Chapter IV: Part 4

Searles had not showed up again at the Moon Flats, and Severn wondered where he had gone. The next morning he ran face to face with Mary O’Hara, who was coming out of Bill Eagles’ store. She tried to go past him, but he blocked her way.

“Wait a minute, Mary,” he said. “I want to talk with you.”

“I do not think it interests me at all,” replied Mary coldly. “Will you please stand aside, Mr. Severn?”

“Aw, shucks!”

Severn stepped aside, but walked beside her down the sidewalk.

“Mary, I want to apologize for what I said the other day. Dog-gone it, won’t yuh accept an apology? I was a darned fool, and I didn’t have no right to say what I did.”

“I am glad you realize that part of it,” said Mary coldly, “and I don’t really think you had better go any further with me.”

Severn laughed, but there was little mirth in it. “Now, listen, Mary. I’ve apologized and admitted that I was a darned fool, haven’t I? What more can I do?”

“You can turn around and stop annoying me.”

“Thasso? Aw, what’s the matter with you, anyway? Lemme have a talk with yuh, Mary.”

Severn’s voice was low and pleading, but it had no effect on Mary O’Hara.

He followed her in through the gate and up to the porch, where they met Pat Haley, who was coming out of the house. Without a word Mary stepped around him and went in through the open door, while Pat Haley blocked the passage to Cal Severn.

“What’s the big idea?” asked Severn wonderingly.

“Ye’re not welcome here, Severn,” replied Pat easily.

“Not welcome?”

Severn frowned thoughtfully.

“What do yuh mean, Pat? What’s gone wrong?”

“Come away from the house and I’ll talk to ye.”

They walked down to the gate, which Pat opened and motioned Severn outside. Wonderingly he obeyed and turned, facing Pat.

“Now tell me what in ---- is the matter with you, will yuh?”

Severn’s voice was trembling slightly.

“I will,” nodded Pat. “It has been told to us that ye have been makin’ love to Marie Wicks, the Injun girl.”

Severn’s face flushed hotly, and then the color drained out, leaving it a gray tinge. He gripped the top of the gate and leaned closer to Pat Haley.

“Who packed you that ---- lie?” he rasped. “Tell me who told yuh that and I’ll shoot his ---- heart out!”

“Which wouldn’t disprove the statement,” said Pat softly.

“----! Do yuh believe a lie like that, Pat Haley?”

“Can ye prove it’s a lie, Severn?”

Pat’s gray eyes bored into Severn’s soul.

“Prove it? My ----, do I have to prove a thing like that?”

“Ye do--unless ye don’t care to, Severn.”

Severn relaxed a trifle and began the manufacture of a cigaret. His hands trembled slightly, and he spilled half a sack of tobacco on the ground.

“Did Hartley and his pardner pack that talk to yuh?”

“I’ll name no names,” declared Pat. “It was not told to me in confidence, but I’ll not say who told it. In fact, the man was carryin’ the same message to you--to keep away from Marie Wicks.”

“I don’t getcha.”

Severn squinted away from the match as he lit his cigaret.

“Do yuh mean to say that this ---- liar said he was bringin’ me a message like that from somebody else?”

“Ye have a complete understandin’,” said Pat.

“Well--” Severn hitched up his cartridge-belt and sighed deeply--“if you won’t tell me who it was--how can I prove that it’s a lie?”

“I’m not askin’ ye to prove it.”

“You’d rather go on believin’ it, eh?” harshly. “You know why I hired Hartley and Stevens. It wasn’t because I needed ’em, Haley. I seen that lanky Hartley lookin’ at Mary O’Hara, like a ---- coyote lookin’ at a lamb. Well, if yuh want to believe him--go ahead.”

“We’ll leave her name out of it, if ye please.”

Pat’s voice cut like a knife.

“Oh, all right.”

Severn turned and started away, but stopped after a few steps.

“I just wanted to tell yuh that the way yo’re runnin’ yore office don’t make no hit with folks around here, and they’re wonderin’ why you ain’t makin’ no effort to find Shell Romaine. Some of them say yo’re afraid and others kinda suggest that it’s kind of a family affair.”

Severn turned on his heel and went back up the street, while Pat Haley lifted his right hand from near the butt of his gun and gripped the gate.

“Ye unspeakable pup!” he breathed. “Ye have unfurled yer flag to me, and the colors are yellow.”

Pat turned wearily away from the gate and went slowly back to the house. He saw Mary saddling her horse near the rear gate and watched her ride away toward the hills. He went back to the porch steps and sat down heavily, his mind mixed with strange emotions. Then he took out a book of cigaret-papers and a sack of flake tobacco.

“Until Bill Eagles gets a shipment of pipes I’ve got to do this,” he muttered, his lips set in a thin line of determination, “and ’t’s goin’ to be the ----’s own job to make one unless there’s some tougher papers in this package than there were in the last bunch I wore out.”

* * * * *

Cal Severn went back to the Moon Flats saloon, where he drank straight whisky, filling the glass to the brim four times and drinking at a single gulp. Maldeen was at a card-table, studying a solitaire layout, but stopped his game to watch Severn.

Searles was sitting across from Maldeen, watching his play, but out of the corner of his eye he noted the feverish way in which Severn bolted his liquor. Something seemed to tell him that Severn had received a hard jolt, and he felt that Shell Romaine’s message had been delivered.

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Severn knew who had delivered the message. Perhaps Severn was getting up courage enough to start trouble.

Searles reached down slowly and slid his holster over the top of his leg and loosened the Colt six-shooter a trifle. Being prepared had saved Searles several times, and he thoroughly believed in the law of self-preservation.

Severn turned and leaned back against the bar, looking calmly around. His half-shut eyes dwelt for a moment on Maldeen and Searles, but the set expression of his face did not change as he said--

“C’m and have a drink, you two.”

It was an order, but neither man resented it. They walked to the bar, and Severn turned around with them.

“How yuh comin’, Cal?” asked Maldeen.

Severn did not reply until he had imbibed another full glass of raw liquor. He turned his head and looked curiously at Maldeen. Severn was not a drinker, and the successive jolts of bad whisky had taken effect already.

After looking at Maldeen he turned back to the bar and called for more liquor.

“Take it easy, Cal,” advised Maldeen. “You’ve had too much already.”

“Yeah?” snarled Severn. “When did you get the right to preach to me? Have a drink, yuh tin-horn.”

Maldeen knew that Severn was drunk in the head, but that his nerve and body was cold sober; so he accepted another drink and the rebuke in silence. Searles held his glass in his left hand, while his right hung close to the butt of his gun; but Severn paid no attention to him until after the drink was finished.

Several other men had come into the place, and Maldeen shifted around uneasily. Severn was just in the right mood to start trouble, but he merely looked drunkenly at the men and took Maldeen by the arm.

“I want to talk to yuh, Doc,” seriously. “You and Jim Searles. C’mon.”

Maldeen led the way back to his private room, and Searles, filled with misgivings, trod close to Severn. He was all set for anything that might happen. They went into the room, and Maldeen locked the door. There was a couch, a couple of chairs, a table, littered with papers, ore samples and an empty bottle. The rough walls were speckled with old photographs and pictures cut from sporting magazines and papers.

Severn sat down heavily on the couch, flung his hat across the room and leaned back wearily against the wall. Maldeen sat down beside the table, but Searles remained standing just inside the door. Maldeen waved him to a chair, but he shook his head and leaned against the wall.

“Nobody’s goin’ t’ hurt yuh, yuh ---- fool!” snorted Severn drunkenly.

“I know it, Cal,” grinned Searles, but did not sit down.

“Nobody can hear us talkin’ in here, can they?” asked Severn, and Maldeen shook his head.

“Either one of you seen them two strange cow-punchers today?” he asked.

“Not today,” said Maldeen. “They left town right after you and the long one almost had trouble.”

“I don’t think they’ve been back since,” added Searles.

“I hope to ---- that they never come back!” exploded Severn. “But they will, ---- ’em!”

Maldeen was interested now.

“What’s the idea, Cal?”

“One of ’em went to Pat Haley and said that I was makin’ love to Marie Wicks.”

Searles jerked visibly and burned himself on his cigaret. This was interesting news to him.

Maldeen half-smiled.

“Tryin’ to queer yuh with Mary O’Hara, eh?”

“Oh, go to ----!” blurted Severn. “He said that somebody sent the message to me to let her alone.”

Searles inhaled deeply and studied Severn closely. It might be a scheme to allay his fears, but he was not going to be caught napping.

“Somebody, eh?”

Thus Maldeen.

“Tryin’ to pass the buck to somebody else, eh?”

“Yeah,” snarled Severn blackly, but leaned forward and lowered his voice. “I never told anybody who them two punchers are, doc. Me and Pat Haley are the only ones who know about ’em; so I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to tell anybody, ’cause it might not look good, comin’ from me; _sabe?_”

“Thasso?”

Maldeen hitched forward in his chair.

“Shell Romaine’s out on parole, which yuh probably know,” continued Severn. “He was sent up for five years and got out in one year. Didja ever wonder how he got paroled in one year? Yuh didn’t? There was thirty thousand dollars lifted in that robbery, and not a cent of it ever recovered.

“The mornin’ that Shell Romaine showed up here them two punchers rode in and asked for a job. I didn’t want to hire anybody but Hartley handed me a letter which showed who they were--and I hired ’em.

“I reckon it was sort of a political pull that the bank directors had, but anyway they got Shell paroled in a year thinkin’ that he’d come back here and lift his cache. Hartley and Stevens were workin’ for the Cattlemen’s Association and they were selected to come here and watch Shell Romaine. The bank wants that thirty thousand dollars.”

“I see,” said Maldeen softly, wonderingly, while Jim Searles whistled softly and sat down in the empty chair.

“Well they ain’t been trailin’ Shell Romaine, that’s a cinch,” declared Searles.

“How could they?” queried Maldeen. “Things broke against ’em. Anyway they don’t look like they had the sense of a shepherd.”

“Thasso?”

Severn seemed to wake up out of a trance.

“Don’tcha fool yoreselves. What about that shootin’ scrape yesterday? Don’t tell me that they ain’t got no sense.”

“Well, whatcha want to do?” asked Searles.

“I don’t want to do a ---- thing,” declared Severn; “but I’d give a thousand dollars if somethin’ would happen to wipe out the both of ’em. One thousand cold dollars.”

“Apiece?” queried Searles softly.

“Yeah,” said Maldeen meaningly.

Jim Searles burned himself again on his cigaret and flung it quickly aside as he got to his feet.

“Well, what’s all the delay?” he grunted. “Ain’t nothin’ more to talk about, is there? Let’s go.”

“Nobody settin’ on yore shirt tail is there?” queried Maldeen. “Go ahead.”

“Cal’s goin’ with me,” explained Searles.

“Where?” asked Severn vacantly.

“Out to the Diamond-S.”

“What for?”

“To git the two thousand dollars f’r one thing.”

“Whatcha mean?”

“Well,” said Searles, yawning widely. “I may be a fool, but I ain’t no ---- fool. On a job like this I git paid in advance.”

“Oh, yuh do?”

Severn spat dryly.

“You must think I’m somewhat of a fool myself.”

“Thinkin’ ain’t goin’ to git us nowhere,” declared Searles. “I ain’t doin’ no credit business with my gun, y’betcha.”

Severn heaved himself off the couch and secured his sombrero. He was a trifle unsteady on his legs now. He motioned Searles out of the door. Maldeen followed them out into the saloon, but Severn did not stop at the bar. He and Searles went straight to the stable, saddled their horses and rode out of town.

Pat Haley, from the porch of his home, saw them ride away and wondered what would have happened to Searles if Severn knew he was the tale-bearer. Then Pat Haley looked down at the steps littered with bits of torn cigaret-papers and at the folds in his shirt bosom, which were filled with loose tobacco, and shook his head.

“Smokin’ cigy-reets is not a habit--it’s a accomplishment,” he declared wearily.

* * * * *

Severn and Searles rode slowly along the edge of the low hills, saying little. Severn’s mind was deeply engaged in trying to puzzle out who would send that kind of a message to him, while Searles was also doing quite a lot of wondering himself. Somehow he could not shake the feeling that Severn knew who delivered that message, and that Severn was keeping still until he--Searles--had finished the job of getting rid of Hashknife and Sleepy.

Searles was a gunman whose ability in that direction was for sale, but he cared a lot for his own skin and meant to keep it intact. He had formed no plans for getting rid of the two offensive cowpunchers; but Jim Searles was not brainy enough to plan out any mode of procedure.

They were passing the mouth of the gulch which led up to Romaine’s ranch when Severn whirled his horse aside and shoved Searles’ horse into the brush beside the road, where they both stopped.

A horse and rider were coming in from the south, and they were able to identify the rider as Mary O’Hara. She crossed the road and stopped, while she looked over the country. It took her perhaps five minutes to satisfy herself that no one was in sight; then she went on up the road that led to Romaine’s place.

Cal Severn laughed aloud and swung back into the road.

“Where’s she goin’?” queried Searles.

“To meet Shell Romaine,” grinned Severn, “and we’re goin’ to be there at the meetin’.”

“And get a .30-30 bullet in our ribs,” protested Searles, shaking his head. “Anyway she couldn’t ’a’ had no appointment with Shell Romaine. Why, he likely ain’t in this country, Severn.”

“Yo’re crazy!” grunted Severn. “I betcha she meets him at the ranch-house.”

“All right, let her meet him.”

Searles evidently did not care to run into Shell Romaine. Neither did he want Severn to know that he had met Romaine the day before.

“How about the reward?” grinned Severn. “Can’t yuh use half of it?”

“Yeah, I could use the money--if Romaine didn’t see me first.”

“Yellow, eh?” sneered Severn. “Well, come along, and I’ll take chances on takin’ him. I’ll get some satisfaction out of it anyway.”

They turned off the road and went slowly up the gulch, taking plenty of time, because the road wound through the brush and they were unable to see any distance ahead. Severn realized that they were taking big chances, but he had a desire to catch Mary O’Hara with Shell Romaine.

They came at last to the fringe of the timber and stopped to watch the ranch-house. There was no sign of Mary O’Hara’s horse, but they knew she would not leave it in sight. There was no possible way to sneak up on the house; so Severn decided to go boldly up, taking a chance on being seen. Searles demurred. He did not want a soft-nose bullet mixed up in his carcass; but when Severn started for the house, Searles rode up behind him.

They dismounted at the rickety porch and stood still. There was a soft murmur of voices coming from the rear of the house, and Severn grinned widely as he heard Mary’s voice. He knew that there was sort of a lean-to at the rear, and it was likely that this was where Mary had taken her horse.

He motioned to Searles for silence and led the way around the house, flattening themselves against the wall, with guns ready. Near the door of the lean-to they stopped. The voices were clearer now and Mary was saying--

“--said he met you; so I came.”

“Yes,” said Romaine. “I sent that message, Mary. I knew that you loved Cal Severn, and I was going to see that he played fair with you as far as I was able.”

Severn’s lips curled in a sneer. Now he knew who had sent the message.

“But it doesn’t matter now,” said Mary. “I am not going to marry Cal Severn. I had made up my mind not to, and that message only strengthened my resolve. He accused me of meeting you in the hills that day, Shell.”

“Did he? Where was he, Mary?”

“I don’t know. Do you remember seeing those two strange cowboys with him? One of them asked me what Cal and I quarreled about, and he asked it in such a way that I just had to tell him.”

“Who are they, Mary?”

“Hartley and Stevens. The tall one, who looks like he was just going to laugh, told me that they didn’t do much except to make smiles come where smiles belong.”

“Well, that’s kinda funny,” observed Shell Romaine. “It ain’t such a bad business either if yuh stop to think it over.”

“I can’t stay long,” said Mary. “It took me quite a while to get here, because I went around through the hills.”

“It sure was mighty good of yuh,” said Shell; “but I’m afraid somebody’ll see yuh and look at it all wrong. Mebbe yuh better not come ag’in’.”

They stepped out of the lean-to, and Shell Romaine looked square into the muzzle of Cal Severn’s six-shooter. Searles stepped around and covered him with his gun while he took Romaine’s gun from his holster.

“The pitcher went too often to the well,” grinned Severn. “Much obliged to yuh, Mary. Yuh sure kept him interested.”

Romaine turned and looked searchingly at Mary, who was staring at Severn.

“Never trust a woman,” advised Severn. “They sure make a fool out of yuh, Romaine.”

“Did you lead them to me, Mary?”

Romaine’s lips were white at the very thought of being trapped through the girl.

“My God--no!” gasped Mary. “Lead Cal Severn?”

“You can stop yore lyin’, Severn,” said Romaine. “I’m takin’ her word for it.”

Severn laughed.

“All right, Shell. I didn’t say that we framed on yuh, did I? No, we just followed her, thassall.”

“Well, whatcha goin’ to do?”

“Take yuh to Moon Flats and hand yuh to the sheriff. He ain’t got guts enough to take yuh, but he may be able to keep yuh in jail.”

“Bring the horses,” ordered Severn, “and hog-tie this gentleman, Searles.”

It took Searles only a short time to rope Romaine to the saddle of Severn’s horse. Searles’ horse was not broke to ride double. Mary stood aside and watched the operation. She was sick at heart over it all, and blamed herself for Romaine’s capture.

“You ain’t to blame, Mary,” Romaine assured her, ignoring Severn and Searles. “You forget that part of it. I knew they’d get me some day, but I hoped it wouldn’t be for a while.”

“Why did yuh hope that?” queried Severn, testing the ropes with a vicious yank.

“That,” said Romaine slowly, “is none of your business, you coyote!”

Severn laughed up at him mockingly.

“Sore because yuh thought I was cuttin’ in on yore Injun girl, eh?”

Romaine’s eyes flashed to Mary, seeking to find what she thought of Severn’s accusation, but she had turned her back on them and was mounting her horse. Severn swung on behind Romaine, turned the horse around and rode away, with Searles bringing up the rear. At the fringe of the brush they looked back, but Mary O’Hara was not following them; she was taking the shorter cut across the hills toward the river.

“You’ve butted in on my game about all yo’re goin’ to, Romaine,” stated Severn. “I reckon yo’re goin’ to make a long trip and stay quite a while.”

“Does kinda look thataway,” admitted Romaine, and turned his head toward Searles. “I reckon you delivered my message, Jim. Much obliged.”

“Message?”

Severn looked at Searles wonderingly. He did not know just what Romaine was talking about at first, but it suddenly flashed through his mind that Jim Searles was the one who had told Mary and Pat Haley.

Searles’ right hand had dropped to his thigh and was still concealed, although his right elbow was bent almost at right-angles. Severn noted all this, and that Searles was watching him closely.

“So you was the one that brought the message, eh?”

“Yeah, I brought it.”

“Well,” easily, “it don’t make no difference, but yuh might ’a’ told me instead of Pat Haley.”

“Well, I didn’t know you was still in town,” defended Searles, “and I knowed that Pat would be glad to hear that Romaine was still around here.”

“Let it drop,” advised Severn, “and that other proposition still stands.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded Searles.

* * * * *

Henry Horsecollar Dryden had gone dumbly about his work after Searles had left the Diamond-S. Never before had he realized just how much he did think of Marie Wicks, and his soul was filled with sadness and self-pity. He was not mad at Severn for taking advantage of him, but he was mad at himself for being weak enough to let Severn keep him at home, while Severn himself courted Marie.

And Severn had one girl already. Wasn’t one girl enough?

Later on Henry saddled his horse and rode down to the hill above Wicks’ ranch-house. It was dark in the hills, but there was a light in the ranch-house. For a long time Henry debated over going down, but finally turned around and went back to the ranch, where he talked with Mrs. Wicks.

“Is Cal Severn going to marry Marie?” he asked in the Nez Percé tongue.

“He has said it,” replied the old squaw. “We will have many ponies and much to eat in the Winter.”

“He is going to marry a girl in Moon Flats.”

“That is a lie. A white man can have only one squaw.”

“He may have many sweethearts.”

For a long time the old squaw deliberated. This was a new angle, which she had never considered. Then--

“The girl in Moon Flats will be the sweetheart.”

“Since when did a white man marry a squaw and leave a white sweetheart?”

“You lie in your heart!” grated the squaw, knowing that Henry spoke the truth.

“Cal Severn brings whisky to Joe Wicks to steal away his sight,” declared Henry. “Since when could a drunken man tell right from wrong? Cal Severn hired you to cook for him because he knew that you would not drink whisky and forget to look. Ask your own heart if I lie.”

The old squaw looked intently into Henry’s face as if trying to read the reasons for this disclosure, but he did not turn away under her stare. She stared down at her gnarled hands for a full minute, like a bronze statue under the yellow light from the oil lamp. Then she got to her feet, flung a shawl around her shoulders and went out.

Henry went to the door and watched her going down the white ribbon of road in the misty light, a blurred figure that faded out and was gone. For a long time he stood in the doorway, gazing off across the shadowy hills, listening to the calling of a sleepy bird. From back in the trees an owl hooted softly.

“Funny thing,” mused Henry aloud. “I never knowed I was so smart until I got to talkin’ Nez Percé to the old squaw. I sure know a lot of things--and mebbe some of ’em is goin’ to get me killed off. I reckon I’ll go to bed.”

But Henry did not sleep. For once in his life his mind was too active to woo slumber, and he marveled at the things he could think about, and by thinking he built up a great anger against Cal Severn. It was like starting a small snowball at the top of a hill; it grew until it was a force to be reckoned with.

He unearthed a Winchester rifle from beneath his bunk and put in an hour cleaning and oiling it. His six-shooter received the same treatment. He filled his belt with ammunition for both guns.

Daylight came, and Henry cooked his own breakfast with a six-shooter hanging at his hip and the rifle lying across the kitchen table. He wondered what had become of Hashknife and Sleepy, but always his mind reverted back to Marie Wicks.

He waited until afternoon, but Cal Severn did not show up; so he saddled his horse, slung the rifle in a scabbard under his right leg, and rode toward Wicks’ ranch. Something seemed to tell Henry that trouble was brewing, but he did not mind.

He rode up to the ranch-house and dismounted. Joe Wicks was sitting on the steps, dirty, disheveled, but apparently sober.

“Hyah, Joe,” said Henry.

“Yo’ go to ----!” grunted Joe without looking at him.

Joe’s face still bore the marks of Henry’s fist.

Mrs. Wicks came to the door and looked at Henry, who nodded to her.

“W’at yo’ want?” asked Joe.

“Nothin’ from you,” said Henry, and then to the squaw. “Can I see Marie?”

“She is very sad,” replied the squaw in her own tongue.

She could speak a little English, but it was much easier to talk in her own language.

“Yo’ go ’way,” growled Joe. “This place no good for yo’; yo’ ---- right.”

“Be still!” hissed the old squaw. “Whisky has stolen away your brains, and you are like an old dog without teeth and without sense; a dog that can only bark at its own shadow or howl at the moon.”

“I reckon that’ll hold yuh,” said Henry, but without a trace of humor in his voice.

“She is very sad and does not believe,” continued Mrs. Wicks. “We have not slept.”

“You ain’t got nothin’ on me,” declared Henry. “Cal Severn did not come home. The other two are still away.”

“They are good men,” said Mrs. Wicks.

“I am only a squaw, but they are to me like to one of my own color.”

“Yeah, they’re all right,” admitted Henry; “but they gave me some bad advice.”

“W’at’s the matter with yo’?” growled Joe. “Nobody ask yo’ to come here.”

Henry ignored him and looked appealingly at the squaw.

“Can’t I see Marie?”

For a moment she hesitated and then pointed toward the rear of the house.

“Yo’ ---- right yo’ can’t see Marie!” grunted Joe; but Henry shoved him back on the steps.

“You horn into my business and I’ll bend a gun over yore head,” threatened Henry, and walked around the corner.

Joe relapsed back to his former position and said nothing, while the old squaw sat down beside him with her hands in her lap, staring into space.

Marie was sitting on the ground against an old cottonwood-tree when Henry came around the house, and started to get to her feet; but Henry motioned for her to sit down. He came up to her and leaned against the tree.

“Why did you come here?” she asked.

“I had to come,” he replied.

“Why?”

“I wanted to ask yuh a question, Marie. Did Cal Severn ever ask yuh to marry him?”

Marie dropped her eyes and began fingering her faded apron.

“No,” she said after several moments of silence.

“Didn’t he make love to yuh?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said defiantly.

“Don’tcha?” softly. “I’m kinda sorry, ’cause I sure want to talk to you, Marie.”

“You lie,” she said wearily. “You talk nice to me and then laugh about me to other people.”

“What do yuh mean?” demanded Henry.

“You know what I mean. You laugh and say I am jus’ an Injun girl to play with. You not care for me, you say.”

Henry’s lips tightened and he looked down at the top of her head.

“Marie, did Cal Severn say that?”

“Yes.”

“Good God!” exploded Henry. “Looky here! Do yuh think I’d say that? Do yuh? Am I that kind of a coyote?”

“You are a white man; I am an Indian girl.”

“That ain’t no answer. Do yuh love Cal Severn?”

“I don’ know what I love. Everybody lie to me.”

Marie threw out both arms.

“I believe nobody now.”

“Marie, will yuh marry me?”

Henry leaned closer and put his hand on her shoulder.

“I never lied to yuh.”

“How do I know?” she asked, looking up at him.

“That’s right.”

Henry straightened up and shoved himself away from the tree.

“My word ain’t no better than Cal Severn’s now, but mebbe I can make it better. Yuh don’t hate me, do yuh, Marie?”

“I don’t hate nobody--jus’ sorry.”

“Somebody is goin’ to be with yuh on that sorry idea,” declared Henry, and walked back to his horse.

Joe Wicks glared at him, but said nothing. Mrs. Wicks nodded solemnly, and Henry tipped his wide hat to her as he turned his horse and galloped down the road.

Back at the cottonwood-tree Marie turned her head and watched him ride away. He had asked her to marry him, but had never given her a chance to accept or reject the proposal. White people were queer folks, she thought, and many of them were liars.

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy came straight back from Sula, but did not turn on to the Diamond-S road. For once in his life Hashknife rode for miles in silence, his forehead puckered in a heavy frown in the shade of his sombrero.

Sleepy was content with silence. He knew that there was no use in questioning Hashknife, and gentle sarcasm failed to bring a retort from the tall cowboy.

Where the road from Joe Wicks’ place joined the main road they met Henry Horsecollar, who came at a swift gallop out of the brush-lined road. They noted the display of firearms and wondered what had struck Henry.

“Howdy, Henry,” greeted Hashknife. “Goin’ to town?”

Henry nodded and rode in beside them. Hashknife looked curiously at the rifle sticking out from beneath the right saddle fender and at Henry’s low-swung Colt.

“Kinda loaded for bear, ain’t yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Coyote,” corrected Henry shortly.

Hashknife whistled softly. This was a different Henry from him whom they had known at the Diamond-S, and he wondered what had happened. But neither of them questioned him further. If he was gunning for some one it was none of their business, and the less they knew about it the better for all concerned.

“How’s things at the ranch?” asked Sleepy.

“Aw right,” grunted Henry, never taking his eyes off the road.

“Hangin’ on to his nerve,” thought Hashknife. “Don’t want to talk for fear of gettin’ off the main idea.”

By mutual consent they swept into a gallop riding knee to knee. Hashknife noted the set angle of Henry’s lower jaw; it rather belied the rest of his bony angular body. Still there was force in that body. The smash he had delivered on Joe Wicks’ jaw proved that. All Henry had lacked was nerve, and Hashknife wondered if something had happened to cause Henry to find himself.

About a mile out of town another rider came down off the hills and into the road going toward Moon Flats. It was Mary O’Hara. She glanced back anxiously as they rode up to her and they noticed that there were tear-streaks on her dusty cheeks.

“They caught Shell Romaine!” she blurted. “Cal Severn and Jim Searles are taking him to Moon Flats.”

“Well, whatcha know about that?” grunted Hashknife. “Tell us about it, will yuh, Miss O’Hara?”

In a few words Mary described the capture; how she had unwittingly led them to him. She seemed to blame herself for everything.

“Yuh can’t beat that, can yuh?” said Hashknife sadly. “I reckon we better mosey on to town and kinda find out all the latest news.”

As they started on Hashknife drew in beside Mary.

“How’s all the sick folks at yore house?”

“Splinter’s fever is bad and Mort Lee has never been conscious except for a few minutes at a time. He talks all the time, but the doctor says he will get well.”

“Talks all the time--kinda crazy-like?”

Mary nodded and brushed a lock of hair away from her eyes.

“Yes. He raves about old man Romaine’s shirt sleeve. Isn’t that queer?”

“Yeah, it is--kinda,” admitted Hashknife. “Funny thing to talk about, y’betcha. And what else seems to bother him?”

Mary smiled and shook her head.

“It’s mostly the shirt sleeve, but sometimes he rambles about a suit that he did not see. It bothers him a lot, it seems.”

“Black suit?” queried Hashknife quickly.

“Yes--a black suit. Uncle Pat has tried to make head or tail out of his conversation, but is unable to get it connected enough to make sense.”

Hashknife grinned widely and shifted himself in his saddle.

“Let’s shake ’em up a little, folks. I’ve got a hunch that somebody is settin’ on about a ton of dynamite and the fuse is gettin’ short.”

The four horses broke into a gallop down the dusty road with Hashknife slightly in the lead, frowning deeply as he contemplated just what to do.

Into Moon Flats they came at a stiff gallop. In front of Bill Eagles’ store was a crowd of men, some mounted but most of them on foot. There seemed to be a heated argument in progress. Several small groups of men had seemingly drawn away from the main crowd, and were holding their own arguments.

The four riders drew up at the edge of the sidewalk, but no one gave them any heed. Looking over the heads of the crowd they could see Shell Romaine, still bound, leaning up against the wall, while near him were Cal Severn, Jim Searles and Bill Eagles. Bill was arguing with voice and arms.

Hashknife leaned down and tapped a cowboy on the shoulder.

“What’s the trouble?” queried Hashknife.

The excited cowboy grasped a porch-post and jerked his head toward the center of the group.

“They captured Shell Romaine a while ago.”

“Why don’t they put him in jail?”

“Splinter See died an hour ago, and Pat Haley ain’t in town. I reckon they’re goin’ to lynch Romaine.”

Hashknife turned in his saddle and put his hand on Mary’s arm.

“Get away from here, miss,” he ordered. “You better go home, I think.”

“But they can’t lynch him!” hoarsely. “They wouldn’t dare do that.”

“Will yuh go away?” queried Hashknife sharply. “You can’t help him, and yo’re in the way if somethin’ busts.”

Something in Hashknife’s homely face told her that her interests would be well protected, and with a half-sob she spurred her horse away from the crowd and went slowly down the street.

Bill Eagles was still arguing mightily, and it appeared that he was in favor of waiting for the law. But his arguments seemed only to bring a laugh of derision. A man came out of the store carrying a length of new rope and handed it to Severn.

“I don’t _sabe_ the right kind of a knot,” said Severn, holding the rope out to the crowd.

Maldeen shoved his way in and took the rope.

“I know how to make it,” he stated, and began making the loop.

Shell Romaine watched him coldly. There was no hint of fear in his eyes. Hashknife deliberately turned his horse around and rode it on to the board sidewalk, almost riding over those on the outskirts of the crowd, who broke away at the clattering hoofs, giving him an opening to the center.

All eyes shifted from the main point of interest and centered upon Hashknife, towering above them.

“Get that bronc to ---- out of here!” snarled Severn.

Maldeen stopped looping his rope and stepped back as if afraid Hashknife was going to ride straight over him.

“Right sweet little party yuh got here,” grinned Hashknife. “Keep right on makin’ that knot, Maldeen; we’ll likely need it.”

“What you hornin’ in fer?” queried a grizzled cowman who had moved aside. “This any funeral of yours?”

“Brother, yuh never can tell,” grinned Hashknife. “Fate is a queer jasper; don’tcha know it?”

Henry Horsecollar had pulled the Winchester out of its scabbard and was holding it in the crook of his elbow.

“Henry Horsecollar’s got a gun!” grunted a cowboy wonderingly.

Severn’s eyes snapped to Henry and found his hired man’s eyes looking directly at him. He started to say something, but there was something about Henry’s expression that caused him to withhold his words.

“You aimin’ to hang Shell Romaine, ain’tcha?” queried Hashknife softly.

“That ain’t none of yore ---- business!” snapped Jim Searles angrily, while the crowd shifted.

They knew the temper of Searles, and it had begun to appear that trouble was brewing.

“Yo’re Jim Searles, ain’tcha?”

Hashknife did not seem to resent Searles’ rebuke.

“Yo’re the jasper that identified Shell Romaine in that Sula bank robbery. Now what I want to know is how much did they pay yuh for identifyin’ Shell Romaine?”

“What in ---- do you mean?” rasped Searles.

“Think it over, Searles,” grinned Hashknife. “Talkin’ real fast and tellin’ the truth might help yuh out.”

“I dunno what in ---- yuh mean,” faltered Searles; but a hunted look had come into his eyes.

He tried to keep his eyes upon Hashknife, but they grew watery, as if he had strained them badly, and he turned away.

“What’s all this about, pardner?” queried Bill Eagles.

“A lot of things. Me and my pardner came here for the purpose of tryin’ to find where Shell Romaine planted his share of that Sula robbery. They had him let out on parole and sent us in to trail him.

“Things kinda broke bad for our purpose, yuh know, and we just pesticated around, lookin’ over things. I got to wonderin’ if things were just like folks thought they was. Funny what a feller will find out if he keeps his eyes and ears open.”

“Say, let’s get this job over,” snorted Severn. “This ain’t no time to listen to a long-winded lecture.”

“This ain’t goin’ to be so awful long,” said Hashknife, “and I’d kinda like to talk it over, if yuh don’t mind.”

“Pardner, yo’re talkin’,” said Bill Eagles. “They wouldn’t listen to me.”

“It’s a scheme to delay things, by ----!” declared Maldeen. “He’s tryin’ to stall until Haley gets back.”

“Go ahead and talk, feller,” said the grizzled old cowman. “Get her down to brass tacks.”

“Thank yuh kindly,” said Hashknife. “I won’t make it long, but I’m bettin’ it’ll be interestin’. Now about the stage holdup. Maldeen, you was there, wasn’t yuh?”

“You know ---- well I was!” snapped Maldeen.

“You and Jim Searles drove down from Sula, didn’t yuh?”

“Yes.”

“What time did yuh leave there, Maldeen?”

“I dunno. I reckon it was the usual leavin’ time; wasn’t it, Jim?”

Jim Searles glanced at Maldeen and at Hashknife, but did not speak. His mind was beginning to run in circles.

“Then yuh got held up at Medicine Creek,” continued Hashknife, and added, “by the Black Rider.”

Maldeen nodded, but did not speak.

“He came out of the brush and tried to stop yuh, but Searles got the drop on him. Searles got down and went over to where the old man was lyin’ in the brush with one hand and arm stickin’ up, didn’t he?”

Maldeen squinted blankly, but nodded.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right; but I don’t see----”

“And then Mort Lee came down the creek trail and busted right in on yuh. Searles was on the ground with the shotgun in his hands. He had looked at the old man and was comin’ back to the stage when Mort rode into yuh.”

Maldeen half-smiled and cleared his throat.

“You sure got a good description of it, feller.”

“Mort Lee didn’t go over and look at the old man. You and Searles explained it all to him and told him to ride like ---- to Moon Flats and tell the sheriff that they had killed the Black Rider. Ain’t that right?”

Maldeen and Searles exchanged glances before Maldeen nodded.

“I wanted to get that all straight,” grinned Hashknife. “And now I want to tell yuh that old man Romaine rode a horse down to within a couple of hundred yards of that spot, where the horse broke its leg in a gopher-hole and the old man had to shoot it.”

This was something new, and it seemed to interest every one. Even Shell Romaine leaned forward and stared at Hashknife.

“How do yuh know it was his horse?” queried Eagles.

“Still got his saddle and bridle on, and the horse is branded on the right hip with a Box-R.”

“I dunno where that means anythin’,” sneered Severn. “Suppose he did have a horse--what about it?”

“The Black Rider was supposed to be right smart, wasn’t he? Would a smart man shoot his horse and go right ahead and pull a holdup?”

“That’s a ---- of an argument!” laughed Maldeen. “Who knows what a man will do in a case like that?”

“Yeah, I’ll admit that human bein’s ain’t built to run to form,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s another little point to be covered; Mort Lee only seen the hand and arm of old Rim-Fire Romaine, but that arm was not clad in a black coat sleeve.

“Mort Lee told yuh that, didn’t he, Severn?” queried Hashknife as the crowd fell silent. “Wasn’t that why yuh kicked his hat?”

“By ----, I don’t know what yuh mean,” replied Severn, and his voice was almost a whine.

“Mort Lee wanted to find Shell Romaine and tell him about it,” said Hashknife, guessing real fast. “He had to tell somebody, and when he couldn’t find Shell he came out to the Diamond-S, sampled your whisky and talked to you about it, Severn.”

Severn took a half-step ahead, and his right hand fell to his side.

“I don’t know what yo’re talkin’ about, Hartley. You talk like a ---- fool!”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe I am. Anyway I’m only telling what Lee told yuh, and he got shot over a seven-up game. Now we know that old man Romaine wasn’t wearin’ that black suit when he was shot.”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Bill Eagles wonderingly. “Lemme get that straight, will yuh? If old Romaine----”

“That’s ---- foolishness!” roared Searles.

“Y’betcha!” snapped Hashknife. “Keep on listenin’. Me and my pardner went down to Romaine’s ranch-house and got bushwhacked. I got peeled on the shoulder, and both of our horses got shot. I’m goin’ to ask Cal Severn where he was at that time. That was the day we hired out to yuh, Severn.”

“Where was I?”

Severn tried to appear at ease.

“Why, I was there at my ranch.”

“Then how did yuh know that Mary O’Hara met Shell Romaine on the narrow trail at the head of Broken Gulch?”

Severn’s teeth shut with a click, and he leaned forward, his face filled with righteous wrath.

“You keep her name out of this!”

“That don’t answer my question, does it? You never stopped to think that you put yoreself in bad when yuh accused her of meetin’ Shell Romaine.”

Hashknife grinned pityingly and shook his head as his eyes shifted from the crowd and saw the bartender standing in behind two other men.

“Soapy’s lookin’ on,” observed Hashknife. “I thought that Maldeen was just a ordinary tin-horn gambler until I seen who his bartender was. Birds of a feather.”

“Now is that all yuh got to say?” demanded Searles.

“Shucks, I’m just startin’; and I want to say right now that any nervous hands annoy me. When I see fingers itchin’ to pull a gun--I scratch ’em.”

“I’ve heard about all I care to from you!” snarled Maldeen. “I don’t know where yuh got all these fool ideas, and I don’t care. You’ve gone far enough.”

“Thasso?”

Hashknife seemed hurt.

“Why, I ain’t no more than scratched the surface, Maldeen; and you know it as well as I do.”

“I don’t know a ---- thing about it!”

“Then listen.”

Hashknife’s smile faded, and he leaned forward in his saddle.

“It kinda looked like Shell Romaine was the one that killed our horses, didn’t it? All right. We wasn’t so far from the shooter that he couldn’t have seen that we were strangers. He had no reason for shootin’ us.

“Shell Romaine did not know that me and my pardner were over here to try and put the deadwood on him and get back that money. There were only two men beside me and my pardner who did know, and Pat Haley was here in Moon Flats. Cal Severn knew----”

“What in ---- are yuh drivin’ at!” yelled Severn. “Don’tcha try to hang anythin’----”

“Don’t incriminate yoreself,” interrupted Hashknife. “Who knew that we were goin’ back there after our saddles? Pat Haley and Splinter See came huntin’ for Shell Romaine, and See got shot. Shell Romaine did not fire those shots. Not by a ---- sight! Splinter See is about my size----”

Severn’s face was black with rage, but his eyes shifted from side to side, like a trapped animal looking for an exit.

“Keep goin’, pardner!” panted Bill Eagles.

“That’s a lie, ---- yuh!” snarled Severn. “You’re tryin’ to stall until Pat Haley gets here, thassall.”

“About thirteen months ago you needed money, Severn,” continued Hashknife. “You wanted a certain girl, and you heard that she was engaged to a certain young man. You had a fight with him and he whipped yuh. Then you framed to send him to the penitentiary and to get a lot of money for yoreself.

“Don’t get sore, Severn. You’ve got your misdeeds to face God with anyway, so yuh might as well face men.”

Maldeen moved a step away from Severn as if giving him plenty of room, forgetting that he was included in the accusations. Searles swayed on his feet like a drunken man, fingering his belt with nervous hands.

“Now about that express robbery,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “That was kinda clever. The robber got off near Clevis Creek and went across to the main road. He kept his black suit. He packed a valise to hold his extra clothes and the money.

“The stage came along, and he got on. That part of it was all fixed, but the meetin’ with old Romaine wasn’t part of the scheme. The old man’s horse broke its leg and had to be shot. The old man knowed that the stage was about due, so he waited for it, intendin’ to ride home.”

Maldeen stared at Hashknife, mouth half-open. In fact, the whole crowd seemed bereft of motion or speech.

“That poker game was a clever scheme to give Cal Severn his share of the express robbery, and nobody would wonder where he got so much money. Maldeen was the Black Rider, and you and him robbed the Sula bank over a year ago, and----”

“That’s a lie!” screamed Severn, and his hand snapped to his gun; but Shell Romaine, bound as he was, toppled into him, knocking him half-way to his knees, and his wide-flung gun went off almost against Jim Searles.

Maldeen flung himself backward into the crowd, drawing a gun from under his long coat, while men collided with each other in a mad rush to get out of danger.

From behind Hashknife came the roar of a revolver, and he saw the soap-painting bartender stumble into the street and fall flat on his face, his gun spinning out of his hand. Sleepy was not overlooking any details.

Maldeen’s first shot knocked the hat off the grizzled old cowman, and the second one went into the top of the porch. Hashknife was unable to shoot for fear of hitting a bystander, and Maldeen was unable to shoot accurately on account of them.

Searles was down on his hands and knees, paying no attention to any one, a smudge of smoke coming from his shirt, where Severn’s accidental shot had set it on fire.

Severn had recovered his balance, flung Shell Romaine aside, and without firing a shot whirled and darted into the open door of the store. Came the crash of boots on the sidewalk as Henry Horsecollar vaulted from his horse, and a moment later he darted through the cross-fire between Hashknife and Maldeen and dived into the open door after Cal Severn.

It was all happening in a few short seconds--a fraction of the time taken in the telling. Maldeen’s backward rush had taken him to the wall beside a narrow alley, and Sleepy smashed a bullet into the wall beside his ear. As he whirled to return the fire, Hashknife fired his first shot.

Maldeen jerked back from the shock of the heavy bullet, spun around and stumbled into the alley, just as Sleepy darted across the sidewalk and dived into him, like a football player making a flying tackle. Together they crashed down out of sight.

Men were running away from the shooting, never realizing that the danger was all over. Searles was still on his hands and knees, and near him, sitting on the sidewalk, braced against his bound elbows, was Shell Romaine.

Sleepy backed out of the alley and stumbled toward Hashknife, panting triumphantly--

“He ain’t goin’ no place, Hashknife!”

Pat Haley was coming up the street, running in his queer, bow-legged way, a sawed-off shotgun in his hands, while behind him came Mary O’Hara.

“My Gawd, what happened!” he gasped. “Ah!”

He looked at the bartender, lying flat on his face in the street, and at Searles. He gave Romaine a quick glance and turned to Hashknife.

“Maldeen’s in the alley,” said Sleepy wearily, “and he’s still wearin’ his boots.”

“Where’s Severn?”

Searles dropped on one elbow and looked at them with lack-luster eyes.

“He shot me, didn’t he? I knew he would some day. Where are you, Hartley?”

He tried to grin, but only his lips responded.

“I can’t see yuh very plain, Hartley, but I want yuh to know that your story was all true, except that the killin’ of old Romaine was a accident. It fit our plans fine though.”

Searles licked his dry lips and took a deep breath.

“Mort Lee told Severn about not seeing--that--black--suit. Shell--Romaine--and--his--old--man--never--done--nothin’.”

“He died clean,” breathed Haley. “Clean.”

Came the sound of some one stumbling down the alley, and Henry Horsecollar came into view. He waved out to them, almost falling over the body of Jim Searles. His hair was matted with blood, and his shirt was completely torn from his body, which was bruised and cut in many places.

He shoved the gory mop of hair out of his eyes, stared at them for a moment and then stumbled out into the street, where his horse was standing on the bridle-reins.

Men came out and stood around him as he tried to mount, but Henry did not mind having an audience. Hashknife went out and took him by the arm.

“Where’s Severn?”

Henry blinked and shook his head drunkenly.

“I can’t prove nothin’ by him now,” he muttered. “He lied to Marie about me, and now I can’t prove--that--he--lied--not--by--him.”

Henry drew a hand across his bloody face and began to cry bitterly. Hashknife flung one arm across his shoulders and patted him on the back.

“Cheer up, Henry. By golly, I’ll tell her, and I’ll bet she’ll believe me.”

“Will yuh?”

Henry lifted his head and peered into Hashknife’s eyes. He stared at the crowd, but they meant nothing to him.

“If yuh will, Hartley, there’s a chance that she will believe it, ’cause yuh sure can talk and make it sound true.”

Hashknife grinned and turned to Haley.

“Yuh can turn Shell Romaine loose, Pat, and shift all this crime where it belonged. I dunno how much the bank will recover, but that don’t interest me right now.”

Pat Haley, with only part understanding, went over with Mary O’Hara and cut the bonds from Shell Romaine. He and Mary looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and both turned to Hashknife.

“I don’t reckon there’s anythin’ I can say to yuh that would fit the case, Hartley,” said Romaine slowly. “It ain’t somethin’ that a feller can put into words.”

“Tell it to Mary,” said Hashknife seriously. “And I’d like to see yuh both grin.”