Chapter IV: Part 4

“Not a thing, I’ll bet! Just a hunch, Sleepy. When yo’re stuck as solid as I am you’ll play hunches.”

“I don’t see where Belton could figure--”

“Neither do I, Sleepy. Go on and forget him. He’s just a name as far as we’re concerned--but don’t mention it.”

“Oh, all right! I always travel in the dark in these things. I don’t know why yuh don’t never tell me anythin’.”

“Life is just travelin’ in the dark, Sleepy. We all do. We don’t know what it’s all about. And when we’re dead--take yore pick of resurrection, reincarnation or the end of things. I knowed a feller who believed in reincarnation. He was sure he’d come back in a different form. And I’ll be a liar if I don’t believe he did. About five years after his death I met a polecat. Well--aw, go ahead and laugh! There’s lots of things we don’t know about.”

“I feel better about it now,” laughed Sleepy.

* * * * *

The next morning Joe LeClere was still alive and the doctor was still hopeful. Yvonne rode in early to see how Joe was getting along and Hashknife and Sleepy rode home with her. She tried to appear hopeful but it was no use.

“Dad worries so much,” she said. “He’s afraid Joe will die and that he will never get cleared of that murder charge. Dad doesn’t believe Joe is guilty of course.”

“Do you?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t believe he killed O’Neil but I believe he knows who did kill him. The morning O’Neil was killed Joe didn’t come home until daylight. He wasn’t home when I got back from that dance.”

“Does the sheriff know this, Yvonne?” She shook her head quickly.

“You are the only one I’ve told.”

“Then he wasn’t at home when Soapy Weed found the body, eh? That looks bad. Where do yuh reckon he was?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Your father doesn’t know this?”

“No. He would be the last person I’d ever tell. Oh, I want him to keep his faith in Joe!”

“Yeah, I suppose that’s best. But why did you tell me all this, Yvonne?”

“Because--well, I don’t just know, Hashknife. You played so square with me that day--the first time I ever saw you. You saved Dad a big heartache. If he had known that Joe was a rustler it would have killed him, I think.”

“Thank yuh for the confidence, Yvonne. I’m doin’ everythin’ I can to save Joe. It’s one awful jumble though.”

They rode in at the ranch and Hashknife unsaddled her horse while she went in the house. Frenchy came down to them and was questioning Hashknife about Joe when Yvonne came out on the porch and Sleepy went up to her, leading his horse.

“I don’t know, Hart-lee,” sighed the old Frenchman. “Joe she’s not so very strong and she’s bad hurt.”

“He’ll be all right, Mr. LeClere,” assured Hashknife. “You quit worryin’.”

“I guess I worry all my life ’bout Joe,” wistfully.

“Aw, Joe’s all right.”

“It is nice from you to say good t’ing of Joe--when you know better.”

Hashknife looked sharply at him, wondering what he meant.

“You try to save de old man,” said Frenchy softly. “You tell me Joe she’s h’accidently shoot herself.”

He lifted his eyes and looked at Hashknife.

“You know it is not true, Hart-lee. I’m fin’ dat gonn has not been shoot and de mag’zine she’s full of shells.”

“Oh, yeah!” sighed Hashknife, trying to think of a reasonable alibi. “Well, yuh see, we cleaned--”

“_Non, non!_” the old man shook his head quickly. “I’m go back to de spring where Joe says she’s got shot. I’m h’examine spring ver’ close. Nobody she’s got shot dere. Bimeby I ride up de cañon and somet’ing led me to a brush corral. She’s full of Box 88 cows. I turn him loose. Now, w’at you say?”

“Well, old-timer,” said Hashknife slowly, “I ain’t got a thing to say. I done what I thought was for the best.”

“I know, Hart-lee. You are w’ite man. You never tell nobody ’bout my Joe. I’m glad to know man like you.”

“Shucks!” said Hashknife. “It wasn’t none of my business. And anyway I shot him. He shot first of course.”

“I know. I never h’ask Joe. I’m jus’ let it go. But I want you to know I ’preciate w’at you do for me.”

“Well, yo’re shore welcome, Mr. LeClere!”

They walked up to the porch and talked with Yvonne a few minutes before they mounted and rode away. Hashknife told Sleepy what the old man had found out and Sleepy whistled softly.

“He’s no fool, Hashknife. Yuh can tell by his eyes that he’s a smart man. But ain’t it hell to see the hurt in his eyes? When they get old--and get hurt--”

“That’s the worst of it, Sleepy. I can see my old dad in most every white-haired man I find. He had his failings the same as every one. But he was awful human. Mother was human, too. My God, she had to be to raise a family like she did! They’re both gone now. I wasn’t there when they went away.”

“That was my fix,” sighed Sleepy. “Where are we goin’?”

“Out in the hills, just ridin’ I suppose. I get tired of town and I want to look at cows and horses.”

They rode far back into the hills, just drifting along. At times they would draw up their horses to look at range stock, sometimes just to look at the panorama of the hills slumbering in the afternoon sun. They did little talking. Wild horses threw up their heads from afar and looked at the two riders until a suspicious stallion led them away on a wild chase farther back into the hills.

Range cattle eyed them suspiciously but allowed them to ride in close. Hashknife was reading brands as they went along, the IS, AH and the Box 88, of which the Box 88 predominated.

* * * * *

They had ridden out on a flat mesa, where several head of stock were crossing near them and Hashknife began taking down his rope.

“Let’s take that roan steer, Sleepy,” he said, pointing to an animal which had just passed them.

Sleepy shook out his rope, swinging to the right, as Hashknife, swinging a wide loop, rode to the left at a gallop. His first cast encircled the animal’s head and Ghost sat back quickly, whirling the surprised animal around. Sleepy, riding in close, deftly roped its hind legs and a moment later the big steer was stretched out on its side, bawling softly, while Hashknife dismounted and came along his rope. They had thrown the animal on its left side, exposing the Box 88 on its right shoulder.

Hashknife leaned over the animal, examining the brand closely. It was a Box 88 but seemed to have been made rather recently. There were no other marks on the animal.

“What did yuh find?” asked Sleepy.

“Fresh brand on an old steer. Looks and feels all right.”

Neither of them saw two riders come over the edge of the mesa behind them and neither was aware that another human was within miles until they heard McLeod of the Box 88 say:

“What in hell is the big idea?”

Hashknife straightened up suddenly. Within fifty feet of them sat McLeod and Asher, looking them over curiously. It was rather an embarrassing position for Hashknife and Sleepy.

“Oh, hello!” said Hashknife easily.

“That’s a Box 88, ain’t it?” queried McLeod coldly.

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.

“Then what in hell are you two jaspers doin’ with him? I’d like to know.”

Hashknife smiled softly.

“We thought we knowed this critter,” he said slowly. “He was too shy for close inspection; so we used a rope.”

“Sounds damn fishy to me.”

“Don’tcha like fish, McLeod?”

“Never you mind what I like; and I don’t like yore explanation, Hartley.”

Hashknife walked over to McLeod, who eyed him angrily.

“That’s the only explanation we’re usin’ today, McLeod.”

“The hell it is!”

“Just that--and no more.”

“Oh, yea-a-ah!”

McLeod looked Hashknife over closely. He intended telling this lanky cowpuncher what he thought of people who get free with their rope, but there was something in those level gray eyes which caused him to hesitate. He looked at Sleepy, who was lolling sideways in his saddle a half-smile on his face, resting his right hand on his hip just above the butt of his gun.

“The sheriff might be interested in this,” said McLeod.

“He might,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s shore soakin’ up all the information he can get.”

“We been wonderin’ about you,” said McLeod meaningly.

“Yeah?”

“Wonderin’ what yo’re both doin’ around here.”

“Found out anythin’ yet?”

“Well, yuh can draw yore own conclusions. You’ll probably hear more about this later.”

“If there’s anythin’ I can help yuh out on--don’t hesitate to speak about it.”

McLeod grunted, turned his horse around and he and Asher rode away, disappearing over the edge of the mesa. Hashknife looked at Sleepy and they both laughed foolishly.

“Hell of a situation!” snorted Hashknife as he removed the ropes and let the steer go its way.

“A damn dangerous situation!” said Sleepy.

“Mebby more than you think, cowboy! I reckon we better go back to town before we get into any more mischief.”

* * * * *

They rode off the mesa and headed back for Chongo town while McLeod and Asher swung further to the east, forded the river about two miles above the town, taking a short-cut to the Box 88. McLeod was properly indignant. He told the wide world that he didn’t want strangers roping Box 88 cattle in the hills.

“Why didn’t yuh bawl that tall puncher out good?” asked Asher innocently.

“Didn’t I?”

“Well, yuh didn’t scare him none, Mac. He don’t look like a person yuh could scare very easy.”

“I reckon he’s salty,” agreed McLeod. “But he can’t get away with that kind of stuff, y’betcha.”

* * * * *

They found Tuck Hayward at the ranch with Mike Dalhart and McLeod lost no time in telling Tuck what they had seen and what had been said.

“What’s it all about?” queried Tuck.

“I dunno. They had the steer tied down when we walked in on ’em.”

“Why didn’t yuh smoke ’em up, the dirty thieves?” asked Dalhart.

“Well, they hadn’t stole anythin’, Mike.”

“What the hell kinda evidence do _you_ have to have?”

“I’ll run my end of the business, Dalhart.”

“You keep out of this, Mike,” ordered Hayward.

“Oh, all right!”

Dalhart and Asher went down to the bunk-house, leaving Hayward and McLeod to talk it over.

“Just what did they seem to be doin’, Mac?” asked Tuck.

“Stevens was on his horse and Hartley was lookin’ at the brand. I dunno what it was all about but they shore felt cheap when we moved in on ’em.”

“Scared ’em, eh?”

“Like hell! You try to scare ’em, Tuck!”

“You say they felt cheap?”

“Well, you know what I mean. I reckon we better keep an eye on ’em.”

“It was a Box 88 they was lookin’ at?”

“Shore was!”

“I wish I knew what the idea was, Mac. Well, I reckon there wasn’t any harm done; so we won’t say anythin’ about it. I may mention it to the sheriff. As long as they didn’t have no fire nor runnin’-iron--”

“No, they didn’t, Tuck. But I don’t like their curiosity.”

“Well, just forget it. Did the sheriff check over that bunch of hides at the mine?”

“I reckon he did. Asher said that Hartley was out with Fat and they tagged all the hides.”

“Hartley was out there, eh?”

“That’s what Asher told me.”

“Mm-m-m-m! Well, I’ve got to go back to town, Mac.”

“How’s Joe LeClere?”

“Still alive. Doctor said he had a fightin’ chance.”

“Who the hell do yuh suppose shot him, Tuck?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” laughed Hayward. “Queer proposition! Well, I’ll see yuh later, Mac.”

* * * * *

Hashknife told Fat Garnette about the steer-roping incident as soon as he got back to town.

Fat didn’t seem to see any reason why Hashknife should throw a Box 88 steer until Hashknife explained that the brand looked too new.

“You ain’t tryin’ to put anythin’ on the Box 88, are yuh?” Fat wanted to know.

“Just curious,” smiled Hashknife.

“Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know, don’t yuh?”

“I’ve heard since that it didn’t. How’s Joe?”

“Still alive.”

Fat cuffed his sombrero over one ear and spat violently.

“I can’t make head nor tail out of it. If there’s one more killin’ I’ll be fit for the bug-house. What we need is a detective. As much as I hate the breed, I reckon we need one. I’ve been talkin’ to the prosecutin’ attorney for an hour or more and I’ll be damned if I don’t think they blame me for everythin’. The county commissioners had a meetin’--and they blame me.”

“I don’t blame yuh, Fat. I’m as much at sea as you are.”

“You? What the hell is it to you? Yo’re not a sheriff. They even wanted to know who you are. I couldn’t tell ’em. I tell yuh, I’m gettin’ so thin that my pants won’t stay up. Gotta wear suspenders, I suppose. Ain’t protectin’ society! I suppose they think I’m protectin’ murderers. By golly, I’ll resign--that’s what I’ll do! To hell with the job!”

Hashknife laughed and slapped Fat on the shoulder.

“Stay with ’em, pardner; you’ll win out.”

“Yeah, I’ll worry myself into a grave.”

* * * * *

Chuck Haverty had recovered from his busted scalp and he wanted revenge.

“Show me the geezer that petted me on the head and I’ll give yuh a first-class corpse,” he declared.

“Prob’ly stubbed yore toe and butted yore head against the door,” said the unfeeling Weary. “Yo’re a hell of a jailer.”

“I suppose yuh think I shot Joe and then tied myself up.”

“Wouldn’t put anythin’ past yuh, Chuck.”

“Well, I didn’t. Weary, ain’t you got no idea who might have done it? My God, some of us ort to figure out who done it! Fat is goin’ around fightin’ his hat all the time. Mebby if we steal his hat he’ll start thinkin’. Where is he?”

“I seen him and Hashknife together a while ago and they was headin’ for the Chongo Saloon.”

Chuck started to walk toward the door when the tired-eyed depot agent came in, bringing a telegram.

“A wire for the sheriff,” he said, handing it to Weary.

“Don’t suppose there’s an answer but I’ll wait and see.”

Weary tore it open and scanned the contents. It was from Evans, sheriff of Piney River, and said:

BITTER RIVER BELTON DARK SKINNED FIVE FEET TEN WEIGHT ABOUT
ONE FIFTY SMALL BROWN EYES THREE MOLES TOGETHER ON UPPER LEFT
WRIST AND A DEEP SCAR ON LEFT ELBOW STOP CONVICTED OF SECOND
DEGREE MURDER HERE BUT ESCAPED STOP ADVISE IF YOU HAVE HIM

As Weary was puzzling over the telegram Tuck Hayward came in.

“I don’t reckon there’s any answer,” said Weary. “Fat ain’t here now. If there’s an answer he’ll come up to send it.”

The depot agent nodded and went out as Weary turned to Tuck with a grin.

“Ever hear of Bitter River Belton, Tuck?”

“Bitter River Belton? Don’t reckon I ever did, Weary.”

“Neither did I. Listen to this.”

Weary read the telegram to Hayward and Chuck.

“I don’t sabe it,” declared Weary. “Sounds as though this here Piney River sheriff thought we had him.”

“Does sound that way, Weary. Where’s Fat?”

“Around town somewhere. I seen him and Hashknife headin’ for the Chongo a while ago.”

“Oh, all right! I’ll see him later.”

Hayward turned and walked from the office while Weary read the telegram over again.

“Sounds loco to me,” said Chuck.

“Shore it does! The Lord’s Prayer would sound loco to you.”

“Well, do you make sense out of it?”

“You mean this telegram?”

“No, the prayer.”

“Wait’ll I hear it, can’tcha? I’m goin’ to find Fat.”

He found Fat and Hashknife at the Chongo Saloon and gave Fat the telegram. Hashknife got one look at it and smiled.

“Answer to one I sent, Sheriff.”

“One you sent?”

“I signed yore name to it. Got action quicker. Lemme read it.”

Hashknife read it carefully, tore it into small bits and threw them in a cuspidor.

“What’s the idea?” asked Fat wonderingly. “I get a telegram and you tear it all to hell.”

“Don’t worry!” smiled Hashknife. He turned to Weary.

“Forget it, will yuh, Weary?”

“Oh, sure!”

“Yo’re the only one that seen it, Weary?”

“Just me and Chuck and the depot agent and Tuck Hayward.”

“My hell!” exploded Hashknife softly. “Why didn’t yuh paste it on the front door? Oh, that’s all right, Weary! It was my fault; I should have told yuh all about it.”

“Well, what does it mean?” demanded Fat. He had only an indistinct memory of what it contained.

“Shootin’ at shadows,” smiled Hashknife. “Playin’ a hunch. Don’t ask me any more, boys. Fat, I’ll play yuh that game of pool now.”

“Make it three-handed and spot me half the string,” said Weary.

“You go back in the office and keep Chuck from gettin’ killed,” ordered Fat. “And if there’s another murder before this game’s over write out my resignation and I’ll sign it.”

“I’ll have three of ’em written out,” grunted Weary.

* * * * *

“Well, I’m a fool-hen if this ain’t got me doin’ a whirligig!”

Fat Garnette cuffed his sombrero so lustily that it flew across the room. On the table in front of him was a large envelope which he had just opened and the objects of his exclamation were scattered around the desk-top. These objects happened to be at least a dozen printed reward notices, all alike.

Hashknife was tilted back in a chair near the door, looking over a copy of the state brand register. He shut the book and looked at Fat.

“Another murder?” he asked.

“Murder be damned! Look at this--will you?”

He handed Hashknife a notice which stated that five thousand dollars’ reward would be paid for the arrest and conviction of the man or men who murdered Jack Shields, alias Kid O’Neil. It was signed by the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association.

“What’s wrong about it?” asked Hashknife mildly.

“Oh, nothin’ of course. Who in hell was Kid O’Neil to be worth five thousand? And this county is offerin’ two thousand for the scalp of the geezer who shot Joe LeClere. And Joe’s got to stand trial for killin’ O’Neil. Didja ever see such a mulligan? It’s damn’ evident that the Cattle Association don’t believe Joe killed the Kid.”

“Not necessarily. Yuh see, it says for conviction.”

“But who in hell was O’Neil? Was he a cattle detective?”

“Looks thataway,” said Hashknife, scanning the notice.

“Gosh, he was a wild one!”

“If he was Jack Shields he was playin’ wild. I’ve heard about him, Fat. The poor devil played wild to get in on the inside of things.”

“You knew him, Hashknife?”

“Not personally; but I’ve heard about him.”

“Uh-huh.” Fat recovered his sombrero and sat down. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ about that telegram yuh got day before yesterday. What was it all about, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh yet. Maybe it don’t mean anythin’. It was just a shadow I shot at, thinkin’ there might be a man around here who made the shadow. Just a hunch, Fat.”

“Yo’re a shadow shooter, eh?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “Well, it’s worth two thousand to find the man who shot Joe. And it’s worth five thousand more to find the man who shot O’Neil.”

“Was there any reward for the killer of McFee?”

“Nope. Wasn’t anybody much interested in him, I reckon.”

“Did you say they were goin’ to move Joe out to the ranch?”

“That’s what they say. It’s so hard to get a nurse and the doctor thinks he can stand the trip. He was conscious this mornin’ for a while but he don’t seem able to talk. Some of the boys are helpin’ Frenchy fix up sort of a stretcher to take him home on. I reckon he’s goin’ to get well, after all, and I’ve told the doctor to not let anybody question him. If Joe knows who shot him I want to know it first.”

“That’s right--if he’ll tell.”

“Why wouldn’t he tell?”

“I dunno.”

“Sometimes you make me tired, Hashknife.”

“Sometimes I make myself tired,” smiled Hashknife.

“I’ll betcha. Well, I suppose it’s up to me to post up these notices.”

Fat dug in a desk drawer, bringing forth a broken-handled hammer and a box of carpet tacks.

“Betcha this O’Neil notice will shock the folks, Hashknife.”

“Prob’ly will. Might get a little action, though.”

“Action hell! Make a lot of ’em laugh at me for puttin’ Joe LeClere in jail. Still he might be guilty, yuh know.”

“Might be. How did it ever happen that Tuck Hayward didn’t get in on the silver mines, Fat? He’s quite progressive.”

“Wasn’t lucky, I guess. He did have a claim back on Dog Soldier Creek. That’s a tributary to Chongo but a long ways from the big mines. He done quite a lot of work in there but it never panned out. Mebby he still owns it.”

“Silver proposition?”

“Shore. He had a crew of men in there for a while. They built cabins and all that kinda stuff. Dog Soldier is almost a box cañon back there. The creek don’t amount to much except in high-water.”

“Rough country, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Well, I’ve got to tack up these notices.”

* * * * *

That afternoon they took Joe home. The doctor assured the prosecuting attorney that Joe would not be in shape even to think of escaping from the law for at least a month; so the law was satisfied. Joe needed more nursing than the doctor could give him and there were no nurses in Chongo town.

There was much speculation over the reward notices. The sheriff made it a point to tack both notices together in the saloons where they were much discussed; Hashknife made it a point to listen in on some of these conversations but was not enlightened to any extent.

Later in the evening he met Tuck Hayward in the Silver Streak and found the big man in a genial mood. He invited Hashknife to have a drink with him and they discussed the reward notices.

“I don’t quite sabe that Association notice,” he told Hashknife. “It looks as though O’Neil had been a detective, and if he was he was a wild one. Fat tells me that you knew him.”

“Only by reputation, Hayward. Jack Shields was a good man. He had handled a lot of tough cases for the Association.”

“What do yuh suppose he was lookin’ for out here?”

“I dunno.”

“Kinda funny. Fat told me quite a while ago that you and Stevens were lookin’ for jobs. I was shy one man after O’Neil was killed but I figured to get along without him. Yesterday Dalhart and Asher quit me. They been wantin’ to head for Arizona for quite a while. Now I’m needin’ a couple of good men and if yuh want to go to work just say so. I need one at the ranch and one at the mine. Asher worked out there.”

“I dunno,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We’ve got a notion to head for Arizona ourselves. The winters are kinda bad around here, they tell me.”

“Yeah, they are bad. If yuh don’t care for blizzards yuh wouldn’t like the winters here. It’s pretty high, yuh know.”

“I been figurin’ on that,” said Hashknife. “But yuh never can tell about us. If we decide to stay we’ll take yuh up. What part did Dalhart and Asher head for?”

“Down around Springerville, I think. They wasn’t sure.”

* * * * *

When Hashknife left the Silver Streak he met the sheriff near the saloon.

“Want to go down and see Joe?” he asked. “Weary was just down there and he said that Joe was conscious. They’re not goin’ to take him home until tomorrow and I thought he might talk a little.”

Hashknife went down with him and the doctor cautioned the sheriff against too much conversation. Joe looked very thin and weak, in spite of a heavy growth of black whiskers.

“Glad to see yuh doin’ so well, Joe,” said the sheriff.

“I’ll be fit to hang!” whispered Joe.

“Forget that, Joe.”

“Hard thing to forget, Fat.”

“I know. Did you see the man who shot yuh?”

“No,” whispered Joe weakly. “It was too dark. I thought it was Chuck when I came up to the bars.”

“Why would any one want to kill yuh, Joe?”

Joe shook his head on the pillow. Only once did his eyes shift to Hashknife and then merely for a second.

Perhaps he knew Hashknife didn’t believe him.

“Yuh might like to know that the Cattle Association is offerin’ five thousand for the man who killed O’Neil.”

Joe’s eyes opened slightly.

“His name was Shields,” said the sheriff. “He was a cattle detective.”

“O’Neil was a cattle detective? I don’t believe it, Fat.”

“Well, he was, Joe.”

“I’ll be damned!”

Hashknife smiled softly, realizing that Joe did not know before that O’Neil was a detective. He had been afraid that Joe knew O’Neil was a detective but Joe’s astonishment was painfully real.

* * * * *

“They’re offerin’ two thousand reward for the man who shot you,” said Hashknife.

Joe frowned heavily as though not understanding.

“Yuh know,” grinned Fat, “it’s quite a crime to break into a jail and shoot prisoners.”

“Two thousand reward for the man who shot me!” said Joe slowly. “Can yuh imagine that?”

“You might collect it, Joe,” suggested Hashknife.

“No chance, Hartley. I don’t know who shot me.”

“I think that is enough for today, gentlemen,” suggested the doctor. “We can’t take any chances, you know.”

“Sure!” said the sheriff quickly. “Much obliged, Doc.” They left the place and sauntered up-town.

“Well, that didn’t help much,” sighed the sheriff. “Joe don’t know any more than we do.”

“Not much, I guess. Hayward offered me and Sleepy jobs today. Dalhart and Asher have quit the Box 88 and headed for Arizona.”

“Thasso? Are yuh goin’ to accept the jobs?”

“Don’t know. We may go to Arizona later on; can’t tell yet.”

“Hayward is a good man to work for.”

“Prob’ly a better man to work for than against.”

“I don’t know what yuh mean, Hashknife.”

“I don’t believe I do either,” smiled Hashknife.

“Well, you say the funniest things!”

“Yeah, I guess I do--but I’m the only one that ever gets much of a laugh out of ’em. They sound silly to other folks.”

“Like shootin’ at shadows, eh?”

“That ain’t funny; that’s pretty--serious.”

“Well,” sighed Fat, “I can’t figure yuh out.”

“Nobody can but me, Fat; I own the answer-book.”

* * * * *

Hashknife drifted back to the Silver Streak and sat in on a game of draw where Hayward was playing. Hayward must have known that Hashknife went down to see Joe because he asked Hashknife how Joe was feeling.

“He’s doin’ fine,” replied Hashknife easily. “We asked him whether he knew who shot him; but he didn’t. At least he says he don’t know. Personally I think he’s a liar. He’s afraid to tell.”

Hayward looked sharply at Hashknife but made no comment.

“Mebby he wants to get well and do his own killin’,” suggested Johnny Colburn of the AH.

“That may be his idea,” smiled Hashknife. “Anyway, I’d bet better than even money that Joe knows who shot him.”

“What gave yuh that hunch?” asked Hayward, examining his cards closely.

“I dunno. Give me three cards.”

“Two!” said Hayward. “Funny how yuh get a hunch of that kind. Pass the bet.”

“Not so funny. Pass here.”

Hashknife played out his chips and drew out of the game.

“If yuh decide about them jobs let me know, will yuh?” asked Hayward.

“Shore--thanks!”

“Say!” said Johnny Colburn. “Do yuh think Joe would rather get hung than tell what he knows?”

“Not little Joe,” laughed Hashknife. “He’ll talk when the time comes. Self-preservation is the first law of nature, yuh know. It’ll be worth while listenin’ to what he’ll tell.”

“Be worth about seven thousand to the man who gets into action first,” grinned Johnny. “He’ll tell who killed O’Neil and who shot him. Seven thousand dollars’ worth of talk.”

“Suppose he killed O’Neil himself?” said Hayward.

“Well, he didn’t shoot himself--that’s a cinch, Tuck.”

“And they can’t convict him of killin’ O’Neil,” said Hashknife. “As far as I can see there wasn’t enough evidence against him to hold him for trial. He whipped O’Neil, didn’t he? On the spur of the moment he busted O’Neil’s nose. He left town before O’Neil was patched up. He didn’t even know O’Neil was going to follow him. It was dark that night. I know there was a moon, but that wasn’t sufficient for Joe to have seen O’Neil comin’ and known who he was. You’ll say that O’Neil and Joe might have met and Joe shot O’Neil when his head was turned. Nothin’ of the kind. If O’Neil was mad enough to kill Joe--and he _was_ mad enough if he followed him--he wouldn’t talk it over and turn his head. If Joe had cause to fear a cattle detective he might have killed O’Neil--but Joe didn’t know O’Neil was a detective. Now where’s yore case?”

“You should have been a lawyer--or a detective,” laughed Hayward. “Stick around and we’ll elect yuh sheriff next term. How would that job suit yuh?”

“I might do that, Hayward,” seriously.

“I’ve always wanted to wear a shinin’ star and have an office.”

“Fat ain’t doin’ much for the county,” laughed Johnny. “All he does is walk in circles like a pup gettin’ ready to lay down; walk in circles and fight his hat. Chuck sets on the end of his spine and tells what he’ll do to the man who sapped him that night--and Weary cusses both of ’em.”

“What else can they do?” queried Hayward. “There’s nothin’ to work on. Yore deal, Johnny.”

“There’s always somethin’ to work on,” said Hashknife.

“Show me somethin’,” challenged Hayward.

“You’d like to collect that seven thousand, eh?” laughed Hashknife. “No chance, Hayward!”

“Well, I’ll bet _you_ won’t collect it either, Hashknife.”

“Not all of it,” smiled Hashknife as he walked away.

“Now what the hell did he mean by that?” queried Colburn.

“Just a smart remark!” growled Hayward. “Yore deal, Andy.”

* * * * *

The next day being Saturday Slim Benito, cook at the AH ranch, came to Chongo town. Slim didn’t come to town often because he was saving his money. Slim was short, fat and good-natured. He detested liquor in every form but like many other men he drank to be sociable. And Slim was sociable. After the second drink he became expansively sociable. He threw away his purse and put the money loose in his pocket where it would be handy.

Slim didn’t come in early in the day, as he waited for Soapy and Cling who were going to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch. Frenchy had made a canvas sling for the wagon bed and had piled it deep with straw and blankets.

The doctor had advised taking Joe back after sundown to escape the heat, and it was still an hour of sundown when the three AH boys came to town. Soapy and Cling were not averse to taking a few drinks, so they also grew sociable along with Slim.

“I’m a whipper-will,” declared Slim, “and this is my night t’ sing. I feel loose and free like a wagon-wheel which has done slipped off the axle on a down grade.”

“Yo’re a grand man,” agreed Soapy. “If yuh live long enough and have good luck yuh might be a grandfather. But if you keep this up, Slim, you’ll be drunk.”

“I can hold as much liquor as any livin’ man,” declared Slim. “But I only drink to be sociable. I hate the stuff. I hate the stuff, I tell yuh! Wine is a mocker; so drink whisky. If it wasn’t for bein’ sociable--sociable, yuh know--”

“Do you have to be sociable?” asked Cling.

“I’m accust’md--accust-um-dud--”

“Oh, yo’re accustomed to bein’, eh?”

“Oh, certn’ly!”

“Well, you better coil up yore rope,” advised Soapy. “In three more drinks you’ll fold up like a blanket, Slim. Far be it from me to advise a friend--but go easy. We don’t want to have to carry yuh home.”

“Is thasoo? Well, well! You’ll carry Misser Benito home? You? Shay, lemme tell yuh, par’ner--”

“Listen, Slim!” begged Cling. “Me and Soapy have got to be goin’. Now have a pleasant evenin’ but keep sober.”

They walked away, leavin’ Slim to goggle after them from beside the bar. Finally he turned to the bartender.

“I bub-bought sheven or eight drinks,” he said thickly. “They never bought none, di’ they? And now they run out on me. Aw ri’! I’m a lone wolf fr’m now on. I hate liquor but I mus’ be shociable. Lets me and you have li’l drink.”

“All right!” grinned the bartender. “But I’d advise yuh to quit long enough to get yore eyes in focus. You can’t see anythin’, Slim.”

“You know how ol’ I am, barten’er? Don’tcha? I’m fifty. And any damn man who ain’t sheen a plenty by the time he’s fifty ain’t got no use f’r eyes anyway. Here’s my shincere regards. May you choke to death on a diamond!”

“Why on a diamond, Slim?”

“Oh, tha’s jus’ my idea of a firs’-class, high-tone death. Fill’m up and you think of one.”

* * * * *

Soapy and Cling kept away from the Silver Streak. They had imbibed a sufficient amount to cause the world to have a rosy tinge, as it were. They lost a few dollars at the Chongo Saloon and then went to a restaurant where they met Chuck and Weary.

“Didn’t recognize yuh without a fiddle,” said Chuck seriously. “What are yuh doin’--all in-cog-neeto, as it was?”

“Go to hell, you iron-headed bastile-tender,” replied Soapy. “Hello, Weary! How’s crime?”

“Seems to be doin’ well,” grinned Weary. “How come that you drunkards ain’t in the gutter before this?”

“We’re not gutterin’,” grinned Cling. “Fact of the matter is this: Me and Soapy came in to help Frenchy take Joe out to the ranch this evenin’.”

“You’ve got a swell chance,” grunted Weary, removing his elbows to give the waiter a chance at the table.

“What’s the matter?” asked Soapy.

“Joe had a re-lapse. Yep--this afternoon. Fever and chills. Guess he got well too fast. Anyway, the doctor won’t let nobody see him and it’s a cinch they can’t move him this evenin’, so yuh might as well go gutterin’.”

“That’s kinda hard luck. Anyway, we’ll see Frenchy when he comes in, so he’ll know we kept our word.”

“Prob’ly floor him,” said Chuck. “He won’t look for yuh.”

“Oh, he’ll look for Soapy,” laughed Cling. “Soapy has to stand in with the old man.”

They argued and laughed through their supper and it was dark when they finished. Then Soapy and Cling went down to the doctor’s place to see whether Frenchy had arrived yet. He was not there and the doctor told them that it would be impossible to move Joe. He refused to let them see Joe; so they went back.

In the meantime Slim Benito had ceased to be a whippoorwill. After a crying spell, induced by the knowledge that he was a “lone wolf” without a friend in the world, he became a trifle savage, which is a wolf trait.

Slim carried a heavy Colt gun inside the waist-band of his trousers and the bartender eyed this weapon with great disfavor. He had been a bartender for so many years that he was well able to read drunken character and he tabulated Slim as being dangerous. And when Slim decided to drink alone it looked worse than ever.

“I’m wild,” he told the bartender seriously. “Come from a wild family. Never was a male Benito that wasn’t fit to be tied. We’re snappin’ turtles.”

“Sure,” agreed the bartender. “Tough family.”

“Meaner ’n dirt.”

“A lot meaner.”

“Meaner ’n hell.”

“Oh, yuh bet!”

“Screamin’ mean,” Slim’s eyes flashed.

“Fightin’ fools,” agreed the grinning bartender.

“Gun-fighters, y’betcha!”

Slim’s lips curled back at the mere suggestion and his right hand yanked the gun from his waist-band.

Crash! The first shot struck squarely in the center of the back-bar mirror and the splintering of the big glass was almost as loud as the report of the gun. The bartender just let loose and went flat to the floor.

Wham! The next shot swept through a pyramid of glassware, sending it skyward in a sparkling shower.

“Yee-hoo-o-o-o-o!” screamed Slim.

Bam! Another bullet smashed through a side case and into a stock of fancy liquor, including several bottles of champagne which exploded merrily.

Then Slim whirled around, the gun at his hip. The saloon was in an uproar. Players ducked for any old kind of a shelter while Slim stood there in a fog of powder-smoke yelling at the top of his voice.

Bam! A bullet ripped through the cloth of a roulette table.

Crash! Another went accidentally and almost shot Slim in the foot.

“Yee-ho-o-o-ow-ee-e-e-e!” screamed Slim and went weaving out through the open doorway swinging the smoking Colt in his right hand. He bumped into a porch-post, staggered sideways and would have fallen if Soapy and Cling hadn’t grabbed him.

Soapy got the gun and they dragged Slim into an alley while men came running out of the saloon swearing, asking questions. Slim was speechless, helpless. He had gone through three stages of inebriation, the sociable, the maudlin and the fighting, and now he was unconscious.

“Stick here with him,” whispered Soapy. “I’ll find out who he killed.”

Soapy went around to the saloon where a crowd, including the sheriff, were examining the extent of Slim’s damage. The back-bar was a wreck, as was the big mirror.

“This kind of stuff has got to quit,” declared Hayward. “By God, that mirror cost me a lot of money! And look at it! Look at them glasses! And he was shootin’ around at everybody. You put him in jail, Fat.”

“I s’pose I’ll have to, Tuck. This place shore is a wreck. Where’d he go?”

Nobody seemed to know. One man _thought_ he saw Slim go out through the front door but he wasn’t sure because he was down behind the pool-table.

“I’ll find the damn fool,” declared Tuck.

Soapy ducked back to Cling and Slim. Slim was propped against the wall snoring heavily.

“We’ve got to keep him away from the sheriff,” declared Soapy. “All he done was to smash the mirror and wreck the back-bar, and they want to put him in jail.”

“Yeah! And they’ll find us here--that’s a cinch! What’ll we do with him, Soapy? He can’t ride.”

“C’mon!”

They picked up the limp Slim and carried him through the alley, circled the rear of the Silver Streak and came in past the hitch-rack where some of the men were looking to see whether Slim had taken his horse.

“Horse is still here,” declared a voice and the men went back toward the front of the saloon.

“My God, this geezer weighs a ton!” panted Cling. “His feet ain’t draggin’, are they?”

“Mine are,” grunted Soapy. “What’ll we do with him?”

“Drop him somewhere in the dark.”

But they kept on going, praying that they would not meet any one. Down a side street they went where the lighted window showed the doctor’s office. Just ahead of them was the black bulk of Frenchy LeClere’s wagon and team.

“I’ve got a idea,” panted Soapy. “Here’s a hide-out.”

Cautiously they went over to the wagon and with a supreme effort they dumped Slim over the side of the wagonbox and into the stretcher which had been made for Joe LeClere. They pulled the blankets from under him and covered him up completely.

Frenchy and the doctor came outside, talking softly, and the two cowboys lost no time in making a sneak around the other side of the town, coming back to the street near the sheriff’s office.

In front of a general merchandise store they met the sheriff.

“Where yuh been?” he asked.

“Do yuh mean all our lives?” asked Soapy innocently.

“I mean just now.”

“Oh, we was down to yore office, Fat. Somebody said yuh had captured Slim Benito.”

“You knew I was lookin’ for him, eh?”

“We heard yuh was. Didja find him?”

“I didn’t. Where was you when he shot up the saloon?”

“We was down at the Chongo. Yuh see we didn’t want to associate with Slim, so we went down there. Honest, he ought to be hung.”

“Yeah,” growled Fat. “I s’pose so.”

Fat wasn’t at all convinced that Soapy and Cling hadn’t had a hand in helping Slim to safety. Cowboys are notoriously faithful to their own outfit, even when in the wrong, and especially where the law is concerned.

And down in his heart Fat didn’t blame them. He had been a cowboy before he was a sheriff and he knew. It wasn’t because of any outrage against the law that he wanted Slim but because he was afraid Slim might break forth again and do some bodily injury to some one.

“I thought Slim was too drunk to shoot,” he said. “I seen him fifteen minutes before he broke loose and he was hangin’ onto the bar with both hands.”

“Did he take his horse?” asked Soapy, who already knew that they had found the horse at the hitch-rack.

“No, he didn’t take it. He’s still in town.”

“Well, if we see him we’ll tell him that yuh want him.”

“I know yuh will, Soapy. He’ll have to work all the rest of his life to pay for the damage he done over there.”

The sheriff walked on and the two cowboys sat down on the sidewalk and chuckled joyfully. They heard Frenchy’s wagon rumbling along over on the side street and saw the dark bulk of it as Frenchy swung his team to the right and headed for the IS ranch.

“My God, wait’ll Slim wakes up!” laughed Soapy. “He’ll have to walk home.”

“And if Frenchy discovers him I’ll bet Frenchy will just about pile off that wagon and start runnin’,” choked Cling.

“I’ll betcha! Gosh, that was a good scheme, Cling! We shore got old Slim out of the clutches of the law that time. I hope he gives us credit when he finds out what happened.”

“Oh, he shore will! He don’t know it now but we’re the two best friends he’s got. Let’s go over to the Silver Streak and inspect the damage.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy had been playing pool at the Chongo when Slim started shooting and there was so much noise in the place that they didn’t hear the shots at the Silver Streak, which was a block away. But as soon as they heard about the shooting they quit playing and went up to view the damages, which seemed very complete as far as the mirror was concerned. Things had quieted down, although the sheriff’s office was still on the trail of Slim Benito.

Hashknife and Sleepy left the Silver Streak and went to their room at about ten o’clock and at about two o’clock in the morning Fat Garnette hammered on their door.

“Somethin’ has gone wrong,” he told Hashknife. “Put on yore clothes, both of you, and come down, will yuh?”

“Now, what the hell has busted?” wondered Sleepy as he put on his boots. “This town shore does do things!”

“Looks thataway.”

On the sidewalk in front of the hotel they found the Sheriff, Weary and Yvonne LeClere.

“Sorry to get yuh out of bed,” said Fat apologetically, “but Yvonne just came in and she says her father started for here early this evenin’ and he ain’t never got home. We found out that he showed up at the doctor’s place to get Joe. But Joe ain’t so well, so he didn’t get him. The doctor says he left there all right--but where is he?”

“That’s queer,” mused Hashknife.

“It is queer,” agreed Yvonne nervously. “I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I saddled a horse and came down here.”

“Where could he go?” asked Sleepy.

* * * * *

There was plenty of activity at the Silver Streak and as they were talking Soapy and Cling came from the doorway. They stopped on the edge of the sidewalk for a moment but came on across the street, evidently curious about the little group in front of the hotel.

“Well, what kind of a meetin’ is this?” asked Soapy as soon as he recognized those of the group.

“Did you see anythin’ of Yvonne’s father tonight?” asked the sheriff.

“N-no, I--I--”

“We seen him pullin’ out,” said Cling. “At least we saw a team and wagon. What’s wrong?”

“Well, he never got home; that’s what’s wrong.”

“Never got home?” Soapy’s voice was hoarse. “What do yuh mean that he never got home?”

“My God, yo’re thick!” snorted Weary.

“Oh, yeah!” said Soapy as though it was all explained. He stepped in close to Cling and said hoarsely, “He never got home.”

“I heard he didn’t,” foolishly.

They were both thinking of Slim Benito in the bed of that wagon.

“What do yuh think we ought to do, Fat?” asked Hashknife.

“Go and hunt for him, I suppose. He can’t be on the IS road or Yvonne would have seen him. And I dunno where else he could possibly be. Dang it, yuh can’t lose a team and a wagon!”

“Yuh might lose one,” said Hashknife, “but you’d have a hard time misplacin’ one. We’ll get our horses, Fat.”

Soapy and Cling went across to get their horses at the hitch-rack and Yvonne walked down to the office with Fat and Weary to wait for them to saddle.

“What do yuh make of it, Soapy?” asked Cling seriously.

“My God, I don’t know! Slim was too drunk to do anythin’, wasn’t he? Yuh don’t suppose he took the team away from the old man and went to the AH, do yuh?”

Soapy put his foot in the stirrup before he answered.

“Don’t ask me to guess. I hope they’re all right.”

“Yuh couldn’t kill Slim--he was too drunk.”

* * * * *

They rode down to the office and in a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy joined them. As soon as Fat and Weary had their animals saddled the seven of them rode out of town toward the IS ranch. It was too dark for any investigation, but as the LeClere wagon had been the last one over the road it was easy, with the aid of lighted matches, to see that it had not turned off on the road to the mines or to the AH.

Their investigations showed that the wagon had been headed for the IS, and as that ranch was the end of that particular road that fact was conclusive evidence that somewhere between the AH fork and the IS ranch they should find the team and wagon.

North of the Silver River crossing the road climbed up along the side of a hill where the ground sloped for perhaps a quarter of a mile off to the left ending in a narrow ravine. At no place on the road was what might be termed a dangerous spot. From the top of this hill the road ran fairly level to the ranch.

They traveled slowly to the ranch-house, the dusty road giving them no clues as to whether the wagon was still ahead of them or not. But it was not at the ranch-house. They rode all around the premises and came back to the house where they dismounted and went inside.

“Wait until daylight,” advised Hashknife. “In a couple of hours it will be light enough to see what we’re doin’.”

“I think that is the thing to do,” agreed Yvonne. She was greatly worried but went to work in the kitchen making some coffee for the men.

“I’d rather be doing something,” she said when Hashknife begged her not to go to all that trouble. “And a cup of hot coffee will taste good.”

“Didja find out from the doctor how Joe was?” he asked.

“He was sleeping but still had fever. Oh, I don’t know!” she said helplessly. “It seems as though everything happens to us. Even if Joe does get well--”

“You forget that,” advised Hashknife. “He’ll get well and they’ll turn him loose.”

“I wish I thought so, Hashknife.”

* * * * *

By the time they had finished breakfast the dawn was showing in the east. Yvonne insisted on riding with them.

“I’m glad she’s goin’,” Weary whispered to Hashknife. “If there’s anythin’ wrong I’d be the one to have to pack the bad news to her. This way she’ll see it with us.”

“You shore think pleasant things, Weary.”

“I’m protectin’ my own feelin’s,” grinned Weary.

They mounted their horses and rode back toward town, watching both sides of the road to see if the wagon had left the ruts.

“What kind of a team was yore father drivin’?” asked Sleepy.

“Roan team,” said Yvonne.

“Gentle?”

“Not gentle, Sleepy, but well broke. Joe broke them and he likes speed.”

“Might run away?”

“Oh, if they had a good chance, I suppose! They never have run away though.”

* * * * *

It was at the top of the slope above the river that they found the wagon tracks. The iron-shod wheels had cut deeply where the wagon had swung off the road and there was a deep gash in the side of the hill where the vehicle had slewed around on the slope.

The hill was about fifteen per cent grade with clumps of greasewood and sage. The track of the wagon was plain, as it had nearly torn a big greasewood out by the roots and evidently carried it along.

They spurred off the road and scattered out. It was Weary who found Frenchy LeClere sprawled on his back half under a greasewood. Weary’s yell brought them to the spot and they lifted the old man out into the open.

He was alive, but badly hurt and unconscious. It was impossible for them to determine just how badly he was hurt, except for a nasty scalp wound which looked as though it might be more than skin-deep.

“Weary, you get the doctor as fast as yore bronc can run,” ordered Fat. “Soapy, you and Cling head back to the ranch and bring down the horse and buggy.”

Weary spurred back up the hill while Soapy and Cling mounted at a much slower gait. They didn’t want to go. They wanted to stay and look for Slim Benito but there was nothing for them to do now except to go after that buggy.

“I feel just like a murderer,” said Soapy as they rode swiftly back to the ranch.

“Same here! Why didn’t we let ’em put Slim in jail?”

“He’s prob’ly deader ’n hell.”

“Cinch! I’ll betcha the team up-ended plumb in the bottom of that cañon. Of course he’s dead. But keep yore mouth shut. Nobody knows we put him in that wagon.”

“But they’ll know we did,” wailed Soapy. “Murder will out--sure.”

“Well, it won’t out so damn quick if yuh keep yore mouth shut. Take a reef in yourself, Soapy, yo’re tremblin’!”

“I don’t feel well. Guess them eggs didn’t set well.”

“Well, they can’t cinch us for murder. We didn’t know the team was goin’ to run away.”

“A damn lawyer can make most anythin’ out against yuh, Cling. You ain’t got a chance in the world.”

“I’m all through doin’ good for folks.”

“Same here. From now on, I’m hard as hell.”

* * * * *

Sleepy rode down to the river and came back with the crown of his hat full of water which they used to bathe the old man’s face. Yvonne sat there in stony silence staring at her father who occasionally groaned softly.

“Maybe he ain’t hurt so bad,” said Hashknife hopefully.

“Nothin’ we can do until the doctor gets here.”

“Maybe we better take a look and see what happened to the team and wagon,” suggested Sleepy.

“Why don’t you fellers do that? No use of all of us stayin’ here.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode down through the greasewood, following the tracks of the wagon, which seemed to have come most of the distance on two wheels, judging from the deep rut.

Then they found where it had overturned, and from there to the bottom of the little cañon it had rolled over and over, finally smashing down between a tree and a ledge of rock.

Both horses were dead, piled up together fifty feet away from the wrecked wagon. There was no use going down the steep bank to examine them.

“Gee, that was a nasty wreck!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Mebby the old man went to sleep and the team ran away with him.”

“Looks thataway.”