Chapter II: Part 2

Just before they reached the forks of the road a rider swung on to Romaine’s road and eyed them curiously. It was Mort Lee, the cowboy who had brought news of the Romaine killing to Moon Flats. Hashknife grinned at him, and after a moment Mort Lee grinned widely.

“Takin’ our daily exercise,” stated Hashknife seriously.

“Yeah?”

Mort Lee did not seem convinced.

“Keeps a feller in good shape,” added Sleepy, shaking the perspiration off his nose.

“I betcha,” agreed Mort, and added, “’Specially in ridin’-boots.”

“That fit tight,” added Hashknife painfully.

Mort Lee nodded, and his eyes invited explanations which did not come. Finally he said--

“Been up to Romaine’s place?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shell at home?”

“I dunno,” said Hashknife. “We didn’t see him.”

“Oh.”

Mort Lee pursed his lips and squinted at the sun.

“We-e-ell, I reckon I’ll be moseyin’ on, gents. Yuh won’t find the main road much better walkin’ than this.”

He spurred his horse and went away in a whirl of dust.

“If they don’t cuss yuh or shoot at yuh, they hang crape,” complained Sleepy. “---- such a country!”

“Country’s all right,” argued Hashknife. “It’s the folks in it that make it bad. These people need purifyin’--that’s all it needs, Sleepy.”

“That’s all ---- needs,” retorted Sleepy sadly.

* * * * *

About the time that Hashknife and Sleepy reached the main road, a crowd of men gathered around a poker table in the Moon Flats gambling house. Cal Severn had challenged Doc Maldeen to a single-handed game of stud poker. Severn seldom played poker, but when he did it was for big money, and the men around the table grinned in anticipation of large stakes.

There was no money in sight, Severn merely requesting five thousand dollars worth of chips. The cowboys around the table gasped audibly. Five thousand dollars! But Maldeen did not even blink as he slid five stacks of white chips across the table to Severn.

“Hundred dollar chips big enough?” he asked casually, and Severn nodded as he stacked them up in two piles of twenty-five chips each.

They cut for deal, and Maldeen won. Both men shoved in an ante of two hundred dollars after getting their hole-card. Then Severn drew an ace and Maldeen a seven spot. Severn bet two hundred and Maldeen stayed. The third card around showed another ace for Severn and a king for Maldeen.

This time Severn bet two hundred, and, after calm consideration, Maldeen tossed in seven chips.

“Tiltin’ it five hundred, eh?” Severn half-smiled, as he called the raise.

The fourth card showed a jack for Severn and another king for Maldeen. Severn studied Maldeen’s cards. He had Maldeen beaten in sight, but the five hundred dollar raise made it appear that Maldeen had a king buried. Severn passed the bet and Maldeen shoved in five chips. Severn fingered his chips for quite a while, but finally tossed five into the pot.

Maldeen dealt slowly, placing the next card carefully beside Severn’s hand. It was another jack. This gave Severn aces and jacks in sight. Maldeen flipped over his own card--another king. Three kings against two pair--in sight. It was Maldeen’s first “say” in the pot, and he quickly estimated Severn’s chips before shoving ten chips into the center.

Severn seemed to hesitate. He was beaten in sight, and Maldeen held a hard hand to bluff. Severn was already in eleven hundred dollars. Then he slowly picked up the rest of his chips and slid them to the center. Maldeen smiled and shook his head.

“Cal, that’s cold-blooded poker, but I feel that yo’re out on a limb.”

He swiftly counted out his chips and slid them to the center, and his pile totaled one more chip than what Cal Severn had bet.

“Raisin’ a hundred?” queried Severn softly.

“Thassall,” smiled Maldeen.

Severn hesitated for a moment and cleared his throat.

“Give me five thousand more, doc.”

Maldeen seemed about to refuse, but counted out the required amount. Severn was good for that amount, just on the strength of the Diamond-S ranch. He did not stack his chips this time, but shoved them all to the center.

“Boostin’ it forty-nine hundred,” he stated.

A gasp went up from dry throats around the table. It was the largest bet they had ever seen made. Maldeen studied Severn’s cards as if seeking to discover whether Severn was bluffing or had filled his hand. He squinted at Severn’s face, but the young cattleman was slowly puffing on his cigaret and looking at the fortune in the center of the table.

“I call,” said Maldeen, tossing in his chips. Severn flipped over his hole-card--an ace. “Ace full!” gasped a cowboy, almost overcome from the suspense.

Maldeen smiled grimly and turned his card. It was another seven.

“King full!” exploded another cowboy. “Two full houses!”

For a few moments Cal Severn did not say anything. He shoved the chips across to Maldeen and leaned back in his chair.

“The god of luck was with me, doc; I’m through.”

Maldeen got slowly to his feet and went back to his private room, where he kept a small safe. In a few moments he came back with ten thousand dollars in gold and currency. After he had counted it out he turned to the crowd and said--

“The house buys a drink, gents.”

And the “gents” took their drink, gulping it down wolfishly, as if seeking solace from the reaction of that big bet.

“Never saw nothin’ like it before,” declared a cowboy earnestly. “That’s goin’ to spoil me for any of this four-bits-a-stack game. I used to git a thrill out of a five-dollar bet, but--Forty-nine hundred--whoo-o-ee!”

Severn laughed softly and leaned on the bar.

“That ten thousand will kinda help to pay up some of my debts, doc.”

Maldeen grimaced.

“It won’t help mine, Cal. That’s a hard jolt for the old Moon Flats, if anybody asks yuh.”

Severn shrugged his shoulders.

“You dealt ’em to me, doc.”

“I’m a ---- of a dealer,” admitted Maldeen, and the crowd laughed boisterously.

They appreciated a good loser, and Maldeen was not kicking.

* * * * *

And that same morning Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine in the hills; but the meeting was not planned. Mary rode the hills nearly every day astride a wiry little sorrel horse, riding as recklessly as any cowboy; but today she was not in the mood for a wild gallop, and was poking slowly along a narrow trail when her horse suddenly stopped, and she looked up at Shell Romaine, whose horse blocked the trail.

For several moments they looked at each other, and then Shell swung his horse on to the down-hill side, giving her plenty of room to pass. He had removed his hat, but did not speak. He had changed from the dilapidated suit of the day before, and was now wearing a black sombrero, faded blue shirt and bat-winged, silver-trimmed chaps. Around his neck was a scarlet silk muffler, while around his waist was a wide, silver-trimmed cartridge-belt, and swinging low on his thigh was a holstered pistol.

“Why don’t you speak to me?” asked Mary O’Hara.

Shell looked closely at her and dropped his eyes to the pommel of his saddle, where the palm of his right hand was tightly clenched.

“I didn’t reckon you’d care to have me,” he replied.

“Did you make that up out of your own head, Shell?”

“Well--” Shell lifted his head defiantly--“I don’t know why yuh should want to speak to me.”

Mary sighed and examined her well-worn gauntlets.

“Nobody wants to speak to a horse-thief, bank-robber, killer,” he continued; but there was no bitterness in his voice. “I reckon everybody knows that my old man was the Black Rider.”

“Shell, I’m sorry--for--you. It is hard luck, but----”

“I don’t want sympathy,” interrupted Shell, “and I’m not blamin’ luck for what happened. I reckon I’ll try to sell out the old place and leave the Mission country. It was hard to make a livin’--before; it’ll be impossible now.”

Mary nodded slowly. Shell twisted in his saddle and wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

“Mary, I want to tell yuh somethin’ and ask yuh to forgive me for doin’ it--if yuh can.”

“If I can?”

“Yeah. Before that bank robbery--” Shell paused a moment--“mebbe it was a week or so before that, I got drunk in Moon Flats, and I got to braggin’ to some of the boys. You was crossin’ the street and I told them that me and you was engaged to marry.”

Mary looked curiously at him and shook her head.

“No one ever told me that, Shell.”

“Well, I said it, Mary. I dunno why I lied like that, but I did, and I’m glad it never came to you.”

Suddenly Mary smiled.

“Shell, it did, too; but not that you had said it. Quite a while after you went away Cal Severn asked me if I was engaged to you. I told him I was not, and he laughed it off. I did not ask him where he got the idea.”

“I reckon some of the boys told him,” said Shell slowly; and then, “Are you goin’ to marry Cal Severn, Mary O’Hara?”

Mary flushed and reached down to pat the shoulder of her horse, but did not reply.

“I wish yuh a lot of luck,” said Shell. “A lot of luck.”

Mary lifted her head, her eyes filled with tears.

“Shell, I must tell you something. You heard that the Overland was robbed yesterday morning between Moon Flats and Clevis Creek bridge, didn’t you?”

Shell nodded his head.

“Uncle Pat was notified yesterday morning. It was done by a lone robber, who tied up the messenger and blew the safe. There was a lot of money taken. The messenger was discovered at Wheelock, and he was unable to give a good description of the robber, but said he was dressed in dark-colored clothes.”

Shell turned his head and stared off across the purple sage, his mind working fast. He had been on that train.

“Did Pat find any clews, Mary?” he asked.

“No. But, Shell, they want to know where you were at that time, don’t you see? Some say it was done by the Black Rider, but others point out the fact that you came into town early. Newt Bowie and Monte Barnes say that you were in Moon Flats at daylight.”

Shell smiled bitterly.

“Is there a warrant out for me?”

“Uncle Pat did not say, but I know he has worried a lot about it, Shell.”

“Has he? I suppose I ought to go to town and prove that I had nothin’ to do with it, or give myself up to the law; but one I can’t do and the other--I’ve had a taste of, Mary. Oh, I know what the Mission range thinks of me, and I know how much chance I’d have in their courts. I’m already convicted, in their minds.”

Mary nodded. She knew that Shell’s past reputation was all against him, and she knew that many folks in Moon Flats had already declared that Shell Romaine had robbed the train. Hadn’t he been convicted of robbery before? Hadn’t his own father been the Black Rider and got killed in the act of holding up a stage?

“Couldn’t you prove your innocence, Shell?” asked Mary.

“Prove nothin’!” bitterly. “What proof could a paroled convict bring to a court of law?”

“Paroled?”

“Yeah--paroled, Mary. I’m not free--not in the right way. I’ve got to report to the sheriff every so often, and any old time I even look cross-eyed--back I go to the pen.”

“Will you report to Uncle Pat?”

“No!”

Shell gathered up his reins and settled himself in his saddle.

“I’m an outlaw. I haven’t got a chance in the world to prove anythin’, and I’m not goin’ back to the penitentiary. If they got me for this robbery I’d go in for twenty years, don’tcha know it?

“They’re all primed to get me, I reckon. I ain’t got a friend left--if I ever did have any; and from now on I’m goin’ to get the game as well as the fame. You tell Pat Haley, will yuh, Mary? Tell him he can declare open season on the last of the Romaines. I like Old Pat, and the Lord never made a better woman than ‘Ma’ Haley. I don’t want to harm them, but you tell Pat that I’m not comin’ in--not on my own feet.”

Shell turned his horse down the hill, riding straight down the steep slope to the bottom, where he swung around on to a hog-backed ridge and disappeared in the timber.

For several minutes after Shell had disappeared, Mary continued to watch after him. He had wished her lots of luck in her marriage to Cal Severn. She had liked Shell Romaine, but had never thought seriously about him. He was a wild sort of person, willing to fight at the drop of a hat--and drop it himself--while Cal Severn was more settled, substantial.

She turned her horse and rode slowly back toward town, secretly glad that Shell Romaine was not going to give himself up to the law. She knew that it would be Pat Haley’s duty either to arrest or kill him; knew that the men of the Mission River ranges would comb the hills for him. Turning outlaw would be proof conclusive that he was guilty, but for some reason Mary was glad that Shell Romaine was no quitter.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy came into Moon Flats tired, dusty and limping from sore feet. They headed for the horse-trough beside the livery stable, where they took off their boots and immersed their aching feet in the water.

“---- hath no fury like a busted blister,” declared Sleepy, wiggling his cramped toes. “I wish I had the power to bring a curse upon the man who slew our chargers.”

“Go ahead,” groaned Hashknife, “and I’ll do my dangdest to make it come true. The man that made my boots never knowed that a human bein’ had more’n one toe.”

“You will be a dude,” observed Sleepy. “Bend yore feet all out of shape to make ’em look dainty.”

Sleepy looked up and shoved his bare foot against Hashknife’s ankle. Cal Severn was coming down toward them, leading his horse.

“What’s the idea of the foot-bath?” he asked as he came up to them.

“Gettin’ sanitary,” grinned Hashknife, reaching for his cigaret-makings. “Washin’ feet helps clear yore mind.”

“Thasso?”

Cal Severn seemed amused.

“And what is the real reason?”

“Hot feet,” grunted Hashknife, and then proceeded to tell Severn what had happened to them.

“You ain’t kiddin’ me, are yuh?” he asked when Hashknife finished.

“Go and look in Romaine’s front yard and you’ll find two perfectly good dead horses,” declared Hashknife.

Severn shook his head.

“No, I’ll take yore word for it and keep away from Romaine’s place.”

“Scared of him?” queried Hashknife, lighting his smoke.

Severn grinned.

“If yuh want to look at it that way. I don’t care to be shot at, Hartley. But--” Severn grew more serious--“why should Shell Romaine shoot at you two?”

“Who in ---- said he shot at us?” demanded Hashknife.

“Well, you--uh-- Didn’t you just tell me----”

“I said we was shot at,” corrected Hashknife.

“I getcha. But who would shoot at you? You are strangers around here. Maybe it was a mistake.”

“I dunno about that.”

Hashknife proceeded to pull on his socks carefully.

“Anyway--” looking up with a grin--“we know ---- well that we wasn’t welcome around there.”

“Kinda looks that way,” admitted Severn seriously, and then, “Get a couple of horses from the stable to ride out to the ranch today.”

Severn started to lead his horse into the stable, but turned.

“I reckon I can fix up some saddles for yuh out at the ranch.”

“Ne’ mind,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go out tomorrow and get our own rigs.”

“Out to Romaine’s?”

“Perzactly!” grunted Hashknife, kicking a boot-heel against the trough, trying to drive his swollen foot into close quarters.

Severn nodded and led his horse inside.

“I wonder what kinda whippoorwills he thought we are?” queried Sleepy. “Think we’d give up them there good saddles?”

“Didn’t know he had hired two brave men,” grinned Hashknife, but grimaced with pain as he took a step. “---- it! I thought my shoulder was sore, but these two feet of mine ain’t feet a-tall; they’re ---- in a pinch.”

Hobbling along, they headed for the Moon Flats saloon, where several cowboys, including Monte Barnes, were standing on the porch. The cowboys looked curiously at them, but said nothing.

“I’ll buy a drink,” announced Hashknife. “I bet my pardner the drinks that I could beat him to town from the Diamond-S, but I calculated wrong; so I’ll buy a drink for everybody.”

“Walk?” gasped Monte.

“Not all the way,” said Hashknife, standing on one foot. “Part of the way we ran. C’m on in.”

They all went inside and lined up at the bar. Maldeen was not there, and the conversation turned to the poker game, which had been played a short time before.

“Severn won ten thousand dollars in one hand,” explained Barnes. “Game of stud. Both men filled. Never seen anythin’ like it in my life.”

“Prob’ly won’t never ag’in,” declared another.

Hashknife squinted at his drink and looked around the room. Finally he turned to Barnes.

“Ten thousand is a lot of money.”

“More ’n I ever seen before,” declared Barnes. “It’s plumb easy to speak about it, but when yuh see it all on the table--whoo-o-o-ee!”

“And Maldeen done the dealin’,” added another. “He sure deals a straight game.”

“Severn must be a plunger,” observed Sleepy.

“I never seen him play big before,” stated Barnes. “He plays poker once in a while, but I think that most of his gamblin’ is done in the East.”

“Goes East to gamble?”

Hashknife squinted at Barnes.

“Naw--the stock markets. Yuh know what I mean--gamblin’ in wheat and oats and that kinda gamblin’. We took a train of beef back there two years ago and Cal studied market stuff. Ever since then he’s gambled thataway, and I reckon he didn’t get as square a deal as he got today.”

“They kinda hook yuh, I reckon,” observed Hashknife.

“Dang right! They sure hookum-cow. Man ain’t got no chance to bluff; don’t even get time to study his cards. I’ll takem mine over the poker table, y’betcha.”

“What happened to yore back and shoulder?” asked one of the cowboys, pointing at Hashknife’s back, where the bullet had ripped the shirt.

The wound had bled considerably, discoloring his shirt.

“Oh, that?”

Hashknife tried to twist his head and look over his own shoulder.

“Well, sir, I was kinda hurryin’ along and snagged m’self on a barb-wire fence.”

The cowboys glanced at each other, but did not dispute the explanation. That it was not done by a barbed wire was very certain, but they knew better than to inquire too deeply into something that was really none of their business.

After the round of drinks Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon, leaving a bunch of cowboys trying to figure out why two sore-footed cowboys had walked into town and why one of them had a bullet-scrape across his shoulder.

Jim Searles was standing in front of Bill Eagle’s general merchandise store, and from him Hashknife found out where Pat Haley lived. Searles scowled at them and hitched up his belt. Searles was an evil-looking gentleman, short of body, but long of face.

“Whatcha want him fer?” he asked after directing them.

“Want him to say a prayer,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Who fer?” quickly.

“I dunno--yet,” grinned Hashknife and turned away.

Pat Haley lived in a home-like frame cottage just at the edge of town. Two great cottonwoods almost concealed the house, and the front yard was a mass of rosebushes. A sorrel horse, saddled, was tied to the rear gate, and voices were audible through the open front door.

The two cowboys went up to the door and were about to knock, when Pat Haley came into the short hall. He glanced quickly at them and grinned with his pipe clenched between his big teeth.

“Come in and rest your feet,” he greeted them. “Sure, it’s cooler in the house, and me wife has just made a gallon of limminade wit’ ice. Come on in.”

They followed him into the living-room, where he introduced them to Ma Haley and Mary O’Hara.

“Me niece,” explained Haley. “She’s one-half of the Haley family, and me and Ma are the other half.”

Hashknife and Sleepy sat down awkwardly on the sofa and fondled their hats. Hashknife winced from the jerk of his shirt as he sat down, and Ma Haley divined that something was wrong.

“Did ye get hurt?” she asked abruptly, getting out of her chair.

“Now, it ain’t nothin’,” declared Hashknife. “I just got scratched with a bullet, thassall.”

“All?”

Ma Haley came straight to him and made him bend his back.

“Heavens above!” she exclaimed. “Why, the poor boy has been badly hurt! Mary, get some hot water and car-r-bolic-acid bottle--quick!”

“Aw-w-w-w!” begged Hashknife. “It ain’t nothin’.”

“You’re in a ---- of a fix,” laughed Pat Haley. “When Ma finds a cut or a bruise she niver lets up until she doctors it. But who shot ye, Har-r-tley?”

“I dunno. You tell him, Sleepy--I’m in the hospital.”

“You’ve got to take off that shirt,” declared Mrs. Haley, “I never do things by halves, me boy.”

“Come out on the porch and I’ll tell yuh,” laughed Sleepy. “I’d get to laughin’ if I ever seen Hashknife Hartley in the rough.”

They went outside, leaving Hashknife groaning mentally.

Mary came in with the water and bottle of acid, and Hashknife prayed that she would go out again; but Ma Haley spoiled his prayer by saying:

“I want you to help me, Mary. Every girl should know how to doctor a cut, bruise or a gun-shot wound, and this is a bad one to star-r-rt on,” and then to Hashknife, “Shall I cut the shirt off, or can ye stand to have it pulled off?”

Hashknife hesitated.

“Bring me the shears, Mary.”

“----!” breathed Hashknife. “I suppose there ain’t no way out of it; so I might as well save the shirt,” and he began to take it off.

He glanced at Mary O’Hara, who was trying to suppress a laugh, and at Ma Haley’s serious face. It was too much for Hashknife. He bared his back and prayed that it might not take long.

From out on the porch came the droning of Sleepy’s voice as he explained things to Pat Haley, while Ma Haley bathed the wound tenderly and explained the dangers of infection to Mary O’Hara.

For lack of adhesive Ma Haley was compelled to wind the bandages around Hashknife’s chest and over his shoulder, which forced him to sit up and face them, bared to the waist. He was bronzed from the sun, and the long muscles rippled like those of an athlete.

“Ye are no weakling,” declared Ma Haley, and Hashknife blushed like a girl.

“Would ye tell me where ye were when ye got shot?”

“In Romaine’s front yard,” replied Hashknife.

_Crash!_ Mary dropped the pan of water upside down on the carpet, and it flooded Ma Haley’s shoes. She sprang aside and stared at Mary, who was staring at Hashknife.

“In Romaine’s front yard?” breathed Mary. “At the Romaine ranch?”

Hashknife nodded and looked down at the wet carpet. Just at that moment Pat Haley and Sleepy came in from the porch and stared at the tableau.

“What went wrong?” asked Pat.

“Mary fumbled the pan,” said Mrs. Haley gently. “Sure, the antiseptic water should be good for the carpet.”

Sleepy laughed and leaned against the wall.

“Hashknife, yo’re all packed up and ready for shipment.”

Hashknife merely glanced at Sleepy, but turned his eyes back to Mary O’Hara, wondering why she dropped the pan of water. Why was she startled when he mentioned the place where the horses were killed? Pat Haley was talking now, and so was Ma Haley; one about the shooting, the other about supplying Hashknife with a clean shirt while she washed the torn one.

Hashknife agreed with both sides and Ma Haley bustled away to get one of Pat’s shirts, while Pat sat down on the sofa beside Hashknife. Mary picked up the pan and went to the kitchen just as some one knocked on the front door and Cal Severn’s voice called a greeting from the porch.

Without waiting for any one to answer his hail, he came down the hall and into the doorway, where he stopped and stared at the three men.

“Excuse me,” he grinned. “I didn’t know yuh had company, Pat. Where’s Mary?”

“Out in the kitchen.”

Severn walked through the kitchen door, and a moment later he and Mary were in conversation.

“She goin’ to marry Severn?” asked Hashknife.

“Uh-huh,” grunted Pat. “That’s the idea, I reckon.”

“Severn just won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen.”

Pat took his pipe from his mouth and looked closely at it for a moment. He squinted at Hashknife curiously.

“Would ye say that ag’in?”

Hashknife repeated the statement and added that it was won on a single hand in which both men held full houses.

“Well, well!”

Pat blinked rapidly.

“I’ve an idea that ten thousand is a lot of money. And ye say it was a single hand? Ten thousand dollars! I’m thinkin’ that Doc Maldeen will face a lean year.”

Mrs. Haley came in with one of Pat’s shirts and gave it to Hashknife.

“I’ll wash and mend the other one,” she stated, “and I’ll also go out while ye put this one on.”

“Yo’re a wonder, Mrs. Haley,” declared Hashknife. “My shoulder feels better than it did before it was hurt.”

“A little lyin’ directly from the heart hurts no one,” grinned Ma Haley.

Hashknife put on the shirt and rolled a cigaret, while Pat Haley puffed slowly, thoughtfully.

“Sleepy told yuh all about what happened, didn’t he?” asked Hashknife, and Pat nodded.

“He did. I can’t for the life of me de-duct why ye were shot at, though. If it was Shell Romaine, why would he wish to kill either of you?”

“If he knowed why we are here he might,” said Hashknife softly.

“Aye, but he don’t know. Cal Severn and meself are the only ones who know. I have not told him, and I’m sure that Cal has not.”

Hashknife studied the tip of his cigaret for a moment, and then--

“What do yuh know about Joe Wicks?”

“The half-breed? He’s just Injun--no good. Got a shack in a gulch over beyond the Romaine place. His woman cooks for Severn.”

“Yeah, I know she does,” nodded Hashknife. “We rode up to his place today. Joe was half-drunk--more than half, ’cause he asked us to have a drink with him. His girl was there.”

“Marie,” nodded Pat.--“Pretty Injun girl. She’s been to the Injun school, and they tell me that she’s smart. Mary has taken a likin’ to her.”

Pat laughed and shook his head as he added--

“Henry Horsecollar Dryden is stuck on Marie and wants to marry her, so Mary says.”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife grew interested; but just then Cal Severn came in from the kitchen, barely nodded to them and went out the front door.

“Well, that’s leavin’ in a hurry,” observed Pat.

From the kitchen came the sounds of argument between Mrs. Haley and Mary, and Pat grinned widely.

“Sure, there’s been a battle,” he whispered. “Ma’s out there tryin’ to pour water on the powder.”

A moment later Ma Haley came into the room, her eyes serious as she went to the front window and looked out. Then she turned to Pat.

“Mary’s cryin’ her heart out, and Cal’s headin’ back toward the ranch.”

“Well, now, isn’t that the usual thing to do, Ma?”

Pat seemed surprised at her distress.

“I mind the time that you bawled----”

“I never bawled, Pat Haley! If you’d ’a’ hurt my feelin’s before we were married--we wouldn’t ’a’ married.”

“Ma, ye’re startin’ an argument with me,” warned Pat. “I have never won an argument with ye yet, but I’m givin’ ye fair warnin’. I’ll win some day, so I will.”

“Ye will, will ye? Well, if it wasn’t for our guests I’d make ye wish ye’d never made the statement.”

Pat Haley grinned delightedly and was about to continue when Mary came in. She had been crying, but her mind seemed to have been made up and she spoke directly to Pat Haley.

“I did not want to tell you this, but I think I must. I met Shell Romaine this morning--in the hills. It was an accidental meeting. We talked for a while about things, and he told me that everything and every one was against him and for me to tell you that he was not going to come in and report to you. He said that he was turning outlaw and that he was going to get the game along with the fame.”

Pat took his pipe from between his teeth and polished the bowl on his palm while the others waited for him to speak. Finally he laid the pipe aside and smiled softly.

“I believe I’m not surprised. What time was it, Mary, and where did ye meet him?”

“It was about ten o’clock, and I met him on that narrow trail around the head of Broken Gulch.”

Pat turned to Hashknife.

“About what time was it that you were shot at, Hartley?”

“It must have been later than that. Mebbe it was ten-thirty or a little later.”

Pat nodded and rubbed his knees.

“From that spot it is about two miles to the Romaine ranch.”

He frowned for a moment and looked at Mary.

“I’m sorry, but it looks like Shell Romaine had started real quickly to make good his threat.”

Mary’s eyes blinked back the tears, and she turned and went back into the kitchen. Pat squinted after her and turned to Ma Haley, speaking softly,

“And what was the row about--between her and Cal?”

“She would not say, Pat. Does a girl blab about the troubles between her and her sweetheart?”

Pat grinned at Ma Haley’s serious expression and turned to Hashknife.

“It appears that Shell Romaine has challenged the law, does it not? I hate like the ---- to accept, but me sworn duty says for me to bring him to task.”

“If he’s the one what shot at us, yo’re welcome,” said Sleepy. “That jasper sure can shoot.”

“Aye, he can that, and it will be a grand battle.”

Hashknife got to his feet and shook hands with Ma Haley, thanking her for dressing his wounds.

“Come and see us,” she urged. “Ye have not been well entertained because things are kinda upset; but drop in any time.”

Hashknife turned and walked to the kitchen door. Mary was standing at a rear window, looking out, but turned as Hashknife came up to her, holding out his hand.

“I--I am pleased to meet you,” she faltered.

“Yes’m, I suppose yuh are, but yuh ain’t had much pleasure since I’ve been here. I hope to see yuh again--smilin’.”

He turned and walked on to the porch, where Pat and Sleepy were waiting for him, and with a hearty handshake they left the warm-hearted sheriff of Moon Flats.

Severn had spoken to the livery stable keeper, and two horses were saddled for them. The man volunteered the information that Severn had gone back to the ranch. He dilated on the fact that Severn had won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen, and was still marveling over it as they rode out of earshot.

Hashknife was very thoughtful, shaking his head as he debated things with himself. Finally he said--

“Mary O’Hara is a danged pretty girl.”

“Yeah?”

Sleepy grinned.

“Think she is, do yuh? Henry Horsecollar didn’t think so.”

“He likes ’em dark.”

Hashknife turned sidewise in his saddle and squinted at Sleepy.

“I’ve got a hunch that Mary likes Shell Romaine.”

“Yo’re dense as ---- if it took yuh that long to find it out,” grinned Sleepy. “Didja notice that her and Cal Severn had a quarrel?”

“Yeah, and I’d give a lot to know what it was about, Sleepy.”

“What good would that do yuh?”

“I dunno--no good, mebbe.”

They rode in at the ranch and stabled their horses. Henry Horsecollar squinted at their mounts and rubbed his chin.

“Didja trade with the livery stable?” he asked.

“Rented ’em,” said Hashknife. “Somebody shot both of our horses.”

“M’ ----! Shot ’em? Where?”

Sleepy sketched out their experience, and Henry listened in open-mouthed amazement.

“Well, sir,” he declared, “it’s a caution what folks will do. Cal Severn came home a while ago, swore at me and almost jarred the winders out of the house when he slammed the door.”

“He won ten thousand dollars from Maldeen today,” stated Hashknife.

Henry half-opened his mouth and leaned weakly against the corral.

“Ten-- Aw-w-w, yo’re kiddin’ me, ain’tcha?”

“In one hand of stud poker,” said Sleepy.

Henry rubbed his chin slowly.

“Well, sir, I reckon he wasn’t mad a-tall--he was crazy. The shock of winnin’ that money kinda insaned him, don’tcha s’pose?”

“It would me,” grinned Hashknife, and then sobered suddenly, as he said, “I seen yore girl today, Henry.”

“My girl--Marie?”

Hashknife explained their mistake in thinking it was Romaine’s place, and then he told of how Joe Wicks had hit Marie with a rock. Henry listened calmly enough, but his lips tightened over the recital.

“Drunk, was he?”

“Drunk enough to ask us to drink with him.”

“That’s pretty drunk,” admitted Henry.

“I dunno where he gets his whisky--wish I did.”

He sighed and leaned against the fence.

“I never had no girl before. Mebbe folks will look down on me for carin’ for an Indian girl, but it’s my own business. I’m shootin’ square with her.”

“Then we’re with yuh, Henry,” said Hashknife softly.

“We’re with anybody that shoots square. Me and Sleepy ain’t no plaster saints, but we sure do admire folks that shoot straight.”

“I ain’t no saint either.”

Henry shook his head.

“I’ve mavericked cows and been two jumps ahead of the sheriff; I’ve done a lot of wrong things, but I’m square with Marie.”

“Kinda wipes out the rest of the charges,” nodded Sleepy, and added, “We met Mary O’Hara today.”

“Yeah? She’s goin’ to marry Cal Severn, I reckon. Anyway folks say she is. Didja hear anythin’ more about the train-robbery?”

“Not much,” said Hashknife. “They’re thinkin’ that Shell Romaine pulled that job.”

Henry grinned and shook his head.

“I don’t believe that. I betcha Shell Romaine came back here to dig up his half of that thirty thousand dollars he stole a year ago, and he ain’t takin’ no chances till he gets it.”

“There may be a hunk of truth in that,” admitted Hashknife.

“Yo’re danged well right there is truth in it. I’ve felt that all along. His old man has got a cache somewhere that’s a dinger. Mebbe Shell will find that, too. Mort Lee came past here today and asked me if I’d seen Shell. I wonder what Mort wants him for.”

“Mort’s the cowpuncher that brought in the news of old Romaine’s killin’,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“We met him, too. What kind of a feller is he, Henry?”

“Mort Lee? Well, I’ll tell yuh about me: If I can’t say somethin’ good about a man, I won’t say anythin’. Mort Lee is jist so-so, if yuh know what I mean.”

“What about Jim Searles?”

“That or’nary pup? Sa-a-ay----”

Henry shook his head.

“Words fails me when I even think of Jim Searles.”

“That’s good,” said Hashknife. “Let’s see if Minnehaha has got any food for the stummick.”

* * * * *

Cal Severn was not friendly the following morning, but the boys put that down to the fact that the quarrel between him and Mary O’Hara still ruffled him. He came down to the bunk-house after breakfast, leading a saddled horse.

“Goin’ after your saddles today?” he asked.

“Pretty quick,” said Hashknife. “We’ll lead a couple of your horses so we can return the livery stock.”

“All right. Henry’ll show yuh the ridin’ stock.”

“Reckon I’ll ride in, too,” said Henry; but Severn shook his head.

“No; I want you to ride that upper fence today,” he said.

Severn swung into his saddle and turned.

“I’m goin’ up the east side of the river if anybody wants to know.”

He rode away while Henry Horsecollar swore under his breath.

“I dunno who in ---- cares!” he snorted. “Make me stay here all day Sunday and then send me out to fix a ---- old fence!”

“When yo’re foreman, yuh can do as yuh please,” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah, and when ----’s froze over I can skate, too!” retorted Henry heatedly.

Hashknife and Sleepy led two of the Diamond-S horses and rode the livery horses across the hills toward the Romaine ranch. They did not follow the road beyond Mission River, but swung back into the hills, circled Joe Wicks’ place and swung around the heads of the gulches which led down to the Romaine place.

Just above the Romaine ranch-house the gulch forked like the letter Y, and Hashknife and Sleepy circled both forks, which brought them out on to the side-hill on the west side of the ranch. It gave them a clear view of the place. The ranch-house was about four hundred yards away and below them, as they rode into a thicket of jackpines and stopped.

There was no one in sight about the place, but both men studied it closely. They were going to be very sure that no one was there to ambush them again. Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret, never taking his eyes off the clearing below them.

“She’s plumb deserted,” declared Sleepy.

Hashknife nodded in agreement, but his eyes continued to search the tangle of timber and brush north of the buildings.

“Look down the road!” grunted Sleepy, lifting himself in his stirrups.

Two riders were coming up the narrow, winding road, heading toward the ranch. They were plainly visible to Hashknife and Sleepy, who were far above them, but they were still concealed from the ranch-house.

“Who do yuh reckon it is?” queried Sleepy.

“I dunno,” admitted Hashknife. “I ain’t familiar enough with folks around here to tell who it is.”

The riders came on, their horses kicking up a cloud of dust, swung into the clearing and headed for the house. Then one of the riders seemed to jerk sidewise and fell off his horse, which whirled and ran back toward the brush, while the clear air was shattered by the whip-like _pop!_ of a rifle.

The other rider sprang from his horse and dropped flat on the ground, while the horse whirled and followed the other one back toward the brush. There was silence for several moments, and then the rifle cracked again. A splatter of gravel lifted in front of the man on the ground, who rolled rapidly aside as if trying to get the ranch-house between himself and the shooter.

Hashknife and Sleepy were watching closely, and now Hashknife drew his six-shooter.

“I think I see him, Sleepy. He’s shootin’ smokeless powder, but--watch that heavy clump of willers.”

As Hashknife spoke he lifted his gun and fired--once--twice. It was long range for a .45 pistol, but Hashknife guessed the elevation perfectly, and a man got up from among the willows and began running up the gulch. He was partly screened by the brush, which made it impossible for either Hashknife or Sleepy to tell how he was dressed or even to estimate his physical proportions.

It was only about fifty yards from the heavy willow clump to the forks of the gulch, and both Hashknife and Sleepy emptied their guns at him, but at that range it was impossible to tell where the bullets were striking.

At the forks of the gulch the man stopped in a screen of cottonwoods, and a moment later a bullet splatted into the dirt under Hashknife’s horse. Quickly they swung their horses back into the heavier thicket, but another bullet hummed past their heads, cutting the plume off the top of a jack-pine.

“Dang the luck!” swore Hashknife. “If we only had a rifle!”

He was shoving cartridges into his revolver as he spoke, and after filling the chambers he dropped it back into its holster and turned to Sleepy.

“You go down and help with that wounded man. I’m goin’ to try and snag that smart jasper.”

Sleepy nodded quickly, and Hashknife spurred out of the thicket and galloped off along the slope of the hill. His only chance was to circle the heads of both gulches and try to head off the man’s escape; but if the other had a horse close at hand he would have a decided advantage. Hashknife could have ridden straight down the hill to the bottom of the gulch and followed the man, but it would mean that he would have to ride in the open in the face of rifle-fire; and this man had demonstrated his ability with a rifle.

Sleepy took the two lead-ropes and poked off down the hill, while Hashknife circled the west fork of the gulch, riding recklessly but watching the country. Between the two gulches was a wide stretch of open country, where a rider would be plainly visible; but on the east side of the main gulch were miles of broken hills, where a man might hide away for months.

Hashknife circled around the head of the west fork and galloped straight across this wide flat, heading swiftly for the rim of the main gulch, over a mile away. Instead of going toward the junction of the two forks he swung to the left, cutting across to the main fork, with the intention of striking it about half a mile from the forks. He felt sure that the shooter, realizing that he had more than one person to contend with, would retreat; and there was a bare possibility that he would follow the gulch.

Hashknife drew up at the rim and scanned the country beyond, but there was no one in sight. The gulch was heavily timbered and extended far beyond him. He hesitated only for a moment and then rode slowly down through the trees, watching closely. The timber was so thick that he knew the man’s rifle would be of little advantage.

At the bottom was a deeply rutted cattle-trail, and a small trickle of water showed the presence of a spring farther up the gulch. He stopped in a thicket beside the trail and waited.

From the top of a dead cottonwood a mourning dove called softly, monotonously. Farther up the gulch a family of magpies started an argument, and Hashknife smiled at the great similarity to human voices. The old trail was deep with dust, which would muffle the sound of passing hoofs.

Suddenly a jack-rabbit flashed into sight, bounding along the trail like a gray shadow. It passed out of sight, leaving a faint cloud of dust in its wake.

Hashknife hunched lower in his saddle. Something had frightened the rabbit and that something was probably coming up the trail.

Then came the muffled _plop, plop_ of a horse walking in deep dust, and out of the brush-lined trail came a horse and rider. Hashknife leaned forward and lowered his gun. It was Mary O’Hara!

Her sorrel horse was streaked with sweat and dust and appeared so weary that it did not even sense the presence of Hashknife’s mount, passing within twenty feet and fading out in the brush beyond.

Hashknife made no move until a full minute after she had passed; then he rode out of the heavy thicket and went down the trail, wondering what it all meant. What was Mary O’Hara doing there? Had she met the man who had done the shooting?

He watched closely as he followed the trail, but there was no sign of any one in the gulch. It was impossible to distinguish tracks in the deep dust; even the tracks of Mary’s mount were but hillocks of dust. He rode out at the forks and swung wide of the brush to circle Romaine’s fence.

He rode over to the ranch-house porch, where Sleepy was sitting. Four horses were tied to the porch-posts, and lying on the porch was a man, his head bolstered on a folded coat.

“See anythin’ more of him?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife shook his head and dismounted. The man was unconscious, mumbling incoherently.

“Splinter See,” said Sleepy. “Got hit in the shoulder. Pat Haley’s gone after a doctor and a rig to take him to town in.”

“Was that Haley?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. He got his eyes full of sand from a 30-30 bullet and can’t see very well, but it didn’t stop him from doin’ a complete job of cussin’.”

Hashknife slowly rolled a cigaret as he considered Mary O’Hara. She had known that Pat Haley was coming after Shell Romaine, and apparently had cut across the hills to warn Shell.

“Hurt kinda bad, ain’t he?” queried Hashknife.

“I betcha. Me and Pat looked him over, but it’s a job for a doctor. Didn’tcha see nobody, Hashknife?”

“Seen Mary O’Hara.”

Sleepy looked blankly at Hashknife.

“Mary O’Hara?”

Hashknife explained where he had seen her, and Sleepy swore softly.

“Goin’ to tell Pat Haley?”

“Nope. I figure that she knew that Pat was comin’ over here after Shell; so she packed a warnin’ to him, and he stayed long enough to do some shootin’.”

“And now the whole ---- country’ll be on his trail,” declared Sleepy. “He didn’t use no judgment.”

“I don’t _sabe_ him,” admitted Hashknife. “There’s a lot of things around this range that I don’t _sabe_.”

“Well,” observed Sleepy, “things must be in a ---- of a muddle when you’ll plead ignorance, cowboy.”

* * * * *

It was about an hour later when Pat Haley arrived. He was ably assisted by several of Moon Flats’ leading citizens, among which were Maldeen and Jim Searles. The doctor was not available, so they did not wait for him.

The men were vociferous in the denunciation of Shell Romaine, and assured each other that his demise was but a question of a short time. They loaded the injured deputy into the wagon-box and trooped back toward town. Hashknife asked Haley to take back the livery horses, and after they were on their way Hashknife and Sleepy secured their saddles and bridles.

“I reckon that Shell Romaine is kinda up against it,” said Sleepy as they mounted.

“Sure looks thataway,” grinned Hashknife. “Everybody seems to be goin’ after him.”

“Kinda spikes our job,” complained Sleepy. “About the only thing we can do is to set around and look on.”

“Well, we sure can do that, can’t we?” grinned Hashknife.

“Lotsa worse things than settin’ around. Let’s go back and see if Joe Wicks has thought up any new cuss words.”

They went back across the hills and dropped down into Joe Wicks’ road, where they ran into old Joe astride a moth-eaten gray horse. He was heading toward home, so they swung in beside him. Joe was just as dirty and unkempt as before, but he was painfully sober.

“What the ---- yo’ want?” Joe’s inevitable question.

“How is the little girl, Joe?” asked Hashknife.

Joe squinted at Hashknife but did not answer.

“Rock didn’t hurt her much, did it?”

Joe shook his head. He was evidently not in any mood for conversation.

“Is Henry Dryden goin’ to marry her?” asked Sleepy.

“No, by ----!”

Joe woke up explosively.

“Henry’s a good feller,” said Hashknife.

“----fool!” grunted Joe. “My girl too good for him, by ----!”

“He probably wants her to marry a king,” grinned Sleepy.

They rode out of the willows and up the slope to the house. A tall roan horse was tied to the porch, and Joe Wicks swore fluently, hammering his old gray into a trot. He dropped off before reaching the porch and ran the rest of the way. Hashknife and Sleepy rode up, but did not get off their horses.

Inside the house, Joe Wicks was discoloring the air with profanity, and a moment later Henry Horsecollar came backing out of the door, followed by Joe. Henry did not see the two men beside the porch.

“Yo’ go to ---- out of here!” yelped Joe, waving his arms wildly. “You le’ my Marie alone! _Hyak klatawa!_”

“_Klatawa_ your own self, you ---- breed!” snorted Henry. “Keep yore dirty paws off me or I’ll knock yuh plumb into the Happy Huntin’-Ground!”

“Yo’ go ’way, ---- quick!” shrilled Joe. “Yo’ not marry my girl, yo’ ---- right!”

Just then Marie came out of the door and Joe shoved her aside.

“Yo’ keep to ---- out of this!”

“You keep your paws off her!” howled Henry. “Leggo her, Joe!”

“Yeh?”

Joe leered at Henry.

“Yo’ make me, eh? Huh!”

Joe whirled Marie toward him and slapped her across the cheek--probably to show Henry Horsecollar that Marie was his property to do with as he pleased.

Marie jerked back, throwing Joe off his balance, and in that fraction of a second Henry Horsecollar sprang in and smashed Joe flush in the face. It was a terrific punch, which started back about two feet behind Henry’s right hip, described the arc of a circle and connected perfectly with the head of Joseph Wicks.

And the said Joe Wicks seemed to lift off the floor, straightened out to an angle of forty-five degrees and floated off the porch, where he fell limply among his colony of mongrel dogs.

Henry blew on his sore knuckles and stared at Marie, who was looking at Hashknife and Sleepy. He turned and looked foolishly at them.

“Henry, you sure can hit,” applauded Sleepy.

“Uh-huh,” admitted Henry. “Y’betcha I can.”

They watched Joe Wicks get to his feet and look around. He was very dignified and very erect. Twice he turned around as if surveying the country, and then started out toward his corral, weaving like a drunken man with his whole pack of dogs barking at his heels. The running-gears of an old buggy barred his trail; but he walked into it, fell down and went to sleep while the dogs all sat down around him and barked at each other.

Marie turned and walked into the house, and after a moment’s hesitation Henry followed her in.

“Yuh gotta hand it to Henry for bein’ a Romeo,” said Hashknife. “A father-in-law don’t mean nothin’ to him.”

“He’ll likely come out, draggin’ her by the hair,” grinned Sleepy, but he was wrong.

Henry came out alone, rather sad of face, and mounted his horse.

“Goin’ back to the ranch?” queried Hashknife.

“Uh-huh.”

They rode down past Joe Wicks, but he paid no attention to them.

“He’ll likely beat that girl after he wakes up,” said Hashknife.

Henry started to go back, but changed his mind and rode on with them.

“Prob’ly will,” he agreed sadly. “Mebbe he’ll beat some sense into her--I dunno.”

“Ain’t she got no sense?” queried Sleepy. “She says she can’t marry me.”

“Mebbe she don’t love yuh, Henry,” offered Hashknife.

“My ----!” exclaimed Henry seriously. “Now I never thought of that!”

“Didn’t yuh ever ask her if she loved yuh?”

“No-o-o, I never did. By gosh, mebbe that’s why she can’t marry me. Whatcha know about that?”

“And,” declared Sleepy, “all that hammerin’ on her pa’s head ain’t goin’ to git yuh no votes from her.”

“Huh!”

Henry squinted both eyes and rubbed his right ear thoughtfully.

“Love’s a ---- of a thing, ain’t it?”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Hashknife.

* * * * *

The shooting of Splinter See and the open defiance of Shell Romaine furnished food for conversation in the Mission rangeland. Splinter was still alive, but badly injured. Ma Haley was a more than willing nurse, and old Dr. Goodsell was thankful for her assistance.

“When do ye look for a crisis?” inquired Pat.

“Crisis ----!” exploded the old doctor. “When you get hit with a 30-30, that’s the crisis--right then. If you survive the shock you’ll get well--maybe.”

Contrary to expectations Pat Haley did not swear in a big posse of men and go hunting for Shell Romaine. The county offered a thousand dollars for his arrest, and the express company offered two thousand dollars reward for information that would lead to the conviction of the bandit who robbed the express-car near Clevis Creek.

To many folk it was a foregone conclusion that Shell Romaine had robbed the train, and his early appearance in Moon Flats was but a part of his defiance of the law. Since Splinter was shot, cowboys rode the range with rifles handy--partly for protection, partly to try and collect the reward.

Mary O’Hara went softly about her work, taking little interest in things, paying little attention to those who came to see Ma Haley’s patient. But Cal Severn did not come again, and Ma Haley shook her head sadly.

She knew that Mary was unhappy, but was unable to decide whether it was from the fact that Cal did not come any more, or-- Ma Haley sighed deeply and reminded herself that the heart of a maid is a queer machine, so it is.