The sheriff was not a story teller. At times he was forced to go back and bring in other threads, but at last he finished, and attacked his old pipe again, while Hashknife tilted back in his chair and squinted at the ceiling.
“So old Marsh Hartwell turned down his son because he married Eph King’s daughter, eh?”
“Well, Jack was an awful fool to bring her here, wasn’t he?”
“Accordin’ to yore liver and lights,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “On the other hand it was the natural thing to do. Did you folks ever think what a lot of —— it must’a been for that girl to have everybody dislikin’ her?”
“Well, I s’pose it wasn’t so awful nice, Hartley.”
“And folks kinda turned Jack down, too, didn’t they?”
“Yeah, yuh might say they did. But lookin’ at it——”
“From yore point of view? Say, sheriff, you folks have lived in this tight little valley until you’ve got so —— narrer that yuh could take a bath in a shotgun barrel. A lot of you folks can’t see higher than a cow’s vertebray. That’s a honest fact. I’m not tryin’ to start an argument.
“You never stop to think that bein’ cattlemen or sheepmen is only occupation, not blood. I’m not tryin’ to defend the sheep. I ain’t got no more use for a sheep than you have. I hate the danged things. I know what they’ll do to a range, and I know that the cattle business is rockin’ on the narrow edge right now, on account of the sheep; but I also know that sheepmen are just as human as cattlemen. They’re mostly cattlemen gone wrong.”
“Well, we won’t argue about sheepmen,” said the sheriff. “Jack’s own father accused him of bein’ a traitor, but I’ve got a sneakin’ idea that it’s Jack’s wife, not Jack.”
“That’s sure a sneakin’ idea,” agreed Hashknife softly.
The sheriff caught Hashknife’s meaning, but did not show that it had offended him. He was more sure now that Hashknife and Sleepy were in some way connected with the sheep. Else why would Hashknife defend the sheepmen?
“Are you fellers goin’ to try and get work around here?” he asked.
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“No, I don’t reckon we will, sheriff. We was takin’ a vacation, by ridin’ that cattle-train East; but that idea got ruined, so we’ll kinda mope around here for a while instead—if yuh don’t mind.”
“——, it’s a free country, gents.”
“Too —— much so,” grinned Sleepy. “Folks feel free to take shots at yuh any old time. They really ought to have an open and closed season on human beings.”
The sheriff laughed and began tinkering with his pipe, so Hashknife and Sleepy got to their feet.
“Mind if we attend the inquest tonight?” asked Hashknife.
The sheriff looked up quickly,
“Be glad to have yuh, Hartley. Ride out with me, if yuh want to. If yuh don’t want to ride Hartwell’s horse, I’ll get yuh one.”
“Much obliged, Sheriff. See yuh later.”
They went outside, leaving the sheriff debating what to do about them. There was no doubt in his mind that they had purposely been left behind by that train. It was all too obvious. And as long as they were not in the employ of the cattlemen, it must be that they were employed by the sheepmen to work behind the cattle lines. The sheriff decided that these men were well worth watching. He did not care to share his suspicions with any one, as he wanted full credit when thedénouementcame.
That night the inquest over Ed Barber’s body was held in the big bunk house at the Arrow. The low-ceiled room was hazy with tobacco smoke when Hashknife and Sleepy went in with the sheriff. At sight of the two strange cowboys the conversation stopped. Old Sam Hodges alone greeted them kindly.
Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney, and Doctor Owen, the coroner, had already drawn the jury, which consisted of Buck Ames and Mel Asher of the 404, Cloudy McKay of the Arrow, Gene Hill of the Bar 77, Abe Allison of the Turkey Track and Bert Allen of the Circle V.
Hashknife and Sleepy sat down near the door, feeling strangely out of place. They studied the faces of the crowd and decided that there were no mail-order cowpunchers present. They were a hard-looking, bronzed-faced crew of men, unkempt, heavily armed. The sheep had served to keep many of them from procuring clean clothes or using a razor.
But none of them asked questions regarding Hashknife and Sleepy. The fact that they had come with the sheriff kept many from wondering why these two strangers came to the inquest. There was no delay in the proceedings. Honey Wier was put on the stand and described how he had found old Ed Barber, and what the old man had said to him.
“Nossir, he didn’t say who shot him,” declared Honey. “Somebody sneaked in on the old man and popped him over the head, so he told me, They tied him up. Nossir, he didn’t know who shot him.”
That was the sum and substance of the evidence. Old Ed had told them practically the same story before the doctor had come. Doctor Owen testified to the fact that the old man had died from two gunshot wounds, which had been made by a .38-55 caliber rifle.
And with this evidence the jury brought in the usual verdict to the effect that old Ed Barber had come to his death from gunshot wounds, inflicted by a party or parties unknown.
“Well, I reckon that’s about all we can do,” said Honey Wier, as the jury was dismissed. “Anyway, it’s all we can do until we can put the deadwood on the men who done the shootin’.”
“Which can’t be done,” declared Abe Allison, a lean-jawed, tobacco-chewing, wry-necked cowpuncher. “My idea is to wipe out all them —— sheepherders, and by doin’ that we can sure hit the guilty ones.
“By ——, that’s what I’d like to do.”
“Hop to it,” grinned Sam Hodges. “There ain’t nobody settin’ on your shirttail, is there, Abe?”
The crowd laughed, but with little mirth, while Allison bit off a fresh chew and tried to think of some smart remark to hurl back at Hodges, who was probably two or three answers ahead of Allison.
The prosecuting attorney, of the stolid, red-faced type, whose very presence breathed the majesty of the law, scanned the faces of the crowd until his gaze rested upon Hashknife and Sleepy. He had been long in Lo Lo Valley, and knew every man, woman and child. After a close scrutiny he turned to the sheriff.
“Sudden, who are the visitors?” he asked.
The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy, and his eyes flashed around the circle.
“Gentlemen, I don’t know,” he said mysteriously. “They laid claim to being stranded from a cattle-train but their opinions has kinda led me to think that mebbe the sheep was their reason for bein’ stranded. Queer things has happened since they came, so I decided the safest thing to do was to keep ’em kinda in sight. This might be a danged good place to ask questions, folks.”
Hashknife and Sleepy had not moved. The sheriff’s words were as much a surprize to them as they were to the crowd. Then one of the cattlemen swore audibly and several shifted in their chairs.
“What do yuh mean, Sudden?” asked Marsh Hartwell, who had taken no active part in the inquest, but had kept well in the background.
“Well,—” the sheriff shrugged his shoulders—“it might be a handy thing for Eph King to have somebody behind our line, Marsh.”
“By —— that’s right!” exclaimed Cloudy McKay. “We’ll jist ask a few questions.”
“And get answers,” snorted Gene Hill. “We’ll find ——”
The sheriff had made a move to get between Hashknife and the door, but the lanky cowboy shot out of his chair and backed against the door, covering the men with his gun, while Sleepy backed into a position beside him, his gun tensed at his hip.
“Don’t move!” ordered Hashknife sharply. “I can see every man in this room, and I’m gunnin’ for a move. Just relax, please.”
“I told yuh,” complained Sudden. “Yuh see now, do yuh?”
“Aw, shut up,” snorted old Sam Hodges.
“If you seen so——much, why didn’t yuh act before?”
“Yo’re all wrong, sheriff,” said Hashknife easily. “We’re not connected in any way with Eph King nor the sheep interests.”
“Then whatcha make all this gun play for?” asked Gene Hill.
“Because a lot of —— fools like you ain’t got brains enough to try a man before yuh hang him. Our answers to your questions wouldn’t suit yuh at all, so we’d get hung. Sleepy, go out and get the horses ready, while I keep ’em interested.”
Sleepy slid carefully outside. Old Sam Hodges laughed softly and some one questioned him in a whisper.
“Why?” asked the old man. “Can’t I laugh if I want to? I was just thinkin’ that it would be impossible for one man to stick us up, but it ain’t. I ain’t got no more desire to draw a gun than I have to go swimmin’. That one man ain’t got no more license to keep the drop on us than anything, but he’s doin’ it.”
“Against the law of averages,” admitted Hashknife smiling. “But it’s psychology, Hodges. I’m doin’ this to save my life. If killin’ me would save yore lives, I’d live about a second. Don’tcha see the edge I’ve got? I’ve got everythin’ to gain; you’d have everythin’ to lose, without a chance of personal gain.”
Came a low whistle from Sleepy, who had led the horses up to the doorway. Hashknife backed half way through the partly open door, still covering the crowd. Then he fired one shot directly over their heads, ducked back and sprang for his horse.
In a moment they were both mounted and spurring for the gate, while the demoralized crowd in the bunk house bumped into each other, swearing, questioning, trying to find out if anybody had been hit. The shot had held them long enough for Hashknife and Sleepy to disappear in the night, and when the crowd did manage to get outside, there was not even the sound of galloping hoofs to tell which way the two men had gone.
Some of the men mounted their horses, but did not leave the ranch. There was considerable speculation as to where they might go, but Lo Lo Valley was a wide place in which to search for two men in the dark. They went back into the bunk house, where the sheriff was besieged with a barrage of questions. He admitted that he had nothing except his own suspicions to work on, but he pointed out that they had all been held up at the point of a gun, and that the two men had made their getaway.
“Yeah, they’re guilty of somethin’,” declared Gene Hill.
“Guilty of havin’ brains,” growled Sam Hodges.
“One of ’em is ridin’ yore horse, ain’t he?” asked Honey Wier.
“Yeah; the tall one. The other one is ridin’ a horse that belongs to Jack Hartwell.”
“Jack Hartwell?”
“How’d he get that horse?”
“Where does Jack fit into this?”
“Are they friends of Jack?”
These questions and many others were hurled at the sheriff, who threw up both hands and proceeded to tell just how and why Sleepy Stevens was riding Jack Hartwell’s horse. He told them all about the killing of his horse, or rather Hashknife’s version of it.
“But who would shoot at them?” demanded Marsh Hartwell.
“Search me,” replied the sheriff wearily. “I don’tsabeit.”
“Aw, they’re lyin’ about it,” opined Allison.
“Wait a minute,” said Marsh, turning to Allison. “You were with Slim De Larimore, Allison, when these shots were fired.”
“That’s right,” Allison nodded quickly. “Al Curt rode down here to see if you knew what it was about. There sure was a lot of shootin’ goin’ on. We thought it was a battle somewhere along the line.”
“Do you suppose they ran into a bunch of sheepherders?” asked Sam Hodges.
“I don’t know,” Marsh Hartwell shook his head. “It was behind our lines, and I’d hate to think that the sheepmen could seep through that way, Sam. And if they were down here, why start a battle with two men, who were merely ridin’ along, mindin’ their own business?”
“Queer,” declared Sam Hodges. “In fact, it would take a lawyer to figure it out. Where’s Matt Hale?”
“He beat it for home,” laughed a cowboy. “As soon as Matt got outside he fogged out.”
“That six-gun made him nervous, I guess,” laughed Sam. “It made me nervous, too. If I’m any judge of human nature, that long-geared puncher would shoot at the drop of the hat, and drop it himself.”
“Yeah, he’s a gunman,” agreed the sheriff. “They both are. And what would two gunmen be doin’ around in a strange country, I ask yuh?”
“Which don’t get a rational answer from anybody,” said Honey Wier disgustedly. “It’s time we went back to the seat of war and gave the rest of the boys a chance to grab a cup of coffee.”
“That’s about right,” agreed Marsh Hartwell. “We’ll let the sheriff grieve over his lost horse, while we protect our own.”
“I ain’t goin’ to grieve a whole lot,” declared Sudden. “Just now I feel like a —— fool for denouncin’ these two men, and lettin’ ’em get away. They won’t be noways friendly to me.”
“If you wanted their friendship, why didn’t yuh keep your mouth shut until you have evidence to work on?” asked Hodges. “You plumb ruined any chance to connect them with any crime. They know how everybody feels toward ’em, and if they are with the sheep, all they’ve got to do is ride behind the line. And right now I’m ——ed if I care to face them across a dead-line.”
“I reckon we can handle ’em,” said Allison.
“You can have my share, Allison.”
“——, they ain’t much.”
“Let’s get back to the line,” said Marsh Hartwell. “If Eph King planted those two men behind our lines, they’ve failed to do him any good. From now on we’ll be on the lookout for them. Let’s go.”
Hashknife and Sleepy rode blindly into the hills. Their main idea was to put a certain distance between themselves and the Arrow ranch, which they proceeded to do as rapidly as possible. There was no moon yet. As soon as they were far enough away to preclude possibility of pursuit, they drew rein and debated on their next move.
“We’re in a sweet mess,” declared Sleepy. “Everybody and their brother-in-law will be gunnin’ for us, Hashknife.”
“Sure thing. What struck that danged sheriff? I never expected anythin’ like that, did you?”
“I’m gettin’ so I never know what to expect in this life. What’ll we do now? Every hand will be ag’in’ us, cowboy.”
“Two poor little orphings, Sleepy. Honest, I feel like cryin’. If I didn’t wear long pants, I’d sure bawl a plenty. But I have to laugh when I remember how them jiggers looked at us. They sure didn’t want to set there with folded hands, did they? I sure looked for one of ’em to make a break, but they remained comatose.”
“Yeah, and we’ll remain comatose, if some of them fellers run across us in their present frame of mind. Where do we go?”
“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “As far I can see, we ain’t got no place to go. The sheriff will probably arrest us for horse stealin’, and—aw, I dunno. Let’s go and visit Jack Hartwell. Nobody likes him, and misery likes company.”
“All right,” laughed Sleepy. “Which way is his place from here?”
“Where is here?” asked Hashknife. “We’re kinda lost, Sleepy.”
It was so dark that they had lost all sense of direction, and they knew it would be several hours before the moon came up.
“Well, we won’t get there unless we start,” declared Hashknife. “Jack Hartwell lives somewhere, and if we go far enough we might strike a road. C’mon.”
Hashknife instinctively swung to the left, and they started out in singe file. It was slow traveling, as the country was broken up with small cañons, washouts and brushy swales, where they were forced to swing wide in order to cross.
For about an hour they poked aimlessly along, hoping to cross a road or run into some sort of habitation.
“I’ll betcha we’re in another county,” said Sleepy. “We’ve come miles and miles. I figure that we’ve passed Jack Hartwell’s place.”
“Mebbe, perhaps and probably,” agreed Hashknife. “If that old moon would only come up we might be able to see somethin’. But, in the mean time, we might as well keep movin’.”
For about thirty minutes they kept going, but now they were bearing to the right a little. The hills had become more precipitous, and they felt that they were altogether too high to strike their destination.
Then Hashknife discovered a light. It was quite a way below them, but it did not take them long to find that it was a light in a ranch house window. It was plainly evident that it was not Jack Hartwell’s place, as it was a much larger ranch house. They found the gate, and rode up to the house.
The light they had seen was from a kitchen window, so around to the kitchen door they went and knocked loudly.
“Whasamalla you?” called a Chinese voice.
“Little of everythin’, John,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re lookin’ for information.”
“Yessah?”
The Chinaman evidently misunderstood. He opened the door a little, and peered out at them.
“What ranch is this?” asked Hashknife.
“Tu’key Track, yo’sabe?”
“Turkey Track, eh? Anybody home?”
“Yessah—me.”
“Good. Now that yo’re at home, John, mebbe yuh can tell us how to find Jack Hartwell’s place.”
“Jack Ha’twell? Yessah, Isabe. Yo’ want find him place?”
“If it ain’t stretchin’ yore imagination too much.”
“Yessah. Yo’ go those way.” He pointed back across the kitchen. “Yo’ find road pretty quick. Bimeby yo’ find Ha’twell place.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded Hashknife. “Isabefine, John. Much obliged.”
“Yessah, yo’ find plenty good now. Goo’-ni’.”
He shut the door in their faces, and they heard him drop the bar into place.
“Yuh can’t beat a chink for caution,” laughed Hashknife, as they mounted their horses. “We must ’a’ swung away north of Jack Hartwell’s place.”
They left the Turkey Track and soon found that they were on the old road of the night before. The horses were willing to follow this, after miles of brushy going. About a mile along the road they suddenly drew rein. Some one ahead of them had lighted a match.
They drew off to one side, and in a minute a rider passed them, puffing on a cigaret. They gave him plenty of chance to ride on, before they swung back into the road.
“That was probably one of the Turkey Track riders, who was at the inquest,” said Hashknife. “I’ll betcha they’re all wonderin’ where we went.”
“I’ll betcha I don’t care,” said Sleepy. “I’m wonderin’ what’s goin’ to become of us. We can’t buck the whole county, Hashknife.”
“Not all at once, Sleepy. We may have to make ’em form a line. Right now I feel so danged sleepy that I don’t care what happens.”
“I hope I never get that way. When my hide is in danger, my skin tightens up so much that I can’t shut my eyes.”
They rode in at the gate of Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted at the corral. There was no sign of a light in the house. They unsaddled and put the horses into the the little corral, threw them some hay and debated on what to do.
“Will we wake ’em up?” asked Sleepy.
“Not under the circumstances. We’ll see if there’s some hay in his little stable, and if there is, we’ll hive up there for the night. It ain’t noways healthy to go knockin’ on ranch house doors at night in Lo Lo Valley. In the mornin’ we’ll start in clearin’ the atmosphere around here.”
“What do yuh mean, Hashknife?”
“Why, kinda settlin’ arguments and all that.”
“Oh, yeah. Listen to me, cowboy: Our best bet is to slide out of here as fast as we can. We’ll never get anywhere in an argument with these folks. The best we can hope for is a chance to write our last will and testament, as the lawyers call it. My idea of a good time would be to sneak over to Turkey Track crossin’, flag down the first train and hook our spurs into a cushion seat. We ain’t got no business around here.”
“All right,” Hashknife sighed heavily. “I didn’t know you was the runnin’-away kind, Sleepy. Have you forgotten last night? Have you forgiven them men for shootin’ a horse out from between the legs of your little friend? And last, but not least, do you want to run away from these kind folks, who like us so well that they want to fix it so we’ll never leave their soil?”
“Mm-m-m, well,” hesitated Sleepy, “let’s see if there’s any hay in this stable. If there ain’t, we can carry some in from the stack.”
And that same night Eph King stood in the light of one of the camp-fires and gazed off into the night; a huge figure of a man, his deeply lined face high-lighted in the glow from the fire, his head bared to the wind. Near him crouched the wizened old man who did his cooking, poking coals around a huge coffeepot.
The little cook straightened up and looked at King.
“Want a cup of hot coffee?” he asked.
King shook his head slowly.
“No, Shorty.”
“Uh-huh.” The cook squinted out into the night. “It ain’t like I expected, is it to you?”
“What’s that, Shorty?”
“The fight. I had a idea that there’d be a lot of shootin’ and all that. But all we’ve done is to set here. A lot of the men was arguin’ about it last night. Some of ’em wondered if you was afraid to bust that line, or if you was tryin’ to play safe and wait a while.”
“I wondered what they’d think, Shorty.” Eph King turned his back to the fire and gazed back toward Kiopo Pass. “We’ll go just as soon as the word is passed. I don’t want to see a lot of killin’, when we can get what we want without it. Once we get on to the lower ranges, the law will take care of us. Possession is nine points in the law, Shorty.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that, King. Well, mebbe yo’re right. When a feller is dead, he’s jist dead, thassall. It’s plumb easy to kill a man, but there ain’t nobody found out how to unkill him.”
Eph King smiled grimly. Shorty Jones had been working for him ever since he had started into the sheep business, and was more like one of the family than a hired man.
“But what I don’tsabe,” remarked Shorty, “is what yuh mean by havin’ the word passed. Yo’re the boss, King.”
King shrugged his shoulders.
“I can’t tell you right now, Shorty. I may be an awful fool, but I don’t want every one to know it ahead of time.”
A man came out of a tent and approached the fire. As he came into the light, King spoke to him.
“How’s the arm, Mac?”
It was the man who had carried the note to Molly Hartwell.
“’Sall right, boss,” he said. “Scraped the bone and took away a little meat. Got her bandaged tight and can’t use it, but it’ll be all right pretty soon.”
“Want some coffee, Mac?” asked Shorty.
“Yeah, I’ll drink a cup, Shorty.”
As the little cook bustled away after a tin cup, another man came in out of the night, leaned his rifle against the side of a tent and came over to the fire. It was Steen, the foreman.
“Well, what do yuh know, Steen?” asked King.
“Not much, boss. They held an inquest at the Arrow tonight. There were two strange cowpunchers there, and somebody passed the word that they were spies for you. They got away. Jack Hartwell and Molly are in danger right now.”
Shorty came back, carrying several cups, which he filled and passed two of them to Steen and the one called Mac.
“They’re sure that either Jack or Molly are spies,” said Steen. “And that’s about all I can find out, except that we’ll have to wait a while longer. The cattlemen don’tsabeus, and they’re watchin’ the line pretty close. We might make a bluff to get through on the west end tomorrow.”
King did not reply to Steen’s suggestion. The foreman placed his cup on the ground and squatted on his heels while he rolled a cigaret. Then:
“Steen, do you know what kind of fish yuh could catch, if yuh used about thirty thousand sheep for bait?”
The foreman looked up at him blankly.
“I dunno what yuh mean, boss.”
“I didn’t think yuh did, Steen. You ain’t that kind.”
He turned to Mac.
“Think you could find that old Morgan place again, Mac?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. We’re going down there tonight.”
“Better not,” advised Steen. “They’ve plugged all the holes, and yuh might run into some hot lead.”
“We’re goin’ down,” said King firmly.
Steen knew better than to voice any more objections. When Eph King made up his mind to do a thing, nothing would stop him. He offered to go along, but King objected.
In a few minutes Mac and King left the camp, heading in a southeasterly direction. They passed through the bedded sheep and worked their way down Slow Elk Cañon. It was so dark that the Bar 77 men were unable to distinguish an object at three feet distance, and as a result they passed safely through the dead-line.
From there it was an easy task to follow the creek to the old Morgan place. Hashknife and Sleepy heard them walk past the stable, talking in an undertone. Without a word the two cowboys crawled out of the hay and opened the stable door. King and his companion had reached the door of the ranch house, and their knocking was audible to Hashknife and Sleepy.
“What do yuh make of it?” whispered Sleepy.
“I dunno. Mebbe they’re friends, Sleepy.”
There was a long period of silence, and then some one called from inside the house.
“This is Eph King talkin’,” replied King.
Hashknife and Sleepy were unable to hear what was said, but a moment later a lamp was lighted, and the door opened. The two men went inside and closed the door.
“Eph King, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “Oh, what a chance for the cattlemen, if they only knew it.”
“We might capture him and get in good with the cows ag’in,” suggested Sleepy.
“And plumb ruin our conscience,” declared Hashknife. “We’re goin’ back to bed and forget what we’ve seen and heard.”
They piled back into the hay, but not to sleep.
Jack Hartwell faced Eph King and the man he had knocked down, with a cocked six-shooter. He was still a trifle hazy with sleep, but managed to keep them the width of the room away.
“What do you want here?” he demanded.
“I want to see Molly,” said Eph King softly. “I heard tonight that she is in danger, Hartwell.”
Jack turned toward the bedroom door to call her, but she had thrown a wrap around herself and was opening the door as Jack turned. She blinked at her father.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” she asked.
“Hello, Molly. I came to see yuh, that’s all.”
“But, Dad, don’t you realize——?”
“I realized that my runaway daughter was in danger, so I came to find out just how real it is.”
“It’s real enough,” said Jack bitterly. “And if any one saw you come here, it would be ten times worse, King. They’d hang me for havin’ you in my house.”
“They didn’t see me, Hartwell. It’s too dark for that. I’ve come down here to ask yuh both to go back with me. I can send you over into Sunland until this trouble is over.”
“Well, that’s fine.” Jack’s lips twisted sarcastically. “You’d like to make me out a traitor, wouldn’t yuh? I suppose that would fit in with yore idea of gettin’ even with Marsh Hartwell, eh?”
“It’s better to be a live coward than a dead hero.”
“Is it? You ought to know, King.”
The big man’s eyes hardened and he started toward Jack, but the big revolver in Jack’s hand did not waver, so he stopped.
“Jack, don’t do that,” begged Molly. “Dad means it all for the best.”
“For the best—yeah, that’s true,” nodded Jack, but added, “for himself.”
“All right,” King turned and looked at Molly. “You go with me, Molly. You can’t stay here any longer. They’ve given you a hard deal, girl. Oh, I know all about it. They treated you like dirt because you happened to be my daughter, but I’ll even things with ’em for that. By ——, I’ll sheep out Lo Lo Valley, if it’s the last thing I ever do.”
“That’s fine,” laughed Jack. “Ever since I was a kid I’ve heard that you were goin’ to do that, King. Women used to scare their kids by tellin’ ’em that Eph King would get them if they wasn’t good. That’s what folks over here think of you.”
The big man’s fierce expression softened to one of pain. He looked at Molly for several moments before turning back to Jack.
“They didn’t do that, did they, Jack?” he asked, half whispering.
“The —— they didn’t!”
“They—they made ’em afraid of me—the little kids?”
King took a half step toward Jack, ignoring the gun. It is doubtful that he remembered the gun. Jack nodded emphatically.
“I’ve heard ’em say it, King. I’ve seen kids playin’ a game. They’d draw straws to see who’d be King, and he’d have to run the gauntlet. They’d take slats——”
“Don’t say that!” King rubbed the back of his right hand across his eyes, as if bewildered. “My ——! Even the little kids.” He grasped the back of a chair to steady himself. “Why did they do that? I’ve never harmed a kid. Good ——, what do they think I am?”
“And they think the same of Molly, I suppose,” said Jack wearily. “I didn’t give her a square deal by marryin’ her and bringin’ her here. But I didn’t think how it would be. I married her because I loved her, King. I didn’t ask you for her. I took her. You would have interfered if you had known about it.”
“No, Jack,” King whispered his denial. “Molly had a right to her own happiness.”
“Then why did you use her to spy on us?”
For several moments no one moved or spoke. Eph King looked at Molly, whose face had gone white.
“That’s the rub,” said Jack harshly. “—— knows I don’t blame her, after what she’s had to stand, but you should have known that she would be suspected. And you sent that note.”
“That note?” King’s voice was husky.
“The note that that man—” pointing at Mac—“brought. The note that caused me to cripple him, King. I got a corner off it, anyway. I reckon you were willin’ to take any old kind of a chance to get information. You knew that the men of Lo Lo never hang women, so you used my wife.
“Oh, it don’t matter much now, except that it will cause a few men to lose their lives, and the sheep will make a dust pile out of Lo Lo, like you promised. They’ve branded me a traitor, because Molly is my wife. I wanted you to know all about it, King. But I’m not runnin’ away. I won’t blame Molly if she goes back to you—but I’d—I’d miss her somethin’ awful.”
Jack turned and looked at Molly, as he finished speaking. She shook her head slowly, her eyes filled with tears.
“Well——”
King sighed deeply and moistened his lips with his tongue. He seemed undecided what to say. There was nothing arrogant about him now; nothing that would brand him as the hard fighting sheep king. He seemed to have grown suddenly old.
“I’m not going, Dad,” Molly whispered.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” said her father dully.
He stared down at the floor for several moments. Then he looked up and shook his head.
“That was awful—about those kids,” he said slowly. “I don’t think I deserved that. I—I don’t mind about the grown folks—but kids—little ones.”
He turned toward the door, as if to leave the room. Mac stepped in front of him, opened the door and started outside, when there came the sound of a sudden blow, followed by the ringing report of a rifle. Mac spun on his heel and fell face-down on the floor.
Hashknife and Sleepy had gone back to the hay, where they debated in whispers. Hashknife contended that it was none of their business if Eph King wanted to visit Jack Hartwell, but in spite of his contention, they got out of the hay and went outside the stable.
Once they thought they heard a horse traveling along the side of the hill behind them, but were unable to see anything.
“I don’t feel right about it,” whispered Hashknife. “Somethin’ makes me nervous.”
“Same here,” grunted Sleepy. “Everythin’ makes me nervous. By golly, I won’t feel like myself until I get out of this danged country.”
“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Hashknife. “Look toward the front fence. I seen somethin’, Sleepy. —— the dark, anyway! Don’t they ever have a moon around here?”
“I can’t see anythin’,” complained Sleepy.
“I can’t see it now. Probably seein’ things.”
They remained silent, straining their eyes toward the fence, or where the fence should be, but there was nothing to be seen.
Suddenly the door of the house opened, throwing a beam of light into the front yard, and from out by the fence came a streak of orange-colored light, followed by the rattling report of a rifle.
Both Hashknife and Sleepy were on their feet in a moment and running toward the fence, regardless of danger. And beyond them, traveling parallel with the fence, ran the dim form of a man. Hashknife crashed into the fence and almost lost his feet, but righted himself in time to see this man mount a horse.
The man and horse were not more than fifty feet away, an odd shaped bulk in the night. Sleepy almost crashed into Hashknife, and their guns spoke almost at the same time. As fast as they could work their six-guns they fired. The flashes of the guns blinded them and made accuracy out of the question. Some one was running from the house toward them. A horse was galloping away into the hills.
“That horse ain’t got no rider!” yelped Sleepy. “I seen him against the sky. C’mon, Hashknife.”
“It’s Hartley!” panted Jack Hartwell’s voice. “Yoo-hoo, Hartley!”
“Yeah—all right!” yelled Hashknife.
Eph King and Jack ran up to them, questioning, panting from their run.
“Here he is,” said Sleepy, lighting a match.
They gathered around a man, who was lying on his face in the sage, where he had fallen from his horse. A few feet away was his rifle. They turned him over. It was no one that Hashknife and Sleepy had ever seen; a man of about thirty years of age, with a thin face, large nose and a mop of black hair.
Hashknife glanced down at him and looked at Eph King, who was staring down at the face of the dead man.
“Who is he?” whispered Jack. “I’ve never seen him before.”
“I—I don’t know,” said King, but Hashknife knew from the expression on the sheepman’s face that he lied.
“Let’s take him back to the house,” suggested Hashknife.
The four of them carried him back and placed him on the floor of the ranch house, beside the body of the man called Mac. Hashknife looked at the other man and at Eph King.
“Bushed him, eh?”
“Mac just opened the door,” said King slowly. “It could have been me.”
“Was this feller gunnin’ for you?”
King stared at Hashknife for a moment and shook his head.
“No. I don’t understand it at all. Poor old Mac!”
Molly was standing across the room, leaning against the wall, and Hashknife nudged Jack.
“Take care of yore wife, Hartwell. This ain’t no place for a lady.”
Jack turned and crossed the room to Molly, while Hashknife faced King across the two bodies.
“I’m not tryin’ to pry into yore affairs, King,” said Hashknife coldly, “but a while ago you said you didn’t know this man. Lyin’ ain’t goin’ to help things, yuh know.”
The sheepman’s jaw tightened perceptibly, but his eyes turned away from Hashknife’s steady gaze, as he said:
“What right have you got to call me a liar?”
“I don’t need any right, King. I’ve always been able to back up what I say. Come clean, King; it’s always the best thing to do.”
King’s gaze came back to the body of the man who had killed his companion, and rested there for several moments before he looked up at Hashknife.
“I did know him,” he said slowly. “His name is ‘Boomer’ Bates. He used to be a railroad man—a brakeman, I think. But for the last few years he’s been livin’ in Sunland Basin.”
“With what kind of a gang, King?”
King shook his head.
“Not very good.”
“And what was his grudge against the man he killed?”
“Grudge? I don’t believe that Mac even knew him.”
“Hated you, did he?”
“Not for any reason that I knew.”
Hashknife nodded. He knew that King was telling the truth.
“As long as there are so many questions to be asked,” said Jack, “I’d like to ask you how you two fellers happened to be here at my place at this time of night?”
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “we were tryin’ to get some sleep in yore barn, Hartwell. We’ve lost more doggoned sleep since we hit Lo Lo Valley than we have all our life. This sure is one place where it pays to keep awake.”
“You are not Lo Lo cattlemen?” queried King.
“No-o-o. We got left here, thassall. Cattle-train went away and left us sittin’ on a sidewalk, but we ain’t set down much since.”
“Don’t worry about us,” assured Sleepy. “Instead of soldiers of fortune, we’re cowpunchers of disaster. The only time we ever seen peace was one day when Hashknife found it in the dictionary. The question before us right now, is this: What will we do with these two bodies?”
Jack shook his head.
“I don’t know. There’s too much to be explained.”
“Can’t you two men take charge of them?” asked King.
“With the sheriff and every cattleman in Lo Lo Valley believin’ that we’re spies of the sheep interests?” grinned Hashknife. “We were down at Ed Barber’s inquest and backed out of there with guns in our hands. We’d look well takin’ these two men to Totem City and turnin’ ’em over to the coroner.”
“What makes them think you are spies?” asked King.
“I dunno,” laughed Hashknife. “They’ve got to lay the deadwood on somebody, ’cause somebody told you that old Ed Barber was the man who had blocked yore efforts before, King. Accordin’ to what I can learn, he sat in a cabin up there, where he could watch the slopes into Sunland Basin. Any time the sheep got above a certain level, he signaled the cattlemen, who corked the pass. Now, somebody squealed on the old man.”
“That’s how it is, eh?” King squinted thoughtfully. “Do they blame you for shootin’ the old man?”
“Mebbe not the actual shootin’. Yuh see, they blame you for that.”
“Is that so?” King sighed and looked down at the two bodies.
“I suppose they would,” he said slowly. “I have known for a long time that there was some one who watched the slopes into Sunland Basin. But I’ve never tried to send my herds over the pass. Until a short time ago we’ve had enough feed in our own country, but the long drought—” He hesitated for a moment. “Have you any idea what it means for me to establish my herds in this valley?
“I know the cattlemen’s views on the subject; I know what the law says about it. Possession means nine points in the law, so they say. Well, I don’t know how it will end.”
“I can see yore angle of it,” said Hashknife. “And I can see what it means to the cattlemen. But what I don’t understand is this, King: Why are yuh standin’ still up there? Why don’t cha come on down into the valley with yore sheep?”
King looked keenly at Hashknife, as if trying to read what was back of that pointed question. Then—
“The cattlemen have established a dead-line.”
“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife, and turned to Jack. “There’s only one way to take care of this matter—and that’s the right way. You get us two horses to pack these bodies on, and we’ll deliver ’em to the sheriff.”
“But what will yuh tell him?” asked Jack.
“The truth. He won’t believe it, but we’ll tell it, anyway.”
“And get thrown into jail.”
“Might be all right,” grinned Sleepy. “They can’t shoot us in there.”
They caught Boomer Bates’ horse and got another from Jack. King and Jack helped them rope the two bodies to the saddles, and they started for Totem City.
“We’re runnin’ into a rope,” complained Sleepy. “You danged fool; you gets heroic thataway and declares to tell the truth. It sounds fine. And in days to come they will likely find out that we told the truth, and the little children will come out and strew vi’lets on our graves on Decoration Day.”
“They won’t use no rope on us,” grinned Hashknife. “Mebbe they won’t believe us, and mebbe they’ll talk real big; but me and you are goin’ down there, talk the truth and then get so danged tough that they’ll let us alone;sabe?”
“Uh-huh,” said Sleepy doubtfully. “I’ll betcha we can do that in Totem City. They sure get scared easy.”