dad yelling that the rig is ready,” interrupted Yvonne. “We’ll go out through the kitchen.”

They found Frenchy LeClere out there with the single rig, and he held the horse while they got in the buggy.

“I’ll leave my bronc here,” said Soapy. “Thank yuh a lot, Mr. LeClere.”

“Have good time,” LeClere laughed as they drove away.

It was moonlight, but Soapy held the horse down to a walk. He was conscious of the fact that he had eaten onions for his supper. The buggy seat was small, which forced them to sit close together.

“I wish we was drivin’ to the moon,” said Soapy.

“To the moon? My, my! That is a long way, Soapy. Why, it would take a million years to drive to the moon.”

“Time jist don’t mean nothin’ to me, Yvonne; I wish there was a road up to it.”

* * * * *

For many years the town of Chongo had been a cow-town, drowsing away in Silver River Valley; nothing more or less than a one-street village, seemingly content to stay as it was, only growing more weather-beaten each year.

Then came the railroad, a branch line, of course, to wind its way up Silver River to Chongo town. And with the railroad came a change in the county seat, bringing it to Chongo, which was in the center of the county.

And simultaneous with the advent of the railroad came the silver strike on Chongo Creek, twelve miles northeast of the town. All these things caused Chongo to boom, and boom it did--to a certain point. Came more saloons, two big gambling houses, honkatonks. A race-track was built just outside the town, where the local cow-horses fought for quarter-mile honors each Sunday. The stakes were usually horse-for-horse, with betting as a side issue. In other words, the winning horse won all the rest of the horses in the race.

Tuck Hayward was one of the big men of Chongo. He owned the Box 88 cow-outfit and the Silver Streak saloon and gambling-house. The gambling-house had been built after the railroad started construction and after Tuck had received the contract to furnish meat to the railroad construction camps.

Frenchy LeClere had tried hard for this contract, but he did not understand politics as well as Tuck; so Tuck got the contract and laughed at Frenchy LeClere. All of which did not please Frenchy, whose herds were dwindling slowly but surely from some unknown cause.

“Fat” McAllister, the sheriff, scouted the idea that some one was stealing IS cattle, but the old man was insistent; and he thought he knew more about it than the sheriff did. Frenchy appealed to the Cattle Association and received considerable correspondence but no action.

After the big silver strike on Chongo Creek Frenchy LeClere tried to get the contract to furnish meats to the mines but found that Tuck Hayward had already taken the contract and was killing his beef at the mines.

Tuck Hayward was a big man physically, inclined to stoutness, although not yet forty years of age; cold-blooded in all his dealings, inclined to bluff his way through life, hampered somewhat by a high-pitched voice which did not blend well with the rest of his make-up.

His crew consisted of “Dunk” McLeod, Hal Cornes, Len Asher, Mike Dalhart and “Kid” O’Neil. Asher and Cornes spent most of their time at the Chongo camps, handling the butchering.

O’Neil was fairly new to Silver River Valley; a small, sinister-looking person with thin, dark face, keen eyes, sharp nose and a mop of coarse black hair. But the kid was a cow-hand of the first water, quiet and unassuming, until full of liquor, when he became both loquacious and dangerous. He had worked a while for Frenchy LeClere, but the old man had fired him, and he had gone to work for the AH, only to start trouble in a bunk-house poker-game and get fired again. Tuck Hayward took him on at the Box 88, where he seemed to be getting along all right, after two bad starts in the valley.

In Tuck Hayward’s private office at the rear of the Silver Streak sat Hayward and Joe LeClere. It was a tiny office, barely large enough to contain an old roll-top desk, a small, fire-proof safe and a couple of chairs, besides Tuck’s big leather-covered swivel-chair.

The desk top was littered with silver ore samples, a half-empty bottle of liquor and other odds and ends. Tuck was wearing a gray suit which fitted him to the bursting point, a blue shirt and a scarlet tie, looped through a huge ring, set with a five-carat yellow diamond.

There was nothing gaudy about Joe LeClere. He wore a black shirt of coarse material, an old gray vest, over-alls tucked in the tops of his boots, and on his knee rested a well-worn black sombrero. His cartridge belt was studded with silver rivets, tarnished to blackness, and the butt of an old single-action Colt protruded from his scarred holster.

Joe had been drinking but was not drunk, and his somber eyes studied the big face of Tuck Hayward closely.

“Who’s bringin’ yore sister to the dance tonight, Joe?” asked Hayward.

“I dunno,” indifferently.

“Dunno, eh?”

“She never told me.” Joe was still indifferent.

“You knew I asked her to come with me?”

“So did Kid O’Neil.”

“The hell he did! How do yuh know that?”

Joe rubbed his nose reflectively.

“I heard him.”

“Yea-a-ah? You heard him, eh? What did she say?”

“’Bout the same thing she told you, I suppose.”

Hayward spat viciously and helped himself to a cigar from a box on the desk. He did not offer one to Joe.

“You couldn’t expect her to go with you, Tuck,” said Joe softly. “You and the old man--”

“Oh, to hell with the old man!”

“Well,” said Joe resignedly, and after a short reflection:

“Yuh couldn’t expect her to go with O’Neil. He got drunk the day she came home from school and tried to kiss her. She slapped hell out of him and when she got through the old man pitched him out on his head.”

“I didn’t expect her to go with Kid O’Neil,” coldly.

“Did you expect her to go with you, Tuck?”

“Why in hell do yuh suppose I asked her, you damn fool?”

Joe laughed shortly and his right hand twitched just a trifle. Hayward rolled the cigar between his lips reflectively.

“Joe, have you any idea how much money you owe me?”

Joe started slightly.

“I--I never figured on it much, Tuck.”

“Uh-huh; I didn’t think yuh had.”

Tuck reached in his desk and brought out a much-thumbed ledger, which he perused thoughtfully. Then he closed it and put it back in the desk. Joe’s eyes were uneasy and he began to realize that his credit had been too good at the Silver Streak.

“You ain’t closin’ down on me, are yuh, Tuck?” he asked uneasily.

“Not yet; but you’ve got to go easy.”

“You can’t very well--” began Joe softly.

“Drop that, Joe!” Tuck’s voice had a dangerous ring.

“I didn’t mean to say that,” said Joe weakly.

“Yo’re damn right yuh didn’t. Don’t never pull anything like that again on me. I’ll cut you off any old time I feel like it. You’d be a damn sight better off if I did. You drink too much rot-gut, Joe. Taper off, will yuh? I guess that’s all. Find out who brought yore sister to the dance.”

“Oh, all right,” said Joe, getting to his feet. “I’ll let yuh know, Tuck.”

He walked out into the gambling-room and came down past the long bar where two bartenders were filling the wants of those present. Cling Heffner was at the bar and Joe stopped beside him.

“Goin’ to the dance?” asked Joe, accepting Cling’s invitation to have a drink.

“Might wiggle a hoof or two,” grinned Cling, “if I can git some girl to dance with me.”

“Didn’t you bring a pardner, Cling?”

“Hell, no!”

“Rest of the boys in from the AH?”

“Johnny and Slim are around somewhere, I reckon. Soapy went out after yore sister.”

“Soapy did?”

“Yeah--the lucky devil.”

Joe laughed shortly and motioned for the bartender to pass out the glasses again.

“She’s shore an attractive girl,” said Cling.

“Seems to be the general opinion. Well, here’s how.”

Cling happened to be a fairly good two-fisted drinker; so they had several rounds of the potent bar-whisky, which, added to what Joe had already imbibed that evening, caused Joe to grow expansive.

“You folks lost any cattle?” asked Joe.

“Kind of a funny question, ain’t it?” inquired Cling.

“Funny?”

“Oh, I heard that the IS claims a steady loss. Fat Garnette was out and talked with Hart about it. Fat don’t believe it. He says yore old man’s full of prunes. Where would a rustler dispose of cattle? Yuh never could ship stolen cattle out of here. Brand inspection is too close. Even a butcher has got to produce a branded hide.”

“I know all about that, Cling. Well, here’s luck.”

As they finished their drink Kid O’Neil and Mike Dalhart came in, evidently coming from the dance hall, because neither of them wore a hat. They came to the bar and ordered their drinks, O’Neil standing next to Joe LeClere.

“Aw, I’d forget it if I was you, Kid,” advised Dalhart, as he filled his glass to the brim.

“Yeah, but I’m not goin’ to forget it,” growled the Kid. “I’m as good as Soapy Weed, by God! She turned me down for that screw-nosed waddy, didn’t she? And then she won’t dance with me. ‘Thank yuh kindly,’ says she. Huh! No damn Canuck female can make a fool out of me, I’ll tell yuh that, and I don’t care who knows it.”

The Kid swallowed his liquor at one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar and turned toward Joe LeClere. He had spoken loud enough for Joe to hear every word and now he scowled at Joe, as much as to invite him to comment on his words.

Joe’s right hand was hanging at his side, his left elbow on the bar, and without any shift of his body he brought up his fist in a sweeping smash, landing it full on Kid O’Neil’s nose. The Kid’s face seemed to flatten under the impact of the blow; then it jerked sideways, and Kid O’Neil struck his chin on the bar as he promptly went to his knees on the rail.

Joe sprang back, his numbed right hand dropping to the butt of his gun, as Cling sprang between them, throwing one arm around Kid O’Neil’s shoulders while with the other he removed the Kid’s gun from inside the waist of his pants.

The Kid struggled to his feet, his face bathed in gore, trying to find his gun, to stop the blood. The place was in an uproar for several moments until Tuck Hayward arrived and took charge of the situation. The bartender gave the Kid a towel. Hayward demanded an explanation of the trouble and Cling told him what the Kid had said.

Hayward grunted angrily as Dalhart tried to alibi the Kid.

“His nose is busted,” said one of the cowboys. “Better get a doctor, Tuck; he’s losin’ a lot of red ink.”

Some one went for the doctor and Cling took Joe outside.

“I could love yuh for pokin’ him, Joe,” said Cling, “but I’d honestly advise yuh to go home. Dalhart is ready to lie for the Kid and the rest of the Box 88 will back his play. I know you’ve got plenty nerve, Joe; but yo’re badly outnumbered. I’ll tell Soapy about it and he can do as he pleases.”

“I won’t run,” said Joe stubbornly.

“Nobody expects yuh to. Oh, do as yuh damn please about it, of course. I’m not yore guardian. Only, the Kid is a bad hombre and he won’t forget that punch.”

“I guess I’m kind of a damn fool,” said Joe bitterly. “I’m much obliged to yuh, Cling, and I’m goin’ home. You tell Soapy I went home, will yuh?”

“Shore, I’ll explain it all to him. I just want yuh to know I’ve got a lot more respect for yuh since yuh hit that geezer, Joe. If you’d cut loose from Tuck Hayward, yuh might do well before yuh die of old age.”

“Well, I’ll see yuh later, Cling.”

“Shore. Good night.”

Cling went back to the saloon and gave the Kid’s gun to the bartender. They had taken the Kid to the rear of the room, and as Cling passed the gun across the bar the doctor came in. Some one directed him to the back of the room and Cling followed.

Quite a crowd had gathered, but they made way for the doctor, who made an examination and declared the Kid’s nose was broken badly. Hayward and the doctor took the Kid to Tuck’s private office and locked the door. The Kid was mad enough to bite the doctor but gritted his teeth and let him bandage and tape until the doctor was satisfied that the nose would eventually assume its former shape, although just now it resembled a purple summer-squash, if there is such a vegetable.

Tuck paid the doctor his fee and let him out of the office, while the Kid swore nasally and tried to smoke a cigaret.

“I’ll ged hib for thad,” he declared. “No dabd Canug cad hid me ad ged away wid id.”

“You talk a lot,” sneered Hayward.

Some one knocked on the door. It was Dalhart, but Tuck did not let him in.

“Joe pulled out for home,” said Dalhart.

“All right,” replied Tuck. “Let him go.”

“Pulled oud, eh?” grunted the Kid. He felt of his waist-band. “Where’s my gud?”

Tuck reached inside the desk and drew out a Colt.

“Here’s one, O’Neil.”

“Thags.”

“Much good it’ll do yuh, though.”

“Thad so. You wadch. I’d goid oud and ged hib.”

The Kid got to his feet, shoving the gun inside his waist, while Tuck opened the door. Nothing more was said. Tuck saw the Kid walk swiftly down through the crowded room and through the front doorway. Then he closed and locked the door again.

In the meantime Cling had gone over to the dance-hall where he had found Soapy and told him what had happened. Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.

“Let’s go over and finish the job,” he suggested. “No, I’m not exceptin’ _all_ of the Box 88.”

“Don’t cover too much territory,” grinned Cling. “Anyway, you ain’t got no war with the Box 88. It was natural for Dalhart to back the Kid.”

“I suppose that’s right. C’mon over and ask Yvonne for a dance.”

Yvonne laughed and shook hands with Cling, accepting his invitation to dance, while Soapy ducked away and headed for the Silver Streak. He was almost to the front of the place when Kid O’Neil came out. Several men were there, but Soapy paid no attention to them. He stepped in front of the Kid, who stopped short.

“It was a lucky thing for you that it wasn’t me who heard what you said, O’Neil. You got enough to stop yuh, I guess; but I want you to get this straight. If you ever mention a certain lady again, I’ll pistol whip yuh into hell in a hurry. You don’t hear with yore nose; so I guess yuh got that straight. Yo’re a runty pup of a mangy coyote and if yuh wasn’t already crippled in the face, I’d bend yuh so badly you’d talk behind yore own back.”

But the Kid did not reply. His nose was one big ache--and he had something else on his mind. So he turned and walked down toward the Silver Streak hitch-rack. Soapy watched him for several moments and then turned and went back to the dance-hall.

Soapy didn’t go back to the saloon again. He talked the matter over with Cling and decided to follow Cling’s advice. Some of the Box 88 gang were dancing but none of them paid any attention to Soapy.

An oyster supper was served in an adjoining hall at midnight and at about three o’clock in the morning Soapy took Yvonne home. The moon was low over the hills and a chill wind was blowing from the north.

“Still want to ride to the moon, Soapy?” asked Yvonne.

“Just as much as ever,” he laughed. “This shore has been my big night, Yvonne. I never danced so many times in my whole life.”

“It has been a wonderful night. I hope Dad didn’t stay up to wait for us. He’s always worried when I’m out.”

“Nothing could happen to yuh, Yvonne.”

“I know. But Dad isn’t so trustful of folks. He said he was glad you were taking me to the dance.”

“Gosh, I didn’t know he liked me.”

“Maybe he don’t, Soapy, but he said you’d probably stay sober enough to drive the horse back home.”

“Well, for gosh sake! Anyway, I never took a drink. Did you feel the same way about it, Yvonne?”

“No, Soapy; I went with you because I wanted to.”

“Well, that kinda takes the sting out of what yore Dad said. Anyway,” bravely, “I’m glad yuh let me go with yuh, no matter what the reason was. I’m satisfied, Yvonne.”

“It’s nice of you to say that, Soapy.”

“It wasn’t nice; it was true. Most folks have to lie to say nice things. And I meant what I said about the moon.”

They drove through the ford at Silver River and over the long mesa which stretched far beyond the IS ranch. Half a mile from the ranch-house they drove along a line of old cottonwoods where the moonlight filtered through the foliage, silvering the hard-packed road.

Soapy helped Yvonne down at the front door and told her good night before stabling the horse.

“Come over again soon, won’t you?” she asked.

“Try to keep me away, Yvonne.”

He stabled the horse and found his own animal in one of the stalls, the saddle hanging on a convenient peg. In a few minutes he rode back past the ranch-house and waved at a lighted window.

Soapy was in no hurry. He wanted to ride slowly and think it over; wanted to poke along and dream. He knew there would be no work at the AH that day. Old Ace Hart never expected any one to be on the job the day after pay-day.

He was about half-way back along the cottonwoods when his roan horse snorted suddenly, its ears pricked forward, and stopped. Soapy sat up quickly, his eyes jerking to a focus, as he peered off to the right. It seemed as though he could see a horse, its head down, standing there in the shadow.

Quickly he dismounted to investigate. There was a horse with the bridle-reins tangled about its feet. Soapy lighted a match and looked at the animal. It was a stubby sorrel, wearing a stock-saddle and bearing the Box 88 brand.

“That’s kinda darned funny!” exclaimed Soapy aloud. “What’s a Box 88 horse doin’ over here?”

He untangled the reins, and without any warning the horse jerked away from him and went trotting down the road.

“Well, go to hell, if yuh don’t like my company,” laughed Soapy.

He started back to his horse, stumbled over something and almost fell headlong in the weeds. It was something that felt soft under the impact of his toe. Quickly he regained his balance and turned back. He scratched another match, half-kneeling down to look, and the match burned to his fingers.

Finally he got back to his feet, his knees shaking. He took off his hat, put it back on--and took it off again.

“Good God!” he said--and it was a prayer, not profanity. “Kid O’Neil, and he’s dead as a gimlet-handle. Somebody shot him from behind.”

Soapy walked back to his horse. He didn’t know what to do--he had never seen many dead men. With shaking knees he mounted his horse, intending to go and find the sheriff, but as he turned his head he saw the tiny glimmer of a light at the IS ranch.

“He follered Joe LeClere,” said Soapy half-aloud. “Him and Joe fought it out, and--” Then Soapy realized that the Kid had been shot from behind.

“My God, that’s plain murder! Joe LeClere--”

Soapy swallowed heavily as his hands groped for his cigaret papers. He wanted inspiration and he wanted it badly. He knew that Kid O’Neil had followed Joe, probably with the intention of getting even with Joe for that smash in the nose. All of which was entirely ethical. An eye for an eye. If Kid O’Neil had followed Joe out there and they had shot out their grudge, leaving Joe as sole survivor, it would have been perfectly all right. No jury would hesitate on such a verdict--that is, no cow-town jury. But Kid O’Neil had been shot from behind!

Soapy slid off his horse and went back to the body. The big Colt gun was still wedged between the Kid’s body and the waist of his pants. Soapy drew it out. Not a shot had been fired. Soapy felt his dislike for the Kid oozing away.

“Never had a chance,” he muttered. “Shot down like a dog. This is shore a tough lay-out, and I wish Cling was here to tell me what to do. They’ll hang Joe just as sure as God made little apples--if they find the body here on the IS.”

Soapy looked back toward the ranch-house, but there were no lights in it now. Suddenly he was filled with inspiration. He dropped the gun, went over to his horse and led the animal to the body. Luckily he was riding a gentle horse. Soapy didn’t usually ride gentle horses.

Kid O’Neil had been a small man, but to Soapy he now seemed as big as the Cardiff Giant, and it was only through a supreme effort which left Soapy weak-kneed and gasping for breath that he was able to place the body across the saddle. He took his lariat and roped the body securely. Soapy wasn’t going to take any chances on having to put the body on the horse again.

The moon had faded out now and in the eastern sky was a decided hint of the coming dawn. Soapy examined the lashings carefully and then swung up behind the saddle. He had made up his mind to dump the body along the road somewhere across Silver River and let the sheriff do a lot of guessing as to who had killed the Kid.

But he reckoned without the roan, which had never been ridden double before. As Soapy’s spurs rattled in against its flanks the startled roan threw down its head, jerking the reins from Soapy’s hand, and began pitching in a most approved fashion, but hampered somewhat by the double burden.

Soapy’s first thought was of the corpse, which had not been lashed on with the intention of withstanding a bucking contest, and at about the fifth jump he slid off, hoping to run the animal into the trees and get the reins again. But when Soapy hit the earth he stumbled and went end over end while the roan headed straight down the road toward Chongotown.

Soapy got to his feet and began running awkwardly down the road, following the horse and its grisly burden. Soapy was not a fast runner and the high heels of his shoes bothered him to a great extent. For a while he ran on his toes and then he grabbed his hat in one hand and began to gallop. But the roan also galloped, and its gallop was faster than Soapy’s.

And in this manner they reached the crossing of Silver River--the horse reaching there about a hundred yards ahead of Soapy and splashing straight through the ford, while Soapy flopped down on a rock, cursing the roan back to the first generation of all roan horses.

There was a decided rise on the road a quarter of a mile beyond the river, and it was light enough for Soapy to see the roan top this rise, still hurrying toward Chongo town.

“Soapy Weed, you shore raised hell,” wailed Soapy. “They say that dead men tell no tales, but this one is tied on my horse with my rope. I reckon I better walk home, pick up my thirty-thirty and head for the hills.”

He limped up from the river and stopped at the top of the bank. The moon had paled, but there was still a faint indication of it left in the dawn.

“Moon,” said Soapy whimsically, “yo’re a long ways away from here, but if there was a road up to yuh, I’d shore as hell start walkin’.”

But, in the absence of such a road, he turned and limped on toward the AH ranch.

* * * * *

“Fat” Garnette had been so nicknamed because he most certainly was not. He was over six feet tall, built like a bed-slat and swore he could hide behind a six-by-six scantling. He had a long nose, weary-looking eyes and a sense of humor. But his sense of humor did not include “Weary” McMillan, his deputy.

Weary was fat, bow-legged and used hair-oil. Fat detested hair-oil while Weary reveled in it. Weary didn’t have enough hair to bother plastering it down, but plaster it he did. “Chuck” Haverty, the jailer, said that if Weary paid as much attention to the inside of his head as he did to the outside, he’d soon work himself up to a point where he’d be at least half-witted.

Chuck Haverty was about sixty, with no hair at all, and did all his chewing on two teeth which didn’t meet.

Weary had been to the dance and, inadvertently, to hear him tell it, had imbibed too much liquor. He didn’t need to tell Fat about it because he came in the rear of the office and proceeded to fall over Fat’s cot. The fall shook the office so hard that a picture of “Washington Crossing the Delaware” crashed down and the glass was shattered.

“Who the hell told you to charge?” asked Fat, sitting up in the dark. Weary did not reply.

“Why in hell don’tcha light the lamp?” Fat demanded.

“Can’t,” gurgled Weary. “I’m layin’ on my hands. Whaz-zamatter, Fatty?”

Fat got up, lighted the lamp and extricated Weary, who was really doubled up in such a way that he couldn’t use either hand. Weary sank down in a chair, made a few ineffectual attempts to remove a boot, gave up the idea with a gesture of despair and blinked owlishly at Fat, who had crawled into bed again.

“Wha’ do yuh know ’bout Kid O’Neil gettin’ his nose busted?” asked Weary. “How’s that for good work?”

“Suits me,” growled Fat, who knew all about it.

“O-o-oh, me too. Fine! Didja hear ’bout Soapy Weed?”

“What did he do?”

“Declared war on O’Neil. Met him in front of the Silver Streak and told him if he ever spoke about Yvonne LeClere ag’in he’d fry his ears in axle-grease and feed ’em to the buzzards. Oh, Soapy shore waxed indign’t, as they say. Growed b’ligerent, in other words.”

“What did the Kid say?”

“He didn’t say. I reckon he had e-nough. Anyway, Tuck Hayward said that he went home to rest his nose. He’ll shore salivate Joe LeClere, I’ll betcha.”

“Oh, go to bed and stop yawpin’, Weary.”

“Oh, all right.”

Weary sighed deeply, stretched out and began snoring. Fat got up, threw a blanket over him and went back to bed. It was daylight in Chongo town. Fat tried to turn over and go to sleep again, but he could hear a chorus of voices, argument, plenty of loud talk and profanity. The voices were coming nearer, and then a heavy fist beat upon the door.

Fat rolled off his cot and went to the door, where he found Slim Benito, the cook at the AH, Mike Dalhart, of the Box 88, Barney Johnson, keeper of the Chongo livery-stable, Hansen, the blacksmith, and several others.

“Slide into yore pants, Fat,” ordered Johnson. “Kid O’Neil has been murdered.”

“Kid O’Neil? How do yuh know? Where did he--”

“Yuh can’t come without no pants!” snorted Benito, shoving the sheriff back. “Put on p-a-n-t-s, sheriff.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah. Jist a minute.”

In a few moments Fat was with them. They led him down beside the livery-stable corral, where Soapy Weed’s roan was tied to the fence, still bearing the body of Kid O’Neil.

“I found the horse there a few minutes ago,” said Johnson. “Nothin’ has been touched, except that I tied him to the fence.”

Fat walked around the animal, examining the body. The roan was still muddy from river water and dust.

“Soapy Weed’s roan, ain’t it?” asked Fat.

“The one he most always rode,” said Benito. “I dunno what one he rode last night.”

“He drove old Frenchy LeClere’s single rig to town last night,” offered Dalhart. “Probably left his roan at the IS.”

“Might as well take the body down to the coroner’s office just thisaway,” decided Fat, beginning to untie the rope.

“Yuh can see he’s been murdered, can’t yuh?” asked Johnson. “Bullet went in the back of his head and came out jist about the temple.”

“I reckon we can all see that far,” said Fat grimly.

They led the horse down to the coroner’s office and waited until one of the men went to the doctor’s home and routed him out.

Old Doctor Plumley had been many years in the Silver River Valley and he gave his decisions in short, snappy sentences.

“Killed instantly. Shot from behind. No question of its being murder. Hold inquest tomorrow morning. Bring him in the office. Sheriff, keep that horse, saddle and rope.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fat meekly, and led the animal back to his own stable where there happened to be an empty stall.

Slim Benito went with the sheriff. He thought a lot of Soapy Weed and he wanted to find out what the sheriff thought about the matter. But the sheriff didn’t say.

Frenchy LeClere came to town and was greeted with the news. Nobody had told him about the fight between Joe and Kid O’Neil until after he had been told several times of the murder. He went down to see the sheriff and to get a straight version of the whole trouble.

LeClere had been awake when Soapy had brought Yvonne home, and he swore to the sheriff that he had heard no shots fired before or after Soapy had left. But the sheriff had nothing to say. Fat worked on the theory that it was better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you might be dumb than to talk too much and let them be sure of it.

After LeClere left him the sheriff saddled his horse and headed for the AH ranch, wondering what alibi Soapy would have. He was possibly half a mile beyond the river ford when he met Soapy, who was coming toward town, riding a blaze-faced sorrel.

The sheriff drew up and waited for Soapy, who tried to affect a nonchalant air but failed miserably.

“I was just comin’ in to see yuh, Fat,” he said quickly.

“Yeah?” drawled the sheriff, sitting sideways in his saddle, his eyes frankly curious now.

“Oh, shore,” said Soapy earnestly. “Early this mornin’ I was comin’ back from the IS ranch, headin’ back to town, and I found Kid O’Neil down there by the river--dead.”

Soapy indicated “down there” by a sweep of his hand, which might have included the river from its source to its mouth.

“You found him, eh?” queried the sheriff.

“Y’betcha!” Soapy had more confidence now. “Well, like I just said, I found him down there on the rocks, dead as a gimlet-handle. I--I didn’t want to leave him there, yuh see; so I roped him onto my bronc and piled on behind him, but my roan wasn’t broke to ride double and I lit all folded up, as yuh might say, while the damn horse went across the river and headed for town.

“I shore didn’t want to get wet all over; so I walked back to the ranch, got me a horse and was just comin’ in to tell yuh about it.”

Soapy was all out of breath when he finished. Fat looked him over calmly.

“You know just where yuh found him, Soapy?”

“Oh, shore. It was--gosh, lemme see. It wasn’t daylight yet, but I--oh, shore, I can find the place.”

“C’mon and show it to me.”

“Uh-huh.” Soapy wet his lips. Now he realized that he had let himself in for something but he was game.

They rode back, and the sheriff’s quizzical eyes watched Soapy trying to pick out the exact spot along a gravel bar. Finally Soapy decided that this was the place. The old boulders were bleached white and the gravel was clean.

“Right here’s where he was layin’, Fat.”

“Ain’t no blood around there,” said Fat.

“By golly, that’s right! Not a drop. Well, I--I’ll tell yuh somethin’, Fat; he wasn’t bleedin’ when I found him.”

“Wasn’t, eh? Do yuh see any fox-tail around there?”

“Well, there ain’t any,” said Soapy wonderingly.

“Nope; there ain’t. That’s what makes it look funny. Yuh see, Kid O’Neil’s clothes were stickin’ full of fox-tail tops. Looked like he had been rolled in it.”

“Is that a fact?” Soapy had difficulty in clearing his throat. “Well, well! Where’d he pick that up, do yuh suppose? I didn’t see none of it on him at the time. Mebby the horse rolled with him.”

“Not likely, Soapy. You knew he’d been murdered, didn’t yuh?”

“I didn’t look very close, Fat.”

“Uh-huh. When yuh found the body, why didn’t yuh leave it where it was and notify me?”

“Well, I--yuh see, I wasn’t exactly sure he was dead. I said to myself that he ort to see a doctor; so I piled him on my bronc, and--”

“A while ago yuh knew he was dead, Soapy.”

“No, yuh see--but I was pretty well satisfied that he might be dead.”

Fat laughed softly and shook his head.

“Go ahead and tell the truth, Soapy.”

“I’m tellin’ you the truth.”

“Oh, all right. C’mon to town with me, Soapy; you’re under arrest. I’ll take yore gun, if yuh don’t mind. Butt first.”

Soapy passed his gun to Fat and with a sinking heart he rode beside the tall sheriff.

“You goin’ to slam me right into a cell?” asked Soapy as they rode in to Chongo town.

“I’ve got to do it, Soapy; Kid O’Neil was murdered.”

“Mebby he got what was comin’ to him.”

“Mebby; but the law don’t allow for that.”

They rode down to the jail and Soapy was locked in a cell, after which the sheriff stabled Soapy’s horse and went to visit the prosecuting attorney. Frenchy LeClere was still in town, but he rode home as soon as he heard of Soapy’s arrest. Before he left the coroner asked him to bring Yvonne and Joe to the inquest, as they would be asked to testify.

After the sheriff and prosecutor had conferred over the matter the sheriff proceeded to find every one who had seen the fight between Joe and the Kid and all who had heard what Soapy had told the Kid, and notified them to attend the inquest.

“Are you tryin’ to hang the murder on Soapy Weed?” asked Tuck Hayward ponderously.

“I’m tryin’ to hang it on the guilty man,” retorted the sheriff. “And not only that--I expect everybody to tell the truth at that inquest.”

“I’m not to testify, am I?”

“You’ll tell what you know about it, Tuck.”

“What I know won’t do yuh much good.”

“It ain’t of any interest what yuh know--it’s how much of it yuh tell.”

“I wonder just what yuh mean by that remark, Fat?”

“Oh, I’m just tryin’ to be smart, I suppose. I never had a murder case before; so I’ve got to act smart.”

But after he had gone away Tuck Hayward scratched his head and wondered just why the sheriff had said that.

“Oh, I’ll tell the truth,” he muttered. “Why not; it’s nothin’ to me.”

* * * * *

“We was just standin’ there at the bar havin’ a drink, and all to once Joe LeClere smashes O’Neil in the nose. There wasn’t no reason for--”

“Yo’re a damn liar and you know it, Dalhart.”

Cling Heffner stood up and shook an accusing finger at Mike Dalhart, who had been sworn as a witness. Dalhart got up from his chair, eyes snapping.

“You can’t call me no liar, Heffner!”

“I done called yuh one, Dalhart.”

“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “You can’t fight in here. Set down, Cling. Dalhart is under oath.”

“Lot of good that does him. That geezer would lie with a Bible in both hands and one in his mouth.”

The coroner rapped sharply on his desk with a carpenter’s hammer.

“Cease this wrangling. Let the witness proceed.”

“Just a moment, if you please,” said the prosecuting attorney, getting to his feet. “Perhaps the witness does not know that there is such a thing as perjury. You have sworn to tell the truth, Dalhart. If you give false testimony and it can be proved, there is a severe penalty.”

“I ain’t lyin’,” wailed Dalhart. “You make Heffner keep his mouth shut, will yuh? Or I’ll do it.”

“You couldn’t shut nothin’,” said Cling disgustedly. “If you want trouble, just leave that chair and come on outside. Yore lyin’ testimony won’t help the case any; so yuh might as well quit.”

“Sheriff, will you stop this bickering?” asked the coroner angrily.

“Are you goin’ to quit it, Cling?” asked Fat.

“When that ossified mud-cat quits lyin’--yes.”

“Are you goin’ to quit lyin’, Dalhart?”

“By God, I ain’t been lyin’!”

“Go ahead and testify--and you better not lie.”

The crowded court-room chuckled. It was a small room, crowded to suffocation and with only a few chairs. Soapy sat with the sheriff beside a table, at the end of which presided the coroner. The witness stand was an old rocking-chair which had lost its rockers.

Frenchy LeClere, Joe and Yvonne were there. Some one had kindly provided LeClere and Yvonne with chairs. They were very serious over the inquest and kept their eyes on Soapy, who eyed Dalhart malevolently. The testimony up to this point had not implicated Soapy in any way, as it merely covered the trouble between Joe and Kid O’Neil.

“Then you claim that Joe LeClere had no cause to strike Kid O’Neil?” asked the coroner.