IX—COMPLICATIONS

The Taylor hearing was more or less of a farce, but it left Apostle Paul, Buck and Peeler, the half-breed, high and dry in the Blue Wells jail until the next term of court. Old Judge Parkridge, near-sighted, more than slightly deaf, a mummified old jurist, set their bail at one thousand dollars cash, each—bail which no one would furnish.

There was no evidence against them, except the fact that they had the dog, and that they could not prove that they had spent the night on Yellow Horn Mesa. So they were formally charged with train robbery and held until the next session of court, which would not be held for three weeks.

Apostle Paul Taylor cursed the judge, who could not hear it, and went back to the jail, followed by Buck and Peeler. Marion was broken-hearted, but did not show it. She sat down in the sheriff’s office and tried to reason out just what to do. The Double Bar 8 could not afford to hire men, and she could not do the work alone.

The sheriff did not try to solace her. He was tongue-tied in her presence. Then Tex Alden showed up. He had not been at the hearing, but had been told all about it.

“That’s sure tough, Marion,” he told her. “I’ll tell yuh what I’ll do—I’ll send some of my men down to run the ranch for yuh, and it won’t cost yuh a cent.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Alden.”

Tex colored quickly. It was the first time she had ever called him “Mr. Alden.”

“Why, what’s the matter?” he asked quickly. “What have I done?”

“You know what you did,” she retorted. “Please don’t bother yourself about my affairs.”

Tex stared at her wonderingly.

“Well, for gosh sake!” he blurted. “Hm-m-m-m! Whatsa matter now?”

But Marion turned away from him and stared out through one of the dirty windows. Tex whistled softly and walked outside. He stopped, turned, as if to go back, but changed his mind and went on up the street, whistling unmusically between his teeth, his brow furrowed.

Lee Barnhardt, the lawyer, was coming from his office, and met Tex in front of the general store.

“Wasn’t that a —— of a verdict, Tex?” he asked

“Verdict? Oh, yeah.” Tex looked thoughtfully at the lean-faced attorney. “I’m wonderin’ who’ll run the Double Bar 8 until after the trial, Lee?”

“I don’t know; never thought about it, Tex. Say, did you hear about that AK tenderfoot getting shot last night?”

“Legg?”

“Yes. Some one shot him last night, almost in front of the hotel.”

“Yea-a-ah? Kill him?”

“No,” Barnhardt laughed. “Skull was too hard, I guess. He had been standing there, talking with Marion Taylor, and just after she went into the hotel, some one shot him. But he was able to ride back to the AK; so I guess he’s all right.”

Tex took a deep breath and looked back toward the sheriff’s office. Marion was coming up the street. He turned to Barnhardt.

“I hadn’t heard about it, Lee. I left just after the trainmen had identified the dog.” Tex turned on his heel and went across the street, disappearing in the Oasis saloon.

Marion joined Barnhardt and they walked to his office. The girl did not like Barnhardt, but her father had engaged him to handle their defense. Hashknife and Sleepy had talked with several of the cowboys, and it was their opinion that none of the cattle outfits would put on extra men until the round-up.

Hashknife went to the sheriff’s office and had a talk with Scotty Olson. Hashknife had heard the cowboys talking about the Double Bar 8, and the fact that there was no one, except the girl, to run the ranch. Hashknife explained to the sheriff that he and Sleepy would be willing to run the Double Bar 8, at least until the round-up started, and without wages.

“What’s the idea?” queried Scotty. It looked fishy to him.

“Merely helpin’ out,” smiled Hashknife. “It’ll save us a hotel bill, and we might as well be workin’ as settin’ around a saloon.” Scotty smoothed his mustaches and admitted that it would be a great help to the Taylor family.

“C’mon in and meet Apostle Paul,” suggested the sheriff.

Hashknife followed him to the cells and was introduced to Marion’s father, who scrutinized Hashknife closely, when the sheriff explained what Hartley and his partner were willing to do.

“I thought mebbe Tex Alden would help us out,” said the old man.

“Yuh can hang that idea up in the smokehouse,” said the sheriff. “Tex met yore daughter a while ago, and she kinda snubbed him up real short, Paul.”

“Yea-a-ah? Well, I’ll be ——! See if yuh can get holt of her, Scotty.”

The sheriff left Hashknife with Taylor, while he found Marion. The old man had little to say to Hashknife, and the conversation dragged heavily until the sheriff brought her in and introduced her to Hashknife.

“Did Tex offer to help us out?” asked Taylor.

Marion nodded quickly.

“He did; and I refused his offer. And he knows why I refused it, Dad.”

“Gosh a’mighty—why?”

“I can’t tell you now.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I jist wanted to know if he did. Mr. Hartley and his pardner offer to help yuh run the ranch at least until the round-up starts, and it shore looks generous—comin’ from strangers.”

“It certainly is generous!” exclaimed Marion. “Dad, I think I can get Nanah to stay with me.”

“That’ll be fine. I’m much obliged to yuh, Hartley, and I’ll not be forgettin’ this favor. We’re shore up agin’ a hard deal. How soon can yuh go out to the ranch?”

“I broke a State record on saddlin’ a bronc once,” grinned Hashknife. “Our animals are in the livery-stable, and I know Sleepy is plumb willin’ to give up that bed at the hotel.”

“Then we’ll all ride out together,” said Marion. “My horse is there too.” Hashknife found Sleepy at Moon’s store and introduced him to Marion. Lee Barnhardt was there, and heard Hashknife explain to Sleepy that they were going to run the Double Bar 8. The lean-necked lawyer’s brows elevated momentarily, and he wondered why Tex Alden hadn’t handled that end of the deal.

Sleepy went with Marion to get the horses, while Hashknife secured paper and envelopes from Moon, and wrote a letter. Lee Barnhardt sat on a counter across the room, and wondered who this tall cowboy might be. Lee did not believe in philanthropy, and he wondered just why these two cowboys should offer to work the Double Bar 8 for nothing. He watched Hashknife, who hunched over the counter, taking much time over the composition of his letter.

Lee moved over to that counter and bought some tobacco he did not need. Hashknife sealed the letter and began directing the envelope. Lee walked slowly past him, getting a flash of the address on the letter, which was directed to Leesom & Brand, Attorneys at Law, Chicago.

If Lee Barnhardt expected to find any clue to Hashknife’s identity, he could hardly find it in the address of a letter, but he smiled queerly as he walked to his office and sat down, twiddling his thumbs.

But it was not a pleasant smile, and his head sunk into his collar until the wattles of his wry-neck protruded. For about ten minutes he sat thus, totally absorbed in his own thoughts, which were finally broken by the entrance of Tex Alden, who had been depleting the stock of the Oasis saloon until he fairly reeked with alcoholic fumes.

“What do you know about them two fellers goin’ out to the Taylor ranch?” he demanded of Barnhardt.

“Eh?” Lee looked up quickly. “Oh, yes. What about ’em?”

“That’s what I want to know, by ——!”

“You’re sore about something, ain’t you, Tex?”

“Yo’re —— right I am! Who authorized them two punchers to run that place?”

“Well, I didn’t. It wasn’t any of my business. Tex, you don’t need to get drunk and come roaring into my office. I never sent them out there. It seems to me that Miss Taylor was perfectly willing to have them go out there. And they talked with old Apostle Paul. Don’t hop me; hop them.”

“Hop, ——!” Tex leaned on the desk and glared at Barnhardt.

“Go to it, Tex. Hop anything you want to, but leave me out. Did you offer to run the ranch for her?”

“I did, —— it!”

Lee smiled at Tex’s flushed face.

“What did she say?”

“None of yore —— business!”

“Mm-m-m-m! Must have been a good reason.”

“Who are these strange punchers?”

Lee shook his head.

“How would I know? They’re going to run the Double Bar 8 for nothing. Rather charitable for a pair of strangers, don’t you think, Tex?”

“Too —— charitable.”

“That’s my opinion. But I don’t know a thing against ’em.”

“Know anythin’ for ’em?” bluntly.

“Not a thing, Tex. Marion is a mighty pretty girl, and—”

“Drop that!” snapped Tex angrily. “Leave her out of it.”

“Oh, all right. But she didn’t talk as though she hated either of them. I heard her talking to them in Moon’s store a while ago.”

Tex’s black eyes snapped angrily.

“I want to know a few things,” he said evenly. “I’m no —— fool!”

“Well, you’ll not find out anything from me, because I don’t know anything to tell you, Tex. I’m no judge of human nature, but I’d go easy with those two men. I don’t think you can scare ’em. They’ve probably got a reason for running the Taylor ranch—for nothing.”

“They can’t scare me, by ——!”

“They probably won’t try,” smiled Barnhardt. “Anyway, they have no reason for trying to scare you. Tex, does their names mean anything to you?”

“Their names? Hartley and Stevens? Not a —— thing.”

“Ask Plenty Goode about it?”

“What would he know about ’em, Lee?”

“Do you remember one night out at the X Bar 6, just after Goode had hired out to you, and I was there? We were talking about rustlers and horse-thieves, and Goode told us some of the things that happened in the Modoc country. He lived at Black Wells, I believe. Don’t you remember the names now, Tex?”

“Lee, I believe yo’re right. What was it he called the tall one?”

“Hashknife.”

“That was it! But are these the same men, Lee?”

“I heard the tall one called by that name a while ago.”

“Huh! What do yuh reckon they’re doin’ over here?”

Lee smiled crookedly.

“I dunno, Tex; but it has probably got something to do with the train robbery. And if I had held up that train, I’d sure hate to have these men on my trail. Ask Goode more about them, Tex.”

Tex nodded slowly, thoughtfully. Suddenly he jerked ahead, his eyes boring into Barnhardt.

“Why should I worry about ’em? They can’t hang anythin’ on to me, by ——!”

“Oh, all right,” sighed Lee. “I know I’d like to have that eight thousand dollars back from you. You better give it to me pretty quick, because I can’t cover it up very long.”

“Why can’t yuh? The round-up count can be long. You handle all the business for the X Bar 6, and you can add those cattle to your report. They don’t know the sale was made.”

“Compound a felony, eh? Turn crook for you, Tex?”

“Turn ——! Listen, Lee.” Tex leaned across the desk and poked a finger at Lee’s nose. “Yo’re as crooked as a snake in a cactus patch. You’d double-cross yore best friend for a dollar. Don’t swaller so hard! I mean what I’m tellin’ yuh. You told me about that Santa Rita pay-roll, because you wanted yore cut out of it, and yo’re sore because yuh didn’t get it.

“I haven’t any eight thousand dollars —— yuh; I ain’t got no way to get eight thousand dollars. And what’s more, I don’t think I’d give it to yuh if I had it. Now, roll that up in some tar-paper and smoke it. Any old time you start playin’ saint to my sins, yo’re goin’ to get in wrong. Now, think it over.”

Tex surged away from the desk, and went out, scraping his spurs angrily, while Lee Barnhardt looked after him, gloomy-eyed, his lips compressed tightly. Finally he sighed and shook his head.

“Lee, your sins are finding you out,” he said softly. “That poor fool is trying to bluff you—and he almost did.”

“This old place is sure pleasin’ to the naked eye,” said Hashknife the following morning, while Sleepy washed his face noisily at the old wash-bench near the kitchen door. “I like this old patio, Sleepy. Them walls were sure built to ward off bullets.”

“Yeah, and we’re in a peaceable neighborhood,” grunted Sleepy, his eyes shut against the sting of soap-suds, while he pawed awkwardly along the wall, trying to locate the towel, which Hashknife had deftly removed.

“Where’s that —— towel!” he roared. “Gimme that, before I scalp yuh. Dang yuh, Hashknife, you’ve got a —— of an idea of humor. Ow-w-w-w! Please! My ——, if I ever git m’ eyes open ag’in, I’ll scalp yuh.”

Sleepy danced violently, his dripping hands held at right angles to his body.

“Whatsa idea of the ghost-dance?” queried Hashknife soberly. “The towel is there on the wash-bench, where yuh left it.”

This was palpably a falsehood, but Sleepy pawed his way to the bench, found the towel, and wiped his burning eyes.

“You hadn’t ought to use laundry soap in yore eyes,” said Hashknife reprovingly. “Whatcha cryin’ about?”

“You stole that towel! Yeah, yuh did! Oh, well!” Sleepy shrugged his shoulders. “A feller that ain’t got no more sense than to throw in with a danged—”

“Halt!” snorted Hashknife. “Say it, and I’ll wash out yore mouth, Sleepy.”

“Oh, yuh will!” Sleepy glared at Hashknife, who was in line with the kitchen door, where Marion stood, laughing.

“Ex-cuse me, Miss Taylor,” said Sleepy. “If you’d lived with Hashknife—uh—I mean, if you—” Sleepy floundered and wiped his eyes.

“You’ll excuse him, Miss Taylor,” said Hashknife seriously. “He ain’t very bright. Ever once in a while he gets a dirty look in his eyes, and has to wash ’em out, yuh see. As a friend he’s all right, but when yuh want mental companionship, I’d as soon have that burro yuh call Apollo.”

Marion laughed, and invited them in to breakfast. She introduced them to Nanah, a portly Indian woman, whom Sleepy dubbed “Carrie Nation,” because she held a hatchet in her left hand, while she shook hands with the other.

“She’s related to Peeler,” explained Marion.

“Relate by marriage,” said Nanah solemnly, as if to amend Marion’s statement.

“Nephew?” asked Hashknife, helping himself to a stack of hot-cakes.

“Son,” said Nanah seriously.

“Relate by marriage!” exploded Sleepy.

Nanah did not smile. She spilled more batter on the griddle, examined the pitcher closely, as she glanced at Hashknife’s plate, possibly fearing she had underestimated their hot-cake ability, and said:

“Somebody say Peeler rob train. —— lie! Too lazy.”

“And that’s the most perfect alibi I ever heard,” laughed Hashknife. “Nanah, I’ll bet any jury in Blue Wells would turn him loose on that kind of evidence.”

“What do you think of the case?” asked Marion.

Hashknife shook his head.

“I dunno, Miss Taylor. It kinda looks to me as though the sheriff had kinda gone off half-cocked. That old judge ought to be restin’ in a cemetery. I dunno how any community could stand for an old mummy like him. He ain’t human. There ain’t nothin’ against ’em, except that darned dog, and the fact they were not home that night.”

“But they surely couldn’t convict on that evidence.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m!” Hashknife masticated thoughtfully. “I dunno. I’ve seen queer things happen. I ’member a case where one man was suin’ another for stealin’ his wife, and the cow-jury brought in a verdict of manslaughter against the prosecutin’ attorney.”

“A-a-a-aw, don’t lie like that!” protested Sleepy. “You never seen nothin’ of the kind.”

“Well, I’ve seen things just about as bad. I don’t trust humanity—not cow-jury humanity. If I was goin’ to win that case, I’d do it out of court, Miss Taylor.”

“But how could that be done?” asked Marion eagerly.

“Find the men that done the job.”

“An easy thing to think about,” observed Sleepy, leaning back to let Nanah slide a pile of hot-cakes on his plate.

“But the sheriff won’t do anything now,” said Marion. “He feels that he has done his duty.”

“Prob’ly a good thing he won’t,” grinned Hashknife. “Any man that wears a mustache like Olson does, couldn’t find his own socks inside his boots. That man has all gone to hair.”

“Samson wore long hair,” reminded Sleepy. “He was strong.”

“Strong—yea-a-ah! But did he have any brains? He didn’t. If he had any brains he wouldn’t have let that woman monkey around him with a pair of shears. Just to prove that he was thick—he slept through the hair-cuttin’. Can yuh imagine that?”

“I think Wade, the railroad detective, was more responsible for the arrests than Olson was,” said Marion.

“I’ve seen him,” nodded Hashknife. “He’s one of them kinda jiggers that don’t care whether he gets the guilty man or not, just so he gets somebody. That feller used to be a policeman in Los Angeles. They take the uniform off a policeman—and he’s a detective.

“Do yuh know that the idea of numberin’ houses in a city was started by a police department? It was. Their officers was always gettin’ into the wrong houses; so they numbered ’em. Nanah, you make gosh-awful good hot-cakes. Yuh do so. You Navajo?”

Nanah nodded quickly.

“Do you speak Navajo?” asked Marion.

Hashknife shook his head.

“Nope. Speak a little Nez Perce, Flat-head, Sioux, English and Profane. Yuh have to wear a rag around yore head to learn Navajo.”

“And pack a snake around in yore teeth,” added Sleepy.

Marion laughed at the expression of Nanah’s face.

“I not bite snake,” declared the squaw seriously.

“That’s right,” said Hashknife. “Don’t-cha do it, Nanah.”

They shoved back from the table and rolled cigarets, while Nanah and Marion cleared away the dishes.

“If you were going to try and find the men who held up that train—where would you look?” asked Marion.

Hashknife smiled over his cigaret.

“That’s hard to say. I’d have to do a little addition, subtraction and division. Didja ever get far enough in school to work on problems where they let X equal the missin’ numbers?”

Marion smiled.

“Yes, I have, Mr. Hartley.”

“Well, then, don’t call me mister. My name’s Hashknife. Now that yuh know me well enough to call me Hashknife, I’d say that I’d let about four X’s equal the missin’ bandits, and work out the problem from there. We’ve got the dog. Workin’ backwards from a dog, yuh ought to get quite a lot.

“In the beginning I’d like to ask yuh what yuh know about a feller who is workin’ for the AK outfit who is named Jimmy Legg.”

“James Eaton Legg,” said Marion solemnly. “He said it sounded like a cannibal. I don’t know a thing about him, except that he came to Blue Wells the night of the robbery. Johnny Grant took a liking to him, and took him out to the AK, where he’s been falling off horses ever since. He says he’s going to learn to be a cowboy, if he lives long enough—and that’s all I know about him.”

“Not much,” mused Hashknife. “Nice boy?”

“Certainly he’s nice,” said Marion, without hesitation.

“I s’pose so,” smiled Hashknife. “Bein’ as yo’re the boss of this outfit, suppose yuh tell us what yuh want done today.”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “Suppose you spend the day in getting used to the place.”

“All right. Mebbe we’ll corral a few horses and look ’em over. If we handle the round-up for the Double Bar 8, we’re goin’ to need a remuda.”

“Sure. Suppose you ride back to Blue Wells some time today and bring back the three that are in the livery-stable. We forgot them.”

“That’s right. How about the chuck-wagon?”

“Oh, I forgot about that. We have always used the X Bar 6 outfit wagons. Tex Alden has always insisted that our outfit was too small to run their own chuck-wagon. But this year—”

Marion’s pause was significant. Hashknife realized that everything was not right between the Taylor family and Alden.

“He didn’t invite yuh to share his chuck, eh?”

Marion shook her head slowly.

“I guess we’ll get along all right.”

“Y’betcha,” warmly. “We’ll kinda look things over, Miss Taylor.”

“And now that we’re well enough acquainted for you to call me Marion—”

“Oh, all right,” laughed Hashknife.

He joined Sleepy in the patio, and they inspected the stables and corrals, with Apollo following them like a dog, trying to nip the brims of their hats.

It was possibly half an hour later that Lee Barnhardt rode in at the ranch, and the Blue Wells attorney was a sight for sore eyes. His mount was a sway-backed sorrel, with a long neck and a whispy tail. Barnhardt did not wear chaps, and the action of the horse had wrinkled his trousers, until the bottoms were up to his knees, showing an expanse of skinny leg and a pair of mismated socks. On his head he wore a sombrero, which was too small for him, and a flannel shirt, so large around the neck that one could easily catch a glimpse of his collar-bone.

He nodded pleasantly to Hashknife and Sleepy and dismounted, allowing his trousers to resume a normal attitude toward his legs.

“I just rode out to see how things were going,” he explained. “I spoke to Mr. Taylor about it.”

“Well, yuh don’t need to apologize,” grinned Hashknife. “Of course yuh got here pretty early in the mornin’ to find anythin’ goin’ on. That’s quite a bronc you’ve got.”

“Yes; he’s all right. Not much for looks, but reliable. Is Miss Taylor at home?”

“I think you’ll find her in the house.”

“Thank you.”

Barnhardt dusted off his clothes, with a flap of his hands, and headed toward the house, while Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other.

“That,” said Hashknife seriously, “is the attorney.”

“I’m disappointed,” said Sleepy seriously.

“Yuh don’t need to be, Sleepy. Hello! Here comes the next chapter.”

Jimmy Legg had arrived at the Double Bar 8, with his head swathed in bandages, his sombrero cocked at an angle. He slid out of his saddle, hitched up his belt and gazed soberly at the two cowboys.

“Hello,” he said.

“How’s the head?” asked Hashknife.

“Gee, it sure was sore this morning. I didn’t sleep much last night. I guess I was scared,” Jimmy grinned widely. “Got to thinking how close I came to getting me a harp. Honest, it was an awful dream. You see, I’m not musical at all.”

The two cowboys grinned with Jimmy. He looked at the lawyer’s horse quizzically.

“Who rides that thing?” he asked.

“An attorney from Blue Wells,” said Hashknife.

“Oh, Lee Barnhardt? Well,” Jimmy hitched up his belt, “it looks like him. They’ve both got the same shape neck.”

“Yuh hadn’t ought to make fun of a horse,” said Sleepy.

“No, I suppose not. Really, I shouldn’t make fun of anybody. I ought to put in most of my time being thankful I’m alive. I am, too. I’ve got to go and have the doctor dress my head, but I thought I’d stop and see Miss Taylor. She’s going to need some help around here, and I thought I’d offer my services. The AK really don’t need me.”

“What can you do?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy shuffled his feet.

“Well,” he said slowly, “I really don’t know. Unless, of course, she has some horses that need to have some one fall off them. Johnny Grant says I’m the best he has ever seen. He says if you’re a champion rider there’s always a dispute over it. But if you’re a champion faller-off, you’ve got a cinch title.”

The two cowboys laughed at Jimmy, or rather, with him.

“Can yuh handle a rope?” asked Hashknife.

“Not on a horse. There’s too many things to remember. I always fell off, trying to keep from tripping my own horse. On the ground, I’m pretty good. Eskimo says I can heat a branding-iron handle hotter than anybody he ever seen. And that about lets me out, I guess.”

“Well, yo’re honest about it, anyway,” laughed Sleepy. “If yuh live long enough, you’ll prob’ly be a top-hand about the time they stop raisin’ cattle and start on sugar-beets.”

“I’d have an even chance with the rest of the cowboys at raising sugar-beets, I suppose.”

“You sure are an optimist, pardner,” laughed Hashknife. “I hope Miss Taylor can use yuh. We need an optimist around us.”

“Fine,” grinned Jimmy. “And I’d learn just as much about being a cowboy.”

“And maybe live longer,” said Sleepy. “Things that might make others shoot— make us laugh. You better tie up yore bronc.”

Jimmy tied his horse to a ring in the patio wall, and they went inside the patio, where they found Marion and Barnhardt. She shook hands with Jimmy, who protested that he was better than he ever was. Barnhardt looked him over coldly, but no one bothered to introduce them.

“I’m looking for a job,” laughed Jimmy. “I told Mr. Bonnette that I was going to offer my services to you, and he said it would be all right with him. He was very nice about it.”

“He knows the salary,” said Hashknife. “We split it three ways.”

“Well, that’s mighty nice of you, Jimmy,” said Marion.

“Don’t mention it, Marion.”

Barnhardt cleared his throat raspingly. He wanted to voice an objection, but had none. Hashknife’s eyes were smiling, but his mouth was serious, as he watched the lawyer’s face.

“I think we are being well taken care of, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion, her eyes dancing.

“Oh, hu—er—yes, indeed.” Barnhardt mopped his face with a silk handkerchief. “Very, very well, Miss Taylor. I—I guess I will be going along.”

“Come again,” said Hashknife cordially. Barnhardt flashed a glance at him, as he held out his hand to Marion.

They walked to the patio gate and watched Barnhardt ride away, sitting stiffly in his saddle, his horse trotting, every jerk of which drew Barnhardt’s trousers up nearer his knees, and caused his ill-fitting sombrero to shift from side to side.

“Looks like the joker in a deck of playin’-cards,” observed Sleepy.

“He means well, I think,” said Marion, as they turned back.

“Means well to Lee Barnhardt,” smiled Hashknife.

“I don’t like him,” said Jimmy. “Oh, it isn’t because of anything he has ever done to me,” he hastened to say. “But it is just something about him that—well, I don’t like him.”

“Shall we show our new member to the bunk-house?” asked Hashknife. “I like him a lot better, since I’ve heard he don’t like lawyers.”

“Oh, my remark does not cover the entire profession,” said Jimmy quickly.

Marion laughed and went into the house, while Hashknife and Sleepy introduced Jimmy to the bunk-house. They sat down and rolled cigarets. Jimmy was not very adept, but he managed to make his own smoke.

“You know Miss Taylor pretty well, don’tcha?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy colored quickly.

“Well, not awful well.”

“Well enough to call her Marion.”

“She asked me to call her that. But that’s all right, isn’t it?”

“It’s all right with me. But it got under the hide of that lawyer.”

“It’s none of his business.”

“No-o-o, I suppose not, Jimmy. Have you any idea who shot yuh?”

Jimmy started to speak, changed his mind, and shook his head.

“I heard,” said Hashknife slowly, “that two prominent young men in this community had declared their intentions of marryin’ this young lady.”

“Oh, I know that,” said Jimmy quickly. “Tex Alden and Chet Le Moyne. But that doesn’t make any difference to me.”

“I see,” Hashknife grinned widely. “You’ll make it a three-cornered affair, eh?”

“Not at all. You see, I—I hardly know the lady. She was nice to me, and I appreciate it. But I never said I wanted to marry her.”

“You’ve met Chet Le Moyne?”

“Yes, I’ve met him. We were introduced at the Oasis saloon.”

“Where did you meet Tex Alden?”

“I never was introduced to him, but I—I talked to him here.”

“Yeah? And he told yuh to keep away, didn’t he?”

Jimmy looked at Hashknife in amazement.

“Why, how did you know that?”

“I didn’t,” smiled Hashknife. “I knew you’d correct me, if I was wrong.”

Jimmy rubbed his nose and grinned foolishly.

“That’s one way of finding out, I suppose. Yes, he did tell me to keep away from here.”

“And that night you got shot.”

“Gee! Do you think he shot me?”

Hashknife smiled softly over the manufacture of another cigaret, but did not answer.

“What do you think I ought to do?” queried Jimmy.

“Just forget it,” replied Hashknife. “You don’t know anything about it, Jimmy.”

“I know, but—” Jimmy hesitated awkwardly. “But he—whoever fired that shot—wanted to kill me, didn’t they? Don’t you suppose they’ll try again?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Gee, that puts me in a fine position!”

“Yea-a-ah, it does. You ought to grab a train and high-tail it out of this country.”

Jimmy thought it over seriously, the smoke from his cigaret drifting up into his eyes.

“No,” he said finally, “I won’t go. I’ve never injured any one, and I’m not going to run away.”

“And take chances on bein’ killed?”

Jimmy nodded.

“Yes; it’s all right. I might be lucky.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Jimmy, as he said,

“Young man, you belong. I wouldn’t blame yuh if yuh ran away. We’re just a pair of ordinary human beings, but we’re backin’ yore play.”

“Gee, that’s nice of you! I’m not much good—not alone. I didn’t come here with the idea of becoming a gunman, but I wish somebody would show me something about a revolver. It tries to jump out of my hand every time I shoot it, and I can’t hit a five-gallon can at ten feet. Really, a fellow should know something about a gun—if somebody is trying to kill him.”

“It might come in handy,” smiled Hashknife. “Neither of us are good shots, but we can show you how to point a gun.”

“Fine! And to draw one real fast, like Johnny Grant can?”

“I’ve never seen Johnny Grant draw a gun. I’ve found that it isn’t all in the speed. Too much speed wastes the first shot. Never reach for a gun, unless you mean to use it, and when you do reach, draw and shoot deliberately. Split-second gunmen don’t hit anythin’. And another thing, Jimmy—don’t shoot, unless yo’re in the right. Bein’ right to start with will win nine times out of ten. You know it and the other man knows it.”

“I think I know what you mean, Mr. Hartley.”

“I’m glad yuh do—and my name’s Hashknife—to them that belong.”

Jimmy grinned widely. It was the first time that any one had even intimated that he might “belong,” and his heart filled with gratitude toward this tall, serious-faced cowboy, who had admitted him to the brotherhood of cowpunchers.

“But you’ll never make a cowpuncher out of yourself, by gettin’ pitched off every bronc yuh see,” declared Sleepy. “Bein’ a cow-hand don’t necessarily mean that yuh can ride anythin’ that wears hair. Nobody’s goin’ to blame yuh, if yuh don’t ride bad ones. That’s only a small part of the business—the fool part, Jimmy.”

“I suppose you’re right,” admitted Jimmy. “I wasn’t born to ride buckers. I was just wondering how you two men happened to be cowboys.”

“Circumstance, I reckon,” said Hashknife. “I was born on the Milk River, in Montana. My dad was a preacher, Jimmy. Not the kind of a preacher you’ve known. He wore overalls and boots, and when he wasn’t ridin’ from place to place, packin’ his gospel, he was workin’ like —— at somethin’ else to make a livin’ for the family, because preachin’ didn’t pay dividends.

“There was six of us kids, and I was the oldest; which meant that I was shiftin’ for myself when I was twelve. I naturally didn’t get over-educated. But I competed against men, and they taught me things. There wasn’t anythin’ to do in that country, except punchin’ cows; so I naturally learned the business.

“In fact, I was about eighteen years old before I knew there was anythin’ else in the world. Then I started driftin’, learnin’, and fightin’ my way. I got whipped a lot of times, but I learned a lot of things; some of it from books, but a lot more from humanity. It’s been a hard school, Jimmy—and it still is; a school where yuh never graduate.”

“I never thought of the world in that way, Hashknife.”

“That’s the way she is,” declared Sleepy. “I got off in about the same way Hashknife did. My folks wanted to honor Idaho; so they moved over near Pocatello before I was born. I went to school, when they could find a man who was brave enough to teach the risin’ sons—which wasn’t no ways regular. The last teacher we had was a horse-thief, and he almost got me mixed up with him in a deal.

“I jist kinda growed up, got some wildeyed ideas, and follered a bunch of geese South. I had a lot of corners on me, and inside of three years I had ’em all knocked off. In three years more I had hollers where there used to be bumps. About that time I decided that there was a —— of a lot of other folks in the world; so I sawed off my horns and held my elbows close to my sides, when I went through a crowd. I eventually drifted to the Hashknife outfit, where I finds my pardner. I dunno just how or why he picked up with me, but we’ve been together ever since.”

“I felt sorry for yuh,” said Hashknife solemnly.

“Yeah, and I’ve felt sorry for myself ever since.”

From out in the patio came the raucous bray of Apollo, as if he had joined the laugh. The three men sauntered out into the patio, where Apollo was nosing around in a water-bucket. He looked them over suspiciously and angled crab-wise toward Sleepy, who was wise in the ways of a burro.

“Git away from me, yuh —— relic,” snorted Sleepy, slapping at the burro with his hat. Marion came from the house, laughing at Sleepy’s antics, and they grouped together at the well.

“Apollo is a family heirloom,” laughed Marion. “No man knows his age. The Indians say he was here when they came, and he has never grown old, except in appearance.”

Marion put one arm over the burro’s neck and rubbed his nose with her hand.

“He loves me,” she said.

“And I heard a man say once that a burro didn’t have any sense,” smiled Hashknife.

Marion colored slightly.

“They’re the wisest of animals,” declared Sleepy.

Came the sharp thud of a blow, as if something had struck the burro with a heavy impact, and the ancient animal dropped as if its legs had been suddenly yanked from under its body. In fact, its fall was so sudden that Marion jerked forward, lost her balance, and fell sprawling across its neck.

And as she fell, from somewhere back in the hills, came the report of a rifle shot. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that no one moved for a moment. Then Hashknife flung himself forward, grasped Marion in his arms and ran back to the shelter of the bunk-house, with Sleepy and Jimmy following.

They stopped against the bunk-house door, staring at each other. Marion was dazed but unhurt.

“What was it?” she asked.

“Yo’re not hurt?” asked Hashknife anxiously.

“I’m not hurt. I—I just fell down. But what—”

“Good gosh, that sure was a close one!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Some dirty coyote—”

“Shot at me,” finished Jimmy nervously. “That bullet went past my ear—I felt it.”

“But—but—” faltered Marion.

“Stay where yuh are,” cautioned Hashknife.

He ran into the bunk-house, and came out in a minute, stuffing cartridges into the loading-gate of one of the ranch rifles.

“Oh, be careful about showing yourself,” cautioned Marion.

“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife.

He moved along the patio wall, slipped out through the gate, while Sleepy took a rifle from the bunk-house, swearing disgustedly over the fact that Hashknife had taken all the cartridges.

“It came from the hill back of us,” said Marion. “Poor old Apollo!”

“Yeah, he’s a goner,” said Sleepy softly. “Well, that’s about all yuh ever could do to make him die. If old age was ever goin’ to kill him, he’d ’a’ died forty years ago.”

There were tears in Marion’s eyes as she looked at the sprawling figure of the ancient burro. Worse than useless, he had always been a part of the Double Bar 8. It was the razing of a landmark.

Suddenly the ancient one shuddered, lifted its misshapen head and goggled foolishly. Then it got slowly to unsteady legs, staggered a few feet, thrust out its head, opened a cavernous mouth, which showed a few crooked teeth, and brayed defiance to all rifle-shooting bushwhackers.

“My ——!” snorted Sleepy. “A rifle can’t even kill it!”

Marion was laughing and crying alternately, and Sleepy grasped her by the arm to prevent her from going out to the burro.

“It just creased him,” explained Sleepy. “See where that blood streak runs down his neck? That bullet went through his neck just over the vertebrae, knocked him plumb out for a while, but he’s as good as ever now.”

Apollo looked reproachfully at Sleepy, stretched his neck tentatively and moved over to the shade of the wall, evidently none the worse for his experience.

When Hashknife left the patio gate he hugged the wall, circling to the rear of the bunk-house, from where he ran to the stable. He decided that the shot had been fired from a point on the hill, near the upper end of a small cañon. It was about the only spot on that side where a man could get elevation enough to enable him to see the center of the patio.

There was plenty of brush on the slope behind the stable; brush tall enough to conceal him from any one on the slope; so Hashknife did not hesitate to head directly for the spot he had in mind. There was no more shooting, but Hashknife could not be sure that the bushwhacker had not seen him start from the patio; so when he was half-way up to the break of the cañon, he went carefully, taking advantage of the heaviest cover in sight.

Hashknife realized his own danger. It was almost impossible for him to move without making a noise in the dry brush. And he did not know what moment a bullet might search him out. Working to the right, he came to the cañon rim, where he sprawled under a bush, listening closely.

Near him a flock of quail scurried about in the brush, their peculiar call, ventriloquistic, “Sit right there!” echoing back from the cañon-walls. One of them passed within inches of his rifle muzzle, a nervously jerking handful of blue and bronze, evidently puzzled at this sprawled figure of a human, which did not move.

The quail were working up the slope. Peering beneath the brush, Hashknife could see the little blue fellows running from cover to cover, while their calling became more faint. Hashknife slid farther out on the rim, and was about to get to his feet, when he saw the flock of quail whir up from the brush, and come hurtling down the cañon, swinging in below him, scattering badly, and beginning their warning cries again.

Something or somebody had disturbed them. Then he heard the sound of something coming down through the brush toward him. He got to his haunches, swinging his rifle into position as a horse and rider broke through the brush, almost against him.

The black horse snorted wildly, as Hashknife arose, covering the rider with the rifle. The man jerked back and his hands went above his head, while the horse surged back. The rider was of medium height, slightly gray, his bronzed face heavily lined, one cheek bulged with a chew of tobacco. He quieted the horse, spat explosively and shut one eye as he looked down at Hashknife.

“Well?” he said rather defiantly.

“Not so well,” said Hashknife coldly. He circled the horse, but there was no rifle in sight.

“What’s the idea?” queried the man. “That’s what I want to know. Who are you, pardner?”

“M’ name’s Goode. G-o-o-d-e. Called ‘Plenty.’”

“Yeah? Good rifle shot?”

“Fair.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife considered Mr. Goode. He was not a soft-looking person.

“Of course, it’s none of my business, but I’m just curious to know who, or which one of us, you tried to kill a while ago, Mr. Goode?”

“Me?” Goode spat thoughtfully. “That’s a queer question, my friend with the cocked Winchester. ’S far as I remember, I ain’t tried to kill anybody for a long time.”

“No-o-o-o?” drawled Hashknife. “I hate to call a man a liar.”

“Prob’ly,” dryly. “I hate to be called one, when I’ve got my hands in the air.”

“Sure. Yuh might care to tell me how yuh happen to be right here about this time.”

“Cinch. I’m from the X Bar 6 outfit. Me and Ed Gast was back toward Yaller Horn Mesa today, and when we’re on our way back I decides to ride down to the Double Bar 8. Ed went on to Blue Wells; so I cuts a straight line for here. Satisfied?”

“But not contented,” said Hashknife. “Just why didja want to come to the Double Bar 8? You know —— well the three men from that ranch are in jail at Blue Wells.”

“Oh, I knowed that all right. But I wanted to get a look at the two men who are runnin’ the place.”

“Get a look at ’em, eh?”

Goode grinned widely, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

“I reckon yo’re one of ’em, stranger. Yuh see, I lived at Black Wells when you and yore pardner cleaned up the Modoc trouble, and I heard a lot about yuh. I’ve always wanted to thank yore pardner for killin’ Jud Mahley. It saved me a ca’tridge.”

Hashknife studied the face of the ex-Black Wells cowboy, but the man seemed sincere.

“I want to believe yuh, Goode. But a while ago somebody fired a rifle up here, and the bullet almost killed a woman in the Double Bar 8 patio.”

Goode’s eyes narrowed.

“And yuh thought I done it, Hartley?”

“I found yuh here.”

“Yeah, that’s true. I heard the shot. It wasn’t long ago. But a shot don’t mean anythin’. I seared up a flock of quail back there on the hill, and I jist wondered if somebody hadn’t been out tryin’ to get a meal of ’em.”

Hashknife lowered his gun and let down the hammer.

“I’m takin’ you at yore word, Goode,” he said. “There’s got to be a reason for that shot—and I don’t reckon you’ve got one.”

“Well, I sure ain’t, Hartley. Any old time I go bushwhackin’, it won’t be you, nor any of yore friends.”

“Well, that’s sure thoughtful of yuh. Do yuh know Miss Taylor?”

“Know who she is. Tex Alden intended to send me and one of the other boys down here to run this ranch, but when you boys took it, I reckon he changed his mind.”

“It didn’t make him mad, did it, Goode?”

Goode looked curiously at Hashknife, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“Well, it hadn’t ought to,” he said slowly.

Hashknife nodded. He liked Goode for that remark.

“We might as well go down to the ranch-house,” suggested Hashknife. “I reckon the shootin’ is all over.”

“I hope t’ gosh it is, Hartley. That’s nasty business.”

They went to the ranch-house, where Hashknife introduced Goode to Sleepy and Jimmy. Marion had gone into the house, but came out a few minutes later and was introduced. Hashknife explained how he had met Goode.

It was possibly a half an hour later that Goode rode away. His explanation of how he happened to be there on the hill so soon after the shooting did not satisfy Sleepy.

“That jigger’s eyes are hard,” declared Sleepy. “Jist like moss-agate. And he’s from Black Wells, Hashknife.”

“Isabethat,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t think he did fire that shot. He don’t look like a hired killer, and it’s a cinch he ain’t got no personal reason for killin’ any of us.”

“Ain’t he?” Sleepy smiled wisely. “Just suppose Mr. Goode is one of that gang of train robbers? He knows what we done in the Modoc country. Figure it out for yourself.”

Hashknife nodded seriously.

“Yeah, that might be true. Mebbe he thinks we’re here to work on that case. I hate to get fooled on humanity, Sleepy. That feller may be awful slick. He’s either innocent, or smooth as satin, because he sure had an alibi on the end of his tongue.”

“But he didn’t have any rifle,” said Jimmy.

“A rifle is easy to hide,” said Sleepy, shaking his head. “Nossir, I’d look out for Mr. Goode.”

“But that shot was fired at me.” Jimmy was not to be denied of his thrill. “It went right past my ear.”

“And why would Goode shoot at Jimmy?” questioned Marion.

Hashknife laughed and picked some of the burrs off his knees.

“We’ve got to get an answer-book, folks. I’m glad that the heirloom was only creased. But from now on we’ve got to be mighty careful. Unless I’m mistaken, that shot was only a beginnin’.”

“Do you think you ought to stay here?” asked Marion nervously. “I mean, to take a chance on your lives, just to help me out?”

Hashknife looked at Jimmy, who dug his heel savagely in the hard ground, appearing ill at ease. Finally he looked up, noticing that both Hashknife and Sleepy were waiting for him to answer Marion’s question.

“Well,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, I’ll stay.”

“Three times—and out,” said Hashknife softly. “They’ve tried twice, Jimmy.”

“I know,” seriously. “But,” he grinned and peeled some sunburn off his nose, “I’m beginnin’ to think that you never will die until your time comes.”

“And that thought will sure help yuh win a lot of fights where the odds are all against yuh, Jimmy,” said Hashknife.

“Are you a fatalist?” asked Marion.

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if I wasn’t, I’d ’a’ been scared to death years ago.”

“I would like to hear about that Modoc affair,” said Jimmy.

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“No, Jimmy. It wasn’t anything. Goode kinda got things twisted. I hope Carrie Nation gets some food on the table pretty soon.”

It was like Hashknife to refuse to tell of things they had done. After he and Sleepy Stevens had joined forces and left the Hashknife outfit, fate seemed to throw them into troubled waters. Hashknife was either blessed or cursed with an analytical mind. A range mystery was food and drink to him. Sleepy’s mind ran in normal channels, but he loved to roam, and his love of adventure, fearlessness in the face of danger, made him a valuable ally to Hashknife.

So for a number of years their trail had led them where the cattle roamed, working on mysteries; more often than not, working for the sheer love of the thing, rather than for pay. At times they had stepped out of a pall of powder smoke, mounted their horses and rode away ahead of the thanks of those whose future had been made more bright by their coming.

“Soldiers of fortune,” a man had called them.

“Cowpunchers of disaster,” corrected Hashknife.

And in all their wanderings, the thing uppermost in their minds was to find the spot where they might be satisfied to settle down and live a peaceful life; both of them realizing all the while that they would never be satisfied with peace. Always the other side of the hill called to them—the irresistible call of the open, of the strange places, which is always answered by men who can’t sit still.

After Goode rode back to Blue Wells he met Lee Barnhardt, who was taking a drink at the Oasis, and Goode, who was also drinking, told him of his visit to the Double Bar 8, and of the mysterious shot. The lawyer was naturally interested and questioned Goode closely, but Goode knew nothing of who had fired the shot.

“I met Hartley and Stevens,” offered Goode. “They’re the same two jiggers that cleaned up that Modoc job.”

“Detectives?” asked Barnhardt.

“Oh, I dunno about that part of it. But that ain’t the only job they ever cleaned up. There’s a lot more behind that one, and I’ll betcha they’ve not been idle since then. I’m wonderin’ what they’re doin’ here.”

“Perhaps they’re working on that train robbery.”

“Pshaw, that might be it. I’ll buy a drink, Barnhardt.”

On his way back to the office Barnhardt met Le Moyne.

“What ever happened to that detective the Santa Rita was going to put on that robbery?” asked Barnhardt.

Le Moyne smiled.

“Why, I guess the company didn’t think it was worth while, as long as you folks had jailed some one for doing the job.”

Barnhardt laughed softly, knowingly.

“That’s all right, Chet. But when you hire detectives, why don’t you get men whose reputations are not so well known?”

Le Moyne looked him over coldly.

“What do you mean, Lee?”

“Oh, I respect your secrecy. But really, Hartley and Stevens are too well known to do much good.”

“Eh?” Le Moyne frowned heavily. “Those two men at the Taylor ranch?”

“Sure. The two best man hunters you could have hired. But it’s a case of them being too well known.”

“Yeah?” Le Moyne smiled thinly. “Too well known, eh? But don’t blame me—I’m not the Santa Rita company.”

“That’s true.”

“Personally, I know nothing about their reputation, Lee.”

“You don’t? Well, I don’t know very much, but I do know that they’ve never lost a case. I’d hate to have them on my trail.”

“Well,” Le Moyne shrugged his shapely shoulders, “it seems as though we had hired two very good men, Lee.”

“You have.” Barnhardt laughed and grew confidential. “Tex Alden is as sore as a boil. He didn’t want them two men to stay at the ranch. He intended to run the ranch himself.”

“He did, eh?” Le Moyne scowled. “Yeah, I suppose he would. I’m glad he missed out on that. And I’m glad the sheriff and the railroad detective had to make that arrest. It rather lets me out of any blame in the matter, you see.”

“Certainly.”

“They’ve got plenty of help at the Double Bar 8,” said Barnhardt, after a pause. “That tenderfoot, Jimmy Legg, who was at the AK ranch, has volunteered his services. Tex sure is sore at him.”

“Sore at Legg? What for?”

“Well, Tex thinks Marion pays too much attention to Legg.”

“Well, does she?”

“I don’t know, Chet. She calls him Jimmy, and he calls her Marion.”

“Does, eh? Say, Lee, where did that fellow come from?”

“Nobody seems to know. He tramped in here the night of the hold-up. He said the train passed him. I can’t quite figure him out. I’ve talked with Scotty Olson and Al Porter about him, and they’re not quite sure what he is. He’s not a bad looking fellow, and I think he has a way with women.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, you know, Chet; sort of a way of talking.”

“Yea-a-ah, I guess I know what you mean,” sighed Le Moyne. “I’ll see you later, Lee.”

Barnhardt went back to his office, glowing with the self satisfaction that comes to men who love to gossip. Le Moyne met Goode at the Oasis, and Goode was carrying just a little too much liquor. Goode happened to be extolling Hashknife and Sleepy to the bartender, who evidently didn’t care a bit about it.

“I tell yuh, they’re invin-shi-ble,” he declared. “Bes’ pair of two-handed fighters on earth. Betcha odds, tha’s what’ll do.”

“Hello, Plenty,” said Le Moyne.

Goode goggled at Le Moyne.

“Howza paymashter? Whatcha usin’ f’r money these days, Chet?”

“Good yellow gold, Plenty. What do you want to bet on?”

“Don’t get him started,” advised the bartender. “He’s drunk. Wants to bet odds that Hartley and Stevens will find the men who robbed your pay-roll.”

Le Moyne laughed and bought a drink for every one at the bar.

“I’m tellin’ yuh,” declared Goode. “’F they was after me, I’d run like ——, and pray every jump.”

“Bad men, eh?” asked Le Moyne, laughing.

“Wors’ you ever sheen! Gun-shootin’ mind-readers. Yesshir. Oh, you’ll shee.”

He pointed a wavering finger in the direction of the bartender.

“Betcha oddsh. Betcha anythin’—”

Goode waved his arm, as if to encompass everything, and sat down on the bar-rail, where he began snoring.

“Can’t stand much,” said the bartender. “Give him ten drinks of hooch, and he’s plumb gone. Know anythin’ about Hartley and Stevens?”

Le Moyne smiled and his brows lifted slightly.

“You knew the Santa Rita had detectives on the case, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I did hear they was goin’ to. What’ll yuh drink, Chet?”

“Same thing. I wonder where Goode found out so much about those two men?”

“I don’t know. He’s been out to the Double Bar 8 to see ’em, and when he came back he met Al Porter here. They had a few shots of hooch, and Goode told Al all about ’em. The more drinks he took, the more he told. After Al went away, Barnhardt came in, and Goode told it all over again. When Barnhardt went out, I was the victim. You’re lucky he went to sleep.”

“I suppose I am,” laughed Le Moyne. “It appears that the Double Bar 8 is well taken care of right now. Did any one find out who shot that tenderfoot kid the other night?”

“Never tried to, I reckon. The kid went back to the AK.”

“He’s over at the Taylor place now.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s what I heard.”

“Oh, sure; I heard that too. You heard about somebody takin’ a shot at the gang at the Double Bar 8, didn’t yuh?”

Le Moyne hadn’t; so the bartender told him what he had heard Goode tell Barnhardt. It was interesting to Le Moyne, inasmuch as the bullet nearly struck Marion.

“That sure beats ——!” snorted Le Moyne. “What kind of a country is this getting to be? I wonder,” he squinted thoughtfully, “if that shot was fired at Legg, the tenderfoot?”

“Might have been. What’ll yuh have, Chet?”

“Nothing; I’ve had enough.”

Le Moyne turned his back to the bar, while he rolled and lighted a cigaret, his eyes thoughtful. Scotty Olson came in and spoke to Le Moyne as he walked past, but the handsome paymaster of the Santa Rita did not reply. Finally he walked out, mounted his horse and rode away.

The sheriff came back to the bar.

“What’s the matter with Le Moyne?” he asked of the bartender.

“I dunno.” The bartender rested his elbows on the bar, chewing on his cigar. “I told him about the bushwhacker out at the Double Bar 8 almost killin’ Marion Taylor, and I suppose Le Moyne is sore about it.”

“Al Porter was tellin’ me about it,” nodded the sheriff. “I don’tsabeit.”

“You’d be a wonder if yuh did, Scotty. This country is getting pretty salty, don’tcha know it? First a train robbery, then an attempted murder on the main street, and now they’re shootin’ from the hills.”

“And what for?” wailed the sheriff. “My ——, I do hate a mystery!”

“Sure yuh do, Scotty. What’ll yuh drink? See-gar? Sure. These ought to be good. Paid five dollars for that box of ’em three years ago. Pretty dry? Well, my ——, you’d be dry, too, if yuh was kept in a box in Arizona for three years. What-cha suppose anybody’s tryin’ to kill off Legg for?”

“I didn’t know they was.”

“Somebody shot at him the other night, didn’t they? And Goode says that shot was fired at him today.”

“He ought to go away,” said Scotty, looking gloomily at his cigar, which seemed to be trying to expand into a rose, or a cabbage.

He flung it in a cuspidor, and smoothed his huge mustache.

“We never had no trouble around here until he came,” said Scotty. “He’s a hoodoo, that —— tenderfoot!”

“How’s that dog comin’ along, Scotty?”

“First class. It bit me once, and Al Porter twice.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Don’t like officers, eh?”

“Takes after his owner, I reckon. Gimme somethin’ to take the taste of that cigar out of my mouth.”

The sheriff drank a glass of liquor and scowled at Plenty Goode, who still sat on the bar-rail, snoring blissfully.

“Don’t wake him up,” pleaded the bartender. “When that jigger gets on one subject, he never knows when to quit.”

“I ain’t goin’ to wake him up,” wearily. “I suppose I’d better go out to the Double Bar 8 and investigate that shooting. It won’t do no good, though. I’ve got more prisoners now than I know what to do with. Three of ’em—and a —— dog! I wish I wasn’t the sheriff.”

“Well, cheer up, Scotty; somebody will prob’ly kill yuh very soon, and then yore troubles will all be over.”

“I s’pose that’s true.”

The sheriff went back to his office, where he found Porter cleaning a Winchester.

“Hear anythin’ new?” growled Porter.

“No. Reckon there’s any use investigatin’ that shootin’ at the Taylor ranch?”

Porter inserted a piece of white paper in the breech of the rifle, and squinted down the barrel.

“With two of the smartest detectives already there?” he replied. “You’d find out a —— of a lot, wouldn’t yuh?”

“Mebbe that’s right. I understand they’re hired by Le Moyne, or by the Santa Rita mine.”

“Mm-m-m-m-m,” Porter reached for the oil-can and proceeded to lubricate the mechanism.

“I dunno how a detective can ever find out who held up that train, if he spends all his time runnin’ a ranch,” said the sheriff.

“Not bein’ a detective, I don’t know,” said Porter coldly. “And what’s a lot more I don’t care a ——!”

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