Chapter III: Part 3

“Yeah, that might be true,” Hashknife knew that Farley suspected that he knew more about it than he was willing to tell.

“He was there at the hitch-rack quite a while,” stated Farley. “There was more blood at that spot.”

“Uh-huh. He prob’ly was quite badly hurt and it took him a little while to untie his horse.”

“Mebbe,” Farley smiled softly.

Milly and Dorothy came around the house, walking with an arm around each other. They stopped at the kitchen door and talked with Harmony.

“Awful nice little girl, that Clement girl,” observed Farley.

“Finer than silk,” agreed Hashknife softly. “She’s goin’ to marry Cliff Parker.”

Farley glanced sharply at Hashknife.

“Yuh say she is?”

“It ain’t a secret, Farley.”

“Well,” Farley frowned heavily, “it may not be a secret, but it’s a ---- shame.”

“She thinks a lot of him, Farley.”

“Um-m-m. Where’s Cliff?”

“In Oxbow, I suppose. He spends most of his time there, don’t he?”

“He was here last night, wasn’t he?”

“Not when I got back. He said somethin’ to Sleepy about goin’ over to the Diamond V ranch. Him and Roche are good pals, I reckon.”

“Over to the Diamond V, eh?”

Hashknife nodded quickly, but with a fear that Farley knew that he was lying. Came the musical jangling of Harmony’s big steel triangle, calling them to breakfast, and Hashknife was very thankful for the interruption. As they started for the house, Sleepy came out of the bunkhouse and joined them.

Hashknife told him about the recovery of the jewelry, and Sleepy’s surprise was almost overdone. At the doorway, Hashknife turned back.

“Got to have a coat,” he grinned. “Plumb forgot that we have company. Be with yuh in a minute.”

He hurried down to the bunkhouse and went inside. Cliff was sitting up in his bunk, feeling of his bandages. He scowled at Hashknife and waited for him to explain.

“Get into your clothes,” ordered Hashknife. “You’ve been about all the different kinds of ---- fools that there is runnin’ loose, Parker; and you’ve got to work fast. Have you got a horse and saddle here?”

“What the ---- are you talkin’ about?” demanded Cliff.

“Somethin’ about your future. Dorothy Clement is up at the house, waitin’ for you to ride in out of the hills. The sheriff is also up there, kinda hankerin’ for a chance to look yuh over. You spin into your clothes, grab a horse and saddle and slide into the hills.

“As soon as the sheriff rides away, you ride in; _sabe_? Don’t ask a lot of fool questions! You ain’t got a lot of time. Now start movin’, while the time is right.”

“Dorothy up there?” Cliff scowled as well as he could with his bandages.

“Came last night. We’ve lied all we could. Get goin’.”

“And the sheriff, too, eh? What in ---- does he want?”

“Listen,” Hashknife stopped at the door, pulling on his coat, “you do as I say, Parker; unless you want to cool the soles of your boots on a penitentiary floor for the next ten or twenty years.”

“Is that so?”

“Be a ---- fool about this, and see if it ain’t,” replied Hashknife, shutting the door.

He went swiftly up to the house and took his place at the breakfast table. The atmosphere seemed a trifle tense, and the conversation strained. There was none of the usual good-natured banter of a cow ranch breakfast table. Farley noticed this.

“Kinda like a Quaker meetin’,” he observed.

“Dorothy and I talked half the night,” said Milly quickly. “We are all talked out.”

Farley told them about the robbery in Oxbow and how he had found the stolen jewelry that morning.

“Oh, I think that the Trey of Spades is just too romantic!” exclaimed Dorothy. “He is like Robin Hood.”

“He’s romantic all right,” grinned Farley. “I’ll betcha he ain’t so romantic this mornin’, ’cause he got some of old man Freeland’s birdshot in his anatomy. If I can find the man who is sufferin’ from a duck-load, I’ll have the Trey of Spades.”

“Well, I hope you don’t find him,” declared Dorothy.

“I’ll do my best,” smiled Farley, as he got up from the table. “I’ve sure earned him, little lady.”

Hashknife and Sleepy walked outside with Farley, who mounted his horse.

“You goin’ back to Oxbow?” asked Hashknife.

“I s’pose,” Farley grinned thoughtfully. “I’ve got to kinda keep movin’ and try to find the jigger that got hit with that shotgun. From the amount of blood he lost, I’m wonderin’ if it all come from a few birdshot.”

“Might ’a’ pinched his hand in the door when he was goin’ out,” reflected Hashknife aloud.

“Oh, yeah,” Farley’s nose wrinkled in affected seriousness. “That could sure cut him up a lot. Well, I’ll see yuh later.”

They watched him ride away and turned back to the bunkhouse. Cliff was not there. Dad Parker came down and Hashknife told him what he had ordered Cliff to do. The old man seemed to breathe a little easier, but was still dubious.

“Jud Farley suspects him,” he declared. “Jud is no fool. He has some evidence against Cliff, that is a sure thing.”

“All right, Dad.” Hashknife slapped the old man on the shoulder. “Let him suspect. He ain’t got enough evidence to make an arrest--or he’d make it. If we can keep Cliff under cover until his wounds heal, it’ll be a cinch.”

“Yes, we might evade the law, Hartley; but we can’t evade our own knowledge. Milly knows--or suspects. She will have to know the truth.”

“Yeah, you’ll have to tell her, Dad.”

“And what right have you two to help compound a felony? You know that my son is guilty. It is your duty to notify the sheriff--not to block justice.”

Hashknife smiled softly and shook his head.

“Dad, do you read the Bible?”

“What has the Bible to do with this?” Bitterly.

“‘Let him who is without sin cast the first stone.’ Who are we to judge your son, Dad? Why should we send him to prison? Are we so danged much better than he is that we must see the law punish him?”

“You are law-abiding, aren’t you, Hartley?”

“Perhaps. There are no sheriffs after us--now.”

“You are breaking the law right now.”

“Sure thing. And what is more, Dad, we always will--or until the law starts writin’ in more ‘do’s’ and less ‘don’ts.’ It is always a ‘don’t.’ Me and Sleepy stay within the law--or as far as our conscience will allow.”

“There comes Cliff,” said Sleepy, who was near the door.

They looked out. Cliff was riding in at the front gate, bareheaded, bandaged. Dorothy and Milly had come out on the porch, and now they went running down to him. Cliff dismounted, as they reached him, and Dad Parker left the doorway, going toward them.

Hashknife and Sleepy went back into the bunkhouse and sat down.

“He never wore his hat,” observed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he never seen it down there under the bunk.”

“He’s got a lot of lyin’ to do now,” grinned Hashknife. “I’d sure hate to be in his shoes. And he’s got to lie before Dad and Milly, who know danged well he’s lyin’. It sure is one swell situation.”

“And it’s none of our business,” said Sleepy seriously. “We ain’t got nothin’ to do with it a-tall, Hashknife. There used to be a time when me and you would be hornin’ into this here Trey of Spades thing--but that time has passed.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Hashknife sighed deeply and began rolling a cigarette. “I feel sorry for Dad and Milly. He’s a dinger, Sleepy. Dad ain’t makin’ no ---- of a fuss, but down deep in his heart it’s hurtin’. Milly don’t know it all yet. It’ll kinda jar her, I reckon.”

“And it’ll jar Miss Clement, too, Hashknife.”

“Oh, sure. She thinks that Cliff is a little tin god.”

“Speakin’ of tin gods,” Sleepy tilted back on his bunk and squinted at the ceiling. “How about the Countess?”

“Kinda tinny,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Hm-m-m. Didja see her ag’in?”

“Yeah--talked with her, Sleepy. She’s a pretty danged nice sort of a girl--for her kind.”

“For her kind,” echoed Sleepy. “But yuh got to remember that Cliff turned thief to buy things for her.”

“He did, like ----!” Hashknife fairly exploded.

“Well, dear me!” Sleepy sat up quickly. “He didn’t?”

“No, Sleepy. The Trey of Spades was doin’ a land-office business before she ever came to Oxbow. I found out how long she has been there.”

“That’s a different colored horse,” grunted Sleepy.

* * * * *

Hashknife cleared the table and began playing solitaire, while Sleepy watched him indifferently. It was about thirty minutes after Cliff’s arrival at the house when he opened the door of the bunkhouse and came inside. The two cowboys waited for him to speak.

His face was slightly flushed and he had the appearance of a man who was badly in need of a stimulant.

“Well,” he said hoarsely, looking at Hashknife, “what next?”

“Next what?” Hashknife shoved back from the table.

“Next order.” He came closer and stared at Hashknife. “You seem to be runnin’ things around here, Hartley.”

There was a distinct threat in Cliff’s attitude; so Hashknife got to his feet, leaning across the table.

“Don’t be a fool, Parker,” Hashknife spoke softly. “You’ve got past so far--now be careful.”

“Yeah?” Cliff spat dryly, thoughtfully. “What’s the big idea?”

“The big idea is to keep you out of the penitentiary. Mebbe you don’t appreciate it, but yo’re edgin’ in pretty close to the big stone corral, young feller.”

“The ---- I am!” snorted Cliff angrily. “Let me tell you----”

The door opened behind him and Dad Parker came in. Cliff turned and looked at his father, who came up close to him, leaving the door open. The old man’s eyes were stony cold and his jaw was set, as he faced his son.

“More trouble, eh?” said Cliff angrily.

“No, not trouble,” Dad Parker shook his head. “It is just a showdown, Cliff. You told your story very well, and I think that Dorothy believes you, but I know better and I’ve told Milly the truth.”

“Well,” Cliff frowned heavily, “that’s all right.”

“All right with you, Cliff. Perhaps you will have time to get out of the country, if you don’t waste too much time in starting. The sheriff is suspicious of you, and when he sees you his suspicions will be confirmed. These two men have saved you from the consequences of your crimes, but there is little that they can do now.”

“Huh!” Cliff rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and licked his dry lips. For several moments he stared at the floor, as though trying to concentrate his thoughts. Then he lifted his head and looked at his father.

“Dad,” his voice broke slightly, “what in ---- is this all about?”

“All about?” The old man laughed bitterly. “You would dare to stand there and ask me that question? Cliff, I’ve been afraid of this for several days. Last night you were brought here, suffering from an injury which was inflicted at the time you held up and robbed Freeland’s jewelry store in Oxbow.

“Your face was filled with birdshot from Freeland’s shotgun. Hartley and Stevens found you just after the holdup, where you had accidentally injured yourself in the dark. The jewelry was all scattered around, where it had fallen. Your mask was beside you. Now, can you stand there and deny that you are the Trey of Spades?”

Cliff was staring at his father, his face gone white under the accusations. Hashknife’s eyes shifted from the two men and looked at the doorway, where the minister stood, a puzzled expression on his face. None of them knew how long he had been there, but he had surely been there long enough to have heard Dad Parker’s accusation of his son.

Cliff shook his head and started to speak, but Hashknife forestalled anything further by saying:

“Here’s the preacher who rides on his church.”

Dad Parker and Cliff turned quickly.

“Pardon me,” smiled the minister. “I was going past; so I stopped for a minute or two.”

“Oh, yes,” Dad Parker’s voice was barely a whisper. “You ju-just stopped. Well, won’t you go up to the house?”

“Thank you, Mr. Parker.” He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, turned and walked slowly toward the house. Hashknife walked to the door, leaning on the casing, watching the minister go into the house. Then, without turning his head, he said:

“Dad, I’m afraid he heard everythin’ yuh said.”

“Well, suppose he did,” Cliff laughed harshly. “It don’t seem to be any secret.”

“There are only four of us, except you,” said Sleepy.

Dad Parker turned away and started for the door. His anger had burned out, and with it had burned several years of his life. His hand groped uncertainly at the doorway as he went out and walked toward the house, like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Cliff stared after him and his face softened as he turned to Hashknife.

“It--it looks like they’ve got the deadwood on me, don’t it, Hartley?”

“The law hasn’t--yet.”

“It’s a funny thing.” Cliff sighed deeply and shook his head. “I feel like I’ve missed a few months out of my life.”

“Don’t remember doin’ these things?”

“No. I reckon--say, what day and month is this?”

Hashknife pointed to a calendar on the wall, and Cliff walked closer to examine it. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged glances. Lapse of memory had already been established as a point of defense, and they felt that Cliff might be going to claim such a condition.

But he turned away from the calendar and sat down on a bunk, thinking deeply.

“How much time have you forgot?” queried Hashknife.

“Not a ---- day.”

“Then you remember everythin’, eh?”

“Well,” Cliff smiled wryly, “not what Dad accuses me of, if that’s what yuh mean.”

“All right. Then how do yuh account for bein’ where we found yuh last night, flat on your back, with jewels scattered all around yuh and yore face punctured with birdshot?”

Cliff held his head in his hands, staring wide-eyed at the floor.

“I can’t tell yuh, Hartley. It’s all too hazy.”

He got to his feet and moved toward the door.

“I’m goin’ to town, if anybody asks about me.”

“Don’t be a fool!” exploded Hashknife. “The sheriff is lookin’ for a shot-marked man, and your face looks like you’ve had the small-pox.”

“I’ve got to have a drink,” declared Cliff. “There ain’t a drink on the ranch, and if I don’t get a shot of whisky pretty soon, I’ll kill somebody--or myself. I--I--” he snapped his fingers nervously--“I’ve just got to have it. To ---- with the sheriff and the law.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s up to you,” said Hashknife. He picked the hat from under the bunk and tossed it to Cliff.

“If you’ve got to go, don’t go bareheaded. Here’s yore hat.”

Cliff straightened out the sombrero, looked inside it and threw it back onto the table.

“That ain’t my hat.”

“It ain’t your hat?” Hashknife gasped at him.

“---- no! Mine’s a perfectly good Stetson, and she’s got my initials in the sweat-band.”

He whirled and went outside, leaving Hashknife and Sleepy staring at the hat which Hashknife had brought from the scene of the crime. Hashknife turned the hat slowly in his fingers. There were several tiny holes in the top of the crown, where some of the old jeweler’s birdshot had penetrated the felt, and along the brim were several pencil-like marks where the tiny pellets of lead had scraped.

“It ain’t his hat,” said Hashknife, half to himself. “His hat has his initials in the sweat-band. And I’ll betcha a hundred-to-one that Jud Farley had that hat. Sleepy, we’ve got somebody’s old discard.”

“We haven’t,” stated Sleepy. “You have. Don’t blame it onto me, cowboy.”

And while Hashknife and Sleepy wondered, “Hat, hat, who’s got the hat,” the Reverend Mr. Jones sat in the living-room of the Maverick ranch house and tried to make conversation with Milly and Dad Parker. Dorothy was in her room, changing her dress, making herself more beautiful for Cliff’s sake, while he was riding wildly back toward town, with his soul shrieking for whisky.

“I am making wonderful progress with my church,” offered the minister. “Mr. Cole is giving me every assistance in fixing up the old building, and it will not be long until we have a suitable place of worship.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose so.” Milly awoke from her abstraction long enough to know that some reply was necessary. Dad Parker sat in stony silence.

“And I think that it will be a very good thing for this country.” The minister persisted in talking. “There has been a need for religious revival in Thunder county. It is really a shame--almost a heathenish--if I may use that word--condition.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Milly slowly. “We need something, that is a sure thing.”

She got to her feet and walked to the front door. If the minister would only go away it would relieve the situation to some extent, she thought. She did not want to talk with him--nor to any one else for that matter. Since her father had told her what he knew about Cliff, she had been in a daze.

He got up and walked over to her. Dad Parker looked at him, wondering how much he had heard at the bunkhouse. Milly moved out onto the porch and the minister came out beside her.

“Milly,” he said softly, “you are in trouble. I know that. In fact I overheard a conversation between your father and brother, which was--well, enough to make me understand the situation.”

“You heard?” Milly stared at him.

“Yes. I know that your brother is the Trey of Spades, Milly.”

She turned away and stared blankly. This was worse than she had imagined.

“It is too bad,” he said slowly, “and I want you to know how sorry I feel.”

“And,” he continued after a moment, “I want you to understand that this does not affect my respect for your father nor my--er--feelings toward you, Milly.”

“Toward me?” Milly turned and looked at him.

“Yes,” he admitted, half-bashfully. “I am not afraid to tell you that I think you are the finest girl I have ever met. It is difficult for folks to imagine that a minister might fall in love with a girl; but that is just what I have done.”

“But--but you mustn’t do that.” Milly was half-crying with nervousness. “Don’t you see I can’t talk with you? Everything is wrong--everything!”

“Not everything, Milly. I love you.”

“Well, I don’t love you, don’t you see? I--I like you, but--but I don’t love anybody.”

“You don’t mean that, Milly. When you calm down you will feel differently about it.”

“No, I won’t!” Milly shook her head violently. “Please go away, won’t you?”

The minister turned slowly away, his eyes hardening slightly, and started down the steps toward his horse, while Milly turned and went back into the house. He stopped at the foot of the steps and looked back toward the empty porch, before he mounted his horse.

As he rode toward the gate, Hashknife walked over from the bunkhouse and intercepted him. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Then Hashknife said:

“How much of it did you hear?”

“About all of it, I think.” The minister’s voice was crisp and hard. Hashknife squinted curiously at him.

“About all of it, eh? Uh-huh!” thoughtfully. “And how much of it are yuh goin’ to tell?”

“How much am I going to tell? What makes you think I am going to tell any of it?”

“Because,” Hashknife’s grin was aimed to take off some of the sting, “yuh don’t look like a man I’d trust with a secret.”

“Really?” The minister straightened in his saddle at the direct insult. “That is not very complimentary, Hartley.”

“----, I didn’t mean it as a compliment.”

“No?”

“No-o-o. Yuh see, they taught me in Sunday school to tell the truth. If my talk offends yuh--blame religion. If so much of my Sunday school teacher’s talk hadn’t stuck to my brain, I’d prob’ly lie to you like other folks do.”

“A paragon, eh?”

“Mebbe,” said Hashknife, after a moment, “it’s a good thing I don’t _sabe_ that word.”

“Possibly. Now just where are we getting to in this conversation?”

“Right back to where we started, Deacon. You heard Dad Parker accuse Cliff of being the Trey of Spades. Cliff didn’t deny it. The question is this--are yuh goin’ to tell what yuh heard?”

“Why should I?”

“And there yuh are,” Hashknife flapped his arms wearily. “I’d just as soon argue with an old woman as a preacher. They always say ‘because,’ or ‘why.’ My ----, do yuh think I want to ask questions and answer ’em myself?”

The minister smiled at Hashknife’s serious expression.

“Would it be a Christian thing to do, Hartley--to tell?”

“What do I know about Christian things?”

“We seem to be deadlocked again.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head.

“We sure are, pardner.”

“Are you trying to coerce the church, Hartley?”

“I ain’t sure. I’ve got a hazy idea what that word means, but I do know this: We’ve got a sheriff to chase criminals, and we’ve got a preacher to chase the devil. The sheriff ain’t got nothin’ on the devil, and the minister hadn’t ought to chase criminals. It ’pears to me that they’d both do pretty well if they minded their own business, as far as they are personally concerned.”

“That is not a bad philosophy, Hartley.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones picked up his reins, laughing softly. “I think it can be carried out--as far as the preacher is concerned.”

“That’s fine,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ll answer for the sheriff. If he monkeys with yore Gospel, let me know, will yuh?”

“I will, Hartley. As soon as my church is inhabitable, I would like to see you in the congregation.”

“Yuh might, at that,” laughed Hashknife. “So-long, _compadre_.”

“Good-by.”

* * * * *

Cliff lost no time in getting to Oxbow, and his horse was dripping with sweat when he drew up at the Cheyenne hitch-rack. Jud Farley had seen Cliff ride into town, and there was considerable of a pucker between the sheriff’s eyes as he speculated upon things.

He watched Cliff hurry into the saloon, and his conclusions were that Cliff was badly in need of a drink. After a short wait he sauntered over to the Cheyenne and eased himself inside.

Cliff was at the bar, leaning on his elbows and looking at his reflection in the backbar mirror.

His body tensed slightly as he saw the sheriff’s face reflected in the glass, but he did not turn.

“Howdy, Cliff,” said the sheriff pleasantly as he moved in beside him. “Have a little drink?”

“Thank yuh, Jud; I’ve had enough for now.”

Cliff turned and they looked at each other. The sheriff’s eyes flashed to the bandage, but he did not remark about it.

“Bronc throwed me off in a mesquite,” said Cliff slowly. “I was back in the hills. That ---- mesquite sure punches yuh full of holes.”

The sheriff nodded thoughtfully.

“It’s mean stuff, Cliff. Lost yore hat, too, eh?”

“Uh-huh. Got to get me a new one. I was kinda knocked out and went away without it. Mebbe I could find the place, but it’s doubtful.”

“Bronc throwed yuh, yuh say?”

“Yeah--not my bronc though. He’s in the stable here in town. I was kinda wobbly; so I went to the ranch in the wagon. I was ridin’ another bronc when I got throwed.”

“Uh-huh,” Farley smiled, because he knew that Cliff’s horse was still in the livery stable, and he decided that Cliff was a first-class liar. Then it suddenly struck him that Cliff had not lied about it all. That Maverick ranch wagon had been in town the night before, and had gone back to the ranch while he and Buck were trying to pick up the trail of the bandit.

“I was out to the ranch this mornin’,” offered Farley. “I seen Dorothy Clement. By golly, she’s a nice girl, Cliff.”

“Yeah,” said Cliff thoughtfully. “I’m sorry I was out in the hills and didn’t get to meet her at the train.”

“Yeah, it was too bad.”

Farley knew that Cliff hadn’t been in the hills. He had seen Cliff in Oxbow that afternoon, and Cliff was in no condition to ride a horse. And Cliff knew that Farley did not believe him.

“You heard about the jewel robbery, didn’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.

“They talked about it at the ranch,” said Cliff easily. “Didn’t amount to much as long as the jeweler got his stuff all back. That Trey of Spades has sure got nerve.”

“Yeah, but he’s careless.”

“Thasso?” Cliff’s eyes studied a framed picture on the opposite wall. “Well, I suppose they all get careless. Wouldn’t be much use for jails, if they didn’t. Let’s have a drink, Jud.”

They drank and turned away from the bar. Vincent Roche came swinging through the front door but stopped suddenly at sight of Cliff’s bandaged head.

“What hit you?” he asked.

Cliff explained about being thrown off his horse in the hills. Roche listened closely, a half-smile on his face. He knew that Cliff had not been in condition to ride into the hills, but he felt that Cliff had a good reason for lying about it in the presence of the sheriff.

“I was over to the ranch to see yuh,” said Roche, anxious to change the subject. “I met the Reverend Jones, who had also been there.”

“Had he?” Cliff smiled grimly. “Some day----”

“You let the preacher alone,” advised the sheriff dryly. “He’s needed around here.”

“Then keep him around here,” retorted Cliff. “We don’t need him out at the Maverick,” and then to Roche, “Did yuh go out to the ranch, Vint?”

Roche shook his head.

“No. The sky-pilot told me that you had pulled out for town; so I rode back here with him. He invited me to church.”

Farley smiled and walked away. He knew that there was nothing further to be gained from talking to Cliff. They watched him disappear.

“You went out in the hills and got bucked off in a mesquite,” said Roche slowly. “That’s fine. Dorothy showed up; so you better brace up and behave yourself. Now tell me somethin’ about those two new punchers at the Maverick.”

“What do yuh want to know about ’em, Vint?”

“Are they just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, or are they here to try and find the Trey of Spades?”

Cliff squinted thoughtfully. Then, “Just cowpunchers, Vint.”

“Are yuh sure?”

“Well, I’m as sure as death or taxes. What do you want to know for?”

“Just curious, tha’sall. Let’s go and take a whirl at the old wheel.”

“I’ll look on,” grinned Cliff. “I’m sure lookin’ for cheap amusement.”

The sheriff went back to his office, where Buck was asleep on a cot, and sat down to try and plan just what to do. Buck awoke in a bad humor, as usual, but grew interested when the sheriff told him about Cliff’s injuries.

“Looks kinda bad for Cliff,” agreed Buck. “I wonder why the blasted fool came back thataway.”

“Got thirsty, I reckon.”

“You didn’t have much luck with that feller Hartley, did yuh?” queried Buck.

Farley shook his head.

“Not what you’d notice.”

Buck cleared his throat raspingly and shifted his position.

“I’m suspicious of them two, Jud. I tell yuh, they’re laughin’ at us all the time. Dang ’em, they know too much t’ suit me.”

“Aw, ----, they couldn’t have anything to do with this.”

“Well, suppose it ain’t Cliff? Who’s the next bet?”

“I’m not bettin’, Buck. If it ain’t Cliff--I’ll eat my old shirt.”

“Then why in ---- don’tcha arrest him?”

“And have Hartley, Stevens, Dad Parker and Milly prove an alibi for him, eh?”

“That’s the ---- of it!” snorted Buck disgustedly. “Every hand is agin’ us, Jud. ’Pears to me that the law ain’t pop’lar no more. I’m sure glad we’re goin’ to have a church. If a lot of these jiggers would git the Ten Commandments drilled into ’em, me and you would have an easier job.”

“How many of ’em do you know, Buck?”

“----, I don’t have to know ’em.”

“You’re pure, are yuh?”

“Jist like the driven snow,” said Buck savagely. “And I git poorer and poorer every year. Pure and poverty-stricken. Them two words fit together jist like meanness and money.”

The rest of the day was uneventful. Several times the sheriff went to the Cheyenne and found Vincent Roche bucking the roulette wheel. Cliff was not playing; so the sheriff decided that Cliff was either broke or afraid to show too much money.

It was after dark when Buck joined him and they went to the Rodeo restaurant. Blackie Dahl was there, sitting moodily at a table, alone. He had been drinking steadily all day.

“Prob’ly got turned down by the Countess,” said Buck. “That’s kind of specialty with her--turnin’ ’em down. But I don’t blame her for ditchin’ Blackie. My ---- he’s a awful specimen of humanity.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” advised the sheriff. “Blackie’s in a bad humor.”

“Aw, ----! We’ll have to kill him sometime, Jud; so it might as well be one time as another.”

Jud grinned and attacked his food. In a few minutes Hashknife and Sleepy came in and sat down at the nearest table. Buck glowered at them, but the sheriff seemed pleased. As soon as he finished his meal he went over and took a vacant chair beside Hashknife.

“Well, what’s new?” asked Hashknife.

“Nothin’ new,” The sheriff rested his elbows on the table and chewed thoughtfully on a toothpick.

Hashknife and Sleepy finished their meal and got up from the table. Buck went out ahead of them and crossed the street, but the sheriff waited for them to pay their check and met them outside.

“I don’t want to seem to be ridin’ you fellers, but I’d sure like to trade talk with yuh.” The sheriff was apologetic.

“Trade talk?” Hashknife grinned.

“Yeah. I want yuh to understand that I ain’t jumpin’ at no conclusions; _sabe_? With what I already know I could make a lot of grief for somebody; but I ain’t hangin’ crape on doorways until I’ve got the old deadwood planted.”

“That’s sure square of yuh, Farley; and I might trade on that basis--if you talk first.”

“All right. Come down to my office, will yuh?”

They walked down the street and went into the office. The sheriff lighted the oil lamp, closed the door, and the three of them sat down beside his desk.

“I’m goin’ to play my cards face up,” stated the sheriff. “Beatin’ around the bush ain’t goin’ to get me nothin’ with you two. Cliff Parker held up that jewelry store last night, got hurt and was taken to the ranch by you fellers.”

Hashknife and Sleepy squinted at each other.

“I’m playin’ ’em in sight,” warned the sheriff. “You two went into that back yard, while me and Buck went ridin’. There’s blood on the ground where the robber laid, and it wasn’t hard to trail him to the hitch-rack. Cliff’s got his head all bandaged up today and there’s shot marks on his face. He got enough shot to make him blunder into that fence, where he bumped himself. The plunder flew out of his hands. All this was dead easy to read. Now, I’m askin’ you to talk a little.”

“But why do yuh say it was Cliff Parker?” grinned Hashknife. “You only know that Cliff has been hurt. He said he got throwed into a mesquite bush.”

“Mesquite, ----! I’ll show yuh how I know.”

The sheriff hitched over to his desk and drew open one of the drawers. He scowled deeply, and reached for the lamp with his other hand. After a close inspection, while the two cowboys watched him closely, he lifted his hand from the drawer and tossed a playing card on to the table, face up. It was the trey of spades.

The sheriff looked searchingly at the two men, and poked at the card with his finger.

“Two hours ago Cliff Parker’s hat was in that drawer,” he said slowly. “It ain’t there now.”

“Turned into the trey of spades, eh?” queried Hashknife seriously.

Farley’s eyes hardened and his lips drew into a straight, level line.

“I didn’t ask yuh for much help, Hartley,” he said coldly, “but I do ask yuh not to interfere with the law.”

Hashknife leaned across the desk and squinted in the sheriff’s face.

“Do yuh mean to say that we stole the hat?”

Farley’s eyes shifted under Hashknife’s steady gaze and he looked at the card.

“We didn’t, Farley,” said Hashknife. “I figured that you had the hat, and I’d ’a’ stole it, if I had the chance.”

The sheriff sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“Well, there’s no evidence left, that’s a cinch. I was a fool to leave it in that drawer.”

Hashknife picked up the card and examined it. The back of it was an intricate design, printed in blue. It had never been used, because it was as white and crisp as a card from a new deck.

“Are all his cards like this?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff rummaged in another drawer and took out another trey of spades with the same colored back.

“That’s the one he left at the jeweler’s place.”

“Can I take this one?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah. I dunno what good it’ll do yuh, though.”

Hashknife pocketed it and they went over to the Cheyenne. Blackie Dahl was at the bar, and he glared at them, but did not speak. His eyes were almost crossed from excessive drinking but he did not stagger. They went into the gambling room and looked over the games. Cliff was humped in a look-out chair, with a glass of liquor in his hand, watching the play.

“He ain’t been playin’ today,” observed the sheriff.

“Prob’ly broke,” said Hashknife.

“Prob’ly not,” replied the sheriff dryly. “I wonder where Roche is?”

Blackie passed them, going toward the dance-hall, and Slim Cole met them at the entrance. He glanced at Blackie and grinned widely.

“Blackie’s workin’ up a grudge,” he said. “Vint Roche has been talkin’ with the Countess for an hour, and Blackie has been wanderin’ around like a lost duck.”

They moved into the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and gained a position near the orchestra. About half-way down, on the opposite side, sat Vincent Roche and the Countess in close conversation.

“Roche hit the wheel for a lot of money today,” said Slim. “He must have cashed in about two thousand dollars.”

“Not so good for you, eh?” said Hashknife.

“Aw, I’ll get it all back.”

“With interest,” added the sheriff.

“That’s the beauty of this business,” laughed Slim. “It’s like makin’ a loan. Once in a while yuh find a man who is wise enough to keep what he wins, but the majority of ’em can’t forget how easy it was to get.”

Blackie Dahl had been bumped by several dancers, which did not increase his humor to any extent. He moved closer to Roche, although trying to appear indifferent. It amused Slim Cole, but not so Jud Farley.

“Blackie is drunk enough to be dangerous,” said Jud. “If Roche is wise he’ll watch that son-of-a-gun.”

Suddenly a dancing couple collided with Blackie, knocking him almost into Roche, who looked up at Blackie and said something. A moment later Blackie had flung the table aside and stepped back, reaching for his gun.

But whisky had slowed Blackie’s speed, and before he could use the gun Roche smashed him full in the face, knocking him half-way across the hall, where he sprawled full-length on the floor. The orchestra stopped with a crash and the dancers scattered.

Instinct had caused Blackie to cling to his gun, in spite of the blow, but before he could recover sufficiently to use it, Roche’s right foot was on it, crushing it out of his hand. Jud Farley crossed to them and helped Blackie to his feet.

The punch had loosened all of Blackie’s front teeth and had driven the whisky from his brain. He looked weakly around, as if wondering what it was all about.

“You go home and sober up,” advised the sheriff.

“That’s good advice,” agreed Roche, examining his skinned knuckles. “And next time you start to draw on me--look out, Blackie.”

“Yeah?” Blackie spat painfully, turned on his heel and went out of the place.

“Whipped,” declared a cowboy.

“Not whipped,” said the sheriff. “Yuh can’t whip this kind.”

Roche went back, straightened the table and sat down again.

“He’s no milk-fed infant himself,” said Sleepy. “He sure cooled Mister Dahl with one punch.”

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted back through the gambling room. Cliff was still in the look-out chair, joking with the players.

“We might as well go home,” said Hashknife. Sleepy nodded and they went back to their horses.

“Cliff ain’t as big a fool as I thought he was,” observed Sleepy, as they rode back to the ranch.

“And the funny part of it is,” laughed Hashknife, “Jud Farley didn’t get any trade talk out of us. He told us all he knew, Sleepy. I was sure he had that hat, and I didn’t lie when I told him I would have stolen it.”

“Yeah, I suppose yuh would, Hashknife. Didn’t we agree to keep out of other people’s business?”

“Well, yeah, we did. I ain’t hornin’ into anything, Sleepy. We won’t get any deeper into this thing. Cliff is clear, as far as the law is concerned.”

“Yeah--as far as the law is concerned.”

“Well, that’s as far as we can go, Sleepy. I know how Dad and Milly must feel about it. It’s a ---- of a jolt. But it kinda looks like folks were put on this earth to suffer. For every whisky glass full of joy there’s a five-gallon demijohn of bitter misery for a chaser.”

“That’s true, Hashknife. Still, me and you ain’t never been so danged unhappy.”

“Because we don’t mind our own business, I suppose. We’ve been so busy foolin’ with other people’s troubles that we ain’t never had time to have any for ourselves.”

They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. As they walked back toward the bunkhouse, Milly came to meet them.

“Where is Cliff?” she asked.

“He’s still in Oxbow,” said Hashknife.

“Drinking?”

“N-not an awful lot,” Hashknife hesitated.

“Oh, I don’t know what to do,” said Milly wearily. “Dorothy knows that something is wrong, but I can’t tell her the truth. She has been crying all the evening. She--she thinks that Cliff don’t love her any more. I’d rather have her think that than to know the real truth of the matter.”

“Prob’ly be better.”

“What about the sheriff?”

“Don’tcha worry about him, Milly. He had Cliff’s hat; found it out back of the jewelry store. But he ain’t got it now.”

“Oh, did you get it, Hashknife?”

“No-o-o, we didn’t, Milly. There was a trey of spades in its place.”

“Oh!”

“How’s Dad?” asked Sleepy.

“Dad?” Milly looked back at the yellow lights from a window. “Dad is reading.”

“Readin’?”

“Yes--the Bible.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Prob’ly do him good,” observed Hashknife softly.

“I don’t know how much it will do him,” Milly laughed wearily. “You see, he never read it before.”

“Well, he’s old enough to know what it’s about,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Is there anything we can do, Milly?”

“Not a thing. I wish Cliff would come home. If he don’t come pretty soon I’ll be tempted to tell Dorothy the whole thing and let her faint dead away. And she probably will, too.”

“Might be a good stunt,” said Sleepy. “She’ll be better off, if she knows the whole thing.”

“No, she won’t,” declared Hashknife. “She thinks Cliff is all right. There’s been many a brand snatched from the burnin’, as the preacher said. We’re takin’ a lot for granted.”

“What do you mean by that?” queried Milly anxiously. “You don’t mean that there’s a possible chance of Cliff not being guilty, do you?”

“He’s guilty of bein’ a fool. He’s guilty of drinkin’ too much hooch and all that, Milly.”

“And of falling in love with a honkatonk girl,” added Milly.

“Well,” Hashknife chuckled slightly, “there’s a few things yuh might excuse him for.”

“Hashknife met her,” laughed Sleepy. “But thank gosh she’s too fickle to rope him for long. She shifted from Cliff to Blackie Dahl, and now she’s got Vincent Roche roped and hog-tied.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Milly softly. “Vincent Roche.”

Sleepy knew that he had talked too much, but it was too late to retract it now. Milly turned away without another word and went back toward the house. Hashknife swore softly, as they went on into the bunkhouse and lighted the lamp.

“You sure talked too much,” said Hashknife sadly.

“I know it. I didn’t stop t’ think about Roche bein’ a regular visitor. I reckon I’ve just added to her misery, Hashknife.”

Hashknife nodded over his cigarette making.

“Yeah, I s’pose so. And old Dad up there readin’ the Bible; tryin’ to get some comfort for his soul: Oh, ----!” Hashknife got to his feet and paced the length of the bunkhouse. It was not often that he exhibited anger, and Sleepy squinted at him closely, wondering what was coming next. Hashknife stopped at the table and looked down at Sleepy.

“Cowboy, we’ve got to foller out our natural inclinations.”

“Meanin’ which?” Seriously.

“Up there in the house is an old man, tryin’ to find out in the Bible that his son still has a chance, Sleepy. There’s a girl up there cryin’ her heart out because she thinks that her feller don’t love her no more. And there’s a game little sister up there, tryin’ to keep a stiff upper-lip through it all.

“And down here in the bunkhouse are two ---- fool cowpunchers who ain’t got no business of their own, and have sworn to mind it. Now, you can do as you ---- please, Sleepy. Stick to yore pledge, cowboy, if yuh want to; but I hereby bust ---- out of mine; _sabe_?”

“Well,” Sleepy grinned softly and stretched out his legs comfortably, “I been wonderin’ how long we could stand for our own affairs. Just which end of this affair do we start gnawin’ on, Hashknife?”

“The first end we run into. By golly, I feel like a feller who hears the dentist say, ‘Well, it’s out.’”

Sleepy yawned and began pulling off his boots.

“This is our land of milk and honey, Hashknife,” he bantered. “A land where the coyote files off his teeth and eats grass with the cows. We came huntin’ peace and it didn’t taste good.”

Hashknife merely grinned widely. He knew that Sleepy was anxious for action, and was only talking for effect. They went to bed, and in about an hour Cliff came in. He was half-drunk, but was careful to not disturb them.

Feigning sleep Hashknife watched him take a quantity of money out of his pocket and stuff it under his pillow. It was impossible to estimate the amount, but it looked sufficient to excite Hashknife’s curiosity. Cliff seemed to be in good spirits, whistling softly to himself as he undressed. He knocked the chimney off the lamp, trying to extinguish it, and mumbled an apology as he crawled into his bunk.

* * * * *

“I tell yuh I’m about through.” Harmony leaned against the kitchen doorway and delivered his ultimatum. “By ----, I don’t mind a little gloom, but I draws the line at too much of it. Won’t nobody eat. They set down at the table, look like they’re goin’ to bawl about somethin’, and then plumb ignore my cookin’. I tell yuh, it’s too ---- solemn to suit me.”

Hashknife looked up from the washbasin, his face dripping, and reached for the towel.

“Is it as bad as that, Harmony?” he asked.

“As bad? ----, I ain’t got el-o-cution enough to express m’self. Cliff comes up here early and he runs into Dorothy. She’s cried until there ain’t no moisture left in her system. Yes, sir, she’s been cryin’ over that ---- fool half-baked kid; weepin’ over the fact that he don’t love her no more. My, ----, if she had any sense she’d be wavin’ a flag and cheerin’.

“And does she fall into his arms? Does she? Like ---- she does. She turns him down as cold as old man January. Whooee! I hears him say, ‘Dot, what is the matter?’ Ha, ha, ha, ha! Him down at Oxbow lappin’ up liquor, and her up here bawlin’ ’cause he don’t come home--and he wants to know what’s the matter.

“Well, she don’t tell him what’s the matter; so he follers her into the house, tryin’ to find out. Ain’t a man in love a awful ---- fool. I’m just about makin’ up my mind to stay single, I’ll tell yuh that. Gloom? Whooee!”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed at Harmony’s disgusted expression. Cliff had awoke and left the bunkhouse ahead of them, and they were curious to know about his reception.

“How’s Dad Parker?” asked Hashknife softly.

“Him?” Harmony spat explosively and hooked his thumbs over the waistband of his overalls. “Well, sir, I dunno. I like the old man. I’ve been with him quite a while, and I thought I knew him kinda well.” Harmony shook his head sadly, “I don’t know him a-tall.”

“Of course he feels bad about Cliff. It’s plumb natural for a pa to feel bad when his offspring de-parts from the strait and narrer and goes bumpety-bump toward ----; but if I ever git married and have a son that gits bogged down, I’ll spit on my hands, load up the old six-gun and find out who in ---- threw the switch on him--and not read any Bible!

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ that the Bible ain’t good readin’, yuh understand. It’s jist like a cook-book or an almanac--all right for what it’s intended--but in a case like this, action speaks a ---- sight stronger than printed words. Now, if you jaspers want to eat--say so. I’ll throw a flock of ham and aigs together for yuh in a minute, and I’m the best cook between here and there, but I ain’t cookin’ for somebody to sigh over.”

“About four eggs for me, Harmony,” said Hashknife, “and not more than that many for Sleepy. And if yuh cut that ham thin, I’ll measure yuh for a harp. Make the coffee for grown men; _sabe_?”

“My ----, there still is joy in the world!” Harmony fairly skidded into the kitchen and began rattling the pans.

They squatted on their heels against the house and waited for Harmony to call them. Cliff came around from the front of the house, walking with his head down, and almost ran into them.

His face was a trifle drawn and in the harsh light of day he looked much older than his years.

“Mornin’, Cliff,” said Hashknife pleasantly. “Yuh kinda beat us out of bed this mornin’.”

Cliff nodded, but did not speak. It was evident that he was not interested. Milly came out through the kitchen and stopped in the doorway. She looked tired, weary, and did not speak to Hashknife and Sleepy. In a few moments Dorothy came out behind her.

It was evident that Dorothy had spent a sleepless night and an unpleasant morning.

She seemed on the verge of crying, but at sight of Cliff she braced up and tried to appear indifferent.

“Yore breakfast is ready, you two punchers!” sang out Harmony. “Come and git it!”

They got to their feet and started past the two girls, when Milly said:

“I wonder who this is?”

They turned and looked down the road, where a lone horseman was coming. He swung in at the gate and rode straight up to them. It was Buck Hardy. He lifted his hat and eased himself in the saddle, as he spoke directly to Cliff.

“When did you see Vincent Roche last, Cliff?”

“Vincent Roche?” Cliff squinted at Buck. “Why, Buck?”

“Somebody shot him last night.”

“Shot him?” It was Milly’s voice, almost a croak.

“Yeah--shot him. He had a lot of money with him, so Slim Cole says. He didn’t have any when we found him.”

Hashknife put a hand on Milly’s shoulder to steady her. She was staring into space, her hands clenched tightly.

“Sid Franklin found him,” continued Buck. “He was at the forks of the road. And stickin’ in his bosom was a trey of spades.”

“Was he dead?” asked Hashknife.

“Danged near it. I dunno whether he’s got a chance or not. The doctor’s workin’ on him.”

Hashknife grasped Milly by both shoulders.

“Brace up,” he whispered. “He’s still alive.”

She nodded dumbly. Cliff was staring at the ground, trying to think.

“How much money did Roche have, Cliff?” asked Buck.

“I don’t know!” Cliff threw up his head defiantly. “I’m not his banker. Slim Cole ought to know how much Vint won yesterday.”

“Well, I s’pose that’s right,” said Buck slowly. “Somebody seems to have the idea that you and Roche rode away together last night.”

“Somebody, eh? Who said we did?”

“Just somebody, Cliff.”

“Yeah? Do you think you can fasten this onto me?”

“Not me,” Buck shook his head. “I ain’t tryin’ to fasten it onto anybody, Cliff. I just wanted to know, tha’sall.”

“Well, you’ve found out.”

Cliff swung away from the house and headed for the stable. Buck looked after him thoughtfully. Milly and Dorothy had gone into the house, and Harmony was standing in the doorway, holding a pan in his hand. Buck turned back to Hashknife and Sleepy, and a look of understanding passed between them.

“Well, I reckon I’ll be ridin’ back to Oxbow,” said Buck.

“Wait until we saddle up and we’ll ride with yuh,” offered Hashknife. “Come on, Sleepy.”

They saddled quickly and rode away with Buck. Cliff watched them ride away, a puzzled expression in his eyes, while in the kitchen door stood Harmony, his head bowed in thought. Suddenly he looked around, stepped to the stove and picked up a frying-pan. He strode to the door, and with a flip of his hand, sent eight fried eggs spinning out into the yard.

“I’m just about through,” he told them. “It’s gittin’ so that they don’t even set down at the table.”

Buck showed Hashknife and Sleepy where Roche had been found, lying beside the road, near where the Diamond V road intersected with the county highway.

“Jud told me about losin’ that hat,” said Buck meaningly, as they rode on toward town.

“I reckon he still blames us,” grinned Hashknife. “But he’s all wrong, Hardy. We would have swiped it if we had a chance.”

“That’s what Jud said. I dunno why somebody is always tryin’ to block the law. This is the first killin’ that the Trey of Spades has done, and yuh bet it’ll go hard with him when he’s caught. Thunder county is plumb tired of that whippoorwill.”

“Who do yuh think it is?” queried Hashknife.

“Who?” Buck grinned sourly. “Well, figure it out for yourself, Hartley.”

“Cliff and Roche were the best of friends.”

“Yeah--sure. And Cliff needed money. Roche had over two thousand dollars when he left the Cheyenne last night.”

“If Cliff is the Trey of Spades--did he need money?”

Buck frowned at this new angle. It had never occurred to him that the Trey of Spades must have accumulated considerable money in a few months.

“Somethin’ to that,” he admitted. “Still, a couple of thousand is quite a argument agin’ it, Hartley.”

Hashknife knew that Buck’s argument was logical, and he also knew that Cliff had money when he came home. It looked bad for Cliff. They rode into town and found Farley at his office.

“He’s still alive,” said Farley in answer to their questions. “He’s badly hurt and the doctor don’t hold out much hope for him. Shot twice.”

“From behind?” asked Hashknife.

“What made yuh think that?” asked Farley quickly.

“The reasonable thing to do. Roche is a gunman. The Trey of Spades would know that, Farley.”

Farley nodded thoughtfully.

“Yeah, I s’pose that’s true. Anyway, Roche was shot from behind with a rifle.”

“Where did they find his horse?”

“It came to the ranch. That’s why Franklin went lookin’ for Roche early this mornin’. There was blood all over the saddle.”

“All over it, eh?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the saddle here in the back room.”

“I want to see it later,” said Hashknife. “Buck said there was a trey of spades.”

Farley took it from his pocket and handed it to him. It was not a new card and was of the brand known as “Steamboats.” Hashknife examined it closely and gave it back to Farley. They went to the rear room and looked at Roche’s saddle. It was an expensive thing, studded with silver; but just now it looked as if it had been dragged through a slaughter-house.

“Franklin brought the horse and saddle with him,” said Farley. “The horse is in the livery stable.”

“What’s your theory?” asked Hashknife.