Chapter I: Part 1

The Trey of Spades

By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “The Dead-Line,” “Just for a Laugh,” etc.

“This looks like the place, ‘Sleepy.’ In all my years, this is the first time I ever seen just the place to settle down. Look at the wide places, cowboy. Away over there is the river, cuttin’ almost down the center of it. Them green cañons are showing plenty of water, and look at the feed.”

“Hashknife” Hartley lifted his lean head, as he swung one long arm in an arc, encompassing the length and breadth of the Thunder rangeland. Sleepy Stevens, his companion, humped in his saddle, rolling a cigarette.

“Feast yore eyes upon her, cowboy,” urged Hashknife seriously. “She’s the range of our dreams. No fences and danged few ranches. If it was made to order it couldn’t hit closer to what we’ve wanted.”

“Gimme a match,” said Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife fumbled for a match, but did not take his eyes off the panorama before him. Behind them and on both sides stretched the Thunder Mountains, half-encompassing a rolling range that only ended in a hazy distance--hundreds of square miles of rolling hills, small valleys, dotted with cottonwoods and live-oaks; an ideal cattle range. Far away, in the middle distance, the Bitter River pursued its irregular course; a green thread that split the land in twain.

“Yuh ought to give me a match with a head on it,” complained Sleepy. Hashknife turned in his saddle and squinted at him. There was a hint of reproach in Hashknife’s thin face, as he produced another match and handed it to Sleepy.

They were unlike, these two. Hashknife was well over six feet in height, bony, angular, with long arms and generous-sized feet. His face was bony, nose long, mouth large. The hair that showed from under his back-tilted sombrero was of the neutral shade. His eyes were gray-blue and set in a network of wrinkles.

Sleepy was of medium height, rather heavy of build. His face was blocky, and wrinkled from the weather and an over-developed sense of humor. Both men were dressed in well-worn cowboy clothes. Their horses looked weary, thankful for the siesta in the shade of the cliffs behind them.

“They don’t put enough ---- on their matches these days,” complained Sleepy as he barely managed to ignite his cigarette and puffed contentedly.

“Yuh ought to be glad we can find somethin’ without too much ---- on it,” grinned Hashknife, turning back to his survey of the landscape.

“I reckon that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Kinda pretty view from here, ain’t it?”

“Kinda!” Hashknife snorted aloud and turned his head. “My gosh, that’s the place we’ve been dreamin’ about----”

“Who’s been dreamin’ about?” demanded Sleepy indignantly. “Don’tcha mix me up in that dream, Hashknife. The only ones I ever have are a dream about me bein’ at a dance without nothin’ on but a pair of socks. Huh! By golly, I’m the only danged view that ever shows up in my dreams.”

“You ain’t got no imagination, Sleepy.”

“The ---- I ain’t! Don’t it take imagination to think yo’re at a dance without nothin’ on but----”

“I don’t mean that kind of imagination, Sleepy.”

“Oh, you mean the mild kind, eh? Well, I dunno about me. Prob’ly I do go a little too strong. The last dream I had----”

“Sleepy, I feel that this is the place we’ve hankered for. Right here is the place where we can speak about, when folks asks us where our home is. There’s peace down there, cowboy.”

Hashknife’s eyes were soft and speculative as he turned to Sleepy and motioned toward the country below them.

“God A’mighty made that country for cowpunchers, Sleepy. He sure knowed what they needed. And if they ever bring barb-wire into that paradise it’ll make the angels weep. Me and you will go down into her and we’ll find a little spot for ourselves.

“Mebbe we can buy out a small brand down there. We don’t need much, do we? We’ll start small, cowboy--and we’ll never get so big that we’ll forget that we stopped here to live peaceful. We’ve got enough money to give us a start.”

Sleepy squinted at Hashknife and turned away to look out over the sun-swept hills. He slowly cleared his throat, shifted in his saddle and looked at Hashknife.

“Me and you never had a home, Hashknife,” Sleepy’s voice was wistful. “We never had a place to speak about when folks asked us where we was from. All our lives we’ve just been driftin’ along, singin’ our song. And it ain’t always been easy travelin’, cowboy. The old boy with the scythe has just barely missed us on several occasions, and it sure seems like he’s swingin’ closer every time.

“Down there it looks good, Hashknife. It sure looks like a land of milk and honey; a land that’s so filled with peace that the coyotes have filed off their teeth and learned to eat grass. It looks like all of that, and more--but any old time yuh think it’s like it looks--yo’re cockeyed and crazy.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled softly.

“Thasso?” mimicked Sleepy. “Yo’re danged right it’s so. Me and you have always looked for a peaceful range. Hashknife, it’s like lookin’ for the end of the rainbow. There ain’t no such animile. No range is peaceful.”

“I dunno about that,” Hashknife shifted in his saddle and picked up his reins. “Anyway, a man can make his own peace.”

“Even if he has to make it with a six-gun, eh?”

“All peace is brought about through battle, Sleepy.”

“Sounds fine,” Sleepy gathered up his reins and settled in his saddle. “I’ll make yuh a proposition, Hashknife. We’ll go down into this country, find us the right kind of a place, if we can, and settle down.

“If there ain’t no ready-made peace, we’ll make some for ourselves. But right here and now, we’ll both agree to let other people’s troubles alone. To ---- with the whole gang, eh? We’ll fight for our own from now on. Is that a go?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “that’s a good idea. It won’t hurt us none to agree to mind our own business. I’m in favor of it. All my life I’ve been hornin’ into other people’s business, and it’ll be kind of a relief to know that I’m handlin’ my own troubles.”

Sleepy grinned softly, as they rode off down the ridge, heading for the lower ranges, going into an unknown land. Far beyond the green ribbon of the Bitter River a tiny thread of smoke showed the passing of a railroad train, heading toward Oxbow, the county seat.

Lower and lower they went down across the rolling hills. Range cattle stared wide-eyed at them, or raced away through the brushy coulées, wild as deer.

“Fat as butter,” observed Hashknife. “Box M brand, mostly.”

“Betcha it gets colder’n ---- in the winter,” said the pessimistic Sleepy.

“Mebbe we can buy us some skates,” suggested Hashknife.

They both laughed as they swung around the head of a brushy coulée and angled down through a thicket of greasewood. Hashknife, who was in the lead, suddenly drew rein. A horseman had ridden across the coulée below them, riding low in his saddle and flogging his horse at a stiff gallop.

It was only a glimpse and the rider was gone.

“What do yuh make of that?” wondered Hashknife. “I’ll say that he was hurryin’.”

“Kinda racin’ for a train or trainin’ for a race,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe he was cuttin’ around some stock. That brush is so tall that yuh couldn’t see his horse.”

“Couldn’t even see much of the man,” smiled Hashknife, as he urged his horse ahead.

The heavier growth of greasewood forced them to swing lower into the coulée, and they managed to angle their way to the left at a point approximately where the rider had entered the coulée. An overhanging branch swept Sleepy’s hat off his head and he swore softly as he dismounted to recover it.

Hashknife rode on slowly to the edge of the thicket, where he drew rein and turned to look back at Sleepy. A moment later something struck the fork of his saddle a terrific blow. The horse swung sidewise and from beyond them came the spang of a high-powered rifle.

Hashknife flung himself sidewise out of the saddle and crashed down into the greasewood.

Sleepy had not mounted, and now he came running low in the cover, six-shooter in his hand.

“Hashknife!” he called softly. “Hashknife, you ---- fool, why don’tcha answer me?”

“Gimme a chance,” grunted Hashknife. “I’m all tangled up in this darned brush.”

“What did it hit?” asked Sleepy, his voice showing relief. “I heard the bullet hit somethin’, Hashknife.”

“Hit my saddle, I reckon. Can yuh see anybody?”

“Yuh don’t hear me shootin’, do yuh? Which way did it come from?”

“The way we was pointin’. Keep yore danged head down, can’tcha? I’ve got seven feet of greasewood up one leg of my pants, dang the luck. How in ---- am I goin’ to get loose, Sleepy? I can’t bend her over so I can slide loose from it.”

“Jump seven feet in the air,” chuckled Sleepy.

“I’ll prob’ly do that, if the bushwhacker discovers me in this condition.”

“Take yore knife and slit the leg of yore pants, Hashknife.”

“Yeah--and I ain’t got no other pants.”

Came a burst of soft profanity and a sigh of relief. After several moments:

“Cut it off with my knife.”

“Yore leg?”

“Naw--the greasewood. Seen anybody yet?”

“No such luck. My trigger-finger has gone to sleep. C’mon and help me look for ’em. This is yore peaceful land, Hashknife. Milk and honey!”

Hashknife came crawling out of the brush. His face was badly scratched in several places and one sleeve of his shirt was ripped from cuff to shoulder, but otherwise he was all right. His horse had swung around and moved to lower ground, where it managed to tangle the reins in a bush.

Hashknife examined his six-shooter carefully and squinted speculatively at the brush around them.

“Goin’ to set here and wait for ’em?” queried Sleepy, who wanted action.

“Debatable question, Sleepy. I figure that they thought they were shootin’ at the gent we seen foggin’ across the coulée. If we had showed any sense a-tall we wouldn’t ’a’ crossed his trail. The question is this: Was he right or wrong?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Just wonderin’ whether we ought to help him or not. Question of persecution or prosecution.”

Sleepy wrinkled his nose disgustedly.

“There yuh go,” he declared. “A while ago we agreed to let the troubles of others alone.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “I suppose we ought to sneak out and get away the best we can regardless.”

“They dang near killed yuh,” reminded Sleepy, who did not like the idea of sneaking away from trouble.

They had been talking softly, but their ears had been alert for the least noise. There was nothing foolhardy about either of them, neither were they the least excited over the fact that a bullet had narrowly missed killing one of them.

The fact that it had missed was sufficient for them. Several years in the worst ranges of the west and southwest had made them confirmed fatalists; caused them to look upon death as something that would not come to them until their “time” had arrived, and resolved to meet it with a grin.

Just beyond them and to the left the hill was covered with a growth of greasewood, showing here and there a cropping of granite. A loose rock bumped down through the brush, dislodged by some one or something. They looked quickly at each other and Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Too careless,” he whispered. “Watch the other side.”

They snuggled lower, paying little attention to the side of the hill, and were rewarded by seeing the stealthy approach of a man, who was worming his way through the greasewood with the skill of a savage.

He was going slowly, weaving his way along. The heavy thicket behind which they crouched prevented him from seeing them. Now another rock came rolling down the side of the hill, but this time they heard the unmistakable sound of the rock being thrown onto the hillside from a distance.

Hashknife grinned and held his gun in a position to cover the approach of the man, who was almost into them now, while Sleepy kept an eye on a possible approach from the hillside. Then the man crawled into the opening, about ten feet from them, and turned his head to look into the muzzle of Hashknife’s gun.

The man was of medium height and weight, grizzled, with a heavily lined, bronzed face and a pair of steady gray eyes. In his right hand he held a heavy Colt revolver. For a moment his eyes held a startled expression, which quickly changed to one of evident relief. His hand relaxed from around his gun and he lifted himself to a sitting position.

“Kinda nice weather for this time of year,” said Hashknife pleasantly.

The man nodded and glanced back on his trail.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He lifted his left hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There seems to have been a mistake made.”

“Does kinda seem thataway,” agreed Hashknife. “At least it had us wonderin’ what it was all about.”

“Um-m-m.” The man’s face widened into a grin.

“Yuh might as well call the rest of ’em in,” said Hashknife. “They’ll get sore arms from throwin’ rocks onto that side hill.”

The man turned, disclosing a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his vest, and called loudly:

“Hey! Buck! Come on in!”

“Aw-w right,” called a voice. “Comin’ right along, Jud.”

“Yo’re the sheriff, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. My name’s Farley--Jud Farley.”

“Mine’s Hartley,” grinned Hashknife. “This here curio with me is Sleepy Stevens. My friends call me Hashknife.”

“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Farley, as a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired man came clawing his way through to them. He looked at Farley and glanced quickly at Hashknife, who still held his gun in position. Farley’s gun was lying on the ground, and this seemed to greatly concern the newcomer.

“Tha’sall right, Buck,” assured Farley. “My hand got tired. Buck, meet Mister Hartley and Mister Stevens. Folks, this is Buck Hardy, my deputy. Buck, do yore little bow.”

“Aw, what the ----!” growled Buck.

Hashknife laughed and shoved his gun back into its holster. This action seemed to relieve Buck, who almost smiled as he put away his own gun and reached for the makings of a cigarette.

“One of you fellers almost got me,” declared Hashknife. “The bullet tore half of my saddle-fork loose.”

“That was me,” said Buck slowly. “I dunno what’s got into me lately. ’Pears like I’m shootin’ too low all the time.”

He said it with such sincerity that Hashknife laughed outright, and Farley’s eyes twinkled with laughter.

“Buck’s a good shot,” offered Farley.

“I used to be,” admitted Buck.

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I’m glad it happened now instead of the used-to-was. That shootin’ was too good to suit me. But you haven’t said just why yuh shot at me.”

“Yuh didn’t happen to be gunnin’ after the jasper that rode through here a while ago, did yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Did you see him?” Thus Farley quickly.

“Just about. He wasn’t paradin’ to any extent.”

“What color horse was he ridin’?”

“We didn’t see,” said Hashknife. “We were up the coulée a little ways and just got a glimpse. This brush hid the horse, and the man didn’t go slow enough for us to see what he did look like.”

“He was the whippoorwill we were after,” stated Farley, and added disconsolately, “By this time he’s erased himself plumb off the map.”

“Who was he?” asked Sleepy.

Farley smiled sadly and shook his head.

“Pardner, I’d sure give a lot to know.”

“He’s a ---- fool!” snorted Buck indignantly. “Any man that does what he’s done and wants folks to know that he’s the jigger that done it--he’s plumb crazy, tha’sall.”

“We call him ‘The Trey of Spades,’” said Farley slowly. “That’s his trade-mark.”

“Trade-mark?” queried Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. He’s a lone bandit--and a slick one, Hartley. This is the nearest we’ve come to gettin’ him. About four o’clock this mornin’ he went into the Cheyenne gambling room in Oxbow and stuck up the crowd. There was only seven men in there. He sure cleaned up a nice piece of change.

“He backed out of there, but at the doorway he took a playin’-card out of his pocket and flipped it back at ’em. It was the trey of spades. Me and Buck was just ridin’ in from a trip to Snake Creek, and we hit Oxbow just about the time that this was goin’ on.

“We seen this feller break for his horse. Somebody yelps that the Cheyenne has been held up; so me and Buck takes out after this feller. It was bright moonlight, and we sure runs him ragged, but we can’t stop him. Can’t tell the color of his horse either. Back about two miles from here he holes up in the brush and we think we’ve got him dead to rights, but he foxes us and gets away.

“Buck gets a glimpse of him foggin’ out; so we slides right after him. We’re pretty close behind him, and we’ve got a hunch that he hived up here again; so yuh can’t hardly blame us for takin’ a shot at yuh.”

“Sure looked to me like he was lookin’ over his back-track,” said Buck. “I dunno what’s wrong with me, anyway. By golly, I used to be able to hit a tomatter-can at that distance. Gotta fix them sights, I reckon.”

“Yuh don’t need to on my account,” grinned Hashknife.

Farley picked up his gun and shoved it into his holster.

“Well, Buck, I reckon we might as well ride along and see what we can see,” he observed. “This is just another time when we didn’t get the game.”

“I s’pose so--dang the luck.” Buck yawned widely.

“Which way is the town from here?” asked Hashknife.

Farley pointed west:

“Out thataway about ten miles, I reckon. About three miles from here you’ll hit the road that leads past Maverick ranch. Keep goin’ straight ahead and you’ll hit Oxbow.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted and rode out past where the sheriff and deputy were preparing to circle the coulée. Buck looked with gloomy eyes upon the havoc caused by his bullet upon Hashknife’s saddle.

“Mebbe,” he said hopefully, “that bullet hit a limb and was deflected. It could happen, yuh know.”

“Anybody would think that yo’re sorry to miss me,” observed Hashknife.

“No-o-o, it ain’t so much that as it is gittin’ to feel that yore shootin’ is gittin’ bad. I used to shoot pretty good.”

“C’mon, Buck,” laughed Farley, and then to Hashknife, “Hope we’ll see yuh ag’in, Hartley--both of yuh.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll be around here for a while, I reckon.”

“This here land of milk and honey,” scoffed Sleepy, as they rode away. “A land of peace, Hashknife. I’ll bet there’s more real ---- to the square inch around here than any place we’ve ever hit.”

“Well, it won’t affect us,” laughed Hashknife. “Yuh must remember that we’re goin’ to mind our own business from now on.”

* * * * *

Old “Dad” Parker sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house and looked with gloomy eyes at the rider who was coming past the house, heading toward the bunkhouse. The rider was Cliff Parker, Dad’s twenty-seven year old son, a wild young blade.

Just now his clothes were disheveled, dusty, and his seat in the saddle was none too secure. In fact, Cliff Parker was drunk--disgracefully drunk. He half-fell from his horse in front of the bunkhouse, staggered inside and slammed the door.

Old Dad shook his head painfully and squinted off across the hills, his old eyes misty with sorrow. In his younger days, Dad Parker had been a powerful man, but now he was a gaunt, old man, with a mop of white hair, a deeply-lined face; an old, old man at sixty.

As he settled back in his chair a girl came to the doorway. She was a slender, capable-looking girl, attractive of features and with a wealth of soft, brown hair. There was a smudge of charcoal dust on her cheek, and her arms, bare to the elbow, bore evidences of contact with the flour barrel.

“I’ve been making some doughnuts, Dad,” she offered, with a smile. “Harmony said they wouldn’t be worth anything, but they look good.”

The old man nodded without looking at her. She studied him for several moments, her eyes shifting toward the bunkhouse, where Cliff’s horse stood.

“Cliff came home?” she asked softly, but he did not reply. Slowly she shook her head and a look of unutterable sadness came into her fine eyes, as she stepped out behind old Dad and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Some day he will quit it, Dad,” she said softly. “Cliff’s only a kid.”

“He’s almost thirty, Milly.” Dad Parker’s voice was husky. “He’s old enough to know better. Every time he goes to town he gets drunk. He’s gettin’ a bad reputation for drinkin’ and gamblin’.”

“Yes, that is true,” nodded the girl. “He loses more than is good for him.”

“His cattle are all gone,” said the old man. “He sold the last ten head a week ago, and I suppose the money is all gone.”

The girl turned away. She knew that Cliff had also sold four horses during the past week, which left him with only one, his favorite riding horse. Mildred Parker was not at all like her brother. Their mother was of French descent, impulsive, hot-blooded; and Cliff had inherited his wild traits from her side of the family. Mildred was twenty-three.

As she turned away she saw two strange horsemen swing off the main road and ride toward the house. It was Hashknife and Sleepy. Dad Parker watched them indifferently, as they rode up close to the porch and lifted their hats to the girl.

Their smile was contagious and Mildred found herself smiling back at them.

“We just stopped,” said Hashknife rather lamely. “We might say we stopped for a drink of water, or to ask the way to Oxbow--but we know the way, and we ain’t dry. We stopped, tha’sall.”

Mildred laughed with them. There was something so straightforward about the lean-faced cowpuncher that she liked him instinctively.

“This is the Maverick ranch, ain’t it?” queried Sleepy.

“This is the Maverick ranch,” replied Dad Parker. “Get off and rest your feet, gentlemen.”

“We didn’t aim to stop,” protested Hashknife, “and I don’t reckon we will.” But he was half-way off his horse as he finished. They dropped their reins and came up the steps.

“My name is Parker.” The old man had got to his feet and held out his hand. “Folks call me Dad. This is my daughter.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and Mildred brought some chairs from the living-room.

“We just can’t stay long enough to set down,” protested Hashknife. “No, ma’am--honest to gosh.”

“Running away from some one?” asked Dad, a twinkle in his eye.

Hashknife laughed and fumbled for the makings of a smoke.

“No, not that. We’re kinda stubborn when it comes to runnin’ away. Nope, we just didn’t want to bother yuh.”

“You haven’t had any dinner, have you?” asked Mildred.

“Dinner?” Hashknife looked up quickly.

“Yes, ma’am. We couldn’t eat a thing, thankin’ yuh just the same.”

Hashknife turned to the old man and Mildred looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who stared at her for a moment. It was a look of understanding, but to make it more expressive, Sleepy reached down and cinched up his belt another notch.

Mildred laughed softly and turned into the house, while Sleepy wrinkled his nose joyously and rolled a cigarette. He was hungry, and he knew that Hashknife was half-starved.

“This is the first time we ever got into this range,” offered Hashknife. “It sure looks good.”

“It is good,” declared the old man. “It’s hard to beat the old Thunder range, Hartley. We’ve got everythin’ here.”

“Even to sheriffs that shoot on sight,” said Sleepy.

Dad Parker turned and stared at Sleepy.

“I didn’t quite get that.”

“Well, they do,” declared Sleepy. “One took a shot at Hashknife and tore half the fork off his saddle.”

Hashknife laughed and hastened to explain the incident. Dad Parker listened closely until Hashknife had finished.

“That was a close call, Hartley,” he said slowly. “And it was not a pleasant introduction to our country. You say this bandit held up the crowd in the Cheyenne this mornin’?”

“That’s what the sheriff told us.”

“And sooner or later Jud Farley will get him,” declared Dad Parker. “Farley is a good man. This bandit will leave his card once too often.”

“Is he a rustler, too?” queried Hashknife.

“Not yet. He confines his robberies to hard cash. As yet he has made no big hauls, but he seems to have nerve enough to pull off any kind of a job.”

“Any suspicion of who he is?”

“No. He laughs behind his mask, talks like a man suffering from a heavy cold, and rides like the ----. He has never been seen in the daylight; so no one knows the color of his horse.”

“Kinda interestin’,” mused Hashknife aloud. “I like his idea of identifyin’ himself with a playin’-card. It’s like somethin’ yuh read about.”

“He probably read about it.” Thus Dad Parker dryly. “There’s a washbench around by the kitchen door, if you feel like takin’ a wash. I think that ‘Harmony’ has about prepared the dinner.”

“A little wash won’t hurt us,” laughed Hashknife, getting to his feet. A rider was turning in from the road, and as he neared the porch he waved at the old man, who motioned for Hashknife and Sleepy to wait.

The man rode up and dismounted. He was a man of possibly forty years of age, with a pale, esthetic face, deeply set, dark eyes and a sensitive mouth. From his garb it was plain to see that he was of the clergy, although he wore a sombrero hat and high-heeled boots.

As he removed his sombrero he disclosed a partly bald head above his high forehead. His horse was a decrepit gray, which had long ago outlived its usefulness on a cattle range, and his riding rig was of the poorest.

“Get down, minister,” said Dad Parker pleasantly. “You are just in time for dinner.”

“Perhaps,” the minister smiled, “perhaps I timed it, Mr. Parker.”

Dad laughed and indicated Hashknife and Sleepy.

“This is Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens, two newcomers to this country. Gentlemen, shake hands with the Reverend Jones, the man who rides on his church.”

Hashknife laughed as he shook hands with the minister.

“I never knowed one to ride a church before,” said Hashknife.

“Perhaps Mr. Parker is right, at that,” said the minister. “In this country a horse is more valuable than a pulpit.”

He shook hands with Sleepy, who made a wry face after the minister had turned away. Mildred came out and greeted the minister warmly.

“We will set another place at the table,” she said, as she turned and went back into the house.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the washbench near the kitchen door and began their ablutions. Mildred was in the kitchen, talking to some one, whose voice immediately rose to a higher pitch.

“Well, my ----, who next! What do they think this is--a caf-fay? Preacher, eh? Ten Commandments and an appetite! Mebbe he’ll expect a yaller-legged hen, won’t he? By grab, I don’t do nothin’ around here, except work. Somebody always showin’ up at meal time. I wisht I had a job herdin’ sheep!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Thus Mildred’s voice sorrowfully.

“Yuh don’t need to! Don’t waste sympathy on a cook. They’re the lowest order of humanity. Put a plug hat on one and he’s still so low he could walk under a snake. What does he drink--except liquor?”

“Tea, I think.” Laughing.

“Tea? Aw right. Give’m skim milk. I know that jigger. He’ll want to ask the blessin’, won’t he? Thank the Lord for somethin’ that I cooked, eh? That’s all the thanks I git. If I saved his life he’d thank me through somebody else, I s’pose.”

Came the banging of pans, as the cook vented his further displeasure on the utensils. Hashknife laughed joyously.

“That’s Harmony.”

“A human bein’,” Sleepy spluttered through the towel. “I’m for Harmony. Didja notice that preacher’s grip? Just like takin’ hold of a dead fish. By golly, I was afraid to let go of his hand for fear it would fall in the dirt.”

The cook came outside and looked at them. He was a short, heavily built man, with grizzled hair, wrinkled face and a walrus mustache. He glared balefully at the two cowpunchers for several moments before a grin overspread his face.

“Jist tryin’ to figure out which one of yuh was a preacher,” he said huskily. “Milly said we had comp’ny, but didn’t say how many, yuh see. Then she edged in on me and said that the preacher had arrived.”

“Yo’re Harmony, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Harmony spat viciously. “I’m the best ---- cook in the county. Harmony Hobbs, that’s me. A disciple of peace and a promoter of brotherly love. I’ll have harmony, if I have to bang ---- out of everythin’ and everybody to git it. Howdy!”

They shook hands gravely and Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy.

“Hashknife Hartley, eh? Didja git that name from the old Hashknife outfit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“By ----! Say, it’s a small world, Hartley. Didja ever know ‘Saleratus’ Smalley, who used to cook for that outfit?”

“I sure did,” laughed Hashknife. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I knowed a man that did. It’s sure a small world, ain’t it.”

“Yeah, it ain’t very big,” laughed Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Well, well! You sneak around to the front and come in with the main herd, gents. Dinner is get-at-able, right now. And don’t forget to bow yore heads.”

They laughed and went around to the porch, where the minister was talking to Mildred and Dad Parker. Harmony’s gong sounded its announcement and Dad Parker motioned them all into the dining room, where they sat down at the big table.

Harmony bustled around, placing food on the table, while they all waited for the minister to begin. Even Harmony stopped at the doorway, obeying some hereditary impulse, in spite of the fact that he outwardly detested ministers.

As they bowed their heads and the minister’s voice began in sonorous tones to invoke a blessing upon the food, there came the scrape of a boot heel on the threshold of the dining room and a soft laugh of derision.

Every one looked up quickly. Half-way inside the doorway stood Cliff Parker, a dark, thin-faced youth, handsome in spite of his lines of dissipation. His black, curly hair was in disorder, and there was a smear of blood on his cheek from a recent cut. Around his throat was a scarlet muffler, the ends swaying down over the front of an ornamented vest. He was still wearing a pair of heavy, bat-winged, beautifully stamped chaps, and around his waist was a heavy belt and holstered gun. His feet were encased in a pair of high-priced, extra-high-heeled boots.

He was still half-drunk, wholly sarcastic, reckless. As he encountered his father’s rebuking glance he laughed softly and glanced around the table. Harmony swore softly to himself, but it was audible to every one.

“More Sunday school, eh?” Cliff’s voice was as vibrant as a harp string. “The Reverend Jones is with us again. This makes three times in a little over a week, don’t it?”

“Cliff!” Dad Parker started to his feet. “What is the matter with you, son?”

Cliff laughed nastily and rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. The minister was looking at him wonderingly, and Hashknife was inclined to feel sorry for him.

“---- psalm singer!” sneered Cliff angrily. “Ridin’ all over the country, preachin’ hell-fire and brimstone--and gettin’ free meals. I suppose it’s a fair trade, though.”

“Cliff, be still!” warned his father hoarsely. “Don’t forget what you are and where you are. The minister is my guest.”

“You can have him,” Cliff laughed and leaned back against the wall. “You think he’s comin’ here to save our souls, don’t yuh? Souls, ----! He’s got a different reason than that, Dad.”

The minister’s face had gone a shade more pale and his eyes shot sidewise at Mildred, who was gripping the table-cloth as she stared at her brother. It was a plain inference that the minister was coming there to see Mildred, and Hashknife knew from the minister’s actions that Cliff was not far wrong in his suspicions.

“What do you mean, Cliff?” Dad Parker spoke softly now. He knew that there was no use antagonizing Cliff in his present frame of mind.

“Mean?” Cliff laughed. “Do you think that the sky-pilot is droppin’ in here so often just to see you--or me? Do yuh think that our souls mean anythin’ to him? Mebbe you can stand for a Gospel shark in the family, but I can’t.”

“Cliff!” Mildred’s face flushed angrily, as she got to her feet. “Cliff, you have no right to say such things!”

“Is that so?” Cliff turned angrily on her. “If you don’t sabe him--you’re kinda dense, Milly. I figured him out a long time ago.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones got slowly to his feet and turned to Cliff. He had recovered his composure now.

“I am sorry you feel as you do,” he said slowly. “There is no use in telling you that you are mistaken, because you have made up your mind as to certain things.” He turned to Dad Parker. “Mr. Parker, I am more sorry than I can say, and I sincerely hope that this will not affect our friendship.”

“No, don’t go--yet,” begged the old man. “This is not a thing that can----”

“Please.” The minister gave a gesture of impatience. “It is only an unpleasant situation that might be relieved by my absence. I will say good afternoon, and be on my way.”

He nodded to those at the table, turned and went out through the open door, leaving Dad Parker facing his erring son.

“Well, go ahead and explode, Dad,” said Cliff airily.

“Explode?” Dad Parker considered his offspring. “No,” he said slowly. “I am not goin’ to explode.”

“That’s good,” Cliff turned his head and looked at Harmony, whose mustache was jerking spasmodically. “What are you cryin’ about, Harmony?”

“Huh?” Harmony looked up quickly, “Who the ----’s cryin’?”

“Then yuh was laughin’,” declared Cliff. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself--laughin’ at a preacher.”

“Cliff, we still have guests--strangers,” warned Mildred.

“I seen ’em,” nodded Cliff, shifting his eyes to Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’m not apologizing to anybody today. Anyway, they don’t look like the kind of people yuh can apologize to and make ’em believe it; so I won’t try.”

“We’re not askin’ for an apology,” said Hashknife.

“That’s thoughtful of yuh,” said Cliff sarcastically, as he turned and walked out of the room. They heard him clump down the porch steps and walk away from the house.

“I don’t know just what to say,” Dad Parker turned back to his chair and looked at his guests.

“Then don’t try,” said Hashknife softly. “Whether yore son is right or wrong, he spoke his little piece in public. Now, let’s forget it.”

“I’m goin’ to thank you for that, Hartley,” said the old man, as he sat down. “I can’t understand Cliff.”

“Well, he had no right to say what he did,” declared Mildred warmly. “I think he owes me an apology.”

“I think these are among the best biscuits I ever ate,” said Hashknife seriously, “and that coffee would make any man leave home and hunt for a job on the Maverick ranch.”

Mildred was forced to smile at Harmony who beamed upon Hashknife and hurried away for another supply of biscuits and more coffee.

“I dunno why yuh specify any certain thing on this table,” stated Sleepy. “’S far as I can see, it’s the best line-up of reg’lar food we’ve surrounded in a long time.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Mildred.

“Like it,” grinned Sleepy, “----, I love it!”

Sleepy’s inelegant compliment brought a general laugh and the former unpleasant incident was shelved for the time. They finished their meal and went out on to the porch. Cliff was in front of the bunkhouse, talking to another man who was sitting on the steps, holding the reins of his horse. The animal was a tall bay horse of racy build, and the sun sparkled on an ornate saddle of black leather and silver.

“Fancy lookin’ outfit,” observed Sleepy, as they sat down to enjoy a smoke.

Dad Parker frowned slightly, as he nodded and said:

“That is Vincent Roche, owner of the Diamond V ranch. His place is about twelve miles west of here.”

“Rides a runnin’ horse,” observed Hashknife admiringly.

“Yes, he is a little particular,” agreed Dad. “That saddle was made for him in Mexico City, and the horse cost a big sum. Roche is a plunger. I can’t admire his style, but there is no question of his nerve or ability.”

“Mebbe yore son is tryin’ to imitate him,” suggested Hashknife.

“That is the whole trouble,” said the old man sadly. “Roche and Cliff are altogether too friendly. Here he comes now.”

Hashknife and Sleepy studied the man as he walked up toward them. He was well dressed, athletic looking, with a free swing to his stride. Except for a weak chin, Vincent Roche was a handsome man. His eyes were cool, calculating, widely spaced; his forehead was broad. His ears seemed to be fitted snugly to the sides of his head, and there was a well-groomed look to his closely-cropped brown hair.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” he called pleasantly, as he came up to them and held out his hand.

“Hello, Vincent.”

The old man was cordial enough, as they shook hands. He introduced Hashknife and Sleepy, and Roche accepted the introduction in an indifferent manner.

“Hear the old Cheyenne was held up this mornin’,” said Roche, smiling. “The Trey of Spades keeps up his deadly work, it seems.”

“They’ll get him one of these days,” declared Dad Parker. “He can only last so long, Vincent.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Roche seemed thoughtful. “I suppose it all depends on how long he keeps workin’, but you can’t expect him to quit, as long as things come easy.”

“Easy come, easy go,” quoted the old man. “He will keep it up too long, Vincent. They always do.”

“Well,” Roche laughed, “I suppose it is unlawful to say so, but I hope he keeps goin’ for a while. He’s a sport. It takes a lot of nerve to stick up a saloonful of men. And I kinda like his idea of a trade-mark, it keeps him from being identified with the common herd. Is Mildred in the house?”

Without waiting for an answer Roche brushed past them and went into the house, where he began talking to Mildred. Dad Parker sat down and they resumed their smoking.

“This is a pretty big range, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes, pretty big,” replied Parker. “Lots of beef shipped out of here. Oxbow is the big shipping point. Quite a lot of horses shipped out of here, too; and they’re worth money now.”

“I wonder where we might get jobs,” said Hashknife. “It looks like a good range, and we’d kinda like to work a while and look it over.”

“With an idea of going into the business?”

“Possibly.”

“I don’t know. There’s the Box M southeast of here. They run a lot of cattle. Old ‘Flint’ Moore owns the place. Feller by the name of Delaney is foreman. There’s ranches scattered all across the county, and any of ’em might need a good man or two.”

“I--” he hesitated for a moment--“I might use a couple myself.”

“You mean that you need two men?” asked Sleepy quickly.

“I might.”

“Dad, I reckon you’ve had two punchers move right in on yuh.” Thus Hashknife seriously.

“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” Dad Parker grew thoughtful. “I really can use two men. I’ve only used one extra man up to this time. ‘Honey’ Davis quit me to go to work for Roche the other day. I ain’t worth nothin’ in the saddle any more, and Cliff--well, you see how it is. Yes, I guess you are hired, if you want the jobs.”

“And all the time you’ve been talkin’, we’ve been on yore payroll,” said Sleepy wonderingly. “Hashknife, we better hit for Oxbow and load up on tobacco, ’cause we’ve got a job.”

“Forty a month and food,” said the old man.

“The forty don’t interest me,” grinned Sleepy, “but the food does. C’mon, Hashknife. We don’t want to be late for supper.”

* * * * *

The sheriff and his deputy gave up the chase after an hour more of searching for further trace of the bandit, and rode back to Oxbow. The sheriff, in spite of several failures, was confident of ultimately putting the Trey of Spades behind the cell doors of his little jail.

But Buck, the deputy, was not so optimistic.

“My shootin’ is goin’ back on me,” he complained. “Can’t make out why I didn’t salivate that skinny jigger. I’ve got to do better than that, Jud.”

“Oh shut up!” snapped Farley. “Be danged glad yuh don’t have the blood of an innocent man on yore hands.”

“How do I know he’s innocent, Jud?”

“Hm-m-m!” Jud Farley wrinkled his brow in thought.

“There ain’t nothin’ to show that one of ’em ain’t the Trey of Spades,” continued Buck. “We don’t know ’em. They sure showed up there at a queer time, dontcha know it? How do we know that the Trey of Spades ain’t a stranger in this country? We don’t. By grab, mebbe I missed nailin’ him to the mast.”

“I don’t think so, Buck,” replied Farley.

“That horse never showed any signs of runnin’.”

“Thasso? Say, didja ever stop to think we didn’t get a look at the other horse--not close to? That animal was back there in the brush. By golly, you’ve got to use yore brains in this kind of a job.”

“Foresight, not hindsight, Buck,” smiled Farley. “The time to have thought of that was when we were there. It’s too late now.”

“Well, gimme credit for thinkin’ when I did,” requested Buck.

“All right. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“I ain’t supposed to do it all,” muttered Buck. “I’m only the deputy, yuh must remember.”

“You try rememberin’ it, too,” retorted Farley dryly, and Buck was squelched sufficiently to keep still for a while.

Oxbow was mildly interested in the return of the sheriff, although no one was surprised to see him come back without a prisoner. “Slim” Cole, owner of the Cheyenne, was volubly profane. The Trey of Spades had taken about five hundred dollars from Slim and he was very peevish.

In fact he was so peevish that he kicked Shy, the three-legged black cat, which was supposed to be the mascot of the Cheyenne gambling house.

“You’re goin’ to have bad luck for that, Slim,” declared “Sufferin’” Stockton, who dealt faro for the house. He was so nicknamed because of the many ailments that beset him, most of them being caused from perusing a medical book.

“The ---- I am!” snorted Slim. “Goin’ to have, am I? Say, Sufferin’, you’re about ten hours late on your prognosticatin’. I’ve had my hard luck.”

“Kickin’ a three-legged cat won’t help yuh none, that’s a dead immortal cinch.”

Slim glared across the table at Sufferin’ and said--

“Just where abouts in ---- do you feel bad?”

“Liver. Spots in front of my eyes, short breath. Kinda ----”

“Yesterday yuh had symptoms of tuberculosis. The day before that yuh had an ulcerated tooth and a double-headed carbuncle.”

“All right--” Sufferin’ grew sad--“mebbe I did. By grab, yuh don’t get no sympathy, no matter what yuh get, around here.”

“Know what you’ll have tomorrow, Sufferin’?”

“Feller never knows from one day to the other, Slim.”

“You’re goin’ to have blisters on your feet--from runnin’--if yuh don’t quit diagnosin’ yourself. You make me sick.”

“Your liver is out of kilter, too,” declared Sufferin’. “Late hours and liquor.”

“Hey! You gamblin’-house dudes! C’mon up and have a drink of yore own liquor.”

“Blackie” Dahl had come in during Slim and Sufferin’s argument and yelped at them from the bar. Blackie was a regular contributor to the Cheyenne’s exchequer, and too wild-eyed in his actions to brook a refusal to drink.

Blackie was wild, irresponsible, quick to anger. He owned the D Bar outfit and a chronic thirst. His was one of those little “starve-to-death” places, as they were known, and it was hinted that Blackie’s herd was composed of, and supported by, mavericks--unbranded calves.

Blackie was well named. His hair was as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, and he wore it long. His face was thin, evil, and his brown eyes were always bloodshot. There was nothing refined about Blackie Dahl. He boasted that his loop was wide.

“It’s all grist that comes to my mill,” he declared. “If it ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle--let ’em stop me.”

The inhabitants of the Cheyenne responded with alacrity and Blackie snorted contentedly, as they lined up at the bar.

“What’s all this talk about the Trey of Spades?” he asked Slim, who explained about the holdup.

“After I left here, eh? Knew too much to show up while I was here. I’d ’a’ sure shot the rest of the deck loose from him. Roche was here, wasn’t he?”

“He left here about two o’clock,” volunteered Sufferin’.

“Loser, as usual, eh?”

“Roche broke about even last night,” said Slim. “Cliff Parker lost about two hundred. I reckon he left about an hour after Roche left.”

“And the Trey of Spades comes along and takes the whole pot, eh?” Blackie laughed delightedly. “That whippoorwill is a dinger. I’m for him, by----!”

“Wait’ll he nicks you for a wad,” said Sufferin’.

“Me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Wait’ll he does, Sufferin’. He knows who to fool with. What did he look like?”

“Had two legs, two arms,” said Sufferin’, checking them off on his fingers.

“Yeah, and he had a head, too!” snorted Blackie angrily. “You jug-heads didn’t even take a good look at him. It was like takin’ candy from a baby!”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker were coming in and those at the bar ceased their conversation. Dad Parker had decided to ride to town with them. He spoke to those at the bar.

“C’mon and have a drink, Parker,” invited Blackie.

“Thanks, Dahl,” smiled Dad, “but you know I neither drink nor smoke.”

“Yuh don’t, eh?” Blackie’s lips curled in a sneer. He knew that Dad Parker did not drink, and that it was through no ill-feeling that he declined, but Blackie’s brain was slightly warped from too much liquor. “C’mon and have a drink, I said!” he snorted angrily, as the old man started toward the rear of the room. Dad Parker turned and looked at Blackie, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you just the same, Blackie--I do not drink.”

“You just think yuh don’t,” Blackie surged away from the bar and advanced toward the old man, grasping him by the lapel of his coat. “When I say ‘drink’, they drink, Parker. C’mon!”

“Aw, he don’t drink, Blackie,” said Slim, crossing to them and trying to persuade Blackie to desist. “Don’t do that. He’s an old man.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Blackie whirled on Slim, his eyes blazing. “Where do you git in on this, Slim? You mind yore own ---- business, will yuh? I asked him to drink with me, and he’ll sure drink. C’mon, you old bible-back!”

“He don’t drink, pardner.” Hashknife spoke clearly, a half-smile on his lips.

Blackie whirled and looked at Hashknife closely. For several moments he considered these two strange cowpunchers, as if wondering that any one would interrupt his pleasure. Then he came slowly toward Hashknife, squinting quizzically at him.

Hashknife’s lips smiled, but his eyes were serious. He did not retreat; so Blackie stopped a few feet away, where he glanced questioningly around at those at the bar. His gaze came back to Hashknife and he licked his lips delightedly as he said--

“I didn’t quite git what you said, feller.”

Hashknife looked steadily into Blackie’s eyes, which wavered slightly.

“Yo’re a liar,” said Hashknife softly.

Blackie’s right hand jerked nervously, but he did not reach for his gun. There was something in those level eyes that told him to wait a while.

“That’s a fightin’ word,” he said hoarsely.

“That’s why I used it.”

“Oh!” It was more than Blackie could understand. He shifted his feet nervously.

“That’s why you used it, eh?”

“Yeah, I thought you was lookin’ for trouble.”

“Thought so, didja?”

“At first. Now, I know you want a chance to run.”

“Oh, the ---- I do?” Blackie fairly bristled.

“Right now you wish I wasn’t here.”

“Well, you’ve got some ---- queer ideas, feller.”

“Mebbe I have. I’ve met yore kind before. Yo’re all kinda hard to insult. In fact I don’t think it can be done.”

“Yeah? Are you tryin’ to insult me?”

“Spit on his boots,” advised Sleepy dryly. “Mebbe he’ll sabe that.”

“Who the ---- are you?” growled Blackie.

“I’m the guy that cleans up the mess after the big feller gets through,” grinned Sleepy.

“_Tough hombres,_ eh?” Blackie laughed. “If you came to Oxbow lookin’ for trouble, I reckon yuh can find it.”

“I don’t think so.” Hashknife shook his head and half-turned toward the bar. As he turned away Blackie’s right hand flashed to his gun, which seemed to fairly hop from the holster to meet him. But before it could swing level, Sleepy’s gun jarred the whole room and Blackie staggered sidewise, his gun falling to the floor.

Blackie stumbled into a table, caught himself with one hand and swore viciously as he tried to find out how badly he was hurt. The bullet had ripped across the front of his chaps and smashed against his six-shooter between the cylinder and the butt. It had taken a chunk out of Blackie’s second finger and the shock had numbed his hand and wrist.

“You dirty coyote!” Sleepy walked over to Blackie, who cringed back against the table. “I’ve got a good notion to bend this gun over yore empty head and collect bounty on yore ears. You’d be a bad man--behind a bush.”

“That was a dirty trick,” agreed Slim. “And I think that Blackie got off cheap. By golly, that was straight shootin’ if anybody stops to ask yuh.”

Blackie scowled and stepped away from the table. He had nothing to say. He was shocked sober now. His finger was bleeding badly and he looked curiously at it.

“Better bind it up,” advised Hashknife. “The bone ain’t busted, is it?”

Blackie shook his head.

“No, it’s all right.”

Jud Farley and Buck Hardy came cautiously into the place and looked around.

“Heard some shootin’,” stated Farley, squinting at Blackie’s bleeding finger. “Didn’t know but mebbe the Trey of Spades had showed up again.”

“That’s a question,” said Hashknife slowly.

Blackie turned and shot a malevolent glance at Hashknife as he walked outside without saying a word. Farley watched him go out through the door and turned to Hashknife.

“What happened, Hartley?”

“Lemme tell it,” begged Sufferin’. “My ----, don’t let a story like that git ruined in the tellin’.”

“Go ahead,” grinned Farley. “You won’t dare to lie, ’cause a lot of yuh all seen the same thing.”

Sufferin’ grinned and launched into his story, which lost nothing in the telling. Farley listened closely, thoughtfully. He knew Blackie Dahl fairly well. In fact he had tried at odd times to catch Blackie stealing cattle, but failed.

“He’s a bad boy,” agreed Farley, after Sufferin’ had finished. “Also it isn’t good policy to merely disarm a man like Blackie. It’s like takin’ a fang out of a rattler.”

“I hardly ever kill a man, unless I have to,” said Sleepy dryly. “Of course, sometimes yuh have to work on ’em the second time, but that’s all right. It kinda makes yuh feel that yuh didn’t act too hasty.”

“Um-m-m!” Farley squinted at Sleepy, whose face was as innocent of guile as that of a year-old baby.

“I’ll buy a drink,” stated Slim Cole. “By golly, I will. And I’ll buy a lemonade for Dad Parker.”

“Well,” laughed Dad, “I might have taken a lemonade with Blackie and saved all this trouble. But I won’t quarrel with you, Slim.”

“Don’tcha try it,” said Slim seriously. “I’m no fool.”

“I’ll do my best,” laughed the bartender. “I know that yuh put lemons and water in it. These here fancy drinks sure do puzzle me.”

“Cliff didn’t come in, did he?” asked Slim. Dad Parker shook his head.

“He prob’ly don’t know we had a holdup,” grinned Slim. “He pulled out about an hour too soon.”