Chapter II: Part 2

“Did he?” The old man squinted thoughtfully at the backbar. “What time was the holdup, Slim?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Vint Roche missed it, too,” offered Sufferin’. “He left ahead of Cliff. Vint was ahead of the game, but Cliff had his reg’lar luck. If Vint had stayed the Trey of Spades would have been a couple hundred better off.”

“Here’s the lemonade,” grinned the bartender. “Them lemons has been here a year or so, but I s’pose they’re all right.”

“Thanks,” muttered the old man. He was more interested in wondering where Cliff had been from three o’clock in the morning until about eleven.

“Didja hear about our church?” asked Sufferin’.

“What church?” queried Buck.

“The old Chuck Luck saloon is to be reformed,” laughed Slim. “Lot of the old jiggers around here was tryin’ to take up a collection to build a church; so I--yeah, they came to me first. They always come to a saloon to get money to build a church--so I thought I’d get off cheaper by lettin’ ’em have the old saloon building.

“They’re fixin’ it up. I let ’em have some chairs and donated enough to buy song books. That preacher Jones ain’t such a bad sort of a jigger. He lets my soul alone. He wanted to make a deacon out of me.” Slim laughed. “I offered to put in a roulette wheel and give him a percentage. We’re still deadlocked on our trade.”

“What denomination is he?” asked Hashknife.

“What does that mean?” queried Sufferin’.

“Is he Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, or what?”

“I dunno,” said Sufferin’ seriously. “He packs a Bible, if that’s anythin’ to go on.”

“And he sure can read it,” declared “Hunky” Smith. “I heard him rasslin’ with it over at the Box M. They had quite a meetin’ over there. Jimmy Delaney sung a song. By golly, that feller sure can sing. He married old Flint Moore’s daughter, yuh know.”

“The minister is all right,” said Dad Parker softly. “We need him in the Thunder range. I’m glad we’re goin’ to have a church in Oxbow, Slim. A little Gospel won’t hurt any of us.”

“A little won’t,” admitted Sufferin’. “It’s like delirium tremens, Dad. A little shot of it will make yuh look at things different; but too much is plumb liable to collywobble yuh.”

“Where did you get that idea, Sufferin’?” asked Dad.

“From my Pa.” Sufferin’s nose twitched violently. “Pa was a good man, I’d have yuh know. When he drank whisky he kept two distilleries workin’ nights; when he fought, he never knowed when he was licked; and when he got religion, he got all there was. And when he died--” Sufferin’ wiped away a tear--“they found a Bible inside his shirt-front. There was three bullets stickin’ into that Bible.”

“Was he in the war?” asked Hunky.

“A private one,” nodded Sufferin’. “It was him agin’ three deputy sheriffs and a U. S. marshal. Yuh see, Pa was always tryin’ things out. He didn’t believe everythin’ he heard or read.

“He wanted to prove things for himself. A preacher told him that anybody would suffer if they broke the Ten Commandments. Pa wanted to be sure about this; so he picked out the eighth one and broke it all to thunder. From the looks of Pa when they brought him in, the preacher had the right hunch.”

Sufferin’ was so serious that his listeners did not smile, although several of them, including Hashknife and Sleepy, had very moist eyes and aching belt-lines.

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker crossed to the store and made their purchases. There was no sign of Blackie Dahl. The old man was very thoughtful on the way back to the ranch.

“Blackie is a bad man,” he told them. “It seems that he has pretty much had his own way, and this incident is not going to set well on his mind. Just be as careful as you can.”

“Dontcha worry about him,” smiled Hashknife. “He won’t be so cocky next time. Shootin’ that six-gun out of his hand made us kinda ace-high with him.” Hashknife turned and looked at Sleepy. “Just where did yuh aim to hit him, Sleepy?”

“Somewhere between the belt and the chin,” chuckled Sleepy. “I come dang near pullin’ what yuh call a ‘fox-pass.’ I’m like Buck--I’m shootin’ low.”

“Do you mean to say that you did not deliberately shoot that gun out of his hand?” demanded Dad Parker.

“Give me more credit than that,” laughed Sleepy. “There wasn’t no time for fancy work. I aimed to cut him off about at the lower vest-pocket. Any old time I shoot, yuh can bet all yore roll that I’m shootin’ to kill.”

“Blackie ain’t noways slow on gettin’ his gun,” observed Hashknife. “I didn’t look for him to do it, but yuh never can tell about his type. And he ain’t exactly a coward. Peculiar sort of a jasper, I’d say. Didja notice the look he gave me when I kinda connected him with the Trey of Spades?”

“I did,” nodded Sleepy. “He sure throwed a lot of hate into that look. Mebbe he is the Trey of Spades, at that.”

“What kind of a feller is the sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“Salt of the earth,” replied Dad Parker. “Jud Farley is one white man. Buck Hardy is pretty much of a danged fool, but he’s as honest as the day is long. They’re both old timers in the Thunder country. Jud isn’t what you’d call a thinkin’ sheriff, but he tries as hard as the next man.”

“Have you any idea who the Trey of Spades is?”

“Not the slightest. From his work, I would say that he is an experienced hand at the game. He has never made a false move yet. His hauls have not been big, but big enough to make folks uneasy. No, I do not think it is any one who belongs around here.”

“Prob’ly don’t,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “I sure hope not, anyway.”

“Why do you say that, Hartley?”

“’Cause it ain’t nice to think of home folks runnin’ their neck into a noose.”

They rode on to the Maverick ranch, put up their horses and were shown their bunkhouse quarters by Harmony.

“Yuh won’t have much chance to loaf around,” informed Harmony. “Nothin’ but work around here. Seems like I have it all to do, too. Some day I’m goin’ to start right off across the hills and not quit runnin’ ’till I git so ---- far away from a cow ranch that all I’ll ever see of a cow is a pitcher of one on a condensed milk can.”

“Ain’t this a good outfit to work for?” laughed Hashknife.

“Good? Is any of ’em good, I ask yuh? I s’pose that Dad Parker is as good as any to work for. It don’t make much difference who yuh cook for. You’ve got a ---- of a job anyway yuh look at it.”

“Miss Parker helps yuh, don’t she?”

“Milly? Help? Yeah.” Harmony spat dryly and turned to the door. “She makes doughnuts. Vincent Roche likes doughnuts. I’ll be ---- if I’d make ’em for him.”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I think we’re goin’ to like it around here. It’s quiet, harmless and the food is fair.”

“Fair, eh? Quiet, harmless, ----! Say, how did you fellers happen to come along and land jobs here?”

“Just happened.” Hashknife stretched out on a bunk and squinted up at the ceiling.

“Uh-huh. I heard Cliff talkin’ to Milly after yuh left. He kinda opined that mebbe yuh was sent in here.”

“Sent in here? What for, Harmony?”

“Well, the sheriff ain’t been able to catch the Trey of Spades.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head violently.

“Nothin’ like that, Harmony. We’re just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades don’t bother us, and as long as he lets us alone, we’ll let him alone.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to pump yuh,” reminded Harmony.

“You got any idea who he is?” asked Sleepy.

“Prob’ly.” Harmony grinned and hitched up his belt. “I mostly always do have an idea on things--wrong ideas. If I ever do hit it right I’ll quit cookin’ and buy me a tin star. I seen in a magazine where I can become a detective for a dollar and six-bits, includin’ star. All I’ve got to have is a gun and a clever mind.”

“Yuh could buy a second-hand gun,” grinned Sleepy.

“That’d make me mechanically perfect,” sighed Harmony. “But I’d still be a ---- of a good cook.”

* * * * *

For the next few days Hashknife and Sleepy were busy. The home corrals were in a bad state of repair and the line fences had been neglected for months. Dad Parker gave them a free hand. Cliff gave them no assistance. In fact he spent little time at the ranch, and it was hinted that Cliff was “stuck” on a dance-hall girl in Oxbow, who was known as the “Countess.”

“And if that ain’t ----, I’ll eat m’ shirt,” declared Harmony confidentially. “Cliff’s fi-nan-seer is comin’ to visit the ranch in a few days. She’s a dinger of a girl, too. Name’s Dorothy Clement.

“She was here last summer for a couple months. Her and Milly used to go to school together. Cliff got stuck on her last summer and Milly told me that they was goin’ to git married this fall. That’s why Dad helped Cliff to git a start. Done him a ---- of a lot of good, didn’t it? Blowed in everythin’ he owned, and now he’s stuck on a dance-hall skirt. Life’s a ---- of a queer deal, any old way yuh look at it.”

“We’re all queer,” declared Hashknife.

“Well, I run kinda true to form,” stated Harmony seriously. “I’m a ---- fool all the time.”

“Yo’re just a human bein’,” laughed Hashknife. “Mebbe yo’re a little more human than some of ’em, Harmony. What kind of a feller is this Vincent Roche?”

“That’s a question, Hartley. Vint is a wild ridin’, high-rollin’ sort of a jigger. The Diamond V ain’t makin’ no money, but Vint is sure spendin’ a-plenty. His dad left the ranch to him, and he’s made a monkey out of it.

“I’m plumb scared to death that Milly is goin’ to marry him. He’s one of them doughnut eaters and wears plenty of vi’let perfume. But don’tcha ever get the idea that Vint ain’t hard-boiled. Cliff was all right until he got to trailin’ with Vint. ’Course he wasn’t no mamma’s angel child before--but tryin’ to keep up with Vint--” Harmony shook his head sadly. “Well, Cliff is seven kinds of a ---- fool, tha’sall.”

“I ain’t seen the preacher around here since Cliff bawled him out,” observed Sleepy.

“Aw, that egg!” Harmony’s nose wrinkled disgustedly. “He’s stuck on Milly, too. I’ve seen that comin’ on for quite a while, but it wasn’t none of my business. He may go to heaven when he dies, but he won’t git far on this earth.”

“Do you know Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.

“Yuh danged right! He’s a tough jigger, Blackie is. Dad told me what happened down at the Cheyenne, and I can say that you was plumb lucky. Blackie’s sudden, y’betcha. And you take my advice--look out fer him.”

Hashknife promised that they would follow his advice, and started for the bunkhouse when Mildred called to them from the front porch. Dad had just come in with the mail, but was not with her.

“Somethin’ we can do, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.

“Come and sit down here on the porch,” said Mildred, and they accepted her invitation. She had a letter in her hand which she had been reading, and there was a worried expression on her face. She hesitated about opening the conversation.

“I just had a letter.” She indicated the one she held. “Dad just brought it from Oxbow, and it is from the girl that Cliff is engaged to marry. She is coming here to spend a month--and Cliff is in town, drunk. Dad tried to get him to come home, but it was no use.

“Dorothy Clements--that is her name--will arrive in Oxbow about five o’clock today, and she expects Cliff to meet her at the train. She thinks that Cliff is an angel.”

Mildred got to her feet and walked to the edge of the porch with the letter clutched tightly in both hands.

“Oh, it is just too bad! Dorothy is a lovely girl. I can’t bear to tell her what has happened to Cliff--but she will have to know. Dad is all broke up over it. Cliff is killing Dad by inches, but Dad says nothing.”

“Yeah, it sure is too bad,” agreed Hashknife softly. “But it might all come out in the wash, ma’am. Do yuh want us to go down and bring her in from Oxbow?”

“Would you?” Quickly. “Dad and I could go, but there is too much danger of us running into Cliff. You know what he is like when he is drunk. He would be sure to suspect that Dorothy was coming in tonight, because he knows that she is coming soon.”

“Won’t it look kinda queer to her to not see any of the family there to meet her?”

“Yes, I suppose it will. But I--I----”

“You go along with us,” suggested Hashknife. “We can give Cliff a bum steer. Leave it to me and Sleepy, will yuh, ma’am?”

“Yes, I will, mister,” mimicking Hashknife’s expression. “Why don’t you call me Milly, like everyone else does? I hate to be called ‘ma’am.’ I won’t mind calling you Hashknife and Sleepy. Harmony told me that you were a couple of non-pa-reels. I don’t know what he meant, but it was quite a lot for Harmony to say about anyone.”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed as they got to their feet.

“All right, Milly,” said Hashknife seriously. “The carriage will be ready any old time yuh say. We’ll hitch that roan team to the spring-wagon, and I’ll betcha Miss Dorothy won’t miss anybody until she gets her breath back ag’in.”

“All right, Hashknife. Better put in some robes, because it will be cool riding home.”

An hour later they drove the half-wild team up to the front of the house, and Sleepy swung to their bits until Mildred was into the seat. Then he swung them around and managed to climb into the rear of the wagon as Hashknife drove them through the gate on the run, swinging into the main road on two wheels, and heading for Oxbow in a cloud of dust.

* * * * *

Cliff Parker’s future had assumed an indigo tint. There was a sour taste of liquor in his mouth, as he leaned against the Cheyenne bar and considered everything in general. The aproned bartender was openly sympathetic and also philosophic.

“They’re all alike,” he told Cliff. “The Countess wasn’t no exception, son. She accepted your money, loved yuh accordingly and then transferred her attentions. I dunno what she can see about Blackie Dahl--but wimmin are queer cattle. Aw, cheer up, Cliff. There’s lots of wimmin’. I’ve been in love lotsa times.”

“Oh, go to ----!” groaned Cliff.

“Hit hard,” observed the bartender to himself, and then to Cliff: “Why don’tcha go home and sober up? You’ve been drunk for a week. Next thing yuh know you’ll be seein’ little red devils with green hats and goggle-eyes. Grab on to yourself.”

Cliff shoved away from the bar, spat viciously and searched his pockets for tobacco and cigarette papers.

“You hadn’t ought to hold no bad feelin’s toward Blackie.” Thus the bartender thoughtfully. “He never took her away from yuh--she just went.”

“Yeah, she just went,” nodded Cliff dryly. “She’s straight as a string, but she didn’t play square. I don’t sabe her. She don’t drink, smoke nor swear.”

“But she sure can sing,” said the bartender. “That’s all Slim hired her for. By golly, she sure don’t have nothin’ to do with anybody, unless she wants to. Next thing we know she’ll be snaggin’ the preacher. Ha, ha, ha! I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Aw, shut up!” Cliff resented this accusation. He hated the minister.

“She’s over in the Rodeo restaurant, eatin’ with Blackie,” continued the bartender. “Prob’ly fried oysters.” That was the bartender’s idea of something out of the ordinary.

Cliff walked outside and leaned against the doorway. It had been an effort for him to keep his hands off the loquacious bartender. He realized for the first time that he was making a fool of himself, bringing disgrace upon his father and sister.

It seemed weeks since he had been home and he wondered, in a detached sort of a way, if every one was all right. His mouth was dry and his throat ached.

“I’m in awful shape,” he told himself. “Kinda jiggly all over. I wonder if that bartender--aw, to ---- with the red devils!”

He squinted across the street at the Rodeo restaurant. What was it the bartender had said, he wondered? Wasn’t it something about fried oysters?

“When did I eat last?” he asked himself. He couldn’t remember.

Then he swung away from the building and crossed the street toward the restaurant. As he stepped up on the wooden sidewalk the Countess came out, followed by Blackie Dahl.

The Countess was not of the approved type of dance-hall girl. She was slightly above medium height, slender, graceful. Her face was well modeled, and chemicals had had nothing to do with the tinting of her dark auburn hair.

She was well dressed, with none of the artificial colors and bangles of the honkatonk, and there were no lines of dissipation in her creamy complexion. There was a half-smile on her lips, as she listened to Blackie Dahl who was shutting the door behind them.

Cliff glanced at her, in a detached sort of a way, and almost bumped into Blackie, who tried to step around Cliff to join her. But he did not watch his step, and stumbled over Cliff’s foot, taking a header square into a porch post.

He threw out both hands to save himself, but his head hit the post a resounding whack. An ordinary man would have been knocked unconscious, but Blackie Dahl was no ordinary man--so far as thickness of skull was concerned.

He swore dazedly, got to his feet quickly, and, with only one instinct left--to walk--he strode boldly into a hitch-rack, a few feet away, and was knocked flat on his back.

The Countess did not look at Cliff, who leaned against the café door and gazed seriously upon Blackie’s acrobatics, but there were tears on her cheeks, as she started across the street alone.

Blackie managed to get to his feet, but he was too dazed to understand what had happened to him. He could see the Countess going away from him; so he followed her, or as near as he could, with his erratic course.

“If he was tryin’ to entertain her, he’s loco,” declared Cliff to himself. “She didn’t even wait to see if he got up.”

Then he turned and went into the restaurant.

Five miles of dirt road had taken most of the ambition out of the roan team, and they were willing to stop at a side-street hitch-rack. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the depot with Mildred, where they found that the train was several hours late.

“Isn’t that bad luck!” exclaimed Mildred impatiently. “If we stay here very long, Cliff will surely find us or see that team.”

“Don’t yuh worry about that,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll take care of Cliff for yuh.”

The depot agent came back to the window and looked out at them. He had been in charge of the Oxbow station for years and knew every one.

“Miss Parker, why don’tcha go upstairs and visit with my wife until train time?” he asked. “She don’t have a lot of company, and she’ll be tickled to have you. Supper is almost ready, I think.”

“Oh, that would be just lovely,” agreed Mildred.

“You bet it would,” agreed the agent, laughing. “Come on and I’ll go up with you.”

“That’s sure a swell idea,” grinned Hashknife, patting her on the shoulder. “You go ahead and don’t worry about anythin’. Me and Sleepy will be here when the train comes.”

They left the depot and walked up the street to the Cheyenne, where they ran into Blackie Dahl. Blackie was cold sober, and one of his eyes had assumed a purple shade. He merely nodded to them and walked away. The bartender grinned covertly and set out the glasses.

“I dunno who done it to him, but I think it was Cliff Parker.”

“What did they fight over?” grinned Hashknife.

“Mebbe it was the Countess, I dunno. Cliff left here and I think he went over to the Rodeo restaurant, where Blackie and the Countess was eatin’ oysters, prob’ly. Anyway, it was only a little while until the Countess comes in and goes back toward the dance-hall, with Blackie trailin’ her. He’s sure owl-eyed.”

“Where is Cliff now?” asked Hashknife.

“Gosh, I dunno.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Not so very. He’s kinda got a hang-over. If he don’t brace up he’s goin’ to see things, don’tcha know it? A young feller like him can’t gurgle hooch forever without annexin’ a few queer animals. But he ain’t the kind yuh can advise. Have another on the house--the boss ain’t here.”

They accepted the invitation and strolled around the place. The Cheyenne was quite an institution. The bar-room was about fifty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, adjoining the gambling room, which was of the same proportions, with a wide, arched doorway connecting the two rooms. At the rear was the dance-hall, which was about fifty by thirty, with a small stage built across the right-hand end. Wide doorways opened from both the bar-room and the gambling room.

The appointments were not elegant, but they were substantial. Slim Cole drew the business of Thunder range, and his games were on the square. Over the bar was this caption:

_WE ARE NOT IN THIS BUSINESS FOR YOUR HEALTH_

And in a huge frame in the gambling room was this statement:

YOUR HOME AND BUSINESS FIRST
_We don’t Want Money with Tear Drops on its Trail_

“Slim Cole is honest, anyway,” mused Hashknife, as they looked at the framed warning. “‘Tear drops on its trail.’ By golly, there’s a lot of it, Sleepy.”

Some one was playing the piano in the dance-hall, and as they strolled over there a woman began singing. They halted in the big doorway and listened. It was the Countess. A lanky, pasty-faced young man was at the piano, playing her accompaniment.

“She can sing,” muttered Hashknife. “That ain’t no honkatonk voice, Sleepy.”

Slim Cole had come through the gambling room and halted beside them.

“That’s the Countess,” he said softly. “Her stuff is too danged good for these half-drunk punchers. The rest of the girls just whoop or screech their songs, and they make a big hit.”

“She’s pretty, too,” declared Sleepy.

“Yeah, she sure is,” grinned Slim. “But don’t never get the idea that she’s anythin’ but a singer.”

“She kinda hooked Cliff Parker, didn’t she?” queried Hashknife.

“He blew a lot of money on her, if that means anythin’. She keeps ’em off at arm-length and they blow all their money on her. Of course,” Slim grinned, “she’s an asset to my business, even if she does call me Mister Cole.”

“I s’pose,” said Hashknife softly. “Listen!”

The piano was playing softly, and the clear contralto voice was lifted in an old love song, “The Sweetest Story Ever Told.”

The place was silent now, except for the soft voice of the singer.

“Tell me that you love me.
Whisper softly, sweetly, as of old.
Tell me that you love me,
For that’s the sweetest story ever told.”

The singer’s voice died away. Again came the whirr of the roulette wheel, the soft clatter of poker-chips. Hashknife and Sleepy turned away and walked back toward the bar with Slim Cole.

“When it comes to women--I pass,” said Hashknife softly. “That one has the voice of an angel. I’m kinda hard-boiled myself, but she had me takin’ a deep breath. She’s broke Cliff Parker and a lot more, I reckon. A gold digger with a voice of gold. A honkatonk singer, when she might be--well, anythin’.”

“Yore loop’s draggin’,” warned Sleepy softly.

“Yeah, that’s a fact,” admitted Hashknife, and Slim laughed.

“I reckon a woman wouldn’t fool you much, Hartley.”

“One of ’em fooled Adam,” smiled Hashknife. “I don’t know anythin’ about ’em, Slim. Mebbe I’d be the biggest fool in the world--if I tried to find out somethin’ about ’em.”

“Everybody is,” said Sleepy quickly. “The best thing to do is to forget ’em. That’s what I’ve always done.”

“It’s a good idea, I suppose,” agreed Hashknife. “But the good God made us rational critters, and why shouldn’t we hanker for a mate at times. Why even the birds----”

“I’ll remind yuh of this,” interrupted Sleepy seriously. “Next time you tell me that my loop is draggin’, I’ll speak my little piece about the birdies.”

They laughed and moved to the bar, but Hashknife’s face was serious. Slim Cole noticed it with amusement.

“I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do,” he suggested softly. “I’ll take yuh back and introduce yuh to her, Hartley.”

“And he’ll leave his money with me when he does,” declared Sleepy quickly.

Hashknife shook his head.

“No, thanks, Slim. It ain’t that serious. Have yuh seen Cliff Parker lately?”

“Not for quite a while. Mebbe he went home.”

“That might be,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll take a look around town.”

They crossed to the Rodeo restaurant and sat down at a table. It was growing dark and the lamps had already been lighted. They asked the waiter if he had seen Cliff Parker, and he took the question under advisement.

“Yeah, he was here just a while ago. I served him with a meal, but he didn’t eat all of it. I’m not sure, but I think he went out the back door.”

“Was he drunk?”

“No-o-o, I don’t think so. He acted sober enough.”

They finished their meal and went out again. It was half an hour before the train would be in.

“We’ll take another look around the Cheyenne,” said Hashknife. “If we don’t find him there, he’s likely gone back to the ranch.”

Before they reached the door they ran into Jud Farley and Buck Hardy.

“Well, how’s the Maverick ranch?” asked Farley, shaking hands with them.

“Fine,” laughed Hashknife. “We haven’t had time to vent many brands yet, but the year is young. How’s crime?”

“Kinda slow. Goin’ in?”

They started in through the doorway, when there came the unmistakable sound of a shot, or an explosion: It was muffled, like a shot fired inside a building, but there was nothing to show them its location.

“That sure sounded like a shot,” said Farley anxiously. “Where did it seem to come from?”

“That’s kinda hard to tell,” replied Hashknife, walking back into the street.

To the left of the Rodeo restaurant was a general store, a vacant building, and next to that was a small jewelry store, in which a single oil lamp gave a poor illumination. It was after closing hours.

Suddenly a man came out of the jewelry store, slammed the door shut behind him and came running across the street. It was the proprietor, a little, fat man, with gray hair and spectacles.

He was so short of breath that he was unable to speak for several seconds. Then he panted:

“I’ve been robbed!”

“Robbed?” blurted Farley. “Held up, yuh mean?”

“Yes, yes! He came in the back door, with a mask on his face. I--I was alone--putting my jewelry into the safe. He held me up and took it all with him. Diamonds----”

“Wait a minute,” begged Farley. “What did he look like, Mr. Freeland?”

“Look like? I don’t know. Ju-just a man, with a mask on his face and a gun in his hand.”

“And he took a shot at yuh, did he?”

“No, he didn’t shoot.”

“There was a shot fired.”

“Tha-that was me. I--I have a shotgun under the counter. As he shut the door, I grasped this gun and fired both barrels at the door, just as it was closing.”

“Think yuh hit him?”

“No, I--I don’t know.”

“Loaded with buckshot?” asked Hashknife.

“No, it wasn’t buckshot; it was birdshot.”

“Was you expecting to be held up by a duck?”

“Probably had a horse out back of the store,” said Farley quickly. “Our horses are here at the rack; so we’ll just see if we can cut his trail. C’mon, Buck.”

They raced for the hitch-rack, mounted and went pounding away in opposite directions, circling that side of the town, while Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the store with the excited owner.

“He was slick,” explained the old man. “Not much talk. Just scooped up everything into his pockets.”

“Here’s his callin’ card,” observed Hashknife, picking it off a show-case and handing it to Freeland. “It’s the Trey of Spades’ trade-mark.”

“And they won’t get him,” wailed the jeweler. “He’s too slick for anything. See where I shot at the door?”

They went back and examined the jeweler’s marksmanship. The two loads of birdshot had plentifully sprinkled the door, but the distance was too great for it to have injured the bandit to any extent, even if part of the pattern had struck him.

“Small shot don’t do very well in a sawed-off gun,” observed Hashknife, as the jeweler exhibited his weapon. “You ought to use buckshot, pardner.”

“I should have kept that back door locked.”

“Nailed,” said Sleepy. “Very few robbers carry claw-hammers.”

“Let’s take a little look around, Sleepy,” suggested Hashknife, and they went out the back door, leaving the jeweler to try and figure out just how much he had lost.

It was quite dark out there and the ground was strewn with the usual litter found at the rear of business houses in small towns; broken boxes, odd pieces of lumber, tin cans. To the right was a low, tight-board fence, which enclosed the rear of the vacant building.

Hashknife scratched a match and cupped it in his palms for a more direct illumination, and as he glanced down at the litter-strewn ground, he whistled softly.

“Come here, Sleepy!” he called softly, as he scratched another match.

Together they bent down, picking up a miscellaneous assortment of jewelry, which seemed to have been strewn broadcast.

“By golly!” exclaimed Sleepy. “He sure must ’a’ been scared to lose all this.”

A groan echoed Sleepy’s exclamation, and they both sprang to their feet. With a couple of long strides Hashknife reached the fence and knelt down again.

“Light another match, Sleepy. Here’s a wounded man.”

Sleepy scratched the match and they looked down into the pale face of Cliff Parker. There was an open cut above his temple which was bleeding freely, and several more tiny spots of blood on his face. The match burned out in Sleepy’s fingers, and he swore softly.

Another match was lighted. A few feet from where Cliff lay was the black mask, lying where it had fallen or been thrown.

“There’s the Trey of Spades, Hashknife,” said Sleepy sadly. “The deadwood is upon him, that’s a cinch.”

“Yeah, that’s so,” agreed Hashknife. “He got some of the shot in his face, too. He probably got stung and dropped some of his loot, and it kinda looks like he ran into the fence and busted his head. A fine finish, Sleepy.”

“Fine for old Dad and Milly.”

Hashknife lifted his head and listened closely. From far away came the sound of a locomotive whistle. He sprang to his feet and grasped Sleepy by the arm.

“You beat it for the depot, Sleepy. Milly won’t think anythin’ of havin’ to walk back to the wagon. She won’t even ask where I am, ’cause she’ll think I’m tryin’ to keep Cliff from findin’ out anythin’; _sabe_?”

“But what--” began Sleepy.

“Never mind about this end of it, Sleepy. You better rattle yore hocks, cowboy.”

* * * * *

Sleepy grunted softly and circled the store. He knew that Hashknife would do the best thing in regard to Cliff Parker. There was no question in his mind that Cliff Parker was the Trey of Spades, and his heart sank when he thought what it would mean to Dad Parker and Milly.

About midway between the store and the depot he ran into Blackie Dahl, standing in front of a store, but neither of them spoke. Milly had come downstairs and was standing on the depot platform, talking to a man who turned out to be the minister. He spoke to Sleepy, who was panting from his hurried trip. The headlight of the train was already in sight, and they moved back as it approached.

As the train drew to a stop, Milly ran to a car platform and threw her arms around a girl, who was coming down with the assistance of the conductor. Sleepy kept in the background while the two girls finished their greeting, and then secured Miss Clement’s two valises.

“Sleepy, I want you to meet Miss Clement,” said Milly. “Dorothy, this is Mr. Stevens, known as Sleepy.”

“I’m sure pleased to meet yuh,” grinned Sleepy, as they shook hands. “How’s all yore folks?”

“Where is Cliff?” Miss Clement ignored Sleepy’s question.

“Oh, Cliff’s out on the range,” said Milly quickly. “You see, he didn’t know you were to arrive today. He was gone when your last letter reached us, Dorothy.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. It just seems ages and ages since I saw him.”

“Well, it won’t be long,” assured Milly. “I know he will be greatly put out when he finds out that you arrived when he was away.”

“Put out is just what he will be, that’s a cinch,” said Sleepy to himself. “He was sure ‘out’ when she arrived.”

“We’ll walk to the wagon,” said Sleepy, leading the way. “We was kinda afraid to bring that team up here near the train.”

“That’s all right,” said Milly. “It is such a short distance.”

They found Hashknife sitting on the driver’s seat, but he sprang down at their approach and shook hands with Miss Clement. The two girls occupied the rear seat, and had little chance for conversation on the way to the ranch as the team was inclined to make the greatest possible speed, and Hashknife made little effort to slow them down.

Dad Parker and Harmony met them at the porch and escorted the visitor inside, while Hashknife and Sleepy drove down to the stable and unhooked the team.

“What did yuh do with Cliff?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

Hashknife did not reply. They stabled the horses and came back to the wagon, where Hashknife lifted off the rear seat and climbed into the wagon.

“We’ll slide him out the end, Sleepy. We’ve got to get him into the bunkhouse before anybody sees us.”

“You mean to say----”

“Sure. He’s all wrapped up in robes, and I reckon them two girls had their feet on him all the way back.”

Together they lifted out the robe-wrapped bundle and carried it into the bunkhouse. Hashknife lighted the lamp and they proceeded to remove the robes, disclosing Cliff Parker, with his arms and legs tied and a gag in his mouth. He stared at them, but without recognition.

“I had to make a mummy of him,” explained Hashknife, “so I took a tie-rope. I gagged him, too.”

They removed the ropes, and Hashknife was just starting to investigate the knots in the handkerchief gag, when the door opened and in came Dad Parker. Hashknife groaned softly and stepped aside, while the old man stared at Cliff wonderingly.

He came slowly forward, looking down at his son’s bloody face. His eyes shifted to the loose ropes and he looked at Hashknife, as if begging for an explanation.

“It’s kinda hard luck, Dad,” said Hashknife slowly. “We was tryin’ to fix him up and put him to bed before yuh had a chance to see him.”

“But what does it all mean?” asked Dad hoarsely. “Why is my son in this condition? Why was he bound and gagged?”

Cliff was trying to sit up, and Hashknife swiftly removed the gag. He tried to get to his feet, but was unable to do so alone; so Sleepy helped him onto a bunk, where he flopped full-length.

“Won’t either of you tell me what it means?” asked Dad.

“I’ll tell yuh about it, Dad,” offered Hashknife. “It ain’t somethin’ nice to tell a man about his son, but I reckon you’ve got to know it. It’ll hurt to beat ----, old timer.”

“I want to know about it, Hashknife.”

“All right, Dad.”

And in a few words Hashknife told him about the holdup and of how they had found Cliff with loose jewelry scattered all around him. He told just why he had bound and gagged Cliff, and how they had brought him home without any one suspecting that they had even discovered a clew to the bandit.

“And this means that Cliff is the Trey of Spades?” Dad’s voice broke badly. “Is that it, Hashknife?”

“It sure looks thataway, Dad. Any jury on earth would convict him in a minute.”

The old man bowed his head for several moments, his gnarled hands clutching at his knees. Then he looked up, shaking his head.

“I--I was afraid of this,” he faltered. “The morning that the Cheyenne was held up, Cliff left there at three o’clock. He did not get here until about eleven. What is there left to do, except to turn him over to the sheriff?”

“Think it over quite a lot,” replied Hashknife slowly. “We’ll have to let Harmony in on it, I reckon. Sleepy will go up there and get some hot water and rags. We’ll prob’ly have to find some tweezers and a razor, ’cause we’ve got to get them shot out of his face. Mebbe Harmony’s got what we need, Sleepy.”

Cliff made no objections to having Hashknife remove his clothes and put him to bed. He was in a dazed condition, but did not seem to be suffering greatly.

Dad picked up his soiled coat and felt in a pocket. His hand came out, holding a jewel case, which he opened under the light of the lamp. It contained a string of imitation pearls, which would cost about fifty dollars.

Hashknife squinted at them thoughtfully.

“Hide ’em, Dad,” he advised. “They’re evidence against him.”

“I’ve never broken the law yet,” said Dad firmly.

“All right,” Hashknife reached over and took the case. “You won’t be breakin’ any law by keepin’ your mouth shut, will yuh?”

“No, I--I suppose not. But you can’t evade----”

“It has been done,” interrupted Hashknife. “Do you realize what this means, Dad? Do you know what it would mean for Milly?”

Before the old man could reply, Sleepy and Harmony came in, carrying a kettle of hot water, some rags and a towel. Sleepy had told Harmony part of the story, or at least enough to keep him from asking too many questions.

“Harmony had some tweezers,” said Sleepy, “and there’s a razor here. We brought some of that stickum-tape, too.”

With the able assistance of Sleepy, Hashknife managed to clean out Cliff’s wound, bind it up; and by dint of perseverance he succeeded in taking the six birdshot out of his cheeks and forehead. Several more left scratches, which would soon heal.

The pain of the crude surgery had revived Cliff, who looked at them wonderingly.

“What in ---- is goin’ on around here?” he muttered, trying to sit up.

“Better stay where yuh are, Cliff,” advised Harmony.

“Huh?” Cliff felt of his bandaged head. “Must have got hit, eh? How did I get home?”

“You try sleepin’ for a while,” advised Hashknife. “In the mornin’ we’ll answer questions.”

He slumped back on his pillow, squinting painfully at the ceiling. Dad Parker turned wearily to the door and Hashknife walked out with him.

“Don’t worry about this, Dad,” he advised. “Let me and Sleepy handle it for yuh. If we can keep Cliff under cover for a few days he’ll be as good as new. Nobody suspects him, don’tcha see?”

“I see,” Dad Parker sighed deeply, turned and went slowly to the house.

Hashknife watched him enter the house. Silhouetted against one of the windows were the two girls, talking. Their shadows turned away at the entrance of the old man. Overhead a star-jeweled sky lighted up the hills, and on the jagged top of the Thunder range, a silvery crescent moon seemed to balance on one tip.

Hashknife breathed deeply and turned back to the bunkhouse where he found Harmony and Sleepy talking softly. Cliff was asleep.

“You fellers take care of him,” said Hashknife softly. “I’m goin’ back to town and see what the sheriff found out.”

He picked up his hat and turned to the door.

“Why, even the birds--” Thus Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife squinted at him, and a grin flashed across his lips.

“Yeah, even the little birds, Sleepy.”

He shut the door softly behind him and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and rode swiftly away toward town. He had no clear conception of just how he was going to keep Cliff under cover until his face was healed. Hashknife was not in the habit of trying to defeat justice; rather he had upheld the law during most of his career.

“The Trey of Spades will disappear, it will be a lesson to Cliff, and everybody will be happy--I hope,” he told himself.

He found the sheriff at his office, talking with Buck and the jeweler. Their ride had been in vain.

“We wondered what had become of you, Hartley,” said Farley.

Hashknife told them of the arrival of Miss Clement, and that he had hurried as fast as possible to get back to town.

“Well, he made a clean getaway,” declared Farley gloomily.

“We went out through the back and all around,” said Hashknife, “but naturally he wouldn’t be there.”

“Not likely,” agreed Farley, and Hashknife felt sure that they had not discovered the scattered jewelry.

“You fellers were lookin’ for Cliff, wasn’t yuh?” asked Buck, and Hashknife felt that there was a hidden meaning in the question.

“Yeah,” said Hashknife easily. “He was home when we got there. Harmony said he came a little while after we left.”

“Drunk?” queried Buck.

“As a goat,” nodded Hashknife, leaving it to their imagination as to how drunk a goat might get.

“Well,” concluded Farley, “there’s no use huntin’ in the dark; so we might as well close up the place.”

Hashknife drifted over to the Cheyenne and mingled with the crowd. There was a fairly heavy play, and a number of couples were dancing. On the far side of the room, the Countess and Blackie Dahl were sitting at a table. She seemed greatly interested in what he was saying, although Hashknife could see that he was maudlin drunk.

As the dance finished she left Blackie and went to the platform. Slim Cole walked in beside Hashknife and took him by the arm.

“Back again, eh?” he laughed. “They sure do come back. When she finishes her song I’ll introduce yuh. Stay here, where I can find yuh before she gets back to Blackie. He’s as jealous as ----”

Hashknife grinned and nodded. Vincent Roche passed him and went up close to the platform, but the Countess merely glanced at him, as she started her song, which was a music-hall ditty and not at all what Hashknife wanted to hear her sing.

As she came down off the platform, Slim Cole hurried him across to her before she could reach Blackie’s table.

“Countess, I want yuh to meet Mr. Hartley,” said Slim, grinning widely.

She looked keenly at Hashknife for a moment and held out her hand.

“I am very glad to meet you,” she said slowly. “I noticed you in here today.”

“I didn’t s’pose yuh would,” smiled Hashknife. “I sure did enjoy yore singin’, but I didn’t care much for yore last song.”

She smiled softly.

“Do you like the old love songs, Mr. Hartley?”

“Love songs don’t ever get old, do they?”

“No, I suppose not. You are a stranger in Oxbow?”

“Yeah, we’ve only been here a little while. We’re workin’ at the Maverick ranch--Parker’s place.”

“Oh, I see.” She looked away.

“You’ve been here long, ma’am?”

“Almost a month.”

“Well, I hope to see yuh ag’in, ma’am.”

“Thank you--I hope so too.”

She walked on to where Blackie sat glowering at Hashknife’s back, as he crossed the hall and went into the bar-room, where he found Slim Cole.

“How did yuh like her?” grinned Slim. “Ain’t she a dinger?”

“Very nice,” admitted Hashknife. “And just for that, I’ll buy a drink.”

The jewel robbery had become generally known by this time and was the main topic of conversation.

“When did this Trey of Spades start operatin’?” asked Hashknife.

“The first time was about four months ago, Hartley. In that length of time he has pulled off eight jobs. His first job was to stick up the Crow Creek stage out of Silverbend. The next one was to blow the post-office safe at Silverbend and grab a lot of registered mail. Since then he has robbed the Snake River Hill stage, out of Cottonwoods, the little bank at Cottonwoods, the store at Weston, the express office, Cheyenne saloon and now the jewelry store here in Oxbow.”

“And he always left his card, eh?”

“Every time. Whoever he is, he’s gettin’ rich. It’s a payin’ proposition, as far as he’s gone.”

Several other men came up to the bar, engaging Slim in conversation, and Hashknife drifted away. He crossed the street and glanced in the Rodeo restaurant, where Jud Farley and Buck were eating their delayed supper. Then he circled the jewelry store and came in behind it, moving carefully. This time he did not light a match, but he did grunt delightedly as he found what he was looking for. Then he swung around behind the Rodeo, went back to the street and untied his horse.

He rode swiftly back over the moonlit road and stabled his horse. There were no lights showing in the ranch house, but he could see a dim light in the bunkhouse. Sleepy was in bed, reading an old magazine, while Cliff slept soundly in a bunk across the room.

“How’s the little birds?” grinned Sleepy, tossing the magazine aside and reaching for his tobacco.

“They’re fine, Sleepy,” Hashknife sat down and began removing his boots. “The sheriff hasn’t found that jewelry yet.”

“Didja meet the Countess?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Sleepy lighted his cigarette thoughtfully. “Well, I ain’t no hand to chide a man as old as you are, Hashknife; but, personally, I think you’re seven kinds of ---- fool. You go plumb back there to meet a dance-hall female. And you ain’t even ashamed of yourself, are yuh?”

“No-o-o-o, I can’t say that I am, Sleepy.”

“I’m ashamed for yuh, cowboy.”

“Thanks, Sleepy. You sure are considerate.”

Hashknife yawned, reached inside his shirt and drew out a flattened sombrero. He looked at it, looked around the place and threw it under the bunk. Sleepy leaned down and looked under the bunk, while Hashknife removed the rest of his clothes.

“What’s the idea of the hat, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.

“Cliff’s hat,” said Hashknife softly, as he blew out the lamp. “We forgot about it, Sleepy. I went back after it.”

Hashknife crawled into bed and adjusted himself to a comfortable position.

“I apologize to the little birdies,” said Sleepy meaningly.

“They accept it,” drawled Hashknife, “but they’re still singin’ their little song.”

* * * * *

Dad Parker was up early the next morning. He had spent a sleepless night, trying to decide just what to do, but was no nearer a solution than he had been the night before. His mind was haunted by the picture of his son, lying on the bunkhouse floor, bound and gagged, with a white, blood-streaked face and dazed, wondering eyes.

Down in his heart he thanked Hashknife and Sleepy for doing what they had done to save Cliff from the law. There was no doubt in his mind that Cliff was the Trey of Spades, and he wondered just what restitution he could make and still save his son from the penitentiary.

He walked slowly around to the front of the house, where Dorothy Clement stood on the porch, gazing across the hills. She was a pretty little thing, with wide, wistful eyes that matched in color her soft blue morning gown. She smiled at Dad and indicated the hills with a sweep of her hand.

“I’ve been looking far back into the hills, Dad,” she said slowly. “Milly said that Cliff might come this morning, and I wanted to be the first to see him.”

The old man shaded his eyes and stared at the hills, with their rose-tinted crests and cool blue shadows in the morning light. Then he dropped his hand and looked up at her.

“I’ll let you do the lookin’, Dorothy,” he told her wearily. “My old eyes ain’t as good as they used to be.”

He turned and started toward the rear of the house, when a joyful exclamation caused him to turn. Dorothy was looking down the road, where a lone rider was coming toward them.

“Oh, that must be Cliff!” exclaimed the girl. “Why doesn’t he hurry?”

Dad squinted at the rider and his lips shut in a thin line. He had recognized the horse. Milly came out onto the porch and Dorothy threw one arm around her waist.

“Isn’t that Cliff coming?” she asked.

Dad looked at Milly, who turned from a glance at the on-coming rider, and their eyes met. Neither of them spoke. The rider swung in at the gate and came slowly up to them. It was Jud Farley, the sheriff, riding his white-faced sorrel.

“Howdy, folks,” the sheriff smiled as he drew up near the porch and dismounted.

“Good mornin’, Jud,” said Dad Parker. “Glad to see you.”

Farley looked closely at Dorothy, and a wide grin wreathed his face.

“Well, by golly, if it ain’t little Miss Clement!” he exclaimed. “Say, I’m sure glad to see yuh, little lady.”

“And I am very glad to see you, Mr. Farley,” smiled Dorothy, as they shook hands. “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Well,” Farley grinned at her, “you have. You’re gettin’ prettier every year.”

Dorothy blushed, and this amused Farley greatly.

“Paints her own cheeks, too, by golly. Ho hum-m-m! I wish I was twenty years younger. Hartley told me somethin’ about bein’ at the train to meet somebody, but I was too busy to pay any attention to the name. You goin’ to stay a while?”

“If they don’t get tired of me.”

“Tired of yuh? Say, you’ll be here a long time,” Farley laughed. “Suits me if yuh never go away. This country sure does need somethin’ for sore eyes. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Have you had breakfast?” asked Milly.

“Hm-m-m, kinda. I can always eat, though. You know me, Milly.”

“I’ll tell Harmony that you are here.”

“Tell me what he says,” laughed Farley. “It does us good to know what other folks think about us once in a while.”

The two girls went into the house, and a moment later Hashknife came out of the bunkhouse door and started toward the stable.

“I want to see Hartley,” said Farley, and turned abruptly away from Dad Parker, following Hashknife. The old man looked after him, his heart filled with apprehension. Did it mean that the sheriff knew something of what had happened the night before, he wondered?

He knew that Farley would suspect something, if he saw Cliff in his present condition. Perhaps, he thought, Farley already had evidence against Cliff. He could see Hashknife at the stable door, waiting for Farley to reach him. They stood there for a minute or two, talking, and then moved over by the corral, where they sat down on a pile of old poles.

Hashknife was a little puzzled at the early morning appearance of the sheriff. He tried to think of something they had overlooked; something that might be a clue for the sheriff to fasten the guilt upon Cliff.

“Out kinda early, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

Farley smiled thoughtfully. “Mebbe. Let’s set down and talk a little.”

They walked over by the corral and sat down on the pile of poles.

“We got back most of that jewelry,” said Farley. “It was scattered around the yard back of that store.”

“Tha’sso?” Hashknife feigned surprise.

“Yeah.” Dryly.

“The jeweler was lucky, don’tcha think?”

“Uh-huh.” Farley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t be surprised to know that some of the birdshot hit the Trey of Spades.”

“It might, at that. A shotgun sure scatters a lot.”

“Yeah. We found blood alongside that fence out there, and we found the mask he wore.”

“Blood, eh? By golly, he must ’a’ been hit.”

“And,” said Farley looking straight into Hashknife’s eyes, “there was a little blood here and there. In fact we was able to foller the trail from there plumb around to the hitch-rack beyond the old feed store.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully.

“Is that so? Then he didn’t leave town, eh?”

“Mebbe he did, and mebbe he didn’t.”