Chapter II: Part 2

“I never heard anythin’ said that would give a reason.”

“Tryin’ to alibi with his ears,” said Cling softly enough for every one to hear.

Dalhart was dismissed and Tuck Hayward called to the stand.

Tuck didn’t see the fight nor did he seem to know what had started it. He testified to the effect that he and the doctor took O’Neil to the Silver Streak office, where the doctor repaired O’Neil’s nose.

“Did O’Neil tell you where he was goin’, when he left your office?” asked the coroner.

“Yes,” said Hayward. “He said he was goin’ home.”

The room was silent for several moments, and then the coroner said:

“Did Kid O’Neil have a gun?”

“I don’t know,” lied Hayward. “I suppose he did.”

Cling was called to the stand and was able to remember just what O’Neil had said about Yvonne.

“Did he mention her name, Heffner?”

“No, he didn’t. But he said, ‘That damn Canuck girl.’”

“You took O’Neil’s gun away, didn’t you?”

“Sure--and gave it to the bartender.”

“I’ve got the gun,” said the sheriff. “The bartender gave it to me today.”

Cling was dismissed after testifying as to what time Soapy arrived at the AH ranch after the dance, and Yvonne was called to the stand.

She knew nothing about the trouble between Joe and O’Neil nor that Soapy had spoken harshly to O’Neil that night. She said that Soapy took her home and she saw him ride away from the ranch-house.

“Did Kid O’Neil ask to take you to the dance?” queried the coroner.

Yvonne flushed quickly as she nodded her head.

“Yes, he asked me several days ago.”

“And you refused, of course?”

“Certainly.”

“Did any one else invite you to the dance?”

“Mr. Hayward.”

Tuck grinned sourly.

“Was Kid O’Neil angry because you refused him?” asked the coroner.

“I suppose he was.”

Yvonne was much relieved to have the coroner excuse her.

“Soapy Weed, do you wish to testify?” asked the coroner.

“Shore.”

“You are not obliged to testify, of course.”

“Tha’sall right,” grinned Soapy. “If I tell the same story often enough I’ll get her down pat enough to believe it myself.”

Everybody laughed, except the LeClere family and Soapy. His story was substantially the same that he had told the sheriff. He mentioned the fact of the Kid’s clothes being full of fox-tail grass and that the rocks did not have any blood on them.

“Did you see any gun on the person of O’Neil?”

“Nope. He was there in the tall grass and--”

Soapy stopped short, staring straight ahead.

“What _tall grass_?” asked the sheriff quickly.

“Tall grass?” echoed the coroner.

“I reckon that’s all my testimony,” said Soapy evenly.

He got out of the chair and sat down at the table. He had made a dangerous slip, and as his eyes swept the faces in the room he realized it fully.

The jury was out only about five minutes, and Soapy was led away to stand trial for the murder of Kid O’Neil.

“Now, maybe you’ll tell the truth,” said the sheriff, as he snapped the cell door shut.

“Damn it, I almost did!” snorted Soapy. “Didja ever hear the story of the Good Samaritan, Fat?”

“No; what did he do?”

“Minded somebody else’s business and got away with it--the lucky stiff.”

“What’s that got to do with you, Soapy?”

“Nothin’, except that it goes to prove that lightnin’ ain’t the only thing that don’t strike twice in the same place.”

“Oh, I think yo’re a damn fool, Soapy Weed.”

“_Think_ so? Hell, I know I am.”

* * * * *

The county buried Kid O’Neil in the little Chongo cemetery about a mile from town, and there were no mourners. He had not been liked by anybody. The sheriff, coroner, minister and several boys from the Box 88 were the only ones at the cemetery.

The machinery of the law moves slowly in Silver River Valley, and Soapy Weed would be obliged to languish in the jail for six weeks before coming to trial. The boys from the AH visited him every few days. Yvonne wanted to visit Soapy, but her father objected; so she sent messages by Cling, which cheered Soapy, although he was sure that those verbal messages were colored rather highly by Cling.

The sheriff was dubious about the guilt of Soapy Weed. He had a feeling that Soapy knew something about the murder but was unwilling to tell. The sheriff was not a detective.

This was the second murder since he had been elected; the first one having passed into the limbo of forgotten things, it seemed. A cowboy by the name of Charley McFee, working for the Box 88, had been found dead about half-way between the Box 88 and Chongo. He had been shot through the heart.

McFee had only been with the Box 88 two days. Evidence proved that McFee had started for town alone. Dalhart, Cornes and McLeod had left the ranch earlier in the evening, leaving McFee, Hayward and Joe LeClere at the ranch. It seemed that Hayward and Joe had decided against going to town and McFee had started alone.

Joe was not working for the Box 88, but had gone out there to sober up, after a particularly violent spell of drinking, because he didn’t want his father to find him. Hayward had just acquired the Silver Streak saloon, where Joe got all his liquor, and perhaps he had felt a certain responsibility.

At any rate, there was nothing to connect any one with the killing; so it was forgotten, except to be recalled as a mystery when men talked of killings.

* * * * *

About a week after the killing of Kid O’Neil two cowboys rode out of the north, where there was neither road nor trail. Below them stretched the valley of Silver River, a long, green strip of foliage marking the course of the river, the lower valley fading away to a cobalt haze in the far distance.

The going was rough and they traveled slowly, threading their way among the greasewood and stunted firs. Finally they came out on a bare knoll where they drew rein and proceeded to roll smokes.

One man was extremely tall, with rather a long face, lean cheek-bones, slightly hooked nose and a wide mouth.

The other cowboy was much shorter, but wide of shoulder; his face was blocky of contour and deeply graved with wrinkles, and he had wide blue eyes which seemed to look upon the world with amusement.

A damp lock of hair hung down his forehead, and he shoved it aside with his wrist as he leaned across to light his cigaret from the tall cowboy’s match. The tall cowboy removed his sombrero, disclosing the fact that he had slightly sandy hair and a pair of steady gray eyes.

Both men were dressed in range clothes. Their shirts showed signs of many washings, the mufflers around their throats were mere strings and their bat-wing chaps had seen much service. They wore battered Stetsons, well-worn cartridge belts, sagging from the weight of heavy Colt guns, and tied behind the cantle of their saddles were their war-bags--the wardrobe trunks of the range country.

These two were “Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy” Stevens, wanderers of the range; always looking for the other side of the next hill, finding adventure without looking for it.

The tall one was Hashknife, christened “Henry” in his early infancy, when his father rode the Milk River ranges, bringing the Gospel to bunk-house and chuck-wagon; a range preacher who made it a life mission to fit men to live rather than to die.

Sleepy hailed from Idaho. These two had met at the old Hashknife ranch, and the wanderlust had driven them out together to go up and down the land, sharing one another’s joys and woes. Always they had gone seeking peace and had found war. Fate seemed to have thrown them into troublous places and times, where they had ridden neck and neck with death, winning by the proverbial eyelash, at times--but winning.

Together they had stepped out of smoke-fogged rooms, their ears dulled from the crash of guns, and looked at one another in amazement. Death had struck at them from beside the roads they had traveled, but always their proverbial luck had saved them until they had become confirmed fatalists.

And now they were heading down into Silver River Valley, which was the other side of the hill they had just crossed. It was a strange country. They had heard of it, heard of Chongo town; and now they were going to include it among the places they had seen.

Hashknife rode a tall gray horse which he called Ghost, and Sleepy rode a blue roan which he had lately acquired and which he had named Rattler, possibly because of its habit of striking back at his leg.

“Big country down thataway,” observed Sleepy after they had smoked silently for a while.

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“Big country, Sleepy. Ain’t she blue down there where she fades out? Makes a feller kinda wonder what’s down there. It kinda reminds me of Twisted River. See that smoke away off there to the left? I reckon that’s the silver mines on Chongo Creek.”

“Smoke from the concentrators, I reckon. Pretty big camp, if they employ around five hundred men.”

“Four big plants, Sleepy. Well, I reckon we might as well head for town. Ought to be some roads down here if we keep goin’ long enough.”

Sleepy nodded, ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the knee of his chaps and picked up his reins. Hashknife led the way down the side of a small ravine, avoiding the heavy brush. At the bottom of the ravine they struck a cowtrail, deeply rutted and ankle-deep in dust.

The trail wound around through the brush as it dropped lower and lower. Suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse. They had come to the end of the trail, it seemed, as it stopped against a barrier of solid brush.

“Brush corral,” said Hashknife, swinging his horse around to the left.

Ahead of them a cow bawled softly. The brush was not so heavy here and the tall gray moved easily around the brush corral. Sleepy got a whiff of wood smoke and was about to speak to Hashknife when the gray stepped out through the brush into a small opening.

Sleepy was close behind, the blue roan crowding against the rump of the gray, which had stopped short. Fifty feet ahead of Hashknife stood a man. He had been bending over a little brush fire when the gray came through the brush, but now he sprang across the fire, whirled and drew a revolver, shooting almost from his hip.

It was so unexpected that Hashknife ducked as the bullet sang over his head. Now the man straightened his arm and his second bullet thudded into the swellfork of Hashknife’s saddle. Two inches higher and Hashknife would have been a first-class casualty.

Hashknife jerked sideways and drew his gun as the man whirled and darted for the protecting fringe of brush, and at the crack of Hashknife’s six-shooter the man went sprawling, his gun flying from his hand.

Sleepy spurred into the opening, gun in hand, and rode down on the man, keeping him covered.

It was Joe LeClere. He sat up, squinting painfully at Sleepy, who was a total stranger to him. Hashknife dismounted and picked up Joe’s gun.

“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked Joe.

“Aw, what the hell!” growled Joe sullenly.

“Hard as a picnic egg,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he’s a killer in his own home town.”

“Got yuh in the leg, eh?” said Hashknife, looking at Joe’s left leg, where the crimson stain showed through his overalls just above his boot-top. “Bone busted?”

“I don’t think so,” growled Joe. “Damn bullet knocked my leg loose and tripped me.”

“Good thing it did; I might have shot again.”

Joe rubbed a wrist across his forehead reflectively. He was in a bad position. Hashknife walked over to the brush corral, where eight head of steers were slowly moving around. He read the brands on all of them and noted that they were all wearing the mark of the Box 88. He came back to the fire, where a short piece of half-inch iron rod lay beside an old pair of pliers.

“Some artists use canvas and some use cow-hide,” said Hashknife. “This’n was a cow-hider. I’ll betcha he was goin’ to do some pyrography on them poor cows. How about it, feller?”

“Aw, go to hell!” grunted Joe.

“Run yore own errands,” said Hashknife bluntly. “Where’s yore bronco?”

Joe pointed to the west end of the corral, where his sorrel drowsed in the shade. Joe’s rifle was there too, and Hashknife brought it back with the horse.

“All set to do battle,” he grinned. “Can yuh get up?”

Joe got to his feet, but was unable to walk well. The bullet had passed through the calf of his left leg and made a painful wound. He managed, however, to mount the horse. Hashknife tied up the reins and put a rope on the horse.

“I can handle my own horse,” growled Joe.

“Shore yuh can,” smiled Hashknife. “That’s why I ain’t goin’ to let yuh. I’ve got quite a hobby of collectin’ rustlers and I take no chances.”

“I wasn’t rustlin’.”

“I see yuh wasn’t; but mebby the owners of them cows might like to know what yuh really was doin’. Yo’re pretty young for this kinda work. And workin’ alone too. Which is the shortest way to Chongo?”

Joe refused to offer any information. Hashknife mounted and led Joe’s horse while Sleepy brought up the rear. They followed cattle trails down across the hills for a couple of miles until they came in sight of the IS ranch.

“This here jigger is losin’ plenty blood,” observed Sleepy. “We better stop at that ranch and fix him up.”

“Yore motion carried unanimous,” nodded Hashknife, and swung in toward the old ranch-buildings.

The loss of blood had weakened Joe to a point where he did not care to protest, and he was clinging with both hands to the saddle-horn when they pulled in past the corrals and rode up to the house.

Hashknife dismounted and stepped up on the porch just as Yvonne opened the front door. He stopped short and looked at her in silence for several moments. Then--

“Ma’am, we’re strangers here,” he said slowly. “We just had a run-in with a potential cow-thief and had to drill him a little; so we stopped to see if we can’t fix him up a little before we take him on to town.”

Yvonne stared at him, frowning slightly. “A cow-thief?” she said.

“Yes’m. Oh, he ain’t serious, but losin’ a little blood.”

Yvonne stepped out on the porch and looked at Joe and Sleepy. Joe’s face was very white and he was not looking at her. She glanced quickly at Hashknife and in a flash he understood. Except for the mouth, they looked alike, Joe and Yvonne.

She went slowly down the steps and up to Joe.

“Joe, what is it?” she asked. “Tell me, Joe. My God, Joe, what have you done?”

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. Yvonne turned to Hashknife, tears in her eyes.

“What happened?” she asked. “Oh, don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Hashknife shut his lips tightly and walked past her to Joe.

“Let me help yuh off, pardner,” he said. “We’ve got to fix up that leg.”

He helped Joe off the saddle and half-carried him to the porch, where he let Joe sit down. Carefully he removed Joe’s boot while Yvonne stood over him, her hands clenched at her sides.

“Tell me about it,” she begged. “What did you say about him stealing cows? Whose cows? Oh, can’t you talk? He’s my brother--don’t you understand?”

“Will yuh get me some hot water and clean cloths?”

“Yes, I--I--” Yvonne stepped to the porch level, but stopped, looking down the road. About two hundred yards away were a team and wagon, coming toward the house.

“There’s Dad,” she said chokingly. “Oh, what will he say? Joe, can’t you prove--”

“Put on some water,” said Hashknife, softly, “and let me do all the tellin’.”

Joe groaned and leaned back on his elbows. Between his physical and mental sufferings he was about to collapse. Old Frenchy LeClere drove his team to the front of the house, sprang down and came quickly to the porch, looking intently at Joe. He looked sharply at Hashknife as he said:

“Somet’ing she’s gone wrong?”

Yvonne had come back to the doorway now.

“Accident,” said Hashknife slowly. “He was gettin’ a drink at a spring back in the hills. He said he leaned his rifle against a rock and the horse knocked it down. Lucky for him that the bullet only went through his leg.”

Joe was staring at Hashknife, his jaw sagging, while Sleepy’s mouth twisted to a grin and he began rolling a cigaret.

“By gosh, Joe, you mus’ be more careful!” exclaimed the old man.

He turned to Hashknife and held out his hand.

“I am LeClere,” he said. “Mos’ everybody she’s call me Frenchy. Joe, she’s my son.”

“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife. “Pardner’s name is Stevens.”

“I’m glad you fin’ my boy,” LeClere told Hashknife thankfully. “You sure no bone busted, eh?”

“No bones busted,” assured Hashknife.

“By gosh, she’s look w’ite, eh? You need bandage pretty bad, eh? I’m hitch up de buggy and tak’ you to doctor.”

“Yore daughter is gettin’ us some hot water and bandages,” said Hashknife. “We’ll fix him up and then take him to a doctor. It isn’t bleedin’ much now.”

The old man hurried into the house.

“Thank yuh,” said Joe weakly. “That was square of yuh.”

“Try playin’ square yourself,” replied Hashknife. “You can’t beat that game. I’d like to take you down and turn yuh over to the sheriff, but--” Hashknife shook his head as Yvonne and the old man came out, bringing the water and bandages.

Joe sagged back and shut his eyes while Hashknife cleaned the wound and bound it up. The old man hitched up the single rig and drove up to the porch as Hashknife finished.

“I’ll take him down,” offered Yvonne. “I’ve got to go to town, anyway, Dad.”

The old man finally agreed and they helped Joe into the buggy.

“You come out see us sometime?” asked the old man.

“Shore,” grinned Hashknife.

“Good. Come soon. Yvonne, she’s a good cook.”

“Thank yuh, Mr. LeClere.”

Hashknife shook hands with him and he and Sleepy rode away beside the buggy, the old man waving at them from the porch. After they were out of sight he stabled Joe’s horse and came back to the porch, where Hashknife had left Joe’s rifle, a thirty-thirty carbine.

He sat down on the porch, holding the gun in his hands. He had always been rather particular about the condition of his guns, while Joe never seemed to care what shape they were in. He levered out the cartridges, counting them over. The gun was fully loaded. It seemed rather strange that Joe should have put in a fresh cartridge after being shot. It wouldn’t be the natural thing to do.

Then he threw open the action, stuffed the end of a white handkerchief inside the breech and peered down the barrel. The bore was as bright as polished silver. Slowly he put the handkerchief in his pocket and closed the gun. For a long time he sat there with the rifle across his lap, the cartridges in his closed right hand, which dangled over his knee, and his eyes almost closed under his shaggy eyebrows.

“Somebody she’s lied,” he said half-aloud. “Yvonne she’s act funny; Joe she’s not say much. I’m wonder how Joe get shot, eh?”

Finally he went into the house and put the gun away.

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the doctor’s office with Yvonne and Joe, but headed for the livery-stable, where they put up their horses.

“Looks like a live town,” observed Sleepy, as they left the stable.

“Ought to be, with the biggest building in town devoted to gamblin’,” said Hashknife.

As they stopped in front of the Silver Streak McLeod and Dalhart came out. They merely glanced at the two strangers and went on up the street. Hashknife looked after them for several moments, but finally he followed Sleepy into the place.

An alert bartender was ready to supply their wants, and Hashknife asked him whether he noticed the two men who had just gone out.

“That was Dunk McLeod and Mike Dalhart, both from the Box 88. McLeod is the foreman for Hayward.”

“Who is this Hayward?” asked Hashknife.

“Owner of the Box 88. Also owns this Silver Streak place.”

“Oh, I see,” thoughtfully. More men came to be served; so the conversation was not renewed. Sleepy hooked his elbows over the bar and calmly surveyed the place.

“Dalhart and McLeod,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Does either name sound familiar, Sleepy?”

“Not to me. I knowed a Dalhart down in Texas and I knowed a McLeod in Idaho.”

“Well, I didn’t know either of ’em, but there was somethin’ about one of them jiggers that was familiar. Probably mistaken, though. Quite a place, eh?”

“Plenty de-vices for separation,” smiled Sleepy. “Roulette, chuck-luck, stud, draw, craps, black-jack and slot-machines.”

Tuck Hayward and Fat Garnette came to the bar together. They were discussing Soapy Weed and neither of them paid any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“You think Soapy is merely coverin’ up somebody?” asked Tuck.

“I shore do,” nodded the sheriff, and gave his order to the bartender.

“Who, for instance, Fat?”

“_Quien sabe?_”

“Joe LeClere?”

“I never said any names. Well, here’s down yore neck.”

“’S a go. Well, I dunno. Of course, Joe busted the Kid’s nose that night and the Kid was crazy mad about it.”

“The Kid got what was comin’ to him, Tuck.”

“Sure, he did. And I’d hate to see Soapy hung for somethin’ he didn’t do.”

“As far as that’s concerned, I don’t believe they can convict Soapy. The prosecutin’ attorney don’t think so either, but he’ll shore try hard. That coroner’s jury held him because his story went hay-wire. Soapy’s hardheaded. I’ve tried to get him to slip me the truth, but he won’t do it.”

“Is the old Frenchman still yellin’ about stolen cows?”

“Not lately,” smiled the sheriff.

Hayward laughed and left the bar. The sheriff glanced sharply at Hashknife and Sleepy, realizing that they were strangers in Chongo.

“Howdy,” he said, nodding shortly.

“Pretty good,” said Hashknife. “Have a drink, sheriff?”

“Smoke a see-gar, stranger.”

He bit the end off a dried-out weed, tucked the end of it back beyond his wisdom teeth and waited for them to finish.

“Just get in?” he inquired.

“Fifteen minutes ago. Rode over from Keeling.”

“Hell of a hard ride, wasn’t it?”

“Somethin’ of about that denomination. Wasn’t that Hayward with you a few minutes ago?”

“Yeah, that was him.”

“Owns a big outfit?”

“The Box 88 is a pretty fair layout.”

“I wonder how he’s fixed for punchers?”

“Never heard him say. He lost one a week ago.”

“Quit?”

“Murdered.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife looked at the insignia of office on the sheriff’s vest. “Makes it kinda tough for you, eh?”

“Oh, I dunno. We’re holdin’ a man for trial.”

“But you don’t believe he’s guilty.”

The sheriff looked keenly at Hashknife.

“How do yuh know that?”

“Heard yuh tell Hayward.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah, I forgot about that. Well, I’ve got to be movin’. See yuh later.”

“Shore; so-long.”

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they met Yvonne. She was carrying out some packages, and they helped her put them in the buggy.

“How was the leg?” asked Hashknife.

“The doctor said it wasn’t dangerous. I will pick Joe up and take him home on my way back. Oh, I don’t know how to thank you for lying about that.”

Hashknife considered her gravely, but his gray eyes smiled as he said softly:

“Ma’am, I’m not addicted to lyin’; so I just ask yuh to accept that as the truth.”

“It is good of you,” she said. “You don’t know how good it was to hear you tell Dad what you told him out there. It may be a lesson to Joe.”

“I shore hope so, ma’am.”

“My name is Yvonne LeClere, Mr. Hartley. Everybody calls me Yvonne.”

“That’s fine,” smiled the tall cowboy. “My friends call me Hashknife.” He indicated Sleepy. “Call him Sleepy. He thinks he’s handsome and bright, but he ain’t; so don’t take him seriously.”

Yvonne laughed and picked up the lines.

“I want to add to Dad’s invitation,” she said. “Come out to the ranch and see us.”

“Yes’m, we shore will, Yvonne. Tell Joe to take care of the leg.”

“I shall tell him many things,” she said soberly.

“Not too much,” he warned. “This has been a hard day for him.”

They watched her drive down toward the doctor’s office, and she waved at them as she turned the corner.

“Mamma mine!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s _some_ girl.”

Hashknife nodded slowly.

“I reckon she’ll do, Sleepy. Let’s go and fold ourselves around some food and then get a room. I could sleep about ten hours and feel more like a man.”

“Well, there won’t nobody have to rock me; that’s a cinch, Hashknife. I don’t see how any punchers can work diligently with a girl like her in the vicinity. I know I couldn’t.”

“Somebody has probably had an option on her for a long time, Sleepy.”

“I suppose,” sighed Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m not so hard-hit that I can’t eat and sleep; so let’s me and you find where henfruit and hawg-leg gets familiar. C’mon.”

* * * * *

“And then he said--who played that jack? You, Soapy? Come to father. That gives me game. He said he leaned his gun against a rock and laid down to get a drink---- No, it’s Chuck’s deal. I dealt last time. He leaned his gun against the rock and when he laid down to get a drink, his horse---- You bid two? Betcha you’ve got the ace, deuce. Pass.

“Well, the horse knocked the gun down and it went off and the bullet went plumb through his left leg. You bid three, Chuck? Bid ’em high and sleep in the street, eh?”

Weary McMillan grinned and leaned back against the wall of the cell, waiting for Chuck Haverty, the jailer, to lead. The latter and Weary were having their daily game of pitch with Soapy Weed, and Weary had brought the news of Joe LeClere’s accident.

“Who told yuh all this?” asked Soapy.

“Doc Plumley. Yvonne brought Joe in yesterday to have his leg dressed.”

“Didja see her, Weary?” asked Soapy.

“Nope. Gimme low, game. You go back two-bits, Chuck. Don’t never depend on a five-spot bein’ low in a three-handed game, pardner. It was kinda luck for Joe that them two strange punchers came along and heard the shot. They helped Joe to the ranch. Didja see ’em, Chuck?”

“I seen ’em,” nodded Chuck, digging up a quarter, which he placed under the cigar box containing their chips.

“I got to talkin’ with the tall one,” said Weary. “Said his name was Hartley. I think the other is Stevens. Pretty salty-lookin’ pair of geezers, them two. If I was lookin’ for trouble, I don’t reckon I’d choose the tall one. Yore deal, Soapy. All I need is two points to take the _dinero_.”

“Sluff to me, Chuck,” said Soapy.

“Like hell!” wailed Chuck. “You only need two points. I’m the one to sluff to, ’cause I need five. You sluffed a ten to Weary that time, tryin’ to set me, when I’m low man. If you hadn’t been a prisoner, I’d ’a’ poked yuh in the snoot.”

“There’s some advantage in bein’ a prisoner, Chuck. But I’d much rather be free and take a chance on you pokin’ me.”

“Then why don’tcha tell the truth and get out?” asked Weary. “Yo’re an awful sucker, accordin’ to me. You never killed Kid O’Neil no more than I did.”

“They’re goin’ to try me for it, Weary.”

“Shore. And a damn fool cow-jury might hang yuh too.”

“That kinda ruins my game, Weary. What are yuh biddin’?”

“I’ll chance a couple.”

“With the ace, deuce, probably,” sighed Chuck. “I’ll shoot the whole works--four.”

“And get set higher than a kite,” grunted Soapy.

“With the ace, king, jack, trey? Anybody got the deuce? No? There’s my four. I catch Soapy’s ten on the second swing--sabe? Gimme that _dinero_. Any old time yuh bid and make four yuh win the pot.”

“If I was as lucky as you are, I’d be out of jail,” sighed Soapy. “That was my last two-bits.”

“I’ll stake yuh,” said Chuck.

“Suppose they find me guilty?”

“Game’s over,” said Chuck seriously. “I plumb forgot about the trial.”

“I reckon yore name’s McHaverty,” said Soapy. “You shore act Scotch.”

* * * * *

That same morning Hashknife and Sleepy rode away from Chongo town, heading north. They did not stop at the LeClere ranch but swung in to the north of it. Hashknife had noted many landmarks on their trip into Silver River Valley and he had little difficulty in finding the spot where they had met Joe LeClere.

But the Box 88 cattle were gone, the brush corral empty. Hashknife did not expect this. His idea in coming out there was to release those steers.

“Do yuh think they busted loose?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and pointed at the ash-heap where the fire had been built. A man had attempted to obliterate all indications of the fire and had left a heel mark deeply punched in the dirt.

“We never touched that fire, Sleepy,” said Hashknife.

“That’s right. I reckon Joe wasn’t workin’ alone, after all. I just been thinkin’ that this country might not be healthy for us. The geezer who came back here must know that we stopped Joe LeClere, don’tcha think?”

“Kinda looks thataway.”

They rode back down the valley and swung in at the IS ranch again. Yvonne was sweeping the front porch as they rode up and she came out to them, carrying her broom. She looked like a pretty Gipsy with her head bound in a scarlet bandanna.

“How’s Joe?” asked Hashknife.

“He’s still in bed,” she replied. “I guess his leg is pretty sore. He hasn’t much to say. Dad tried to question him last night.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t believe Dad takes any stock in the story about Joe being shot accidentally.”

“Why not?” asked Hashknife suddenly.

“Well, he asked Joe how he happened to reload his rifle and who cleaned it after the shot.”

Hashknife smiled sourly and looked at Sleepy.

“We shore overlooked that point,” he admitted. “That’s too danged bad. What did Joe tell him?”

“Nothing. Said he was too sick to talk about it. Dad went to town this morning. Won’t you come in a while? I was just finishing my work, you see.”

They dismounted and sat in the shade of the porch.

“Will you tell me all about what happened yesterday?” she asked.

“No,” replied Hashknife. “You go ahead and believe I told yore Dad the truth.”

“That lets you out of anythin’,” added Sleepy. “Yore Dad can’t prove that we lied, yuh see. If it comes to a show-down, I’ll swear I cleaned that gun and put in a cartridge.”

“Dad wouldn’t believe that. He’s had so much trouble with Joe! He tries to believe in Joe; but Joe drinks hard all the time and gambles when he can get the money. It’s only been in the last year or so. Before that Joe was fine.”

“We’ve heard quite a lot about this Kid O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “We didn’t like to ask questions, yuh see, but I’d kinda like to hear about him. We know they’ve got a man by the name of Soapy Weed in jail and that O’Neil was shot from behind. What was it about the body comin’ to town on Weed’s horse?”

Yvonne told them the whole story as well as she could, including the evidence at the inquest. Hashknife questioned her about Kid O’Neil’s activities prior to the shooting, and she told him of how the Kid had hired out to her father when he first came into the Valley.

“I wasn’t here when he came,” she said. “He had been here about a week when I came back from school. He got drunk and tried to kiss me and I slapped his face. When Dad found it out he kicked O’Neil off the ranch.

“Then he went to work for the AH outfit, but they had some trouble over there and he lost his job. After that he went to work for the Box 88 and he was with them until he was killed.”

“Kind of a tough _hombre_, eh?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Did you know McFee, the man who was murdered about a year or so ago near Chongo?”

“No, I never met him. He was only in the valley a short time. Joe knew him, I think. I guess they never had any idea who killed him.”

“Probably not. I wonder if we could see Joe?”

“Why, sure.”

They followed Yvonne into the house and found Joe in a bedroom that opened off the living-room. He was propped up in bed, smoking a cigaret, and did not seem overjoyed to see them. He admitted that the leg was very sore and that he had not slept well.

“You remember a feller named McFee who was killed near Chongo?” asked Hashknife.

Joe started suddenly and almost dropped his cigaret.

McFee had been a cowboy on the Box 88 for only two days when the murder occurred. Nobody had known him and the mystery of his death had never been solved and he had been almost forgotten.

“What about McFee?” Joe asked shortly.

“I just wanted a description of him.”

“Oh!” Joe puffed violently on his cigaret for several moments.

“He was kinda chunky and broad-shouldered if I remember right. Dark eyes and a pug nose. Oh, yeah! He had a scar on his upper lip that kinda puckered the skin. Looked as though it might have been stitched.”

Hashknife nodded slowly, his gray eyes thoughtful.

“Yuh don’t know where he came from, do yuh?”

“Nope; he never said. What do you know about him?”

“Not a thing.”

“What’s the idea of askin’ about him?”

“I had a friend named McFee and I wondered if this was the same person.”

“Was he?”

“I guess not.”

But this did not seem to satisfy Joe. He shot a sharp glance at Sleepy, whose innocent blue eyes told him nothing.

“Did the doctor say how soon yuh could walk?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope. But I’ll be out in a day or so. What are you fellers doin’ over here? Expect to get jobs?”

“Thought we might strike the Box 88 for jobs.”

“Yea-a-ah?”

“They lost a man the other day I understand.”

Joe began rolling another cigaret. Finally he looked at Hashknife and said:

“What are yuh goin’ to do about--what yuh discovered yesterday?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“You know ---- well what I mean!”

“Oh, yeah! Nothin’. Next time yuh leave a rifle layin’ around loose tie yore horse away from it.”

Hashknife got up abruptly and walked out of the room with Sleepy following close on his heels. They went out on the porch where Yvonne joined them.

“Won’t you let me apologize for Joe?” she asked. “He doesn’t seem to understand that--that there isn’t some motive behind you protecting him this way. I--I guess he hasn’t much faith in humanity.”

“He’s pretty young to lose faith in humanity,” said Hashknife slowly. “But you don’t need to apologize nor thank us. We didn’t do it with that idea in view.”

“Oh, I know that. It was just the good in your heart.”

“Mebby that’s it. Well, I reckon we’ll ramble along.”

“Can’t you stay for supper?”

“Not very well. Mebby some other day, but we thank yuh just the same.”

“You are always more than welcome, Hashknife.”

“That’s fine,” he smiled. “It’s great to be welcome and we appreciate it more than you know. We’ll probably see yuh again in a few days.”

They mounted their horses and headed back for Chongo town over the dusty road.

“Why did yuh ask about McFee?” queried Sleepy. “You didn’t never know him, didja?”

“Not as McFee. See if yuh can’t remember a puncher with a scar on his upper lip. Kind of a puckered scar.”

Sleepy rode along squinting his eyes against the glare from the yellow dust. Something stirred in his memory and he saw a heavy-set cowboy with a scarred upper lip. The man was squatting at a camp-fire drinking coffee from a tin cup and the firelight illuminated the scar.

Sleepy lifted his head and looked at Hashknife.

“McFee was his name,” he said as though they had discovered his identity. “He was workin’ as a deputy for the sheriff of Piney River and he stopped at our camp.”

“Good boy!” exclaimed Hashknife. “That’s Charley McFee. It shore had me pawin’ my head. He was trailin’ a murderer that night. Thanks for the memory.”

“Yo’re welcome,” grinned Sleepy. “But what good is it?”

“Mebby it’s no good but it gives a place to start. McFee was a stranger here--almost.”

“Why the almost, Hashknife?”

“Somebody knew him. He wasn’t here long enough to cause an enmity that would end in murder. He was killed by the one man who knew him.”

“What do yuh think of Joe LeClere?”

“That’s hard to say. Joe was goin’ to alter the brands on them Box 88 animals, I think. But Joe ain’t alone in the deal. I had an idea he was workin’ alone but I guess not. Somebody went up there and turned the steers out of that brush corral after we brought Joe home.”

“I reckon Joe is a bad boy. He shore threw lead at you.”

“Yeah and he danged near got me too. I’m glad I got him in the leg.”

“Didn’t yuh shoot at his legs, Hashknife?”

“Don’t be foolish. With a man tryin’ to kill me? I shot to stop him, tha’sall, Sleepy.”

It was like Hashknife to depreciate his own ability with a gun. But neither of them claimed to be good shots. In their wanderings up and down the earth they had encountered split-second gunmen who when the showdown came failed to split the second.

Hashknife had always said, “If yo’re in the right yuh don’t have to split a second; just shoot straight.”

* * * * *

Just outside Chongo town they met Frenchy LeClere. He nodded pleasantly but did not stop his team. They stabled their horses and wandered down to the sheriff’s office where they found Weary and Chuck. Fat had ridden out to the Box 88.

“I’m glad yuh came,” declared Weary. “I’m plumb tired of talkin’ with folks I know.”

“Meanin’ me,” said Chuck sadly.

“Meanin’ everybody in Chongo.”

Hashknife laughed and stretched out in a broken-back chair; Sleepy squatted against the wall and rolled a cigaret.

“We were out to the IS ranch,” offered Hashknife.

“Thasso? How’s Joe?” asked Weary.

“Gettin’ along all right, I reckon. They seem to think that somebody is stealin’ their cows.”

“Seem to!” snorted Weary. “That’s all it amounts to. Old LeClere makes me laugh. He’s been kickin’ to us for a year. We investigated but didn’t find anythin’ to prove that his cows are fadin’ away.”

“Has the Box 88 lost any?”

“I sh’d say not. Nobody stealin’ cows around here. Where would they dispose of ’em if they did rustle a few? You’ve got to show the hides of every cow yuh kill. Every month we go out to the silver mines and inspect the hides that the Box 88 save. Every hide that’s shipped out of this here range must be inspected by the sheriff.”

“The Box 88 has the meat contract for the mines?”

“Sure. Hayward keeps two men out there all the time to handle the stock. They kill a lot of beef in a month and I reckon Tuck Hayward makes a mighty good profit. He used to ship a lot of beef east but not since the railroad built in here. Yuh see he furnished the railroad camps with meat too. Hell, he ain’t a cattleman no more; he’s a butcher.”

“What kind of a lay-out is the AH?”

“Fine. Old Ace Hart is a prince. He never gets anywhere, as far as money is concerned but he don’t care. Ace is one of the old-timers and he’s satisfied as long as he can make enough to pay off the boys and keep eatin’. Hayward is a money-getter. He makes plenty money on beef and he ain’t in the gamblin’ and liquor business for his health. Not that he don’t shoot square. I wouldn’t say that about Tuck. But the percentage is shore heavy.”

“What’s yore opinion of the killin’ of Kid O’Neil?” asked Hashknife.

Weary laughed and shook his head.

“Search me. We’ve got a prisoner charged with the crime.”

“Somethin’ like the killin’ of McFee, wasn’t it?”

“Yo’re plumb full of questions, ain’t yuh?” grinned Chuck.

Hashknife grinned back at him and nodded.

“Yuh got to be if yo’re goin’ to know things, Haverty.”

“If yo’re goin’ to damn sure,” said Chuck seriously.

“Come to think of it, I reckon yo’re right,” said Weary. “McFee _was_ shot in the back jist like O’Neil was.”

“And he was workin’ for the Box 88 too--eh?”

“Just what are you drivin’ at, Hartley?”

“Did you know McFee?” asked Hashknife, ignoring Weary’s question.

“I did not. Nobody seemed to. He rode in and took a job with the Box 88. Never was here before. All we knew was that his name was Charley McFee; so we buried him out on the hill with the rest of the folks. He rode to town alone that night and never got here.”

“Kinda funny, wasn’t it?” mused Hashknife. “I wonder if anybody knew he was ridin’ alone the night he was killed!”

“I guess not. Hayward said that him and Joe LeClere was intendin’ to ride in with him but changed their minds. Joe was out there soberin’ up. He dang near had snakes. Cornes, McLeod and Dalhart had come to town earlier in the evenin’. None of ’em saw McFee after they left the Box 88.”

“Do yuh reckon somebody killed him for what money he might have had on him?”

“Not a chance, Hartley. Hayward loaned him five dollars before he left the ranch and he still had it in his pocket when we searched the body.”

“O’Neil wasn’t robbed, was he?”

“He never had anythin’. Spent it faster than he made it.”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, pondering over all this information. Chuck Haverty looked at Hashknife with amusement.

“Run out of questions?” said Chuck softly. “Hartley, you’d make a good lawyer.”

Hashknife smiled at Chuck, who was grinning.

“I’m afraid not, Haverty,” said Hashknife. “I like to see everybody get a square deal.”

* * * * *

A little later they left the office and went to a Chinese café for their supper. Mike Dalhart and McLeod were at the rear of the café eating a meal and both of them glanced up at Hashknife and Sleepy as they came in. They sat down near the front of the room with Sleepy facing the rear.

After a few minutes Dalhart said something to the waiter, who nodded, and Dalhart went out through the kitchen. McLeod waited a while and then came to the front of the room and paid for two meals.

He then nodded shortly to Hashknife and Sleepy as men do to strangers and went out. McLeod was rather a big man with iron-gray hair, possibly fifty years of age. He stopped outside and looked around as though looking for Dalhart, who came through an alley and met him.

Dalhart was of medium height, dark-skinned as an Indian, with small, close-set eyes and an aggressive chin. He was quick of movement and walked with a decided swagger. They went to the Silver Streak where McLeod sat down in a poker game. Dalhart stood around until Tuck Hayward showed up and they went to Tuck’s private office together.

Tuck shut the door tightly and turned to Dalhart.

“Well, what do yuh know, Mike?” he asked.

“Not much. We stopped at the IS. Didn’t see Joe. Yvonne told us the same thing we heard here--that Joe shot himself accidentally or that the horse kicked over the rifle and shot him through the leg. I talked with the doctor and he said it was a clean wound. Yuh can’t tell me that a thirty-thirty, with a mushroom bullet--”

“That ain’t what I want to know, Mike. Did she say anythin’ about these two strange punchers?”

“She said they found Joe and helped him home. I’ll bet if Joe had been hit with a thirty-thirty he’d ’a’ lost his whole leg. Say, who in hell are these strange punchers?”

“Said their names are Hartley and Stevens.”

“Hartley and Stevens, eh?” Mike’s eyes narrowed perceptibly. “Where are they from?”

“I dunno; never talked with ’em. You know ’em?”

“Not me.”

“How soon will Joe be out?”

“The girl said in a couple of days. Say, she’s a dinger, Tuck. If she was my girl--”

“Which she ain’t, Mike,” coldly.

“No, that’s true as hell. Well, I reckon that’s all, Tuck.”

“All right; thanks, Mike.”

“Yo’re welcome.”

Dalhart had a drink at the bar and then went out to his horse. He was riding out of town when Hashknife and Sleepy came from the café. He turned and looked at them but they were not looking in his direction.

They did not stop at the Silver Streak but went on down to the Chongo Saloon where they found an unoccupied pool-table and started a game. It was their favorite relaxation.

“Didja ever see this Dalhart person before?” asked Hashknife, squinting down the length of his cue when the game was well started.

“I don’t reckon I have; have you, Hashknife?”

“I’m just wonderin’ how good yore memory is.”

“Who is he?”

“Well--he’s Mike Dalhart of the Box 88 I reckon.”

“You reckon?”

“Yore bust,” smiled Hashknife.

* * * * *

It was another week before Joe LeClere was able to get around. Even then he was unable to wear a boot. Hashknife and Sleepy had been out to the IS ranch several times but had not talked with him. Yvonne had never mentioned the cattle-stealing incident and Joe felt sure that his father had believed Hashknife’s lie as to how he had been hurt. Yet there was something wrong. He caught his father looking queerly at him several times.

Did the old man suspect something? he wondered. Frenchy LeClere was keen-eyed in spite of his age. Joe tried to dismiss the thought but it persisted. His enforced stay at the ranch had cleansed his system of liquor and when the craving subsided at times he swore to himself that he was all through with the stuff.

He cursed the stuff bitterly to himself. Twice within a year he had been on the verge of delirium tremens. So far gone in fact that he hadn’t remembered what he had done. It was like a nightmare. Hayward had warned him that if he got a third attack it would finish him. Joe had no desire to see any more little green devils with red hats. Next time he would drink moderately, he promised himself.

Yvonne seemed changed too and Joe wondered whether it was because Soapy Weed was in jail. He couldn’t understand why Yvonne would choose Soapy, who had nothing in the world, when Tuck Hayward, who had everything, desired her.

He sat on the porch of the ranch-house and smoked innumerable cigarets, wishing he was in Chongo town where there was something going on. Yvonne came out and sat on the steps near him. She was doing a small piece of embroidery work and he watched her needle going in and out.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked. Yvonne shook her head but did not look at him.

“He rode north this morning,” she said, “and he carried a rifle.”

Joe blinked thoughtfully.

“What about him carrying a rifle, Yvonne?”

“I don’t know, Joe. He said he talked with the sheriff yesterday about losing cattle.”

“And the sheriff didn’t believe him?”

“I guess not. He said it was up to him to furnish evidence. I don’t know what evidence he needs. The last round-up shows that we have lost a good many head, Joe.” Yvonne turned her head and looked at him. “What were you doing with those cattle the day you were shot?”

Joe smiled crookedly.

“Not a thing. I was a fool to start anythin’.”

“You must have been doing something, Joe.”

“Do yuh think so? Well, I wasn’t. There wasn’t any evidence to show that I had done anythin’. What could I do to a Box 88 animal, even if they did find a runnin’-iron?”

“Then why did you start trouble with them?”

“Jumpy, I reckon,” grinned Joe and then sobered quickly. “Who are these two men anyway? What are they doin’ here?”

Yvonne shook her head.

“I don’t know, Joe. Nobody seems to know. They make friends with everybody. You can’t help liking them.”

“Can’t, eh? I remember one of ’em shot me in the leg.”

“But you shot at them first, didn’t you?”

“Oh, sure! I don’t blame ’em.”

Joe rubbed his leg carefully, squinting away from the smoke of his cigaret.

“You ain’t never been in to see Soapy, have yuh, Yvonne?”

“No,” softly.

“Do you think he killed Kid O’Neil?”

“No.”

“Then who did?”

“Haven’t you any idea, Joe?”

“What idea would I have?” quickly. “What are you drivin’ at, anyway?”

“Joe, the night O’Neil was killed you wasn’t home. You came here after Soapy Weed left.”

Joe dropped his cigaret as he leaned forward, his lips shut tightly for a moment. Then--

“You ain’t tryin’ to put _that_ on me, are yuh?”

Yvonne folded her hands in her lap, staring straight ahead.

“I’m not trying to put anything on you, Joe. You are my brother and I--but Soapy didn’t kill him. He--Joe,” she turned and looked up at him--“I think Soapy Weed tried to protect you. He was taking the body away when his horse got away from him.”

“Tried to protect me!” sneered Joe. “What the hell! I’m nothin’ to Soapy Weed.”

“You never considered me, did you, Joe?”

“Considered you? You mean that for you--is that yore idea of it? He was tryin’ to protect _you_?”

“I wonder.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! So you think yore brother murdered Kid O’Neil, eh? My God, you’ve got a lot of respect for me! Kill Kid O’Neil, eh? I busted his nose because he said things about you, didn’t I? Sa-a-ay! This ain’t somethin’--who else has this fool idea?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, Joe. It was my idea.”

“Well, that’s shore a sweet idea, I must say.”

Joe leaned back in his chair and rolled a cigaret. His hands shook slightly and he gnawed at the corner of his lower lip.

“Well, why don’t-cha go down and tell this to the sheriff? He might fall for it and let yore sweetheart loose. You can’t tell me that any man would be fool enough to stay in jail to protect his girl’s brother.”

Yvonne got to her feet, her eyes blazing. “Joe,” she said, her voice shaking, “you have associated with that crowd around the Silver Streak until you haven’t a shred of common decency left. Now you take back what you just said.”

“I ain’t got a thing to take back, kid. Go ahead and tell the sheriff. He’s fool enough to fall for anythin’. But if Soapy Weed ain’t guilty they’ll have a hell of a time tryin’ to put the deadwood on somebody else.”

Yvonne walked past him and went into the house shaking with anger. Joe grinned crookedly as he lighted a cigaret. At least he had his sister’s opinion. Some one was coming up the road on horseback and he recognized Tuck Hayward.

“Now, what the hell does he want?” wondered Joe.

Tuck rode up and dismounted, dropping the reins. His tall bay was broke to stand to dropped reins. Tuck grinned as he came up to the porch carrying a paper-wrapped parcel.

“Hello, Joe!” he grinned. “Able to be around, eh?”

“Just about,” grunted Joe glancing back toward the open doorway. Tuck caught the signal and nodded as he handed Joe the parcel.

“Thought yuh might be dry,” said Tuck. “Here’s a quart.”

“Dry! My God, I’ve spit cotton for a week! Thanks, Tuck.”

“Tha’sall right,” Tuck sat down ponderously on the step. “How’s the leg?”

“Gettin’ good. Be ridin’ day after tomorrow.”

“Good. I been intendin’ to come out and see yuh but I’ve been pretty busy. So the leg is almost healed, eh? Didja have a steeljacket bullet in that thirty-thirty?”

Joe shot a keen glance at Hayward before he said:

“Didn’t mushroom, I guess.”

“I guess not,” said Hayward softly and Joe flushed angrily.

“What are yuh drivin’ at, Tuck?”

Tuck glanced at the doorway and shook his head.