XIII—CAPTURED

That evening Hashknife and Sleepy decided to visit Blue Wells, and talked things over with Jimmy.

“We may be back late,” explained Hashknife. “There’s a two-barreled shotgun in the house, and I saw some shells on a shelf in the kitchen. You load that gun, Jimmy, and keep it handy. Lock all the doors, and be sure that every curtain is down. I don’t look for any trouble, but yuh never can tell.”

“I’ll take care of everything,” declared Jimmy. “And I’m not afraid. If anybody comes fooling around here tonight, I’ll give them a surprize. I’ll make it a point to keep awake.”

They rode to Blue Wells after dark that night, and found the three boys fiom the AK at the Oasis. Being Saturday night, there was quite a crowd in town, and the games were flourishing. Johnny Grant, Oyster Shell and Eskimo Swensen welcomed Hashknife and Sleepy with open arms.

Tex Alden, Plenty Goode and Ed Gast were in from the X Bar 6. Tex was cordial, and talked with Hashknife about the dynamiting. Hashknife knew that Tex was wondering where Jimmy Legg was, and finally Tex asked him if Marion wasn’t afraid to stay at the ranch with only the Indian woman.

“Jimmy’s out there,” said Hashknife.

“Do yuh call that protection, Hartley?”

Hashknife smiled, but said nothing. He was thinking of Jimmy and the short, ten-gauge Parker. Le Moyne and several of the men from the Santa Rita mine were in town. In the course of the evening Hashknife sat in on a poker game, in which Tex Alden, Plenty Goode, Johnny Grant, Scotty Olson and Antelope Neal tried to outguess each other in the pastime. Sleepy and Oyster Shell quarreled for hours over a bottle-pool game, which was being refereed by Eskimo Swensen, who had an injured hand, and was unable to play.

It was within an hour of daylight when Hashknife drew out of the poker game. He had won enough to make it worth his while, and Antelope Neal said he had never been more willing to cash in any man’s chips and have his luck out of the game.

Sleepy was glad to go home.

“I’ve walked a hundred miles around that darned pool table,” he declared, as they left the Oasis. “A pile of blankets will look like a bank-roll to me.”

There was a cold breeze blowing as they rode back to the Double Bar 8, and the crimson glow of the rising sun painted the crests of the eastern hills, as they rode in at the stable and put up their horses.

“Well, it don’t look like any more dynamitin’ had been done since we left,” observed Sleepy, as they walked across the patio toward the rear door of the ranch-house.

“All is serene,” said Hashknife, and as he spoke Nanah came to the doorway.

The Indian woman was a pitiful sight. Her face was streaked with blood, her dress torn, and she staggered wearily.

“For —— sake!” gasped Hashknife. He took her by the shoulders. “What’s wrong, Nanah? What happened to you? Where’s Marion and Jimmy?”

There was blood on her hair, and Hashknife could see that a livid welt ran from her right temple and disappeared in her mop of disheveled black hair.

“I do’ know,” she choked. “Men come,” she brushed her hand across her eyes, as though to clear her vision. “Have rag on faces. Knock Jimmy down. Take Marion, go that way.” She leaned one shoulder heavily on Hashknife and pointed east.

“Yuh mean that masked men came and took Marion?”

She nodded dumbly. Hashknife led her to a chair and made her sit down. The room showed signs of a struggle, and there were a number of blood stains on the floor and walls.

“What does it mean, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy anxiously.

“Where’s Jimmy?” asked Hashknife. Nanah shook her head. She didn’t know where he was.

“I hear much noise,” she said dumbly. “I come. Jimmy on floor. I run to door. Man hit me.” Her hand went to her head. “I fall on floor. I do’ know. I look from window, I see.”

“You saw ’em goin’ that way?”

“Yes.”

“How many men, Nanah?”

“I do’ know. I can’t see very good. Too much blood.”

“How long ago, Nanah?”

“I do’ know. Pretty sick in head.”

“She got an awful wallop,” said Sleepy. “Prob’ly got to the window, saw ’em pullin’ out, and collapsed. What’s the program?”

Hashknife ran through the house and came back.

“The shotgun is gone,” he said. “They’ve taken Marion toward Broken Cañon, but the devil only knows just where. Nanah, are you all right? We’ve got to get help. You stay here.”

“Pretty good,” she said. “You go quick.”

They ran back to the stable and saddled their horses. The horses seemed to sense the need of speed, and the two boys mounted on the run. Sleepy stood in his stirrups, his lips opened in a soundless yell. This was action. They swung around the point of a hill, heading up through a swale, a mile or more from the ranch-house. Hashknife spurred in close to Sleepy.

“Get the sheriff and all the boys yuh can get together, and head for Broken Cañon, Sleepy. I’m goin’ back.”

Sleepy did not question him. He had spent too many years with Hashknife to question any action of the tall cowboy. He merely nodded, drew his hat down over his brow and headed for Blue Wells to gather a posse, while Hashknife drew rein, turned around and went back.

The poker game had just broken up, when Sleepy dropped off his horse at the door of the Oasis, and panted out his story.

“Good ——!” exclaimed Tex Alden. “There’s more than one hole-in-the-ground in Broken Cañon! Let’s go!”

Scotty Olson, the sheriff, got his horse, and they rode out of Blue Wells, nine strong; Olson, Sleepy, Tex, Gast, Goode, Johnny Grant, Eskimo and Oyster Shell. There was nothing for them to work on, except that Nanah had said that the men had gone toward Broken Cañon.

It would have been difficult for any of Jimmy’s friends to have recognized him, unless they examined him closely. His face was plastered with gore, one eye swelled shut and his lip cut. He had no hat, one sleeve of his shirt flapped behind him, like a streamer tied to his shoulder. He had no saddle. In the crook of one elbow he carried the heavy, double-barrel shotgun. That was the extent of his armament. It was the first time he had ever ridden a bareback horse, and he was having plenty of difficulty in staying on the animal’s back.

Jimmy was still in a daze—but a very determined sort of a daze. All night long he had stayed awake, guarding the ranch-house. Dawn was in sight when he dozed, only to be awakened by a knock on the back door.

“Is that you, Hashknife?” he had asked, and it seemed to him that an affirmative reply had been given. At any rate he had opened the door, only to find himself confronted by three masked men. And before he had time to move, one of the men struck him across the head with a gun barrel, knocking him down. But the blow was a glancing one, and did not knock him out.

Badly dazed he got to his feet, trying to fight, and one of the men drove several smashing blows to his head and face, knocking him out. He had little idea of what happened after that, until returning consciousness gave him a blurred vision of these men taking Marion out of the house. He had tried to get up, but his limbs refused to function.

He saw Nanah crawl to a window, where she managed to look out, before she crumpled to the floor. It seemed years to him before he could get to the window, but his vision had cleared sufficiently to enable him to see the riders going away.

Summoning up every bit of his courage, he secured the shotgun, and managed to stagger to the stable, where he bridled a horse, crawled on its back, and followed them. He was like a man riding through a fog. He had no idea of direction. With his right hand he tried to wipe the blood out of his eyes, but gave it up.

He remembered that there were three men. But that did not matter. He had two cartridges in that shotgun, and he could use the gun as a club, after those shots were gone, he decided. He was no longer the smiling James Eaton Legg, but Jimmy Legg—cowboy. The bookkeeper was gone entirely, and in his place was a bloody-faced young man, who wanted to kill somebody with a shotgun.

Jimmy did not know how long he had ridden. The sun was shining, and his head ached badly. He wanted to stop and lie down, but he kept on going, laughing grimly to himself. The horse stopped, and Jimmy realized that it was standing on the edge of a cañon. He did not know that this was Broken Cañon. Names meant nothing to him. The horse turned to the right and followed the cañon rim. At times they swung far to the right, passing around the head of tributary cañons, but always coming back to the main cañon rim.

Jimmy’s reason was coming back to him now, but it only made the incidents more vivid in his mind. He realized that he had left his six-shooter at the ranch, and that the two cartridges in his gun were all he had.

The horse picked its way among a piled-up mass of big rocks and tangled brush, and came out on sort of mesa. The cañon widened here, its depths purple and gold in the rising sun. On the far side of the cañon were sandstone minarets, gleaming gold-like at the top, banded with red, fading into a deep purple below the sun-line.

But Jimmy had no eyes for the beauties of the sunrise. He could see several people near the cañon rim, a quarter of a mile away, their horses etched in relief against the gray of a huge upthrust slab of gray stone. Then he saw two of the riders turn and ride directly away from the cañon, going at a swift gallop.

He saw the others ride out of sight, as if going down into the cañon. Jimmy felt sure that the first two were men, and if Marion was one of the party, she must have been one of those to go into the cañon. He spurred his horse down through the tangle of brush, heading for that huge gray slab, regardless of mesquite, cactus and other thorny things that tore at his legs.

He reached the spot, and found that a trail led down into the cañon, partly masked by the granite cliff. He could see where it disappeared around a sharp corner, and he wondered how any one could ride down there without being scraped off. But he knew there was only one thing to do—and that was to head down the trail. Clutching the mane of the horse in one hand, and holding his precious shotgun close to his body, he spurred the horse down the narrow trail, leaning away from the cañon depth, but letting the horse take its own gait.

Jimmy had little time to do any observation work. In fact, he had almost forgotten that he was following any one, as his mind was wholly taken up in fear of this rough trail. Suddenly he realized that he was almost at the bottom. He could see the piled-up boulders in the bottom, the glint of a small stream.

His horse slipped, and its pawing hoofs sent a shower of stones off the trail, crashing down through the dry foliage, rattling off the rocks at the bottom. Jimmy had slipped to its rump, but managed to claw his way back. He had dropped his reins, but was not making any effort to recover them for fear of frightening the horse.

Suddenly he felt a tug at his leg, and the horse seemed to fairly fall from under him, while the crash of a shot echoed back and forth from the sides of the cañon. Jimmy sprawled above the horse, falling across his shotgun. For several moments he did not move. Then he drew up his left leg. The bullet had scored him slightly just above the knee-cap, doing little damage.

He tried to crawl away, but the bank was too steep. He turned over on his back, twisting sideways, trying to see below him, but could see nobody. Ignorantly inviting another shot, he crawled to his feet and stepped down past the horse, which was so badly hurt that it scarcely moved. Another shot crashed out, the bullet passing so close to Jimmy that he wasn’t sure it did not hit him. Instinctively jerking aside, his feet flew from under him, and he cascaded down to the bottom of the cañon, taking a conglomeration of brush and rocks with him, which slowed up his progress enough to enable him to reach the bottom, uninjured, except for numerous cuts and bruises and the sacrifice of a goodly portion of his raiment.

But he clung to his shotgun. Nothing short of general cataclysm would make Jimmy Legg let loose of that gun. It was his one hope. He landed in a clump of huge boulders, while over him poured more gravel and rubbish, which had followed in his wake.

In fact, he was so covered with débris that the masked man, holding a ready rifle, who came looking for a dead man, did not see him for a few moments. This man stepped cautiously up on a ledge of rock, about a hundred feet from the sand and brush that covered Jimmy, who lifted the shotgun, pointed it in his general direction and pulled the trigger.

The big shotgun roared like a cannon, kicked Jimmy so hard that it fairly dusted him off. He got to his feet, panting the breath back into his tortured lungs, as he surged forward, looking for concealment. The man dropped off the rock, with a yelp of amazement, possibly tinged with injury. A dozen buckshot are not to be faced lightly.

Jimmy landed behind a boulder, rubbed his shoulder, which was numb from the recoil of the shotgun, and began crawling ahead. He peered over a boulder, and a bullet filled his eyes with rock-dust.

“I guess I didn’t kill him,” observed Jimmy, and angled his way to another boulder. He had only one shot left now. Another boulder seemed to beckon him, and a bullet struck just short of him, cutting his right cheek with flying gravel. Jimmy curled up behind the boulder and took stock of himself.

“This won’t do,” he decided. “I’m doing all the moving. If I could only get to that boulder, I could crawl up the other side and be on a level with him.”

It was a long chance, but Jimmy took it, and he sprawled in behind the cover of brush and rocks, while a ricocheting bullet hummed away up the cañon, like an angry bee. The heavy screen of brush enabled him to crawl up out of the watercourse, and it seemed that this was just what the other man did not want, because he sent bullet after bullet through the brush, picking spots at intervals of a few feet.

But in spite of his bombardment, Jimmy reached the top of the washout, where he sprawled on his face, panting heavily. The man put a few more bullets through the brush, which proved to Jimmy that the shooter did not know that he had reached the top.

Jimmy’s face was bleeding badly, and his mouth was salty from sweat and gore. He found that his leg wound was also bleeding considerably, but gave him little pain. He took time to wrap his handkerchief around it to keep out the dirt.

Then he began crawling again, snaking his way through the brush, trying to see the man who wanted to kill him. He came to the fringe of the brush, and peered out. He could see the man now; that is, he could see his head and shoulders and rifle. He was still watching the place where Jimmy had dropped behind the boulder, before climbing out of the washout.

Farther down the cañon he could see the two horses, and on one was the figure of a girl, evidently roped tightly, because she was having difficulty in looking back toward the scene of conflict.

Jimmy studied the man, and tried to map out a plan of attack. He was about a hundred feet away, but Jimmy thought the target too small to take a chance on his remaining shot. He saw the man look back toward the horses. He was evidently getting impatient. Brush grew fairly heavy along the slope, and Jimmy pondered the chances he might have to work his way to the horses without being seen. It would be a dangerous move, he decided. Anyway, he liked the cover of the boulder-strewn brush, and as long as the man was willing to wait, he would, too.

He saw the man take off his hat and lift it above the top of the rock. It rather puzzled Jimmy. He jerked it down quickly. Then he exposed it in another place. It suddenly struck Jimmy that this man was trying to draw his fire, and his blood-caked features cracked into a grin.

An insane desire to yell at this man gripped at him. He wanted to laugh, to joke this man. But his better judgment bade him be still. He saw the man move forward to another boulder, where he repeated the cap-lifting. Jimmy realized that this man was getting impatient to have the fight finished.

The man kept moving ahead, until he was masked from Jimmy, who crawled out of the brush and headed for the rim of the washout again, trading sides with the other man. For about thirty feet Jimmy crawled swiftly, dropped behind some cover and waited.

It was about five minutes later that he saw the man again. He had moved farther up the cañon, possibly thinking that Jimmy had made his escape. By standing up, Jimmy could get a good look at this man, who was too far away for Jimmy to take a chance with the shotgun; so Jimmy dropped back into the washout, bent down low and headed in the general direction of the horses.

But he had not escaped detection. A bullet sang past his ear, and he stumbled over a boulder, falling sidewise into a cut on the left-hand side of the washout. To the shooter, it possibly appeared as if he had been struck. Jimmy was half-standing, half-lying in the cut, when he heard the drumming of footsteps, as the man hurried forward. There was no chance of concealment there.

It seemed as if the man were almost over him, when he raised up, shoving the shotgun barrel over the rim of the washout. The man jerked to a stop, only fifty feet away, firing his rifle from his hip, just as Jimmy pressed the trigger. The bullet struck just in front of Jimmy’s face, filling his nose, eyes and mouth with dirt, and the kick of the shotgun sent him running backward down the short slope, where he hooked his heel on a rock, and sprawled on his back.

It was several moments before he could get up. He felt weak, nauseated, as he spat out the dirt, blinked tearfully and climbed to the top of the washout. Out there on the flat ground was the man, sprawling on his face, his rifle flung aside.

Jimmy did not go near him. He sighed heavily and headed for the horses, where Marion’s white face and astonished eyes drove every other thought from his mind. Neither of them spoke as he cut the ropes which bound her, and she got stiffly from the saddle, clinging to him.

“You—you came, didn’t you, Jimmy?” she whispered hoarsely.

“Yea-a-ah, I sure did.” Jimmy grinned on one side of his face, because the other was glued tightly with gore. “It was quite a trip. This has been a tough season, Marion.”

It was rather inane conversation, but under the circumstances it was excusable.

The man was trying to sit up, and Marion pointed to him breathlessly. Jimmy went staggering out to him, a loose-jointed young man, who had been hurt so many times that he was numb all over. He picked up the rifle and stepped back, tottering on his feet.

“You better stay where you are,” he told the masked man. “You ain’t so awful tough.”

Jimmy had heard Johnny Grant use that expression, and it seemed to fit the occasion. He turned his head and called to Marion.

“Can you lead the horses up here, Marion? We’ve got to pack this lead-filled person to a doctor, or he won’t live to be hung.”

When Hashknife turned back to the Double Bar 8 it was because of a single theory. He was fairly positive that Marion had not been kidnaped by those men because they wanted her; but that they had had reasons of more importance to them than the mere capture of a young lady. Hashknife wasn’t sure just what this was, but he had a suspicion—at least, enough suspicion to send him back to the ranch, instead of heading a posse over to the breaks of Broken Cañon.

He rode his horse into the stable, unsaddled quickly, turned it into the corral, and ran to the house, where he found Nanah, bathing her head in a basin of water. He explained to her the necessity of locking the house, covering the windows, and of keeping out of sight.

Without question she obeyed him, and he went back to the stable, climbed to the little loft and sprawled near the window, concealed by a screen of hay. He could not see over the ranch-house, except at a distance, but his little window gave him a fairly good view of the country toward Broken Cañon.

Apollo wandered about the patio, possibly wondering why no one was about. Mocking-birds sang from the twisted vines along the walls, and little lizards scuttled here and there over the débris of the former bunk-house. Hashknife yawned and waited, wondering what success Sleepy had had in gathering a posse.

He had been there over an hour, when his keen eyes detected two riders, who seemed to be coming swiftly toward the ranch from the northeast. Blue Wells was almost directly north. He wondered if some of the posse had turned back from going to Broken Cañon and were coming to the ranch.

When about a mile from the ranch they swung due west, passing from Hashknife’s vision. He went to the rear of the loft, and peered from a crack. The riders came into sight, swinging in toward the ranch again, but disappeared into the cañon where Hashknife had captured Plenty Goode, following the mysterious shot from the hill.

It took them several minutes to cross the cañon, and he saw them draw rein in the heavy cover, where they stayed for about five minutes, evidently studying the ranch buildings. Their elevation gave them a good view of the whole country.

Finally they rode down toward the stable. Hashknife was unable to recognize them, nor did he recognize their horses—a roan and a gray. Softly Hashknife went back to his former position at the window. He heard the riders come in behind the stable, where they stopped. After a few moments he heard them in the stable, talking softly. One of them laughed, but their conversation was too indistinct for Hashknife to hear what was said.

He was so intent on listening that he was not aware they were out of the stable, until he turned his head and saw them going into the patio.

It rather amused Hashknife to see that these men were both masked. One of them went to the ranch-house door, finding it locked. It was evident to Hashknife that these men were sure that every one had left the ranch. They conferred together for a moment, and one of them came toward Hashknife, stopping on the ruins of the bunk-house, while the other man swung up on the wall near the corner of the ranch-house and scanned the country.

Slowly Hashknife slid back across the floor, until he reached the ladder, which led down from the loft. He went down the ladder and walked softly to the door, where he peered around the edge. He could hear the sound of some one digging; the dull thud of adobe bricks being thrown aside, but he could not see either of the men now.

Drawing his six-shooter Hashknife went slowly and carefully across the space between the stable door and the patio wall. He could hear the digging plainly now. Then he heard one of the men snap out a curse. It was evidently the man on the wall, because the answering voice was just beyond—

“What’s the matter?”

“That —— posse must ’a’ seen us! They’re comin’!”

The two men were running now, and Hashknife expected them to come through the broken wall past him, but instead they went out the south entrance of the patio, possibly with the intention of keeping the ranch buildings between them and the approaching posse, and circling back to their horses.

Disregarding the fact that the odds were two to one, Hashknife ran swiftly along the wall, coming out within fifty feet of the two men, who were humped over, running as low as possible. There was no time for them to turn; nothing to do but fight or surrender. It was still a hundred feet to the cover of the brush, and Hashknife was between them and the stable. But neither of them thought of surrender. Hashknife fired, as the two men whirled to a stop and drew their guns. One of them went to his knees, and his bullet tore up a spurt of dust half-way between him and Hashknife, and the other man’s bullet sang wide of its target. He fired again, but his bullet went skyward, because the shock of Hashknife’s next bullet threw him backward. The man who was on his knees fired again, but so wildly that Hashknife did not even hear the bullet.

Then he tried to get to his feet, pitched forward on his face and lay still. The other man did not move, except that he half turned over. Hashknife went slowly up to them, his jaw shut grimly. He had shot deliberately, slowly—only twice. Even with the two-to-one odds, the advantage had been with him, because he had been ready for the battle.

Hashknife did not make any examination of the men. He heard the drumming of hoofs, as the posse rode up, and in a few moments they were surrounded by excited men—the nine men who had ridden out of Blue Wells with Sleepy.

“My ——, it’s Al Porter and Chet Le Moyne!” exclaimed the sheriff, tearing the masks off the two men. “Hartley, what does this mean?”

He came to Hashknife, gripping his arm. “It means that an officer of the law went wrong,” said Hashknife coldly.

“But how?” demanded the excited sheriff. “My ——, this needs more explanation than that, Hartley.”

“Go easy,” advised Sleepy, who turned to Hashknife. “We wasn’t quite to the Broken Cañon, when we spotted these two riders. They were headin’ this way, foggin’ to beat ——; so we follered.”

“Good thing yuh did, Sleepy.”

Questions volleyed at Hashknife, while others examined Le Moyne and Porter, but Hashknife brushed them all aside.

“They’re both as dead as herrin’,” said Johnny Grant.

Two more riders came—Antelope Neal and Lee Barnhardt.

“We missed the posse; so came here to see what we could do to help,” said Neal.

Barnhardt squinted at the dead men, but said nothing.

“Will yuh please tell us what it means?” asked the sheriff. “You ain’t told anythin’ yet, yuh know, Hartley.”

Hashknife smiled grimly.

“There ain’t much to tell, Scotty. These men came here, wearin’ masks. They tried to get away when they saw yuh comin’, but I blocked ’em, and we shot it out.”

“Oh, I can see that! But—”

“Good ——! Here comes some more!” Johnny Grant’s yell turned all interest away from Hashknife.

It was Marion and Jimmy on one horse, leading another horse, on which was roped a swaying figure of a man, his body slouched forward until his face was almost buried in his chest. Jimmy was riding behind Marion, clinging to her, while he swayed weakly, a silly smile on his dirty face.

Men ran to them, while others unroped the sagging figure on the other horse. It was Dug Haley, of the Santa Rita mine. He was conscious, but unable to stand. Willing hands lifted Jimmy off the horse, but his left leg was too sore for him to stand on it for several moments.

“I—I got him,” Jimmy told Hashknife hoarsely. “Filled him full of shot. We had a regular battle down in the cañon.”

The sheriff was goggling from one to another, trying to get things straightened out to his own mind. Hashknife went to Marion.

“Tell us what you know about it, Marion,” he said.

“Oh, I don’t know very much, Hashknife. Three masked men came, and they—I heard the noise, when they fought with Jimmy, and came out to see what it was about. They had knocked him down, and I thought he was dead.

“They told me to not be afraid, and that everything would be all right. It seems that I wasn’t to be hurt. They put me on a horse, and we went to Broken Cañon, where two of the men turned back. They were masked all the time; so I wasn’t just sure who they were, because they changed their voices.

“One man took me down into the cañon, and I think he heard Jimmy coming. Anyway, he tied the horses and went back toward the bottom of the trail. I heard a lot of shooting, and I was sure somebody was trying to help me, but I never thought it was Jimmy, until he shot Dug Haley.

“We had a hard time getting him on a horse, because Jimmy was so weak he couldn’t help much. But we made it. We’ve got to get Jimmy to a doctor, because he’s all cut to pieces.”

Haley was sitting on the ground, goggling at every one. He had lost a lot of blood, but his mind was clear. Hashknife saw him eying the bodies of Le Moyne and Porter; so he stepped over to him.

“Haley,” he said kindly, “the game is up. You better come clean, because yo’re the last of the three men who stole that pay-roll. Al Porter did not go to Encinas the night of the robbery, and more than that, he and that girl of his busted up two months ago. Which one of yuh rode Buck Taylor’s gray horse that night, and had to kill it up there in that little cañon?”

“That was me.” Haley spoke hoarsely.

“Oh, ——, I might as well admit it. Le Moyne schemed it, and we helped him. But our luck broke bad. Le Moyne had to be at the depot when the train came in, and Porter had to be on the other side of Broken Cañon to pick up a freight early in the mornin’—or when one come along; so it was up to me to take the money to Santa Rita, where we was goin’ to hide it.

“I kinda got off in my bearing, in the dark, and found myself too far south. Then that —— gray horse fell and busted a leg. I had to kill it, yuh see. Then I had all that-gold to carry. It wasn’t safe to cache it in the hills, because I didn’t know the country well enough.”

Haley smiled grimly.

“I seen the light from the ranch-house, and I was sure it was the Double Bar 8; so I packed the gold down here, lookin’ for a place to hide it. Back of the bunk-house I found a hole under the foundation. I scratched a match and looked it over. It wasn’t big enough for anythin’ but a small dog to get through; so I shoved that money under the bunk-house, and went back to the mine.”

“And then dynamited the bunk-house, eh?” queried the sheriff.

“Like ——, we did! That’s why we kidnaped the girl. We wanted to draw everybody away; so we could dig the —— money out of the ruins. But we wasn’t goin’ to hurt her. I was to keep her in the cañon until about noon, and then let her come home. Our idea was to get Hartley and Stevens away from here long enough to let us get the money.”

“And it’s still under all that adobe, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“If Le Moyne and Porter didn’t get it out. I wish you’d get me to a doctor. I’m full of buckshot. That —— tenderfoot! We didn’t count him in a-tall.”

“I didn’t need to be counted,” croaked Jimmy. “But what I want to know is, who shot me, and who blew up the bunk-house?”

Hashknife stepped over and put a hand on Barnhardt’s shoulder. The Blue Wells attorney’s lips went white and he tried to draw away.

“You tell ’em about it,” advised Hashknife. “Just be a man and speak yore little piece, Barnhardt.”

“Me?” whispered Barnhardt. “Why—why—I don’t know—”

“Do yuh want me to tell it?”

Barnhardt’s legs jiggled nervously and he wet his lips with his tongue, while his Adam’s apple jiggled convulsively.

“There’s nun-nothing to—to—”

“Then I’ll tell it,” said Hashknife. “And if Mr. Barnhardt don’t stand still, keep his hands where they are and not try to scratch his ribs around the spot where his gun hangs in a shoulder-holster, I’ll betcha somebody will add him to the list of casualties.

“Mr. Barnhardt is a cousin of Mrs. Martha Eaton, of Chicago, who owns this ranch. For several years Mr. Barnhardt has handled all the affairs of the X Bar 6. In fact, he grew rich, handling her stock interests. But she was a simple old lady, with quite extensive holdings, and she had faith in Mr. Barnhardt.

“Now, if I make any mistakes, I hope Mr. Barnhardt won’t interrupt, until I’m finished. A short time ago Mrs. Eaton became an invalid, and was unable to handle her own business. I reckon the doctors have told her that she won’t live more than one year more.

“Still bein’ of sound mind, she decided to make out a will, and in this will she goes kinda hay-wire, like old folks do, sometimes; so she picks out a young feller, whose name was James Eaton Legg, a son of her sister, and wills him the X Bar 6, with the provision that within a year he be able to present proof that he is capable of runnin’ this here ranch.

“And about that time she turns her affairs over to Leesom and Brand, a law firm in Chicago, who, after lookin’ things over, decides that the returns from the X Bar 6 need investigatin’. It kinda looks to them as though that ranch ought to pay more dividends. Accordin’ to their reports, there’s too many cows out here, and not enough revenue.

“They takes it up with the Cattle Association of this here State, the same of which sends me and Sleepy up here to work on the round-up and send in a tally of the X Bar 6. It appears that Jimmy Legg accidentally drifts in here, tryin’ make a cowpuncher out of himself; and our friend Barnhardt, knowin’ that Jimmy might beat him out of a lot of money, decides to put him out of commission.

“And I’m not sure, but I think Mr. Barnhardt stole one of my letters from the Chicago lawyers, and found out what we was doin’ here; so he plants dynamite under the bunk-house, after he misses two well-meant shots. Oh, he was a friendly sort of a jigger. Now, Barnhardt, tell us yore story.”

But the Blue Wells attorney merely goggled, trying to deny it all with a shake of his head.

“You planned to make a getaway, yuh know,” smiled Hashknife. “Yore little vacation was goin’ to be permanent, but I cracked yore safe the night before, because I knew yuh wouldn’t go away broke, and I wanted time to land the train robbers. Yeah, I’ve got all yore stuff. It’ll send yuh over for a long time.”

“This is funny,” said Tex Alden. “I had a letter from that same firm, askin’ me a few questions. It kinda looked to me as though Barnhardt was playin’ crooked; so I held out that eight thousand and faked a loss to Antelope Neal, who was in on the game with me. I wanted to see if Barnhardt was crooked enough to doctor the books for me, but he was pretty shrewd, and I really got afraid he might have me arrested for embezzlement and put me in pretty bad; so me and Neal marked all those bills and I gave ’em back to him.”

Hashknife held out his hand to Tex.

“I couldn’t figure yuh out for quite a while,” said Hashknife smiling.

“Barnhardt sure tried to put me in bad, Hartley. He told me about that pay-roll comin’ in, because he thought I’d do anythin’ to pay him back that eight thousand, and he also wanted his split of the thirty thousand dollars.”

Jimmy had gone to the house, and now he came staggering back, followed by Geronimo, barking joyfully. The sheriff turned from handcuffing Barnhardt, and stared at the dog.

“We had him in the cellar,” laughed Hashknife. “He’s the dog that was on the express car, and Jimmy Legg is the big burly who fought with the messenger.”

The boys crowded around Jimmy, slapping him on the back; which, under the circumstances, did not appeal to Jimmy, who was just beginning to find out how sore he really was.

“Lemme alone, you man-chasers!” he yelped. “I was tough for an hour or so, but I’m sure tender now.”

“Talks like a cowpuncher,” said Eskimo gravely.

“Looks like a cowpuncher,” added Johnny.

“Fights like one,” groaned Dug Haley. “When yuh get through throwin’ bouquets, I wish you’d take me to a doctor.”

Hashknife grinned at the wreck of what had been James Eaton Legg, the bookkeeper, and nodded solemnly.

“I reckon we’ll be able to tell Leesom and Brand that Jimmy Legg has qualified,” he said earnestly.

“And if I was Jimmy Legg, I’d put on some clothes,” said Sleepy. “Cowboy, yo’re a fright.”

Jimmy grinned, started toward the house, followed by Marion. But Jimmy shoved her ahead of him, because he just remembered that he had slid half-way down Broken Cañon, sitting down. Tex looked after them, a half-smile on his face, as he turned to Hashknife.

The posse was putting the bodies in the ranch wagon, and two of the men were assisting the sheriff, who had put Dug Haley on the wagon-seat, and was helping the dazed lawyer to mount his sway-backed horse. The handcuffs bothered Barnhardt, and he was breathing like an asthmatic.

“You don’t act very sore about it,” said Hashknife, nodding toward where Marion and Jimmy were disappearing into the house.

Tex shrugged his shoulders.

“I know when I’m whipped,” he said, with just a trace of bitterness in his voice. “It seems that Legg didn’t. If yuh want me to sign that affidavit, regardin’ his ability, bring it around. Leesom and Brand know I wouldn’t be fool enough to wish him on to me as a boss, unless he was capable—and I’ll teach him all I know.”

“That’s square enough,” nodded Hashknife. “Wait until I saddle my bronc, and I’ll ride to Blue Wells with yuh. Me and Sleepy have got to peddle a couple of horses before that train pulls through.”

“Yo’re not leavin’ so soon, are yuh?”

Marion and Jimmy were coming from the ranch-house, and with them was Nanah, her head bandaged up. Geronimo circled them, barking with joy. Jimmy was clad in a baggy pair of overalls and a shirt three sizes too large for him. The face-washing operation had opened the cuts on Jimmy’s face, and he was beginning to look like a war-path Indian.

“We’ll all three ride in the buggy,” said Marion. “Jimmy is too weak and sore to ride a horse, and Nanah won’t.”

Tex offered to hitch up the horse, and Marion went with him to the stable. Hashknife drew Jimmy aside.

“I reckon you’ve made good, Jimmy,” Hashknife said slowly. “I’ll see that the right report goes to Leesom and Brand. You’ll marry and settle down on the X Bar 6, I reckon, eh?”

“Marry and settle down?”

“Yeah—sure. You’ll marry her, won’t yuh?”

“Marion? Why—”

Jimmy hesitated, his eyes turning toward the stable door, where Marion and Tex were standing. Marion was looking down at the ground, but now she looked up at him, a smile on her face. Tex started to reach toward her, realized that he had an audience, and they both stepped inside the stable. Jimmy grinned and shook his head.

“Why, no, I don’t reckon I will, Hashknife. That whips me.”

And Jimmy wondered why Hashknife laughed so suddenly and walked to his horse. He did not know that Tex had admitted defeat, too. When the buggy, with its three occupants started up the road toward Blue Wells, with Tex Alden riding beside it, far in the distance they could see a lone rider—Hashknife Hartley, riding swiftly to join Sleepy, that they might dispose of their horses and catch the first train out of town. Their work was done—and the other side of the hill was calling.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the November 23, 1926 issue ofAdventuremagazine.

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