HASHKNIFE OF THE DIAMOND H

by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “The Hand of Providence,” “Pie for Magpie,” etc.

It was a gathering typical of the cow-country. The office of the local justice of the peace, a small room, badly ventilated, was filled with humanity and tobacco smoke; mostly chap-clad humanity, except for the presiding justice, conscious of his rotund importance, and a few of the store-clothes-dressed business men of the town.

The object of interest was a little old man, disheveled of appearance, with a kindly old face, in spite of evident line of dissipation, who sat humped in a chair beside the justice’s desk, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. There was something pitiful in his abject pose, the uncomprehending expression of his eyes, as he looked around.

“Uncle Billy, it’s thisaway,” one of the cattlemen, a tall, grizzled man, cleared his throat apologetically. “Yuh see, it’s thisaway, old-timer. You’ve lost everythin’ and—and—”

“And yuh aim to send me to the poor-house?” The old man spoke thickly. “Is that it boys—to the poor-house?”

One of the cowboys in the crowd swore softly and stepped outside. The others shuffled their feet nervously and did not care to meet the wavering gaze of the old man.

“Yes, that’s it,” said the justice. “You’ve got to have somebody to take care of you. It’s too bad, but it’s the only thing we can think of, Uncle Billy.”

The old man squeezed his hands a little tighter together and his eyes shut tightly, as he said hoarsely:

“I s’pose so. Yuh see, I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Ain’tcha got any money, Uncle Billy?” another of the cowboys propounded the question. The old man turned and looked at the questioner.

“Money? Why, no, I don’t reckon I have, Yak. Why do yuh ask?”

Yakima Reed shook his head, sorry to find himself for a moment the center of interest.

“No, he hasn’t any money,” said Steve Morris, the justice of the peace.

“I don’t guess I have.” Uncle Billy Holton essayed to reach in his overall pocket, but realized it was of no use.

He knew there was no money in his pocket. In the short space of two years he had lost his wife, his ranch, cattle, everything in the world, and now he was being sent to the poor-house. It was hardly a fitting finish to a man who had owned one of the best ranches in the Medicine River range.

Some of the cowboys moved softly out of the room. They were a sympathetic crew, but there was nothing they could do. The old man had become an ordinary drunk, a frowsy old nuisance, but all of them remembered the time when there was always a hearty welcome for them at the Diamond H.

“Well,” said the justice ponderously, “I’m glad that’s finished.”

Uncle Billy looked at him, his lips quivering slightly, as he said:

“Thank yuh, Steve. I reckon yo’re doin’ all yuh can for me.”

“Well, I—I—” Morris got to his feet and looked down at his desk—“I hope so, Uncle Billy. They’ll take care of yuh.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so, Steve,” said the old man softly, “I jist didn’t know it was as bad as this. I never expected to go there, yuh see.”

“I knowed a man who went to the poor-house—” began a cowboy, but some one trod on his instep and he subsided in guarded profanity.

Uncle Billy got up and steadied himself against the desk.

“Steve, this won’t go no further, will it?” he asked. “It won’t git in no papers, will it?”

“In the newspapers, Uncle Billy? No, I don’t think so.”

“Thank yuh, Steve. Yuh see, I—I don’t want—” He stopped.

“I know what yuh mean, Uncle Billy. No, this won’t get into the papers. It isn’t like a court case. You see, you haven’t any money nor any one to take care of you, so it’s up to us to see that you’re taken care of.”

The old man bowed his head as he nodded.

“Thank yuh, Steve. When do I go?”

“Well, it’s goin’ to take a few days to fix it up. Prob’ly you can leave here day after tomorrow. We’ll fix it up for you at the hotel, so don’t worry about that.”

The grizzled cowman who had tried to explain things to the old man stepped up and pressed a ten-dollar bill into the old man’s hands.

“For a little hooch,” he said softly. “You need it, Uncle Billy.”

The old man looked at the bill, his lips working nervously. He was aching with the desire for liquor, but somewhere within him was a spark which the whisky had not yet extinguished. He did not meet the gaze of the big cowman as he handed back the money with shaking hands.

“N-no, Jim O’Leary,” he said hoarsely. “I—I’m not goin’ to be thirsty for liquor no more. Thank yuh jist the same.”

“Better be sure, Uncle Billy.”

Uncle Billy looked up at O’Leary, a firm resolve in his old eyes. His shoulders squared a little—just a little.

“I’m sure, Jim. I’m goin’ to the one place on earth where I never expected to go—and I want t’ go clean. I’ve been an awful fool, ain’t I? Everythin’ is gone. I’ve lost my ranch, my cattle and the respect of everybody. I lost my—wife.”

He started to say more, but it seemed that he was forced to shut his lips, and O’Leary stepped aside to let him stagger out of the room. Out at the edge of the narrow board sidewalk Uncle Billy paused, blinking in the bright light and surveyed the main street of Medicine River.

Across the street was the War Paint saloon, its wide-open door disclosing the fact that men were at the bar. Uncle Billy could hear the clink of glasses, the dull rumble of conversation, but he did not cross the street. Instead, he made his erratic way up to the walk to a point beyond the Medicine River bank. He sat down on the edge of the high sidewalk where a gnarled cottonwood, the only one on the street, afforded a little shade.

Jim O’Leary shook his head and walked up the street to the bank, where he stepped inside and shook hands with Parker Miller, president of the institution. They were old friends. O’Leary drew Miller to the door and pointed at old Uncle Billy.

“Somebody said there was a movement on foot to send him to the poor-farm,” said Miller. “How did he take it, Jim?”

“Oh, I dunno, Park. I feel sorry for him, but I s’pose it’s the best thing to do.”

“The best thing,” nodded Miller.

“You own the Diamond H now, don’tcha?” asked O’Leary.

Miller smiled grimly.

“Yes, we own it, Jim—such as it is.”

“Meanin’ what, Park? The Diamond H is—”

“Come in and let’s talk in my office,” suggested Miller.

O’Leary followed him through the bank, speaking to Frank Laskey, the cashier, who nodded pleasantly. O’Leary was a good customer of the bank. Once in the private office, Miller picked up the conversation.

“Yes, we own the Diamond H, Jim. When Uncle Billy and his wife busted up over Uncle Billy’s drinking and gambling, we took a first mortgage on the Diamond H for ten thousand dollars.

“At that time we were sure that Uncle Billy and Ma Holton would patch things up. You see Uncle Billy and his wife divided up everything, Uncle Billy keeping the ranch and giving her ten thousand in cash.

“The mortgage was for one year, Jim. The Diamond H was worth a lot more than that. Uncle Billy kept drinking and gambling all that year, and when the mortgage came due he had no money to pay it off. In fact he was too addled from drink to care.

“A bank is different than an individual, Jim. I was forced to foreclose. There is a year allowed for redemption, you know. That year was up a month ago. Right now the Medicine River bank owns the Diamond H ranch, and there isn’t twenty head of stock wearing that brand on this range.”

O’Leary looked curiously at the banker, “You mean that somebody got away with the stock, Park?”

Miller spread his hands, a sour smile on his lips, “Draw your own conclusions, Jim. We couldn’t put guards on the job to protect a mortgage. The old man is no fool.”

“You think he sold the cattle?”

“What would you think?”

“But he’s goin’ to the poor-farm, Park.”

“There are no bars to keep him there.”

“That’s true, Park. Hm-m-m. I never thought of that. Are yuh sure about the cattle?”

“Absolutely. Perhaps the ranch itself is worth ten thousand dollars, but I’m afraid no one would pay that much.”

“No, not hardly. It looks like the bank was stuck.”

“Not only looks like it—it is, Jim.”

“Well, it’s a funny proposition. I hear you’ve got a new man in charge of the Diamond H.”

“Yes. In fact, I’ve got two men. I heard them arguing the other day about which was the foreman, so I don’t know exactly which one is in charge.” Miller laughed softly. “I don’t mind telling you that the men were recommended to me by the Cattle Association.”

“Stock detectives?”

“No, I don’t think so, Jim. Anyway, I didn’t ask for a detective. I wanted a dependable man who was also a practical cowman. You know there isn’t an available man around here. Of course I might have taken one of the cowboys, but I thought it might be better to have a stranger. These men come well-recommended, and they seem to know their business.”

“Yakima Reed and Chuck Allison are still there, ain’t they?”

“No. The ranch won’t support four hired men. I asked Hartley if the two of them could run the place and he said that the two of them could run the whole —— government, if they had half a chance.”

“Yore foreman named Hartley, Park?”

“Yes. The other man is named Stevens.”

“Have yuh questioned the old man about the stock?”

“Yes, but he didn’t seem to understand what I meant. It’s a bad deal all the way around; the old man goes to the poor-farm and the Medicine River bank has made a bad investment.”

“Where is the old lady livin’ now?”

“I think she is still in Phoenix, but we have never heard. It was a shame for two people of their age to separate, Jim. Both of them salt of the earth. After she left him he sobered up and said he was through drinking, but I guess he lost heart.”

“I offered him a ten-spot today,” said O’Leary. “He sure needed a shot of liquor, but he refused the money. Said he was through.”

“Might as well start now,” smiled Miller. “He won’t get any of it where he’s going.”

“How didja say yuh wanted yore aig, ‘Hashknife?’” “Sleepy Stevens” leaned over the range at the Diamond H ranch, a hot frying pan in one hand, an egg in the other.

Hashknife Hartley sprawled across the table, reading a dog’s-eared copy of a medicine almanac, squinted at Sleepy, as he licked his thumb and turned a page.

“Turned over,” he said shortly. “Yuh ask me that every time.”

The egg sizzled in the hot fat.

“Sleepy, what sign of the Zodiac was you born under?”

“What’sa Zod’ac, Hashknife?”

“Circle of —— fool pictures. Goat, mess of fish and a jigger who has just been operated on and—”

Sleepy had tried to flop the egg in the pan and was now looking down at the splatter on the floor.

“You get yore egg planked,” said Sleepy.

“Not on Tuesday, Mister Stevens. Try agin’.”

“You take it or leave it, cowboy,” declared Sleepy. “There’s jist one aig left, and I’m eatin’ mine straight-up.”

“Just one left, Sleepy?”

“You know that’s all. Lady Godiva and Mary Garden only lays one aig per day apiece, Hashknife.”

“I sabe human nature, Sleepy; but ain’t we got three chickens?”

“We has. The third one is a baritone.”

“Oh, that’s his alibi, eh?”

Sleepy fried his egg, put it on a plate and sat down at the far end of the table from Hashknife, who drank his coffee and read ancient jokes from the almanac.

And these were the two men who had been recommended by the Cattlemen’s Association of Arizona to manage the affairs of the Diamond H ranch. Hashknife Hartley stood close to six feet and a half in his high-heeled boots, his slenderness accentuated by his height. His face was long and bony, invariably sad in repose, his eyes nested in a mass of grin-wrinkles. Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder and slightly bowed of legs. His over-developed sense of humor showed in the grin-marks of his face, while his eyes seemed to register a perpetual innocence of guile. These two were not at all ornamental, but entirely capable.

Sleepy finished his egg and leaned back to enjoy a cigaret.

“I’ve made up our minds,” he said slowly, exhaling a thin stream of smoke through his nostrils and squinting thoughtfully at his cigaret.

“Thasso?” Hashknife looked up from his almanac.

“Yea-a-ap. We’re goin’ to wash up the dishes, saddle up and ride down to Medicine River. When we git there we’re goin’ to walk in the bank, hand Mr. Miller the key to the lock and tell him we’re surrenderin’.”

“Thasso? Huh. Sleepy, here’s another funny story. An Irishman—”

“I’ve heard yuh read that three times today, Hashknife. I can recite every danged thing in that almanac, except the moonrise and the sunfall, and who in —— cares about that? Honest to grandma, I’m sick of this fool job. Nothin’ to do!” Sleepy got to his feet and waved his arms.

“’S a good job,” said Hashknife.

“Good for what? There ain’t nothin’ to do, except feed two hens and a rooster, eat three times a day and play crib. By grab, I’ve fifteen-two’d until I hate —— out of a crib-board. Hashknife, I like you quite a little. You’ve got some likable qualities, even if yuh don’t look it. Are yuh listenin’ to me, you sand-hill crane?”

“Feller don’t have to listen when yuh yell thataway, Sleepy.”

“All right. You got us into this here job. They made a mistake when they hired men to handle this place, Hashknife. A couple of old ladies would be almost too much for these jobs. So I’m goin’ away. You can stay if yuh want to, but Mister Stevens’ fav’rite son is goin’ to fare him forth to the broad highway in search for adventure, sabe?”

“Here’s another good one, Sleepy. A feller comes home drunk one night and—”

“Aw-w-w, ——!” Sleepy snorted indignantly and walked to the door. “Been here two weeks and all that’s happened is two aigs per day bein’ layed.”

“Yeah, it has been kinda tranquil,” admitted Hashknife.

“Tranquil! My ——, it’s been overbearin’. The rust has began to flake off me.” He walked outside and circled around to the porch, where he sat down to contemplate. Hashknife sauntered through the house and joined him on the porch, still carrying the almanac. Sleepy noticed this, and snorted defiantly.

“Don’t read t’ me,” he pleaded.

“Yo’re bilious, Sleepy. We’ll ride down and get yuh some calomel.”

“Calomel! I never seen such a range. I’m gettin’ bed-sores, I tell yuh! If this keeps up much longer I’m goin’ to take a shot at somebody. I want action, cowboy. It ain’t like you to stay here and grow rusty, Hashknife.”

“I ain’t kickin’,” said Hashknife slowly. “If they’d said there was a lot of trouble in this country, you’d kick agin’ comin’, and when there ain’t no trouble yuh kick because there ain’t. Yore idea of a happy medium would be to have a feller with a busted gun huntin’ for yuh, Sleepy.”

“Thasso? By golly, I wish that everybody in the country would rise up agin’ me,” he said savagely. “I’m all primed to fight the world.”

“Sorry, Napoleon, but we’re jist out of wars this week. We’ve got a shipment on the way, but yuh know how unreliable freight is these days.”

“Yo’re awful funny, Hashknife.”

“I’ve got a funny job, pardner.”

“Uh-huh, yuh shore have. There comes the stage.”

The road from Lone Fir paralleled the west fence of the Diamond H ranch enclosure, and they watched the creaking vehicle, drawn by four horses, come to a stop at the ranch-house gate.

“Must be a new almanac for yuh,” observed Sleepy. It was an uncommon thing for the stage to stop at the ranch.

The driver was busy unstrapping a trunk from the boot, and a woman dismounted, her arms filled with packages. The driver carried the trunk to the gate, talked for several moments with the woman before mounting his seat and driving on toward Medicine River.

“Company, by golly,” said Sleepy. “Now who in thunder is this?”

They walked down toward the gate and met the little old lady, who was coming toward them, her dusty face beaming.

“Oh, I thought it was some of the boys I knew,” she said, as she looked them over. There was disappointment in her voice.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Hashknife smiling. “I’d shore like to be one of the boys yuh used to know.”

“Well, it’s all right,” she laughed at them and allowed Hashknife to relieve her of some bundles.

“My name is Hartley,” he told her. “I’m in charge of the ranch.”

“I’m Stevens,” grinned Sleepy, his grouch forgotten. “I’m in charge of half of the ranch.”

The old lady laughed and dusted off her shirts, “My, it sure is dusty on that stage. I am Mrs. Holton. Mostly everybody calls me Ma Holton. Oh, lordy, it is good to be home.” She breathed deeply and her eyes suddenly filled with tears.

To Hashknife and Sleepy it was an awkward situation. They followed her to the front porch, where she leaned against one of the porch posts, as though all tired out.

“Can I help yuh, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.

“Help me? No, I guess not, Mr. Hartley. You see it has been a long, long time since I last saw the old place, and it—it—”

“Thasall right.” Hashknife patted her on the shoulder. “You go ahead and cry all yuh want to, while me and Sleepy go down and get yore trunk.”

They left her standing beside the post and went down after the trunk.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“I dunno. She says she came home. We’ve heard enough of the story to sabe that she’s the former wife of old man Holton, Uncle Billy. But I dunno why she came home, Sleepy. Anyway, it ain’t none of our danged business. She’s a darned sweet old lady, and if she wants to live on the old ranch, it’s all right with me.”

“Me too,” echoed Sleepy.

Ma Holton had gone in the house by the time they arrived with the trunk, but she was waiting for them.

“Will you unrope it right away?” she asked. “I must get out my work clothes. Of all the dirty houses I have ever seen, this is the worst.”

“Yes’m,” said Sleepy. “Me and Hashknife ain’t much on the chambermaid stuff.”

“Most men ain’t,” she said. “But I’m just so glad to be here that I don’t mind a little dirt. I haven’t been in the kitchen yet.”

“That’s good,” said Hashknife.

Sleepy coiled up the rope and hurried to the kitchen, where he proceeded to mop up the planked egg and otherwise knock the top layer off the worst of the dirt, while Hashknife leaned in the doorway and whistled unmusically.

“Anyway,” said Sleepy philosophically, “somethin’ happened.”

“It mostly always does,” said Hashknife. “We’ll have to quit swearin’ so —— much around the house.”

Ma Holton appeared in her work clothes, threw up her hands in holy horror at the appearance of the kitchen and began a cleaning campaign such as the old Diamond H ranch-house had not seen in a long time. Hashknife and Sleepy helped her willingly. It was a welcome change from the two weeks of idleness, and they went to it with a will.

They told her about how they happened to be in charge of the ranch, and how they had spent their time.

“Huntin’ for aigs mostly,” said Sleepy. “Lady Godiva kinda played a game with us every day. That danged hen shore hid her produce on us, Ma.”

“What a name for a hen!” exclaimed Ma Holton.

“There she is now,” grinned Sleepy, pointing through the open doorway.

“Prob’ly wonderin’ why we don’t hunt her daily aig.”

“Why, that poor hen is moulting. It’s a wonder she layed at all.”

“Is that what she’s doin’?” queried Sleepy. “We didn’t know. She was runnin’ around without hardly any clothes on, so we named her thataway. The other one gits all over dust and does a wiggle-dance. We didn’t figger out a name for the he-hen.”

Ma Holton laughed and leaned on her broom.

“Oh, it seems good to be back in the cow-country boys; to hear a cowboy talk again.”

“Yes’m, I s’pose it does. You aim to stay here all the time?”

“As long as I live, I hope. You see, I own the ranch now.”

“Yuh do?”

“Yes, I bought the mortgage and paid the interest. It took every cent I owned, but I don’t mind. There is money to be made on this ranch, and right now it is worth a lot more than the price of that mortgage.”

Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. They knew that the Diamond H was not a paying concern.

“Yuh bought it from the bank?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes. A man came up to Cheyenne and we settled up everything. I have always had this in mind. You see, it was my home for so many years that I—I just had to come back.”

“Ten thousand, wasn’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“And interest, yes,” Ma Holton laughed softly. “I got me a job in a store in Cheyenne and I never had to spend my bankroll.”

“Well, Ma, I’m glad for yuh,” said Hashknife. “I wish there was somethin’ we could do for yuh, but there don’t seem to be. We’ll go down to the bank in the mornin’ and see Mr. Miller. He won’t want us any longer, and you’ll want to hire some of the boys you’ve knowed for a long time, of course.”

“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t been here for so long that I don’t know any of the boys, I suppose. Things must have changed.”

She worked for several minutes, cleaning off the stove, polishing thoughtfully. Then:

“I suppose you’ve heard of our—our trouble. Most every one has, it seems. Did—did you ever meet Mr. Holton, Uncle Billy?”

Hashknife squinted at Sleepy, who scratched his head and moved over closer to the door. Ma Holton looked up at Hashknife and found him picking an imaginary splinter in his thumb.

“You have seen him, haven’t you?” she asked.

“Yes’m,” admitted Hashknife.

“Well,” she looked from one to the other, “what is wrong? He isn’t—” She hesitated and came closer to Hashknife. “What is it? I—I haven’t heard, you see.”

“Well, I don’t know him, Ma,” said Hashknife slowly. “We’re kinda strangers in this range, me and Sleepy. But I s’pose I might as well tell yuh. A man rode past here last night and said there was a meetin’ in Medicine River yesterday and they decided to send Uncle Henry Holton to the—to the poor-farm.”

“To the poor-farm?” She stared at Hashknife. “Sending him to the poor-farm? Why—why that—is it true?”

“Yes’m, I s’pose it is. I dunno any reason why this man should lie to us about it, ’cause it wasn’t any of our business.”

Ma Holton walked away from the stove and sat down in a chair. Her face was almost as gray as her hair now. Hashknife shifted nervously. He could see Sleepy walking down across the yard toward the corrals, and wished that he was with him. He wanted to say something to the old lady, but there was nothing to be said.

“They held a meeting and decided to send him to the poor-farm,” she said slowly, as though repeating a sentence and was not quite certain that she was wording it properly.

“Yes’m,” said Hashknife softly.

She looked up at him and shook her head, “No, that cannot be the truth. You see, we—we—why, Uncle Billy and me lived here in this house for twenty years. This is as much his home as mine.”

“Yes’m, I s’pose it is.”

“He got to drinking, Uncle Billy did. I suppose lots of men do.”

“Yes’m. It ain’t no uncommon thing to do.”

She shook her head and looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“I got religion,” she said simply.

“Yes’m, I’ve knowed folks to get religion.”

“It was a revival meeting. I got religion—and Uncle Billy got drunk.”

“Everybody accordin’ to their views,” said Hashknife in all seriousness.

“I suppose. I lost my religion, after it was all over, but Uncle Billy still drank. I—my religion was like small-pox, I guess. It was awful while it lasted, and I’ve still got some of the pits left. It wasn’t a good religion though. I had the religious spirit, but not the Christian one. It was the kind that tears down temples instead of trying to clean them. I can see it now, when it is too late.”

“There ain’t anythin’ too late,” said Hashknife, “except dodgin’ a bullet or delayin’ yore departure from a spot near the hind legs of a mule.”

Ma Holton looked at him and smiled. He was smiling, and there was something contagious about his smile.

“I think I like you,” she said.

“That’s good, Ma.”

They were sort of holding a mutual admiration meeting, when Sleepy came softly in and placed an egg on the table at Ma’s elbow.

“Lady Godiva’s,” he said softly, and turned back to the door.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hashknife.

“I’m shadowin’ Mary Garden. If you think it’s hard to trail a horse-thief, you jist try out-guessin’ a danged hen.”

Sleepy hunched his shoulders and went slowly across the yard, while from down in the willows behind the stable came the well-known Cut, cut, cut, ca-dar-cut of a triumphant hen.

“If he gets that other egg, I’ll make a cake,” said Ma Holton.

“Well, if he don’t, I will,” declared Hashknife, and he went down toward the willows, fairly galloping in his haste, while Ma Holton stood in the kitchen door, a wistful smile on her old face. At least she was at home, among the kind of people she had always known, and she must smile, even with the pain in her heart.

It was after the best meal they had eaten on the Diamond H that Hashknife and Sleepy sat together on the porch of the ranch-house, while Ma Holton cleaned up the supper dishes.

“This is what I’d call home now,” observed Sleepy expansively.

Hashknife nodded thoughtfully over his cigaret. Ma Holton was singing an old church hymn, and Hashknife squinted at the open door behind them.

“Sleepy, that danged bank has stuck Ma for this ranch. It ain’t worth the price of that mortgage. The buildings are pretty old and need a lot of repair, and this ain’t a country where there’s much of a premium on water. There ain’t twenty head of Diamond H stock in these hills, so where does she get off?”

“Well, let her find out,” advised Sleepy. “She’s just as happy as a medder-lark now, and that one jolt yuh gave her is enough for one day. She’s stuck, that’s a cinch—and I feel like goin’ down and stickin’ up that bank for ten thousand.”

“And interest, Sleepy—at eight percent.”

Ma Holton came out and joined them a few minutes later, and Sleepy carried a rocking-chair from the living-room. It was one of those quiet evenings, with only the sleepy calling of the birds and the faraway bawling of a cow to break the stillness. The twilight had softened the harsh contour of the ridges and some of the sunset colors still glowed in the western horizon.

“There don’t seem to be any cattle using that ridge tonight,” said Ma Holton, pointing at a broken hog-back ridge, backed by a streak of opal sky. “Uncle Billy and me used to sit here in the evenin’ and watch them coming down to water, with the sunset colors behind them. We used to think it was better than any picture ever painted.”

“I’ll betcha,” agreed Hashknife, and added, “Mebbe there’s water back in the upper cañons, Ma, and they don’t have to come down to the creek.”

“Perhaps. I wonder if things have changed much. It seems as though I have been away only a few days. The old place hasn’t changed much. We used to have awful good times here—big dinners and dances—and folks used to come from all over the country. You haven’t been here long enough to meet many folks, have you?”

“Not many,” said Hashknife.

So she told them of the good days of the Diamond H, while they smoked and listened. It was a life they both knew well, the rough, hearty, big-hearted fun of the range country, where laughter quickly followed tears, and where people were friends, not merely acquaintances.

“But it’s still thataway here,” said Hashknife. “There ain’t nothin’ to change folks, Ma. The old Diamond H will always be the same old place, and a friend is always a friend.”

“Yes, that is true, but the Diamond H will never be the same.”

They knew what she meant. Uncle Billy had always been the moving spirit in the festivities.

The last trace of the twilight faded. Gone was the ridge where the cattle used to come down to drink. Ma Holton sighed and got to her feet.

“I’m tired,” she said, “but I’m happy tired. Won’t you boys sleep in the house tonight, instead of the bunk-house? It—it seems lonesome, somehow.”

“Sure, we’d jist as soon, Ma,” said Sleepy. “We’ll take that back bedroom, if yuh don’t mind.”

“Thank you, boys. I’ll go in now.”

She went in the living-room and lighted the lamp, while Hashknife and Sleepy rolled a good-night cigaret. The big gate, which opened out to the main road, creaked softly, and they heard the wooden fastener cluck back into the socket.

“Somebody comin’,” observed Hashknife, peering toward the gate. It was several minutes before they discerned the form of a man, coming slowly toward them. He came up to the porch, where the light from the doorway illuminated his face.

It was Uncle Billy Holton. He did not seem to see them for a moment, as he peered around.

“Good evenin’,” said Hashknife pleasantly. The old man started.

“I didn’t see anybody around,” he said wearily. “It got dark on me. Mebbe I started out too late, and I—I didn’t realize it was so far.”

“Didja walk out here from town?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah, I—” He hesitated for a moment. “I was goin’ away tomorrow mornin’ and I kinda thought I’d like to take a look at the old place before I went. But it’s too dark now; so I’ll jist set down for a few minutes and then go back.”

“For ——’s sake!” whispered Hashknife. He had turned his head and saw Ma Holton standing in the doorway. She was holding to both sides of the doorway, looking out at the old man.

He lifted his head and looked at her. She had her back to the light, but Hashknife could see the strained expression on the old man’s face, as he looked at her; an expression of astonishment, hope, misery. He lifted a hand and brushed it across his eyes.

“Uncle Billy, is that you?” she whispered.

“Yeah; it’s—it’s me, Ma,” he said hoarsely. “I jist came back.”

“I just came back, too, Billy.”

They were still staring at each other, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the sleeve and drew him around the corner of the house.

“There’s some things that’s too —— sacred for two ordinary cowpunchers to listen to,” said Hashknife thickly, as they sat down on the steps of the bunk-house.

“Uh-huh,” gulped Sleepy. “My ——, I was glad to git out of there. Walked all the way out here to take a look at the old ranch, and it got dark on him. Jist wanted to set down for a few minutes and then walk back. Aw-w-w, ——!”

“I’ll play yuh a game of crib,” offered Hashknife.

“All right. Best two out of three, and then we’ll mosey back and see if the old folks are still astonished at each other.”

It was possibly an hour later that the game broke up and the two cowboys left the bunk-house. “’S a funny thing there ain’t no light,” observed Hashknife.

“Prob’ly settin’ on the porch and savin’ oil,” grinned Sleepy. “Man, I’m bettin’ they had a lot to talk about.”

But there was no one on the front porch. The door was wide open, but from within came no sound. They walked in and Hashknife scratched a match.

“For ——’s sake, light the lamp!” exclaimed Sleepy, as the flare of the match partly illuminated the room.

Hashknife lighted the lamp and then looked around. Ma Holton was roped to a rocking-chair and gagged with a dish-towel, while Uncle Billy sprawled on his face near the door.

As quickly as possible Sleepy removed the ropes and gag from the old lady, while Hashknife lifted the old man to the couch and examined his injuries. His right eye was swollen shut from a blow which had struck him near the right temple, but otherwise he seemed uninjured.

Ma Holton was unable to talk until Sleepy gave her a drink of water.

“For gosh sake, what happened?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t hardly know,” she confessed, looking anxiously at Uncle Billy, who was still unconscious.

“He’s all right,” assured Hashknife. “Just a tunk on the head. He ain’t in very good physical shape and it played him plumb out.”

“Didn’t yuh see who done it?” questioned Sleepy.

“No,” Ma Holton shook her head. “We were sitting on the porch, and I noticed that the lamp had gone out. I told Uncle Billy that it must have burned dry and we went inside to light another lamp.

“Then I felt somebody grab me. I thought at first it was Uncle Billy, and I started to say something, when a cloth was shoved in my mouth and some one grabbed my arms. I—I tried to fight, but it was no use.

“I heard somebody swear and Uncle Billy called to me, but just then I heard somebody fall, and it must have been Uncle Billy.”

“Yuh don’t know how many men were here?” asked Hashknife.

“No, I didn’t see anybody. It was awful dark in here. But there must have been more than one.”

“That’s a queer deal,” muttered Hashknife. They secured a pan of water and bathed the old man’s head. He had been hit hard, but soon recovered. His story was about the same as Ma Holton’s.

Hashknife propped him up against a pillow, lighted another lamp and went on a tour of inspection. But they could find nobody, nor could they find any reason for the attack. As far as they could determine nothing had been touched.

Range folks are not in the habit of locking windows and doors; so it was an easy matter for any one to enter the house from the rear. They went back to the living-room, where they found the old man much improved.

“It’s beyond me,” declared Ma Holton. “Why in the world would any one do this to us, I’d like to know. It was just like having a nightmare. There I was, setting in that chair, unable to move or talk, and I knew that Uncle Billy had been hurt. Oh, it seemed hours before I heard you boys coming.”

“What do you make of it, Uncle Billy?” asked Sleepy.

“Craziest thing I ever heard of. No reason for it.”

“Mm-m-m. Any popular lunatics in this country?”

Uncle Billy laughed painfully and felt of his head, “Not that we have any record of. I s’pose we’re all more or less crazy.”

“Anybody got it in for you?” asked Hashknife.

Uncle Billy squinted painfully, “Well, I—I don’t think that any of them would sneak up on me in the dark.”

“Well, they didn’t do any talking,” said Ma. “They didn’t plug my ears. I heard them leave this room, but I couldn’t turn my head, so I don’t know where they went, nor how long they stayed.”

“How long was it after we left?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t know,” confessed Ma. “You see,” she smiled wistfully, “there are times when folks forget the minutes.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha,” grinned Hashknife. “Well, it’s all over and nobody got killed. They won’t come back tonight, so I move that we all go to bed. I’ll make a bandage for Uncle Billy. If you’ve got a little arnica we’ll plumb ruin that swellin’—and a black eye wears out after while.”

“He is going to stay here,” said Ma Holton. “He can have that bedroom on the east side. You see, Uncle Billy ain’t going to no poor-farm. We were both fools and we admit it. And just as soon as we can find a minister or a justice of the peace, we’re going to get married again.”

“Hurray!” whooped Hashknife. “And we’ll pull off a dance in the old Diamond H, eh? Make old Medicine River set up and howl at the moon. Whooee-e-e!”

He slapped Uncle Billy on the back, almost upsetting him and did a war-dance around Ma Holton’s chair.

“But will they come to our dance?” asked Ma wistfully.

“Will who come?”

“The folks of Medicine River?”

“They’ll come a-runnin’, or feet-first, Ma. Get me that arnica.”

Uncle Billy got to his feet, bracing one hand against the table, and looked down at Ma Holton.

“Ma,” he said, his voice quavering, “I thought the old world had come to an end—but it’s just startin’.”

But long after every one else at the Diamond H had gone to sleep, Hashknife fought his pillow and wondered what it was all about; wondered why any one would mishandle two old people for no visible reason.

Hashknife knew that some one had robbed the Diamond H. He and Sleepy had been told all about it before they took the job. But they had not been hired to hunt for rustlers, so that part of the deal did not interest them.

But Hashknife was interested in the fact that the bank had sold Ma Holton the mortgage. Possibly it was business, mused Hashknife, but a bad business. She had bought a pig in a poke.

“Anyway, I’m goin’ down and tell Miller what I think of him tomorrow,” decided Hashknife. “I may not be able to do it, ’cause I ain’t got a whole lot of words, but I’ll use what I’ve got.”

Sleepy was snoring loudly; so Hashknife stuffed part of the pillow in his mouth before he blew out the lamp.

“Whaza want?” grunted Sleepy.

“I jist wanted to tell yuh that I think the peace of the Diamond H is about over.”

“Thaz good. Go sleep, you danged owl.”

Andrew Jackson Polk was a very self-satisfied sort of an attorney at law. He was so broad-minded that right or wrong was all a matter of precedent. Like Abraham Lincoln, he was gaunt of frame and rather coarse of feature, but the resemblance stopped right there. He was prominent in two places—his nose and his Adam’s apple.

It was a common practice for Andrew Jackson Polk to leave his little office on the main street of Medicine River about nine o’clock in the morning—he slept in the rear of the office—and cross the street to the War Paint saloon, where he imbibed a large glass of “cawn-juice” and exchanged pleasantries with the bartender.

It might be well to mention that Andrew Jackson Polk was from the South—or rather his paternal ancestors had moved from somewhere in that locality while Andrew was still in swaddling clothes, but in some way he had adhered to the Southern drawl, affected by stage colonels, Uncle Toms, etc.

At any rate, he was a leading attorney of the Medicine River country, so his ancestry and dialect was neither a help nor a hindrance in a land where nobody cared who your grandfather was nor how you talked.

And it so happened that he fared forth to the War Paint saloon to absorb his morning’s morning and met therein Hashknife and Sleepy, who had ridden early from the Diamond H. They had left Ma and Uncle Billy telling each other across the breakfast table what they would do to make amends for the things they had done before.

“Have somethin’ to shake the sleep out of yuh,” invited Hashknife.

“Thank yuh, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, nodding to the bartender. “I’ll take the usual, Jeff.”

Thereupon Jeff Long, the bartender, filled a large high-ball glass with corn liquor and shoved it across the bar.

“To you, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, and the two cowboys watched in amazement as the Adam’s apple vibrated convulsively and the glass was empty.

“My ——!” snorted Sleepy. “You shore don’t gnaw at yore liquor.”

“Ahem-m-m!” Andrew Jackson Polk shuddered, grimaced—smiled.

“I don’t like to get personal, but I’d like to know what yore business is,” said Hashknife.

“I am,” said Andrew J. Polk, “an attorney at law. My name is Andrew Jackson Polk, at your service, suh.”

“Uh-huh—a lawyer.”

“Commonly called,” nodded Polk. The huge drink had begun to percolate and he expanded visibly. “I have been mentioned as a possibility for county attorney, although I have never been an office seeker.”

“Kinda hide yore light under a bushel, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“I do not seek the flare of publicity. Shall we drink again?”

“I’d like to,” said Sleepy innocently. “I’ve been havin’ a little trouble with my eyes, and I wasn’t sure whether I seen right or not.”

They drank again, still amazed at the swallowing ability of Andrew Jackson Polk. It was not often that the attorney imbibed the second drink, but common courtesy forced him to return the compliment—and he had eaten no breakfast as yet.

The two cowboys rolled their cigarets, while Andrew Jackson Polk leaned on the bar, examining his empty glass. He had not cleared his throat, following the last drink, but finally was able to accomplish it. He upset his glass on the bar, knocked it aside, as though it was something he never expected to use again, and unbuttoned his collar.

“Feel cramped around the neck?” asked Sleepy innocently.

“I feel nothing, suh,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “I am about to sing.” He braced his legs and tried several times to hum a tune, but the effort was wasted.

“Let’s not sing,” suggested Hashknife.

“I bow to shuperior wishdom,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “Let’s go and eat shomething.”

“We had breakfast at the ranch,” said Hashknife.

“What ranch—if I may ask a question, suh?”

“The Diamond H.”

“Oh!” Andrew Jackson Polk squinted with one eye at Hashknife. “Diamond H, eh? It appears, suh, that you are the strangers who have taken charge of that ranch. I am pleased to meet yo’, gentlemen. And now I must tea’ myself away. Until we meet again, gentlemen.”

He struck his shoulder against the side of the door, turned completely around on the sidewalk and only saved himself from a fall by grasping a porch-post with both hands.

“Whoa!” he snorted.

It took him some time to get his bearings, and he went up the street, heading in the direction of the nearest restaurant, and giving a good imitation of a man who realizes his condition, but defies the world to prove it by his walk.

“Drunken dignity,” laughed Hashknife. “I never was able to figure out why a lawyer should try to be dignified, unless they had so much to conceal that they was afraid to relax.”

“Polk is a queer jigger,” said the bartender. “I’ve been here quite a while, but this is the first time I’ve ever seen him take two drinks in succession.”

“If he took three he’d have to wear a divin’ suit,” laughed Sleepy.

A man came from a room at the rear of the saloon, carrying a suitcase, and stopped at the bar. He was a plainly dressed, rather pale-faced sort of a person. He nodded to Hashknife and shook hands with the bartender.

“Goin’ to take the stage, Charley?” asked the bartender.

“Yes. Be good to yourself, Jeff. I’ll probably be back in a month or so. Don’t take any bad money and keep away from the girls.”

“You leave that to me, Charley. So-long.”

He picked up his suitcase, nodded to the two cowboys and walked across the street.

“Best faro dealer in the country,” said the bartender. “He’s been goin’ to take a vacation for a long time.”

“What’s his name?” asked Sleepy.

“Charley Deal. Name kinda fits his occupation, eh?”

“He don’t look like a gambler,” observed Hashknife.

“Well, he sure is.” The bartender polished a glass carefully. “Charley never raises his voice, never seems to get mad. Mebbe it’s because he’s educated. But lemme tell yuh somethin’, gents: Don’t never start nothin’ with him.”

“Not us,” said Hashknife. “We never start trouble with anybody. If everybody was like me and Sleepy, they could turn West Point into a hospital for crippled doves.”

“I suppose they could,” nodded the bartender innocently. It was doubtful if he knew what West Point was, and he was willing to take the crippled doves for granted.

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they purchased some tobacco. There was little of interest around Medicine River at that time in the day, and they wanted to kill time until the bank opened.

Andrew Jackson Polk was coming from the restaurant. A big breakfast had killed the effects of the liquor, and he was fairly sober. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him into his office, but he was none too cordial.

“You got any free advice this mornin’?” asked Hashknife.

“Personal or legal, suh?” asked Polk.

“Personal don’t cost anythin’, so we’ll call this personal. I’m lookin’ for an opinion, Polk. Suppose a bank takes a mortgage on a piece of property. This property depreciates badly, but the bank is forced to take it over. The bank knows danged well that this property ain’t worth nowhere near the amount of the mortgage, but they sells it for that amount, naturally leading the buyer to suppose that it is worth as much as when they gave the mortgage. What can the buyer do?”

Andrew Jackson Polk squinted at Hashknife, rubbed his own right ear industriously and shook his head.

“It looks to me like the buyer was stuck, suh.”

“If the seller misrepresented the value?”

“He didn’t do that, did he?”

“I dunno. Suppose he did?”

“Mm-m-m. That’s different, suh. Offhand, I would say that the buyer seems to have grounds foh legal action.”

“Much obliged,” grinned Hashknife. They started to leave the room.

“In case of legal action, I am always at my office, suh.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Hashknife seriously.

It was a few minutes later that the bank was opened by Parker Miller, and the two cowboys lost no time in entering therein. He called a cheery “hello” to them, gave some orders to the cashier and came back to see what they wanted.

“Well, what’s new?” he asked.

“Nothin’ much,” admitted Hashknife. “We figured that you was through with our services; so we rode in early.”

“Through with your services?” Miller did not seem to understand. “Just what do you mean, boys?”

“Well, since the bank sold the Diamond H—” began Hashknife.

“Sold the Diamond H?” Miller’s serious expression was replaced by a smile. “What’s the joke, Hartley?”

Hashknife squinted at Miller for a moment and nodded toward Miller’s private office.

“Mebbe we better talk back there, Miller.”

Miller closed the door behind them and waited for Hashknife to speak. It did not take him long to explain about Ma Holton. In fact Hashknife grew rather bitter in his narrative.

“But we haven’t sold the ranch,” protested Miller. “There is a mistake somewhere, Hartley. Wait a moment.”

He stepped outside and called to Frank Laskey, who left his desk and came in the private office.

“What negotiations have ever been made toward selling the Diamond H?” asked Miller.

Laskey squinted thoughtfully. “None, except that letter from Mrs. Holton. I showed you that.”

“Yes, I remember the letter. She wrote us, asking what had been done about the mortgage, I believe.”

“I have her letter on file,” said Laskey. “I wrote an answer, in which I told her that the legal time had elapsed and that the bank owned the Diamond H. I remember the incident very well. Shall I get her letter and a copy of my reply?”

“I wish yuh would,” said Hashknife. Laskey looked at Miller, who nodded. They looked over her letter and the carbon copy of Laskey’s reply, but there was nothing to gain from the letters.

“She said she paid ten thousand dollars for the ranch?” asked Miller.

“And interest,” nodded Hashknife

“Did she say she had the mortgage?”

“That’s what she said.”

Frank Laskey brought in the original mortgage and Hashknife looked it over. There was no question that this was the genuine document. Laskey took it back to the vault. Hashknife squinted away from the smoke of his cigaret and looked at Miller. There was little question in his mind of Miller’s honesty.

“This is goin’ to be ——, Miller,” said Hashknife sadly. “She thinks she’s saved Uncle Billy from the poor-house, and all she’s done is to buy a ticket there herself.”

“It looks that way,” said Miller gloomily. “Is she in her right mind, Hartley? You know what I mean, don’t you? Perhaps she has worried about the old place so much that—well, it could happen.”

Hashknife shook his head quickly. “Not that, Miller. She’s as sane as we are. I tell yuh, she’s been hooked out of her money.”

“Well, I’d like to see that mortgage, Hartley—if there is one.”

Hashknife got to his feet and leaned against the table.

“Miller, I dunno how yuh feel about this matter. To tell her that she’s been beat out of her money will just about kill both of ’em. They’re gettin’ old, Miller. My ——, they just set there and plan what they’re goin’ to do. Try to imagine what it means, can’t yuh?”

“Yes, I think I can see your angle, Hartley.”

“Then help me out. Ride out with us and see that mortgage. Don’t let them know that it’s phoney. Yo’re payin’ me and Sleepy fifty apiece per month. You keep that money, Miller. All we need is food. Let the old folks stay, will yuh? They tell me that a bank ain’t got no feelin’s, but you can feel, Miller.”

“I don’t know,” faltered Miller. “They’d find out—”

“Mebby. Let’s take a chance. It won’t cost the bank anythin’ to experiment.”

“All right.” Miller got to his feet. “I’ll drive out there and see things for myself, Hartley. You could talk a Scotchman out of his religion. Come on.”

“I’ll take back what I came to say,” grinned Hashknife.

Hashknife and Sleepy arrived at the ranch ahead of Miller, who came with a horse and buggy. Ma Holton was cleaning house again, and Uncle Billy was helping her. The old ranch-house was beginning to look like a different place.

“I’m going to have roses again,” she told Hashknife. “I used to have a lot of them in the front yard. Uncle Billy and I had a long talk about you two boys.

“We’ll have to have help, you see. Until we get started it will be a little hard for us to pay you regular, but we’ll make it somehow, if you’ll stay. Of course, you may have other plans.”

“Not a plan, Ma,” assured Hashknife. Miller was driving up to the house.

“He said he was comin’ up to see how yo’re gettin’ along,” said Hashknife, as they went out to the front porch.

Miller shook hands with Ma and Uncle Billy and assured Ma that he was glad to see her back at the old ranch.

“You don’t know what it means to us, Mr. Miller. Life has just started for us again.”

“I—I see,” he faltered. “Mrs. Holton, I’d like to see that mortgage again, if I may. I just want to be sure that it is all made out right.”

“Why, certainly. I’m sure we all want to be sure that it is all right.”

She went in the house, where Uncle Billy had gone after some chairs, and the two cowboys thanked Miller in whispers.

“Forget it,” smiled Miller. “I only hope it will all come out right in the end.”

Uncle Billy carried out some chairs and placed them on the porch.

“Set down, folks,” he urged. “Ma’s cleanin’ house, and yuh know what that means.”

Uncle Billy’s eye was still discolored and there was a slight swelling on his temple. Hashknife had not told Miller about the queer incident of the night before, but Miller paid no attention to the black eye. He took it for granted that the old man had been drunk and injured himself.

“You like the old ranch, don’t you?” queried Miller.

“Like it?” Uncle Billy took a deep breath. “Yeah—I don’t know jist what to say. I’ve jist been wonderin’ if I don’t feel like a bear does, when he comes out of his cave in the Spring and gets a whiff of fresh air and sees the sunshine. It shore is great to be alive—out here.”

Ma Holton came to the doorway, a puzzled expression on her face.

“I can’t find that mortgage,” she said wonderingly. “It was in my bag—that and the bill-of-sale—and they’re both gone. The bag was under the bed, and I left it in the bureau drawer. I saw the handle of it sticking out from under the bed.”

She held the bag out for their inspection—empty. Miller and the two cowboys looked quickly at each other.

“That’s what them fellers came to steal!” exploded Uncle Billy. “They stole yore papers, Ma!”

“What fellows?” asked Miller.

Hashknife examined the bag, gave it back to Ma and sat down to tell Miller what had happened the night before.

“But the bank knows that I bought it and paid the money,” said Ma, appealing to Miller, who nodded slowly.

“And they can give yuh another bill-of-sale, Ma.” Uncle Billy patted her on the shoulder. “Them darned burglars stole worthless papers.”

“Mrs. Holton, do you remember just who signed that bill-of-sale?” asked Miller.

“Besides you?” asked Ma.

“Well—yes—besides me.”

“I think it was Mr. Green. He signed his name under your signature.”

“I see, my signature was already on the bill-of-sale, was it?”

“Oh, yes. He said it was impossible for you to attend it, so you signed it before he left the bank. I don’t see what anybody would do with it, because it wasn’t worth anything to any one, except me.”

“Not in the least,” said Miller slowly. “Well, I will have to be getting back to the bank.”

He shook hands with the old folks and walked out to his buggy, followed by Hashknife and Sleepy, while the old folks went back to their cleaning.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” declared Miller.

“You don’t think she imagines all this, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Not a bit of it. Her story is too straight for that, Hartley. If we had that mortgage and bill-of-sale we might have a chance to pin the crime on the guilty parties. But they were smart enough to steal the evidence.”

“That’s right.”

“And we’ll never be able to continue this deception,” declared Miller.

“It won’t cost yuh much to try it,” said Hashknife. “You’d have to pay me and Sleepy a hundred per month, and it’s a cinch that it won’t take that much grub to keep the four of us. Send out a preacher or a justice of the peace and have ’em bring a blank marriage certificate. You can fix it, Miller. If they go to Medicine River, somebody might ruin the party.”

Miller laughed and picked up his lines. “All right, Hartley. I’ll see if it can be done.”

“And if things break wrong, they can go to the poor-house together.”

“That might not happen, if what the secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association said about you was the truth, Hartley.”

“Don’t believe everythin’ that whippoorwill tells yuh,” laughed Hashknife, “He never told the truth about me yet.”

And Parker Miller was as good as his word. Supper was just over at the Diamond H, when they came trooping in: Parker Miller, Steve Morris, the justice of the peace, Allen Hogue, the county clerk, and “Cherokee” Lee, the tall, gaunt sheriff, who thought twice before speaking once.

They were all old timers in the Medicine River range. Miller had merely told them that Ma Holton had bought the Diamond H, and that Uncle Billy was not going to the poor-farm. There was so much to talk about that the oil was low in the lamps when the marriage license had been filled out and Steve Morris had stumbled through his first marriage service.

It was a queer ceremony, in the half-light of the old living-room; the old couple standing very straight and serious beside the center-table, while Morris, who was a bit near-sighted, held his book beneath the shade of the oil-lamp, as he spelled out the words that gave these old folks another chance to love, honor and obey each other again.

Hashknife listened, his mouth shut tight, his eyes suspiciously moist, while Sleepy closely examined a belt-buckle he had worn for seven years. As Steve Morris finished, Uncle Billy looked at Ma and said, his voice choking slightly—

“Yesterday I was goin’ to the poor-farm—tomorrow I’m on my honeymoon.”

And while the hand-shaking was in progress, Hashknife drew Parker Miller aside.

“I want to thank yuh, Miller,” he said. “Yo’re a white man.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Miller. “I’m only accessory to a —— foolish game. I didn’t know what it meant until just now—this idea of happiness.”

“It is fun, kinda,” smiled Hashknife. “Yuh won’t never show a money profit, Miller.”

Cherokee Lee came to Hashknife and held out his hand.

“I ain’t never met yuh, Hartley,” he said slowly. “Howdy.”

“Howdy, Sheriff.”

“Best weddin’ I ever seen—’cept m’ own. Got buck fever. Had the ring in m’ mouth and swallered the —— thing, and then I got shot twice in the laigs with bird-shot durin’ the shivaree. They said it was accidental, but I dunno. My girl shore was craved by quite a few fellers. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

“It sure was providential for Uncle Billy,” said Morris, as the four men rode back to Medicine River. “We waited the stage for half an hour this morning, but nobody knew where he had gone. And I’m glad, gentlemen; glad that it all happened this way. And it gave me a chance to get over the buck fever of marrying some one. That part of my job has always worried me.”

“Do yuh reckon they’ll get along all right?” asked Cherokee Lee. “Yuh know, Park, that ranch ain’t noways self-supportin’.”

“Let’s not worry about that,” said Miller. He did not want to answer questions, and he had a feeling that as soon as every one heard what Ma Holton had paid for the ranch he would be censured severely. But he was willing to play the game to an end.

II

The following morning Hashknife and Sleepy saddled their horses and rode away from the Diamond H. Hashknife was curious to find out approximately how many head of Diamond H cattle were left in the hills, and he also wanted to get away where he would have plenty of room to think about things.

“I feel like a danged thief and a liar every time I look at them old folks,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t like this deal.”

“If yuh think I do, yo’re crazy,” said Hashknife. “I never seen two people as happy as they are. Act like a pair of kids. Oh, well, it’s just another case of what yuh don’t know won’t hurt yuh.”

“But it sure is hard on the innocent bystander, Hashknife.”

“We’re not innocent, Sleepy. We’re as guilty as ——. Parker Miller is guilty along with us. There’s a reg’lar man—Miller. He’ll prob’ly have to account to the stockholders as soon as this report gets circulated, but he’s game to play with us.”

“Yeah, that’s right, Hashknife. This is just another deal where we’ll pull out with less than we had when we went in. When we get old, I hope to gosh we’ll be surrounded by a lot of —— fools like us. I like half-witted cowpunchers.”

“Don’t get vain,” advised Hashknife. “Next thing I know you’ll be puttin’ corn starch on yore face after shavin’, and knock out a front tooth so yuh can lisp.”

They grinned together and headed for the tops of the ridges, looking for cattle wearing the Diamond H mark, but there were few. In three hours search they counted twenty head. Their ride had brought them to the west of Medicine River, so they decided to ride down and see what they might hear in town.

Parker Miller’s first duty that morning was to take Frank Laskey, the cashier, into his confidence. He knew that Laskey would hear of the sale and probably deny it. Laskey was an undersized, pale-faced person, slightly round-shouldered from leaning over a desk-top.

Miller explained the deal to Laskey, who seemed surprized that Miller would enter any such agreement, but agreed to do his part.

“I won’t deny it,” said Laskey. “I wondered if there wasn’t something wrong about that mortgage. But you won’t be able to keep this secret very long, Mr. Miller. The stockholders—”

“The stockholders be ——!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Frank, did you ever hear of Hashknife Hartley?”

Laskey squinted thoughtfully and shook his head.

“No, sir. That tall cowboy is named Hartley, but I have never heard his given name.”

“Well, that’s Hashknife Hartley, Frank. Did you ever read ‘Sherlock Holmes’?”

“Detective stories? Oh, yes, I’ve read a few. Do you mean that Hartley is a detective?”

“They tell me—” Miller smiled and leaned back in his chair—“they tell me that Hartley started in where Holmes left off.”

Laskey smiled and adjusted his tie.

“Possibly.”

“Probably,” corrected Miller. “Anyway, Frank, we’ll wait and see.”

Laskey went back to his work which amounts to considerable in a cow-town bank where the cashier does the work of paying teller, receiving teller and the other things which are handled by departments in the big banking institutions.

Hashknife and Sleepy rode in and tied their horses to the War Paint hitch-rack. Several other horses were nodding at the rack, indolently switching their tails at the flies and trying to get their heads in the meager shade afforded by the top-pole of the rack.

There were several cowboys in the saloon, where a fair-sized poker game was in progress, but none of them paid any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who sat down against the wall to have a smoke.

“I hear that ol’ lady Holton done bought the Diamond H,” said one of the players.

“Yeah,” drawled the dealer, “and that ain’t all. Last night Steve Morris went out and married her to the old man agin. It kinda looks like the old ranch was comin’ back onto the map.”

The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard. They were both drunk. Yakima was boisterous, but Chuck seemed rather unnerved from his potations.

“Yah-hoo-o-o!” screamed Yakima. “We are the people and we must be respected! Gimme a drink, before I wreck the place.”

“Aw, don’t yell,” advised Chuck.

“C’mere!” Yakima grasped Chuck by the arm and nearly tore his sleeve off. “Don’t tell me what t’ do, you—you—aw, I can’t think of what yuh are right now. Have a drink.”

Yakima invited those at the poker game to have a drink with him and, while they advanced to the bar, Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the street and crossed toward the bank. Andrew Jackson Polk was coming out of the bank and nodded to them.

“How’s law and order?” asked Hashknife, grinning.

“All right, suh. I hear you-all had a marriage at yo’ ranch last evenin’.”

“Yeah, we did. You should ’a’ been there.”

Polk laughed and nodded.

“It would have been interesting. But no one told me.”

As Polk started toward his office, which was the next building from the bank, Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard came from the saloon and started toward them. Polk merely glanced at them and walked on, but Yakima yelled at him—

“Hey! Polk! I’ll buy yuh a drink!”

“No, I thank yo’, suh.”

Yakima laughed and they came on across the street, while Polk went into his office.

“He won’t drink with us, Chuck,” complained Yakima. “Lawyers are too dignified to drink with a cow-hand. F’r a plugged dime, I’d go and make him drink with me.”

“Aw, let him alone.” Chuck did not seem to be looking for trouble. “Let’s go and get somethin’ to eat.”

“Aw-w-w right. How do-o-o.” Yakima nodded to Hashknife and almost lost his balance.

“How are yuh?” grinned Hashknife. Yakima was a cadaverous specimen of the genus cowboy, loose-jointed, unkempt. A lock of tow-colored hair hung below the band of his sombrero and interfered with his vision.

“I’m jus’ right,” declared Yakima belligerently. “’F I was any better I’d have to be held.”

Hashknife turned away, realizing that Yakima was just in the proper condition to start trouble, and he had no desire to fight with the drunken cowpuncher. As Hashknife turned away, Parker Miller came out of the bank and called him aside.

“Go down to the store,” said Miller. “I’ve given Jim Leeds orders to fill your wants, and he’s put up a bunch of staples. Might hire a livery-rig to take them out with. Find out from Mrs. Holton just what she wants, and tell her that the Diamond H credit is good at the grocery store. I suppose they’ll need credit.”

“That’s sure good of yuh,” nodded Hashknife. Yakima and Chuck had gone to the front of Polk’s office and were arguing between themselves.

“Miller,” said Hashknife, “have yuh any idea who Green might be—the feller who signed that bill-of-sale?”

“No. I was afraid to ask too many questions last night. Maybe you can get a description. Have you got anything to work on?”

“Not much. It kinda hinges on Green. I’ll see if I can find out what he looked like and let yuh know.”

“All right, Hartley, good luck.”

He went back in the bank and the two cowboys sauntered down to the store, which was on the same side of the street. Jim Leeds, the storekeeper, nodded pleasantly and indicated several boxes of stuff.

“Miller said to fix up a lot of staple stuff,” he said. “If yuh can think of anythin’ I’ve overlooked, just say so.”

Hashknife examined the articles. Miller had not been stingy in his order.

“Looks like enough to feed an army,” grinned Hashknife. “I know we’re short of food out there and this will fix us up in fine shape. Thank yuh very much.”

“Let’s buy a can of salmon, some crackers and a can of peaches,” suggested Sleepy. “I don’t want no restaurant cookin’.”

“Suits me,” nodded Hashknife.

They opened the cans and ate off the counter, while Jim Leeds talked to them of the Medicine River range. There had never been any serious trouble in that part of the country, it seemed.

“Didja ever know a feller by the name of Green?” asked Hashknife. “Used to work in the bank here, I think.”

“Green? Nope. Never worked in the Medicine River bank. I’ve been here since the town started twenty-five years ago and there ain’t been no Green workin’ in that bank.”

“Mebbe I’m mistaken in the name.”

“Must be. Parker Miller was cashier for about twelve years. Old Ase Wheeler died and they made Park the president. That was three years ago. They hired Frank Laskey for cashier.”

“Miller is a nice feller,” said Sleepy, spearing in the can for the last peach.

“Best there is,” nodded Leeds. “Clean as a hound’s tooth. Want more crackers?”

“Nope,” said Sleepy, waving them aside. “Loaded to the gills.”

“Yuh ought to be,” said Hashknife, “yuh ate most all them peaches. Well, I reckon we better hire a rig to haul all that plunder out to the ranch, Sleepy.”

“I s’pose. I’d rather set in the shade now and dream of a time when I’ll have money enough to eat canned peaches three times a day. I’d sure make a peach-eatin’ millionaire.”

Sleepy slid off the counter and stooped to dust the cracker crumbs off his clothes when he suddenly straightened at the sound of a muffled shot, or what seemed to be the report of a gun.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I dunno.” Leeds squinted thoughtfully. “Might have been a shot. Shucks, some cowpuncher is always drillin’ a hole in the floor at the War Paint. Makes a good vent for scrub-water.”

Hashknife walked to the doorway and looked across the street at the War Paint. Everything looked peaceable. As he turned back they heard some one shouting in the street.

It was Frank Laskey and he was halfway across the street to the War Paint, when the three men reached the door, running and looking back toward the bank.

“Somethin’ wrong at the bank!” snapped Hashknife. “C’mon.”

They ran up the sidewalk and were almost to the bank when several men came running from the saloon, headed by Laskey, who was yelling something about a hold-up.

Hashknife, Sleepy and Leeds halted, while from Polk’s office came Polk and the two drunken cowboys. The men all crowded in through the bank door. Hashknife managed to squeeze in behind Laskey.

There was an odor of powder smoke in the air. Parker Miller was seated at his desk, sprawled forward, his head buried in his arms. Hashknife vaulted the railing and went to him. The room was in an uproar, as the crowd questioned Laskey.

Parker Miller was dead. It did not take Hashknife long to determine this, and he held up his hand to stop the crowd from coming inside the railed-off space.

“Miller is dead,” he told the crowd. “Stay where you are until the sheriff comes. C’mere, Laskey.”

Laskey was all out of breath, trembling with excitement, but he came willingly.

“Everybody keep still and let him tell his story,” said Hashknife. “You’ll never get it straight this way.”

“They came in the back door, I guess,” panted Laskey. “No one was here, except Miller and myself. There was two men. I think there was three, but the other stayed with the horses. They were masked.

“I didn’t see them until one stuck a gun in my face. The other had a gun pointed at Miller. They told me to hand over all the money I had. Just a few minutes before that Miller had told me to fix up a package of currency which was to be expressed to Cheyenne. They got it all.

“I tried to hide it, but it wasn’t any use. I don’t know how much they got, but it was quite a lot. I couldn’t see what Miller did, but I heard one of them tell him to keep his hands on the table, and then I heard the shot.

“I thought they were going to shoot me, too, so I dropped on the floor as they ran out the rear door. Then I ran across the street and gave the alarm.”

Laskey was panting and clinging to the railing as he finished his breathless tale.

“What makes yuh think there was three of ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“There was some silver,” said Laskey. “One of them said that it was too heavy, but the other said, ‘Aw, ——, the three of us can take care of it.’”

At this juncture Cherokee Lee came in and shoved his way through the crowd. He went straight to Miller and lifted his head. The blue hole in the middle of the forehead told its own story. The sheriff turned to Laskey.

“Talk a little, Frank,” he said softly.

As swiftly as possible the nervous cashier repeated his story.

“Aw, what the ——!” snorted a cowboy. “While all this story-tellin’ is goin’ on them three —— are headin’ into the hills.”

Hashknife squinted at the crowd. The two drunken cowboys seemed to have sobered, and Cherokee Lee had no trouble in gathering a sufficient posse for his needs. He did not swear nor lift his voice above his usual soft drawl as he told the boys to get their horses and go with him.

Hashknife and Sleepy did not offer to go, and the sheriff did not ask them. Every one seemed shocked at the murder of Parker Miller and the people of the town thronged the sidewalk in front of the bank while the doctor made his examination.

Andrew Jackson Polk was so excited that he legged his way across to the War Paint and bought himself a drink: Which was an unusual thing for him to do in the middle of the day.

“I heard the shot,” he told Hashknife and Sleepy. “I was havin’ an argument with those two drunken cowboys. They insisted on me having a drink with them. It sounded as though some one had struck the side of my office.”

“Do yuh think the sheriff will catch ’em?” queried the bartender.

“I hope so,” said Hashknife. “They evidently had their getaway all planned out, and they sure had plenty of time to slide out of sight. Was Miller a married man?”

“No suh.” The drink had calmed Polk. “It is a fortunate thing that he had no dependents.”

“Well, it sure is a terrible thing,” said the bartender. “Miller was awful well liked by everybody.”

“Not everybody,” said Hashknife. “They shot him down without giving him a chance, shot him at his desk, when his hands were in sight. I tell yuh, they’ll pay for that piece of work. They may dodge the sheriff and all that, but they’ll make a slip.”

“The perfect criminal doesn’t live,” said Polk wisely. “They make a mistake some where. Those men secured a lot of money, it seems. It is unlikely that they are men who can stand to have a fortune and not spend it unwisely. My theory would be to watch for three men, or, possibly one or two men, who are exhibiting too much money.”

“No, they can’t stand prosperity,” agreed Hashknife. “Are there plenty of hidin’ places back in the hills around here?”

“There must be, if yuh know the country,” said the bartender. “It’s all hills and brush.”

“And they wasn’t takin’ many chances by comin’ in the back door,” mused Hashknife. “They could look out the big windows and see any one comin’. Prob’ly some one who has planned it a long time.”

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street with Polk and stopped in front of his office. The doctor and three other men were removing Miller’s body from the bank, while a curious crowd looked on.

Hashknife walked down between Polk’s office and the bank. It was an alley, about ten feet wide. The rear door of the bank was almost in the center of the rear wall. To the right was a high tight-board fence which enclosed the rear of the general store.

To the left was the rear of Polk’s office, and beyond that was the rear of the stage-office, a small corral and a stable. Almost in a direct line with the alley, and about two hundred yards away, was the rear of a large stable, a corral, and beyond that was a small cottage.

There was plenty of room for the bandits to have made their getaway. Not a fence barred their way to the hills beyond the town, where numerous, brushy cañons would give them a cover. But there was nothing out there to give any idea of which way the men had gone, so Hashknife went back to the street where he found Sleepy listening to Andrew Jackson Polk reciting the murder to a newcomer. The drink had caused Andrew to become eloquent, and he pictured the tragedy with appropriate gestures. In fact, he even attempted to imitate the sound of the gun.

Laskey had accompanied the body to the doctor’s office, but now he came back and unlocked the bank. Hashknife and Sleepy followed him inside. Laskey was completely unnerved and did not seem to know what he was doing.

“You better lock up and go home,” advised Hashknife. “Yo’re shakin’ like a leaf, Laskey.”

“I know it. Do you think they’ll catch those men?”

“Mebby. Do yuh remember enough about ’em to give me any kind of a description?”

“No, I don’t think so. They were masked you know.”

“Yeah. Why do yuh reckon they shot Miller?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he tried to get a gun. The man told him to keep his hands on the desk.”

“Uh-huh. Did Miller have any enemies, Laskey?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Do yuh usually keep the back door open?”

“Not always. It was awful hot in here today; so I opened it to let the breeze blow through. I meant to close it, but I was busy.”

“Uh-huh. Did Miller tell yuh about the Diamond H ranch?”

“Yes—this morning. I promised to keep still about it.”

“Makes it look kinda bad now, eh?”

“I don’t know what will happen now. I’m so nervous I can’t even think straight. Maybe I better lock up and go home.”

“Good scheme,” agreed Hashknife.

They left Laskey and went to the livery-stable, where they secured a rig. Leeds helped them load the stuff in the wagon and they went back to the ranch, leading their saddle-horses behind the wagon.

“This sure is ——,” complained Sleepy. “Kinda puts our scheme in the hole, cowboy.”

“It sure looks thataway, Sleepy. With Miller alive we had a chance to keep goin’ for a while, but I’m kinda scared that our cake is all dough right now. But don’t let the old folks know.”

Cherokee Lee and his posse scoured the Medicine River hills, but without success. It was a big country, and they had no idea which direction the bank robbers had taken in their flight from town.

The death of Parker Miller was a big blow to every one, as he was known far and wide and liked by all the folks of the cattle country. Morton Anderson, of Rangervill, the biggest stockholder of the Medicine River bank, took charge of the institution, but retained Frank Laskey.

Anderson was a hard-headed business man and sentiment had no part on his views of life. Hashknife had a talk with him about the Diamond H and found that Anderson had not been told about Ma Holton’s purchase.

“The bank will take the loss,” said Anderson curtly. “We will sell at the first opportunity, but of course we know that the ranch is not worth the amount of the mortgage.”

“And that’s the fly in the axle-grease,” Hashknife told Sleepy. “Anderson don’t know yet.”

Uncle Billy had come to town in the buckboard after the mail and he came to Hashknife.

“I wonder if we can round up about fifty head of stock and have ’em in the pasture by next Wednesday?” he asked.

Hashknife squinted down at him, wondering what was coming next.

“I jist got a letter from Joe Ables,” explained Uncle Billy. “He’s a buyer from Chicago and he’s bought from me before. Said he’d be here at that time and wanted to make me a price on that many head.”

“Fifty head?” Hashknife scratched his long nose. He knew that Uncle Billy would have to know at least part of the deception.

“Uncle Billy, I hate to have to tell yuh this, but you’ve got to know,” he said slowly. “There ain’t over thirty head of Diamond H cattle left, and most of ’em are runts and old cows.”

Uncle Billy gawped at him, “Why—why—what do yuh mean?”

“Just that, Uncle Billy. The last year you ran that ranch, somebody stole yuh blind. I reckon yuh was so busy drinkin’ liquor and playin’ poker that you didn’t know nor care. While you was wearin’ out that ten thousand dollar mortgage, somebody was takin’ all yore stock.”

“Yo’re jokin’ me, ain’t yuh, Hashknife?”

“I wish I was, old-timer. The bank knows.”

“Yeah?” Uncle Billy blinked painfully. It seemed incredible. Yet he knew that Hashknife was not lying.

“And Ma bought—” He looked at Hashknife. “They sold her that ranch, Hashknife. By ——, they knew they was beatin’ her. Say, I’m goin’ over to that bank and—”

“Not now, Uncle Billy.”

“Right now! Why, that’s downright robbery, I tell yuh.”

“Wait a minute,” begged Hashknife. “You can’t do a thing by goin’ over there. I’ve got a scheme, Uncle Billy, and that would ruin it. You keep still about this. Don’t even tell ma. If you let anybody know about this, it’ll ruin everythin’.”

“You’ve got a scheme? All right. But jist the same they—”

“Do this for me, Uncle Billy. I’m for yuh—yuh and ma. Please.”

“Well, all right,” he conceded grudgingly. “I don’t sabe it, but I’m willin’ to keep my mouth shut. But lemme tell yuh somethin’: I’m shore—”

“That’s fine; so am I. Now let’s forget it. It’s a secret, eh?”

“If you say so, Hashknife. But —— it, I’d like to know where all them cattle went.”

“You quit worryin’ about that,” advised Hashknife, “and for gosh sake, don’t let ma know.”

“No, we’ve got to keep it away from her,” admitted the old man. “I won’t say a word.”

It was with relief that they watched the old man drive out of town. They felt sure that he would not tell Ma Holton.

“We’re slippin’, cowboy,” said Sleepy. “Somethin’ is goin’ to break pretty soon. If yo’re such a danged good detective, why in —— don’tcha detect somethin’?”

“What can be done?” grinned Hashknife. “Gimme somethin’ to work on.”

“I ain’t got nothin’.”

“Then don’t chide me, feller; I’m just human. Here comes that disciple of Blackstone.”

Andrew Jackson Polk was strolling down the sidewalk, picking his teeth diligently. He had eaten an early supper, it seemed.

“Hyah, judge,” greeted Hashknife.

“Evenin’, suh, evenin’,” he nodded pleasantly. “How is everything at the Diamond H?”

“Finer than frawg-hair,” grinned Hashknife. “How’s yore business these days?”

“Just faih, thank yo’. I see that ouah estimable sheriff has just ridden in. I suppose he is still hunting fo’ the miscreants who robbed the bank.”

“I reckon so,” nodded Hashknife. “But I guess he ain’t havin’ much luck.”

“No, suh, they seem to have made good their escape.”

“For a while,” said Hashknife.

“Yo’ evidently believe in the theory that murder will out.”

“It’s a cinch, Polk. If it had been done by one man, I’d say he had a reasonable chance for escape.”

“I see. Yo’ think that one of them will make a slip?”

“I think they have.”

Polk squinted closely at Hashknife.

“Yo’ think they have?”

Hashknife nodded. Polk cleared his throat and smiled widely.

“It would be interesting to know in what way, Mr. Hartley.”

“Yeah, it prob’ly would,” Hashknife grinned softly. “Mebbe I’ll tell yuh one of these days.”

“I see. Yo’ have whetted my curiosity, Mr. Hartley, and I would like to buy a drink. Will you join me, gentlemen?”

“If yuh won’t ask questions,” smiled Hashknife. “Don’t try to get me drunk enough to talk, Polk.”

“Oh, not at all, I assure yo’. While I am curious, I am also willing to let yo’ tell me when yo’ are ready.”

“Well, that’s pretty reasonable for a lawyer,” laughed Hashknife.

They had their drink, but nothing more was said regarding the murder and robbery. Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to Polk’s office and sat down to enjoy a smoke.

Polk’s office was a large room, partitioned through the center, which gave him living quarters in the rear half. His furniture was meager, consisting of an old roll-top desk, a few chairs, an antiquated book-case, filled with miscellaneous law-books, and a small safe.

His living quarters was furnished with a small stove, table, two chairs and a single bed. There was one big window at the rear and a rear exit on the left side of the room. There was still enough cooking odors left to prove that Andrew Jackson Polk liked onions.

“I suppose you get quite a lot of legal work, eh?” said Hashknife, after their smokes were going good.

“At times, suh.”

“Did yuh ever know a feller named Green around here?”

“Green? No, suh—not here.”

“Uh-huh.”

The talk drifted to common gossip of the range and in a short time Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the War Paint where a sizable poker game was in progress. There was one vacant chair at the table and Hashknife decided to test his luck.

Yakima Reed was winning steadily and frowned when Hashknife bought a supply of chips. Yakima realized that another hand in the game would possibly change the run of the cards. There were two other cattlemen besides the dealer in the game, and Hashknife knew that they were not playing for pastime.

Five dollar jack-pots is a stiff game, and Hashknife played cautiously. There was no limit. Twice, hand-running, Yakima Reed fought out the pot with Hashknife, only to find that Hashknife held the winning cards. Each time he had forced Hashknife to bet all of his chips.

“What the —— good is a limit, when the other feller is short of money?” he demanded. “Yuh can’t scare anybody with a hundred dollars.”

“Were you tryin’ to scare me?” asked Hashknife innocently. “I didn’t know it.”

The other players grinned and it angered Yakima.

“I’ll make yuh play cards,” growled Yakima, opening the next pot for twenty-five dollars. It was merely a coincidence that Hashknife was the only player to stay with Yakima.

Yakima drew one card. Hashknife studied his hand for several moments, adjusting the sequences of the cards.

“I forgot to ask when I bought into this game,” he said. “Do yuh play straights and flushes?”

The dealer nodded, holding the pack ready to deal Hashknife his draw cards.

“Well, I’ll play these,” said Hashknife indifferently.

Yakima squinted narrowly at Hashknife. It was poor poker policy to bet against a pat hand, but Yakima had caught a trey, which gave him three treys and a pair of jacks. He wondered if Hashknife did have a straight or a flush, or was he bluffing.

“You opened it,” reminded Hashknife.

Yakima bet twenty-five.

“Must ’a’ helped,” mused Hashknife aloud. “Drew to two pair, or held a kicker to a set of threes. Let’s make it an even hundred.”

Yakima grinned, shoved in seventy-five more and began counting out another stack of blue chips. He flirted ten of them into the pot and leaned back.

“Hundred more, eh?” Hashknife grinned, called the bet and added his remaining chips.

“Do any of you fellers know where I’ll find a man named Green?” asked Hashknife. The players looked at him. Yakima had started to count out chips enough to call Hashknife’s last bet, but now he picked up his cards and squinted closely at them.

“Never heard of a Green around here,” said the dealer.

“That’s funny,” said Hashknife. “I was told he was around here.”

Yakima looked at the pot, gnawed at the corner of his lips for a moment and threw his hand into the discard.

“It was a fool thing for me to ask about straights and flushes,” said Hashknife rather mournfully, as he drew in the pot, “But I had to be sure.”

Yakima growled angrily.

“All right, all right. I know that kind of talk. But I didn’t have anythin’ myself.” Yakima lied to cover his reasons for not calling Hashknife’s last bet, instead of admitting that he was afraid that Hashknife was holding a straight flush.

“Didn’t yuh have anythin’?” laughed Hashknife. “Shucks! I thought I stole a pot, and I had yuh beat all the time.”

He turned over his cards, exposing a pair of deuces. Yakima swallowed heavily and shoved his chips over to the dealer. Two deuces against his trey-full!

“Quittin’?” asked Hashknife pleasantly.

“Yeah, by ——! I can’t play against that kind of luck.”

“Luck, nothin’. You didn’t have anythin’.”

“All right,” Yakima cashed in his chips and turned to the bar. The other players smiled covertly. Yakima had been having a run of luck and they were not sorry to see him leave. Sleepy was at the bar, trying to operate a nickel-in-the-slot box, but with little success.

“Have a drink,” invited Yakima.

“I’d just as soon,” Sleepy grinned and gave the music-box a parting slap of his hand.

“That thing is busted,” said the bartender.

“So’m I,” said Sleepy seriously. “I’ve put three nickels in the darned thing. Gimme a see-gar.”

“What’s the matter with the liquor?” queried Yakima.

“I dunno,” innocently. “I’m no chemist.”

“I don’t care to buy cigars for anybody.”

“I’ll take this in place of the music,” Sleepy told the bartender, and went back to tinker with the box.

Chuck Allard came in and joined Yakima. He had been drinking.

“How’ja come out?” queried Chuck.

“Ne’mind how I come out.” Yakima swallowed a big drink of liquor. The loss of that big pot had left him very sour against every one.

“Yuh quit winner, didn’t yuh?”

“Did I? All right, if you know so —— much about it.”

“Been all right, if yuh hadn’t got scared.” This from Sleepy, who still tried to induce the box to function.

Yakima turned and squinted at Sleepy. “Got scared, eh?”

“Panicky—yea-a-ah—panicky.”

Yakima moved closer to Sleepy and looked at him intently. Yakima Reed was known to have a hair-trigger disposition. The man who was dealing at the poker game stopped his distribution and watched the three men at the bar. As far as they could see, Sleepy was paying no attention to Yakima.

“Got scared, did I?” repeated Yakima. “Do you know what I think of you, feller?”

Sleepy shook his head, as he tinkered with the slot.

“Pers’nal opinions never interested me, pardner; they’re prejudiced. If you had an opinion from several folks I might care to listen. I wish my folks had educated me in mechanics. I’ve got fifteen cents in—”

“—— you! Listen to me!” Yakima advanced on Sleepy, who looked sidewise at him.

“All right,” said Sleepy pleasantly. “Whatcha goin’ to do—sing?”

“I’ll sing you to sleep!”

Yakima spoke as he drew back his right fist and drove it at Sleepy’s head. But Sleepy was not unprepared, even if he did seem to be, and the fist only met space—and the corner of the music-box.

Yakima jerked back his hand, the knuckles badly cut, his arm almost paralyzed. It took the fight out of him, at least for the moment, and as he hugged his fist under his left elbow, his face grimacing with pain, the music-box began playing the “Washington Post March.”

Sleepy had stepped back, watching Yakima closely, but now he grinned widely.

“Ain’t that pretty?” he asked everybody. “That feller—” indicating the suffering Yakima—“is a born mechanic.”

Yakima swore feelingly, but the fight was all taken out of him. His right hand dropped to the butt of his holstered gun, but he drew it away quickly, realizing that it was in no shape to grip a gun-butt.

“Everythin’ is goin’ to be left-handed with yuh for a while,” said Sleepy solemnly. “But yuh sure did wake up that music-box, and I’m obliged to yuh.”

Yakima left the War Paint, walking stiffly on his high-heels, his shoulders hunched, and with Chuck Allard trailing behind.

“You got out of it pretty lucky,” confided the bartender.

“Out of what?” Sleepy stopped whistling with the music.

“Why, out of your fight with Yakima Reed.”

“Fight?” Sleepy screwed up his face wonderingly. “I never had any fight.”

“Well, you—” The bartender rubbed his nose thoughtfully.

“You must ’a’ been seein’ things,” said Sleepy. “Didja ever have yore tonsils and adenoids tended to?”

“My what?”

“Yore medulla oblongata.”

“I dunno what you’re talkin’ about.”

“You ought to be examined.”

“What for?”

“Oh, just make it kinda general.”

Sleepy went back to the pool-table and began playing alone, while the bartender looked at himself in the back-bar mirror and wondered if there was any truth in what Sleepy had said.

It was about an hour later that Hashknife cashed in his chips and declared he was going to have something to eat. He was about two hundred dollars ahead of the game, but promised that he would come back and win some more.

In the meantime Yakima and Chuck had been sojourning at the Medicine River bar where the bartender had dosed Yakima’s hand with iodine and bandaged it. And that, together with numerous and sundry drinks, had caused Yakima to forget everything except his hatred of a man who played a pair of deuces as hard as any man should play a full house, and of a man who did not have sense enough to know when he had a fight on his hands.

“You better leave ’em alone,” advised Chuck. “They’re hyas cultus, I tell yuh.”

“They inshulted me,” declared Yakima.

He had shifted his gun to his left side, but had been forced to reverse his holster, which put the gun between the belt and his thigh.

“Listen t’ me,” said Chuck. “You ain’t no good with yore left hand, Yak; and yo’re drunk, to boot.”

“Thasso?” Yakima rocked on his heels and lifted his eyebrows wisely. “Lemme tell yuh, I’m not drunk—and I’m good with either hand. C’mon and see me do it.”

“Good-by.” The bartender offered his hand across the bar. “I’ve heard about them two fellers. Cherokee Lee and Parker Miller was in here one day and I heard ’em talkin’.”

“I’ll run my own business,” declared Yakima.

“I’m not interferin’ with yuh,” assured the bartender. “You’ve been a good customer of mine, and I wish yuh well.”

“Aw ——!” Yakima turned to Chuck. “Yo’re with me, ain’tcha?”

“Well, yeah, I—I’m goin’ with yuh, Yak.”

“Yo’re goin’ to back my play, ain’tcha?”

“Well, it’s like thish, Yakie. Yuh shee, they never insulted me and I—I ain’t so very mad at anybody. And I’m drunk. Yesshir, I’m too drunk to fight for anybody but me—and I ain’t mad. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Well, c’mon, you laughin’ hyener. C’mon and see me clean house with the War Paint.”

They staggered outside, weaving their erratic way up the narrow sidewalk to the War Paint, where Chuck stepped aside and let Yakima go in first. The music-box was stilled and all interest seemed to be in the poker game.

But there was no sign of Hashknife and Sleepy. The bartender came from watching the game and wanted to serve them, but Yakima waved him aside.

“Where’s them two gobblers?” he demanded to know.

“Which ones?” asked the bartender.

“Hartley and Stevens.”

“Oh, they went to eat supper, Yakima. Probably be back pretty soon. They’ve been gone quite a while now.”

“We’ll wait,” said Yakima.

Cherokee Lee and his deputy, Bill Stivers, a heavy-set, square-faced young man, came in. Yakima invited them to have a drink, which invitation was accepted. They had been riding in the hills, still trying to discover the hiding-place of the men who had killed Parker Miller.

Cherokee noticed Yakima’s bandaged hand and remarked about it.

“Yakima had a terrific fight,” declared Chuck. “Oh, it was jus’ somethin’ awful, sheriff.”

Yakima scowled and tried to make Chuck keep still, but he failed. So Cherokee Lee heard of how Yakima missed Sleepy’s head and started the music-box. Cherokee smiled softly and advised Yakima to leave those two cowpunchers alone.

“That’s what I’ve been tellin’ him,” declared Chuck.

“I’ll run m’ own business,” said Yakima darkly.

“All right,” drawled Cherokee. “Try and not have anybody behind yuh when trouble busts, Ya-a-akima. You ain’t thick enough to stop a forty-five, and I notice that’s the size them two jiggers are packin’.”

Yakima accepted another drink and sat down against the wall to wait for Hashknife and Sleepy. It was another case of the spirit being strong, but the flesh weak; and Yakima Reed obeyed the call of the sandman. Chuck Allard laughed gleefully and challenged Bill Stivers to a game of pool, but went to sleep in a chair, after his first shot, with the billiard cue clasped in his arms.

Hashknife and Sleepy came back from their supper and shook hands with Cherokee Lee who introduced to them Bill Stivers. The four of them sat down at a vacant table and the sheriff told of his wasted efforts.

“We’ve combed every inch of these hills,” swore Cherokee. “Them jiggers sure didn’t hole up in the Medicine River country. Me and Bill know this country as well as any man here.”

“You liked Parker Miller, didn’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“The best,” said Cherokee softly. “The bank offers five thousand dollars for the murderers, dead or alive, and the county adds another thousand. But it don’t look like anybody will collect.”

“Why do yuh reckon they killed Miller, Sheriff?”

“I dunno, Hartley. Laskey said they told Miller to keep his hands where they were. Mebbe they thought he was reachin’ for a gun.”

“He didn’t have any gun in reach. They shot him square between the eyes, and his arms were on the desk. Sheriff, he never moved, except to fall forward.”

“Yeah, I noticed that. What does it mean to you?”

Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“It just made me wonder.”

Cherokee studied Hashknife for several moments. Finally, leaning across the table and lowering his voice—

“Hartley, what do you know about this?”

“I don’t know a thing, Sheriff.”

“Uh-huh. Miller told me that you had a reputation as a range detective, and I was kinda hopin’ that you’d find somethin’. But this deal don’t offer much for a feller to work on.”

“No, it sure don’t, Sheriff.”

Their conversation was interrupted by an exclamation from one of the poker players, and they looked around to see Andrew Jackson Polk staggering in past the bar. He was dressed, or rather undressed, in a faded suit of red flannel underclothes and carrying a brown derby hat in his right hand.

His hair was disheveled and he seemed dazed, as he braced one hand against the bar and stared around.

“Drunk and dressed up!” snorted Bill Stivers, as they got up and started toward Polk.

“Say! What’s the matter with you, Polk?” asked the bartender.

Andrew Jackson Polk felt of his head, which seemed rather tender to the touch, and blinked painfully.

“I—I got knocked down and robbed,” he croaked.

“Have a drink?” asked the bartender.

Polk nodded. The men watched him gulp down a big drink and waited for him to speak. Chuck Allard awoke. He blinked at Polk and got unsteadily to his feet, staring at the queer looking lawyer.

“Thasall ri’,” nodded Chuck foolishly.

His hat fell off his head, but he made no effort to recover it. And, without taking his eyes off Andrew Jackson Polk, he walked unsteadily out of the saloon, talking softly to himself.

Cherokee Lee came in close to Polk and took him by the arm.

“What’s the matter with you, Polk?” he asked.

“I’ve been knocked down and robbed,” he declared hoarsely.

“Tell us about it,” said the dealer of the poker game.

Polk gulped thirstily and caressed his head, where a swelling the size of an egg was plainly visible.

“I—I was in bed,” he said. “I went to bed early. My window was open. Something woke me up and I heard some one outside the window call my name. I got up and went to the window where I stuck my head out to see who wanted me.”

“And somebody petted yuh with a club, eh?” supplied Sleepy.

“I—I didn’t see what they had,” said Polk. “Something hit me, I know that. And when I awoke I was lying on my bed.”

“Walked in his sleep and hit his head,” said Stivers.

“No, suh!” Polk was indignant. “My safe was wide open.”

Several men came in, followed by Chuck Allard, and all gazed curiously at Andrew Jackson Polk, except Chuck, who seemed afraid to trust his eyes.

“Chuck came to the Medicine River saloon and told us that somethin’ was wrong down here,” laughed one of the men.

“He said if there wasn’t he was through drinkin’,” laughed another of the newcomers.

Chuck goggled at Polk for a moment and began laughing. He was greatly relieved.

“Yore safe was wide open,” prompted Cherokee. “Mebby yuh left it open.”

“No, suh!” Polk squinted around, and for the first time he seemed to realize how he looked.

“I—I must be dreaming,” he said thickly.

“I reckon yuh are,” agreed Cherokee. “That’s what I had in mind all the time, Polk. You better go back to bed before yuh catch cold.”

“Yeah, suh, I—I better.”

He shuffled outside, while the crowd laughed boisterously. It was surely a good joke on Andrew Jackson Polk, and the bartender invited every one to partake of the War Paint’s hospitality.

Yakima Reed awoke when Chuck bumped his head against the wall, but hardly knew what it was all about.

“Lemme ’lone,” he grunted. “I’m all ri’, I tell yuh.”

“Git up, yuh sleepin’ beauty,” demanded Chuck.

Yakima roused sufficiently to get out of his chair. He did not want another drink and he proceeded to tell the whole wide world that he didn’t.

“Thasall right,” agreed Chuck, pulling Yakima’s hat down over his ears. “Yo’re on yore feet, so let’s go home before yuh bog down again.”

“Don’ wanna go home. Noshir. Gimme room! Where’s a vic’im?”

“You don’t need no victim. We’re goin’ home and we’re goin’ right now, sabe? You come with me, or yo’re goin’ to be awful, awful sorry, Yak. Heed me, cowboy, heed me!”

Yakima nodded slowly and let Chuck lead him away. The crowd laughed, drank a “how” to the giver and went back to their games. But Hashknife did not play again, and a little later he and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode back to the Diamond H.

And for the first time since he had found out that Ma Holton had been duped Hashknife was so light-hearted that he sang all the verses of the “Dying Cowboy” and Sleepy assisted at times. They finished the last chorus as they rode up to the stable, and from within came the long drawn cock-a-doodle-dooo-o-o of their baritone chicken.

Hashknife laughed softly as he yanked off his saddle. Sleepy grinned to himself, because it was not often that Hashknife let him in on a secret.

The next few days were spent at the ranch, doing some general repair work. The whole place was in bad repair; so Hashknife and Sleepy became rough-carpenters, post-hole diggers and hewers of poles. For once in their lives they worked willingly at something that would have been distasteful at any other time.

Uncle Billy followed them from place to place, marveling at their fondness for manual labor, and trying to find out what they had done toward making the Medicine River bank come to time. Ma Holton knew nothing of Uncle Billy’s worries. She was content to work around the ranch-house and plan for the future.

Wednesday came and with it came Joe Ables, the cattle-buyer. He was a big rough-looking person, with a hearty laugh and a deep bass voice. He drove in from the north in a buckboard and chuckled joyously at sight of Uncle Billy, who looked at him in dismay.

“Hello, you old pirate!” he whooped, as he shook hands with Uncle Billy. “By gee, I’m glad to see yuh again, Uncle Billy. The stage-driver told me yuh was back at the ranch again. I just drove from Silver Lake, and the men who made that road ought to be prosecuted.”

“I got yore letter,” said Uncle Billy, trying hard to think what to say.

“Everybody gets ’em,” boomed Ables. “I sure blow a long horn.”

Uncle Billy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy and Ables shook hands heartily.

“Ain’tcha goin’ to stop a while?” asked Uncle Billy.

“Thanks, Uncle Billy, but I’ve got to keep goin’. Buyin’ cows is a dog’s life. Look how thin I’m gettin’.” Ables laughed heartily. “How’s all the little cowlets comin’ these days?”

Uncle Billy shook his head sadly.

“It’s like this, Joe—”

“I know,” said Ables quickly. “Ain’t much range gossip that don’t come to my ears. I sure was sorry, old-timer. Been a long time since I came through here, but about a year ago I seen one whole train of Diamond H beef, and it made me kinda homesick for the Medicine River range.”

“Whole train of Diamond H beef?” queried Hashknife. This was getting interesting.

“About thirty cars, yeah. That was before I knew anythin’ about Uncle Billy’s troubles, and I thought somebody was steppin’ in on my territory, so I hunted up the man who bought ’em. Yuh see, Uncle Billy always sold to me.

“Anyway, I found out that Harry Peters had bought ’em for the Castleman outfit; so I went on a still hunt for Harry. I know him so well that he told me all about the mortgage trouble. It seems that he bought ’em at Silver Lake from a man who had bought ’em from the bank.

“That’s one reason I’ve been to Silver Lake. Harry told me he got ’em cheap, and I’m lookin’ for cheap cattle,” Ables laughed softly.

“Didja buy some?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope. Maybe Harry lied to me—I dunno. Anyway, I couldn’t find the man he bought from, and nobody seemed to know who he was.”

“What was his name?”

“Green.”

Hashknife and Sleepy looked at each other quickly. Uncle Billy paid no attention to the name, and it meant nothing to Ables, except what he had told them.

“And yuh couldn’t find him, eh?” Thus Hashknife.

“Nope. Cost me an extra two days. I’ve never made Silver Lake before, and I’m not goin’ again.”

“Railroad in there?”

“Branch. Twenty miles from main line. Lumber mostly. I’ve got to work fast around here, because I’m due down in the Rainbow country the last of the week. When I get back to Chicago, I’m goin’ to crawl all over Harry Peters.”

“Yuh might get down and rest yore feet,” suggested Uncle Billy, but Ables shook his head.

“When yuh get more cows, don’t forget me,” said Ables.

“I’ll kinda keep in touch with yuh. Pleased to meet you two gents.”

They shook hands with Ables and watched him drive toward town, humped in his jiggling buckboard.

“The bank sold my cattle, did they?” mused Uncle Billy aloud. “They sold everythin’ worth while and then unloaded the place on Ma. By ——, I’m gettin’ pretty mad, Hashknife.”

“Keep cool,” advised Hashknife. He managed to talk Uncle Billy into keeping quiet about the cattle sale, but the old man threw up both hands in desperation.

“Yeah, I’ll keep still,” he agreed. “I dunno why I promise to do it. Yuh make me tired with yore grinnin’, Hashknife. Ma talks about what we’re goin’ to do, and I set there and nod like a darn fool. She’ll find out, I tell yuh.”

“Not from any of us, Uncle Billy,” assured Hashknife. “We know how to keep a secret—the three of us.”

“Yeah, I s’pose.”

Hashknife questioned Uncle Billy about the town of Silver Lake, and that afternoon he and Sleepy saddled their horses, told Uncle Billy not to look for them until they came back, and rode north.

It was about thirty miles and they did not blame Ables for kicking about the road. But they pushed their horses hard and were at Silver Lake for supper. Practically the whole town and the surrounding timber country was owned by one corporation and had been a thriving lumber town, but the timber was nearly all gone, along with the future of Silver Lake.

There was only one saloon left in the town and this one was doing little business. Hashknife immediately struck up a conversation with the bald-headed bartender, who was willing to talk.

“You fellers ain’t lookin’ for jobs here, are yuh?” he asked.

“All depends,” smiled Hashknife. “Is there any cows around?”

“Not around here.”

“Used to be, didn’t there?”

“Not enough to make it a cow-country. Used to be a ranch back in the hills about two miles from here. I dunno who started it. That was before my time around here.”

“Who owned it?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno.” The bartender appealed to a young lumber-jack who was playing solitaire. “Olsen, do yuh remember who owned that cow-ranch on the west side of the lake?”

“No,” Olsen shook his head. “There was an outfit there about a year ago, but they didn’t stay long. Shipped all their cattle. Said something about the cows gettin’ poisoned by eatin’ larkspur, or some darned thing. They wasn’t here long enough to get acquainted.”

“Was the man named Green?”

“I dunno. Don’t think I ever heard his name.”

“How many cows?”

“I dunno how many. I know they shipped from here and closed up the ranch.”

And that was about all they could find out about the short-lived cattle ranch and the man named Green. The next morning they had a talk with the postmaster, but without results. He knew that somebody had occupied the old ranch, but no mail had come to them at Silver Lake. In fact, he did not remember seeing any of them.

“Somebody by the name of Green stole the Diamond H cattle, drove ’em to that deserted ranch and made a sale,” said Hashknife, as they rode homeward. “It was a cinch. Uncle Billy was drinkin’ and gamblin’ and never missed ’em. That cattle-buyer swallowed the story of the bank sellin’ the cattle to Green, which he naturally would—and there yuh are, cowboy.”

“Took nerve to do it,” declared Sleepy. “Them Diamond H cattle were well known.”

“Took brains to plan it,” said Hashknife. “We’re up against somebody with brains, I’ll tell yuh that, Sleepy.”

“We’ve got brains, too,” grinned Sleepy. “I hope yore scheme works out. It looks to me like you was doin’ a —— of a lot of guessin’, but mebby yo’re right. We could split that six thousand reward.”

“We could split a lot more than that, if we wanted to be crooked, young feller.”

“And nobody would ever be the wiser, Hashknife.”

“Except us, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, we’re our greatest drawback.”

And when they arrived at the ranch that afternoon they found that their secret was no longer a secret. Anderson had been out to see them, and Ma Holton knew that she did not own the Diamond H ranch. A chance remark by Ables who knew Anderson had caused Anderson to question Laskey, and the truth of the whole matter came out.

Anderson was furious over it. He lost no time in riding out to the ranch to fire Hashknife and Sleepy, but did not find them there. He and Uncle Billy almost came to blows when the old man accused the bank of double-dealing, and Anderson rode away swearing all kinds of things.

Ma Holton seemed dazed over the shock. She realized that all her money was gone, and with it had fled all her hopes.

“I bought it honestly,” she repeated several times. “I paid all my money. I haven’t anything left. Mr. Anderson says we’ll have to move out right away, because he is going to close up the place. Why, we haven’t any place to go. Isn’t it funny to not have any place to go?”

“Yeah, it shore is funny,” said Hashknife grimly. “It almost makes me laugh, Ma.”

“And you knew it all the time, Hashknife?”

“Yeah, we knew it, Ma. Miller showed us that you had been robbed. We tried to keep it a secret until we was able to try and find the guilty parties, ’cause we didn’t want to hurt yuh.”

“Well, that was nice of you, anyway. Oh, boys, I don’t want you to think that I blame you in any way. You have done a lot for me and Uncle Billy, and we thank you. But it’s all over now. We’ll get along somehow, we always have.”

“Anderson said he’d bring the sheriff and put us out,” said Uncle Billy bitterly. “Dang his hide, I almost busted him in the nose.”

“But he was right,” said ma. “We don’t own it, Uncle Billy.”

“No, we don’t own it, but we’ve got feelin’s left.”

“And he came out to fire us, eh?” grinned Hashknife.

“You betcha.”

Hashknife laughed and patted Ma on the shoulder.

“We’re goin’ down and have a talk with him, Ma.”

“Well, lemme tell yuh, he’s mad,” declared Uncle Billy.

“I—I hope the sheriff don’t come up here,” said Ma. “We’ll get out as soon as we can. The Lord only knows where we’ll go.”

“You have supper ready when we get back,” said Hashknife. “Yuh might not have to move out.”

“What do you mean, Hashknife?”

Hashknife grinned at her. “I’m goin’ to talk a little, Ma. And when I talk real serious-like, I mostly always get results.”

They walked out, leaving the old couple staring after them, and went to the bunk-house. A few minutes later they rode toward Medicine River. Hashknife squinted seriously ahead, his jaw jutting belligerently.

“Yuh goin’ to take a chance, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah, I sure am. I’m willin’ to gamble that I’m right.”

“I’ll trail with yuh, tall-feller.”

It was after banking hours when they arrived at Medicine River, but Anderson and Laskey were still in the bank and let them in. “You was out at the Diamond H today,” began Hashknife.

“I was!” snapped Anderson. “I found out what has been going on and I went out there to——”

“Now, this won’t get us anywhere,” interrupted Hashknife. “You told me you would sell the Diamond H as soon as possible, didn’t yuh? All right—how much?”

“Huh-how much? You want——”

“Yore best price, Anderson. I know what it’s worth.”

“Well, there’s a ten thousand dollar mortgage——”

“There was, yuh mean. I came here to talk prices. Set yore own price and don’t go hog-wild on values. The ranch ain’t worth a —— to the bank; so don’t start any arguments with me.”

“You are rather high-handed, young man.”

“Y’betcha. I always am when I’ve got money in my pocket. How much?”

“Wait a minute.” Anderson walked to the rear of the bank and conversed with Laskey, while Hashknife and Sleepy waited impatiently. Finally Anderson came back to them.

“Do you know how many head of Diamond H cattle there are in this range?” he asked.

“Not over thirty head—mostly culls.”

“That’s what my report shows. If you really want to buy the ranch, it is for sale—twenty-five hundred.”

“You’ve sold it,” declared Hashknife. “Can yuh make out a deed right away?”

Anderson called to Laskey, “Frank, see if Polk is in his office. If he is, have him come here right away.”

It did not take Laskey long to bring the lawyer, who made out the necessary papers, and Hashknife handed Anderson two one thousand dollar bills and five hundred in smaller currency. The deed had been made out to Mrs. William Holton.

“Pretty big bills for this country,” said Anderson. “Don’t see many of that denomination around here.”

“They’re hard to get cashed,” grinned Hashknife. “We usually carry a lot of ’em around with us.”

Polk examined them closely, as did Laskey.

“Didja get over yore nightmare all right, Polk?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah, suh. Funny, wasn’t it. I’d have sworn it wasn’t a dream.”

“I know how yuh felt,” laughed Sleepy. “I’m always dreamin’ about bein’ out in company with nothin’ on but my underclothes. You sure looked foolish. I’ll betcha Chuck Allard swore off drinkin’ that night. He took one look at yuh and walked out.”

But Andrew Jackson Polk failed to see anything funny in the recollections of Sleepy Stevens. Hashknife offered to buy a drink, but the invitation fell flat; so he and Sleepy mounted their horses and rode back to the ranch.

Ma Holton had supper ready for them. She was trying to be cheerful and met them with a smile, but they knew that she was wearing the smile for their sake. Hashknife and Sleepy ate supper alone.

“We wasn’t hungry,” said Uncle Billy simply.

Hashknife grinned and handed the papers to Ma Holton.

“Here’s an appetizer, Ma,” he said. “Read ’em and grin.”

The two old folks unfolded them under the light and held their breath as they read the printed lines, while Sleepy choked over his food and tried to whistle a tune.

“For the consideration of one dollar?” Uncle Billy looked at Hashknife in amazement. “You—you paid——”

Ma Holton dropped the papers in her lap and her hands trembled as she removed her glasses. She was unable to speak, but both boys were adept in sign language, and nodded violently.

“But for—for one dollar!” blurted Uncle Billy. That was the only part of it that he did not seem to understand.

It was a situation that neither of the boys were prepared to meet, so they fled for the door and smoked their after-supper cigarets, as they sat perched on the top-pole of the corral fence, while the big, yellow moon peeped over the Medicine River hills.

“Yo’re awful crooked, don’tcha know it?” said Sleepy softly.

“Yeah—and I’m awful happy, too,” chuckled Hashknife.

III

The next day Ma Holton tried to get Hashknife to take back the deed, but he only laughed at her.

“But it belongs to you,” she persisted. “You paid your own money for it, Hashknife.”

“What’s a dollar?”

“Oh, I know all about that. It only takes a dollar to make it legal, but you never bought the Diamond H for a dollar. Why do you do all these things for us?”

“I’m kinda funny,” admitted Hashknife seriously. “Nobody ever understood me very well. But don’tcha worry about that, Ma. Mebby some day I’ll tell yuh all about buyin’ this ranch.”

“We’re gettin’ a lot of fun out of it,” added Sleepy.

“Well,” said Ma dubiously, “I hope you are, boys. I know I can’t stand many more shocks.”

Uncle Billy accepted without a question, because he thought there was something behind the whole deal. Not that he wasn’t properly grateful.

“Been saved from the poor-farm twice in a week,” he declared. “If I was a bit superstitious I’d prob’ly figure that it ain’t the place for me.”

A Diamond H yearling came down to the stream behind the stable, and it did not take Hashknife and Sleepy long to convert it to some perfectly good veal, which they hung in a cooling shed.

“Have Ma make out a grocery list and we’ll stock up the old place,” said Hashknife. “We won’t go to any poor-farm as long as our credit is good and the yearlin’s wander down.”

They patched up an old buckboard, harnessed Sleepy’s saddle horse with an old Diamond H sorrel which had been in harness for a year and started for Medicine River. The brake-blocks were so badly worn that the brake was useless, and the lines would not stand a heavy pull, so they staged a runaway from the Diamond H to the War Paint hitch-rack. At times they were completely off the road, but they clung to the seat and whooped like a pair of wild Indians.

At the War Paint rack Sleepy’s horse proceeded to kick the dash-board off the antiquated vehicle, much to the amusement of Medicine River town. Sleepy flexed his weary arms and swore he was the best driver in the world.

Cherokee Lee was in town and lost no time in having a talk with Hashknife. Cherokee had talked with Anderson, who had told of the transaction.

“I don’t sabe why yuh done it, but it sure was a fine thing for to do,” said the sheriff. “Anderson said he wondered how it was that a cowpuncher had twenty-five hundred dollars so handy, and I told him he could prob’ly satisfy his curiosity by askin’ yuh where yuh got it,” Cherokee chuckled deeply.

“He’d probably be surprized to know how much money I’ve got,” said Hashknife seriously.

“Prob’ly.” Dryly. “Anyway, it ain’t nobody’s business, and I’ll bet that’s what he got told, if he asked yuh.”

The stage came in from the north and Hashknife noticed that Charley Deal, the gambler, was a passenger. He shook hands with the sheriff and went to the War Paint. Hashknife and Sleepy loaded the buckboard with groceries, but decided to stay in town a while.

They met Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard in the Medicine River saloon. Yakima still had his right hand bandaged, but did not seem to bear any malice toward Sleepy.

“How’s the Diamond H?” asked Yakima.

“Inchin’ along,” grinned Hashknife.

“How’s the mechanic?” asked Sleepy. He wanted to find out how Yakima felt. But Yakima only grinned and glanced at his bandaged hand.

Sleepy challenged Hashknife to a game of pool, and the other two cowboys soon left the saloon.

“Yakima is a forgivin’ sort of a cuss,” observed Sleepy.

“Yeah?” Hashknife squinted at the layout of balls and chalked his cue thoughtfully. “Look out for him, cowboy. He’s cold sober, and he ain’t forgot. A feller like him is just wise enough to play ’possum. Keep yore eye on Allard, too.”

“Oh, he ain’t pullin’ no wool over my eyes.”

They finished their game and went to the War Paint. Charley Deal was running the poker game and Yakima Reed occupied one of the chairs. Bill Stivers was also in the game, and nodded to Hashknife.

“Here’s a good poker player,” laughed Yakima, looking at Hashknife.

Deal looked coldly at Hashknife, but did not seem interested in Yakima’s remark. There was a vacant seat at the table, but Hashknife made no move to occupy it.

“If I had his luck I’d never do anythin’ but play poker,” said Yakima, grinning widely to cover the sneer.

Hashknife grinned and nodded.

“Yeah, and if I didn’t have any more nerve than you’ve got, I’d never play it, Reed.”

Yakima flinched and his eyes narrowed angrily, while the other players lost interest in the game momentarily. But Yakima controlled his temper.

“Thasso?” he said softly, tensely. “I’ll play my nerve against yore luck, Hartley.”

“All right.” Hashknife slid into the chair opposite Yakima and bought chips. Stivers shifted uneasily in his chair. This had all the earmarks of trouble. Allard had moved in behind Yakima’s chair and Sleepy took a similar position behind Hashknife.

After a few hands had been played Stivers cashed in his chips and drew out of the game. This left only Deal, Hashknife, Yakima and another cowboy, Cliff Montell, who worked for O’Leary.

“I play poker for pastime,” declared Stivers. “That —— game ain’t pastime.”

Deal watched the play closely, raking out the percentage for the house on each pot, playing conservatively. Montell, in the parlance of poker, played his cards “close to his belt-buckle.” In other words, he kept out of the pot until he had a good hand.

But not so with Yakima and Hashknife. They contested nearly every pot, with Yakima slowly losing.

“Nerve against luck,” smiled Hashknife, as he drove Yakima out of a pot with a twenty dollar bet. “I had a set of fours that time—four diamonds.”

Sleepy watched the dealing. He knew that Hashknife would deal honestly, but kept his eyes on Yakima and Charley Deal, whose long slender fingers hinted of an ability to do queer things with cards.

But as far as Sleepy could see, the professional gambler was playing a square game. At least he was not winning. But it was his deal which brought the game to an abrupt close.

Hashknife picked up three kings and opened the pot. Yakima studied his hand closely, exposing it to Chuck Allard, indicating certain cards, as though asking Chuck’s advice. Chuck nodded and Yakima discarded one card, flipping it carelessly to the table.

“Gimme one card,” he said.

“One to me,” said Hashknife.

The dealer took three cards, but dropped out when Hashknife made a small bet, and got up from the table to get a drink at the bar. Yakima made a substantial raise. He seemed tensed, like a runner waiting for the starter’s gun.

Hashknife squinted at him closely, a half-grin on his lips, as he called the bet. It was the first time that Hashknife had merely called on the first raise.

“Show ’em to me,” said Hashknife. Yakima relaxed slightly and spread two small pair.

“Three kings.” Hashknife exposed a king of clubs, king of hearts and a king of diamonds, but did not show the other two cards in his hand. He mixed them up in the discards, raked in the pot and told the dealer to cash in the chips.

“Quittin’, are yuh?” sneered Yakima.

Hashknife had got to his feet.

“Yeah, I reckon I will, Reed. I don’t care to play for pastime.”

He took his winnings and walked out, followed by Sleepy, who did not understand why Hashknife had quit. They untied the team and went out of town in a cloud of dust. But this time they were able to control the team. It was up grade most of the way, and the load was fairly heavy.

“What did yuh quit for?” asked Sleepy. “You was cleanin’ up that game.”

“Didn’t you see it, Sleepy?” Hashknife’s dusty face broke into a wide grin.

“I didn’t see anythin’, Hashknife. What do yuh mean?”

“It was kinda well framed up, Sleepy. The gambler knew what was goin’ to happen, so’ he moved out. Yakima showed Allard his hand and they agreed on a one-card discard, if yuh remember.

“We both drawed one. Yakima didn’t help his hand. I helped mine.”

“Yuh did? Yuh showed—”

“I showed my original three kings. Yakima figured on callin’ me, don’tcha see, Sleepy? He wanted me to spread my hand.”

“No, I don’t see,” wailed Sleepy. “You talk foolish. You had him beat, so what in —— difference did it make who called?”

“Just this difference, Sleepy.” Hashknife grinned. “Yakima Reed discarded one card—the king of spades. After the draw I had that king.”

“You had that king of spades?”

“Uh-huh. Yakima had Chuck to prove that it was the same card.”

“But it was dealt to yuh, Hashknife.”

“Sure thing. And if I’d ’a’ spread it with the other three, Yakima Reed would ’a’ shot me, prob’ly.”

“Well, it sure escaped my eye,” admitted Sleepy. “That darned tin-horn gambler framed it, eh?”

“Between ’em. It sure worked out fine, except that I looked for trouble and they set the stage too nicely. It was just a case of beatin’ ’em at their own game. As you mentioned a while ago, Yakima Reed is sure a forgivin’ sort of a cuss.”

“But what made yuh suspect that it was a frame-up?”

“Well, for one thing, the dealer left the game. He could ’a’ called for a drink. Another thing, it was the first time that Yakima had showed Allard his cards, and in the third place I seen the dealer palm Yakima’s discard. It was smooth work, but not smooth enough. I didn’t want to lose the pot, nor I didn’t want to kill anybody, so I called Yakima, made him show his hand and only exposed enough of my hand to win the pot.”

“Well, yo’re lucky, I’ll say that much, Hashknife.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky. But I’m gettin’ so darned smart that I can make my own luck, cowboy. And that’s about all there is to luck.”

“Mebbe that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Next time I see Yakima Reed, I’m goin’ to bust him one for luck.”

“Yuh may have to,” grinned Hashknife.

They unloaded their groceries at the ranch-house and unhitched their mismated team. The sheriff had been at the ranch during their absence and had questioned Uncle Billy and ma about the purchase of the ranch. It was evident that Cherokee Lee shared Anderson’s curiosity as to where Hashknife had secured the twenty-five hundred dollars.

He was probably more curious after a talk with the old folks.

“I told him I didn’t know a darned thing,” grinned Uncle Billy. “Ma showed him the papers. He knew about somebody sellin’ ma the ranch. I reckon Miller or Anderson told him.”

“Let ’em wonder,” said Hashknife. “If he wants to know where we got the money, we can refer him to certain jobs, that paid us more than that amount.”

“I told him that it wasn’t anybody’s business,” said ma. “And I told him I knew that the money was honestly earned.”

Ma Holton had a big supper for them and during the meal she insisted on Hashknife’s taking back the deed again. But he laughed at her and refused.

“Well, let me give you a mortgage on the ranch, Hashknife. Tell me how much you paid and I’ll have it drawn up.”

“Not me,” protested Hashknife. “I hate mortgages. Anyway, you don’t owe me a cent. And more than that, Ma Holton, if you start this argument again, me and Sleepy are goin’ to saddle our broncs and ride away.”

“Hide the dern thing!” exploded Uncle Billy.

Ma grinned and put the papers away, while Hashknife sprawled on the couch and blew smoke rings at the ceiling.

Ma Holton came back to Hashknife and he grinned at her.

“I just want to say,” she said slowly, “that the Diamond H will always be a home to you boys. No matter where you are, this is your home, and we’ll always be mighty glad to have you home with me and Uncle Billy.

“Yo’re danged right!” exclaimed Uncle Billy. “And if yuh ain’t got money enough to come home on, write, and we’ll send it, if we have to sell the last cow we own.”

Hashknife got to his feet and held out his hand to ma.

“That’s the best pay I ever got for any job,” he said. “Me and Sleepy have always been a pair of range tramps, Ma. Many and many a time have folks asked us where our home was. Sometimes it kinda hurts to stop and think it over, when folks ask that question.

“Everybody ought to have a home, somewhere in the world, where somebody would welcome yuh back. We’ve never had any—me and that bow-legged saddle-slicker. But we’ve got one now. Sleepy! Do yuh hear?”

“Aw-w-w, I heard,” Sleepy blinked thoughtfully. “It makes yuh feel kinda funny to have a home. Christmas, New Years and Thanksgivin’ we can come home, cowboy.”

“And eat,” said Hashknife. “That’s all you think about.”

It was about nine o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy left the ranch-house. The sky was cloudy and the night so dark that they had to feel their way across the yard to the bunk-house.

“Like a stack of black cats,” declared Sleepy, as they pawed at the bunk-house door-knob.

Hashknife was half-way across the room, trying to locate the table-lamp, when something crashed down on his head, dazing him so badly that he went to his knees. He struggled to his feet, his hands coming in contact with some one, but another blow dropped him cold.

When Andrew Jackson Polk crossed the street to the War Paint saloon the next morning, he found Bill Stivers, the deputy sheriff, having a drink with Charley Deal. Polk excused himself for intruding and accepted their invitation to have a drink. The poker game of the day before seemed to have been the topic of conversation, which was resumed after Polk’s drink had been poured.

“Yakima was sore,” declared Stivers. “Allard was sore, too. Somethin’ happened in that last pot to make Hartley quit.”

“Maybe not,” said Deal. “He was ahead of the game.”

“No, it wasn’t that, Charley. Parker Miller told Cherokee somethin’ about this Hartley, and it don’t sound like Hartley is the kind of a whippoorwill who will quit just because he’s ahead.”

“What did Miller tell Cherokee?” asked Deal.

“Enough to cause Cherokee to trail with Hartley in anythin’ Hartley wants to do. Oh, Cherokee checked up on everythin’, and he found that Miller didn’t lie.”

“It seems,” said Andrew Jackson Polk, “that we are entertaining quite a prominent man.”

“He’s prominent in some ways,” laughed Stivers.

“What about his partner?” asked Deal.

“Gun-man,” said Stivers.

“Yeah? What are they doing here?”

“Well,” grinned Stivers, “I never got well enough acquainted with ’em to ask that question. They came here to run the Diamond H ranch for the Medicine River Bank, and it may be that old man Holton has hired ’em to work for him.”

“They wouldn’t hardly be stayin’ around at forty a month.”

“Maybe they’re tryin’ to find out who killed Miller.”

“Yeah,” nodded Deal. “They might be, at that.”

Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard and another cowboy came in. Deal set up the drinks.

“We were talkin’ about that poker game yesterday afternoon,” said Stivers to Yakima. “What do yuh reckon caused Hartley to quit when he did?”

Yakima grimaced sourly.

“Mebbe he was scared.”

“Mebbe,” said Stivers doubtfully. “He didn’t look scared.”

“Well, don’t ask me—ask him, Bill.”

“Uh-huh. Well, yuh don’t need to get snappy about it, Yak. He sure gave yuh all the action yuh wanted.”

“Did he? Called one raise with three kings. I don’t call that action.”

“I’d say he was pretty good to yuh—and you with two pair.”

“Oh, what the —— do you care?”

“Not a thing. Let’s have a drink.”

But before the bartender could put out the glasses Uncle Billy came in, hatless, coatless, breathless.

“Where’s Cherokee?” he panted.

“Cherokee? What do yuh want of him?” asked Stivers.

“—— fool question! Where is he, Bill?”

“I left him at the restaurant, Uncle Billy.”

The old man turned around, stepped out of the saloon and went running up the sidewalk, while the men came from the saloon and watched him enter the restaurant. Hashknife’s sorrel horse stood at the hitch-rack, its sides heaving from a fast run.

Stivers was halfway to the restaurant when Uncle Billy and Cherokee Lee came out, and he joined them.

“What’s wrong?” asked Stivers.

“Come on and we’ll get our horses,” said Cherokee. “Be with yuh in a minute, Uncle Billy.”

They ran down the street to their stable, where they saddled hurriedly and joined the old man. Yakima, Allard, Deal and Polk had come to the hitch-rack and questioned Uncle Billy as he mounted his horse, but he refused to answer.

Cherokee and Stivers came galloping up the street and Uncle Billy spurred in beside them, while the four men stood at the hitch-rack and wondered what it was all about.

“Somethin’ is wrong at the Diamond H,” was all that Cherokee had told Bill Stivers.

They dismounted at the ranch-house and went down to the bunk-house, which showed signs of conflict. The table had been smashed flat, the lamp had been upset and broken. There was a splotch of blood on the inner side of the door, a pool of blood near the broken table, and the bedding had been dragged from both bunks.

“I—I found one blanket out in the yard,” faltered Uncle Billy. “It had blood on it, too. Their six-shooters are here. One was on the floor near the stove and the other was under the bunk. Prob’ly lost ’em in the fight.”

“What do yuh make of it, Cherokee?” asked Stivers.

The sheriff shook his head, “I dunno, Bill. It looks like somebody had jumped Hartley and Stevens in the dark. Probably laid for ’em.”

“They left the house about nine o’clock,” said Uncle Billy. “We never heard any noise, never knew anythin’ was wrong until I came to call ’em to breakfast. They didn’t answer the gong, yuh know.”

Ma Holton came down from the house and stood beside the door.

“Any news of them?” she asked.

“Not yet, Mrs. Holton,” said the sheriff. He came outside and looked all around, but there was nothing to indicate that there had been any struggle in the yard.

“Somebody sure tore up that bunk-house,” said Stivers.

“I don’t mind that part of it,” said Ma Holton. “But I do want my boys back again. You don’t suppose somebody killed them, do you?”

“No-o-o,” drawled Cherokee. “Somebody took ’em away, it looks like to me. If they killed ’em, they’d leave ’em here.”

“But why would they take them away, Sheriff?” asked Uncle Billy.

“I dunno. There’s a lot of things I don’t know about this deal.”

Cherokee and Stivers mounted their horses and circled the ranch, hoping to pick up some evidence which would assist them in making a search. But they found nothing. The ground was so dry and hard that a horsetrack would hardly show.

“If you killed a man at the ranch and wanted to hide the body, where would yuh take it, Bill?” asked Cherokee.

Bill laughed and shook his head.

“I dunno, Cherokee. I’d prob’ly be so danged scared that I’d leave it where it fell.”

“You ain’t much help to me, Willyum.”

“I thought yuh wanted a deputy, not a murderer.”

“Well, I s’pose yuh are better thataway,” admitted Cherokee. “About all we can do is to ride and look, so we might as well act like officers of the law.”

And while Cherokee and Bill Stivers headed back in to the hills, Hashknife Hartley twisted and turned, fighting for an extra fraction of an inch slack in his ropes. He had been conscious for several hours, but unable to make much progress toward loosening his bonds.

“Yo’re all right, ain’t yuh, Sleepy?” He had asked that question a dozen times in an hour, and a dozen times he had received the same answer—

“Like —— I am.”

Neither of them had any idea of where they were, nor how they got there. Their experiences in the bunk-house were about the same—a smash on the head. They were both well aware that they had been hit and that their assailants had not spared any pains in hog-tying them; but all this had failed to dampen their sense of humor.

“Ma will be worried,” said Sleepy painfully.

“I’m kinda worried myself,” said Hashknife, and a moment later gave a yelp of joy.

“I ain’t got no hair left on the back of my head and all the skin is off my nose, but by golly, I’ve got the bandage off my eyes.”

He hitched himself against the wall and blinked tearfully. It was semi-darkness in the only room of what seemed to be a small log cabin, without a stick of furniture, no windows and one door. The floor was of clay.

Sleepy was lying near him, tightly bound and with a cloth tightly tied over his eyes. “What do you see, pardner?” asked Hashknife.

“See, ——! Don’t try to be funny.”

Hashknife was close enough to see that Sleepy’s bandage was blood-soaked, as was one side of his head and face. His own face was stiff from blood and dirt and his head pounded painfully every time he made a move.

He explained the details of their prison to Sleepy, who thanked him very kindly and wanted to know what time it was.

“Forgot to wind my watch,” said Hashknife. “Why don’tcha try to get loose?”

“Why? No use. I’ve got all the skin rubbed off my wrists now.”

Hashknife managed to roll over to Sleepy and to set his teeth in Sleepy’s blindfold. Hunching one shoulder against the ground, he managed to worry the bandage over the bridge of Sleepy’s nose.

“Hey!” yelped Sleepy. “Leggo my nose! Whatcha trying to do, peel me? Ouch! —— yuh, Hashknife!”

But Hashknife kept jerking until the cloth was off Sleepy’s eyes, and that worthy swore roundly.

“Why didn’t yuh pull it the other way?” he wailed. “I’m a lot narrower thataway. One of my eyebrows is rolled up in that darned rag, I’ll betcha.”

“You can see, can’tcha, Sleepy?”

“Yeah, I can see—what there is to be seen.”

They looked at each other and grinned foolishly.

“Yo’re a —— of a lookin’ thing,” declared Sleepy.

“So are you, pardner.”

“Ho, hum-m-m!” Hashknife squinted up at the ceiling. “It’s day-light, Sleepy. You can see some light seepin’ in. By golly, I wonder why they made this shack so air-tight. No window at all. Even the chinkin’ is a solid job.”

“Architecture don’t interest me right now,” Sleepy groaned and shut his eyes. “I’ve had a lot of headaches, but this is the prime ache of ’em all. How are we ever goin’ to get loose?”

“We ain’t,” declared Hashknife. “Yuh can always read about how the hero found a busted bottle or somethin’ like that, and sawed his bonds, but they took the bottle away from here. I reckon we’ll stay here until somebody comes along.”

“And mebby they won’t turn us loose, Hashknife.”

“Mebby not. I wish I knew where we are and who put us here.”

And, as if in answer to Hashknife’s wish, there came the cut, cut, cut, cut, ca-dar-cut! of a hen.

They looked at each other quickly, wonderingly.

“Lady Godiva!” exploded Sleepy.

“Sounded more like Mary Garden, Sleepy. But it can’t be either of ’em. Say! Sleepy, look at this shack! Think how it would look from the outside!”

“It would look fine to me, pardner.”

“I don’t mean that—I mean the shape of it. By ——, this is the little log cabin that Uncle Billy said he built and intended to make into a smoke-house.

“Ha-a-a-ay! Uncle Billy! Whooee-e-e-e!” Hashknife yelled at the top of his voice. Sleepy joined him and together they fairly shook the roof.

And Uncle Billy heard them. The little shack was so tightly built that their voices were muffled, and it took Uncle Billy and ma quite a while to locate them. The door had been padlocked, but Uncle Billy did not wait to hunt for a key. He took an ax-handle and pried out the staple.

Ma Holton cried over them, while Uncle Billy cut the ropes and helped them to their feet, and then they limped to the house to receive first aid. Both of them bore scalp wounds, painful swellings, and were stiff and sore from their bonds, but they laughed and told all they knew of the assault.

“More dinged funny things happenin’ around here,” declared Uncle Billy. “I don’t sabe none of it. Say, we found yore guns in the bunk-house, and everythin’ was all torn up around there. Looks like there’d been a bullfight.”

Hashknife and Sleepy limped down to the bunk-house and viewed the place.

“It sure looks cyclonic,” laughed Hashknife.

“I dunno,” Uncle Billy scratched his head foolishly, “You boys ain’t carryin’ on none to speak about. What in —— was it all about, anyway?”

“That’s part of the joke, Uncle Billy,” grinned Hashknife.

“Well, it may be a joke, but I don’t know when to laugh.”

“We’ll tell yuh when.”

As they started back toward the house Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers rode in and dismounted.

“Well, for gosh sake!” exploded Cherokee. “We’ve been curryin’ the hills for you two fellers.”

“And they were locked up in my little log shack over there,” explained Uncle Billy.

Hashknife told Cherokee what had happened to them, and the sheriff scratched his cheek reflectively.

“Yeah, that’s all right, Hartley. But who hit yuh?”

“It was too dark to see, Sheriff. They knocked us so cold that we slept real sound.”

“Uh-huh. But what did they hit yuh for?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Aw-w-w!” Cherokee scratched the other cheek. “Didn’t, eh?”

“Hartley, did this have anythin’ to do with the poker game yesterday?” Thus Bill Stivers.

“Poker game?”

“Between you and Yakima Reed.”

“Where would yuh find any connection, Stivers?”

“Gosh, I dunno.”

“They tied yuh up and left yuh in that log shack,” said the sheriff. “Why did they do that? It don’t sound reasonable.”

“Mebbe you don’t see things like they do,” grinned Hashknife.

“Prob’ly not.” Dryly. “I wish I saw things like you do.”

“Then you might get hit on the head,” laughed Hashknife. “Too much knowledge is a bad thing sometimes, Sheriff. I wish that you and Stivers would go back and tell everybody that yuh can’t find us. Tell ’em about how the bunk-house looks, and that yuh found pieces of rope and blood spots in the little log shack. Yuh might say that the door looks like it had been busted open from the inside, and all that.”

“Yeah, we might do that,” nodded the sheriff. “I dunno why we should lie about it though.”

“You don’t need to lie. You couldn’t find us, could yuh? And you can see the pieces of rope and the blood spots out in the log shack, if yuh care to look.”

Cherokee grinned softly, “All right, Hartley. But you better get found pretty soon. There’s a dance in Medicine River day after tomorrow night, and yuh don’t want to miss it. All the pretty girls will be there.”

“Somebody will find us by that time,” grinned Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy sure do put up some exhibition of dancin’, and we hate to miss a chance to entertain the natives.”

Cherokee and Bill mounted their horses.

“Any special person yuh want me to tell this story to?” asked Cherokee.

“No-o-o, just make it kinda general.”

“All right, Hartley. Get over yore bruises and I’ll introduce yuh to some mighty pretty girls. So-long.”

They rode away and the two cowboys went back to the shady porch with Uncle Billy, where they joined Ma Holton.

“How would yuh like to go to a dance, Ma?” asked Hashknife.

“Dance? Me? Bless your heart, I ain’t danced for so long that I couldn’t do it. Anyway, I haven’t anything nice to wear Hashknife.”

“You’ve got plenty of good clothes, Ma,” said Uncle Billy.

“Let me furnish yuh with clothes, Ma,” suggested Hashknife.

“For goodness sake, what do you mean, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh yet, ma. It’ll be askin’ quite a lot, but I hope yuh can do it. I’ve been wonderin’ a lot about how to work this deal, and this dance gives me a good idea.”

“All right,” ma laughed and patted Hashknife’s arm. “Your old ma will do most anything for her boys. Go and wash your faces and get ready to eat.”

“We’ll talk this over later,” said Hashknife seriously. “It might be too dangerous, and by golly, we ain’t goin’ to take any chances on gettin’ yuh hurt.”

“A few more shocks won’t hurt me,” laughed ma. “I’m getting used to them.”

“I hope this will be the last one,” said Hashknife. “I’m gettin’ tired of ’em myself.”

Cherokee Lee was as good as his word. He and Stivers stabled their horses and went to the War Paint. It seemed as though everybody in Medicine River knew that something had gone wrong at the Diamond H, and was waiting for someone to bring the news.

Even Anderson, the banker, and Andrew Jackson Polk came to hear what Cherokee Lee had to say.

“Dunno a darn thing about it,” declared Cherokee. “They left the ranch-house last night about nine o’clock. This mornin’ they was gone. The bunk-house was all torn up inside and blood over everythin’. Their two six-shooters were on the floor and the place sure looks like a battle-ground. Me and Bill searched all around, and in a little log shack near the stable we found pieces of rope and more blood spots. The door had been padlocked, it seemed, but the staple on the hasp had been shoved out. It kinda looked to me as though somebody had been locked in there and had managed to knock the staple loose.”

“And you couldn’t find them?” asked Anderson.

Cherokee shook his head. “Nope. Me and Bill circled the hills, but couldn’t find ’em, Anderson. It sure looks funny.”

“Are their horses still there?” Thus Chuck Allard.

“Yeah, I reckon they are. Uncle Billy rode one of ’em down here after me this mornin’.”

“That’s right,” nodded Yakima. “I noticed that.”

“Perhaps they have left the country.” Andrew Jackson Polk’s suggestion did not meet with favor.

“On foot?” queried Stivers. “Any old time a cowpuncher walks!”

“Well, what’s the answer?” Jim O’Leary did not care to listen to speculations.

“I wish I knew,” said Cherokee. “They’ve prob’ly been murdered and thrown in the brush. I reckon my best bet is to set on a hill and watch for buzzards.”

Cherokee evidently thought that he might as well romance a little on his own account when he found he could do it seriously.

“If they were dead, how could they bust out of the shack?” said O’Leary.

“Nobody said they busted out of the shack,” said Cherokee. “I said it looked thataway to me. Somebody busted out. Somebody had also been tied up in there, somebody that bled quite a lot. Kinda looks like somebody had been taken in there, all tied up.”

“Tied up and murdered, eh? And then taken out and hid?”

“Well, mebby that was it. Jim, for gosh sake, don’t start any argument with me. I dunno any more about it than you do.”

And this settled the argument as far as the sheriff was concerned, although the others continued the discussion after the sheriff and his deputy had left the saloon.

“It sounds rather queer to me,” declared Anderson. “Hartley paid me twenty-five hundred dollars for the Diamond H ranch and had the deed made out to Mrs. Holton. He paid me with two one-thousand-dollar bills and the five hundred in smaller ones.”

“Thousand-dollar bills?” O’Leary laughed. “Never seen one in my life, I don’t believe. Anyway, I don’t reckon they’re common pocket-pieces among cowpunchers.”

“Well, he had two of them.”

Several of the cowboys suggested that a search be made, but no one seemed to step forth as a leader, so the idea was abandoned. Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers remained in their office for the afternoon, finishing up some clerical work and wondering what was behind all this trouble at the Diamond H.

“I’ve got a hunch that somethin’ is goin’ to bust pretty soon,” said Cherokee. “That long-geared cowpuncher has some ideas, I’ll betcha, Bill. He grins at yuh with his mouth, but his eyes don’t twinkle. He looks plumb through yuh.”

“He plays poker jist like that,” declared Stivers. “His eyes and mouth don’t work together. And didja ever notice that his hand is always swingin’ real close to his gun. Somebody said that Stevens was a gun-man, and he may be, but Hartley is the jigger to look out for.”

“Well, we don’t need to look out for him, Bill. I’ll bet he knows who knocked ’em out. Miller told me to let him alone. I wish we knew who killed Parker Miller. Hartley was the first man to look at Miller after he was shot, and I’m wonderin’ if Hartley ain’t got some idea who done it. But he won’t answer questions, that’s a cinch.”

“If he knows, why don’t he do somethin’?” asked Stivers.

Cherokee shook his head and resumed his work. He was a perfectly good sheriff, but there was not a shred of detective ability in his make-up.

That the case had caused a certain amount of interest was manifested the next day when several of the ranchers dropped in at the Diamond H. But Hashknife and Sleepy had kept a close watch and went into hiding.

Cherokee and Stivers dropped in, accepted the absence of the two cowpunchers as a precautionary measure, exchanged a few words with the old folks and rode away. Jim O’Leary and Cliff Montell rode in later on and were welcomed warmly by the old folks. And while they talked came Frank Laskey and Andrew Jackson Polk, driving Anderson’s buggy mare hitched to a top-buggy.

Laskey’s explanation to the effect that Mr. Anderson was curious to know how things were and did not have time to come himself brought a grin to Uncle Billy’s face. Anderson had not forgotten Uncle Billy’s wrathful denunciation.

“Well, that’s shore nice of Mr. Anderson,” said Uncle Billy. “You tell him that everythin’ is fine as frog-hair, Frank.”

“All right. But is there any news of the missing men?”

“Nope.”

“What is your personal opinion, Uncle Billy?”

“Well,” the old man knocked the dottle out of his pipe against the porch railing, “pers’nally, I think it’ll rain.”

O’Leary’s laugh irritated Laskey.

“It isn’t a joke, is it?” he demanded.

“If it is, we ain’t seen it yet.” Thus Uncle Billy, soberly. “But we might as well laugh as cry. Still, I’ve got a hunch that them two boys will take a mighty lot of killin’.”

“Exactly,” said Andrew Jackson Polk. “Just now it is a case of corpus delicti. But if they are not dead, why do they not come back?”

“Yo’re gettin’ into the question class, too, are yuh?” Jim O’Leary laughed. “Let me tell yuh somethin’: If Hartley and Stevens ain’t dead, —— pity the men who failed to do the job when they had a chance. Of course, if they had the chance.”

“And,” said Polk judicially, “if they knew who the men were.”

“Oh, sure, that figures in on it,” agreed O’Leary.

“If we only knew what it was all done for,” said Ma Holton. “Those two boys had no quarrel with any one around Medicine River.”

“Hartley had a quarrel with Yakima Reed,” said Montell. “And I heard that Yakima took a swipe at Stevens the other night and busted his hand on the War Paint music-box.”

“Which was not sufficient cause for a murder,” said Polk.

“Well—” Jim O’Leary shook hands with the old couple—“I’ve got to be goin’ on, folks. If I was you, I wouldn’t worry. Yo’re comin’ to the dance tomorrow night, ain’t yuh? By golly, it’ll seem like old times to see yuh down there again. Everybody will be there, and Medicine River ain’t forgot the Holton family, yuh betcha.”

“A whole lot depends,” said Uncle Billy. “Me and ma think a lot about them two boys, and we’d kinda hate to go dancin’ when they’re—well, you know how it is, Jimmy.”

“Sure, I know. Anyway, we’ll hope for the best. So-long.”

Laskey and Polk said good-by and drove away at the same time. Uncle Billy laughed gleefully, as he filled his old pipe.

“Anderson sent his hired man, Ma. Ha, ha, ha, ha! I sure told him where to head in at, and he was scared to come again.”

“Anyway, it was nice of him to inquire,” said Ma.

“Yeah, nice! Just like most folks think it’s nice of them to attend a funeral. They don’t go out of respect. Curiosity, I tell yuh. Anderson wanted his curiosity satisfied.”

Uncle Billy repeated the conversations to Hashknife and Sleepy, who had hibernated in the cellar, along with some old magazines, blankets and an oil lamp. The cellar entrance was a trap-door in the middle of the kitchen.

“Anderson got curious and sent Frank Laskey out to see what it was all about,” Uncle Billy told them. “Polk rode out with him.”

“Anderson got curious, did he?” grinned Hashknife.

“Yeah, but he never came out himself. By golly, he sure got told a few things the last time he was out here and he don’t care to hear ’em again.

“Jim O’Leary said he pitied the men who done this to you boys. Mebby Jim don’t believe that yo’re dead, ’cause he said they made a mistake in not killin’ yuh while they had a chance. He thinks you’ll make it hot for ’em, Hashknife.”

“What makes him think we know who done it, Uncle Billy?”

“I dunno. Do yuh?”

“We didn’t see ’em, nor hear ’em talk.”

“Then how—” Uncle Billy rubbed his nose and went back up the stairs. He had been with Hashknife long enough to know that Hashknife answered no questions.

The following morning Cherokee Lee brought a posse with him, consisting of Bill Stivers, Yakima Reed, Chuck Allard, Cliff Montell and Andy Halpern, another of O’Leary’s cowboys. They stopped at the ranch-house, while Cherokee questioned Uncle Billy.

“Nothin’ new,” said Uncle Billy, sizing up the posse. “Takin’ quite a crew with yuh, ain’t yuh, Cherokee?”

“Lookin’ for buzzards,” said Cherokee seriously. “Everybody seems to think that we ought to keep on lookin’, so I’m takin’ enough men along to find most anythin’.”

He took them down to the bunk-house and showed them the evidences of the attack, and then over to the log shack, where they examined the hasp and agreed that it had been forced from inside the shack, as the staple had been forced out sidewise from the soft wood.

“Wasn’t a very good fastener,” said Yakima Reed, examining the staple.

“I wasn’t intendin’ it for a jail,” said Uncle Billy. “I was goin’ to make a meat house out of it, and yuh don’t need a time lock to keep a ham from bustin’ loose.”

The posse laughed at Uncle Billy’s retort and rode away to search the hills.

“They might have gone crazy,” said Montell. “Looks like the work of a crazy man, Cherokee. What’ll we do if we see ’em?”

“I dunno—ride like —— for town, I suppose,” Cherokee said it seriously.

“What for?”

“Get another drink and a fresh start, I reckon.”

A dance in Medicine River was something to date time from. From miles around came the ranchers, bringing their families, even unto the dogs. The dance-hall was located above the general store, and the upper floor of the adjoining building was utilized as a dining-room, where the ladies of the town served a chicken dinner at midnight.

Steve Morris, the rotund justice of the peace, was floor manager, and did the “calling” for the square dances, while two fiddles, a banjo, an accordion and a bass viol rendered their own version of popular dance music.

There were few really good dancers in Medicine River. Frank Laskey, by virtue of having danced somewhere in the East, was possibly the most graceful male dancer, according to the female idea. Andrew Jackson Polk was also fairly good, except that his movements were a trifle too staid and dignified.

The rest of them just danced, perspired, limped and drank hard liquor. It seemed that there was a steady procession of males from the dance-hall entrance to the War Paint saloon, and the air of the dance-hall was redolent of a breath-killer called “Sen-sen,” which, when mixed with the fumes of bad whisky, made a combination that was almost anesthetic to the innocent bystander.

And bad whisky played a big part in the Medicine River dances, giving Steve Morris plenty of chance to exert his authority. Too much attention to another man’s girl meant immediate trouble, and there was also a great danger of two couples claiming the same position in a quadrille.

Cherokee Lee and Bill Stivers divided their time between the dance-hall and the War Paint, promoting peace as much as possible. No man had ever been jailed in Medicine River for merely fighting, and there was no such a charge as disturbing the peace.

As usual the War Paint’s gambling games were doing a big business. A dance meant that every cattle-man would advance his men some money, if they needed it, and they always did. And the War Paint was in business to see that none of it ever went back to the ranch.

Cherokee Lee’s posse had ridden back late that evening, tired, but thoroughly satisfied that they could find nothing. To the boys from O’Leary’s ranch it meant a long ride out to the ranch for their dance clothes, so they compromised by buying shirts, collars, neckties and some perfume at the store and making their changes in the rear of the War Paint.

To Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard the dance meant nothing. They were not going to dance, anyway. There was considerable discussion over the missing cowboys among the men who lived farther away from Medicine River and had not heard about it.

“Well, we didn’t find anythin’,” declared Yakima. “I thought that —— sheriff was goin’ to keep us out all night. Gimme a drink, bartender.”

Charley Deal was off shift and was drinking. But he was one of those cold-blooded individuals whom liquor does not thaw. Always a good dresser, just now he was immaculate—a direct contrast to Yakima and Chuck, who told him of their fruitless quest.

“Cherokee thinks they’re dead,” said Chuck squinting at his empty glass. “He was always lookin’ for buzzards.”

“Looking for buzzards?”

“Yeah. Let’s have another drink. He thinks that the buzzards will locate the bodies, Charley. You goin’ to dance tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“They’re dancin’ now,” stated a perspiring cowboy, who pushed in beside them to get a drink. “Gosh, that shore was a swift ol’ quadrille. The old floor is as slickery as grease. Gimme some sody for a chaser. All right, ginger ale will do. Here’s go.”

He gulped his drink and hurried back. Bill Stivers came in with Andrew Jackson Polk, who was also dressed for the occasion, and Deal invited them to drink.

“Not tonight, thanks,” grinned Stivers.

“Why not tonight?” queried Deal coldly.

“Just a li’l idea of mine,” laughed Stivers. Deal watched him walk back to a crowd around the roulette wheel and turned to Polk.

“You haven’t any idea, have you?” he asked.

“I have an idea that a drink might do me good.”

They drank together, along with Yakima and Chuck, who seemed to be trying to get as many drinks as possible in a short length of time.

“You fellows better go easy,” advised Deal. “No use being a pair of fools.”

“All right,” choked Yakima. He and Chuck left the bar.

“Not a brain in the pair,” said Deal disgustedly, although he had drank more than both of them.

Above the noise of the saloon they could hear the shrieking of the orchestra and the deep-toned voice of Steve Morris, calling the changes.

“Going to dance?” asked Polk.

“Later—maybe.”

The music stopped, and a few moments later the panting dancers came to the saloon, crowding, laughing, indulging in rough horseplay, as they mopped at their foreheads, tugged at tight collars and demanded service.

Two men came from the darkness near the hitch-rack and halted at the corner of the saloon. One of them was small, slender, wearing ill-fitting clothes and a sombrero pulled low over his eyes. The other was unmistakably Hashknife Hartley.

For several minutes they stood there. Another dance was on, and not until it ended and the men were filing into the saloon that Hashknife patted his companion on the shoulder and gently urged him forward.

There was no word spoken between them. The little cowboy went timidly in, was almost knocked out of the doorway, when another cowboy came out and went singing across the street.

Once inside the saloon the little cowboy moved to a point of vantage and seemed to be intently watching the faces from beneath his sombrero brim. No one noticed him. As the dancers left the bar the little cowboy joined them, came outside and walked to Hashknife, who had drawn back into the shadow.

“Well?” questioned Hashknife anxiously. In reply the little cowboy drew him to the window, where they could get a partial view of the bar.

“Third from the end,” said the little cowboy.

Hashknife laughed softly, drew his companion aside, and they went down the street, keeping in the shadow.

A few minutes later Cherokee Lee came down from the dance-hall and stepped out on the sidewalk to run face to face with Hashknife. Cherokee grunted with surprise, but Hashknife drew him down the street before any one else could see him in the lighted entrance.

“Well, what kind of a lie do yuh want me to tell now?” grinned Cherokee.

“A whopper, Sheriff. Will yuh do it?”

“Hm-m-m, I dunno. Prob’ly. My soul is about as black as I can make it now, Hartley. What do yuh want done?”

Hashknife laughed. “I want yuh to put a man in jail.”

“Who?”

“Frank Laskey.”

“For gosh sake, what for, Hartley?”

“Just for fun. I want yuh to go up in the dance-hall and make the arrest. I don’t care how many folks hear it.”

“Uh-huh?” Cherokee cleared his throat raspingly. “Well, that’s all right—but what’ll I arrest him for?”

“Listen, Cherokee,” Hashknife’s voice had lost its joking tone. “You can wink at Laskey if yuh want to when yuh arrest him. Yuh don’t need to announce what he’s arrested for, but kinda let folks know that he’s under arrest.”

“Is it a joke?” queried Cherokee. “Yuh know he can make a lot of trouble out of a thing like that, Hartley.”

“Laskey won’t—not when he finds out why it was done.”

“Uh-huh. Well, all right, Hartley. Want me to do it now?”

“Just as soon as yuh can. I’m dependin’ on yuh, ’cause I can’t be there to see yuh do it.”

“Oh, I’ll do it,” laughed Cherokee. “Shall I put him in jail?”

“Oh, sure. Make the thing look good, Sheriff.”

Cherokee went back to the doorway, wondering if he was doing the right thing, and swearing at Hashknife under his breath for asking him to make a scene in the dance-hall.

Hashknife crossed the street and met Sleepy near the hitch-rack.

“All set?” asked Sleepy anxiously.

“Yeah. Didja see Stivers?”

“He’s in the War Paint. I just told him to keep his eyes open, thasall.”

“That’s enough. C’mon.”

The music had stopped, and they could hear sounds of commotion, as several men came down the creaking stairway from the dance-hall. Men were coming out into the street as Hashknife and Sleepy walked around to the rear of the War Paint and went in through the open door.

Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard were drunkenly engrossed in a game of bottlepool; so engrossed, or so drunk, that they did not pay any attention to Hashknife and Sleepy, who moved in between the pool-table and the end of the bar.

Charley Deal was standing with his back against the bar, his elbows braced on the top, a cigaret dangling from his lower lip. A big poker game was in progress. Hashknife could see Andrew Jackson Polk standing behind Jim O’Leary, intently watching the play.

Bill Stivers was watching the roulette game and had not seen the entrance of Hashknife and Sleepy. In fact, no one had noticed them. Yakima Reed swore at a missed shot and dropped his cue, which clattered to the floor. He stooped to pick it up and when he lifted his head he looked straight at Hashknife and Sleepy.

An expression of bewilderment flashed across his face and he turned his head to see if Chuck Allard had seen the same thing. But Chuck was hunched down, squinting at the pool-balls. Yakima turned and looked at them again, blinking foolishly.

“Well, look who’s here!” he blurted.

His exclamation was loud enough for every one in the room to hear. Deal turned his head and looked at them coldly. Stivers began walking slowly toward them. But before any one fully realized that the missing cowboys were here in the flesh, a man came in from the front and halted midway of the room.

“Say!” he exclaimed breathlessly. “Cherokee Lee has arrested Frank Laskey and took him to jail!”

The announcement disrupted the games. Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved, but their eyes took in the occupants of the room.

“Frank Laskey!” exploded one of the poker players. “What has he done?”

“I dunno.” The cowboy shook his head. “The sheriff won’t tell. Arrested him while he was dancin’ and put him in jail.”

“He talked too much,” said Hashknife.

Every one in the room turned at the sound of his voice, which carried conviction. Deal squinted narrowly, but did not move.

“Talked too much?” queried Jim O’Leary, starting to get to his feet.

“Stay where yuh are, O’Leary,” said Hashknife. “Laskey turned state’s evidence tonight.”

“Turned what?” blurted another man.

“Evidence on what?”

“What do yuh mean?”

The questions came in a volley.

“He said—” Hashknife hesitated for a moment—“he said that Green framed it all and he told who Green is.”

For a moment there was complete silence, broken by Charley Deal’s sudden shift of position. His right hand flashed inside his coat and came out holding a revolver.

But as it flashed in the yellow lamplight, the room shook from the concussion of Hashknife’s six-shooter, and Deal’s gun clattered to the floor. It had all been done so quickly that the crowd had not moved.

Yakima Reed, still holding his billiard cue, was staring at Hashknife. In fact he was still staring when Sleepy’s right uppercut caught him and knocked him flat.

As Yakima crashed to the floor, Chuck flung his cue at Sleepy and drew his gun. Dodging the cue probably saved Sleepy’s life, because Chuck’s first bullet ripped his collar.

Backing toward the rear door, Chuck tried to shoot again, but Sleepy’s gun was powder-burning the pool-table top, as he sent shot after shot at the retreating Allard, who crumpled just inside the doorway.

Still the crowd did not scatter. Deal still leaned against the bar, his cold nerve still fighting to keep him upright. Andrew Jackson Polk had not moved. He seemed a disinterested spectator until he heard Hashknife’s voice—

“Polk, yo’re next. Pick yore medicine.”

The lawyer’s eyes slowly turned to the menacing gun muzzle. He tried to speak, but no sound came from his lips. Charley Deal swayed sidewise and fell full length. The room was hazy with powder smoke, when Cherokee Lee came in.

“My ——, what’s been goin’ on?” he gasped.

“Put yore handcuffs on Polk,” said Hashknife coldly.

“On—on Polk?” faltered Cherokee.

“As quick as yuh can.”

Cherokee went slowly forward and produced a pair of handcuffs. Polk made no attempt to escape. He seemed old, dazed, shaking his head as though trying to remember what it was all about.

“I heard the shooting,” said Cherokee.

“Yuh better put some cuffs on this jigger, too,” said Sleepy, indicating Yakima, who was showing signs of returning consciousness.

“But what’s it all about?” Cherokee asked.

“Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard murdered Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “Allard has paid for his part in it, but yuh better put a rope on Yakima, Sheriff.”

It did not take the crowd long to find a rope, and Yakima awoke to find himself well trussed, and a crowd willing to tie another around his neck. But Cherokee talked them out of a lynching and took his prisoners to jail.

Yakima refused to talk and Polk seemed unable. They stumbled into the jail, where Frank Laskey’s pale face looked at them through the bars.

“I’ll have to put you fellers together in a cell,” said Cherokee to Polk, as he unlocked the other cell.

“Laskey didn’t have anythin’ to do with it, did he?” asked Cherokee, after locking the cell-door. “I don’t sabe what the joke was all about, Hartley.”

“Yeah, Laskey had plenty to do with it,” said Hashknife. “It was Laskey who furnished the original mortgage of the Diamond H to make the forgery from. Deal sold the ranch to Ma Holton. He was the only man in the town who was a stranger to her.

“Deal, Yakima and Allard stole the Diamond H cattle, took ’em to Silver Lake, where they shipped ’em. Polk was the smart man of the crowd. He made out the legal papers for the ranch sale. He had a theory that most robbers give themselves away by spendin’ the money right away, so he made ’em put the money all in his safe.

“The day that Ma Holton came back to the Diamond H, Charley Deal pulled out of the country. He couldn’t afford to have her recognize him. I reckon the gang thought that as soon as she found out that she had lost all her money, she’d vamoose and Charley could come back.

“Anyway, just to play safe, they raided the ranch and stole the papers. It kinda had me guessin’ for a while. Then came the murder of Parker Miller and the bank robbery. Laskey said that those robbers were masked. I figured that Miller was killed because he recognized them. And then I figured that he recognized ’em because they wasn’t masked.

“They came in the back door. It ain’t a usual thing for a back door in a bank to be open thataway. Laskey said he opened it on account of the heat. He did, like ——. He opened it so that Yakima Reed and Chuck Allard could come in, take the money he had already sacked up for ’em, shoot Miller, and sneak back into Polk’s office, where the money was put in Polk’s safe.”

The jail was crowded with interested listeners; the dance forgotten.

“How do yuh know it was in Polk’s safe?” asked Cherokee.

“Because,” Hashknife laughed, “I hit Polk over the head, unlocked his old keylock safe with his own key, and took the money out to the Diamond H ranch.”

“My ——!” Stivers began to see a light. “That was the night we told Polk that he had been dreamin’.”

“How much money was there?” asked Cherokee weakly. Disclosures were coming almost too fast for him to keep track of them.

“Eighteen thousand dollars.”

“Eighteen thousand!”

“And that’s what they came out to the ranch after the other night,” laughed Hashknife. “It was under the doorstep of the bunk-house, wrapped up in a piece of canvas—except for the twenty-five hundred dollars I spent for the Diamond H.”

“I told ’em!” crowed O’Leary. “Didn’t I tell Polk and Laskey that—”

The jar of a pistol shot stopped O’Leary from repeating what he had told Laskey and Polk. Cherokee sprang to the cell bars and peered inside. He turned back to Hashknife.

“Dang it, I thought his arrest was a joke, Hartley, so I didn’t search him for a weapon. The law won’t try Frank Laskey.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife. “I wanted at least one prisoner, and I wanted his arrest to shock Charley Deal into admittin’ that he was Green. Why, I even had Ma Holton identify Deal. She thought he was the same man.”

“But she couldn’t be sure—not sure enough. And I knew that they could stand pat and ruin all my schemes. I had the money, but that was all. I knew that the theft of it would bring Green back. And Charley Deal was the only man that came back, so I called him Green and worked everythin’ from that.”

“By golly, don’t you feel sorry?” said Cherokee. “Mebbe it’s a lot better for Laskey. Anyway, two out of five is a pretty good average.”

Anderson shoved his way to the front. He was trembling with excitement, hardly able to talk. Some one near the door had told him that Laskey had shot himself.

“This is terrible!” he exclaimed. “Three men dead. And what good has it done?”

“It pays for the murder of Parker Miller,” said Hashknife. “And I’ve got about seventy-five hundred dollars that belongs to yore bank, Anderson.”

“Seventy-five hundred? Why, that’s what was stolen. This is really wonderful!”

“Aw, ——!” blurted Hashknife, and shoved his way out through the crowd.

Yakima Reed came to the bars of his cell and stared out at the crowd which moved in closer to look at him.

“I’d like to say somethin’,” he said.

“You better keep still until yuh get a lawyer,” advised Cherokee.

Yakima spat painfully, “The —— I had! Say, if I hadn’t listened to a —— lawyer I wouldn’t be where I am now. I jist want to say that I’d like to know who in —— told all this to Hartley.”

“He was right, wasn’t he?” asked Cherokee.

“——, yes! I wanted to kill the both of ’em the other night at the Diamond H but Polk thought we’d never find that money if we did, so we dumped ’em in the log shack.”

“Yo’re tellin’ quite a lot,” warned Cherokee.

“Aw, what’s the difference? We were awful suckers to not fade out of the country when we heard that they’d got out of that shack. Me and Chuck wanted to pull out, but Polk—say, if any of you fellers ever figure on pullin’ off a crooked deal, don’t take the advice of any —— lawyer.”

“Which one of you fellers killed Miller?” asked Cherokee.

“Neither one of us. Laskey done it himself.”

“Tryin’ to save yore neck?” asked O’Leary.

“It’s the only neck I’ve got, Jim.”

“Well, we’ll leave it to the law,” said Cherokee.

“Then I lose. You better take this lawshark out of my cell, before I plumb ruin him, sheriff. He’s settin’ there, thasall.”

Over at the War Paint hitch-rack four people grouped together beside an old buckboard.

Hashknife leaned back against a front wheel of the buckboard and puffed on his cigaret.

“Yuh can take eight thousand dollars and buy enough stock to kinda build up the old brand again,” said Sleepy, grinning at the little cowboy who had removed his sombrero, exposing the white hair of Ma Holton.

“I—I can’t stand many more shocks,” she said wearily.

Uncle Billy began chuckling, “I never thought I’d live to see my wife wearin’ boots and overalls and goin’ into saloons.”

“And I wanted a dance with ma this evenin’,” complained Hashknife. “Been lookin’ forward to it quite a while.”

“Blame Uncle Billy,” said ma.

“I’ll take it,” said the old man. “After what’s happened I’ll take blame for most anythin’.

“Well, let’s go home,” suggested Hashknife. “A lot of these Medicine River cowpunchers heard me say that the money was under the bunk-house doorstep—and I want to put my head on a piller tonight and feel sure that somebody ain’t goin’ to start another mystery here.”

A few minutes later, while the dance orchestra rattled into the “Irish Washerwoman” and the stentorian voice of Steve Morris ordered, “Right hands to your partners—grand right and left,” a decrepit buckboard, drawn by a mismated pair of horses, rattled out of town. And behind it rode two cowpunchers, who, for the first time since they became range tramps—were heading home.

Transcriber’s Note

This story appeared in Adventure Magazine, August 30, 1925. It is believed to be in the public domain in the United States; copyright status may differ in other countries.