Chapter IV: Part 4

Farley’s grunt was very expressive. They went back to the front office and out into the street.

“How about Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.

“Not enough brains,” Farley shook his head. “Blackie is just a cold-blooded snake, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades has got more sense than an ordinary outlaw.”

“Roche knocked him down last night,” reminded Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s true. But yore pardner shot a gun out of his hand and made him look cheap; and yore pardner is still alive.”

“I reckon you’ve got the right hunch.”

As they stood together, thinking it over, the minister came from the livery stable where he had just stabled his horse. He came up to them, with a smile on his dusty face.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he greeted them pleasantly.

Farley shook hands with him.

“I reckon we’re goin’ to need yuh, Jones.”

“Need me?” The smile faded, as he studied the serious face of the sheriff. “What is the matter, Sheriff?”

“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche last night, and he prob’ly won’t get well.”

“The Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?” The minister was thoroughly shocked.

“Yeah. Shot him and stole somethin’ over two thousand.”

The Reverend Jones removed his hat and brushed back his hair nervously.

“Tell me more about this, Sheriff?”

In a few words Farley told him what they knew about the affair.

“Shot him in the back,” said the minister bitterly, “and left the Trey of Spades on his bosom. Has the doctor any hopes for him?”

“Just about one chance in a hundred.”

“Not very great. You say he is at the doctor’s home? I will go there at once and see what I can do to help.”

He nodded shortly and hurried on up the street.

“That’s my type of preacher,” said Farley. “He don’t try to act like he was so ---- much better than everybody else.”

“Pleasant sort of a jigger,” admitted Hashknife. “What kind of a sermon does he preach?”

“Never heard him yet. He’s been here quite a while, but yuh see he ain’t had no place to preach. He rides from one place to another, kinda makin’ the rounds. I’ll betcha he’ll sure have a crowd when he does preach.”

“I’d like to hear him,” said Hashknife.

“Yuh might get the chance. They’re fixin’ over that old saloon for him to use as a church, and it ought to be ready in a week or so.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy drifted over to the Cheyenne. The shooting of Vincent Roche was the main topic of conversation and there was none of the usual hilarity. Slim Cole met them with a grave smile, and with his usual invitation to have a drink; but they declined.

Blackie Dahl was there, sitting alone at a card-table. He glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy, a bit of a sarcastic smile on his thin lips. He seemed entirely sober, watchful; more dangerous sober than drunk. He must have known that men were hinting that he might have shot Vincent Roche to revenge the blow, but he did not seem afraid.

Buck Hardy came in and joined them near the bar.

“Just been down to the doctor’s place,” he said. “Roche has a fightin’ chance. The minister is down there with him now.”

“It’s too bad we don’t know who shot him,” said Slim. “This shootin’ was too mean to be left to the law.”

That seemed to be the general opinion of the cattlemen, as they rode into town and talked about the shooting. It was Saturday, and by the middle of the afternoon the hitch-racks were well filled with saddle-horses and vehicles of every description.

Hashknife and Sleepy sat around, listening to the talk. It was entertaining to listen to the different theories regarding the Trey of Spades. Buck Hardy was drinking heavily. It was not often that Buck looked upon the wine when it was red, but just now he had declared a holiday and was imbibing more than was good for him.

It was almost dinner time when Cliff Parker rode into town and tied his horse to a hitch-rack. There was nothing jovial about him as he strode into the Cheyenne and encountered Buck Hardy.

“C’mon and have a drink,” said Buck thickly, indicating the bar with a sweep of his arm, which almost overbalanced him.

Cliff squinted at Buck and shook his head slowly.

“I don’t want any drink,” he said gruffly.

“Is zasso? Don’t want no drink, eh? Zasso? My, my!”

There was quite a crowd at the bar and they were in the right mood to enjoy trouble. Cliff started on, but Buck grasped him by the arm. For a moment it appeared that Cliff was about to strike Buck, but he merely jerked his arm away. The sheriff elbowed his way in, but did not interfere in any way. Hashknife and Sleepy were near Cliff, as he almost jerked Buck off his feet.

“Whatcha tryin’ to do?” queried Buck angrily. “Think yo’re too good to drink with me? By ----, you ain’t too good. If somebody hadn’t stole that hat, you’d be in jail right now.”

Cliff did not move a muscle, but his eyes narrowed. Buck laughed shortly and turned to the crowd.

“He lost his hat the night he robbed the jewelry store, but somebody stole that hat from the sheriff. Gen’lemen, I introduce to you--the Trey of Spades.”

Buck tried to bow and almost lost his balance. Cliff swayed forward, his right hand sweeping downward to his gun. Came the soft slap, as hand met pistol-butt; but before he could draw Hashknife was into him, fairly picking him off the floor and going toward the door with a headlong rush.

So unexpected was the move that men stepped back to give him room. But Jud Farley, the sheriff, knew. Swiftly he went out behind Hashknife and Cliff, while behind him came Sleepy, blocking the crowd long enough to give Hashknife and the sheriff time to rush Cliff across the street.

Men’s voices broke into excited argument, as they realized Buck’s accusation. It meant that Cliff Parker was the man who had shot Vincent Roche.

“Jud Farley knew!” cried a cowboy, back in the crowd. “We’re wastin’ time here.”

“Aw, ----! He’s got him in jail by now!” snorted another.

“Don’t be a lot of ---- fools!” roared Slim Cole, trying to make himself heard. “If Cliff is guilty, the law will take care of him.”

Some one had procured a lariat, which they tossed toward the ceiling, and the half-drunk, reckless gang fell onto it like a pack of wolves and surged out through the door. Sleepy ran across the street, where Hashknife was standing in the doorway waiting for him. They went inside and barred the door. The jail cells were built into the rear half of the building, but had not been constructed to withstand any great assault. Jud Farley lifted a Winchester rifle and a sawed-off shotgun from pegs in the wall and laid them on his desk, while he took a supply of cartridges from his desk and spilled them into a pile.

“---- Buck!” he grumbled. “That’s what whisky does to yuh. Buck will be ready to cut out his tongue when he sobers up. That crowd is half-drunk and they’re willin’ to take Buck’s drunken talk for Gospel truth.”

“What’ll this place stand?” asked Hashknife, looking it over.

“A hard wind.”

The sheriff stuffed the Winchester full of cartridges, while Sleepy examined the double-barrel shotgun.

“You got Cliff in a cell?” queried Sleepy. But before he got a reply, some one hammered sharply on the door.

“Go ahead and talk,” said the sheriff.

“This is Franklin,” said the man outside.

“All right, Franklin.”

“We want Cliff Parker, Jud.”

“Thasso? And then what?”

Several voices mumbled softly, as if they were conferring on their next reply.

“We’ve got enough men to take this building apart,” said Franklin. “You haven’t shot square with us, Jud. You knew that Cliff Parker was the guilty man, but you let him keep on goin’. Now--we want him; _sabe_?”

“Folks don’t always get what they want,” replied the sheriff. “And I wouldn’t advise yuh to try takin’ this shack apart. I’ve got two good men in here with me, and we’re well heeled. If it comes to a showdown I’ll hand Cliff a gun and let him defend his own life.”

“You know your own business, Jud. And you know us, too. We’ll give you one minute to open that door.”

“All right!” The sheriff’s voice rang coldly, as he moved closer to the door. “Let me tell you somethin’. That door is thin. I don’t reckon it’s a inch thick in any place, and it ain’t hardwood. Right now there’s sixteen buckshot squintin’ at that door, and if you snake-hunters don’t break ranks right now----”

Came the sudden scrape of boot soles, as the crowd faded away from in front of the door. They knew the evil effects of buckshot, backed by three and one-half drams of powder, and they were not taking chances.

The sheriff laughed gleefully. It was getting dark in the room, but he did not want to light a lamp. There was a hum of voices outside, as the crowd debated.

“Prob’ly havin’ another drink,” grinned Farley.

A moment later a rock smashed through one of the front windows, half tearing away the heavy curtain. Sleepy did not stand on ceremony. The rock had barely crashed to the floor, when Sleepy sent a charge of buckshot screaming out through the curtain.

The concussion shook the house and the shot ripped the curtain into shreds, but the crowd had anticipated just such a move and had acted accordingly. The sheriff grabbed a blanket off a cot and ran to the window, quickly fastening it over the ruined one.

“Yuh can see we mean business, can’tcha?” yelled a voice.

“That sounds like Blackie Dahl,” said Farley. “Don’t pay no attention to ’em. That back door is solid oak and has a bar across it. They can’t hurt us from that direction.”

Some one outside fired a shot and the bullet splintered through the upper part of the front door.

“Bluffin’,” declared Farley. “They know ---- well we ain’t up that high.”

They sat down to wait for the next move. There was no more conversation. They knew that the crowd would not quit that easy. Suddenly a heavy weight crashed against the door lock, splintering the panel of the door.

“Look out!” snorted Farley. “Another like that and the door is open.”

He threw up his rifle and sent three bullets through the wall to the right of the door, trying to drive the assault away from that quarter. His answer came in the shape of two bullets, which hummed through the door and splatted over their heads against the wall.

“Gittin’ serious,” said Farley thoughtfully, as they moved farther out of line with the door. The room was filled with powder smoke, which tickled their throats.

“Tough travelin’,” said Sleepy, trying to suppress a sneeze. “I’ve seen places where I’d rather be than this. Let’s kick the door open and give ’em ----. This ---- idea of shootin’ from a fort don’t appeal to me. Dang it, yuh ain’t even got their address.”

Just then another blow crashed against the lock and the door creaked open, pieces of the lock spinning across the room.

“Flat down!” exclaimed the sheriff. “They’ve got us cold!”

Several voices yelped with triumph, while others warned against being too quick to assault.

“Bring him out, Jud!” yelled a voice. “We’ve got yuh now! Don’t be a ---- fool. Your life is worth more than the life of a dirty murderer, ain’t it? We’ll give yuh ten seconds to come out and hand over your guns.”

“What’ll we do?” queried the sheriff softly.

“Nobody ever counted me out yet,” said Hashknife.

The man outside was counting slowly, drawling the numerals--

“Wun-n-n-n--two-o-o-o-o-o--three-e-e-e--”

Came the clatter of footsteps, a muttered exclamation from the crowd outside, and a man stepped to the doorway of the office, silhouetted against the lights across the street. Three guns were trained on him from inside the building; some one outside swore viciously.

“This is a fine thing for a civilized community to do,” said the man in the doorway. It was the Reverend Mr. Jones, hatless and coatless.

“Git to ---- out of the door!” yelled a voice.

“It’s the preacher,” called one of them. “What does he want here?”

“A square deal,” said the minister. “If you would stop to think this over, I would not have to ask for a square deal, friends.”

“You better git out of the doorway,” cautioned a voice.

The minister laughed.

“No, I do not think so. If I stand here long enough, perhaps you savages will realize that you are all wrong. You want to hang Cliff Parker--or think you do. My advice to you is: go back where you came from and let the law handle it. What right have you to hang a man?”

“The ---- law won’t do it!” yelled some one.

“How do you know it won’t? Give it a chance. The sheriff doesn’t serve hangman’s knots with his warrants. And what right have you to judge Cliff Parker? The careless remark of a drunken man isn’t sufficient evidence. Go home before the sheriff has cause to arrest all of you for assault with deadly weapons.”

“He’d have a ---- of a time gittin’ a jury to convict us.” Thus some wit, who knew that such a thing would be impossible.

“Are we goin’ to argue or do what we came here to do?” demanded one of them. “We’ve got the door open.”

“He deserves hangin’,” said another.

“Who--the preacher?” The wit again. Several men laughed.

“I am glad to hear that laugh,” said the minister. “It proves that some of you are human enough to see the humor of hanging a minister. Now let’s all go home, or back to the Cheyenne, and let the sheriff handle this. Anyway, it is not a hanging matter. Vincent Roche is still alive.”

The crowd mumbled and argued, but their ardor was dampened, and they followed the minister’s advice.

“----!” snorted a disgusted voice. “I got the top-half of my ear shot off with a buckshot, and now I ain’t goin’ to git even with nobody. Preachers and civilization sure do rise ---- with the country.”

“And thus endeth that chapter,” said Hashknife wearily, and they moved over to the door. “I thought it was goin’ to be a reg’lar fight and it wasn’t nothin’ but a speech.”

The minister had followed the crowd, without waiting for the sheriff to thank him.

“They won’t come back again tonight,” said the sheriff. “It was kind of a half-cocked proposition, anyway; but it might ’a’ been bad pickin’ if the preacher hadn’t showed up. I’ll have to build me a new door, I reckon.”

“I’m goin’ to have a talk with Cliff,” said Hashknife. “You two stay here, in case they decide to come back.”

He went through the connecting door and down to the cell, where Cliff stood behind the bars trying to find out what was going on.

“It’s all over,” said Hashknife. “The minister stopped ’em.”

Cliff swore softly.

“The minister, eh? It’s a ---- of a wonder he didn’t head the mob.”

“Well, he sure done you a good turn. We couldn’t ’a’ stopped all of ’em. Now, I want to ask you a few questions, Cliff. You can lie, if yuh want to--but I hope yuh won’t. What do you know about that jewelry store robbery?”

“Not a ---- thing.”

“Wrong answer. Remember, I carried yuh away from behind that store.”

“All right.”

“What was you doin’ there?”

“I dunno.”

“You ain’t goin’ to pass in yore studies, young feller.”

“Oh, ----! What’s all this about, anyway, Hartley? Who are you?”

“One of yore pa’s hired men.”

“You better stick with your job and let me alone.”

“Thasso? You’ll have to tell it to a judge. If yuh tell it to me first, I’ll kinda figure it out, and between us we might be able to fool a jury.”

“Figurin’ that I’m guilty, eh?”

“Of bein’ a hard-headed ---- fool--yes.”

Cliff was silent for several moments. Then:

“Vincent Roche was a friend of mine, Hartley. I never shot him.”

“We was speakin’ about that jewelry store holdup.”

“All right. I told you I didn’t know anythin’ about it, and I don’t lie. I guess I was pretty drunk that night. I remember that the bartender at the Cheyenne told me I’d have delirium tremens, if I wasn’t careful.

“I went to the Rodeo restaurant to eat. I can remember it a little. The food made me sick, and I went out the rear door. I remember that I sat down out there. There was a cool wind blowing and it made me feel good. I was kinda trembly all over and I wanted to lie down, but was afraid.

“I think I got up and tried to find my way back to the street, but I bumped into things. I was wandering around like a lost pup, when all to once I got a flash of light in my eyes, and something stung my face. I can kinda remember hearin’ a gun go off, but I won’t swear to that.

“Anyway, something or somebody bumped into me, almost knocking me down, and a moment later somethin’ landed on my head. The next thing I remember was wakin’ up in the bunkhouse at the ranch. It was like a fool dream--even the next mornin’, when you made me ride into the part of a queer dream--somethin’ I had to do.”

“Yo’re liable to git a di-plomay,” said Hashknife softly. “Now, tell me about last night, Cliff. Did yuh leave there with Roche?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t very drunk last night. Roche won a pile of money, but I didn’t play, ’cause I was broke. We rode away together, late last night. We talked things over and he gave me a wad of money. He kinda blamed himself for me bein’ broke; so he gave me a poker stake.”

“That was it, eh?” Hashknife nodded slowly. It was dark in there, but Hashknife did not need to see Cliff’s face to know he was telling the truth.

“Where did you leave Roche?”

“Where the road forks. We talked a few minutes. He asked me to sober up and behave myself. I--I told him I would.”

“Will yuh, Cliff?”

“I was goin’ to. Now, I dunno what’ll happen.”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen. Your story might not be much good in court, but it’s good with me.”

“Dad thinks I’m guilty.”

“What about Milly?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Does Miss Clement know?”

“Part of it. She thinks that I turned her down for another girl.”

“Didn’t yuh, Cliff?”

“By ----, I reckon I tried to, Hartley. Oh, I’m no good. I’ve rode ’em wild for the last few months, and I’m right where a lot of folks said I’d be. I had a start--once. Dad helped me out. He’s a good old dad. Milly’s a peach. But I don’t know why I act like I have. Mebbe I’m a throw-back.”

“Are yuh still engaged to Miss Clement?”

“I--I don’t know. Not if she’s got good sense.”

“She prob’ly hasn’t. Girls are kinda funny thataway--about fellers they like a lot.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I want to thank yuh for blockin’ my draw tonight. I suppose I might have killed Buck. And they’d ’a’ hung me, if you hadn’t rushed me out. Oh, I was sore at yuh, Hartley. But bein’ here behind these bars, with a drunken mob wantin’ to hang me--well, I kinda seen things different.”

“If yuh get out of this mess--will yuh be good?”

“Well,” Cliff hesitated for a moment, “I dunno. Human nature is a queer thing, Hartley. I don’t want to lie to you; so I’ll just say that, lookin’ at it now, I sure as ---- will. Once I get outside--I dunno.”

“I’m glad you’re a human bein’,” said Hashknife slowly. “I like folks that know somethin’ about themselves. So many men only know what they can see of themselves in a mirror. They never get deeper into their own mind than the root of their hair. You set down and enjoy yore surroundin’s, while I try to find out a few things.”

“You’ll tell ’em--at the ranch, won’t yuh?”

“They’ll have to know, Cliff.”

“Well, you tell ’em, Hartley. They’ll believe you.”

Hashknife went back to the front office, where Sleepy and the sheriff were repairing the front door.

“What did yuh find out?” asked the sheriff.

“Quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “Let me take that card yuh found on Roche, will yuh?”

“Y’betcha.” The sheriff gave him the card. “What good will the card do yuh, Hartley?”

“I dunno. C’mon, Sleepy. We’ll see yuh later, Farley.”

* * * * *

They crossed the street to the Cheyenne and went inside. The place was thronged with cattlemen. Many of them knew that Hashknife and Sleepy had been with the sheriff, but bore them no ill-will. In the gambling room they found Slim Cole, who greeted them with an expansive grin.

“The preacher sure saved you jiggers,” he declared.

“We appreciate that part of it,” replied Hashknife. “It was a fool idea, Slim. Whisky makes a mob forget that they’re human. But even if the preacher hadn’t showed up, there would have been plenty of crape hangin’ to Thunder County doorknobs tomorrow.”

“And that’s no dream,” agreed Slim slowly. “Well, I suppose they’ll let the law make the rest of the mistakes.”

“You don’t think that Cliff is guilty?”

“Do you?”

Hashknife grinned and took a playing card from his vest-pocket.

“Do you use this brand in here, Slim?”

Slim squinted at the card, examined it closely and shook his head.

“Nope, we don’t use ’em. That’s a high-grade card, Hartley. No gamblin’ house ever furnishes them kind.”

“How about this one?” Hashknife handed him the card which had been found on Vincent Roche.

“That’s the kind we use,” nodded Slim.

Hashknife pocketed the cards and looked around the room. In the dance-hall the orchestra was playing furiously, while half-drunk cowpunchers swung dizzily through the rapid-fire two-step.

“Is the Countess in there?” asked Hashknife.

Slim grinned widely, as he shook his head.

“She ain’t, Hartley. But if yuh really want to know where she is, I’ll impart the information that she’s down at the doctor’s place.”

“Interested in Roche, eh?”

“Well,” grinned Slim, “it might be the old doctor. He’s past sixty and homely as ----; but yuh can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the Countess. She sure does switch brands often.”

“How’s our friend Blackie Dahl?”

“That reptile!” Slim looked around. “He was here about the time the mob decided to rub yuh out, but he ain’t been in since.”

Slim moved away to a group around a faro game.

“You stick around here, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “I’m goin’ down to see how Roche is comin’ along.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sleepy was a trifle sarcastic. “Well, just remember the little birdies, Hashknife.”

Hashknife grinned and elbowed his way through the mob. The doctor’s house was on the outskirts of the town, tucked away in a clump of stunted cottonwoods. As he went through the gate and started up the narrow walk, the door opened and the Countess came out. She was dressed in black, with the exception of a filmy white scarf.

She recognized Hashknife in the light from a window.

“Good evening, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“You were going to see the doctor?”

“No-o-o, I reckon I was comin’ to see you.”

“To see me? How flattering! Really, I never expected to have you coming to see me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you seem too sensible.”

“I’m much obliged,” laughed Hashknife. “I wish Sleepy could hear yuh say that. Sleepy thinks I’m the big he-fool of ’em all.”

“No,” she said slowly, “you are not a fool, Mr. Man.”

“But I’m liable to be--most any time, ma’am.”

They moved down closer to the gate in the heavy shadows of the cottonwoods, where they leaned against the fence. From there they could hear the Cheyenne orchestra, the music softened by distance. Somewhere a half-drunk cowboy was trying to sing.

“Why did you wish to see me?” asked the Countess.

“To tell yuh a few things, ma’am. You’ll prob’ly tell me that it ain’t none of my business. Mebbe it ain’t. The fact is, I can’t mind my own business. You know what happened tonight, don’tcha?”

“The arrest of Cliff Parker--yes.”

“I work for his dad. He’s a fine old man. Cliff’s got a sister that’s awful nice and sweet, ma’am. She’s as game as they make ’em. And then there’s a little lady who came here to marry Cliff. She’s out there at the Maverick ranch, cryin’ her eyes out.

“She don’t know that Cliff is suspected of being a criminal, but she does know that Cliff got stuck on a girl here in town, and she thinks he don’t care for her no more.”

The Countess was silent for a while. Then she put her hand on Hashknife’s arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” she said softly. “Awful sorry.”

“And there’s Milly--the sister. Yuh see, her and Vincent Roche was kinda engaged, I reckon. She found out that Vincent Roche was kinda takin’ a lot of interest in some girl in town, too.”

“Vincent Roche.” The Countess spoke softly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Man. I didn’t know, don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see. But bein’ sorry don’t help ’em out. I’m not blamin’ you. Good gosh, it’s all in yore business. But I thought I’d kinda let yuh know about it, ma’am.”

“Do you blame them--Cliff Parker and Vincent Roche?” There was a hint of laughter in her voice. Hashknife shifted uneasily.

“Well, I s’pose not,” he faltered. “I dunno just what to say, in a case like this. They’re human, ma’am.”

“And being human, they fall from grace and into love with a dance-hall jade.”

“Somethin’ like that, I s’pose. Still, you didn’t keep ’em trailin’ yuh forever.” Hashknife laughed softly. “You kinda look ’em over, don’tcha? I was just wonderin’ if yo’re lookin’ for a certain kind of a person, and discardin’ them that don’t measure up to what yuh want.”

“Perhaps.” She laughed softly. “Who knows? I may have designs on you.”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon yuh have, ma’am. I ain’t worth investigatin’. The fact of the matter is, yuh can look right at me and tell what I am.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Well, that’s good. Yuh saw a homely, long-legged puncher, who don’t amount to anythin’, and decided to let him alone. I looked at you and seen a new type of dance-hall girl. But honest Injun, ma’am, yuh hadn’t ought to waste yore voice in a place like the Cheyenne. Yo’re young, pretty, and you’ve sure got one dinger of a voice.”

“Do you like to hear me sing, Mr. Man?”

“Somethin’ like that song yuh sung the first day I seen yuh.”

“‘The Sweetest Story Ever Told’?”

“I dunno the name--but it sure was sweet. Well, I reckon I’ve taken up enough of yore time. If yuh don’t get back to the Cheyenne you’ll be losin’ yore job.”

“I suppose so.” Her voice was a trifle weary. “Was this all you wanted to tell me? Just warn me to keep away from Cliff and Vincent?”

“Not warn yuh, ma’am. Lord love yuh, that’s yore business. I just wanted to tell yuh what it means to others. If you don’t want ’em--I know who does.”

The Countess laughed and moved through the gate.

“Then you have no interest beyond trying to help your friends?”

“Ain’t that enough interest, ma’am?”

“Yes, I think that is enough. Do you believe that Cliff shot Vincent?”

“I know danged well he didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“Remains to be seen, as the undertaker said.”

A rider was coming toward them from the rear of the south side of town, a shapeless blot in the dark, traveling slowly. It appeared that he was coming to the doctor’s home, but swung north and passed them. It was impossible to distinguish the color of the horse. The blot faded into the night, with only the soft thud of slow moving hoofs and the creak of saddle-leather to tell of its passing.

“Some cowpuncher goin’ home,” said Hashknife softly.

“It is wonderful here at night,” said the Countess. “The day brings out nature at her worst. It is like turning a spotlight onto the face of a miser. But at night, under the blue of the moonlight, or under the yellow lamp-light, the roughness is all gone, like an out-of-focus picture. I hate reality, but love mystery, the moonlight, blurred figures.

“I have watched them ride into town, a blotch of ink-like, shapeless things, which blends with more blots at the hitch-racks. Then they come clumping along on foot toward the lighted windows, which throw long, grotesque shadows behind them, until they suddenly take the shape of men under the lights. Then the mystery is gone. They are only human beings, laughing, talking, swearing in their friendly way. But I would rather see them in the night, goblin-like hulks, with their spur-chains rattling, saddles creaking.”

“I like it thataway,” said Hashknife softly. “I like the camp-fire in the hills, cattle trailin’ along in the moonlight, when the world is all silver and blue. Why, ma’am, even the bark of a coyote sounds like a welcome to me.”

“I love it, too, Mr. Man. It seems that we love the same things, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “I wouldn’t go quite that far, ma’am. Yuh see, I ain’t got much use for Blackie Dahl.”

For a moment the Countess was silent, and then she laughed chokingly, almost hysterically. It was quite a while before she recovered her composure.

“I think I will go now,” she said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “I don’t know whether you meant that or not--but it sounded like it. Good-by, Mr. Man.”

She went swiftly back toward the street, while Hashknife leaned on the gate and watched her disappear. He grinned to himself, as he rolled a cigarette.

“Birdies singin’?” he muttered to himself. “No-o-o, I don’t think so. But she’s danged nice--too nice to be singin’ songs in a honkatonk and mixin’ with folks like Blackie Dahl.”

He turned away from the gate and started toward the house, but stopped. Another horse and rider went pounding past, but this one was going in the opposite direction, and going fast. The cottonwoods obscured his view now, but as the rider swept past he was sure he caught a glimpse of something white. It was only a flash. He was unable to distinguish shapes, but he knew it was a horse and rider. The pounding hoofs died away in the distance.

“Somebody in a hurry,” he reflected, as he knocked on the doctor’s door.

The doctor answered the knock. He was a little old man with partly bald head and spectacles. Hashknife had never seen him before, and did not waste time in introductions.

“I just wanted to find out how Roche is gettin’ along?”

“Well,” the doctor hesitated. “He’s doing better than I expected, but he is still unconscious.”

“Do yuh think he’ll get well?”

“As long as he’s alive he has a chance.”

“Didja get the bullets out of him?”

“There were no bullets in him.”

“Went plumb through, eh?”

“Yes. Rather a small caliber bullet, I suppose.”

“I see. Well,” Hashknife turned away, “I’m much obliged, doctor.”

“You are welcome.”

Hashknife walked back toward the street, thinking things over. It was evident that Vincent Roche had been shot with a rifle. The average small caliber six-shooter, using black powder and an all-lead bullet, would hardly pass entirely through the body of a man, except in rare cases. And it would be too much of a coincidence for two of them to do so in succession.

He went back to the Cheyenne and joined Sleepy, who had been losing a few dollars on a roulette wheel. The crowd was fairly orderly. Buck Hardy had sobered enough to hate himself for what he had done, and was moping around, trying to square himself.

Hashknife stood in the entrance to the dance-hall for half an hour, but did not manage to see the Countess. Sleepy knew what Hashknife was looking for, and it amused him greatly.

“The tall feller is lookin’ for the fairy lady,” he told Slim Cole, loud enough for Hashknife to hear.

Slim laughed.

“They all fall for her, Sleepy. She’s a heart-breaker. The last time I seen Blackie Dahl he was eatin’ a handful of spikes. I’m tellin’ yuh she’s a hoodoo. There’s Cliff Parker in jail, Vint Roche in the hospital, and Blackie Dahl filin’ his teeth, like a cannibal gettin’ ready to eat ’em raw.”

But Hashknife merely grinned easily and let them joke at his expense. It was about an hour later that Hashknife saw Blackie Dahl in the gambling room. He was playing the roulette wheel, his sombrero tilted low over his eyes, a set grin on his lips.

And Hashknife grinned as he thought of how the Countess had laughed at his insinuation that she loved Blackie Dahl. He was not a lovable character. Several times he lifted his head and squinted at Sleepy who was watching the play. He had never paid any attention to Sleepy since the day Sleepy had shot the gun out of his hand; but Sleepy knew that Blackie had not forgotten the incident.

Someone touched Hashknife on the arm, and he turned to see the sheriff, who beckoned him to follow. They went outside and walked away from the doorway.

“I’ve got somethin’ for yuh, Hartley,” said the sheriff, as he handed something to Hashknife. Hashknife stepped back to the light from the window and squinted at another trey of spades. It was another of the expensive brand.

“Where did yuh find this?” queried Hashknife.

The sheriff laughed shortly and put the card in his pocket.

“The man that left that card took the fastest horse in the Thunder country, Hartley.”

“Yore horse, Jud?”

“Yeah--my black horse. I don’t use him much. Kept him in the stable with my other bronc and Buck’s roan. He could run a mile while our other horses were just thinkin’ about startin’. A while ago I went out to feed ’em. The black was gone, and stickin’ to the feed-box was this ---- card.”

“When did yuh see the black horse last?”

“This afternoon.”

“Hm-m-m!” Hashknife was thinking of the two riders, who had passed him, going in opposite directions. The first one had come from toward the sheriff’s barn, which was located behind the office and jail building.

“Somebody is expectin’ to travel like ----,” said the sheriff sadly. “That animal was worth a thousand dollars of any man’s money.”

“Mebbe the Trey of Spades is thinkin’ it’s about time to hit the grit, Jud.”

“Well, he picked somethin’ to hit it with.”

They went back into the saloon and joined Slim at the bar. The sheriff did not mention the stolen horse. In a few minutes Sufferin’ Stockton came to Slim and drew him aside. After a short conversation Slim came back to the bar.

“I was just wonderin’ what became of the Countess,” he said, as he filled his glass. “She went down to the doctor’s home quite a while ago. I sent Sufferin’ down there, but she left there early. She ain’t in the house nor in her room.”

“That’s kinda funny,” remarked the sheriff.

“The doctor told Sufferin’ that a strange man came there shortly after she went away.”

“That was me,” said Hashknife. “I talked with her. She was just startin’ back.”

“Aw, she’ll show up,” assured the sheriff. “So danged many things happen these days that we’re lookin’ for trouble.”

As they turned away from the bar, Blackie Dahl walked past them and went outside. Hashknife sauntered over to the door, and in a minute or two Blackie rode past the saloon, seemingly in a hurry.

Hashknife found Sleepy in the dance-hall and they sat down at a table.

“I’ve been waitin’ for the Countess to sing a song,” said Sleepy grinning, “but she ain’t showed up yet.”

“Somebody stole the sheriff’s race horse,” said Hashknife. “They left the trey of spades.”

“Another one?” Sleepy leaned his elbows on the table and squinted at Hashknife. “Comin’ kinda fast, ain’t they?”

“Too fast. It looks like a getaway, Sleepy. Farley says that the black horse can outrun anythin’ in the country. The Countess left the doctor’s house about fifteen minutes after I left you--and she ain’t never showed up since.”

“Thasso? This is gettin’ interestin’, Hashknife. Do yuh think she’s connected in any way with the Trey of Spades?”

“I hate to think so. We were standin’ at the gate down at the doctor’s house, when somebody rode past, comin’ from the general direction of the sheriff’s stable. It was too dark to see who it was. They were sure goin’ careful-like.

“A few minutes later another rider goes past me, travelin’ in the opposite direction, but this one was just hittin’ the highspots. It might have been the same rider, but whoever it was, they sure went away spinnin’ like a spike.”

“Went past you?” queried Sleepy. “Wasn’t the Countess with yuh?”

“Not when the last one went past. She had started for here.”

Farley came into the hall and headed for their table, where he took a seat.

“They’ve looked all around for that girl,” he said slowly. “None of the girls have seen her.”

“What do you think about her?” asked Sleepy.

“In what way, Stevens?”

“Think she’s mixed up with the Trey of Spades?”

“Huh!” Farley scowled thoughtfully. “I never thought of her in that way. I wonder if that horse of mine----?”

Hashknife interrupted him to speak about the two riders he had seen.

“By ----, I’ll bet that’s it!” said Farley emphatically. “She left you in time to meet him.”

“But it was only one rider, Farley.”

“And if it was her--why do they make their getaway now? We don’t know who the Trey of Spades is,” said Sleepy. “Their game is just as good as ever.”

“But, if Roche dies, they’re facin’ a noose,” argued Farley.

Hashknife shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ it, Farley. Why did the Trey of Spades try to fasten the crime onto Cliff Parker? Cliff and Roche rode away from town that night together. They parted at the fork of the road.”

“And that’s where Roche was found the next mornin’.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Hashknife. “But did you notice Roche’s saddle? It was all gummed up with blood, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it sure was.”

“Would a man spill that much blood before he could fall off his horse? Roche was hit hard enough to knock him plumb out of the saddle. I tell yuh, he was shot quite a long ways from the fork of the road, and they packed him back there on his horse. They stole his money and left him there, with a trey of spades stickin’ in his vest.”

“Well, that don’t mean anything to me, Hartley.”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “It only means to me that whoever did that job knew that Cliff and Roche rode away together that night. And the Trey of Spades--well, look at it thisaway, Jud: If the Trey of Spades wanted to throw suspicion of his crimes onto somebody else, he wouldn’t leave his trade-mark on every job.”

“Then you don’t think that the Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?”

“One of ’em did.”

“You mean--do you think there’s more than one?”

Hashknife smiled softly and began rolling a cigarette.

“Mebbe you’re right,” mused the sheriff. “I never thought of such a thing before. How about that jewelry store robbery?”

Hashknife scratched a match and puffed thoughtfully.

“That’s one thing that convinces me that the Trey of Spades did not shoot Vincent Roche. You found Cliff Parker’s hat out in that back yard, Jud. It was danged good evidence, wasn’t it?”

The sheriff nodded quickly.

“I could almost get a conviction on that hat.”

“And,” grinned Hashknife, “to keep Cliff Parker from stealin’ his glory, the Trey of Spades stole the hat from you, Jud.”

“You mean to say that he stole the hat to keep Cliff from bein’ arrested?”

“Just exactly.”

“Mebbe,” Jud wasn’t exactly convinced. “I had the idea that one of you fellers took the hat. You done yore dangdest to keep what you knew under cover. You found Cliff there, didn’t yuh?”

“Sure we did,” Hashknife grinned widely. “If we hadn’t he’d be in the penitentiary right now. My gosh, everythin’ was agin’ him.”

“He ought to thank yuh,” said Jud. “I was sure he pulled that job.”

“He saved the jewelry, Jud. The Trey of Spades bumped into him and scattered the loot all over. I reckon he bent his gun over Cliff’s head, thinkin’ Cliff was tryin’ to stop him.”

Farley nodded and got to his feet.

“I’ve got to keep movin’,” he said. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as an old lady.”

He moved across the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and Sleepy turned to Hashknife.

“What about that string of pearls we found in Cliff’s pocket?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about them, Sleepy. Let’s go across to the store and get some tobacco.”

They crossed the street and went into a general store. There were a number of men in there, swapping lies. Hashknife bought some tobacco and cigarette papers.

“You got any high-power rifle ca’tridges, with solid jackets?” he asked the clerk.

“Nope. Nobody uses ’em here. I’ve got plenty thirty-thirties, with soft-noses, and some thirty-forties, same bullet.”

“Do yuh know anybody around here that might have some?”

“Nope, I don’t.”

“What was that?” One of the bystanders, a long-nosed person, wanted to be of assistance.

“High-power cartridges,” said the clerk. “Them solid pointed ones.”

“Oh! Nope, I dunno anybody what uses ’em. Ol’ Pete Duncan used to have one of them there Mow-zers. I reckon he had some.”

“Where could I find him?” asked Hashknife.

“Well--” the long-nosed one grinned slightly--“that’s kinda hard t’ tell, stranger. Ol’ Pete went t’ New Mexico ’bout three year ago, and died of tick-del-aroo; so it’s kinda hard for t’ give yuh his address.”

Hashknife thanked him gravely and they went back to the Cheyenne.

“What kind of a ---- disease did old Pete Duncan die of?” asked Sleepy.

“Tic douloureux,” laughed Hashknife.

“Didn’t yuh ever hear that name before? It’s neuralgia of the face, I think. Prob’ly he died of a sore head. A lot of the old timers used that name for mostly every disease. It sounds like a lot, don’t it?”

“It sure does.”

A few minutes later they ran into Buck Hardy, and he drew them aside to impart the information that the sheriff had released Cliff Parker.

“I reckon Jud knows what he’s doin’,” said Buck. “Yuh see, he never did arrest Cliff.”

“Where’s Cliff now?” queried Hashknife.

“Gone home, I reckon. Jud was afraid somebody might take exception to seein’ Cliff runnin’ loose; so Jud went with him to get his horse. By golly, I came ---- near gittin’ Cliff lynched, didn’t I? That’s what liquor does to a feller. I’m all through with that stuff, y’betcha.”

“The preacher kinda saved yuh,” laughed Hashknife.

“Dang right he did. He sure helped everybody, and I’ll betcha he has a crowd to his church tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. The place is all fixed up fine now. He sure worked hard to get it fixed. The ghost of the old Chuck Luck Saloon will sure turn over in its grave tomorrow.”

Farley came in and joined them.

“Buck told yuh, didn’t he?” he asked.

“Yeah,” smiled Hashknife. “Some of ’em will likely yelp about it, but it was about all yuh could do. Did he go home?”

“Well, he started home. Let’s have a drink.”

They went over to the bar and made known their wants.

“Give me whisky,” said Buck seriously. “When yo’re quittin’ liquor, whisky is the best stuff to taper off on.”

Slim Cole joined them and Hashknife asked him about the Countess.

“Can’t find her,” said Slim shaking his head. “I tell yuh, I’m worried about that girl. Somethin’ must ’a’ happened to her.”

“What could happen to her?” asked the sheriff. “Things don’t usually happen to a dance-hall girl.”

Slim’s lips formed an angry reply, but he turned away and walked across into the gambling room.

“Mebbe he was stuck on her, too,” whispered Buck.

“Funnier things than that have happened,” said Hashknife dryly, and Sleepy grinned knowingly.

They drifted away from the bar and watched the play in the gambling room, which was growing heavier all the time. Cowboys swore feelingly, as their month’s wages were swept away in a few turns of the wheel or the turn of a card. Some of them were fortunate enough to keep ahead of the game, but few were able to stand prosperity and strewed their money recklessly; talking at the top of their voices to no one in particular, and laughing at their own witty remarks.

“Well, shall we go home?” asked Hashknife.

“Might as well,” Sleepy yawned widely. “I could use a little sleep.”

Just outside the door they found the sheriff and another man, talking earnestly. The sheriff turned to Hashknife.

“This is Jack Woods, the depot agent, Hartley. He says that the passenger train left Silverbend an hour and a half ago and ain’t showed up yet. It don’t take over forty minutes for the run.”

“And the wires are dead,” added Woods. “Went dead just after the train left Silverbend.”

“Ain’t much yuh can do, except to wait, is there?” asked Hashknife.

“Not much,” agreed the sheriff. “Let’s walk up to the depot.”

They were nearly to the depot when they heard the far-away whistle of an engine.

“There she comes!” exclaimed Woods, increasing his pace. “We’ll soon know what caused the delay.”

* * * * *

The headlight of the engine was in sight when they reached the platform. The train clanked in slowly and stopped with a decided jerk. Several men were standing in the open door of the express car, holding lanterns, and the conductor came hurrying from the rear of the train.

“Anything wrong?” asked Woods. The conductor lifted his lantern nervously.

“Oh, is that you, Woods? We were held up at Meteor Creek. Engineer shot. Got to get a doctor for him right away.”

“This is the sheriff,” said Woods quickly. “We were afraid something had happened. The line is cut between here and Silverbend.”

“I’ll go after the doctor,” offered Sleepy, who went running down the street, while Hashknife and Farley climbed into the express car where the engineer was stretched out on a cot groaning with a broken right arm.

The through safe was lying on its side, door wide open, and there was a strong odor of dynamite in the car. Passengers were unloading from the train and walking about the platform.

“Tell me about it,” said the sheriff.

“It was a one-man job,” said the conductor, placing his lantern on the wrecked safe. “He flagged us down with a red lantern on the far side of the Meteor Creek bridge, and he was into the cab before the engine crew realized what it was all about.

“He took them back and uncoupled the express car. I had swung down to see what was the trouble, and he drove me back with a couple of shots. Then he made the crew pull the express car over the bridge and up the line two miles. Oh, he knew his business.

“He threatened to dynamite the door of the express car; so the messenger let him in, and he made them all look on while he loaded the safe with dynamite. The engineer made an attempt to stop him and got a bullet in his arm. It took nerve, I’ll tell you.”

“How much money did he get?” asked the sheriff.

“That’s hard to tell.”

“Enough,” said the messenger shortly.

“This side of Meteor bridge, eh?” grunted the sheriff. “He probably had his horse planted there.”

“Yore horse,” corrected Hashknife.

“Yeah, my horse, I reckon. And there ain’t a bronc in this doggone range that could catch him. There ain’t a bit of use goin’ out there. He knew where he was goin’ when he left that train--and we don’t.”

“Better wait until mornin’,” agreed Hashknife.

Sleepy arrived with the doctor, who had the injured man removed to the waiting-room of the depot.

“Well, he didn’t leave his card,” observed Sleepy, as he and Hashknife went back to the hitch-racks after their horses.

“That’s right, nobody mentioned the trey of spades.” Hashknife started to mount his horse, but hesitated and handed the reins to Sleepy.

“Wait here a minute.”

He went into the Cheyenne and found Sufferin’ Stockton, who had just left his game to get some supper.

“Sufferin’, did you ever know a gent by the name of Pete Duncan?”

“Old Pete Duncan? Sure did. He left here and went to Old Mexico and----”

“Died of a pain in his face,” added Hashknife, grinning. “Where did he live around here?”

“D Bar ranch. He sold out to Blackie Dahl.”

“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, and bolted out of the place to join Sleepy. But instead of riding toward the Maverick ranch they swung out of town in the opposite direction and took the road which led to the east.

“You ain’t turned around, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Not yet. I’m just beginnin’ to get straightened out.”

Hashknife glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. A moon poked itself over the crest of the Thunder mountains and lighted up the yellow ribbon of road ahead of them.

“I’m glad there’s a little light on the subject,” stated Sleepy peevishly. “Either you think I’m a mind-reader, or yuh want to keep me plumb ignorant. I’ll betcha yo’re afraid you’ve made a mistake, and that I’ll laugh at yuh, if yuh have.”

“I’m lookin’ for somethin’, Sleepy.”

“The ---- yuh are! By golly, I thought yuh was just takin’ a ride. Well, that makes it better and relieves my mind quite a lot.”

Hashknife laughed, but did not enlighten Sleepy, who knew that Hashknife was not in the habit of talking about what he was going to do. It was a strange road to both of them, but they knew that it led to the D Bar ranch, which was about six miles from Oxbow.

“That old moon sure makes it nice for us,” observed Hashknife, as they galloped along over the dusty road.

“Yeah? Is this a six-shooter mission, Hashknife?”

“Yuh never can tell, Sleepy.”

“Well, it’s somethin’--to know that much about it.”

The road swung farther into the hills, going onto the higher ground, as they neared the D Bar ranch. A right-hand curve brought them out onto the brow of a hill, where they could see the outlines of the ranch buildings below and to the left of them.

They drew up their horses and dismounted.

“Drops us below the skyline,” observed Hashknife, as he squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigarette.

“There’s a light in the house,” said Sleepy. “That’s Blackie Dahl’s place, ain’t it?”

“Must be. Mebbe we better move closer and find out what’s keepin’ him up so late.”

“Yo’re the general of this army, Hashknife.”

Hashknife laughed and straightened up.

“We’ll walk in from here, Sleepy. It ain’t far, and we can keep kinda under cover thataway.”

They tied the horses just off the road and went down through the sagebrush toward the ranch house. The light had disappeared now, as they made a cautious advance. They were almost to the tumble-down fence, which partly enclosed the ranch house, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the arm.

A rider, leading a horse, had appeared from around behind the house and was heading northwest. It was not light enough to distinguish colors, but it was light enough to show that there were two horses and one rider.

“Whoever that is, he’s takin’ a pack-horse along,” declared Hashknife. “Can’tcha see the pack on the rear animal?”

“Plenty plain,” grunted Sleepy. “I’ll betcha that’s Blackie Dahl, and he’s makin’ his getaway.”

“Looks like it, sure enough. C’mon.”

They trotted over to the house and looked around. The rider had disappeared in the hills. Hashknife knocked on the front door with the barrel of his gun, but no one answered. Cautiously he tried the knob and found the door unlocked.

They went inside and found a small oil lamp on the table. Hashknife scratched a match and touched it to the wick. The weak illumination showed them a dirty, disordered room; smelling strongly of liquor and grease. The table was littered with dirty dishes, the rusty stove was gobby from spilled food. But Hashknife paid little attention to the room, as he carried the lamp from place to place, searching. On a crude mantel he found some empty cartridge shells, which he examined and showed to Sleepy.

“A feller down at the store would call ’em ‘Mow-zers’,” grinned Hashknife. “I had a hunch that we’d find a Mauser here, but it ain’t here. Vincent Roche was shot with a high-power gun, shootin’ solid-point bullets.”