A moment later came the sound of horses, and two riders swept around the corner of the house. They jerked to a stop, throwing a shower of gravel against the steps. Moses Conley sprang to his feet.The men were Slim Regan and Mark Clayton of the Big 4. Regan whirled his horse against the side of the porch and at the same time, he covered Moses Conley with a six-shooter. Clayton dismounted.“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Conley.“I’ll show you what’s the matter with me!” rasped Regan angrily. “Keep your hands above your waist, Conley.”“I’m not armed,” said Conley. “What’s gone wrong with you, Regan?”Mark Clayton halted at the bottom of the steps. He held a gun in his right hand and seemed to wait for Regan to give him further orders.“You know damn well what’s wrong,” declared Regan hotly. “We found where you cut your upper fence; so we rode down to see what it meant. Oh, we found out all right. There’s eight white-faced, Big 4 steers dead at Hot Creek. You let ’em in and then shot ’em for trespassin’, eh?”Conley’s right hand went to his beard, trembling slightly.“Keep your hands still,” warned Clayton.“You don’t need to deny anythin’,” said Regan coldly. “We’ve got the deadwood on you, Conley. I reckon you’ll claim they didn’t have any right there, eh? Mebby not. But that won’t help you any. Come off that porch and saddle your bronc. You go to jail,sabe?”“To jail?” Conley shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Regan. Put up that gun and let’s talk sensible.”“Like hell! Come off that porch.”Mark Clayton holstered his gun, as the old man started to obey Regan. It was evident that the old man carried no arms of any kind.“Drop that gun, Regan!”Regan’s head jerked sidewise enough for him to see Dawn Conley and the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. She was not over a dozen feet away. He dropped his gun. Clayton stood perfectly still. Dawn had circled the house and come in almost behind them. Now she moved closer, holding the big gun easily in her two hands, the first finger of her right hand crooked around a trigger.“Take their guns, Dad,” she said huskily.Clayton made no objection as Conley removed the gun from his holster. He knew what a shotgun would do at short range, and he had no desire to be picked up in chunks.The old man took Regan’s gun and stepped back to the edge of the porch. Dawn went slowly to him and laid the gun on the porch floor.“Where do you keep the shells for this gun, Dad?” she asked. “I looked all over for them.”“There ain’t any, Dawn,” he said. “I’ve been goin’ to buy some, but I put it off.”“Wasn’t loaded, eh?” gritted Regan.“Hasn’t been for a week,” said Conley.“Pretty good bluff, at that,” said Clayton. “It’s all right with me. Any old time you point one of them twin tubes at my anatomy, I sag visibly.”“What’s it goin’ to get you?” demanded Regan. “Put down them guns. You’re goin’ to town with us.”“Not now, Regan. The Big 4 can’t arrest me. If you’ve got a complaint to make, go to the sheriff.”“Oh, yes! And have him pull a deal with us like he did with Pete.”“Then go home and mind your own business. I’m not goin’ to town with you, Regan. I don’t care to see you two any longer than I have to. I fenced this place to keep all the Big 4’s off my land; so you better pilgrim home.”Clayton mounted hurriedly.“We’ll come back, Conley,” said Regan. “You’ve butchered eight of our steers on your land, and if the Big 4 don’t wipe you off the earth, I’ll miss my guess.”They whirled their horses and galloped off down the road. Regan was so mad he spurred his pet saddle horse unmercifully on the way to the gate. The sun was just going down. He wasn’t certain just what to do. They drew rein at the gate.“What are you laughin’ about?” demanded Regan.“I can’t help it,” chuckled Clayton. “The look on your face, when you saw that shotgun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”“Is that so! Well, I didn’t see you do anythin’, except reach for the sky.”“An empty gun, too! Whooee-e-e! Say, Slim, I never knowed how danged pretty that girl was until now. She’s a bird.”“Yeah, and she needs her wings clipped. What had we better do, Mark? We can’t let the old man destroy the evidence. It would be like him to drag every steer out of sight.”“Let’s go and get Roarin’ Rigby. We can come back with him and see that he does what we want him to do. I know I’d like to have my gun but it’ll be dark pretty quick.”“That’s the worst of it. Wonder who this is comin’.”Two horsemen were coming up the road from the ford, and the fading sunlight showed them to be riding a tall gray and a sorrel.“Pretty tall man on that gray,” observed Regan.“Plenty big on the sorrel,” Clayton. “I don’tsabethat tall gray, Slim.”As the riders drew closer, the two men at the gate recognized Franklyn Moran as the rider of the sorrel.“Well, I’ll be danged!” snorted Regan.“Hello, Moran!”“Hello Slim,” called Moran. “Howdy, Clayton.”He shook hands with the two cowboys and introduced them to Hashknife and, at the same time, he told them how it happened that he was riding to the ranch. Slim looked appraisingly at Hashknife. Slim was a cowman and a judge of cowboys. His practised eye noted the riding rig of the tall cowboy, the cut of his well worn chaps, the hang of his belt and gun. His eyes flashed back to Hashknife’s serious face, and he half-smiled as he said:“Boy, howdy! Your outfit never got to lookin’ that way from ridin’ now and then.”“I’ve been around,” said Hashknife modestly.“I’ll betcha. Lookin’ for work?”Hashknife grinned at Moran.“Must be a habit in this country, Moran—this ‘work’ idea.”Moran laughed and explained.“I was just wonderin’ if it was ag’in’ the law to wear a gun around here,” smiled Hashknife, indicating Regan’s empty holster.“Not unless they get the drop on you!” blurted Clayton. “You tell ’em, Slim.”Slim told them, while Moran swore explosively. Hashknife rolled a cigaret during the recital and tried to appear indifferent, but his eyes smiled when Regan told how Dawn Conley had stuck them up with an empty shotgun.“That’s the dirty old squaw-man I told you about, Hartley,” said Moran. “That’s how he gets even with me. I’ll send him to the pen for that, if there’s any law in the county.”“Well, there ain’t,” declared Clayton. “Roarin’ Rigby is stuck on Dawn Conley and—”“What about Jim Randall, the sheriff?”“Gone. The Black Horse Saloon outfit scared him out of the country. Roarin’ Rigby is sheriff, and he’s hired Wind River Jim for a deputy.”“And that is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” declared Moran. “This country needs a shake-up. What about Jimmy? Oh, you don’t need to be afraid to talk in front of Hartley. I’ve told him all about things.”“Well, there’s no secret about him goin’ to marry Dawn Conley, I guess,” said Slim. “I happen to know Jimmy borrowed money from the bank on a mortgage, and he owes English Ed quite a lot of money.“You knew they had Pete Conley in jail for killin’ Joe Mallette. Well, that same night, Jimmy had a fight with English Ed, and knocked Ed out. That caused bad blood. Then Jimmy and Roarin’ Rigby foxed the gang that went out to hang Pete, and got Pete safe to jail. It put Jimmy in bad with a lot of folks. They held the inquest and indicted Pete. Kent Cutter got to talkin’ kinda loud about Jimmy in the Black Horse, and Lovely Lucas pitched Kent over the bar, bustin’ forty dollars’ worth of glasses. Oh, we’ve had a lot of fun around here lately, but Joe Mallette is the only one that’s been killed. You know, the same gang that scared Jim Randall out sent warnings to Judge Beal, but the old judge is still in evidence, although he sticks pretty close to home.”“And all this will lead to more killin’,” said Moran. “I’ll tell you what to do, Slim. You and Mark go to town and bring Roarin’ Rigby out to the Big 4. Tell him I want to talk with him.”“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”
A moment later came the sound of horses, and two riders swept around the corner of the house. They jerked to a stop, throwing a shower of gravel against the steps. Moses Conley sprang to his feet.
The men were Slim Regan and Mark Clayton of the Big 4. Regan whirled his horse against the side of the porch and at the same time, he covered Moses Conley with a six-shooter. Clayton dismounted.
“What’s the matter with you?” demanded Conley.
“I’ll show you what’s the matter with me!” rasped Regan angrily. “Keep your hands above your waist, Conley.”
“I’m not armed,” said Conley. “What’s gone wrong with you, Regan?”
Mark Clayton halted at the bottom of the steps. He held a gun in his right hand and seemed to wait for Regan to give him further orders.
“You know damn well what’s wrong,” declared Regan hotly. “We found where you cut your upper fence; so we rode down to see what it meant. Oh, we found out all right. There’s eight white-faced, Big 4 steers dead at Hot Creek. You let ’em in and then shot ’em for trespassin’, eh?”
Conley’s right hand went to his beard, trembling slightly.
“Keep your hands still,” warned Clayton.
“You don’t need to deny anythin’,” said Regan coldly. “We’ve got the deadwood on you, Conley. I reckon you’ll claim they didn’t have any right there, eh? Mebby not. But that won’t help you any. Come off that porch and saddle your bronc. You go to jail,sabe?”
“To jail?” Conley shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Regan. Put up that gun and let’s talk sensible.”
“Like hell! Come off that porch.”
Mark Clayton holstered his gun, as the old man started to obey Regan. It was evident that the old man carried no arms of any kind.
“Drop that gun, Regan!”
Regan’s head jerked sidewise enough for him to see Dawn Conley and the muzzle of a double-barreled shotgun. She was not over a dozen feet away. He dropped his gun. Clayton stood perfectly still. Dawn had circled the house and come in almost behind them. Now she moved closer, holding the big gun easily in her two hands, the first finger of her right hand crooked around a trigger.
“Take their guns, Dad,” she said huskily.
Clayton made no objection as Conley removed the gun from his holster. He knew what a shotgun would do at short range, and he had no desire to be picked up in chunks.
The old man took Regan’s gun and stepped back to the edge of the porch. Dawn went slowly to him and laid the gun on the porch floor.
“Where do you keep the shells for this gun, Dad?” she asked. “I looked all over for them.”
“There ain’t any, Dawn,” he said. “I’ve been goin’ to buy some, but I put it off.”
“Wasn’t loaded, eh?” gritted Regan.
“Hasn’t been for a week,” said Conley.
“Pretty good bluff, at that,” said Clayton. “It’s all right with me. Any old time you point one of them twin tubes at my anatomy, I sag visibly.”
“What’s it goin’ to get you?” demanded Regan. “Put down them guns. You’re goin’ to town with us.”
“Not now, Regan. The Big 4 can’t arrest me. If you’ve got a complaint to make, go to the sheriff.”
“Oh, yes! And have him pull a deal with us like he did with Pete.”
“Then go home and mind your own business. I’m not goin’ to town with you, Regan. I don’t care to see you two any longer than I have to. I fenced this place to keep all the Big 4’s off my land; so you better pilgrim home.”
Clayton mounted hurriedly.
“We’ll come back, Conley,” said Regan. “You’ve butchered eight of our steers on your land, and if the Big 4 don’t wipe you off the earth, I’ll miss my guess.”
They whirled their horses and galloped off down the road. Regan was so mad he spurred his pet saddle horse unmercifully on the way to the gate. The sun was just going down. He wasn’t certain just what to do. They drew rein at the gate.
“What are you laughin’ about?” demanded Regan.
“I can’t help it,” chuckled Clayton. “The look on your face, when you saw that shotgun! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”
“Is that so! Well, I didn’t see you do anythin’, except reach for the sky.”
“An empty gun, too! Whooee-e-e! Say, Slim, I never knowed how danged pretty that girl was until now. She’s a bird.”
“Yeah, and she needs her wings clipped. What had we better do, Mark? We can’t let the old man destroy the evidence. It would be like him to drag every steer out of sight.”
“Let’s go and get Roarin’ Rigby. We can come back with him and see that he does what we want him to do. I know I’d like to have my gun but it’ll be dark pretty quick.”
“That’s the worst of it. Wonder who this is comin’.”
Two horsemen were coming up the road from the ford, and the fading sunlight showed them to be riding a tall gray and a sorrel.
“Pretty tall man on that gray,” observed Regan.
“Plenty big on the sorrel,” Clayton. “I don’tsabethat tall gray, Slim.”
As the riders drew closer, the two men at the gate recognized Franklyn Moran as the rider of the sorrel.
“Well, I’ll be danged!” snorted Regan.
“Hello, Moran!”
“Hello Slim,” called Moran. “Howdy, Clayton.”
He shook hands with the two cowboys and introduced them to Hashknife and, at the same time, he told them how it happened that he was riding to the ranch. Slim looked appraisingly at Hashknife. Slim was a cowman and a judge of cowboys. His practised eye noted the riding rig of the tall cowboy, the cut of his well worn chaps, the hang of his belt and gun. His eyes flashed back to Hashknife’s serious face, and he half-smiled as he said:
“Boy, howdy! Your outfit never got to lookin’ that way from ridin’ now and then.”
“I’ve been around,” said Hashknife modestly.
“I’ll betcha. Lookin’ for work?”
Hashknife grinned at Moran.
“Must be a habit in this country, Moran—this ‘work’ idea.”
Moran laughed and explained.
“I was just wonderin’ if it was ag’in’ the law to wear a gun around here,” smiled Hashknife, indicating Regan’s empty holster.
“Not unless they get the drop on you!” blurted Clayton. “You tell ’em, Slim.”
Slim told them, while Moran swore explosively. Hashknife rolled a cigaret during the recital and tried to appear indifferent, but his eyes smiled when Regan told how Dawn Conley had stuck them up with an empty shotgun.
“That’s the dirty old squaw-man I told you about, Hartley,” said Moran. “That’s how he gets even with me. I’ll send him to the pen for that, if there’s any law in the county.”
“Well, there ain’t,” declared Clayton. “Roarin’ Rigby is stuck on Dawn Conley and—”
“What about Jim Randall, the sheriff?”
“Gone. The Black Horse Saloon outfit scared him out of the country. Roarin’ Rigby is sheriff, and he’s hired Wind River Jim for a deputy.”
“And that is the most ridiculous thing I ever heard,” declared Moran. “This country needs a shake-up. What about Jimmy? Oh, you don’t need to be afraid to talk in front of Hartley. I’ve told him all about things.”
“Well, there’s no secret about him goin’ to marry Dawn Conley, I guess,” said Slim. “I happen to know Jimmy borrowed money from the bank on a mortgage, and he owes English Ed quite a lot of money.
“You knew they had Pete Conley in jail for killin’ Joe Mallette. Well, that same night, Jimmy had a fight with English Ed, and knocked Ed out. That caused bad blood. Then Jimmy and Roarin’ Rigby foxed the gang that went out to hang Pete, and got Pete safe to jail. It put Jimmy in bad with a lot of folks. They held the inquest and indicted Pete. Kent Cutter got to talkin’ kinda loud about Jimmy in the Black Horse, and Lovely Lucas pitched Kent over the bar, bustin’ forty dollars’ worth of glasses. Oh, we’ve had a lot of fun around here lately, but Joe Mallette is the only one that’s been killed. You know, the same gang that scared Jim Randall out sent warnings to Judge Beal, but the old judge is still in evidence, although he sticks pretty close to home.”
“And all this will lead to more killin’,” said Moran. “I’ll tell you what to do, Slim. You and Mark go to town and bring Roarin’ Rigby out to the Big 4. Tell him I want to talk with him.”
“All right. But in the meantime we ought to have a man over on Hot Creek, to see that Mose Conley don’t destroy all that evidence.”
“And get him shot into ribbons, eh? I know Conley.”
“Yeah, I reckon that’s true. Well, they’re your steers; so you can do as you please. We’ll bring Roarin’ back with us.”