The Dead-Line
Date: 2021-11-26T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Western stories; Cowboys -- Fiction; Ranchers -- Fiction; Shepherds -- Fiction; Hartley; Hashknife (Fictitious character) -- Fiction; Stevens; Sleepy (Fictitious character) -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Dead-Line

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Title: The Dead-Line

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Release date: November 26, 2021 [eBook #66821]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Ridgway Company, 1924

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark.

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DEAD-LINE ***

THE DEAD-LINE
by W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Sun-Dog Loot,” “Rustler’s Roost,” etc.

Jack Hartwell’s place was not of sufficient importance in Lo Lo Valley to be indicated by a brand name. It was a little four-room, rough-lumber and tar-paper shack, half buried in a clump of cottonwoods on the bank of Slow Elk Creek.

The house had been built several years before by a man named Morgan, who had the mistaken idea that a nester might be welcome on the Lo Lo range. He had moved in quietly, built his shack, and—then the riders from Marsh Hartwell’s Arrow outfit had seen his smoke.

Whether or not Marsh Hartwell legally owned the property made no difference; he claimed it. And few men cared to dispute Marsh Hartwell. At any rate, it was proved that a nester was not welcome on the Arrow.

It was an August afternoon. Only a slight breeze moved the dry leaves of the cottonwoods, and the air was resonant with the hum of insects. Molly Hartwell, Jack Hartwell’s wife, stood on the unshaded front steps of the house, looking down across the valley, which was hazy with the heat waves.

Mrs. Hartwell was possibly twenty years of age, tall, slender; a decided brunette of the Spanish type, although there was no Spanish blood in her ancestry. She was the kind of woman that women like to say mean things about; and try to make themselves believe them.

The married men of the Lo Lo mentally compared her with their women-folk; while the single men, most of them bashful, hard-riding cowpunchers, avoided her, and hoped she’d be at the next dance.

Jack Hartwell did not wave at her as he rode in out of the hills and dismounted at the little corral beside the creek. He unsaddled, turned his sweat-marked sorrel into the corral and hung his saddle on the fence.

Jack Hartwell was a few years older than his wife; a thin-waisted, thin-faced young man with an unruly mop of blond hair and a freckled nose. His wide, blue eyes were troubled, as he squinted toward the house and kicked off his chaps.

He could not see his wife, but he knew that she was waiting for him, waiting for the news that he was bringing to her. After a few moments of indecision he shrugged his shoulders and walked around the house to her.

She was sitting down in the doorway now, and he halted beside her, his thumbs hooked over the heavy cartridge belt around his waist.

“It’s hot,” he said wearily.

“Yes, it’s hot,” she said. “There hasn’t been much breeze today.”

“Water is gettin’ kinda low, Molly. Several of the springs ain’t runnin’ more than a trickle.”

“We need rain.”

Neither of them spoke now, as they looked down across the valley. Winged grasshoppers crackled about the duty yard, and several hornets buzzed up and down the side of the house, as if seeking an entrance. Finally the woman looked up at him and he moved uneasily.

“Yeah, it’s him—Eph King.”

There was bitterness in Jack Hartwell’s voice, which he did not try to conceal.

A flash of triumph came into the woman’s eyes, and she turned back to her contemplation of the hills. Her husband looked down at her, shaking his head slowly.

“Molly, it’s goin’ to mean —— in these hills.”

“Is it?”

She did not seem to mind.

“They’ve drawn a dead-line now,” he said slowly, “and there has been some shootin’. They’ve sent for the outfits down in the south end, and they’ll be here tonight.”

“Well, we won’t be in it,” she said flatly. “It means nothing to us.”

“Don’t it?”

Jack squinted hard at her, but she did not look up.

“No. The law has decided that a sheep has the same right as a cow. The cattlemen of the Lo Lo do not legally own all this valley.”

“Mebbe not—” Jack shook his head wearily—“but they hold it, Molly.”

“Well,” she laughed shortly, scornfully, “you are not a cattleman. You’ve got nothing to fight for.”

“No-o-o?”

She sprang to her feet, her eyes flashing.

“Well, have you?” she demanded. “Your own people have turned you down. Your own father cursed you for marrying a daughter of Eph King. You wasn’t good enough to even work for him; so he gave you this!” She flung out her arms in a gesture of contempt. “Is this worth fighting for?”

Jack Hartwell bit his lip for a moment and the ghost of a smile passed his thin lips.

“It ain’t worth much, is it, Molly? Still, it was worth so much that——”

“That they killed the man who took possession of it,” she finished angrily.

“Yeah, they killed him, Molly. Morgan was a fool. He had a chance to go away, but he would rather fight it out.”

“He was a friend of my father.”

“Yeah, I know it, Molly. But that has nothing to do with us.”

“Did you see the sheep?”

“Yeah. I went as far as the dead-line, Molly. The hills are full of sheep. They were comin’ down the draws like the gray water of a cloud-burst, spreadin’ all over the flats. As far back as yuh can see, just sheep and dust.”

“Are they on Arrow range?”

“On the upper edge. The punchers threw ’em back about half a mile, but I dunno.” Jack shook his head. “There’s so many of ’em.”

“Dad has thirty thousand head,” she said slowly. “Or he did have that many before——”

“Before yuh ran away to marry me,” finished Jack.

“I went willingly, Jack.”

“Oh, I know it, Molly.” He turned and threw an arm across her shoulder. “You’ve had a rotten deal, girl. I wish for your sake that it could be undone. I didn’t know that there was so much hate between your dad and mine. I knew that they were not friends, but—well, I know now.”

“Your father drove my father out of this valley.”

“But that was years ago, Molly.”

“And branded him a thief,” bitterly.

“Yeah, I reckon that’s right. It never was proved nor disproved, Molly. We’ve known for years that he was goin’ to try and shove sheep across the range into Lo Lo. He swore that he would sheep us out. There ain’t been a time in two years that men haven’t ridden the upper ranges, watchin’ for such a thing.

“There’s a man livin’ in Kiopo Cañon, whose job is to watch the other slope. I dunno how it was he didn’t warn us; and I dunno how your father ever found out that we were goin’ to hold the roundup two weeks ahead of time. He sure picked the right time. If we’d ’a’ known it, he’d never got his sheep up over the divide.”

“You say ‘we,’” said Molly slowly. “Are you one of them? After they have turned you out, are you still one of them?”

Jack turned away, shading his eyes with one hand, as he studied the hills.

“I’ve always been a cowman,” he said slowly. “I’ve been raised to hate sheep and yuh can’t change a man in a day.”

“What have the cattlemen done for you, Jack?”

Jack did not reply.

A man was riding out of the hills on a jaded horse. He rode slowly up to them, a bronzed, wiry cowboy, with sun-red eyes and a sweat-streaked face.

“Hello, Spiers,” said Jack.

“G’d afternoon, folks. Hotter’n ——, ain’t it.”

“Crawl off and rest your feet,” invited Jack.

“No, thank yuh. I jist rode down this-away to tell yuh that there’s a meetin’ at the Arrow t’night. The boys from the other end of the range’ll be there by evenin’.”

“Did my dad send yuh after me, Spiers?”

“No-o-o, he didn’t,” Spiers shifted in his saddle nervously. “But I’ve always liked yuh, Jack; and I kinda thought yuh might want t’ come. It’s a cattlemen’s meetin’, yuh know.”

“And he’s a cattleman,” said Molly dryly.

Spiers flushed slightly and picked up his reins.

“Well, I’ll be ridin’ on. S’long, folks.”

He swung his horse around and rode on into the hills, without looking back.

“Oh, I hate that man!” exclaimed Molly angrily.

“Spiers is all right,” defended Jack calmly.

“All right! He’s a gunman, a killer.”

“Prob’ly. He’s dad’s foreman; been his foreman for years.”

“And does your dad’s dirty work.”

Jack sighed deeply and shook his head.

“There’s no use arguin’ with yuh, Molly.”

“Spiers killed Jim Morgan.”

“Well, Morgan had an even break. He—Say, how did you know that Spiers killed Morgan?”

“I didn’t.”

Molly turned away and went into the house.

Jack went back to the corral, where he leaned on the fence and tried to decide what to do. Naturally his sympathies were with the cattleman. He had been born and raised in the Lo Lo Valley, steeped in the lore of the rangeland; a top-hand cowboy at sixteen.

He had known Molly King when they were both attending the little cow-town school at Totem City, when the fathers of both were struggling for supremacy in the valley. Then came a day, when accusations were hurled at Eph King and his outfit. He was accused of wholesale cattle stealing, but no arrests were made. The cattlemen, headed by Marsh Hartwell, bought him out at a fair price and sent him out of the country.

But whether through his ill-gotten gains or through his own ability, Eph King became the sheep king of the Sunland Basin, a vast land to the north of Lo Lo, a land that was a constant threat to Lo Lo.

But there was one thing in the cattlemen’s favor: The sheep would have to come through the pass at the head of Kiopo Cañon, where old Ed Barber kept daily watch of the slopes which led off into Sunland.

Jack Hartwell again met Molly King in Medicine Tree, which was the home town of the King family. It was circus day. The recognition had been mutual and old scores were forgotten. They spent the day together, like a couple of kids out of school, drinking pink lemonade and feeding peanuts to the one elephant. It was not a big circus.

For several months after that Jack Hartwell found excuses to go to Medicine Tree. Then one day he came back to the Arrow ranch with a wife. They had eloped. Big Marsh Hartwell listened to their explanations, his face blue with suppressed anger, while Mrs. Hartwell, a frail little, gray-haired woman, with pleading blue eyes, clutched her apron with both blue-veined hands and watched her husband anxiously.

“So that’s it, eh?” Marsh Hartwell nodded slowly, his eyes almost shut. “You went over there and married her, did yuh. You married Eph King’s daughter.”

“Father!”

Ma Hartwell put a hand on his arm, but he shook it off.

“And yuh brought her back here, eh? Now what are yuh goin’ to do?”

“Why, I thought—” began Jack.

“No, yuh didn’t think! That’s the trouble. You know —— well that a King ain’t welcome in this valley. You’ve put yourself on a level with them. The son-in-law of a shepherd! You can’t stay here. Don’t you know that for years we’ve spent money to keep the King family out of this valley? And here yuh bring one in on us.”

“All right,” Jack had replied angrily. “We’ll go back to ’em.”

“No, yuh won’t. You move your stuff over to the old Morgan place. I’ll make yuh a present of it. Mebbe yuh can live it down—I dunno; but yuh can’t stay here on the Arrow.”

Jack thought all this over as he leaned on the corral fence. They had lived there less than a year. People avoided them. Molly had no women friends. To them she was the sheep woman, although they were forced to admit that she did not contaminate the air. Jack took her to dances and tried to make her one of the crowd, but without success.

And the men were not friendly to Jack. He had been one of them; one of a crowd of wild-riding, rollicking cowboys, who drank, played poker and danced with reckless abandon. In fact, Jack had been a sort of ring-leader of the gang.

He missed all this more than any one knew. But most of all he missed the home life of the Arrow ranch.

His sister and her husband, Bill Brownlee, lived at the Arrow. Brownlee hated the sheep even worse, if such a thing were possible, than did Marsh Hartwell. There were three cowboys employed:

Three gunmen, as Molly had called them.

“Honey” Wier, a wide-mouthed, flat-faced cowboy, who hailed from “Alberty, by gosh,” “Cloudy” McKay, a dour-faced, trouble expecter from Arizona, and “Chet” Spiers, the foreman, composed the hired element of the Arrow. And Lo Lo Valley respected them for their ability. Marsh Hartwell knew cowpunchers, and in these three men he had ability plus.

And Jack Hartwell, as he leaned on the corral fence, knew down deep in his heart that he could not remain neutral. It would be impossible. He must decide quickly, too. If he did not attend that meeting, the cattlemen would take it for granted that he was against them. Spiers had given him no chance to vacillate.

Far back in the hills sounded the report of a rifle. Jack lifted his head, and as he did so he thought he caught a flash of color back on the side of a hill. For several minutes he watched the spot, but there was nothing other than the sage brush and the dancing haze.

“Seein’ things,” he told himself, but to make sure he walked back up the brush-lined stream, keeping out of sight of that certain spot. But he found nothing, and came back to the corral, where he busied himself for an hour or so, putting in a couple of new posts.

He needed physical action, and he worked swiftly in the blazing sun. Then he flung himself down in the shade and smoked innumerable cigarets, still wrestling with himself. The sun went down before he walked back to the house. Molly was putting their supper on the table, but he had no appetite.

“I heard a shot a while ago,” she told him, and he nodded grimly.

“You’ll prob’ly hear a lot more before it’s over, Molly.”

He sat down at the table, but shoved his plate aside.

“I’m not hungry,” he said slowly. “I’ve fought it all out with myself today, Molly. It’s been a —— of a fight.”

“Fought out what?”

She swallowed dryly, almost choking.

“Just what to do. I’m goin’ to that meetin’ at the Arrow tonight.”

She got to her feet, staring down at him.

“You going to that meeting? Why, you won’t be welcome. Don’t be a fool, Jack. They know you won’t be there.”

“I’ll be there,” Jack nodded slowly, but did not look at her. “Molly, you married a cowpuncher, not a sheepherder. This is my country. I—I reckon I hate sheep as bad as anybody around here, and I’ve got to help keep ’em out.”

“You have?” She sat down and stared across the table at him. “After what they’ve done to us?”

“Yeah—even after that.”

“You’d fight against—me?”

“You? Why, bless yore heart, Molly; it ain’t you.”

“It’s my father, my folks. He never did you any harm.”

“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he never had a good chance. Yuh must remember that I haven’t seen him since I was a kid. I had to steal yuh, girl. He’d ’a’ prob’ly killed me, if he knew.”

Molly shook her head quickly.

“I think he knew, Jack. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“How do you know?” He squinted closely at her. “We didn’t know it was goin’ to happen until we met that day, the day we ran away to get married. And you never seen him since.”

“Oh, I don’t know.”

She got to her feet and walked to the kitchen door. He watched her for a while, and then got up from the table, picking up his hat. Quickly she turned and walked back to the table.

“Jack, I forbid you to go there tonight.”

“Well,” he smiled softly at her, “I’m sorry yuh feel that way about it, Molly, but I’m goin’, thassall.”

“Are you?” Her eyes blazed with anger.

“Well, go ahead. I may not be here when you come back.”

“Uh-huh?”

He turned his sombrero around several times, as if trying to control himself.

“Well,” he looked up at her wistfully, “I may not come back, yuh know.”

“Why—why do you say that, Jack?”

“Well, I don’t want to come back, unless I’m sure you’ll be home.”

She stared at him as he went past her and walked down to the corral, where he saddled his horse, drew on his chaps and rode away toward the Arrow. She had not told him whether or not she would be home when he returned, and he had not told her good-by.

Jack rode out over the trail that led to the Arrow ranch house three miles away. He was in no hurry, and drew up his horse after he was hidden from the house. He wondered if Molly would be foolish enough to ride back into the hills to her father. Her horse and saddle were at the corral.

He knew that it might be dangerous for her to ride across the dead-line at night. She wore men’s garb for riding purposes. He turned his horse around and rode back to where he could watch the house. It was not his nature to spy upon his wife, but he did not want her to run into danger foolishly.

He did not have long to wait. A man came through the fringe of brush along the creek, going cautiously. Once he stopped and looked intently at the spot where Jack was hidden. Then he went swiftly toward the house, coming in at the opposite side.

Jack mounted his horse and spurred back along the trail. He could not recognize this man, but his very actions stamped him as dangerous. Jack dismounted at the rear of the house and went around to the front, where he stopped. Voices were coming from the other side of the house. Silently as possible he went to the corner. Molly was standing with her back to him, looking at something in her hands, while the man stood beside her, looking down toward the corral.

“Company came, eh?” said Jack softly.

Molly and the stranger turned quickly. With a quick intake of breath, Molly flung her hands behind her. The stranger was a middle-aged man, unkempt, with a face covered with black stubble. His clothes were dirty, torn. The butt of a six-shooter stuck out of the waistband of his overalls.

He merely squinted at Jack and looked at Molly. It was evident that he did not know Jack, who came closer, holding out his hand to Molly.

“Give me that letter, Molly,” ordered Jack.

“I will not!”

Her teeth clicked angrily, as she faced him.

He walked up, ignoring the man, grasped her by the shoulder and whirled her around. The action was unlooked for and she threw out one hand to catch her balance. Quick as a flash Jack grabbed at the hand which held the letter, but all he got was a corner of the paper.

“Quit that!” snapped the stranger, grasping Jack by the arm. “Don’tcha try ——”

He whirled Jack around and got a left-hand smash full in the jaw, which sent him to his knees, spitting blood. But the blow was not heavy enough to do more than daze him, and as he straightened up he jerked the six-shooter from his waist.

But Jack was looking for this, and his bullet crashed into the stranger’s arm between elbow and wrist, leaving the man staring up at him, unable to do more than mouth a curse.

Molly had been leaning back against the side of the house, her face white with fright, but now she sped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The stranger got to his feet, holding his arm with his left hand, and looked around.

“Yo’re from the sheep outfits, ain’t yuh?” asked Jack.

“That’s my business.” The stranger was not a bit meek.

“It’s a —— of a business,” observed Jack. “Who was that letter from?”

“Mebbe yuh think yuh can find out, eh?”

“All right. Now you mosey back where yuh came from, sabe? If I ever catch yuh around here again, I’ll not shoot at yore arm. Now vamoose pronto.”

The man turned and went swiftly back past the corral, where he disappeared through the brush. A few moments later he came out on to the side of a hill, where he lost no time in putting distance between himself and the ranch.

Jack watched him disappear and went to the kitchen door. It was locked. For a while he stood there, wondering what to do. He had lost the piece he had torn from the corner of the letter, but now he found it on the ground.

It had torn diagonally across the corner, and on it were only three words, written in lead-pencil:

Find out what——

Just the three words. For a long time he studied them, before the full import of them struck him. He walked to the front door, but found it locked. Then he went back, mounted his horse and rode back toward the Arrow. It was growing dark now, and he felt sure that the stranger would not come back. He was in need of medical attention, and Jack felt that he would lose no time in getting back to his own crowd.

Jack took the tiny piece of paper from his pocket and looked it over again.

“It’s from her father,” he told himself. “Find out what? Find out somethin’ about the cattlemen, I wonder? My ——, is my wife a spy?”

He straightened in his saddle, as past events flashed through his mind. Molly had known that there was a lookout in Kiopo Cañon. He remembered that Honey Wier had spoken in her presence of old Ed Barber, the keeper of the Kiopo Pass, who drew a salary for sitting up there, watching for sheep.

She also knew that the fall roundup was to be held at this time. Had she written this to her father, he wondered? She had plenty of chances, when she went for the mail. And she had intimated that her father knew she was going to marry him.

“Is she standin’ all this for her father?” he asked himself. “Did she marry me just to give her father a chance to get even with the Arrow?”

He tried to argue himself out of the idea, but the tiny, triangular piece of paper, with the three written words, was something that he could not deny. It was after dark when he rode in at the Arrow. There were twelve horses tied to the low fence in front of the ranch house. A yellow glow showed through the heavy window curtains of the living room.

Jack did not stop to knock on the front door, but walked right in. The room was full of men, hazy with smoke. They had been arguing angrily as he entered, but now they were still.

His father was sitting at the back of the room, in the center, while the others were facing him. There were Cliff Vane, owner of the Circle V, and his two cowboys, Bert Allen and “Skinner” Close; Sam Hodges, the crippled owner of the Bar 77, with Jimmy Healey, Paul Dazey and Gene Hill; Old Frank Hall, who owned the 404, his son Tom and three punchers.

“Slim” De Larimore, the saturnine-faced owner of the Turkey track brand, a horse outfit. Three of his punchers were scattered around the room. Seated near Marsh Hartwell was “Sudden” Smithy, the sheriff, who owned the Lazy S outfit. Near him sat “Sunshine” Gallagher, his deputy, the prize pessimist of Lo Lo Valley.

Near the dining-room door, Spiers sat hunched against the wall, and near him was Brownlee, Jack’s brother-in-law. Jack closed the door behind him and looked quickly around the room. Marsh Hartwell squinted closely at Jack. It was the first time that Jack had been in the Arrow ranch house since his father had told him he would not be welcome any longer.

De Larimore had evidently been talking, as he started in again to explain something, but Marsh Hartwell silenced him with a motion of his hand, looking intently at Jack.

“Was there somethin’ yuh wanted?”

Marsh Hartwell’s voice was cold and impersonal. He might have been speaking to a total stranger instead of to his own son.

“Somethin’ I wanted?” said Jack puzzled. “I came to the meetin’, thass all.”

“I asked him to,” said Spiers. “I didn’t think he’d come.”

“Yuh can’t never tell about some folks.” Thus Sunshine Gallagher, grinning.

“Thank yuh, Sunshine,” said Jack easily.

“Oh ——, yore welcome, I’m sure.”

“What did you expect to do at this meetin’?” queried Marsh Hartwell.

“For one thing,” said Jack coldly, “I didn’t expect to be insulted. I know I’m an outsider, but I own a few cattle.”

Some one laughed and Jack turned his head quickly, but every one was straight faced.

“Oh, ——, you fellers make me tired!” roared old Sam Hodges, hammering his cane on the floor. His white beard twitched angrily. “Why don’tcha let the kid alone. What if he did marry the daughter of a sheepherder? By ——, that ain’t so terribly awful, is it?”

He glared around as if daring any one to challenge his argument.

“Are any of you fellers pure? Ha, ha, ha, ha! By ——, I could tell a few things about most of yuh, if I wanted to. I’ve seen Jack’s wife, and I’ll rise right up and proclaim that they raise some —— sweet lookin’ females in the sheep country. Set down, Jack. Yo’re a cowman, son, and this here is a cowman’s meetin’. We need trigger fingers, too, by ——! And if m’ memory don’t fail me, you’ve got a good one.”

“But—” began the sheriff.

“But ——!” snorted the old man.

“Don’t ‘but’ me! You —— holier-than-thou! Smithy, some day you’ll make me mad and I’ll tell yuh right out what I know about yuh. Oh, I know all of yuh. I’m a ——ed old cripple, and the law protects me from violence, so hop to it. Start hornin’ into me, will yuh? I’ve lived here since Lo Lo Valley was a high peak, and I’m competent to write a biography of every ——ed one of yuh. And some of it would have to be written on asbestos paper. Set down, Jack Hartwell; yo’re interruptin’ the meetin’.”

Jack sat down near the door, hunched on his heels. Old Sam Hodges had come to his rescue at a critical time, and he inwardly blessed the old cripple. Hodges had been a cripple as long as Jack could remember, and his tongue was vitriolic. He was educated, refined, when he cared to be, which was not often. But in spite of the fact that he cursed every one, the men of Lo Lo Valley listened to his advice.

“Well, let’s get on with the meetin’,” said Vane impatiently. “You were talkin’, Slim.”

“And that’s all he was doin’,” said Sunshine. “Slim is jist like a dictionary. He talks a little about this and a little about that, and the —— stuff don’t connect. What we want is an agreement on some move, it seems to me.”

“Sunshine’s got the right idea,” agreed Hodges. “Too much talk. If anybody has a real suggestion, let ’em outline it. You ought to have one, Hartwell.”

Marsh Hartwell shook his head.

“It will be impossible to wipe them out now. The only thing to do will be to make a solid dead-line and hold ’em where they are until the feed plays out and they have to go back. The feed ain’t none too good up there now, and if it don’t rain they can’t stay long.”

“How many men will it take to hold that line, Marsh?” asked Vane.

“They’re spread over a two-mile front now. Figure it out. They’ve got about twenty-five herders, all armed with rifles. I look for ’em to spread plumb across the range, and the —— himself couldn’t stop ’em from tricklin’ in.”

“Which ruins the idea of a solid dead-line,” said Hodges dryly. “Who has a worse idea than that?”

The sheriff got to his feet, but before he could state his proposition there came a noise at the front door. Jack sprang to his feet and flung the door open, while in came Honey Wier, half-carrying, half-dragging old Ed Barber, who had been the keeper of the Kiopo Pass.

The old man was blood-stained, clothes half torn from his body, his face chalky in the light of the lamp. One of the men sprang up and let Honey place the old man in an easy chair, while the rest crowded around, questioning, wondering what had happened to him.

“I found him about a mile from Kiopo,” panted Honey. “His cabin had been burned. They shot him, but he managed to hide away in the brush. I reckon he lost his mind and came crawlin’ out on to the side hill. I got shot at, too, when I was bringin’ him in, but they missed me.”

“How bad is he hurt?” asked Hartwell.

“Kinda bad, I reckon. He talked to me a while ago.”

Vane produced a flask and gave the old man a drink. The strong liquor brought a flush to his cheeks and he tried to grin.

“Good stuff!” he whispered wheezingly. “I ain’t dead yet. Need a doctor, I reckon.”

“I’ll get one right away,” said one of the cowboys, and bolted out after his horse.

“Who shot yuh, Ed?” asked Hartwell.

“I dunno, Marsh. They sneaked up on me, roped me tight and brought in the sheep next day. I heard ’em goin’ past the cabin. They knowed what I was there for. One of ’em told me. They knowed that the roundup was on, too. I managed to fight m’self out of them ropes, but it was too late.

“The sheep had all gone past. Some of them men was comin’ back toward the cabin and they seen me makin’ my getaway. I didn’t have no gun. They hit me a couple of times, but I crawled into a mesquite and they missed findin’ me.”

“Then they burned the cabin,” said Honey angrily.

Marsh Hartwell scowled thoughtfully, as he turned away from the old man.

“What do yuh think of it, Marsh?” asked Hodges.

“I think there’s a spy in Lo Lo Valley.”

“A spy?” queried the sheriff.

“Yeah, a spy. How did they know that Ed Barber lived in Kiopo Cañon to watch for sheep? How did they know that we’d hold our fall roundup this early in the season? By ——, somebody told ’em, some sneakin’ spy!”

Marsh Hartwell turned and looked straight at Jack. It was a look filled with meaning, and nearly every man in the room interpreted it fully. Still Jack did not flinch, as their eyes met. Some one swore softly.

“There’s only one answer to that,” said De Larimore. “Show us the spy, Hartwell. This is a time of war.”

Marsh Hartwell shook his head slowly and turned back to his seat.

“Things like that must be proven,” said Hodges. “It ain’t a thing that yuh can take snap judgment on.”

“We better put Ed between the blankets,” suggested Honey Wier. “He’s got to be in shape for the doctor to work on when he comes, so I reckon we’ll take him down to the bunk house, Marsh.”

The boss of the Arrow nodded, and three men assisted the wounded man from the room. Jack turned to Gene Hill,

“Have they got any men on the dead-line now, Gene?” he asked softly.

Hill was a long-nosed, watery-eyed sort of person, generally very affable, but now he seemed to draw into his shell.

“Better ask Marsh Hartwell,” he said slowly. “I ain’t in no position to pass out information.”

There was no mistaking the inference in Hill’s reply. Jack turned and walked to the door, where he faced the crowd, his hand on the door-knob.

“I came here tonight to throw in with yuh,” he said hoarsely. “I’m as much of a cattleman as any of yuh here tonight, and —— knows I hate sheep as bad as any of yuh. I had a gun to help yuh fight against the sheep men.

“But I know how yuh feel toward me. My own father thinks I’ve done him an injury. You think I’m a spy. Well, —— yuh, go ahead and think all yuh want to! From now on I don’t have to show allegiance to either side. I’m neither a cattleman nor a sheepman. I’ll mind my own business, sabe? You’ve drawn a dead-line against the sheep; I’ll draw one against both of yuh. You know where my ranch-lines run? All right, keep off. Now, yuh can all go to ——!”

He yanked the door open and slammed it behind him. For several moments the crowd was silent. Then old Sam Hodges laughed joyfully and hammered on the floor with his cane.

“Good for the kid!” he exploded. “By ——, I’m for him! He told yuh all to go to ——, didn’t he? Told me to go with yuh. But I wouldn’t do it, nossir. Catch me with this gang? Huh! Draw a dead-line, will he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Betcha forty dollars he’ll hold it, too. Hartwell, you are an ass!”

Marsh Hartwell flushed hotly, but did not reply. He knew better than to cross old Hodges, who chuckled joyfully over his evil-smelling pipe.

“If I had a boy like Jack, I’ll be —— if I’d turn him down because his wife’s father favored mutton instead of beef,” he continued. “Now that we’ve all agreed that Marsh Hartwell is seventeen kinds of a —— fool, let’s get back to the business at hand.”

Marsh Hartwell glared at Hodges, his jaw muscles jerking.

“If you wasn’t a cripple, Sam——”

“But I am, Marsh.” The old man chuckled throatily, as he sucked on his pipe. “I wish I wasn’t, but I am.”

“All of which don’t settle our questions,” observed Slim Larimore impatiently.

“No, and it don’t look to me like there was any use of talkin’ any further.”

Thus Frank Hall, of the 404, a dumpy, little old cowman, with an almost-round head. He got to his feet, as if the meeting was over.

“There’s only one thing to do: Shove every —— rider we’ve got along that dead-line and kill every sheep and sheepherder that crosses it.”

“That looks like the only reasonable thing to do,” nodded Marsh Hartwell, looking around the room. “Are we all agreed on that?”

Sudden Smithy, the sheriff, got to his feet.

“Gents,” he said slowly. “I can’t say yes to that. You all know that I’ve sworn to uphold the law; and the law has given the sheep the same right as cattle. Legally, we don’t own but a small portion of Lo Lo range; morally, we do. I’m as much of a cowman as you fellers, but first of all, I’m the sheriff.”

“That’s all right,” said Hartwell. “You’re not against us, Sudden?”

“O-o-oh, —— no! I’m just showin’ yuh that it won’t be my vote that turns —— loose in these hills. And she’s goin’ to be ——, boys. Eph King is a fighter. He shoved that mass of sheep over Kiopo Pass, and the —— himself ain’t goin’ to be able to stop him, until every sheepherder is put out of commission and the sheep travelin’ back down the slopes into Sunland Basin.”

“And King’s no fool,” growled Bill Brownlee. “He prob’ly ain’t got no central camp, where we might ride in and bust ’em up quick. Every sheepherder goes it alone. King is prob’ly back there somewhere, directin’ ’em.”

“I sure like to notch my sight on him,” said Cloudy McKay of the Arrow. “I got a bullet so close to my ear today that it plumb raised a blister. And any of you fellers that ride that dead-line better look out. Them shepherds lay close in the brush, and they can shoot, don’tcha forget it. Our best bet is to leave our broncs in a safe place, and play Injun.”

“There’s wisdom there,” nodded Sam Hodges. “Eph King hasn’t got ordinary sheepherders in charge of that outfit. He can hire trigger fingers and pay ’em their price. He’s got more men up there right now than we can throw against him, and he’s ready for battle.

“We better shove our men in close to that line before daylight, Hartwell. Spread ’em out, hide ’em in the brush. It looks —— nice to see a long string of mounted punchers, but a man on a horse up there will prove that he’s a cattleman, a legitimate target for a shepherd. My idea is: Fight ’em with their own medicine.”

“Suits me fine.” Old Frank Hall picked up his hat. “We’re too shy on men to make targets out of ’em. That’s the best idea we’ve had, so let’s go. How’s everybody fixed for ammunition?”

A check of the cartridge belts showed that every man had enough for his immediate needs.

“I’ll throw a chuck wagon into Six-Mile Gulch,” stated Hartwell, “and we can feed in relays. If this lasts very long, we can throw another into the head of Brush Cañon; so that we won’t have to draw the men too far away from the line.

“Smithy, when yuh go back to Totem, tell Jim Hork to wire Medicine Tree or Palm Lake for ca’tridges. Tell him to get plenty of thirty-thirties, forty-five seventies and a slough of forty-fours and forty-fives. If he can get us fifty pounds of dynamite, we’ll take that, too. That’s all, I reckon.”

The crowd of men filed out to their horses, where they mounted and rode away into the hills. Marsh Hartwell stood in the doorway of the ranch house, bulking big in the yellow light, and watched them ride away. He turned back into the smoky room and squinted at his wife, who stood just inside the room, one hand still holding the half-open dining-room door.

For several moments they looked at each other closely. Then she released the door and came toward him.

“Marsh, I heard what was said to Jack,” she said softly. “I was just outside that door.”

“Well?”

“You drove him away from here.”

“He drove himself away, Mother. When he married that——”

“He came to help you. After what you had done to him, he came to help you, Marsh. Blood is thicker than water.”

“Not his blood! Came to help me? More likely he came to see what he could hear.”

“Marsh! Do you think that Jack——?”

“Well, somebody did. I tell you, there’s a dirty spy around here.”

“Marsh Hartwell!”

The old lady came closer and put a hand on his arm, but he did not look at her.

“Perhaps there is a spy, Marsh,” she said softly. “There are many people in Lo Lo Valley. We don’t know them all as well as we know each other. And knowing each other so well, after all these years, Marsh, are we the only ones capable of raising a—a spy?”

He looked down at her. There were tears in her old eyes and her lips trembled in spite of the forced smile. Then she turned away and went back through the doorway. He stared after her for along time, before he turned and went back to the open front door, where he scowled out into the night.

There was no relaxation, no admission that he might be wrong in his estimate of Jack. But between his lips came a soft exclamation, which had something to do with “a —— fool,” but only Marsh Hartwell knew whom he meant.

A long train of cattle-cars creaked through the hills, heading for the eastern markets. Back in the rattling old caboose, a number of cowboys sat around a table under a swaying lamp and tried to kill time at poker.

They were the men in charge of the stock, and had found, to their sorrow, that a swaying, creaking, jerking caboose was no place for a cowboy to sleep. They growled at each other and swore roundly, when the caboose swayed around a sharp curve and upset their piles of poker-chips.

“I ain’t got a solid j’int in m’ body,” declared a wizen-faced cattleman seriously, holding his chips in his hands. “By ——, I jist went on this trip t’ say that I’d seen Chicago, but I’ll never see it. Nossir, I won’t. Yeah, I’ll call jist one more bet before I fall apart.”

“One more bet and ‘Hashknife’ will have all the money, anyway,” declared “Sleepy” Stevens, yawning widely.

“I spur my chair,” grinned Hashknife Hartley, a tall, thin, serious-faced cowboy. “And thataway—” he shoved in a stack of chips and leaned back in his chair—“I ride ’em steady, while you mail-order cowpunchers wobble all over and expose yore hands. Cost yuh six bits to call, ‘Stumpy’.”

“Not me.” The wizen-faced one threw down his cards. “You call him, ‘Nebrasky’.”

“F’r six bits?” Nebraska Holley shook his head. “Nawup. I’ve paid too danged many six bits to see him lay down big hands. Anyway, I’ve had enough of this kinda poker. I wish t’ —— that engineer would go easy f’r a while. I ain’t slept since night afore last, and I didn’t sleep good then.”

“He’s whistlin’ for somethin’,” observed Hashknife.

“Mebbe he’s scared of the dark, and he’s whistlin’ for company.”

“Whistlin’ for a station,” yawned Stumpy. “I asked the conductor about them whistles.”

“Must be a wild station,” observed Sleepy Stevens. “He’s sure sneakin’ up on it in the dark.”

The train had slowed to a snail’s pace, and finally stopped with a series of jolts and jerks.

“We’re at a station,” declared Stumpy, flattening his nose against a window pane. “I can see the lights of the town.”

The conductor came storming into the caboose, swearing at the top of his voice.

“Some more —— hot-boxes!” he snorted. “Half of the axles on this —— train are on fire. A fine lot of rollin’ stock to ship cows in. Be held up here a couple of hours, I reckon. Take us half an hour to cool ’em off, and then we’ll have to lay out for the regular passenger.”

“What’s the town, pardner?” asked Nebraska.

“Totem City.”

“Let’s all go over and see what she looks like,” suggested Hashknife. “I’ll spend some of my ill-gotten gains.”

“Not me,” declared Nebraska. “In two hours I can be poundin’ my ear.”

“Me, too,” said Stumpy Lee. “I’m goin’ to sleep.”

“How about you, Napoleon Bonaparte?”

Napoleon Deschamps, a fat-faced cowpuncher, who had been trying to read an old magazine, shook his head at Hashknife.

“Bimeby I go sleep too, Hartlee. De town don’ int’rest.”

“Well, Sleepy, we’ll go. And you snake-hunters won’t sleep much after we get back; sabe? C’mon, Sleepy.”

They swung down off the caboose and walked the length of the train. Toward the upper end of the train lanterns were bobbing around, and there was a sound of hammers on steel. There was a dim light in the depot, but they did not stop. About midway of the main street a brightly lighted building beckoned them to the Totem City Saloon.

“Little old cow-town,” said Hashknife as they walked down the wooden sidewalk, passing hitch racks, where saddle horses humped in the dark.

“I seen this place on the map,” offered Sleepy. “I kinda wanted to know what country we were goin’ through, so I took the trouble to look it up. This here is that Lo Lo Valley.”

“Lo Lo, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “They liked it so well that they named it twice.”

They walked into the Totem Saloon and headed for the bar. It was rather a large place for a cow-town. There were not many men in the room and business was slack, but that could be accounted for because of the late hour.

A big, sad-faced cowboy was leaning on the bar, gazing moodily at an empty glass. It was Sunshine Gallagher, the deputy sheriff. He had come to the Totem Saloon, following the meeting at the Arrow ranch, and had imbibed considerable hard liquor. Sudden Smithy was across the room, involved in a poker game.

Hashknife and Sleepy ordered their drinks. Sunshine looked them over critically, and solemnly accepted Hashknife’s invitation to partake of his hospitality.

“I never refuse,” he told them heavily. “’S nawful habit to git into.”

“Drinkin’ whisky?” asked Hashknife.

“No—o—o—refusin’. Oh, I ain’ heavy drinker, y’understand! I jist drink so-and-so. I c’n take it or leave it alone. Right now, I could jist walk away from that drink. Yesshir. Jist like anythin’, I could do that. But wha’s the use, I ask yuh? If it wasn’t made to be drank—would they make it? Now, would they? The anshwer is seven times eight is fifty shix, and twenty-five is a quarter of a dollar. Here’s how, gents.”

They drank solemnly. Sunshine looked them over with a critical eye.

“Strangers, eh?” he decided.

“Just passin’ through,” said Hashknife. “We’re goin’ East with a train load of cattle. Old cattle-cars developed hot-boxes, so we had to stop a while.”

“Thasso? Goin’ East, eh?” Sunshine grew reflective. “I ain’t never been East. Mus’ be wonnerful country out there. No cows, no sheep—nothin’. Not a thing. I wonder how folks git along out there. Lo’s of barb wire, I s’pose, eh? Whole —— country fenced in, eh? P’leecemen to fight yore battles. Nothin’ for a feller t’ do, but eat and sleep. Mus’ be wonnerful.”

“We dunno,” admitted Hashknife. “This is our first trip East.”

“Oh, my, is that so? My, my! Hones’, I wouldn’t go, ’f I was you fellers, nossir. Firs’ trip is always dangerous. Let’s have another snifter of demon rum and I’ll try to talk yuh out of it.

“I had a frien’ who went East. Oh, my gosh, it was ter’ble! Got drunk and bought him some clothes. My, my, my! Wore ’em when he got back here and got shot twice before anybody rec’nized him. Everybody thought he was a drummer.”

“Did he have a drum with him?” asked Sleepy innocently.

“Huh?” Sunshine goggled at Sleepy wonderingly. “Shay! Me and you are goin’ to git along fine. If you ever want to be arrested decently, you have me do it. Gen’lemen, I sure can do a high-toned job of arrestin’. I’m Shunshine Gallagher, the dep’ty sheriff of Lo Lo County ’f I do shay it m’self.”

Hashknife and Sleepy shook hands solemnly with Sunshine, removing their hats during the handshaking. Sunshine was just as solemn, and almost fell against the bar in trying to make an exaggerated bow. Sudden Smithy drew out of the poker game and came over to the bar.

“Better let up on it, Sunshine,” he advised.

“Oh, h’lo, Sudden,” said Sunshine owlishly. “Meet two of the mosht perfec’ gen’lemen, Sudden. Misser Hartknife Hashley and Steepy Stevens. Gen’lemen, thish is Misser Smithy, our sheriff. Hurrah for the king, queen and both one-eyed jacks!”

Sudden grinned widely and shook hands with Hashknife and Sleepy, while Sunshine tried to shake the bar with both hands to hurry the bartender. Sudden was sober. Hashknife explained about their reasons for being in Totem City.

A couple of cowboys clattered into the place and came up to the bar, where they had a drink and bought a bottle to take with them. Both men were carrying rifles in their hands, in addition to the holstered guns on their hips. Both of them spoke to Sunshine and Sudden, but went away immediately.

Hashknife and Sleepy looked inquiringly at each other, but asked no questions. They were wise to the ways of the range, and knew that, as an ordinary thing, cowboys did not carry Winchesters in their hands at midnight, drink whisky in a hurry and ride away without any explanation.

But the sheriff vouchsafed no explanation, although they felt that he knew what was afoot. They drank to each other’s good health.

“They’re goin’ Easht,” explained Sunshine owlishly to the sheriff. “Use yore influensh, Shudden. Tell ’m lotta lies, won’t yuh? No use wastin’ good cowboys on the Easht, when we need ’m sho badlee. Talk to ’m.”

“You better go to bed,” advised the sheriff. “This ain’t no condition for you to be into, Sunshine. Yo’re a disgrace to the office yuh hold.”

“Tha’s right. I’m no good, thassall. No brainsh, no balansh. Ought t’ git me a steel bill and live with the chickens. I’m jist ol’ Shunshine Gallagher, if I do shay it m’shelf. But with all my faults, I’m hungry as ——. Now, deny that if you can. I dare you to deny me the right to eat.”

“Speakin’ of eatin’,” said Hashknife seriously, “I’m all holler inside.”

“Good place to eat here,” offered the sheriff. “Up the street a little ways. I’m kinda hungry, too.”

“Count me in,” grinned Sleepy. “Let’s go git it.”

They went up to a Chinese restaurant, where they proceeded to regale themselves with ham and eggs, and plenty of coffee. Hashknife tried to draw the sheriff out in regard to conditions in that country, but the sheriff refused to offer any information. Sunshine went to sleep, with his head in a plate of ham and eggs, and the sheriff swore feelingly at him.

“He’s a danged good deputy most of the time,” he declared. “But once in a while he slops over and gits all lit up like a torchlight procession. He’s harmless thataway.”

After the meal, Hashknife and Sleepy helped the sheriff take Sunshine down to the sheriff’s office, where they put him to bed. An engine whistled as they came out of the office, and Hashknife opined that they had better go to the depot and see if their train was ready to pull out. The sheriff offered to go with them, so the three of them sauntered up there.

A passenger train was just pulling out, but there was no sign of the cattle-train.

“Well, I know danged well we left one here,” said Hashknife blankly, as they walked up to the depot and questioned the sleepy-eyed agent.

“Cattle-train? Oh, yes. Why, it left here quite a while ago. Went on to the siding at Turkey Track for the passenger.”

“Oh, so that’s where it went, eh?” Hashknife scratched his head wonderingly. “Where’s Turkey Track sidin’?”

“About six miles east. They’ve pulled on quite a while ago.”

“With all our valuables!” wailed Sleepy.

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife. “There’s an ancient telescope valise, inside of which is three pairs of socks, seven packages of Durham, two cartridge belts and two holsters.”

“And my yaller necktie,” added Sleepy mournfully.

“Well, that’s almost frazzled out,” said Hashknife. “Yuh can’t wear ’em forever, yuh know, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, I s’pose. It’s a danged good thing that we saved our guns.”

“Wearin’ ’em à la shepherd,” laughed Hashknife, opening his coat to show the butt of a heavy Colt sticking out of the waistband of his trousers. “We was headin’ East, where it ain’t proper to wear ’em on the hip, yuh know. Feller kinda gets so used to packin’ a gun that he feels plumb nude if he ain’t got one rubbin’ his carcass.”

“And we don’t go East,” complained Sleepy. “Dang it all, I’ll never see nothin’, I don’t s’pose. That makes three times I’ve started East.”

“Yuh never got this far before,” laughed Hashknife. “Yo’re gainin’ on her every time, Sleepy. Anyway, we won’t have to fight that blamed caboose t’night, and that’s somethin’ to cheer about.”

They walked back to the Totem Saloon. The sheriff did not seem as friendly as he had been before they went to the depot. Down deep in his heart was a suspicion that these two men might be in the plot to sheep out Lo Lo Valley. They had arrived at an opportune time, and they did not seem greatly concerned over the departure of their train.

“What’ll yuh do now?” he asked, as they stood on the sidewalk in front of the Totem.

“Sleep,” said Hashknife. “No use worryin’ about that train. It’s gone, thassall.”

“Yeah, it’s gone, that’s a cinch. Where are you fellers from?”

The sheriff knew better than to ask that question, and did not expect an answer.

“From the cattle-train,” said Sleepy after a pause. It was more than the sheriff expected.

A man was coming down the sidewalk, and as he came into the lights of the saloon windows they saw that he was the depot agent. He stopped and peered at them.

“I was wonderin’ if I’d find you,” he said, a trifle out of breath. “One of them cattle-cars got derailed just out of Turkey Track sidin’, and they’re held up for a while. It ain’t more than six or seven miles out there.”

“A nice long walk,” observed Hashknife.

“I can fix that,” said the sheriff quickly. “I’ll let yuh have a couple of horses and saddles. Yuh can leave ’em tied to the loadin’ corral and I’ll get ’em tomorrow.”

“Now that’s danged nice of yuh,” agreed Hashknife. “We’ll take yuh up on that, and thank yuh kindly. Let’s go.”

The sheriff led the way to his stable, where they secured two horses and saddles.

“It’s only six or seven miles on a straight line, but yuh can’t go thataway,” explained the sheriff, leading the way back to the main street. “Yuh go straight north out of town, follerin’ the road kinda northwest. Then yuh turn at the first road runnin’ northeast. About a mile along on that road you’ll find a trail that leads due east. Foller that and it’ll take yuh straight to Turkey Track sidin’.”

“This is doggone white of yuh,” said Hashknife, holding out his hand. “We ain’t the kind that forget, Sheriff. Yore broncs will be there at the corral. And some day, we’ll try real hard to return the favor.”

“Don’t mention it,” said the sheriff. “I hope yuh catch yore train. Adios!”

They rode out into the night. It was light enough for them to follow the dusty road, but not light enough for them to distinguish the kind of country they were traveling through.

“I hope they’ve got that danged car on the track, and are headin’ East right now,” said Sleepy, peering into the night. “I like this country, Hashknife.”

“After seein’ as much of it as you have, I don’t wonder.”

“Not that,” said Sleepy seriously. “There’s punchers packin’ Winchesters, and nobody tellin’ yuh what a —— of a good country this is. I tell yuh, there’s trouble brewin’. I can smell it, Hashknife.”

“Then I hope there’s more than one car off the track, and that we can get to sleep on that caboose before the train starts. I can build up all the trouble I can use. If there’s trouble around here, leave it alone. My old dad used to say—

“‘If yuh ain’t got no business of yore own, yuh ain’t qualified to monkey with somebody else’s.’”

“That’s a fine sentiment,” laughed Sleepy. “But it don’t work in our case. We’ve been monkeyin’ with other folks’ business for several years, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, that’s true. But it don’t prove that we were qualified to do it. Mebbe somebody else could ’a’ done it better.”

“Well, I’d sure like to set on a fence and watch ’em do it,” laughed Sleepy. “It would be worth havin’ a front seat at the show. Here’s that road runnin’ northeast, Hashknife.”

And Sleepy was right when he said that he would like to have a front seat at the show. For several years, he and Hashknife had drifted up and down the wide ranges, working here and there, helping to fight range battles; a pair of men who had been ordained by fate to bring peace into troubled range-lands.

It was not for gain nor glory. They usually left as abruptly as they came; dreading the thanks of those who gained by their coming; leaving only a memory of a tall, serious-faced cowpuncher with a deductive brain and a wistful smile. And of his bow-legged partner; him of the innocent blue eyes, which did not harden even in the heat of gun-battle.

They did not want wealth, power nor glory. Either of them could have been a power in the ranges, but they were of that breed of men who can’t stay still; men who must always see what is on the other side of the hill. The lure of the unknown road called them on, and when their work was done they faded out of the picture. It was their way.

Jack Hartwell was in a white-hot rage when he rode away from the Arrow. His own father had virtually accused him of being a spy for Eph King, and his life-long friends were all thinking him guilty of giving information to the invading sheepmen.

He set his jaw tightly as he spurred across the hills toward home, vowing in his heart to make them sorry that they had spurned his assistance and added insult to injury by declaring him a traitor. Once he drew rein on the crest of a hill and looked back, his throat aching from the curses that surged within him.

It was then that he realized how powerless he was, how foolish he had been to declare a dead-line around his property. It had been a childish declaration. And with this realization came the selfish hope that the sheep men might break the dead-line and flood the valley with sheep. He wanted revenge. And why not help them, he wondered?

His own father had outlawed him among cattlemen. He had been ostracized from the cowland society. He owed them nothing. Perhaps Eph King would welcome him into Sunshine Basin. He might even make him a sheep baron. But the vision did not taste sweet to Jack. He had the cattlemen’s inborn hatred of sheep. He had heard them cursed all his life, and it was too late for him to change his attitude toward them.

He rode in at his little corral and put up his horse. There was no light in the house, but the door was unlocked. He went in and lighted the lamp. It was not late, and he wondered why Molly had gone to bed so early. He picked up the light and entered the bedroom, only to find it vacant, the bed unruffled.

He went back to the living room and placed the lamp on the little table. It was evident that Molly had left the place. He went out to the stable and found that her horse and saddle were not there.

He remembered dazedly that she had said she might not be there when he returned. Back to the house he went, searching around for a possible note, which might tell him where she had gone. But there was no note. She had left without a word.

He sat down on the edge of a chair and tried to figure out what to do. Right now he cared more for his wife than he ever had, and the other events of the night paled into insignificance before this new shock.

Suddenly he got to his feet, blew out the light and ran down to the corral. Swiftly he saddled and rode out into the yard, heading straight back toward the slopes of Slow Elk Creek.

“Get ready, you sheepherders!” he gritted aloud. “I’m comin’ after my wife, and I’d like to see any of yuh stop me.”

Jack knew every inch of the country, and was able to pick his way through the starlit hills at a fairly swift pace. He knew that the dead-line was within three miles of his place, but he did not slacken pace until up near Slow Elk Springs.

As he rode up through the upper end of a little cañon, a man arose up in front of him, the starlight glinting on the barrel of his rifle. It was Gene Hill. The recognition was mutual.

“Where yuh goin’?” asked Hill in a whisper.

He was standing at the left shoulder of Jack’s horse, as if to bar his way.

For a moment Jack hesitated, and then drove the spurs into his horse, causing the animal to knock Hill sprawling. Then he ducked low and went racing away toward the dead-line. Hill got to his feet, cursing painfully, searching for his rifle, while Bert Allen, of the Circle V, another of the watchers, came running through the sage, calling to Hill and questioning him as to what the commotion had been about.

“It was Jack Hartwell,” said Hill, trying to pump some air into his lungs. “He tried to sneak through, and when I stopped him he rode me down. The dirty pup has gone over to the sheep.”

“Gives us a good chance at him,” said Allen. “I wasn’t so sure about him before. We’ll have to pass the word. Sure yuh ain’t hurt, Gene?”

“Not bad enough to make me miss him, if he ever shows up here again.”

Once out of range of Hill’s rifle, Jack drew up, with the sudden realization that he had given them plenty of circumstantial proof that he was a spy. He knew that Hill would lose no time in spreading the report that he had forced his way through the dead-line. He laughed bitterly at the tricks of fate, but swore that somebody would pay dearly.

Then he realized that he was in a precarious position. The sheepmen would be looking for mounted men. Jack knew that they would be just as alert as the cattlemen; so he dismounted and went on slowly, leading his horse. There were plenty of sheep bedded down on the slopes of the hills, and they bleated softly at his approach.

Jack had made a guess as to the probable location of the main camp. It was a wide swale on a little tributary of Slow Elk Creek, where there was plenty of fuel and water, and also a bed ground for thousands of sheep. He led his horse out on to the rim of this swale, where he could see the lights of the camp below him.

There were several camp-fires, and as he came closer he could see the outlines of several camp-tenders’ wagons. It was a big outfit and this was their main camp. Several men were playing cards on a blanket stretched in the light of one of the fires, and behind them several tents had been pitched. The men were all wearing holstered guns, and behind them, leaning against the guy rope of a tent, were several rifles.

Jack left his horse out beyond the firelight, and walked boldly into camp, coming in behind the players. Somehow he had slipped through the sheepmen’s line of guards. He stood near the front of a tent, listening closely. The players were so engrossed in their game that they made signs instead of sounds. One of them lifted his head and looked at Jack, but made no move to indicate that he did not recognize Jack as one of them.

A few minutes later, three men came walking into camp. One of them was a big man, walking empty handed, while the other two carried rifles. As they came into the light of the fires, Jack recognized Eph King. He was head and shoulders above the other men, bulking giant-like in the firelight.

His head was massive, with a deeply lined face, looking harsh and stern in the sidelights, which accentuated the rough contour of his features. The two men sauntered over to the card game, while Eph King, after a long glance out into the night, turned toward the tent and walked past Jack, without looking at him.

Once inside the tent he lighted a lantern, and Jack heard a cot-spring creak a protest as King settled his great bulk upon it. Then Jack stepped over, threw back the flap of the tent and stepped into the presence of the sheep king.

For several moments the big man stared at him. He had not seen Jack for several years, and it took him quite a while to recall the features of his enemy’s son. Jack did not speak, but waited to see what King would have to say.

The big man knitted his brows, glanced toward the flap of the tent and back at the cowboy, facing him tensely.

“How did you get here?” he asked harshly.

“Walked right in,” said Jack evenly.

“Did yuh?” King studied him closely. “What for?”

“To take my wife back home.”

Eph King started slightly.

“To take her back home, eh? Back from where, Hartwell?”

“From here!” Jack’s jaw muscles tightened and he leaned forward slightly. “By —— she’s my wife and I want her! Now you produce her, King.”

“Oh, is that so?” The big man’s bushy brows lifted in mock surprize. “I’m not a wizard, Hartwell. In fact I don’t know what in —— you are talkin’ about.”

“That’s a lie, King! She came here tonight, and I came after her.” Jack’s hand clenched and unclenched over the butt of his gun. “Come on—tell me where she is.”

The big man sighed and motioned to a camp chair.

“Set down, Hartwell. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ men tell me that I lie, but you’ve kinda got the edge on me this time. At the risk of bein’ called a liar again, I tell you that I haven’t seen Molly. —— it, I haven’t seen her since you stole her away from me.”

“I didn’t steal her,” denied Jack hotly. “She went willingly. You knew she was goin’, too. Was it a trick, King? Did she marry me to supply you with information?”

“Eh?” King scowled at the questions. “Did she marry you to—hm-m-m! What made you think she came up here?”

“She’s gone. I just came from home. One of your men took a note to her. I reckon he came home with a smashed arm, didn’t he?”

King nodded slowly.

“We expected a few smashes. There are more to come.”

“But that don’t tell me where my wife is, King.”

“No, that’s true, Hartwell. I wish I knew. She ain’t here.”

There was a ring of truth in King’s voice. “If she was here, I wouldn’t lie to you, Hartwell. And if she didn’t want to go back with you—well, you’d have a hard time takin’ her. Didn’t you realize that you was runnin your neck into it by comin’ up here tonight? It’s war, Hartwell. I’m leadin’ one side and your father leadin’ the other. And you came into my camp.

“It was a risky thing to do, young feller. You took a big chance of bein’ shot. Do you think I ought to let you go back? You are my son-in-law, and I don’t want to have yuh get shot.”

“I reckon I’ll go back,” said Jack coldly. “I never seen the sheepherder yet that could stop me. I ——”

Jack stopped. King had lifted his hand from the blanket and Jack looked into the muzzle of a big revolver. The big man was smiling softly, and the hand holding the gun was as steady as a rock.

“Set down,” he said softly. “Keep your hands on your knees. I’d hate to kill my son-in-law, but if you make a move toward your gun, that marriage is annulled by Mr. Colt.”

“All right,” grunted Jack. “I know that kind of language. Go ahead and shoot. It’ll save yuh future trouble.”

But Eph King only smiled and rested the muzzle of the gun on his knee.

“Futures don’t bother me, Hartwell—not that kind. You come blusterin’ up here and talk big. You kinda amuse me, so I’ve a —— good notion to keep you here. Did yuh ever read about the old-time kings? They had a jester—a fool—to amuse ’em. I’m as good as they, so why not have a jester, eh?”

“A fool,” corrected Jack bitterly.

“Very likely,” dryly. “Still, I’d hate to even be amused by a Hartwell. Anyway, I’ve a notion to keep yuh here and let your father know that I’m holdin’ yuh. It might——”

“Amuse him,” finished Jack.

“Meanin’ what?” queried King quickly.

“Meanin’ that he thinks I’m a spy for you. They all think I am—except Molly. I forced my way through the cattlemen’s dead-line to get up here tonight. They recognized me. I had to knock one of ’em down to get through. And they’d be liable to care a whole lot if I didn’t come back, wouldn’t they?”

Eph King stared at Jack closely. He knew that Jack was telling the truth and it seemed to amuse him a little. With a flip of his wrist he threw the gun behind him on the cot, and got to his feet.

“Hartwell,” he spoke seriously, “do you want to throw in with us?”

“No.”

“Still loyal, eh?”

There was a sneer in the question.

“Mebbe not loyal, King.”

“Blood thicker than water, eh?”

“Probably. Anyway, I hate sheep.”

King sighed deeply and threw open the tent flap.

“Sometimes I hate ’em myself,” he said softly, as they went outside.

The men crowded around them, realizing that Jack was an outsider. His horse had just been brought in by one of the sheepmen. But none of them questioned King.

“This is one of the cattlemen,” he said to them. “He is going back now, and I’d like to have one of you go with him until he passes our lines.”

“Not with me,” declared Jack. “I’ll circle wide and come out away beyond the sheep. Much obliged, just the same.”

“And tell all yuh know to the cattlemen, eh?” growled one of the men, and then to King:

“If one of ’em can ride into our camp, what’s to stop a dozen of ’em from comin’.”

“That’s my lookout, Steen,” replied King coldly. “All he knows won’t hurt us any.”

The men stood aside and watched him ride away. As soon as he was out of earshot, King swore harshly.

“You had the right idea, Steen,” he said, “but I didn’t want him to think that his comin’ bothered us any. We’ve got to tighten the line. Next thing we know a whole horde of men will come ridin’ over the hill, and —— will be holdin’ a recess. But I don’t think that Hartwell will tell what he knows.”

“Was that young Hartwell?” asked Bill Steen, foreman for King.

“Yeah.”

King nodded shortly and went back into his tent, where he sat down on the creaking cot, leaned his elbows on his knees and stared at the ground. From beyond the immediate hills came the sound of several rifle shots. The big sheepman shook his head slowly, thoughfully. Steen lifted the flap of the tent.

“I’m sendin’ all the men down to the line for the rest of the night” he said. “We’ll likely have to draw the herd back a little early in the mornin’, ’cause they’ll prob’ly start shootin’ at ’em.”

“I s’pose,” King nodded. “Not too far, though. We’ll have our own men placed, and mebbe we can do a little shootin’, too.”

“Sure. We ought to string ’em out pretty wide tomorrow. I think we’ve got more men than they have, and by stringin’ out kinda wide, we can slip through the holes any old time yuh say. I don’t think they can stop us when we get ready to start.”

“When we get ready,” echoed King. “We’re not ready yet.”

“Yeah, this is the right road, but where is that danged trail the sheriff told us about?” complained Sleepy. “I tell yuh we’re past it, Hashknife.”

“Prob’ly,” agreed Hashknife dryly. “It’s so danged dark that yuh couldn’t see it.”

They drew rein and debated upon their next move.

“Let’s go ahead a little ways,” suggested Hashknife. “Mebbe we ain’t past it. The sheriff said we couldn’t miss it.”

“Mebbe he was educated in a night school and can see like an owl,” laughed Sleepy as they rode on.

Suddenly both horses shied from something that was in the middle of the road. Hashknife dismounted quickly and made an examination.

“An old telescope valise, busted wide open,” he remarked. “Lot of women’s plunder, looks like. Must ’a’ fell out of a wagon.”

He lighted several matches and examined it, while the two horses snuffed suspiciously at the smashed valise.

“I’ll just move it aside of the road, where the owner can find it,” said Hashknife. “Some woman is worryin’ over the loss of all them things, I’ll betcha.”

They laughed and rode on, peering into the darkness. About two hundred yards beyond the valise, the two horses jerked to a stop. Hashknife’s horse snorted and tried to whirl sidewise off the road, but the lanky cowboy swung it back and dismounted again.

“It’s a woman this time,” declared Hashknife as he leaned over the dark patch on the yellow road. “That driver must ’a’ been pretty careless to lose his load thataway. Here, hold some matches for me, Sleepy, and don’t let loose of my bronc. That danged jug-head must be a woman-hater.”

Together they examined the woman, who groaned slightly as they lifted her to a sitting position. It was Molly Hartwell. She blinked at the matches and tried to get to her feet.

“You better take it kinda easy,” advised Hashknife. “You’ve got a cut on yore head, which has bled quite a lot, ma’am.”

“I—I know,” she said painfully. “I guess I didn’t have the cinch tight enough and the saddle turned with me. I tried to go back home, but I got so dizzy I had to lie down.”

“Where do yuh live?” asked Hashknife.

Molly Hartwell peered out into the gloom and was forced to admit that she did not know.

“It is either—well, I don’t know. Anyway, it is on this road.”

“Well, it ain’t behind us—’less it’s hid,” declared Sleepy. “So it must be the way we’re travelin’.”

Hashknife assisted her on to his horse, while Sleepy went back and got the valise. It was a cumbersome object to carry, and the broken straps made it almost impossible for him to keep from spilling its contents.

It was not far back to the Hartwell place. Sleepy opened the gate, while Hashknife led his horse up to the house. It was then that the valise refused to remain intact any longer. It skidded out of Sleepy’s arms and the contents spilled all about. And as fast as he picked up one article another fell out.

Finally he tied his horse to the gate-post, so he could use both hands. The valise had evidently been packed with care, but in upsetting it had jumbled things until it was impossible for Sleepy to get them all back.

He swore feelingly, perspired copiously and finally tripped over the stack of white clothes. He came up with a handful of womanly garments, to be exact—a nightgown. It was of the voluminous kind, and its bulk forbade the shutting down of the valise cover.

Hashknife and the lady had gone into the house and lighted the lamp. Sleepy whistled to himself, as he slipped the nightgown over his head, ran his arms through the short sleeves, picked up the valise and started for the house. He had solved the transportation problem to his own satisfaction.

A man had ridden in at the rear of the house, but Sleepy had not seen him. He walked up to the open front door and stepped inside, just as Jack Hartwell came in through the rear door. Hashknife was standing near the table, looking at Mrs. Hartwell, who was sitting in a low rocker, her head held in her two hands.

Jack Hartwell’s clothes were torn and there was a smear of blood across his face, which gave him a leering expression. In his right hand he held a cocked revolver. His eyes strayed from his wife and Hashknife to Sleepy, who stood in the doorway dressed in a white gown, and holding the bulky valise in his two hands. For several moments, not a word was spoken. Then:

“Evenin’, pardner,” Sleepy spoke directly to Jack, who was staring at him wonderingly. “Ain’t you the feller I met in Cheyenne last year?”

Jack Hartwell shifted his feet nervously.

“No,” he said hoarsely, “I’ve never been in Cheyenne.”

“Neither have I,” said Sleepy innocently. “Both parties must be mistaken.”

Hartwell shoved away from the door and came closer to Hashknife.

“Who in —— are you? More sheepherders?”

Mrs. Hartwell looked up at Jack and at sight of his bloody face she started to get up. He looked at her. She was as bloody as he, and her clothes were dusty and disarranged.

“More sheepherders?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah, —— yuh! What are yuh doin’ here, anyway?”

“Excuse me for appearin’ in this condition,” said Sleepy, starting to disrobe, “but this thing was what broke the telescope’s straps. There’s a limit to what yuh can git into ’em.”

Jack squinted at Molly.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “You’ve been hurt, Molly. Did these men ——?”

He whirled and faced Hashknife, who had moved toward him.

“They found me and brought me home, Jack. I—I was going away—going to Totem City to catch the train—home. But the cinch turned and I fell off. That valise was too heavy.”

Molly Hartwell began crying softly, and Hashknife walked over to Sleepy, who had managed to get out of the gown.

“We better go, Sleepy,” he said quietly.

“Just a minute,” said Jack. “I’d kinda like to know who you two fellers are.”

“Well—” Hashknife grinned slightly—“we’re not sheepherders, if that’ll help yuh any. We missed the place where the sheriff told us to turn off, and mebbe it was lucky that we did. We was headin’ for Turkey Track sidin’, wherever that is.”

“I can show yuh how to get there,” offered Jack. “Go out of my gate, turn to the left and foller that old road to the Turkey Track ranch. It turns and crosses the river leadin’ right to the sidin’. Yuh can’t miss it.”

“Uh-huh, thanks,” nodded Hashknife. “’Pears to me that there’s a lot of folks around here that have confidence in us. The sheriff told us we couldn’t miss that trail, too.”

They walked out abruptly, mounted their horses and turned to the left, following the old road.

“What do yuh make of that outfit?” asked Sleepy, as they gave the horses a free rein and spurred into a gallop.

“It’s got me pawin’ my chain,” said Hashknife. “Kinda looks like the little lady was goin’ home to pa, but the cinch turned, and ag’in she’s in the bosom of her family. Right pretty sort of a girl.”

“And the husband looks like he’d been kinda pawed around, too,” said Sleepy. “He had blood on his face and a gun in his hand. And he wondered if we were sheepherders, Hashknife.”

“Well, it’s none of our business, Sleepy. That hubby is a right snappy sort of a jigger, and he might be bad medicine.”

“Do yuh reckon there’s a sheep and cattle war on here?”

“There’s somethin’ wrong, Sleepy, and it feels like it might be wool versus hides. Anyway, it ain’t none of our business, bein’ as we’re just a pair of train chasers and ain’t got no interest in either side.”

“I hope the cattlemen knock —— out of ’em,” declared Sleepy.

“Same here. What’s this ahead of us?”

They slowed their horses to a walk. Ahead of them, crossing the road, was a herd of cattle. They were traveling at a fairly good rate of speed, heading toward the river. From the bulk of them Hashknife estimated that there must be at least a hundred head.

A rider came surging down through the sagebrush, silhouetted dimly against the sky, as he urged them on with a swinging rope. The cattle cleared the road, and the circling rider almost ran into them, possibly thinking that these other two objects were straggling cows.

“Runnin’ ’em early, ain’t yuh?” called Hashknife.

For a moment the rider jerked to a standstill, and Hashknife’s answer came in the form of a streak of fire, the zip of a bullet and the echoing “wham!” of a revolver. He had fired at not over fifty feet, but his bullet went over their heads.

Then he whirled his horse and went down the slope, swinging more to the east, before either of them realized that he had shot at them and escaped. The cattle were bawling, as they scattered down through the brush, evidently thinking that this loud noise was part of things designed to keep them moving.

“Well, can yuh beat that?” exclaimed Hashknife. “Shot right at us. Ain’t this a queer country, cowboy?”

“I’ll betcha that’s a bunch of rustlers!” declared Sleepy excitedly.

“By golly, you do deduct once in a while,” laughed Hashknife. “Let ’em rustle. As I said before, we’re chasin’ a train, not trouble. C’mon.”

“Yeah, and c’mon fast,” chuckled Sleepy. “That impudent son-of-a-gun headed down this road, I’ll betcha. Shake up that old bed spring yo’re ridin’, Hashknife and he’ll have to be a wing shot to hit us.”

Together they went down the old road as fast as the two horses could run, each man carrying a heavy revolver in his right hand. The old road was only a pair of unused ruts, but the horses had good footing. A quarter of a mile below where the shot had been fired at them, a rider swung across the road and faded into the tall sage, but whether he was a rustler or not they were unable to say.

They drew up at the bank of the Lo Lo River and let the horses make their own crossing. The river was shallow at this point. It was only a short distance from the river to the old loading corrals at Turkey Track siding, but there was no sign of the cattle-train.

“Empty is the cra-a-adul—baby’s gon-n-ne,” sang Hashknife in a melancholy voice as they dismounted and sat down on the corral fence.

“Who the —— told you you could sing?” asked Sleepy.

“A feller with a voice like mine don’t have to be told. It’s instinct, cowboy, instinct.”

“Extinct,” corrected Sleepy. “Like do-do-bird and muzzle-loadin’ pistols. I wonder if that jigger was a rustler, or was he just nervous. Some folks are thataway, Hashknife.”

“All rustlers are, Sleepy. The more I see of this country the more I envy Stumpy, Nebrasky and Napoleon in their nice, easy-ridin’ caboose. Right now I hanker for that good old dog house. Sleepy, I hankers for it so strong that I becomes melancholy and must sing.”

Hashknife cleared his throat delicately and began:

It was a dar-r-r-rk, stormy night,
As the train rat-tuled on,
All the pass-un-n-n-gers had gone to bed,

Except one young man, with a babe on his ar-r-rm,

Who sat there with bow-w-w-w-ed down head.

The——

“Hark!” blurted Sleepy dramatically. “There came a scream of agony! The lights went out! From somewhere came the crashing report of a gun. Then everything was still. A man lighted a match and held it above his head, dimly illuminating the room. But it was enough. The singer was dead—shot through the vocal cords.”

“Didn’t yuh like the song?” asked Hashknife meekly.

“——, the song was all right; it’s the way it was bein’ abused that made me step in and stop it. Yore ears must shut up tight every time yuh try to sing, Hashknife. That must be it, ’cause you’d never do it if yuh knowed what it sounded like.”

“Uh-huh, that must be it,” agreed Hashknife sadly. “I wish that train would back up long enough for us to get our belts and holsters. This darned six-gun of mine is goin’ to give me stummick trouble, if I don’t find a new place to carry it. The barrel is too long for my pocket.”

“Carry it over yore shoulder,” advised Sleepy. “We better go back and give these horses to the sheriff. It’ll be daylight pretty soon, and I’m sleepy.”

“Might as well,” agreed Hashknife. “No tellin’ where that train is by this time, so there’s no use chasin’ it.”

They climbed back on their horses and rode toward the river. It would be daylight in less than two hours, and they were both weary. The horses splashed into the ford and surged through the knee-deep water over to the other bank, where the old road wound its way up through a willow thicket to the higher ground.

And as they rode slowly up through the heavy shadows of the thicket, a gun flashed almost in their faces. It was so close that the burning powder seemed to splatter them. With a lurching scramble the two horses broke into a frightened run, while behind them two more guns spat fire.

The horses needed little urging, as they ran blindly along the old side-hill road.

“Hit yuh?” yelled Hashknife anxiously.

“Burnt me!” yelped Sleepy angrily. “Yanked all the feelin’ out of my left arm.” He was half turned in his saddle, looking back.

“Don’t shoot,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t waste ammunition.”

Their belts and extra ammunition were on that cattle-train, and all they had were the six cartridges in each gun.

“They’re comin’, —— ’em!” snorted Hashknife, catching a fleeting glimpse of several horses running toward them over a high spot in the road. “That sheriff never gave us race horses, that’s a cinch.”

They were running as fast as they were able, but both of the cowboys knew that, as far as speed was concerned, they were not well mounted. But the horses were willing to run, and that was something to recommend them.

“We horned into somethin’,” panted Hashknife, as a bullet whizzed past them. “Them danged fools have made a mistake.”

“As long as they don’t know it—say! That last bullet was too close! C’mon, Molasses!”

The pursuers were shooting recklessly now. The chase was nearing Jack Hartwell’s place, and they seemed determined to kill or capture these two men before they reached that ranch.

Hashknife turned in his saddle and shot at them.

“That split ’em, cowboy!” cheered Sleepy. “Keep hittin’ the grit.”

Then came a splattering of shots and Hashknife’s horse went stumbling into a fall. But the lanky cowboy was not caught napping. As the horse went down, he swung free from the saddle and ran several steps before he went sprawling.

Sleepy jerked up quickly, whirled and sent shot after shot at the oncoming crowd, which had drawn up quickly. Hashknife got quickly to his feet and ran to Sleepy, where he vaulted on behind him.

“Got a horse to pay for yours,” panted Sleepy, as he spurred the overburdened horse onward. “Went down in a heap.”

Sleepy’s volley had driven the pursuers to cover momentarily, but now they came on again. Bullets whizzed and skipped around them, but a stern shot at a running horse in the dark, especially from the saddle of a running horse, is rather difficult.

Hashknife turned and fired his last shot at them, as Sleepy whirled the horse into the yard of Jack Hartwell’s place and rode up to the front of the building, where Jack was standing, wondering what the shooting was all about.

They fairly fell off the horse, shoved Jack into the house and slammed the door behind them. But the riders circled wide of the gate and went back the way they came.

“What—what was the trouble?” stammered Jack.

“Got any shells for a forty-five?” asked Hashknife calmly.

Jack shook his head. He carried a forty-four.

“But what was the matter?” he demanded.

“I heard a lot of shootin’ and—”

“So did we,” laughed Sleepy. “They killed a horse for us. They might ’a’ just been foolin’, but they sure play rough.”

“They sure did,” laughed Hashknife, brushing the dust off himself. “I lit so hard I almost knocked the heels off my old boots.”

They grinned at each other, and Hashknife, turned to Jack.

“We don’t know who it was nor what it was about. A feller took a shot at us when we was goin’ over to the sidin’, and when we came back there was three or four of ’em bushwhacked us just this side of the river. I dunno how we escaped. My gosh, they were so close that the powder burned my bronc’s nose.”

“I got a furrow along my forearm,” said Sleepy grimacing, as he pulled the sleeve away. “But it won’t bother much. Kinda made the old arm feel like it was asleep.”

“But what did they shoot at yuh for?” demanded Jack.

“You answer it,” replied Hashknife quickly. “We don’t know anybody around here. We borrowed the horses from the sheriff, and he’ll likely blow up when he hears that one of ’em has been shot.”

“Keep away from that door,” advised Sleepy, as Jack started toward it. “Them pelicans don’t need to recognize yuh.”

“It sure beats me,” declared Jack.

“Does it?” queried Haskhnife seriously. “Everythin’ around here beats us, pardner. We ain’t been here long, but we’ve sure found out that Lo Lo Valley is a dinger of a place to entertain a stranger. What’s wrong around here?”

“Everythin’,” said Jack bitterly.

“Sheep and cattle war?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought so.”

“Didja? Who are you fellers, anyway?”

“Couple of soft-shelled eggs.”

“I guess so!” Jack snorted his unbelief. “Don’tcha know that Lo Lo Valley ain’t a very healthy place for strangers right now?”

“——!” snorted Sleepy. “Mebbe yuh think we don’t. Take a squint at my arm—and ask me that.”

“I reckon I know what yuh mean,” said Hashknife slowly. “Mebbe it looks kinda queer for us to be gallivantin’ around here, but we had a danged good reason.”

He explained to Jack how they had missed their train, and their reasons for going to Turkey Track siding. The explanation seemed plausible enough.

“Yo’re a cattleman, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Well,” Jack laughed shortly, “I dunno. I’ve got cattle, if that’s what yuh mean, stranger.”

“My name’s Hashknife Hartley,” said Hashknife. “This here droopin’ lily beside me is Sleepy Stevens.”

“Hashknife Hartley?” Jack frowned thoughtfully. “Say, did you ever know a feller by the name of Casey Steil?”

“Casey Steil? Hm-m-m. Casey Steil. That name is familiar.”

“I heard him tellin’ about a Hashknife Hartley one night. I think Casey is from the Sweetgrass country.”

“Lee Steil!” blurted Sleepy. “Kinda bench-legged, roan-haired, buck-toothed son-of-a-gun, with green eyes?”

“That fits him,” laughed Jack.

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife seriously. “Who does he work for?”

“He’s been with the Turkey Track for a year. Slim De Larimore owns the outfit.”

“Slim De Larimore? By grab, that’s a fancy name. What is he, a exiled duke?”

Jack laughed and shook his head.

“Slim is all right. Casey Steil is all right, too, as far as I know.”

“Nobody disputin’ yuh, pardner. I wonder if them blood-huntin’ jiggers have pulled out, or are they waitin’ for one of us to show up.”

Hashknife went to a window and peered out. It was getting lighter, and the east glowed from the coming sunrise. There was no one in sight. A horse was coming into the place, and Hashknife watched it approach the house.

“Here comes the bronc the lady tried to ride,” he announced. “It’s got the saddle under its belly.”

“See any signs of our enemy?” asked Sleepy.

“Nope. I reckon they was afraid to be seen in the light.”

The three of them went outside and removed the saddle from Molly’s horse, and Jack offered them the use of the animal to ride back to Totem City and the offer was accepted. They put the saddle back on the horse and Hashknife lengthened the stirrups.

“We’ll leave yore animal in the stable,” said Hashknife as he shook hands with Jack. “Mebbe well see yuh later. We didn’t intend to stay here, but after what happened a while ago, we feel like stickin’ around a while.”

“To find out who shot at yuh?”

“Yeah, they kinda made us curious.”

Jack grinned seriously.

“I reckon you are the same Hashknife Hartley that Casey spoke about. We thought he was stretchin’ it a little.”

“What did he say?” smiled Hashknife.

“Oh, a lot of things. We was talkin’ about rustlers and all kinds of bandits, and of fellers we knew that were wanted by this sheriff and that sheriff and by U. S. marshals. Casey says:

“‘It all depends on who wants yuh. Now, if Hashknife Hartley, the feller I’ve been lyin’ to yuh about, wanted me, I’d either throw away my gun and yell like ——for him to come and get me, or I’d turn sailor and head for the tip end of South America.’”

Hashknife laughed and lighted the cigaret he had been rolling.

“He likely exaggerated a lot,” he said. “I’m not an officer of the law—never have been. Never arrested any one in my life.”

“Casey said the same thing—about the arrests. He said there wasn’t anybody left to arrest. He sure boosted yuh to us.”

“Well, don’t believe half of it,” laughed Hashknife, as he swung the horse around and joined Sleepy, who had been examining his animal for possible injury, and they rode back toward Totem City.

It was a little later that morning when old Doctor Owen closed the door of the Arrow bunk house and walked to his horse and buggy at the front gate. He was an angular, grave-faced man, well past middle age, an old family doctor sort of person.

He carefully placed his well-worn medicine case in the buggy, carefully wiped his glasses on an immaculate handkerchief before taking the halter off his horse. For twenty years Doctor Owen had been doing this same thing in the same way.

The medicine case must be placed in just such a position on the seat, the glasses must be polished, before he would take the halter off his horse. As he coiled up the halter rope to place it in its accustomed place in the buggy bed, he looked up at Marsh Hartwell, who had just ridden in.

Hartwell’s eyes were red-rimmed and there was a weary stoop to his big shoulders as he spoke to the doctor.

“What’s new, Doc? Patient doin’ well?”

“The patient,” said the good doctor slowly, “is dead. He passed away at exactly six-thirty-two.”

It was like the doctor to be exact.

“Dead?” Marsh Hartwell turned away and glanced toward the bunk house. “Old Ed Barber is dead. I didn’t think he was hurt that bad, Doc.”

“It seems that he was,” dryly. “Two bullets had passed entirely through him, one of them puncturing his lung. It was impossible to stop the internal bleeding. I shall notify the sheriff at once. It is, I believe, a case for the coroner, Marsh.”

“Yes.” Marsh Hartwell sighed deeply. “I—send me the bill will yuh, Doc?”

“There will be no bill, Marsh. I liked old Ed, and that was the least I could do for him.”

The doctor got into his buggy and drove away. Marsh Hartwell stared after him for several moments before he turned toward the house, where Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee were waiting for news from the dead-line.

Mrs. Brownlee was two years older than Jack, a tall, thin-faced, tired-looking woman. Any beauty she might have possessed while a girl had long since departed with the drudgery of running a ranch house.

Marsh Hartwell came slowly up to the steps, leading his horse. Both women knew that something was decidedly wrong.

“Did yuh know that Ed Barber died this mornin’?” he asked them.

They shook their heads. The doctor had not been to the house.

“Died about half-past six,” said Marsh wearily. “Murder is all they can make of that.”

“That’s all the rest of it amounts to,” said Mrs. Brownlee wearily. “It is just a grudge fight between you and Eph King—and your armies.”

“You, too, Amy?” Marsh Hartwell looked curiously at her.

“Oh, well—” she turned away half angrily— “There will be a lot of men killed, men who have no interest beyond their monthly pay check. You branded Jack a spy last night; turned him out of his old home because he married a sheepman’s girl. That was spite. I’m getting tired of spite and grudges. My husband is up there on your dead-line, trying to kill somebody, because you pay him sixty dollars a month.”

Marsh Hartwell’s expression hardened slightly, but he did not reply to his daughter’s angry accusations. Mrs. Hartwell looked away. It was not her nature to accuse nor condemn. Mrs. Brownlee went into the house and closed the door, leaving Marsh Hartwell and his wife together.

“The sheep moved back a little this mornin’,” he told her wearily. “Everything is quiet along the line, so I came home for a while. Anyway, I want to ride east along the Turkey Track end of the line and see how things look. We expect the sheep to spread into a longer line by tonight.”

Mrs. Hartwell remained silent. They had not mentioned Jack since the night before.

“Too darned bad about old Ed,” continued Marsh. “They shot him down like a dog.”

“And who will pay for it, Marsh?” she asked.

“Pay for it? —— only knows. It was the sheep men who shot him, but the dirty spy who told them that old Ed was the guardian of Kiopo Pass is the real murderer.”

“Who would tell?”

“Who?” Marsh Hartwell’s features hardened. “Nobody knew it, except cattlemen. It was something that we guarded close. It was not the work of a spy; it was the deed of a traitor.”

“And you still accuse your own son, Marsh Hartwell?”

The big man laughed bitterly and turned toward the door.

“Jack is no traitor, Marsh,” she declared flatly.

“No?” Marsh turned and placed his hands on her shoulders. “I wish I could believe that, Mother. Last night Jack broke through our dead-line and went over to Eph King. He rode his horse over Gene Hill to get through. If he isn’t a traitor, what is he doin’ over there?”

“Are you sure, Marsh?”

“You bet I’m sure.”

For several moments they looked at each other, the old lady with tearful eyes; the big man, whose thin lips showed in a white line now, his eyes filled with pain.

“It hurts you, too, Marsh?” she whispered.

“Hurts? Good God, it hurts! He’s as much my son as yours, Mother. The men all know this. They don’t say anythin’ to me, and I’m tryin’ to put myself in their place. I’m tryin’ to forget that it’s my son, but it can’t be done, Mother.”

He shut his jaw and turned away. Al Curt, a thin-faced, narrow-shouldered cowpuncher from the Turkey Track, was riding in at the main gate, so Marsh Hartwell waited for him to come up.

“Mornin’, Curt,” he said hoarsely.

“Mornin’. How’s everythin’ along yore line, Marsh?”

“Quiet. I just left there.”

“Plenty quiet on our end, too. They ain’t got the sheep down that far yet. Didja know anythin’ about a lot of shootin’ that was goin’ on early this mornin’ over near the old Morgan place?”

Marsh shook his head,

“No, we didn’t hear it, Curt.”

“Uh-huh. Wasn’t none of yore men, eh?”

“My men were all on the line, Curt. I traveled the line twice last night myself. You say it was over by the Morgan place?”

“Yeah; about an hour or so before daylight. We could hear it pretty plain. Thought at first it was the sheep tryin’ to bust through, but it was too far south for that. Must ’a’ been fifty shots fired. Slim told me to ride down here and see what I could find out about it. I came past the Morgan place, but didn’t see anybody.”

“Wasn’t anybody at home, Curt?”

“I didn’t go up to the house, Marsh, but there wasn’t anybody in sight.”

“Where are you goin’ now?” asked Marsh.

“I’m goin’ back and let some of the boys off for breakfast. Was the sheep movin’ any this mornin’?”

“Not much. I expect they’ll take their time.”

“They better,” grinned Curt, and rode back toward the east end of the dead-line.

“What do you suppose the shooting was about?” queried Mrs. Hartwell anxiously.

“That’s what I’m goin’ to find out, Mother. It was near the old Morgan place. Now, there’s no use borrowin’ trouble. It can probably all be explained.”

And just to show that he believed in his own assurances, he mounted his horse and went galloping across the hills toward the Morgan ranch. He was afraid that some of the cattlemen had taken it for granted that Jack was the traitor and had paid him an early morning visit.

He knew that Gene Hill had not been lying when he said that Jack had smashed his way through the dead-line. Hill bore evidences of the encounter. Bert Allen had seen him, but not near enough for recognition. Things looked bad for Jack, but down in his heart, Marsh Hartwell could not believe that his son had turned traitor out of spite.

He rode to the top of a hill in sight of the little ranch, where he drew rein. There was no assurance that Jack would not enforce his private dead-line, and Marsh had no desire to be made a target for his son’s rifle. From his elevated position he could see two men and a saddled horse in the front yard.

It looked very much like a black and white pinto, belonging to Sudden Smithy. He whistled softly and spurred down the hill, wondering what would bring the sheriff out there so early in the morning.

The sheriff and Jack were not having a very animated conversation, as he rode up and dismounted. In fact the sheriff seemed a trifle annoyed over something, and barely nodded to Marsh Hartwell. Jack did not make any sign.

“Ridin’ early ain’t yuh?” asked Marsh.

“Kinda.”

The sheriff nodded shortly.

“What was all the shootin’ about over here?”

“Shootin’?” The sheriff was interested. “Did you hear it?”

“No. Al Curt came over to the Arrow to see if we knew what it was all about. They heard about fifty shots.”

The sheriff turned and squinted at Jack, who looked him square in the eyes.

“You heard ’em, didn’t yuh, Jack?” he asked.

“Did I?”

“Oh, ——!” snorted the sheriff. “That’s as far as I can get with him, Marsh.”

“Well, what’s it all about?” asked Marsh. “What do you know about it, Sudden?”

“I know this much—” he pointed at a saddle, lying on the ground near his pinto— “I loaned two horses and two saddles to two strangers last night. They came in on a cattle-train—or said they did—and the train went away and left ’em in Totem City.

“This train got off the track at Turkey Track sidin’, so I loaned ’em the outfits to ride over to catch their train. They were to leave the horses tied to the old loadin’ corral. Later on I got to thinkin’ what a fool I was to let ’em have them horses, so I saddles the pinto and takes a straight cut toward the sidin’.

“It was doggone slow goin’, I’ll tell yuh. I hunted in the dark for a shallow crossin’ of the river, and wasted a lot of time thataway, finally havin’ to swim across. Well, I finally got to the sidin’, but don’t see my horses.

“Just about that time I hears a lot of shootin’ goin’ on down by the old river crossin’. I rode down there, but finds that the shootin’ is gettin’ farther away all the time. Then I waited until daylight and came in over the old road. About a mile from here I finds my roan horse lyin’ right in the middle of the road, too dead to skin. I took the saddle—and that’s all I know.”

“Well, that’s quite a lot, Sudden,” observed Marsh.

“Yeah, it’s quite a lot, but not enough. Jack must know somethin’ about it, but he won’t talk.”

“Why should I talk?” asked Jack coldly. “I never fired any of the shots, and I don’t know who killed your horse.”

The sheriff sighed and hooked his thumbs over his belt. He was plainly exasperated, so exasperated that he forgot caution.

“His wife answered my knock at the door,” he said, indicating Jack, “and her head is all tied up in bandages. She looks like she’d been run through a threshing machine.”

“You leave my wife out of this, Sudden!” snapped Jack. “She had nothin’ to do with it. If you want to find out anythin’, you better find them two strange cowpunchers.”

“Yeah, and I’ll do that too!” snorted Sudden. “They’ll talk, or I’ll know why.”

“You better take their word for it,” grinned Jack.

“Is that so?”

“Very likely.”

“You know ’em, do yuh?”

“Ask Casey Steil about Hashknife Hartley.”

“That’s the tall one,” said the sheriff quickly. “Casey knows him, does he?”

“I think he does.”

“Well—” the sheriff picked up his saddle and turned to the pinto—“I reckon all I can do is to go back and wait for ’em to show up and talk about it.”

He mounted his pinto, carrying the saddle in his arms, and headed for Totem City, while Jack and his father faced each other, both waiting for the other to begin.

“What did you want here?” asked Jack after a long silence.

“I heard about the shooting and I was afraid——”

“That somebody had come gunnin’ for the spy?” Jack laughed harshly. “Don’t mind me. I can take care of myself.”

“Ed Barber died this mornin’.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. He was hurt worse than we thought.”

“I forgot to tell the sheriff.”

“He’s got enough grief right now, I reckon.”

“We’ve all got plenty of that, Jack. Did you see Eph King last night?”

“Yeah.”

Jack was not trying to deny it.

“You rode over Gene Hill, didn’t yuh, Jack?”

“Yeah, I sure did. He tried to stop me.”

“They all know that you went over to the sheep last night.”

“And then what?”

“Jack, don’t you realize what that means? Good ——, they’ll hold you responsible for old Ed Barber’s death and for the sheep comin’ into Lo Lo Valley. Have you lost yore mind entirely?”

“Mebbe I’ve lost my mind, but not my nerve.”

“Nerve won’t help yuh. Don’t be reckless, boy. There is yet time to get away. I’ll stake yuh. Peel out of here while the sheep are keepin’ everybody busy. Take yore wife and head east until things are blown over. Won’t yuh do that, Jack?”

“And admit that I was a traitor? ——!” Jack laughed bitterly and shook his head. “Not by a —— sight. Any old time I start runnin’, it will be after somebody.”

Marsh Hartwell turned to his horse and started to mount, but changed his mind and came close to Jack.

“Jack, I’m goin’ to ask yuh a question that’ll make yuh mad, but I’ve got to do it. Did yore wife have anythin’ ——”

“Leave her out of this, Dad,” interrupted Jack, but his eyes did not hold steady.

“All right, Jack.”

Marsh Hartwell mounted and rode away. In his heart was the sudden conviction that Molly, not Jack, was the traitor.

“But is she a traitor?” he asked himself. “We’ve treated her all wrong, and Eph King is her father. An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. And Jack is just reckless enough to die rather than let any one know that she is to blame.”

Jack walked back to the doorway. Molly had just opened the door and was watching Marsh Hartwell ride away. Her head was swathed in bandages, and there was little color in her face.

“What did your father want?” she asked.

“Well, he thought we ought to run away, Molly.”

“Run away?”

Jack had not told her of the suspicions against him, nor did she know that he had seen her father.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “They think that I was the one that sent the information to your father. They’ve thrown me out, brandin’ me a traitor. And I’ll be kinda lucky if they don’t come down here in a bunch and hang me.”

“Jack, they don’t think that!”

“Well, I wish you were right. While you was tryin’ to run away from me last night, they were puttin’ the sheep dip on to me. It was a big night in my life, I’ll tell yuh. They think I did all this because Dad treated me the way he has. And last night I smashed my way through the dead-line, Molly. I thought you had gone to your father. And the cattlemen seen me go through.”

Molly stared at him, trying to understand what he had done.

“You went to see my father?”

“Yeah, and I seen him, too.”

“Did you? Oh, what did he say, Jack?”

“Well,” Jack smiled grimly, “he said that if there was any kings around, I could easy get a job as a fool.”

It was still fairly early in the morning when Hashknife and Sleepy rode into Totem City. They put both horses into the sheriff’s stable and went back to the street, where Hashknife had seen a little harness and saddlery store. Here they were able to purchase belts and holsters. Luckily they were able to pick up some second-hand ones, which would fit their needs, and then they went to the general merchandise store to get a supply of cartridges.

Jim Hork, the proprietor, listened to their wants, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as he looked at his stock of cartridges.

“Mebbe I can let yuh have a box apiece,” he said. “I’m runnin’ low, and I’ve got a whole slue of orders.”

“That’s enough,” grinned Hashknife. “We ain’t goin’ to shoot more than fifty men apiece.”

Hork grinned and sold them the cartridges. They filled their belts and guns, and he watched them curiously, but Hork was a life-long resident of the cattleland, and did not ask questions. It was not often that strangers came to Totem City and bought revolver cartridges.

But Hashknife and Sleepy did not enlighten him. They knew he was aching for them to talk about themselves, but they kept a discreet silence. A little, barefooted boy came in to buy some kerosene oil.

“Did they kill any sheepherders last night, Mister Hork?” he asked excitedly. “Ma wants to know, she said.”

“I dunno, Jimmy. Don’t reckon they did. You ain’t got no relations fightin’ for the sheep, have yuh?”

“Me?” shrilled Jimmy. “By jing, I ain’t! I hate ’em.”

Hork laughed and went into a back room to get the oil.

“It’s quite a battle, ain’t it, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

“Well, it ain’t—yet. Pa says she’ll be a humdinger. Which side are you on, mister?”

“I reckon I’m on my side, Jimmy.”

“Uh-huh.” Jimmy scratched the calf of his leg with the big toe of his other foot. “I’ll betcha they’ll make Jack Hartwell hard to catch.”

“Thasso? What did he do, Jimmy?”

“Jack Hartwell? Huh! Pa says he’s the son-of-a-gun that told the sheepmen all about when and how to git in here. He ort to be shot, y’betcha. He married a sheep-girl.”

“Did he?”

“Yeah. That was quite a while ago. Nobody liked him since. And his pa is the biggest rancher in this valley, too. I know him and I know Mrs. Hartwell, too.”

“Jack Hartwell?”

“I don’t mean him; I mean his pa and ma.”

“You don’t like Jack Hartwell, Jimmy?”

“Well,” the youngster hesitated, “I did—once.”

“Who is yore pa, Jimmy?”

“Gee, don’tcha know my pa? He’s the sheriff. I thought that everybody knew my pa.”

“Here’s yore coal oil,” said Hork, coming in from the rear. “You tell yore ma she better get a bigger can. That one just holds an even gallon.”

“Ma knows it,” grinned Jimmy, holding it gingerly. “She measured it. If it ain’t plumb full when I get home, me or you are goin’ to catch thunder.”

Hork exploded with laughter while Jimmy went pattering out of the store, watching his step closely.

“Jimmy is a great lad,” observed Hork. “He sure sees the funny side of things. Was he tellin’ you about Jack Hartwell?”

“Yeah,” Hashknife inhaled deeply on his cigaret. “Jack Hartwell is in kinda bad around here, ain’t he?”

“Well, it’s too bad,” admitted Hork. “Still, I reckon I ain’t in no position to talk about it a-tall. If he done what they say he did, he ought to get hung. But if he didn’t, he hadn’t.”

“Well, that’s justice,” said Hashknife seriously. “I hope he knows how yuh feel about it.”

“I try to be fair about things.”

“Well, that’s right, I suppose. Sleepy, let’s me and you go and wrap our insides around some ham and eggs. It seems like years and years since I ate anythin’.”

They walked out and crossed the street to the restaurant, where they had eaten the night before. They ordered a big meal and did full justice to it.

“Now, we’ve got to face the sheriff,” said Hashknife, loosening his belt. “I suppose he’ll rise up and tear his hair when he finds that his roan horse is a casualty.”

“I s’pose,” agreed Sleepy dismally. “He’ll tell us that the roan was worth five hundred dollars and that it could run faster than anythin’ on four legs.”

“Sure. If he don’t tell us that, he’ll swear that it was a family heirloom. It was, all right. The fastest move it made was when it started fallin’. Oh, well, human nature is queer.”

They paid for their meal and walked outside. The sheriff had just ridden in and was talking to old Sam Hodges, of the Bar 77, in front of Hork’s store. The sheriff still had the saddle in his arms.

“There’s our first difficulty, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “We’ll go right over and have it out with him.”

The sheriff scowled at them, as they came across the street.

“Hyah, sheriff,” grinned Hashknife. “You must be anticipatin’ somethin’ to be packin’ an extra saddle with yuh thataway.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff was not to be mollified. “Mebbe you fellers don’t know where I got this saddle, eh? I got it off my roan horse.”

“Oh, is that so? By golly, you got out there quick.”

“Mebbe I did. And then what?”

Hashknife grinned widely and began rolling a cigaret.

“Before we go too far,” he said slowly, “would yuh mind tellin’ me how many hundreds that roan bronc was worth?”

“Not a —— hundred! Fact of the matter is, he wasn’t worth six bits. But that don’t tell me nothin’.”

Hashknife and Sleepy gawped at each other. It was unusual. In fact it had never happened to them before. Old Sam Hodges grinned. The sheriff had just told him enough to whet his interest in the matter. He instinctively liked the looks of these two cowpunchers, and old Sam was a pretty good judge of human nature.

“Somebody,” said Hashknife mysteriously, “shot that horse.”

“——, that wasn’t hard to see!” snorted the sheriff.

“When I was on him, goin’ as fast as he could go.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. We went to Turkey Track sidin’, like we said we would, but the train was gone. We started back, like we intended to do, if the train wasn’t there. And when we crossed the river, some folks started throwin’ lead at us. By golly, they sure did heave the old shrapnel at us.

“They chased us all the way to that little ranch on the creek, where we busted into the house and the six-gun parade turned around and went away. About a mile from the ranch, one or two of them bullets hived up in the roan, and we had to do the last mile on one horse. Now, I dunno how you folks do things around here, but I think it’s a —— of a way to treat strangers.”

The sheriff squinted at Hashknife and turned to look at old Sam, who was masticating rapidly and trying to figure out what it all meant. Then he spat explosively.

“But who in —— was the shooters?”

“They never said,” replied Hashknife blandly. “Mebbe they thought it wouldn’t make any difference with us. But I’d rather be shot by somebody I know than by a total stranger. It ain’t etiquette.”

“It’s sure beyond me.” The sheriff shook his head. “Just why somebody desires yore death is more than I can figure out. Do you fellers know anybody around here?”

“Reckon not,” grinned Hashknife. “We never were here before.”

“And we ain’t comin’ ag’in,” declared Sleepy. “I don’t mind havin’ one or two men shootin’ at me, but when they come in flocks—I’m through.”

“Well, they never scared the grins out of yuh,” observed old Sam Hodges.

“Might as well grin,” said Hashknife. “Outside of the sheriff’s roan horse, nobody got hurt; and we’ll pay for that.”

“Yuh will not,” declared the sheriff. “It wasn’t no fault of yours, Hartley. I’d give all my horses to know why yuh was shot at. Kinda looks to me like somebody mistook yuh for me and Sunshine.”

“Somebody that wants to wipe out the sheriff’s office?” asked old Sam quickly. “Sudden, I’ll betcha that was it. Find yore enemy and you’ll find the men that killed the roan.”

“The theory is fine,” agreed Hashknife. “But there’s one big flaw in it, gents. One horse was a roan and the other is a dark bay. At night nobody could identify ’em. And another thing; would they be lookin’ for you and Sunshine to come out there last night?”

“And that,” said old Sam, “picks a big hole in the idea.”

“Yeah, it does,” agreed the sheriff. “I’m goin’ to put this horse in the stable and get me some breakfast. You fellers had breakfast?”

“Just exactly,” replied Sleepy.

“Well, I’ll see yuh later.”

The sheriff turned his horse and started to ride away, but drew rein. A cowboy was riding toward them, coming in from the north. He swung off his horse and nodded to Hodges.

“I wonder if Hork has got any ammunition,” he said.

“I ain’t been in there,” said Hodges, “but I don’t reckon he’s had time to get any yet.”

“Uh-huh.”

The cowboy glanced at the sheriff and nodded. Then he looked at Hashknife and Sleepy. For a moment he squinted, and a peculiar expression flashed across his face. He turned awkwardly and struck his shin against the wooden sidewalk, swore softly and went into the store.

Hashknife pursed his lips and began rolling a cigaret. The sheriff had seen Casey Steil’s face, which told him that Casey had recognized these two men. Hashknife glanced up and found the sheriff looking closely at him.

“You know Casey Steil?” he asked.

“Casey Steil?” Hashknife frowned. “Where does he live?”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff turned his horse and rode away. Hashknife looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who grinned widely.

“Lives at Uh-huh, Hashknife. Didja ever hear of that town?”

“That was Casey Steil who just went into the store,” offered old Sam Hodges.

“Thasso?” Hashknife squinted toward the closed door. “What made the sheriff think I knowed that jigger?”

Old Sam did not say. He felt that it was none of his affair.

“Casey Steil worked for Slim De Larimore,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

Hashknife did not seem greatly interested in Casey Steil. He turned to Sleepy.

“Gimme yore Durham, cowboy. I scraped my pocket for that last smoke, and this coat of mine is all wool.”

“Go and buy yoreself some tobacco, why don’tcha?” complained Sleepy. “They sell it in that store.”

“All right, yuh doggoned miser.”

Hashknife stepped up on the sidewalk and went into the store. After a moment Sleepy followed him, with old Sam limping along behind.

Casey Steil was at the counter, talking with Hork, who had taken several boxes of cartridges off the shelf for his inspection. Steil glanced quickly at Hashknife and busied himself reading the labels on the boxes.

Hork sold Hashknife some tobacco, and when he turned back to Steil, the Turkey Track cowpuncher had walked away and was heading for the door. Hork grunted peevishly and put the boxes of cartridges back on the shelf.

Old Sam Hodges had been watching Steil, and he knew that Steil had walked away to prevent Hashknife from speaking to him. But Hashknife merely glanced toward Steil’s disappearing back and began rolling a cigaret.

“Wanted shells kinda bad,” observed Hork sarcastically. “Acted like he was half asleep. Didn’t even seem to know what sizes he wanted. And then—” Hork threw the last box back on a shelf—“he went out without any.”

“That’s what is called lapse of memory,” said Hodges.

Hashknife glanced quickly at the old man, and they both grinned. Hodges crossed the room to Hashknife and held out his hand.

“My name is Hodges—Sam Hodges of the Bar 77.”

“Mine’s Hartley—Hashknife Hartley of anywhere,” grinned the lanky cowboy as they shook hands. “Sam Hodges, meet Sleepy Stevens. He belongs to the same outfit that I do.”

“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Sleepy, holding out his hand.

They shook hands gravely, and the three of them walked out of the store together. Casey Steil had mounted his horse and was riding out of town.

“My place is almost due east from here,” said Hodges as they stopped at the edge of the sidewalk. “Anybody can direct yuh. We’d like to have yuh come out, gents. The Bar 77 ain’t no millionaire place, but we eat three times per day, and there’s always plenty of room at the table.”

“That’s sure nice of yuh,” smiled Hashknife. “We’ll likely be around here a few days.”

“Fine. Come out any old time.”

The old man got into his buckboard and rattled out of town.

“Salt of the earth,” declared Hashknife. “I’ll betcha he’s as square as they make ’em.”

“I won’t bet,” declared Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m more interested in Casey Steil. He sure ignored us, didn’t he? Hashknife, that mean-faced jigger almost swallowed his teeth. He was so darned scared you’d talk to him that he barked his shins on the sidewalk. How come that yuh didn’t speak to him?”

“That was up to him, Sleepy. Me and you know what Lee Steil used to be, but we’ve got to give him the benefit of the doubt. If he’s workin’ here and goin’ straight—good for him. He don’t need to be scared of us.”

“I’ll betcha he wishes he knew that,” laughed Sleepy.

They walked down to the sheriff’s office, where they found Sunshine, stretched out on a cot. He recognized them, but was in no mood to enthuse over anything.

“I reckon I was pie-eyed last night,” he told them sadly. “My mouth tastes like the bottom of a parrot’s cage today, so I know danged well that I had a cargo aboard. What’s new? I heard Sudden swearin’ around, but he didn’t think me worth while talkin’ to, I guess.”

“Nothin’ much new, Sunshine,” said Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Ahem-m-m-m! Any news from the battle front, I wonder?”

“Not much. Somebody tried to play rough with us last night, but only killed one of the sheriff’s horses.”

“Eh?” Sunshine sat up quickly. “Which one?”

“A roan.”

“Oh, that old jug-head! I’ve been tellin’ Sudden that the old roan was dead, but wouldn’t lay down. What was it all about?”

Hashknife described how the sheriff had loaned them the two horses to ride after the train, and of what happened later. Sunshine gawped widely at the recital. He was still a trifle hazy from his potations, but most of it percolated through his brain.

“Well, that’s what I call a —— of a note!” he declared. “Mistook yuh for sheepherders, eh?”

“Very likely,” dryly.

“Still—” Sunshine scratched his touseled head—“they hadn’t ought to do that either. You was horseback, wasn’t yuh? Uh-huh. And it was dark, too. Come to think of it, it looks danged queer. How did they act?”

“Awful.”

“Oh yeah. Sudden know about it?”

“About all there is to know, Sunshine.”

Sunshine thought it over for a while, or tried to. Then he reached for his boots and drew them on.

“Well, I dunno,” he said sadly. “I’m in no shape to work out puzzles. I git kinda giddy in the head.”

The conversation lapsed. Sunshine tried to smoke a cigaret, but threw it away in disgust. Finally the sheriff came back to the office and sat down to smoke his pipe. He was not bubbling over with conversation either, confining himself to cursing a pipe that is always stopped up.

Then came Doctor Owen, carefully removing his hat, mopping his brow and adjusting his glasses.

“Old Ed Barber died at six thirty-two this morning,” he stated.

The sheriff’s pipe rattled on the desk top.

“The —— he did!”

“Yes. I suppose we shall have to hold an inquest.”

“H-m-m. Yeah, I reckon we will. By grab! Poor old Ed’s dead, eh?”

The sheriff picked up the pipe and polished the bowl with the palm of his right hand.

“Old Ed was murdered,” he declared slowly. “Mebbe everythin’ is fair in war, I dunno. This is goin’ to stir things up badly. I swore to uphold the law, and I told ’em at the meetin’ that I’d do it, but by ——, I’m huntin’ for the men that shot old Ed. The law says that the sheep have the same right as cattle, but in a case like this, I reckon I’ll make a few laws of my own.”

“Don’t yell,” begged Sunshine, holding his head. “Sudden, you don’t know how loud yore voice is.”

“You stay sober!” exploded Sudden. “I’m goin’ to need yuh, doggone yore hide!”

“Oh, aw-w-w right!” Sunshine held his hands over his ears. “Jist don’t yowl at me. I’ve got a headache, I tell yuh.”

Sudden turned to the doctor,

“We’ll hold the inquest tonight at the Arrow, Doc. I reckon we can call in enough men for a jury.”

“Yes, I think we can, Sudden. Well, I will be going now.”

Sunshine sighed with relief when the doctor had gone.

“Too —— exact,” he said wearily. “Tellin’ us that old Ed died at exactly thirty-two minutes after six. I’ll betcha he held a watch on old Ed. What the —— was he tryin’ to do; find out if it was a world’s record? Aw-w-w, gosh! I taste like Paris green!”

“You look like it, too,” stated the sheriff. “You better go and rinse out yore system with strong coffee.”

“Oh, aw-w-w right.”

Sunshine groaned miserably and went in search of something bracing.

“What are you fellers goin’ to do?” asked the sheriff. “Are yuh goin’ to stay here a while, or are yuh pullin’ out?”

“Yuh don’t mind if we stay, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“No-o-o. I was just wonderin’, thassall. How long have yuh known Casey Steil?”

“What makes yuh think we know him?”

The sheriff scratched a match and lit his pipe, which did not draw at all well. He spat disgustedly and threw it on the desk.

“Tell us about this sheep trouble,” urged Hashknife. “We’ve heard enough of it to make us curious.”

“Yeah?” The sheriff grinned wisely. “Curiosity killed the cat, yuh know.”

“We’ll take a chance on the cats.”

“All right, they’re yore cats, Hartley. I don’t know neither of you two fellers. Mebbe yo’re connected with the sheepmen, for all I know, but the causes of this trouble ain’t secret. So I’ll tell yuh about ’em.”

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 the dénouement came.

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’t sabe it.”

“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, I sabe. 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. “I sabe fine, 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’t sabe,” 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’t sabe us, 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.”

They were near the forks of the road, traveling along in the moonlight, when they met five riders, who had swung off the Arrow road and were traveling toward Jack Hartwell’s place. They were Gene Hill, Skinner Close, Micky Hart, Mel Asher and Paul Dazey.

Hashknife tried to crowd past them with the two packed horses, but they swung their horses to block the road.

“Jist about who have we here?” asked Gene Hill. He had been drinking.

“F’r ——’s sake!” blurted Micky Hart. “Looks like a killin’ has been done.”

One of them dismounted and began lighting matches, while the others shoved in closer and looked at the bodies.

“Know either of ’em?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t,” declared Hill. “Do any of you fellers?”

There was a general chorus of negative replies.

“Mind talkin’ about ’em?” asked Micky.

“Down at Totem City I’ll tell about ’em,” said Hashknife. “The sheriff will probably want to know.”

“Prob’ly,” said Gene Hill dryly. “You are the two jiggers that made a getaway from the inquest, eh? I’ll betcha the sheriff will be glad to see yuh. We’ve all been kinda lookin’ for yuh.”

“By golly, that’s right!” exploded Mel Asher.

“And now that you’ve found us?” said Hashknife.

“Well,” said Hill after several moments of silence, “we didn’t want yuh so awful bad, yuh know. The sheriff kinda cussed a little, but as long as you’re goin’ down to see him, I reckon it’ll be all right.”

“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife. “Mebbe you’d like to ride back and hear what I tell the sheriff.”

“We ain’t got time,” said Asher. “We’re on business. But at that, I’d like to hear what yuh tell him.”

“Mebbe he’ll tell yuh later,” laughed Sleepy.

“It all depends,” said Hill, and they moved aside to let Hashknife and Sleepy start on down the road.

As soon as the two cowboys and their pack horses had disappeared, Hill took a bottle from his pocket and passed it around. They were all half drunk, but there was no hilarity.

“That’s enough hooch for now,” declared Hill. “We don’t want to be drunk. I’d sure like to know who them two dead men are. They don’t belong around here.”

“What we ought to have done is to make them two whippoorwills tell us all about it,” said Paul Dazey. “We ain’t got much sense.”

“And if you’d ’a’ seen them two fellers back out of the Arrow bunk house, with their six-guns all set, you’d say it wasn’t none of our —— business,” declared Mel Asher. “We showed pretty good sense, if anybody rises up to ask yuh.”

The sheriff and Sunshine were both asleep in the sheriff’s office when Hashknife and Sleepy hammered on the door. It was nearly morning, but not near enough for Sunshine to awake in good spirits. He came to the door, looked them over with sleepy eyes and wanted to know what in —— they meant by trying to knock down the door.

Hashknife led him out to the horses and showed him the two dead men. This served to jar the sleep out of Sunshine and send him back into the office, where he yelled at the sheriff—

“Hey, Sudden! Git up! There’s been a eppy-demic.”

“Epidemic?” queried Sudden sleepily. “Whatcha mean?”

“C’mon out and look at the dead ones. They’re bringin’ ’em in by the pack load.”

The sheriff came out, sans socks and pants. He squinted queerly at Hashknife and Sleepy, as if wondering just what their attitude would be after what he had done to them at the inquest. Then he turned his attention to the dead men, while Sunshine aided him with matches.

“Bring ’em inside, I reckon,” he said gruffly.

They carried the two bodies in and placed them on the floor, where the sheriff made a closer examination.

“Both of ’em dead,” he decided.

“I’ll betcha that’s why they elected yuh sheriff,” said Sleepy.

“Why is that?” asked the sheriff.

“’Cause yuh catch on to things so easy. Some folks just kinda jump at conclusions, don’tcha know it?”

“Huh!”

Sudden got to his feet and walked over to a chair, where he sat down and looked at the two cowboys.

“Well?” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you fellers ag’in!”

“You didn’t think yuh scared us away, didja?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff did not seem to know just what to say, so he said nothing.

“Didja ever see either one of these dead men?” asked Sunshine.

The sheriff shook his head.

“Not me. I’d kinda like to hear about it.”

“Yo’re goin’ to,’ grinned Hashknife. “And don’t intimate that I’m lyin’ until after I tell the story.”

“Is there any use of lyin’ about it?”

“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly, “I’ve been tryin’ all the way from Jack Hartwell’s ranch to think up a good lie, but I can’t; so I’ll have to bother yuh with the truth.”

The telling of the story did not take long, as Hashknife did not embellish it in any way. The sheriff and Sunshine listened to every word, exchanging glances occasionally, but neither of them interrupted.

“What was King and this other man doing at Jack’s place?” asked the sheriff, when Hashknife finished.

“I didn’t ask him.”

“And he knew this feller Bates, eh?”

“Yeah—seemed to.”

“Why did Bates kill this partner of King’s?”

“You better ask somebody that knows of their personal affairs, Sheriff. I brought the bodies in, thassall. Outside of my story, I don’t know any more than you do.”

“Uh-huh. Well, we’ll have to take your word for it. There’s a lot of men kinda lookin’ for you two fellers. Some of ’em didn’t leave here so long ago either.”

“We met ’em,” nodded Hashknife. “If they were lookin’ for us, they’ve forgot all about it.”

“My gosh, yuh didn’t kill all five of ’em, didja?” blurted Sunshine.

“Only four,” said Sleepy seriously. “The fifth one saw that he didn’t have a chance, so he shot himself.”

For a moment both the sheriff and deputy swallowed the story, but Hashknife’s grin reassured them that Sleepy was joking.

“I—I wouldn’t put it past yuh,” said Sunshine.

“After what the sheriff did to us at that inquest, I wouldn’t put anythin’ past a human bein’,” declared Hashknife. “It sure was one dirty trick.”

“Aw-w-w-w, ——!” blurted the sheriff, confused. “I—you two——”

“Absolutely,” interrupted Hashknife.

The sheriff’s confusion greatly amused Sunshine.

“Went off half-cocked, eh?” he said. “That’s the trouble with Sudden. That’s where he got his name; always gettin’ himself into a jam. Never thinks twice—that’s Sudden. That’s where he got his name, I tell yuh. Ha, ha, ha, ha!”

“Ha, ha, ha ——!” snapped Sudden angrily. “You never got yore name because of yore disposition, that’s a cinch.”

“Aw, that’s all right,” said Sunshine. “One thing, I don’t go and decide, too quick on a thing.”

“You ain’t got brains enough to ever decide.”

“Ain’t I?”

“You sure as —— ain’t.”

“You never give me a chance to show what I can do.”

“I know what you’d do.”

“Well, I’d think first, I’ll betcha.”

“Well, go ahead and fight it out,” laughed Hashknife. “We’re goin’ to hunt a place to eat some food.”

“If I was you I’d fade out of Lo Lo Valley,” advised the exasperated sheriff.

“And if I was you, I’d prob’ly be as poor a sheriff as you are,” retorted Hashknife. “We don’t need advice, pardner. If Lo Lo Valley wants us, you tell ’em we’re eatin’ breakfast. And if Lo Lo Valley wants trouble, we’ll accommodate ’em, sabe?”

“Fight ’em all, eh?” sneered the sheriff.

“Yeah—and lick ’em,” retorted Hashknife. “S’long.”

They went up the street, walking stiff-legged and laughing at each other.

“Bad men from Bitter River,” chuckled Sleepy. “I feel as tough as pelican soup. I’ll betcha that single-track-minded sheriff thinks we’re in earnest.”

“If he don’t think we are, he ought to try us,” said Hashknife seriously. “I’m gettin’ tired of bein’ suspected as a sheepherder.”

Totem City was beginning to wake up as they entered the restaurant. They were the first customers of the day, and the sleepy-eyed waiter was none too cheerful. Both Hashknife and Sleepy were badly in need of some sleep, so they drank many cups of black coffee, while the waiter sucked at an extinct cigaret and wondered why these two strangers persisted in staying around Totem City, when they were not wanted. He had heard them discussed considerable.

They had finished eating when old Sam Hodges came in. He had been talking with the sheriff, who had told him about the shooting at Jack Hartwell’s place.

“It’s a danged queer proposition,” he told them. “A lot of them men at the inquest kinda want to salivate you two fellers. That shot yuh fired over our heads made ’em mad, don’tcha know it?”

“If they want us, we’re here,” grinned Hashknife.

“Sure, sure. But that ain’t it, boys. I know yuh. They’d have one —— of a time puttin’ their hands on yuh, but it would be fifty to one, don’tcha see? Now, you fellers show sense. Come out to the Bar 77 and hole up until this is over. There ain’t nobody out there but the cook. ——, I don’t want to see you fellers hurt.”

“That’s fine of yuh, Hodges,” said Hashknife. “We appreciate it a heap. Yo’re plumb white, but we can’t do it. We’ve been shot at. And we never hole up after we’ve been shot at.”

“Uh-huh.” Old Sam squinted thoughtfully. “Well, it ain’t none of my business. I ain’t seekin’ information, but I’ll bet odds that neither one of yuh ever herded sheep nor worked for sheep outfits.”

“Thanks,” dryly.

“Yuh don’t need to thank me.”

“Hodges—” Hashknife slowly moistened the edge of his cigaret paper and shaped his cigaret carefully—“why is that sheep outfit standin’ still?”

“Why? Huh! Well, the dead-line, for one thing.”

“Been any shootin’ up there?”

“A little. Nobody hurt—yet.”

“Just a case of waitin’, eh? Kinda hard on the ranches, ain’t it? All the cowboys on the dead-line thataway.”

“Yeah, I reckon so. But the roundup is over for this year.”

“Uh-huh. Well, mebbe that’s right. Seems to me that King ain’t makin’ a —— of an effort to break through.”

“Maybe he’s tryin’ to outstay us. He’s got pretty good feed up there. He shifted the line a little to the west, but not very much. It kinda looks like he wanted to swing west, but don’t want to do it too openly. I’d like to get my hands on him.”

“What would the cattlemen do to him, Hodges?”

“If they caught him? Well, I don’t know what they’d do. He’s been hated in this valley for so long that the cattlemen would probably declare a holiday and hang him higher than a kite.”

“Then it would be a continual fight, even if he did get a foothold in here, eh?”

“You bet. There’d be plenty of killin’ as long as a sheep remained, Hartley.”

They went out of the restaurant and down to the Totem Saloon. It was a little too early in the morning for much activity. None of them wanted a drink, so they sat down at a card table to smoke and talk. Swampers were engaged in mopping up the floors, while the bartender polished glasses and put the bar in shape for the day’s work.

A swamper went out, carrying two big empty buckets. He stopped on the edge of the sidewalk and stared down the street. After several moments he turned and came back into the saloon.

“The sheriff must ’a’ caught somebody,” he announced. “They’re takin’ several people into the office.”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Hodges hurried to the doorway. There were several saddled horses in front of the office, and Gene Hill was talking with Sunshine.

“Better go down and have a look,” suggested Hashknife, and they moved across the street, heading for the office.

Hill saw them coming and spoke to Sunshine, who moved back to the open door. Micky Hart came into the doorway behind him, and the three of them watched the three men coming down the sidewalk.

“That’s about close enough,” warned Hill nervously.

“Close enough for what?” asked Hashknife.

“Close enough for you to come, stranger.”

“What’s the idea, Gene?” queried Hodges.

“Well, you all stop right there and I’ll tell yuh. We caught Eph King at Jack Hartwell’s place.”

“You—you caught Eph King?”

Hodges could hardly believe this.

“Yo’re —— right we did. And we caught Jack Hartwell along with him, too. The sheriff is fittin’ ’em in cells right now.”

“Well, I’ll be ——ed!” exploded Hodges.

“That sure is good to hear.”

“They were headin’ for there when they passed us,” whispered Sleepy.

The rest of the cowboys came out with the sheriff, talking excitedly, but at sight of Hashknife and Sleepy they stopped talking. Several of them looked at the sheriff, as if expecting him to say something, but he remained silent.

“I hear yuh caught Eph King,” said Hashknife easily. “Do yuh mind lettin’ me talk to him for a minute?”

The sheriff laughed and looked around at the cowboys.

“He’s got about as much chance of that as he has of talkin’ to the King of England, ain’t he?”

“Less than that,” laughed Gene Hill.

“We might put him in, too,” suggested Micky Hart.

“Yeah?” Hashknife grinned widely at Micky. “Yuh might. But it wouldn’t be a healthy dose for the place, cowboy.”

“You don’t want to talk too much,” warned Hill. “You two hombres ain’t any too well balanced around here.”

“Oh, all right,” said Hashknife meekly. “We don’t want to get into trouble.”

“Haulin’ in yore horns, eh?” sneered Hill. “Well, I knew——”

Hashknife started toward Hill, looking him square in the eyes. It was a bold move; a foolish move, under the circumstances. But it got results. Hill started to retreat, not realizing that he was on the edge of a two-foot-high sidewalk. His first backward step dropped his foot off the edge and he sprawled on his back in the hard street. It was such a shock that he made no attempt to get up for several moments.

Hodges laughed outright and the tension was relaxed. Even the sheriff grinned.

“And that ends the mornin’ performance,” said Hashknife. “It’s a good trick—when it works.”

He turned his back on the crowd and walked back toward the Totem Saloon. After a moment’s scrutiny of the crowd, Sleepy turned and followed him, while Gene Hill got to his feet and swore with what little breath he had left.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the Totem Saloon hitch rack, where they had left their horses, mounted and rode out of town toward the west. The crowd in front of the sheriff’s office watched them and wondered where they were going. But none of them cared to follow. Anyway, they had captured Eph King, and that was quite enough for one day.

They adjourned to the Totem Saloon, where they proceeded to regale themselves with whisky and recite their own deeds of valor. Slim De Larimore rode in after ammunition and found Hork, the storekeeper, swearing a streak.

“Ammunition, ——!” he roared. “I got enough shells on that train last night to supply an army, and some dirty coyote broke into my place last night and stole the whole works! Holy gosh, they not only took the new shipment, but they took everythin’ else!”

“And that leaves us in a fine fix,” declared Slim angrily. “I’m almost out of shells, I tell yuh.”

“Well, ——, I never stole my own ammunition!” wailed Hork.

Slim whirled and walked out of the place, while Hork called down curses upon the heads of those who had robbed him. He was a thrifty soul, was Hork, and it was the monetary loss, not the plight of the cattlemen which caused him to grieve so deeply.

Slim’s thin face expressed deep disgust as he started across the street and met Micky Hart. Slim had eyes of a peculiar greenish cast, and when he grew angry they seemed to intensify in color. For Slim was not of the jovial type, and when Micky related the good news of Eph King’s capture he did not enthuse greatly.

“We’ve got him,” declared Micky, after relating the details. “He was with Jack Hartwell, so we hung ropes on Jack and brought him in, too. I reckon we’ve done pretty well, eh?”

“Why didn’t yuh bring his wife?” asked Slim.

“Aw, ——, yuh can’t do that to a woman, Slim. What the ——? We can find her any old time, and she can’t do no harm now.”

Micky bow-legged his way on across the street. Slim studied the situation for a while, turned away from the saloon entrance, went back to the hitch rack and mounted his horse. For several moments he sat there, deep in thought.

Finally he swung his horse around and rode down to the sheriff’s office, where he dismounted. The sheriff met him at the door.

“Heard the news, have yuh, Slim?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Didja hear about the shootin’ at Jack Hartwell’s place?”

“No. What was that about?”

The sheriff invited him into the office, where he showed him the two bodies. Slim looked them over closely, while the sheriff told him the story as told to him by Hashknife. Slim listened closely to the narrative, but made no comment, except to ask where these two strange cowboys were now.

“Rode out of here a little while ago, Slim. Dunno where they’re goin’. By golly, I don’t sabe ’em. They don’t scare worth a ——, either.”

“Uh-huh,” reflected Slim. “Somebody stole that shipment of cartridges that came in last night. Hork’s yellin’ his head off over ’em.”

“Broke into his place? Who in —— would do that, Slim?”

“That’s the question, Sudden—who would?”

“The sheepmen couldn’t, could they?”

“Not very likely.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff grew thoughtful. Then an idea seemed to strike him.

“Slim, I’ll betcha it was Hartley and Stevens. I tell yuh, they’re here for no good. Yessir, that’s some of their work. What time did them shells arrive?”

“On the train last night, I suppose.”

“Hm-m-m! By grab, I’ll bet they got ’em. Next time I get a chance I’m goin’ to shove them into jail, I tell yuh. They’ve caused me all the worry they’re goin’ to. Want to see King?”

“Aw, to —— with him.”

“Didn’t know but what you’d like to laugh at him, Slim.”

“Naw. I’ve got to be gettin’ back. These crazy punchers chasin’ all over the country, drinkin’ liquor and capturin’ people kinda busts a lot of holes in the dead-line. Next thing we know, we’ll have sheep all over the street down here.”

Slim went out, swung into his saddle and rode out of town, heading north.

Eight armed men were eating a belated lunch at the sheep camp when Hashknife and Sleepy rode their jaded horses up to the huddle of tents and dismounted. They had circled far to the west, beyond the guarded dead-line, to get past the cattlemen.

Under the circumstances it was a foolhardy thing to do; to ride into that sheep camp. A number of saddle horses were tied to the wagons, giving it the appearance of a cattle camp. The sheepmen ceased eating and received them with Winchesters in their hands; a hard-bitten lot of men, who handled their rifles with familiarity.

Steen, the foreman, was there, and met them as they dismounted. He and Hashknife looked keenly at each other for several moments.

“I’ll betcha,” said Hashknife slowly, “I’ll betcha, if yuh had that bunch of hair off yore face, I’d call yuh Bill Steen.”

“Hartley! You old, long-legged galliwimpus!”

Bill Steen almost threw himself at Hashknife, reaching out with both hands. They mauled each other with rough delight, while the sheepmen grinned and stacked their rifles.

“Well, dern yore old soul!” exploded Steen. “Long time I no see yuh, Hashknife.”

“Plenty long,” grinned Hashknife. “Yo’re the last person I ever expected to see up here. Bill, when in —— did you turn to sheep?”

“About five years ago. Oh, I’m an old sheepherder now, Hashknife. It pays me better than the cows did. Well, how in —— are yuh?”

“No better than ever, Bill. This here excess baggage of mine is named Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, you’ve heard me tell of Bill Steen.”

Sleepy shook hands with him gravely.

“Yeah, I’ve heard yuh tell about him. You and him stole cows together, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, we sure did,” laughed Steen.

“But what in —— brought you two fellers up here, I’d like to know? Lookin’ for jobs? If yuh are, you’ve sure got ’em.”

“Yo’re just as comical as ever,” declared Hashknife. “We’re cowpunchers, you old blat-listener. Listen, Bill: We came up to tell yuh that yore boss is in jail at Totem City.”

“Eph King? In jail?”

Hashknife explained in detail, while the sheepmen crowded near to find out how it had happened.

“That’s sure a —— of a note,” said Steen seriously. “I was afraid somethin’ had happened to him, so I sent a man down there an hour ago to see if he could find out somethin’. This here sure is serious news, Hashknife. My ——, they’ll hang Eph King.”

“I’m kinda afraid they will, Bill. And they’ll hang Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“Why would they hang Jack Hartwell?”

“’Cause they think he is a spy for Eph King.”

“Oh, the —— fools! Jack Hartwell’s no spy for us.”

“He’ll have to prove it, Bill.”

“What’ll we do, Bill?” asked one of the men anxiously.

“What became of Mac?” asked another.

“Mac got killed,” said Hashknife. “A man named Boomer Bates shot and killed Mac. Bates is dead, too.”

“Well, for the love of ——!” exploded a sheepman. “What did Boomer Bates shoot MacLeod for?”

“Mistook him for somebody else, I reckon. Were they friends?”

“Well, mebbe they wasn’t friends, but they wasn’t enemies. Mac didn’t even know Bates, I don’t think.”

“And what in —— is Bates doin’ over in this country?” wondered Bill Steen.

No one seemed to know just why Bates might be in Lo Lo Valley.

“There’s a lot of things I don’t sabe,” observed Steen, “and one of ’em is this: Why did you fellers ride plumb up here to tell us that Eph King is in jail?”

Hashknife grinned and began rolling a cigaret.

“Bill,” he said slowly, “I didn’t know you were here. I’m not a —— bit in sympathy with the sheep, but I thought it might be worth my while to come up and tell you what had happened.”

“Just how would it be worth yore while, Hashknife?”

“C’mere.”

Hashknife led him out of earshot, where they squatted on their heels and blew Bull Durham smoke in each other’s faces.

“Go ahead,” grunted Steen.

“Bill—” Hashknife was very serious—“why did the sheep stop where they are?”

“Why?” Steen grinned. “Dead-line.”

“Yeah? Well, that’s fine. And what else?”

“Nothin’ else, Hashknife.”

“I see,” Hashknife nodded and rubbed his long nose. “Bill, what kind of a jigger is Eph King?”

“Hashknife, he’s one of the best yuh ever knew. Oh, I know he’s a sheepman, and all that. He’s got a bad name.” Steen shifted his position and inhaled deeply. “If King was the tough —— they’ve called him, we’d have sheep below Totem City by this time. But he don’t want a lot of killin’. He’s waitin’—well, I dunno.”

“Waitin’ for what, Bill?” queried Hashknife smiling.

“Well, he—he——” Steen faltered. “He thought it would be the best thing to do, Hashknife.”

“All right, Bill. I reckon we’ll be goin’ along.”

“Goin’ back to Totem City?” asked Steen, as they mounted.

“Eventually,” said Hashknife. “Got any word yuh want sent to King?”

Steen smiled grimly, but shook his head.

“Come and see me ag’in, both of yuh,” he said. “There’s always grub and a blanket waitin’ for yuh.”

“Thank yuh, Bill. Adios.”

They rode due east from the sheep camp, staying well above the dead-line. Their horses were fagged from the long ride up the slopes; so they took things easy now. Sleepy did not question Hashknife, but wondered at the reason for the wide swing of the country. It was almost sundown when they came down Deer Creek and swung west again to pass the Turkey Track ranch.

There was no sign of life about the ranch, and they did not stop. A smoke was lazily drifting from the kitchen stovepipe, but that was the only evidence of recent occupation. They came back on to the old road, leading toward Jack Hartwell’s place. Hashknife studied it closely and finally drew rein.

A coyote trotted out of a thick clump of brush below the road, looked them over for a moment and disappeared like a puff of gray-blue smoke. Hashknife reined his horse around and rode down to where the coyote had come out of the brush.

An offensive odor assailed their nostrils, coming, it seemed, from the tangle of brush. Hashknife dismounted and led his horse in through a natural trail to where he discovered the body of a horse, partly eaten by coyotes. Sleepy followed him in, and together they examined the animal. There was a brand mark on its right shoulder, which showed a well marked JN.

“That’s the horse you downed that night,” said Hashknife. “It’s a wonder to me that they didn’t cut out that brand.”

They went out of the brush, mounted and rode on toward Jack Hartwell’s place, keeping a close watch on all sides. They knew this to be hostile territory, and did not care to run into trouble. Their horses were too tired to show much speed, and the two riders were red eyed from lack of sleep.

They rode in at Jack Hartwell’s place and dismounted. The front door was open, but there was no one in sight.

“Looks kinda queer around here,” said Hashknife, as he looked in through the doorway.

There was an upset table in the center of the room, a smashed vase and a litter of odds and ends on the carpet. A rocking-chair, with one arm broken off, leaned drunkenly against the wall, and a window on the east side of the room, looked as if some one had shoved an elbow through the pane.

“Holy gee!” whistled Sleepy, as they surveyed the wreckage. “They must pulled off a wrestlin’ match, when they arrested King and Jack.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed Hashknife, as he crossed the room and peered into the kitchen.

“C’mere!” he called to Sleepy. “Somebody got snagged.”

There was a well-defined trail of blood across the kitchen floor, leading out of the back door. They went outside and picked up the trail again. It led them straight to the corral, where they found a man, lying face down, almost against the fence.

He had been shot through the left side, below the heart, but he was still alive. They carried him carefully to the house, where Hashknife cut away his shirt and examined the wound, which had stopped bleeding externally. He was not a man that either of them had ever seen before.

“I’ll betcha this is the man that Bill Steen sent down here to find Eph King,” said Hashknife. “Now, what do yuh reckon he ran into down here?”

Sleepy got some water and they washed the wounded man’s face. It was all they could do for him. They forced a few drops between his teeth and after a few minutes he opened his eyes, looking dazedly up at them.

“All right, pardner,” said Hashknife. “Just take it easy and see if yuh can talk.”

The man frowned, as if trying to remember. Hashknife gave him another drink, which he took greedily, although he was almost too weak to swallow it.

“Do yuh remember what happened?” asked Sleepy.

The man shut his eyes, and they thought he had fainted, but he opened them again. He tried to take a deep breath, but choked with the pain. Then he made the supreme effort and whispered—

“Ed—shot—me.”

It was a very faint whisper, in which he added—“He—took—the—woman.”

For a moment he tried to say more, but the words would not come. Then he seemed to relax instantly and his eyes closed. Hashknife got slowly to his feet and looked around.

“So Ed got the woman, eh?” he muttered. “Now, who in —— is Ed?”

“I wish we had some whisky,” mourned Sleepy.

“What for?”

“To give him a shot. Strong liquor—”

“Wouldn’t do him any good, Sleepy; he’s dead.”

“Well,” said Sleepy vacantly, “I—the poor son-of-a-gun. What’ll we do with him?”

“Nothin’, Sleepy. We can’t keep on carryin’ dead men to town. I’m tired of bein’ a travelin’ morgue, so I reckon we’ll shut the door and leave him here for a while. It kinda looks like somebody by the name of Ed came along and took Hartwell’s wife.”

“My gosh, do yuh reckon he done that, Hashknife?”

“Yuh can’t dispute a dead man, can yuh? We’ve got to find this here Ed person and get an explanation. C’mon.”

They fastened the door, mounted their horses and rode on toward Totem City. It was growing dark now.

“If I ever get my sylph-like form between sheets, I’ll never get up,” declared Sleepy. “I’m plumb bug-eyed, I tell yuh. Night don’t mean nothin’ to me, except darkness. That Hartwell place is a hoodoo, I tell yuh. Every time we show up there we run into death. Well, why don’tcha say somethin’, Hashknife? Do a little talkin’, can’tcha?”

“Talk about what?”

“Anythin’, dang it. I’ve got to talk, hear talkin’ or go to sleep on this frazzle-legged bronc. If I fall off, don’tcha dare to pick me up. Just figure that I’m dead and lemme lay, cowboy. Why don’tcha sing? My ——, you’d sing at any other time.”

“Cows!” exclaimed Hashknife, jerking up his horse.

The road ahead of them was full of cows, the slope below them was a moving mass of cows, and more cows were coming down a cañon and crossing the road. Hashknife dismounted and Sleepy followed suit. It was impossible to estimate the number of cattle that crossed the road ahead of them.

And behind them came riders, not visible against the darkness of the landscape, but audible. One of them snapped a bull whip, like the report of a small pistol. Then they drifted away in the night, leaving only the odor of dust and cattle. They were traveling in a southeasterly direction, as near as the two cowboys could judge.

“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy as they got wearily back on their horses and went ahead. “Reckon it was within the law?”

“It didn’t look like it, Sleepy, but my bronc is too tired to run away from trouble, and I’m too sleepy to shoot my way out of it. Anyway, I’m kinda losin’ my affection for these Lo Lo cattlemen.”

They stabled their horses at Totem City and went to a restaurant. Sudden Smithy was there with Sunshine. Sudden nodded curtly, and his face showed little enthusiasm when Hashknife and Sleepy sat down at his table.

Sunshine merely grunted and kept up a steady attack on his plate of food. Hashknife and Sleepy had noticed that there were quite a number of horses at the hitch racks: Evidence that all of the cowpunchers were not out at the dead-line. Sudden seemed slightly nervous and often squinted toward the front windows.

The waiter was just placing their food on the table, when in came Matthew Hale, the prosecuting attorney. He came straight to the sheriff, paying no attention to the other three men.

“Well?” said the sheriff coldly.

“I’ve been looking for you,” said Hale. “Several of the men are over in Hork’s place, and it’s beginning to look dangerous. You know as well as I do that you can’t keep King and Hartwell in jail without a specific charge against them. As far as I know there is nothing against them. They were not arrested by the law; merely kidnaped.”

“All right,” grunted Sudden angrily. “I suppose yuh want me to turn ’em loose, eh?”

“I merely want you to comply with the law, Sheriff. It seems to me, that with all this shooting going on, and dead men, whose deaths have not been investigated, there should be something for the sheriff’s office to do beside keeping men in jail, against whom there have been no charges made, who have never even been arrested.”

Sleepy innocently clapped his hands by way of applause.

It angered Sudden. He whirled on Sleepy, who met his glare with an expression of angelic innocence.

“Ain’t he the talker?” queried Sleepy. “Silv’ry tongued, and all that. No wonder they sends lawyers to Congress.”

It was all said with such sincerity that Sudden turned and looked at Hale, as if wondering just what Hale had said.

“—— fool!” grunted Sunshine, his mouth filled with food.

“Mebbe,” said Sleepy, “but he don’t talk like one.”

“I meant you,” growled Sunshine.

“Check the bet,” laughed Sleepy.

Hale was looking closely at Hashknife, and now he said to Sudden:

“These are the two men who—uh—went away from the inquest, are they not?”

“Yeah, —— ’em!” growled Sudden. “They’re always around where they ain’t wanted.”

“If I remember correctly you made a specific charge against them at—”

“Now, just hang on to yoreself,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve been charged just about all we’re goin’ to be. You bunch of narrow-headed Lo Lo-ites are up against enough real grief, without tryin’ to fasten somethin’ on to me and Sleepy Stevens.

Yo’re asleep, that’s what you are. My ——, I dunno how you’ve prospered at all.”

He turned on the sheriff.

“Who’s Ed?”

“Ed who?”

“Just Ed. There must be somebody around here named Ed.”

“Well, let’s see.”

Sudden frowned thoughtfully. He knew almost every man in Lo Lo Valley by his first name. Sunshine had lived there for years, as had Matthew Hale, but none of them was able to give Hashknife the slightest assistance.

“That is rather peculiar,” said Hale thoughtfully. “In all the valley, I do not know one man by that name. There was old Ed Barber, of course.”

“But he’s dead,” said Sudden. “Nossir, I don’t know of one man by that name. What’s the idea, Hartley?”

“I’ve got to find Ed—who ever he is, Sudden—because he’s the man who killed another man at Jack Hartwell’s place today, and took Mrs. Jack Hartwell along with him.”

“What in —— are you talkin’ about?” exploded the sheriff, getting to his feet.”

“Took Mrs. Hartwell and ——”

“Set down,” advised Hashknife. “Don’t get excited. She’s gone, thassall. The house looks like a cyclone had swept through it, and there’s a dead man propped up on the sofy. Ed shot him, so he said, before he died. And he lived long enough to say that Ed took the woman. The woman must have been Mrs. Hartwell.”

“For ——’s sake!” gasped Hale. “What is this country coming to, anyway? When they steal women——”

“Who was the dead man?” asked Sudden.

“I don’t know,” Hashknife shook his head. “He was one of King’s men, who was sent from the sheep camp to find out why King didn’t come back. Mebbe he tried to protect the woman and got killed.”

Yeah?” Sudden got to his feet, his jaw set tightly. “How in —— do you know all this, Hartley?”

Hashknife smiled at him, shoved his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table,

“Mebbe it’s because I haven’t lived here so long that I’ve got cobwebs in my brain and scales over my eyes, Sheriff. Another question: Who owns the JN brand?”

“JN? I don’t know it. What’s the JN brand got——”

“I’m askin’ questions—not answerin’ ’em. Have yuh got a brand registry at yore office?”

“Yeah, I’ve got one.”

“Then let’s go and find out where it is located—this JN outfit.”

They paid for their meal and went outside. Hale was interested enough to go with them. As they crossed the street, going toward Hork’s store, the sheriff stopped, with a muttered exclamation. It was too dark to distinguish clearly, but in the yellow lights from the opposite building, there appeared to be a number of horses in front of the sheriff’s office.

“What the —— is goin’ on down there?” wondered Sudden.

The sheriff grunted and started down the middle of the street, when, from a point about midway between them and the office, some one fired a gun. The shooter blended into the wall of the building and was not visible, and his shot was evidently fired into the air as a warning.

A moment later several bullets whispered past the five men in the street, and they all broke for shelter. Hashknife and Sleepy ran across toward Hork’s store, while the others scattered separately.

Men came running out of the store, only to be driven back by a fusillade of bullets, which splintered the wooden sidewalks and bit chunks out of Hork’s porch posts. Hashknife and Sleepy flattened themselves against the building. Here and there a door crashed shut, as men decided that the street was no place to be in that storm of lead.

And about a minute later a group of horsemen swept up the street from the jail, shooting promiscuously to drive every one off the street. A bullet smashed through a window beside Hashknife and Sleepy, and they dropped flat. But as the horsemen rode through the cross lights of the Totem Saloon and Hork’s store, they saw the huge figure of Eph King, sitting straight in the saddle, leading his men out of the town where he was so badly hated.

The dust of the passing horsemen had settled before Totem City crawled out of their holes to see what it was all about. Hashknife and Sleepy ran down to the sheriff’s office and found the sheriff and Sunshine in there viewing the wreckage. For once in his life, Sudden Smithy could not find words to express his feelings.

Both prisoners were gone. The front door of the office sagged on one hinge, and two of the cell doors had been sprung so badly that they would never function again. The sheepmen had left two big crowbars, an ax and ten pounds of dynamite. It was evident that they were prepared for any emergency.

In a few minutes the office was filled with inquiring men. Sudden Smithy finally recovered his powers of speech, and their questions were met by a flow of bitter profanity. Sudden had, at one time, been a muleskinner, and his profane vocabulary was almost inexhaustible. In fact, Sudden was in no condition to talk coherently of what had happened, so Sunshine told them that the sheepmen had smashed the jail and had taken away Eph King and Jack Hartwell.

“Yuh should ’a’ known they’d do that,” said a cowboy.

This was sufficient to send Sudden into paroxysms of profanity, as he congratulated the cowboy on his wisdom.

“Well, we should,” agreed Sunshine, and this caused Sudden to choke on his own words and become silent.

“Jist about how did the sheepmen know that King was here?” asked one of the crowd.

Sudden looked at the speaker for a moment. He remembered that Hashknife and Sleepy had ridden out of town immediately following the locking up of King and Jack Hartwell, and he also remembered that Hashknife had seemed to know too much about the death of the man who had come to Hartwell’s place looking for King. Then Sudden threw up his hand in a signal for silence.

“I’ll tell yuh who told ’em!” he yelled. “The same men I accused of bein’ King’s spies last night.”

Hashknife was almost at his elbow, and between him and the door, looking at a book, which he had picked up from Sudden’s desk, while Sleepy was further back in the room.

As the sheriff spoke he whirled to grasp Hashknife by the arm, as if to place himself between Hashknife and the door, but Hashknife was fully alive to his danger, and when Sudden tried to jump past him, Hashknife’s right hand whipped through in an uppercut, and the Lo Lo sheriff’s teeth shut with a dull “cluck!” and he went down on his shoulders.

The sheriff had hardly hit the floor when Hashknife ducked out through the doorway, knocking a cowboy spinning along the wall. Sleepy sprang across the sheriff and tried to escape, but they fell upon him in a group, and he went down on his face, with half a dozen men on top of him.

The room was in an uproar, as others jammed into the doorway, trying to get a glimpse of Hashknife; but all they glimpsed was a rider going away from the Totem hitch rack. Whether or not it was the leanfaced cowboy they did not know. So they went back and helped the rest subdue Sleepy, who was making life miserable for everyone concerned. But there is strength in numbers, and in a few minutes Sleepy was behind the bars of the only intact cell in the jail, while the sheriff held on to his jaw with both hands and swore through his nose. There were others who had suffered from Sleepy’s toes and fists, and they were equally divided as whether to hang him right away or to wait until they all had a drink. The drink idea finally carried, and they trooped over to the Totem Saloon, leaving the sheriff and Sunshine alone in the office.

“You talked too —— much,” said Sunshine with little sympathy. He had been kicked in the ankle.

“Ozz zhut ’p!” groaned Sudden.

“If yuh had any sense, you’d ’a’ shot ’em both and then told the crowd what yuh shot ’em for. By ——, if I’m ever elected sheriff of this county, I’ll show ’em.”

Sudden did not think it worth while replying to Sunshine. It was difficult for him to talk, and he felt that all of his teeth had been driven at least an inch deep into his jaws. He got to his feet, kicked his chair aside and started for the door.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “Goin’ ’fter drink.”

“Yeah, I’ll stay here,” snapped Sunshine. “But if them snake-hunters come and want to lynch that jigger—they can have him.”

Sudden grunted and walked out. Sunshine rubbed his ankle, after removing his boot, and the pain made him wince. He had stepped into range of Sleepy’s kicks, and now he cursed reflectively.

“Mary Sunshine!” called Sleepy. “Can I have a drink of water?”

Sunshine told him in plain profanity where he could go and get water.

“Got a mean disposition, ain’t yuh?” laughed Sleepy. “What are you so sore about? Did you get hurt?”

“Well, I got kicked in the ankle, and it’s all black-and-blue.”

“Oh, excuse me,” said Sleepy seriously. “I didn’t mean to kick you, Sunshine.”

“Well,” said Sunshine doubtfully, “I dunno whether yuh meant to do it, but yuh sure done it real good.”

He got up and limped into the rear, where he got a cup of water. He carried the oil lamp with him to the cell door and handed the cup to Sleepy. But it was not a hand that reached for the cup—it was the barrel of a big six-shooter that shoved out through the bars and almost punched Sunshine in the waist.

“Now,” said Sleepy, “you open this door and be —— quick.”

“Uh?”

Sunshine almost dropped the lamp. He did drop the cup, which clattered on the floor inside the cell.

“Wh-where did yuh-yuh get that gun?”

“Unlock that cell!” snapped Sleepy. “My finger itches, Sunshine.”

The deputy’s hand went gingerly to his pocket and he took out the key. The big gun fairly bored into his middle, as he leaned forward and unlocked the cell door. Then he stepped back and let the prisoner out.

“That’s a lot better,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I reckon I’ll go out the back door and take you along with me. C’mon.”

“I don’t sabe where yuh got that gun,” complained Sunshine.

“Foresight,” grinned Sleepy. “I was afraid there might be a lot of foolish questions asked, with all them folks gatherin’ around, so I put my gun inside my shirt. Mebbe it was a foolish thing to do, but I didn’t want to have to kill somebody, yuh see.”

“Yo’re smart,” applauded Sunshine as he preceded Sleepy out to the rear. “I s’pose Sudden will be sore as —— but he mostly always is, anyway.”

“Now, you can go back with yore light,” said Sleepy. “Adios.”

“So long,” said Sunshine sadly.

He marched back into the building, carrying his lamp, while Sleepy ran swiftly back out of the narrow alley. He did not know where to find Hashknife, and was not going to try, but he was going to be sure that those cattlemen did not get hold of him in their present humor.

But Hashknife had not deserted his partner. He had “lifted” a good-looking horse from the Totem hitch rack, circled the town and tied it to another hitch rack on the opposite side of town and on a side street. Now he was planning just how to get Sleepy freed. He did not know what had been done to Sleepy, but he felt sure that Sleepy was in jail.

The crowd was drinking in the Totem Saloon across the street from him, which made him feel more sure that Sleepy was behind the bars. He could see the sheriff at the bar. No doubt they had decided that he—Hashknife—had left Totem City, so they would not be looking for him to show up very soon.

He had made up his mind to go down and stick-up the guards, when he saw Sunshine come out of the office and hurry diagonally across the street toward the Totem Saloon. Some men had come out of the saloon, and Sunshine met them. Hashknife strained his ears to hear what was being said. One of the men called to the sheriff, who came out, still caressing his sore jaw.

Came a low buzz of conversation, and then the sheriff’s voice was raised in lamentation and profanity.

“Got away?” he wailed. “Had a gun inside his shirt? Gone?”

“I jist told yuh——”

Thus Sunshine angrily.

“Yo’re a —— of a deputy!”

“You put him in!”

“Don’tcha blame me!”

They were talking at the top of their voices, so Hashknife sneaked away, laughing. Sleepy had escaped. By the light of a match Hashknife examined his horse and found that it wore a Bar 77 brand, belonging to old Sam Hodges.

“I’ve got a good horse and no place to go,” he told himself.

He leaned against the hitch rack and tried to figure out what to do, but the lack of sleep had muddled his brain until he thought in circles.

“Got to have some sleep or lose my place in the procession.” He rubbed his nose and considered things. He did not dare go to the little hotel, and he did not want to sleep out in the open. Then he got an inspiration. Leaving the horse at the rack, he went around back of the buildings until he came to the sheriff’s stable. Cautiously he went inside and climbed into the loft. There was plenty of nice soft hay.

He crawled back to the rear and started to burrow down, when his hand came in contact with human flesh. It was a man’s face. Hashknife’s hand stole slowly back to his gun and he waited for the man to make a move. But instead of a move, the man said:

“Lemme alone, will yuh? ’S funny a feller can’t sleep.”

“Sleepy!” blurted Hashknife. “Is this you?”

“Go sleep. Who in —— do yuh think it is—Rip Van Winkle?”

And their snores blended thankfully.

Marsh Hartwell was at home that night when Bert Allen, of the Circle V, rode in and told him of the jailbreak. Allen was on his way back to the dead-line, and stopped only long enough to tell what had happened in Totem City.

“And them other two jiggers got plumb away, too,” declared Allen disgustedly. “The tall one knocked Sudden cold, swiped one of the Bar 77 broncs from the Totem Saloon hitch rack and hit for the hills.

“We caught the other one and threw him into a cell. But he had a gun inside his shirt, and when Sunshine brought him a cup of water he stuck the gun into Sunshine’s ribs and made him unlock the door. They’re kinda bad medicine, them two, Marsh.”

“I wonder if they are workin’ for King?” said Marsh.

“I’ll be danged if I know. If they are, King’s got two danged capable men, Marsh. Jist think of them two hangin’ around all the time, with most everybody ready to take a shot at ’em. I’d sure hit for the timber, if I was them.”

Mrs. Hartwell and Mrs. Brownlee had heard Allen’s story. It was the first time that Mrs. Hartwell had known that Jack had been arrested. After Allen’s departure, Marsh and the two women sat in the living room of the ranch house; Marsh puzzling his mind over what to do; the two women waiting for him to speak.

“Well,” he said slowly, bitterly, “I suppose that Jack is on the other side of the dead-line now—to stay.”

“Could you blame him, Marsh?” asked Mrs. Hartwell softly.

“Blame him? Why not?”

“After the way he has been treated, Marsh.”

The man sighed deeply, as he humped over his chair. He was physically and mentally tired, weary of the struggle. Just now he did not care if the sheep engulfed the whole valley.

“What about Molly?” asked Mrs. Hartwell.

Marsh looked up at her.

“What do you mean, Mother?”

“She’s alone over there, Marsh.”

“She’s probably across the dead-line, too.”

“Probably. But we don’t know that she is. And you know that there isn’t a more lonesome place in the valley. And more than that, Marsh: It isn’t safe for a woman to be alone now.”

“Jack isn’t in jail now. He’d be with her.”

“Would he? With every cattleman in the valley against him?”

“Even his own father,” said Mrs. Brownlee dismally.

“No!” Marsh Hartwell threw up his head. “Don’t say that! —— knows I’m sorry for what I’ve done to Jack. I hated Eph King so much that—well, it made me bitter to have my own son marry his daughter. I didn’t realize what it meant, I tell you.

“I’m not against my own son! I’ve been against him—yes. I’m a big man in Lo Lo Valley. They say that Marsh Hartwell is the biggest man in this county. I know I am.” His voice softened as he looked at the two astonished woman. “I’m big—in this valley—but I’m just findin’ out that I’m a ——ed small man in my own home.”

“Marsh!” Mrs. Hartwell got to her feet and crossed to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Marsh, you—you’ll help Jack and Molly?”

“Yes, I’ll help them, Mother—if they’ll let me. It’s awful late in the game to talk about helpin’ ’em, but I’ll do all I can to make up for what I’ve done to them.”

He got to his feet, shoved her gently aside and started for the door.

“I’m goin’ after my horse,” he told them. “I’ll see if I can coax Molly into comin’ over here to stay until this trouble is all over.”

He went out, leaving the door open. Mrs. Hartwell sank down in a rocking-chair, burying her head in her arms. Mrs. Brownlee patted her on the shoulder, the tears running down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Ma,” she begged. “Don’t cry about it.”

“Cry about it?” Mrs. Hartwell lifted her old face, her eyes misty with tears. “Cry about it? I’m not crying—I’m laughing. It has taken your father twenty years to find out that God made him just like other men.”

“Maybe,” said Mrs. Brownlee softly, “Maybe dad has found out that he isn’t such a big man after all, Ma.”

“And maybe,” said Mrs. Hartwell wistfully, “I have found out that he is bigger than he was.”

Came the scrape of a footstep on the porch, and they looked up at Jack, standing in the doorway, the palm of his right hand resting on the butt of his gun.

“Is Molly here?” he asked hoarsely.

“Molly?” His mother got up and came close to him. “She isn’t here, Jack.”

“Ain’t she?” He leaned his shoulder wearily against the doorway, shaking his head. “I—I thought she might be. I just came from home. There’s a dead man on the sofa, and the furniture is all upset. It wasn’t that way when they took me and Eph King to jail.”

“Didn’t she leave any word, Jack—no note nor anything?”

He shook his head and came into the room.

“Where’s Marsh Hartwell?”

He did not call him “Dad.”

But before either of the women had a chance to reply, the sheriff and Sunshine Gallagher stepped through the doorway behind Jack. The sheriff held a gun in his hand. Jack turned quickly, his hand going instinctively toward his holstered gun.

“Don’t do it, Jack,” warned the sheriff quickly.

“Well, what do you want?” queried Jack coldly.

“Well, I dunno,” Sudden Smithy seemed uncertain. “I—uh——”

“Don’t move!” growled a voice at the door.

Marsh Hartwell was humped in the doorway, a gun tensed in his big hand, a scowl almost concealing his eyes. He looked like a big bear, reared on its hind legs, looking for fight.

“Don’t move,” he cautioned again.

“Who in ——’s movin’?” grunted Sunshine.

“Just don’t,” warned Marsh. “I seen you come, Sudden. Now, what do you want here? Better drop that gun on the table.”

The sheriff tossed the gun on to the table, and relaxed.

“I don’t know just what I did expect to find, Marsh. You know what happened tonight in Totem City, don’tcha? Hartley and Stevens got away, and I kinda wondered—we were headin’ for Jack’s place, but decided to come here first.”

He turned to Jack.

“Have you been home?”

Jack nodded quickly.

“Is yore wife there?”

“No. That’s why I came——”

“Hartley said she was gone. Was there a dead man——?”

“On the sofa.” Jack came close to Sudden. “What do you know about it, Smithy?”

Sudden told him what Hashknife had said.

“Did he mean that some one had taken her away by force?” demanded Jack.

“I don’t know. Did she know any one by the name of Ed?”

Jack shook his head quickly.

“There’s nobody around here by that name, Sudden.”

“Mebbe it’s some of the sheep outfit,” suggested Sunshine.

“But, if it was, why did he kill one of King’s men? Hartley said the dead man was sent there to find out why King didn’t come back. He lived long enough to say a few words, it seems.”

“Well, who is this Hartley?” queried Marsh. “Every one talks about him and nobody seems to know for sure who or what he is. They say he’s a spy for King, but——”

“That’s a lie,” interrupted Jack. “Eph King never seen either of them two fellers until just before they captured and took us to jail. I’ll stake my life that they are not spies.”

“They’re somethin’, that’s a cinch,” declared Sunshine. “It ain’t reasonable to suppose that two men of their brains would be just bummin’ around. Them two jiggers think. Stevens thought far enough ahead to hide a gun inside his shirt. By golly, that’s lookin’ into the future.”

“Would they have anything to do with the disappearance of your wife?” asked Sudden of Jack.

“No. They’re not that kind.”

“If they merely got left by a train, why do they stay here and take all these chances?” asked Marsh. “What is there here for them? It don’t look reasonable.”

Sudden shook his head slowly.

“I dunno, Marsh. Somebody shot a horse—my horse—from under Hartley the night they came. I don’t think they had any idea who it was, and it may be that they’re tryin’ to find out. I’ve had an idea that they were hired by Eph King, but mebbe I’m wrong.”

“Well, we’ve got to find out what became of Molly,” said Marsh, “and we’d better start right now. Goin’ with us, sheriff?”

“That’s what I’m hired for, Marsh. C’mon.”

It did not take long for them to ride over to Jack’s place. The sheriff examined the house, looking for a possible clue, which he did not find. Then he loaded the body of the dead sheepherder on to his saddle.

“There ain’t nothin’ we can do,” he declared helplessly. “We ain’t got a thing to go on.”

“That’s true,” agreed Marsh.

Jack made no comment. He realized that it would be useless for him to go searching the hills for his wife. In fact, he was not sure that she had not gone of her own free will. He did not know any one by the name of Ed.

The sheriff mounted behind the dead man and they rode back to the Arrow, where Marsh invited Jack to spend the rest of the night. But Jack refused.

“I’m goin’ to town,” he decided. “I’ve got to find some trace of Molly. They’d know at the depot if she went away on a train. I’m not afraid of the cattlemen now.”

And so Jack Hartwell rode back to Totem City with Sudden Smithy, Sunshine Gallagher and the sheepherder who had not lived long enough to tell who Ed was.

“Yep—took the whole —— stock. Never even left a box of .22 shells. Even took a couple boxes of ten gage shotgun shells. And, by gosh, them shells cost money! Yuh can’t buy ca’tridges for nothin’, y’betcha. If I ever find out who took ’em, they’ll sure think they’re at a shivaree.”

It was the following morning that Hork bewailed the loss of his ammunition to Hashknife and Sleepy. It was a blow from which he would never quite recover. Hashknife and Sleepy had crawled out of Sudden Smithy’s stable, washed in the horse trough, and eaten a big breakfast at the restaurant.

Their escape from the cattlemen the night before had not seemed to teach them caution. They had heard Sudden and Sunshine ride away from the stable the night before, and later on they had heard them come back and unsaddle their horses. Sudden had talked about taking a dead man to Doctor Owen, so Hashknife decided that they had been out to Jack Hartwell’s place.

A good sleep and a full meal had put new life into both of the cowboys, and they were ready for anything that Totem City might have to offer them. They had purchased some Durham from Hork, who swore that he was crippled from the loss of the ammunition, and that the profit on two sacks of Durham looked smaller to him than the thin end of nothing, whittled to a point.

“I heard about you two fellers last night,” he told them. “I dunno whether yo’re wise in stayin’ here or not. Sudden don’t quite figure you fellers out, and he said last night that when the gall was passed around, you two must ’a’ been served first.”

“We slept in Sudden’s loft,” grinned Hashknife.

“In his loft? Huh! Well, I reckon Sudden was right. Jimmy Healey was worryin’ around about one of yuh swipin’ his horse from the Totem hitch rack. He howled his head off, until he finds it around on a side street, and everybody swore that Jimmy was so absent-minded that he forgot where he left it.”

A customer came in and engaged the attention of Hork, so Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered back to the front of the store. Two men had just ridden in and were dismounting at a hitch rack across the street. Jack Hartwell came out of the Totem Saloon and started across toward the store. He paid no attention to the two riders who crossed in close behind him.

As Jack reached the sidewalk in front of the store, the two men came up to him, and one of them made an sneering remark. Jack turned quickly and looked at them. They were Casey Steil and Al Curt, of the Turkey Track outfit. Hashknife stepped swiftly out through the open doorway, so softly that Curt and Steil did not hear him.

“Just what did you say, Steil?” asked Jack calmly.

“You heard me; didn’t he Al?” Casey Steil laughed throatily.

“I wasn’t sure,” said Jack. “I’d want to be sure, Steil.”

“Touchy, eh?” Al Curt spat thoughtfully. “Go ahead and tell him what yuh said, Casey.”

“Since when did they start callin’ you by a good Irish name?”

Hashknife spoke softly, but, from the way Steil and Curt whirled to face him, it might have been an explosion.

Curt’s hand had made a motion, as if to reach toward his holster, but the hand and arm seemed paralyzed.

“Well, if it ain’t ‘Wide-loop’ Curt!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Sleepy, c’mere and take a look. Introducin’ Lee Steil and old Wide-loop, Sleepy. Gents, get used to lookin’ at Sleepy Stevens.”

Hashknife’s eyes bored into the faces of the two confused cowboys, while behind him Sleepy laughed joyfully.

“Mamma mine!” he chuckled. “Only two like ’em in captivity, Hashknife. Somebody must have a taste for knickknacks.”

“Couple of soiled souls,” declared Hashknife seriously.

“What the —— is this all about?” demanded Steil angrily.

“Don’t let yore lily-white hands get nervous,” advised Hashknife. “Mebbe yore lips won’t let yuh admit that yuh recognize us, but down deep in yore hearts, there’s somethin’ that tells yuh to be careful where yuh put yore hands—Casey Steil.”

“Let ’em do as they please,” said Sleepy, grinning. “I’d just like to see old Wide-loop forget that he’s a shade too slow to take a chance. Casey acts like he had tonsilitis. He ought to try a cyanid gargle.”

Jack Hartwell grinned. He knew that these four men had met before, and that there was something in the meeting now that boded no good for Steil and Curt. In fact those two worthies were wishing that they were far from Totem City.

“You ain’t got nothin’ on us.” Thus Curt rather painfully.

“What made yuh say that?” grinned Hashknife.

“Yuh ain’t!” declared Steil vehemently.

“You sure of that?” asked Hashknife softly.

Steil squinted narrowly at Hashknife for a moment. Then—

“—— sure.”

“Then don’t let me get anythin’ on yuh, Steil. Yo’re a dirty horse thief, a crook and a liar. I dunno what yo’re doin’ here in Lo Lo Valley, but I’m goin’ to find out. And that same goes for Wide-loop Curt.”

Jack stepped back, watching them closely for the gun play which did not materialize. Without a word, Curt and Steil turned, walked across the street and went into the Totem Saloon. Neither did they look back.

“And that,” said Jack musingly, “beats anythin’ I have ever seen. Steil and Curt are supposed to be gun fighters, Hartley.”

Hashknife sighed deeply and turned to Jack.

“Didja find yore wife, Hartwell?”

“Not even a trace of her. My ——, I don’t know where to look. She didn’t leave here on the train last night. Just what did that man tell you before he died?”

Hashknife told him the exact words. Jack shook his head wearily.

“Not a man by that name in this country, Hartley. It might have been a sheepman, of course.”

“Yeah, that might be,” agreed Hashknife dubiously. “But if it was, why did he shoot the other one?”

“—— only knows, Hartley. I don’t know what to do, where to look, or anythin’.”

They moved back into the store and sat down on the counter.

“Where did you ever know Al Curt?” asked Jack.

“He’s originally from Montana,” said Hashknife. “We knowed him in Idaho. They called him Wide-loop up there. Steil used to be around Wyomin’, Nevada, and maybe he nosed up into Idaho, too.”

“They’ve been here about a year,” said Jack, “but they’ve played straight, I think. They both work for the Turkey Track.”

“Owned by the duke of somethin’-or-other, ain’t it?” grinned Sleepy.

“Slim De Larimore. He’s no duke.”

“Steil and Curt work for him, eh?”

“Yeah. There’s another feller named Allison.”

“Allison? I reckon he’s a stranger to us. I don’t like to knock anybody, but I’d sure like to tip this De Larimore person off to watch Steil and Curt. They’d steal him blind if they had a chance.”

“They’ll not steal much from Slim. He’s cast-iron, that feller. I’ll betcha that nitric acid wouldn’t faze him.”

“Cold-blooded, eh?”

“Y’betcha. Good cowman, too. He’s been here over two years. Bought the Turkey Track from Buck Fenner’s widow. It wasn’t much of a place at that time, but Slim has built it up pretty good. He’s from Texas.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife humped over and scratched his head thoughtfully. “Well, some folks do make a success. I dunno how they do it—I know danged well I can’t.”

He slid off the counter, drew a folded book from his pocket and said to Sleepy:

“You set here and rest yore face and hands while I take this brand registry back to the sheriff. I had it in my hand when they run me out last night.”

“All right,” grinned Sleepy. “Didja find out who owns that JN outfit?”

“Yeah, I found out. Feller by the name of Jack Noonan. Ranch is located on the other side of Sunland Basin.”

“I’ve heard of him,” said Jack. “They call him ‘Calamity Jack.’”

“Well, that’s a good name,” laughed Hashknife, as he went out on to the sidewalk.

He looked toward the Totem Saloon, but did not happen to notice that Steil and Curt were mounting at the hitch rack. They had seen him come out of the store, and as he started down toward the sheriff’s office, they swung into their saddles.

They were not more than a hundred feet from him, as they swung their horses into the street, and, without any warning, Steil drew a gun, jerked his horse to a standstill, and deliberately shot at Hashknife.

The tall cowboy jerked back, quickly crumpled at the knees and sprawled on the sidewalk. Steil’s gun was lifted for a second shot, but now he whirled his horse and they went racing out of town in a cloud of dust.

Sleepy and Jack almost fell off the counter when the shot was fired, and ran swiftly to the door. There was only a screen of dust to show that the riders were leaving town. Several men had run out of the Totem Saloon, and Sudden Smithy was running up the street from the sheriff’s office.

Sleepy was the first to reach Hashknife and turn him over.

“My —— where did he hit yuh?” panted Sleepy, his face white with the fear of losing his pal.

He began yanking at Hashknife’s shirt, when Hashknife sat up and reached for his hat.

“Hey? What the ——!” blurted Sleepy.

“Stumbled,” explained Hashknife. “Stubbed my toe.” He got to his feet and dusted off his knees.

“Hello, sheriff—” handing him the brand registry—“this belongs to you, I reckon. I had it in my hand when they chased me last night, and I was bringin’ it to yuh.”

“Uh-huh.” Sudden accepted the book wonderingly. “Yeah, thanks. Now, what in —— was goin’ on around here? Who was doin’ the shootin’?”

“It was Steil or Curt,” said a man from the Totem. “I wasn’t where I could see which one it was.”

“Was they shootin’ at you, Hartley?”

“At me?” Hashknife looked blankly at the sheriff. “Oh, no. Why would they shoot at me? Prob’ly got a drink or two too many and wanted to see if a six-shooter would go off.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff was not satisfied, but realized that he would never get Hashknife to admit anything he did not want to. He looked at the book, folded it up and frowned at Hashknife.

“I don’t sabe you fellers,” he declared complainingly. “Last night they were yellin’ for yore blood and—maybe they are yet, for all I know—and you go around actin’ like somebody had handed yuh the keys to the town. Ain’tcha got a lick of sense?”

“Not a lick,” said Hashknife seriously. “When they passed around the gall we took so much that they passed us up on the brains. A feller can’t have everythin’, sheriff.”

The sheriff’s ears grew red. He knew that some one had told them what he had said about them. So he nodded in agreement, turned and went back to his office, wondering aloud what in —— Hashknife had taken the brand registry for. Then he remembered that they had talked about the JN outfit. He looked for it in the registry and found it belonged to a Jack Noonan. He threw the book aside and sprawled on a cot to finish out his interrupted siesta.

While the others accepted Hashknife’s explanation, Sleepy knew that Hashknife had sprawled on the sidewalk for a purpose. The tall cowboy grinned seriously over his cigaret, as he led Sleepy and Jack to the livery stable, where they got their horses.

“We’re goin’ to take a little ride,” explained Hashknife.

Jack made no comment. Something seemed to tell him to depend on this lanky disciple of the rangeland. Sleepy scowled for a while, but the scowl gave way to a knowing grin. He knew that Hashknife was inbued with an idea. Every inch of the tall cowboy bespoke the fact that he was riding for a purpose.

They went north for a short distance and then swung to the east, leaving the road and heading for Lo Lo River. And as they strung out in single file along on an old cattle trail, Hashknife lifted his voice in mournful song:

Old Bill was a pun-n-n-ncher

And you’ll all agree-e-e-e

That a puncher’s a man of low mental-i-tee-e-e.

Now Bill went a-ridin-n-n-n’,

With a rope in his ha-a-and,

And by accident ropes one of his neighbor’s brand.

Poor Bill was astonished

His error to fi-i-i-ind,

And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’

So to save him from blindness-s-s,

They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,

They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.

“And that,” said Sleepy, “is probably different than even Caruso could have sung it.”

“Anyway,” said Hashknife seriously, “the sentiment is there. I may not sing very pretty, but I sure get rid of my song.”

“I was just wonderin’,” observed Jack, “just wonderin’ where you are headin’ for, Hartley.”

“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “I kinda wanted to get out to Turkey Track sidin’ without goin’ around by the road.”

“Yeah, yuh can do that, but we’ll probably have to swim the river.”

“Thassall right,” laughed Sleepy.

“This is Saturday.”

“We should have gone east from town,” said Jack. “Instead of comin’ out here, crossin’ the river at the bridge, we should have followed the railroad track. It wouldn’t be very easy travelin’, but we wouldn’t have to cross the river.”

“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife, “but everybody would have known where we was headin’. Yuh see, Hartwell, I like to fool folks. It’s a lot of fun, don’tcha know it? And it’s kept me and Sleepy from lookin’ up at the daisy roots.”

“Like when yuh fell down a while ago, eh?”

“Probably. I didn’t want to down either of them jiggers. Right now they’re worth more alive than dead, for my purpose. And they think I’m dead or badly hurt—which makes it much better. I dunno which one of ’em fired the shot. I heard the bullet hit the building about twenty feet ahead of me.”

They crossed Slow Elk Creek near its mouth and came to the river, where they swam their horses across. From there it was only a short distance to Turkey Track siding, where they dismounted, tied their horses to the corral fence and sat down to have a smoke.

To the north they could see the timbered curves of Deer Creek, to the north and west the wide sweep of the Lo Lo range. To the north and east was the narrow, timbered valley, through which came the railroad from Medicine Tree, and beyond. Just across the river from them, about a mile and a half away, was the Turkey Track ranch, on the west bank of Deer Creek.

Hashknife seemed very thoughtful, as he scanned the country. He squinted toward the hazy outline of the main divide, where the break of Kiopo Pass was barely visible, and at the narrow valley to the northeast.

“Did yuh live here before the railroad came, Hartwell?” he asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Jack. “It hasn’t been here over six years.”

“Uh-huh. Where did the cattlemen market their stock before they had the railroad?”

“Mostly in Medicine Tree. That was before the sheep got control of Sunland Basin. We used to take some big drives out of this valley.”

“Over Kiopo Pass?”

“Mostly. A few tried takin’ stock out through where the railroad goes now, but it was a pretty hard drive. The railroad had to blast their way in through solid rock and travel miles to gain a few hundred yards. Of course yuh could take stock out, but most of ’em would have their heels worn off before they hit Sunland. We’ve never been afraid of sheep comin’ in that way.”

“Any station or town between here and Medicine Tree?”

“Not until you get into Sunland Basin. Between here and there is a wilderness. Good grazin’ land though. But the snow piles up too deep in there for any one to use it, except in summer; and in the spring it catches the drainage from both sides and comes —— a-whoopin’ down Lo Lo.”

Hashknife squinted sidewise at Jack.

“You worryin’ about yore wife?”

“Well, my ——, wouldn’t you?”

Jack got to his feet and leaned against the corral.

“I s’pose I would, Jack. Let’s go over and strike the Turkey Track cook for somethin’ to eat.”

“Fine,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe we’ll see Curt and Spiers. I’d give a lot to see the look on their faces when they see you.”

“Well, don’t get so danged interested in their faces that yuh forget their hands. Them two sidewinders are liable to strike before they rattle.”

“And they’re not friends of mine,” added Jack.

“What kind of a whipporwill is this Allison?” asked Hashknife as they mounted and rode toward the river crossing.

“I’d hate to say,” replied Jack. “If somebody had asked me a week ago what I thought of Curt and Steil, I’d probably have said that they were as good as the average.”

“Naturally. They tell me that you’ve had quite a lot of —— handed to yuh, Jack. I never got the story direct, yuh know.”

“And you probably never will, Hartley. I’m not complainin’. I went into it with both eyes open, yuh know. Mebbe I was all wrong, I dunno. Dad is a hard man, and he tried to teach me to hate. Mother is just the opposite, so she taught the opposite.

“Lovin’ got me some happiness and a lot of pure ——, but it kept me from turnin’ killer, Hartley. I’m the only one who knows what the last—well, the last hundred years—meant to me. It does seem that long. I’ve stood insults that would make a cotton tail fight a grizzly bear. They’ve called me a yellow skunk—a sheep lover—and I never even reached for my gun.”

“How about yuh now, Jack?”

“Now?” Jack laughed harshly. “I’ve got my war paint on. It’s a showdown from now on. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I was goin’ to start in on Curt and Steil. I haven’t forgotten the draw. There’s only one man in the country that can beat me, and that is Slim De Larimore.”

“He’s fast, is he?” asked Hashknife.

“Just like a flash. Wears his gun kinda in front of his thigh, carries his hand behind his holster, and his draw is just like lifting his empty hand. I’ve seen some gunmen, but he’s got ’em all beat.”

“Is he a good shot?”

“I don’t know; never seen him shoot. Very likely is though.”

Hashknife smiled seriously and rubbed his nose. It was a sure sign that he was pleased. Sleepy watched him and grinned.

They rode in at the Turkey Track and dismounted. There was no sign of life around the place, except the Chinese cook who answered their knock.

“Hyah, John,” grinned Hashknife pleasantly. “How’s chances for a little food?”

“I do’ no,” replied the Celestial. “Boss no heah.”

“Thassall right. You round up a little food for us.”

“Mm-m-m.”

John was not so sure. Then:

“You come in, eh? I make you li’l glub.”

They filed into the living room and sat down, while the Chinaman got busy with his fire. The Turkey Track living room was not an attractive place; it was more like a bunk house. There were three beds, badly tumbled, a few chairs, a littered table, a scattered lot of playing cards and a ragged carpet, plentifully littered with ashes and cigaret butts.

The Chinaman was busily rattling his utensils and singing in a weak, high-pitched voice. Hashknife stepped over to the door, leaned against the wall and watched him. Suddenly he leaned forward, squinting toward the stove, and spoke softly—

“What’s the matter, John?”

The Chinaman was putting some wood into the fire-box, but turned and looked at Hashknife.

“W’at yo’ say?” he asked, blandly.

“About that wood,” said Hashknife slowly. “Yuh can’t burn green wood, John.”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman looked at the stick of green cottonwood in his hand.

“Too green,” said Hashknife. “Use dry wood.”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman started to put the green wood into the stove, but Hashknife strode across to him, took the stick off the fire and tossed it out through the open door. Then he picked out some dry wood from the box beside the stove and stuffed it into the fire-box.

“That burns fine,” smiled Hashknife.

The Chinaman’s face did not change expression, and he went back to his pots and pans. Jack and Sleepy had come to the doorway, watching Hashknife, who walked back into the living room with them.

“What was the idea?” queried Sleepy in a whisper.

Hashknife grinned seriously.

“That Chink knows that green wood don’t make a good fire.”

“Wanted smoke, eh?”

“That’s the way it struck me.”

“Wanted to send up a signal?” asked Jack.

“Might be. Yuh never can tell.”

Hashknife walked back to the doorway and watched the Chinaman finish the cooking of the meal. He did not trust the cook. They ate the meal, but kept one eye on the Chinaman. Hashknife tried to draw him into conversation, but the Chinaman hid behind his “No sabe.”

When they had finished, Hashknife walked over to the stove, filled the fire-box with pitch-pine wood and went out into the yard, where he picked up the green stick. The Chinaman watched him put it into the stove, shut the fire-box door and sit down again.

“Whasamalla you?” asked the Chinaman. “Yo’ say no can do——”

“Can do now,” grinned Hashknife. “Plenty good smoke, eh?”

“No sabe.”

The Chinaman shook his head violently.

“Nobody asked yuh to,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.

The three cowboys went outside, mounted their horses and rode away. A heavy smoke was curling up from the stove pipe, a smoke that would be visible for a long way. Hashknife chuckled joyfully.

“Slim De Larimore will probably see that smoke, and come a-whoopin’. It’s probably the signal that will bring ’em in from the dead-line, in case any strangers are around the ranch, and the Chink will get merry —— from his boss. So we’ll just step off a piece and watch the effects.”

As soon as they were well out of sight from the ranch, they rode into a brushy coulée, dismounted and sneaked to the crest, where they could get almost a bird’s-eye view of the ranch house. The heavy smoke no longer rolled from the stove pipe, evidence that the Chinaman had removed the green fuel.

It was about half an hour later when two riders approached the ranch from the east. They rode boldly up to the house and dismounted.

“I’m bettin’ that the smoke signal didn’t bring them in,” said Hashknife, but added, “unless the signal means that everythin’ is all right. They busted right in, didn’t they? Recognize the horses, Jack?”

“Not at this distance, Hartley. One of ’em is a light buckskin and the other is a rangy-lookin’ gray. They don’t belong to the Turkey Track, that’s a cinch. Honey Wier rides a gray, but that man wasn’t Honey Wier. And I don’t know of anybody in Lo Lo that rides a light buckskin. There they come out again.”

The two men had left the house and came out to their horses. The Chinaman was with them, and the three grouped together for several minutes before the two mounted and rode away. It looked as if they were going to ride past, which would give the three cowboys a chance to see who they were, but they turned and rode southwest, going down through a brushy swale and disappearing into the heavy cover.

“What’s down that way?” asked Hashknife.

Jack squinted thoughtfully for a moment, “Well, I dunno. There ain’t nothin’ much. Looks like they were heading for the forks of Slow Elk and the river. Maybe they’re goin’ to Totem City. Just above where we crossed Slow Elk, there’s an old shack and a corral. Anyway, there used to be. An old coyote hunter used it a couple years ago.”

“An old shack, eh?”

“Yeah. Probably fallen down by this time. It’s down there in a coulée, kinda out of the way, if it ain’t fallen down.”

“We’ll take a look at her,” said Hashknife, starting back to the horses. “In this game yuh can’t afford to overlook anythin’.”

They mounted and followed Jack down through the timbered draw, which opened on to brushy hillsides.

“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve got plenty of time.”

“What do you expect to find down there?” asked Jack.

“Yuh never can tell, pardner. Just lead us in the slickest way.”

It was about two miles from where they had mounted to where Jack led them over the crest of a broken ridge and pointed toward the brushy bottom below them.

“Yuh can see the top of the old shack, Hartley.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife quickly. “Get down!”

They slid out of their saddles and forced the horses to move further back. Through the screen of trees they could see part of the old corral, where two men were working with horses. It was impossible to see just what was going on, but a few minutes later two men rode down the coulée, mounted on a black and bay horse.

The two men did not seem in any hurry; neither did they act in a suspicious manner.

“Recognize them horses?” asked Hashknife.

“Nope,” Jack shook his head. “Lots of bays and blacks in this country. I wonder if it’s the same two men.”

“I think it is, Jack. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”

They mounted and rode down at the rear of the shack, where they slid to the ground and approached the shack. In the little corral stood a light buckskin and a gray horse sweat-stained, leg-weary. The door of the shack was unlocked and there was no one inside.

Of furnishings there were none; but on the floor were nine bed rolls, spread, just as they had been when nine men got out of bed and left them. Hashknife grinned at the amazement in Jack’s face, and led them outside. They went to the corral and looked at the two horses. On the right shoulder of each animal was the mark of the JN outfit.

“More of the Jack Noonan stock, eh?” said Sleepy curiously.

“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded seriously. “Been ridden to a frazzle, too. Well, this is worth findin’, gents.”

“But what does it all mean?” queried Jack. “I don’t sabe it”

“C’mon,” ordered Hashknife, heading back to the horses. “We don’t want to be spotted here in this coulée.”

They rode back to higher ground, where they drew rein and scanned the country. Not a living thing moved in that wide expanse of rangeland.

“Have you any idea what it means?” asked Jack.

“Haven’t you?”

Hashknife seemed surprised.

“Not much, Hartley.”

“Let me ask you an easy question, Jack. In all our travels today—and we’ve covered a lot of territory—how many head of cattle have you seen?”

Jack looked at Hashknife and his eyes swept the hills in a bewildered sort of way.

“Why, I—by golly, I don’t remember that we seen any. Say, that’s funny! I wondered what was wrong.”

“I didn’t see any either,” added Sleepy.

“Neither did I,” said Hashknife, mimicking Sleepy. “Because there ain’t any to be seen.”

“But where in —— have they gone?” demanded Jack.

“Mebbe they’ve gone where the woodbine twineth and the cuckoo calleth for its mate. But they haven’t!” Hashknife’s jaw snapped shut. “Lo Lo Valley has been buncoed, Jack. While every cattleman and cowpuncher have cooled their heels on a dead-line against sheep, rustlers have cleaned out their cattle.”

“My ——!” exploded Jack. “Do you think so, Hartley?”

“I know so. Me and Sleepy cut their trail the night we came here, and they killed a horse under me. We’ve seen ’em since then. It looks like this Jack Noonan has brought his gang from Sunland Basin over here to take advantage of the sheep invasions, and by grab, he’s sure makin’ a cleanup.”

“What’ll we do?” asked Jack helplessly. “There’s a gang of ’em to contend with.”

“And they know danged well that they won’t dare to desert the dead-line,” said Hashknife. “Jack, this bunch of cow thieves have got Lo Lo Valley by the neck.”

“By ——, they sure have!”

“But, of course—” Hashknife grinned over his cigaret—“it ain’t as though us three were losin’ anythin’. Me and Sleepy ain’t got no interests here, and they’ve handed you so much —— that they can’t expect you to break yore neck to help ’em out. So—” Hashknife scratched a match and puffed on his cigaret—“So we’ll just step aside and let ’em find it out to their sorrow.

“They’ve kinda handed me and Sleepy the worst of it, too. We’ve been accused of all kinds of things since we showed up here. They even wanted to hang us, I reckon. And, takin’ it all in all, we don’t owe ’em anythin’—none of us, eh, Jack?”

Jack squinted thoughtfully and looked away across the hills. Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance and waited for Jack to speak. Finally he turned to Hashknife.

“I suppose yo’re right,” he said slowly. “They’ve kinda given you two the worst of it, and I know how you feel about it. You ain’t got no interests here—nothin’ to care about—so it’s all right. But with me—” Jack looked away for a moment, and back at them, with a wistful, apologetic smile—“Yuh see, I was raised here, and these are my people.”

Just that and nothing more. He had explained in a few words. Hashknife nodded slowly, a serious expression in his gray eyes. Then he suddenly held out his hand to Jack.

“You —— kid!” he said seriously as they shook hands.

“You don’t blame me, do yuh?” asked Jack wonderingly.

“Blame yuh?” Hashknife laughed, joyfully. “I just been wonderin’ if you was worth helpin’, Hartwell—and yuh are. Let’s go!”

Marsh Hartwell leaned against a rear wheel of the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch and looked moodily at Honey Wier and Chet Spiers, who were seated on the ground, cutting sticks of dynamite into proper lengths for their purpose.

Grouped around them were old Sam Hodges, Cliff Vane, Frank Hall and Bill Brownlee, each man with a cup of coffee in his hand. The chuck wagon had been shoved into the brush, until only the rear end was visible, and the little clearing in which it stood was so well masked by brush that it would not be visible from fifty yards away on any side.

“How about that for a bomb?” asked Honey Wier, holding up a bundle of short pieces of dynamite, from which a five-inch fuse projected. “That ought to make a mutton stew, eh?”

“That’s the ticket,” nodded Vane. “We’ll give every man a load of ’em, and we’ll blow all the —— sheep back into Sunland in one night. How do you like the idea, Marsh?”

Marsh Hartwell lifted his head,

“I don’t like it, Cliff. Perhaps it’s the only thing to do, but I don’t like the idea.”

“Sure it’s the only thing to do,” insisted Vane. “We can’t spend the rest of our lives around here, waitin’ for Eph King to start ahead. My idea is to start an offensive. With dynamite, we can bust up the whole works, scatter the sheep—mebbe capture King again. Anyway, we’ll make ’em so sick of Lo Lo Valley that they’ll be willin’ to get out with a whole skin.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed old Sam slowly. “A lot of fool cowpunchers will probably get killed with their own bombs, too.”

“The idea is to bust straight through to the sheep camp, ain’t it?” asked Frank Hall.

“That’s it,” replied Vane. “We’ll wreck everythin’ between here and there, too. Make up all our bombs here and distribute ’em all along the line. We’ll draw Slim and his men over to this side of Slow Elk, and that’ll give us about twenty men to throw dynamite. Oh, we’ll show Eph King the way back to Sunland, y’betcha.”

“Well, I wish you’d help make bombs and not brag so —— much,” complained Honey Wier. “Me and Chet can’t make ’em all.”

“Don’t bite the caps into the fuse,” advised Hodges. “Pinch ’em in with the point of your knife, Honey.”

“Aw, that’s too slow. I ain’t never bit too short on one yet.”

“And yuh never will—except just once. Yo’re only allowed one mistake, cowboy.”

“And that’s the truth,” nodded Chet. “I knowed a feller that was bitin’ caps on to fuses, and he caught the end of one between his back teeth.”

“Hurt him much?” queried Honey.

“Hurt him? It drove his legs into hard ground up to his knees and his hat didn’t come down until the next day.”

“Loan me yore knife,” said Honey seriously. “I’m scared I might git my arches busted down.”

A horseman was coming in through the narrow trail, and they waited for him to come into the clearing. It was Abe Allison. He dismounted and helped himself to some coffee.

“Glad yuh showed up, Abe,” said Vane. “Saves us a trip down to yore end of the line.”

“Yeah?” Allison blew on the hot coffee. “What for?”

“To tell Slim what we’re goin’ to do, and have him bring all you fellers up this side of Slow Elk. Tonight we’re goin’ to bust our way through the sheep and settle everythin’.”

“How?”

“Here’s how,” laughed Honey Wier, holding up a bomb. “We’re goin’ to shake the old hills, Abie.”

“Dynamite?”

“Y’betcha,” replied Vane.

Abe shook his head nervously.

“I’m scared of that stuff. Yuh never can tell what she’s goin’ to do. It ain’t noways reliable, I tell yuh.”

“Aw, ——, it won’t hurt yuh,” said Honey Wier, carefully poking the point of his knife through the copper detonator to secure it to the fuse. “All yuh got to do is to touch off the fuse, wait a second or two, to see that she’s fizzin’ properly, and then heave it as far as yuh can toward the sheep.”

“And what’ll them sheepherders be doin’ all this time?”

“Shootin’ at yuh, of course,” laughed Chet. “But they can’t shoot straight in the dark.”

“Prob’ly kill a few of us,” observed Honey sadly. “But, as has been wisely said: There is no diligence without great labor. I read that in my copy book when I went to school. I dunno what in —— diligence is, do you, Chet?”

“Killin’ sheepherders. Diligence is a Latin sayin’. D-i-l is the same as ‘kill’; sabe? I-g-e-n-c-e is what the Lats used to call a shepherd. I used to talk it kinda good, but I’ve forgot a lot of it.”

“You used to live with ’em didn’t yuh, Chet?” asked Vane.

“Yeah,” nodded Chet seriously. “I’m a blood brother of that tribe. Say, this dynamite is gettin’ sticky.”

“That’s the nitroglycerin thawin’ out,” said Brownlee. “I dare either of you fellers to clap yore hands.”

“Yeah, and I’m goin’ to get out of here,” Allison mounted his horse. “Shall I tell Slim, Marsh?”

“Yeah, yuh can tell him what we’re goin’ to do. Mebbe it would be better for him to show up here about nine o’clock tonight. We won’t take a very wide swath the first time. It might be that we’ll have to attack more than once.”

“All right.”

Allison glanced apprehensively at the pile of fused bombs beside Honey Wier, swung his horse around and rode quickly away.

“By golly, I’d like to throw one behind him in the brush,” grinned Honey. “He’d die of fright. I’ll betcha Abie Allison ain’t goin’ to be worth a lot to us. How danged many of these things will we need?”

“Ought to have about ten for each man,” said Vane.

“Yeah?” Honey counted what they had already made. There were ten. “All right, gents, I’ve made mine, so step up and help yourself.”

“Aw, you’re doin’ fine, Honey,” applauded Vane. “Keep right on. I never did see better bunches of dynamite in my life. I was just sayin’ to myself, ‘Honey Wier sure does sabe how to make up them bombs.’”

“You talk to yourself quite a lot, I know that,” grinned Honey. “You keep it up for a while, and you’ll prob’ly go into the sheep business yourself, Cliff.”

“Here comes somebody else,” grunted Brownlee, whose ears had caught the sound of approaching horsemen. “Several of ’em, too.”

The crowd around the chuck wagon moved apart and watched the trail, where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jack were coming into view. No one spoke to them, as they dismounted, but every one of the cattlemen’s faces betrayed their astonishment. Jack walked around to his father and glanced quickly at the circle of wondering faces.

“You can let yore guns alone,” said Jack slowly. “We’re not lookin’ for trouble —we’re bringin’ yuh some.”

“Bringin’ us some?” Marsh Hartwell spoke wonderingly.

“Yeah—bringin’ yuh some,” said Jack.

“Is it about Molly?”

Jack shook his head quickly,

“I don’t know where she is.”

He turned to Hashknife.

“You tell ’em about it, Hartley; it’s yore story, anyway.”

“It ain’t much to tell,” said Hashknife, “and only amounts to just this: While all you cattlemen have been settin’ here on the dead-line, waiting for the sheep to try and cross, somebody has been rustlin’ every danged head of cattle in this end of Lo Lo Valley, thassall.”

“What!”

Cliff Vane came toward Hashknife, his mouth half-open, a foolish expression on his face.

“How do you know this?” demanded Marsh Hartwell harshly.

The men crowded closer, swearing softly, asking for proof.

“Oh, there’s proof enough,” said Jack.

“You can ride the hills all day between here and Totem City and never see a head of stock. I tell you Hartley is right. We found where the rustlers live. It’s in that old shack down in the coulée near the mouth of Slow Elk. There’s nine bed rolls in that old shack.”

“Good ——!” exploded Marsh Hartwell.

“That’s why the sheep haven’t moved! Boys, it’s a game to loot Lo Lo Valley. Eph King and his gang forced us to guard the dead-line, while he stole all our cattle. The dirty thief!”

“Nine of ’em in that shack, eh?” gritted Vane. “Well, we’ll just go down there and shoot —— out of ’em, eh? C’mon, boys.”

“Wait a minute,” said Marsh. “They won’t be there now.”

He turned to Hashknife, squinting at the serious-faced cowboy, as if seeking to read his thoughts. Then,

“Hartley, yo’re on the square about this?”

Hashknife’s eyes narrowed, but his lips twisted slightly in a smile, as he said:

“Hartwell, I’m tellin’ you my opinion. I might be wrong, but I’m not lyin’.”

“Where do you come in on the deal?” asked Cliff Vane.

Hashknife looked at Vane, a look of contempt that he made no effort to conceal, as he said:

“Pardner, you’ve lived here so long, seein’ the same things, thinkin’ the same thoughts, that you’ve become so —— narrow that yore squinty little brain can’t conceive of anybody doin’ humanity a good turn, unless there’s somethin’ in it, some chance to feather yore own nest.”

Vane blinked angrily. Honey Wier guffawed loudly and slapped Chet so hard on the shoulder that the foreman of the Arrow almost fell down.

“What do yuh mean by them remarks?” demanded Vane.

“Ne’mind,” said Honey. “He wouldn’t get it, unless yuh wrote it out on paper, Hartley.

“Who the —— are yuh hittin’ around?” demanded Chet. “My ——, you ain’t got no feelin’s a-tall, have yuh, Honey? Some day I’m goin’ to pack a club for you.”

“I’ll use it on yuh,” nodded Honey, laughing.

“Aw, quit foolin’!” snorted Vane. “We’ve got to decide —— quick on what to do about this. Where are these cattle, Hartley?”

“I don’t know,” replied Hashknife. “Perhaps they are on their way into Sunland Basin.”

“Through the railroad route?” queried Chet.

“They haven’t gone over Kiopo Pass,” said Jack.

Marsh Hartwell swore feelingly,

“We might have known that Eph King was up to some dirty work. There has been a reason for his delay in tryin’ to put sheep below the dead-line.”

“We’re between the —— and the deep, blue sea,” said old Sam Hodges. “King knew he had us cinched. Any time we go chasin’ after our cows he’ll put the sheep across. And I’m bettin’ that he’ll know when we start after the rustlers.”

“Yeah?” Vane drawled his question and looked meaningly at Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’ll bet he will, too, Sam. Mebbe he’s gettin’ tired, waitin’ for us to find it out.”

Hashknife got Vane’s meaning. He knew that the others got it, too. They shifted uneasily. Hashknife grinned at Vane and shook his head sadly.

“Pardner, you’ve got a thin soul. Somebody hinted that me and my friend were employed by Eph King, and you accepted it as the truth. Yore brain can’t hold more than one idea at a time, so I’m not goin’ to make yuh feverish by provin’ anythin’.”

“Don’t bother with him, Hartley,” advised Jack, and then to his father, “Hartley is tellin’ the truth. I’d stake my life that he is not workin’ for Eph King.”

“You ought to know,” growled Vane.

“Yeah, I ought to know!” Jack whirled angrily on Vane. “I do know. Now, —— yuh, put that in yore pipe and smoke it!”

Marsh Hartwell stepped in between them, shoving Jack back.

“This is not the time to fight each other,” he said calmly. “I believe that Hartley is doin’ this for our good.”

“Let him prove it, and I’ll apologize to him,” said Vane sulkily.

“I don’t want an apology from you,” smiled Hashknife. “Keep ’em to use on yourself; you need ’em.”

“Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!” howled Honey Wier. “Better’n a circus!”

Cliff Vane glared at Hashknife, but said nothing more. Marsh Hartwell turned to the other cattlemen,

“Boys, if this tale is true, and I reckon it is, we’re up against a stiff proposition. The rustlers have likely shoved a lot of our stock half way to Medicine Tree by this time, and they know that we don’t dare desert this dead-line.

“None of us have a title to enough of this range to stop the sheep from occupying it, except by force. We can’t fence against ’em. Now it’s just a question of two evils —sheep or the loss of our cattle. There’s at least nine of the rustlers. If we even match numbers with ’em, it’ll weaken our line badly. Now, what’s to be done?”

The cattlemen shook their heads. Old Sam Hodges dug savagely into the dirt with his cane, and turned to the soberfaced group.

“Boys,” he said slowly, “we’ve mistrusted Hartley and Stevens, and we’ve done our darndest to mistreat ’em. Right now some of yuh still think they’re crooked. Yeah, yuh do. But just to show yuh how I feel about it, I’m suggestin’ that we ask Hartley what to do about this proposition—and foller his idea.”

“I’ll tell yuh how I ——” began Vane, but Honey Wier interrupted him with,

“Oh, you be ——ed! We know how you stand, Cliff.”

“I’m satisfied to do that,” said Marsh Hartwell slowly.

“Same here,” laughed Hall. “That skinny cowpuncher don’t look crooked to me. Hop to it, long feller.”

Hashknife grinned and hitched up his belt,

“Yo’re askin’ me to do somethin’, gents. I never asked for a chance to untangle yore hay-wire situation. Mebbe I ain’t got no better idea than you have, but, if yo’re willin’ to trust me, I’ll do the best I can.”

“How soon do yuh start, and can I go along?” queried Honey Wier. “I’m tired as —— of makin’ dynamite bombs.”

“Dynamite bombs?” said Hashknife.

“We’re goin’ to attack the sheep tonight,” explained Hall. “And every man will carry an armload of dynamite.”

“Oh, I see,” muttered Hashknife. “Well, yuh may not have to do anythin’ like that. Have all the men got their bombs ready?”

“Yo’re danged right they ain’t,” laughed Honey, “and if they wait for me to make ’em up, they never will have.”

“We’re all goin’ to meet here about nine o’clock tonight and get ready for the attack,” said Marsh Hartwell. “Perhaps it would be best to smash the sheep pretty badly and then go after the rustlers. While the sheepmen are recovering from the battle, they’re not liable to try and drive their sheep.”

“No, that ain’t the idea,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinkin’ lately, and the success of my idea hinges on one thing. I can’t tell yuh what it is now, and it may look to you like I’m crooked, but I’m takin’ that chance.

“Go right ahead with yore dynamite idea. If I’m wrong, I’ll throw a few hunks of it myself, but don’t throw any until yuh hear from me. C’mon, Sleepy.”

They climbed on to their horses, while the cattlemen watched them, wondering where they were going, what they were going to do. But they asked no questions. Vane grumbled profanely, but turned back to the coffee pot, while Hashknife and Sleepy rode out through the brushy trail, swung straight north and rode across the dead-line, heading toward Eph King’s sheep camp.

No one challenged them. If any of the sheepherders saw them they kept out of sight, knowing that two men would be taken care of by those at the rear.

Bill Steen and Eph King were just riding into camp as the two cowboys topped the hill above them. There were at least ten other men there, eating a meal, who deserted their food at sight of the two cowboys; but at a sign from Steen they went back and sat down again.

Hashknife and Sleepy dismounted, shaking hands with Steen, who introduced them to King.

“We’ve met before, but not socially,” smiled King. “Bill was tellin’ me that you were up here to see him. I had an idea that you two might be responsible for me bein’ in Totem City jail, but Jack didn’t think so, and Bill wanted to make me a big bet that I was mistaken.”

Hashknife grinned and shook his head,

“I never put a man in jail, unless he deserved it, King.”

“Then yuh don’t think I deserve it, Hartley?”

“I didn’t think so. Right now I don’t know what to think. Either you ought to be hung—or——”

“Or what?”

King looked curiously at Hashknife. The sheepmen heard what Hashknife said, and one of them eased himself into a position whereby he could draw a gun. The others looked at each other, and eating ceased.

“What did yuh mean by that, Hashknife?” asked Steen.

“C’mere.”

Hashknife led them away from the diners. Once out of earshot, he squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigaret. Steen sat down against a boulder and accepted a smoke, while Sleepy stretched out full length and yawned wearily. King did not sit down.

“All right, Hashknife,” said Steen. “Tell us what it’s all about.”

“Yeah, I’m goin’ to do that, Bill. I came all the way up here to tell yuh; but before I tell yuh all about it, I’d like to have yuh tell me why yuh haven’t made any attempt to break through. You’ve been here too long. There’s a reason why, Bill; and I want to know what it is.”

“Of what interest is that to you?” asked King.

“A whole lot,” said Hashknife quickly. “And by givin’ me that information, I can probably save yore sheep, mebbe a lot of lives, and I can put the deadwood on the guilty men.”

“Save my sheep?” King smiled. “Save ’em from what?”

“Nobody answered my question,” reminded Hashknife.

“What if they don’t?”

“Then we’ll have to ride away from here, thinkin’ that you are the lowest coyote alive, Eph King.”

King’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Yo’re in my camp, Hartley. Maybe you won’t ride away.”

“Now wait a minute,” begged Steen. “Don’t anybody go off half-cocked.” He looked up at King. “I know Hartley, Eph. He ain’t the kind to say a thing like that without a good reason, and we’ve got to get this thing right.”

“All right,” growled King grudgingly.

“Thank yuh, Bill,” said Hashknife. “Now tell me why yuh didn’t try to force the sheep through.”

“Because it would be suicide, Hashknife. The plans went wrong. You know as well as I do that we can’t get through.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled thoughtfully. “And yo’re waitin’ until somebody finds the hole for yuh to crawl through, eh?”

Steen and King exchanged glances.

“Yuh might figure it like that,” said Steen. “There’s no use in sacrificin’ thousands of sheep and a lot of men.”

“That’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “Somebody ruined yore scheme, did they?”

Neither of the sheepmen denied it. Hashknife turned to King.

“Did you know that Jack Hartwell’s wife has been missin’ since yesterday afternoon?”

“Missin’?” King stared at Hashknife. “You mean that somethin’ has happened to her?”

Hashknife described the condition of the house, and of finding the dying man.

“That was Preston!” exclaimed Steen. “By ——, that’s what happened to him. What did he say, Hashknife?”

“He said that Ed shot him, and that Ed took the woman.”

“Ed who?” asked King anxiously. “Who is Ed?”

Hashknife shook his head.

“We don’t know, King. There ain’t a cowman in Lo Lo named Ed. Jack hasn’t the slightest idea where she is.”

King straightened up, his jaw shut tight, his big hands clenched at his sides.

“By ——, I’ll find her,” he said painfully. “She’s had all the —— I’ll ever let her have in this ——ed valley. That’s one of the reasons I wanted to come down here and sheep ’em out. Just to show ’em, that’s all.”

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife slowly. “While you and your sheep have been holding the attention of the cattlemen, a bunch of rustlers have been quietly liftin’ every head of stock in Lo Lo Valley. And yo’re goin’ to be blamed for it all, King.”

“Wait a minute,” breathed King, squatting down on his heels. “Say that again, Hartley, will yuh? Rustlers cleanin’ out the——”

“That’s what I said, King. Do you know the JN outfit?”

“Jack Noonan? Sure I know him.”

“Their horses carry his brand.”

King slowly turned his head and looked at Steen, who was staring at him.

“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife. “You could ’a’ shoved yore sheep through that line any old time yuh wanted to. There ain’t over twenty men on that line at any time.”

Steen squinted at Hashknife and spat thoughtfully.

“Is that right, Hashknife?”

“Would I lie to you, Bill?”

“No, by ——, I don’t think you would.”

“And so they think I’m a thief, do they?” gritted King. “They branded me a thief years ago; so it’s easy for them to slap on the old brand again. They think that I’m holdin’ ’em on this dead-line while my men sneak in behind ’em and take their —— cows. By ——, that’s a good idea, too good for me to ever think of doin’.”

Steen got to his feet and threw away his cigaret.

“I can see the whole —— thing, Eph,” he declared. “I’ve been afraid that somethin’ was wrong.”

He turned to Hashknife.

“You know where to find these rustlers?”

“I know where their bed rolls were today.”

“Good!”

“All right, Bill,” said King firmly. “I reckon you’re right. Down there in Lo Lo Valley the women have used my name to scare their kids, and they’ve mistreated my little girl.”

He turned away and started down across the hills, his lips shut tightly. Then:

“I don’t owe ’em anythin’, but by ——, I’m not goin’ to have anybody stealin’ in my name—makin’ me blacker than I am. Tell the boys to get their horses, Bill. We’re goin’ across that dead-line to help the people that hate us.” He turned to Hashknife, a whimsical sort of smile on his big face. “I reckon this kinda fits in with that idea of turnin’ the other cheek, Hartley.”

“Sometimes it helps, King,” said Hashknife. “I’ve never lost much by helpin’ an enemy.”

“I never did help one,” said King slowly. “Marsh Hartwell is the only real enemy I ever had. We were friends once, me and Marsh. But I reckon we both wanted to be the big man of Lo Lo Valley, and one of us had to quit.

“The country was new then, Hartley, and we were a rough gang. There wasn’t any law and order, and the man with the longest rope got the biggest herd. Mebbe—” He smiled softly— “my rope was longer than Marsh’s and he got jealous. Anyway, I went out with the brand of thief. Bill is gettin’ the boys together, so we better get ready.”

They turned and walked back to the camp, where men were shoving rifles into their scabbards and saddling horses, which they were bringing out of the brushy cañon above the camp. And there was a grin of anticipation on the faces of these sheepmen. They were tired of inaction. King glanced at Hashknife and Sleepy’s saddles, and called Steen’s attention to the fact that neither of them carried a rifle.

Steen handed each of them a rifle and a belt filled with cartridges.

“Noonan travels with a tough gang,” he told them. “Boomer Bates was one of his men. I can see the whole plot now. King didn’t want to believe it, but he does now. C’mon.”

They mounted and went down across the brushy hills, fourteen strong, well-mounted, heavily armed, looking for trouble.

And about the time that the fourteen men rode away from the sheep camp, Marsh Hartwell and his son rode away from the chuck wagon in Six Mile gulch. The cattlemen had decided to wait until nine o’clock before starting their offensive, taking a chance that Hashknife’s scheme, whatever it might be, would work out.

About a mile south of the camp they met the sheriff and Sunshine, who were seeking the latest news. They got it. Sudden rubbed his nose until it looked like an over-ripe cherry.

“By ——, I’ve been expectin’ this!” declared Sunshine.

“You never expected nothin’,” snorted the sheriff. “Don’t say that yuh have, ’cause yuh haven’t.”

“You don’t know what’s inside my head,” persisted Sunshine.

“The —— I don’t! Just like I know what’s in the hole of a doughnut. Don’t argue with me about anythin’, Sunshine. Lemme think. By grab, this is serious, don’tcha know it? Whole bunch of rustlers, eh? In that old shack down there—hm-m-m! Well,” bravely, “there’s just one thing to do, and that’s to go and heave some lead at ’em.”

“Don’t do it,” advised Marsh quickly. “That would chase ’em away, don’tcha see, Sudden? We’ve got to nail that whole gang at once; put enough men down there to stop every one of ’em, sabe?”

“And let Eph King send his sheep across, eh?”

“We got to take that chance, Sudden.”

“And Eph King knows it, I’ll bet.”

“You’ll probably win.”

“Uh-huh. Say, Marsh, let’s take a little sashay down that way. We can kinda act like we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Them jiggers are liable to pick up their beds and pull out.”

“Let’s do that,” suggested Jack. “Let’s do somethin’ besides talk. My ——, I can’t stand it much longer.”

“You ain’t heard nothin’ from your wife?” Thus Sunshine.

Jack shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid—now. With that bunch of rustlers around here, it’s hard to tell what has happened to her. That sun is almost down—and she’s been gone since yesterday. C’mon.”

They rode down through the hills, swinging to the east of the Arrow ranch, taking a course almost directly between the Arrow and Jack’s place. There were no cattle in sight. Ordinarily the hills were filled with Arrow, Turkey Track and Circle V cattle in that part of the range, but there were none of any brand now.

Suddenly the sheriff drew rein and pointed excitedly. About a mile away a group of horsemen were riding swiftly in the direction of the rustler’s shack. It was impossible to tell who they were or how many men were in the crowd, but they were making good time, and going almost away from the sheriff’s crowd.

“There they go!” blurted Sunshine. “And they’re goin’ like ——! I’ll betcha they’re wise to somethin’ and are beatin’ it for the shack to get their stuff.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed the sheriff nervously. “We’re not exactly equipped for battle, but we’ll give ’em a run for their money. Hit the grit, boys!”

Only the sheriff and Sunshine had rifles, but Marsh and Jack gave no heed to this, as they sent their horses into a swift run down through the hills. The brush whipped into their faces and tore at their clothes, but they stood up in their stirrups and prayed that their horses would keep their feet over the rough going.

Then came the spang! of a distant rifle shot, echoing through the hills. It was followed by a scattering volley.

“Somebody has jumped ’em!” yelled the sheriff. “Ride ’em high and keep goin’!”

But what the sheriff had thought was the rustler’s gang was Hashknife’s crew from the sheep camp. He had led them straight through the dead-line unchallenged, much to the wonderment of Eph King. No one even questioned their right to pass, and Hashknife knew that the word had not been passed to let them through, because no one knew that he was going to bring a crowd back across the line.

Hashknife had taken them east from the sheep camp until almost due north from the Turkey Track ranch, and then had twisted to the southwest, crossing Slow Elk Creek and turning south.

Hashknife, King and Steen had talked over what they were going to do, and decided to sweep down on the shack, kill or capture all the rustlers in sight and then ambush the rest when they came. It was a good scheme, and might have worked fine, except for the fact that two men were at the corral and saw them top the crest of the coulée.

One of these men had a rifle in his hand and he proceeded to take a snapshot at them before running back toward the shack. The sheepmen jerked to a stop and fired a scattering volley at the two running men, which did nothing more than kick up the dust or tear splinters off the side of the shack.

Then they dismounted, scattered in the brush and started to surround the shack, when several riders broke from cover farther down the coulée and rode away at breakneck speed. They were evidently on their way to the shack when the first shot was fired. Hashknife took a long-range shot at them, but they were traveling fast through the brush and his bullet did not stop any of them.

Those in the shack were not at all idle. They were all armed with rifles, and they were making things warm for the sheepmen. Hashknife and Sleepy crawled to a spot where they could shoot at a window, and proceeded to flip the old curtain with such regularity that the rustlers quit using that window as a loophole.

“This here is worth waitin’ for,” grinned Sleepy. “I wish I had my old .45-70, Hashknife. This here .30-30 is all very fine, but them bullets mushroom too quick. They don’t bore through them old weathered boards. It’s like throwin’ rocks down there.”

Wham!

A bullet struck just in front of Sleepy, filling his eyes with dirt. He rolled over, clawing at his face, trying to blink the gravel out of his eyes.

“Somebody throwed the rock back at yuh, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife humorously. “You forget that there’s desperate men in that shack, cowboy.”

A man ran out of the shack and headed for the corral, where several horses were tied. Twice he swerved, when bullets whizzed past his ears, but before he could reach the horses he lunged sidewise and went flat on his face.

“Must be gettin’ hot inside the shack,” observed Hashknife, as he stuffed some cartridges into the loading gate of his rifle.

“I feel sorry for them poor —— down there.”

Sleepy squinted through his tears and spat painfully.

“Go ahead and feel sorry for ’em, if yuh want to, Hashknife. And if yuh happen to have any sorrow left, pass it around to one whose vision is filled with dancin’ stars. Talk about spots in front of yore eyes!”

Hashknife turned his head and looked back up the slope. Eph King was running toward his horse, and as Hashknife watched him he climbed into his saddle and spurred into a gallop. Hashknife squinted wonderingly. King was traveling rapidly now, and Hashknife watched him crossing the ridge behind them.

Four other riders had come into sight, riding in from the west, and traveling fast, as if attempting to cut in ahead of King. One of them fired a shot, and it appeared to Hashknife as if King almost fell off his horse.

“Stick here and keep shootin’,” ordered Hashknife, backing out through the brush. “I’ve got to make a call.”

Sleepy blinked through his tears at Hashknife, who was running low toward his horse. Sleepy wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand and settled down again.

“I’ll stick here,” he said aloud. “But I won’t guarantee to do any shootin’. That danged cow thief down there almost rocked me to sleep.”

Hashknife reached his horse, mounted on the run and spurred away in the direction taken by King. He topped the rise, riding high in his saddle, but could see nothing either of the pursued or the pursuers. He remembered that there had been several riders below the old shack when the battle started, and he wondered if they had circled to attack them from the rear.

But Hashknife did not waste much time in speculation. As fast as his horse could run they went across that broken land of sage and greasewood, heading northeast. He could not hear the shooting now. It was slightly uphill now and the horse was tiring fast, but Hashknife showed no mercy on his mount.

Off to the east, beyond the next ridge, several shots were fired, but Hashknife did not alter his course. He tore his way up through the brush and swung on to the old road. He drew rein long enough to scan the country, but there was nothing in sight. Then he spurred on, heading toward the Turkey Track.

Again he heard the faraway snap of a shot; too far away to interest him now. At the same spot where he had watched the Turkey Track with Sleepy and Jack Hartwell, he dismounted and left his exhausted horse, head down in the greasewood thicket.

A cautious scrutiny of the Turkey Track ranch house showed him that there was no one in sight, so he circled to the left, keeping himself concealed, until he was almost at the rear of the place. Then he ran swiftly across the open space at the rear of the house and slid into the willows along Deer Creek. For several moments he remained quiet, watching the house. He had been forced to cross in the open, and there was a possibility of being seen.

Satisfied that no one had discovered him, he went swiftly down through the willows until he was at the corral. Just beyond was the big stable, and about a hundred feet beyond was the bunk house, a low building. To the right was the ranch house.

Hashknife leaned against the corral fence and looked at the horses. There were seven of them, nosing around at loose wisps of hay. Hashknife grinned as his eyes shifted to four of them, which seemed little interested in anything. Cautiously he worked around the side of the corral and went over to the stable, where he glued his ear to a crack.

Satisfied that there was no one in the barn, he circled the building, with the intention of taking a look at the bunk house; but the fairly close sound of a revolver shot caused him to draw back and run around to the opposite side, where he peeked around the corner.

A black horse, now almost white with lather, stumbled into the yard, its rider swaying sidewise in the saddle. It was Eph King. Behind him came Marsh Hartwell, Jack Hartwell, Sudden Smithy and Sunshine Gallagher. The sheriff drove his horse in close to King and caught the big sheepman before he could fall from his saddle. The others were off their horses immediately and helped place King on the ground.

Hashknife did not leave his position. Some one yelled a question from the bunk house, and Hashknife saw Slim De Larimore, Curt, Steil and Allison running from the bunk house to the group around King.

Hashknife jerked back and began rolling a cigaret, while his eyebrows drew together in a frown of concentration. He lighted the cigaret and peeked out again. The crowd was still standing around the prostrate figure of King, and Hashknife could hear them arguing over what had happened. Sunshine was talking loud enough to have been heard a quarter of a mile away.

“I suspected that King was the leader of the rustlers. By golly, we sure got him, didn’t we? Eh, Slim? Sure gave us one awful run.”

“That’s all right,” said Marsh Hartwell. “But I want to know who is doin’ all that shootin’ down there. Eph King was probably the leader of the rustlers—but who drove him away? It wasn’t our gang.”

Hashknife stepped away from the stable and walked toward them. Jack and Sunshine were facing him and saw him coming, but neither of them gave any indication of it. Hashknife was unhurried, smoking calmly on his cigaret. The sheriff was talking now.

“I dunno, Marsh. Mebbe it was some of our gang. We better leave King here under guard and go back.”

“One of my men will take care of him,” said De Larimore, and turned to see Hashknife standing within twenty feet of him.

“Not one of yore men,” said Hashknife calmly. “That would be too easy, Ed.”

Slim De Larimore did not move. Curt and Steil were close together at Slim’s left, with Allison behind them. Slim’s eyes shifted sidewise, as if looking for a way out, but he did not even move his feet. They thought Hashknife had either been killed or crippled.

“Ed?” said Jack Hartwell in a strained voice. “Hartley, did yuh call him Ed?”

“That’s his name,” said Hashknife evenly. “Ed Larrimer. I dunno where he got the De Larimore. Mebbe he got it like he usually got his horses, cows and saddles.”

“What do you mean?” breathed the owner of the Turkey Track.

“Just what I said, Larrimer. Long time I no see yuh, eh? I seen Curt and Lee Steil before. They call him ‘Casey’ Steil, I hear. Well, a feller has a right to his name, I reckon. But names don’t mean nothin’, except that a feller by the name of Preston knew you as ‘Ed’. You killed him, but yuh didn’t kill him quick enough.

“Always be sure that yore man is dead, Larrimer. Dead men tell no tales. And yuh didn’t change yore name enough. Larimore and Larrimer ain’t so different. And somebody told me what yuh looked like, acted like, and they said yuh was from Texas.”

“—— you, what do yuh mean?” gritted Larrimer. “My name is De Larimore, and I own this ranch. I can prove it ——”

“You don’t need to, Ed. Anyway, it’s too late for proofs. We are engaged with somethin’ kinda interestin’ now, and we don’t care what yore name is nor whether yuh own the Turkey Track, or not. What I want to know right now is this: Where is Jack Hartwell’s wife?”

Larrimer’s elbows jerked slightly and he twisted heavily on one heel, as if bracing himself.

“What in —— would I know about Jack Hartwell’s wife?” he asked thickly. “I’ve got all the——”

“I asked yuh where she is, Ed,” reminded Hashknife coldly. “You ain’t the kind of a man that would steal a woman—but yuh did. Now, —— yore dirty heart, where is she?”

Larrimer shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned to the sheriff.

“Where did you find this —— fool?” he asked. “He’s loco.”

“He sure is crazy.” Thus Casey Steil anxiously.

“After it’s all over, we’ll find her, Jack,” assured Hashknife confidently. “Just remain where yuh are. We’ve got to kinda hurry things up, ’cause King has got to have a doctor.”

“He’ll be lucky if he ever gets one,” growled Marsh, wiping his sweat-stained face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Any dirty rustler that——”

“He’s no rustler,” said Hashknife quickly. “Eph King is pretty much of a gentleman, Hartwell. When he found out that a gang of cow thieves were takin’ advantage of you cattlemen, he led his gang down here. And they’re down there at that little shack, bustin’ up that crew of rustlers right now.”

“Brought his men?” queried Marsh with astonishment and unbelief in his face. “Was that what the shootin’——?”

“That’s it, Hartwell. I came with ’em. My pardner is down there now, helpin’ them sheepherders to wipe out the rustlers.”

“Why did King run away?” asked the sheriff.

Hashknife had never taken his eyes off Larrimer and his men, who remained motionless.

“He didn’t run away,” said Hashknife. “I seen him start, and I knew why he started. He wanted to catch the men who were responsible. We got to the shack too quick, I reckon. Four of the gang hadn’t quite reached there, and was able to make their getaway.

“If some of yuh will take a look at four of them horses in the corral over there, you’ll see that they came home real fast. Eph King was headed for the Turkey Track, when you headed him off. He knew where the leader of the gang was headin’ for, Sudden. You fellers made a mistake in throwin’ lead at Eph King, ’cause he was merely comin’ to collect from the man who had double-crossed him—Ed Larrimer, the man who planned the scheme that would put every cowman in Lo Lo Valley on a dead-line, while him and his crew from the JN outfit looted Lo Lo Valley. Hold still, Curt! Easy everybody!

“Ed, you and yore gang killed old Ed Barber. Boomer Bates mistook MacLeod for me or Sleepy, and killed him. Yore gang broke into Hork’s store and stole them shells, so that the cattlemen would be short of ammunition. And you killed Preston. He knew you as Ed Larrimer. Mebbe you was afraid that Jack Hartwell’s wife might tell what passed between you and Preston at Jack’s ranch, so you killed Preston and kidnapped Jack’s wife. Now, you murderin’ pup, what do yuh say?”

For several moments Larrimer did not move nor speak. Then he straightened slightly, wearily and turned to the sheriff.

“Sudden, I’ve never heard so many lies in my life. I don’t even know half what he’s talkin’ about. The man is crazy.”

Larrimer’s voice was absolutely sincere, convincing. Sudden cleared his throat and shifted his feet, while Jack looked imploringly at Hashknife, who was still tensed, grinning. King was trying to sit up, bracing his hands against the ground.

“Help him, Jack,” urged Hashknife softly.

Jack went quickly to King and lifted him to a sitting position. The big sheepman turned his white face to the crowd, staring at every one. Then—

“I heard,” he said hoarsely. “Hartley knows. I don’t know how he knows—but it’s true. I——”

Ed Larrimer darted sidewise, drawing his gun, realizing that King was able to prove too many things against him, but his hand jerked away from his gun and he whirled completely around, when Hashknife’s bullet smashed into his shoulder. Curt tried to jump behind Marsh Hartwell, but the big cattleman smashed him in the ear, knocking him sidewise and into Steil, who was just pulling the trigger on his six-shooter.

Steil’s gun and Hashknife’s sounded as one report. They were too close for a miss. Steil lowered his gun, looked foolishly at Curt, who was lying almost across his feet, and then sat down heavily. Larrimer was flat on the ground, clutching at his smashed shoulder, cursing weakly while Steil sat in silent contemplation of the dead man across his feet.

The sheriff stepped over and put his hand on Steil’s shoulder, but Steil did not respond. His head merely sagged a trifle lower.

“Good ——!” muttered Sudden. “He must ’a’ been dead before he hit the ground. Did he hit yuh, Hartley?”

“No-o-o,” said Hashknife softly. “He killed Curt. He was fallin’ right in front of Steil’s gun. Don’t let Larrimer get hold of that gun with his left hand. He’s ambidexterous.”

Sudden stepped over and picked up the gun, toward which Larrimer was working. A group of horsemen were riding down into the ranch, and Hashknife recognized Sleepy and Bill Steen in the lead.

There were thirteen men in the crowd—but one of them was roped to his saddle. The sheepmen had come through without a casualty. They dismounted and came over to the group. Steen ignored the questions and went to King.

“Eph, are yuh badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.

“I don’t know, Bill. I got hit twice and I feel kinda weak. Everythin’ is all right now. Hartley put the deadwood on’ em. The sheriff thought I was one of the rustlers, and they shot me up quite a little but that’s all right.”

“I’m danged sorry,” said Sudden. “I didn’t know, yuh see.”

Hashknife turned to Jack.

“The men will help yuh search the ranch, Jack. Yore wife must be around here somewhere.”

“She’s in the loft of the barn,” said Larrimer weakly. “It’s no use makin’ any more trouble. We didn’t harm her any.”

“We got Jack Noonan, Hashknife,” said Sleepy, pointing at the man on the horse, who was trussed up tightly with ropes. “He was the only one worth bringin’ back. Yuh see, the rest of ’em stuck to the ship. Dang yuh, why did yuh run away from me?”

Sleepy looked at the bodies of Curt and Steil and at Ed Larrimer, who was sitting up, holding to his right shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be danged if it ain’t Ed Larrimer, the Texas Daisy!”

“Oh, go to ——!” groaned Larrimer. “I should have turned the gang loose to kill you two and let the cows go to ——”

“You came danged near gettin’ us the first night we showed up here,” laughed Hashknife.

“I know it. If we’d have known that it was you two, you’d never got out of Jack Hartwell’s place alive, I’ll tell yuh that, Hartley.”

“Here comes Jack and his wife!” exclaimed Sleepy.

They were coming from the stable. Molly’s clothes were badly torn, and her face bore evidence that she had not enjoyed her enforced stay in the hay loft, but she was unhurt, laughing just a trifle hysterically. Every one was trying to shake hands with her, but she ran to her father and dropped down beside him.

“I’m all right,” he told her. “Kinda leaky, but still on the job, Molly. Don’tcha worry. Everythin’ will be all right now.”

Molly hugged him and turned to the crowd.

“Jack says that everything is all right again. Oh, I hope it is all right, because everything has been all wrong for so long.”

She lifted her eyes and looked up at Marsh Hartwell, as if it was all meant for him. For several moments he looked down at her, as if wondering what to do. Then he walked over, reached down and held out his hand to Eph King.

“Eph,” he said, “I don’t understand it—all. But, by ——, I understand enough to offer yuh my hand—and my friendship. Will yuh take it? I ain’t goin’ to blame yuh, if yuh don’t. I’m all through blamin’ folks for doin’ things.”

King grinned weakly and held up his hand.

“I reckon we might as well be friends, Marsh. I’ve packed a lot of hate in my heart, too, but all the bad blood in me has leaked out today. I—I hope——” He turned and looked at Bill Steen. “Say, Bill, take the boys back to camp and begin’ runnin’ the sheep over Kiopo Pass. They don’t want ’em over here—and I don’t blame ’em.”

He turned to Marsh Hartwell and they shook hands gravely.

“Been a long time, Marsh. I been kinda lonesome to hear a cow bawlin’.”

“Come over any time, Eph,” said Marsh shakily.

“Yore cows are all safe,” said Sleepy. “Noonan says that they are all bunched about fifteen miles from here, out along the railroad. They were goin’ to start movin’ ’em into Sunland in the mornin’, ’cause Larrimer swore that he couldn’t hold Eph King any longer.”

Jack had gone to Molly and put one arm around her shoulder, turning her to face the crowd.

“Boys,” he said, “we thought that the comin’ of the sheep was the worst calamity that could happen to Lo Lo Valley, but I reckon it’s the best thing that ever happened to Molly and me—outside of the comin’ of Hashknife Hartley and his pardner.”

“Shucks!” said Hashknife softly. “It was fate, Jack, just fate.”

“Fate might have brought yuh here, but it was plain —— nerve that kept yuh here,” declared Sudden. “I apologize, Hartley. If yuh want me to, I’ll git down on my knees and ask yore pardon.”

“——!” snorted Sunshine. “Yuh ought to do that anyway. I knowed all the time that——”

“This is no time to lie, Sunshine,” said the sheriff. “They fooled you as much as they did me. At least be honest at a time like this.”

Hashknife grinned widely and looked at Molly.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I’m sure glad for yore sake. The night me and Sleepy found yuh——”

“And I thought Sleepy was a ghost,” laughed Jack. “He had on Molly’s nightgown!”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Mrs. Hartwell, anxiously. “That night——”

She searched inside her waist and drew out a sheet of paper, which she handed to Jack.

“That is the letter that McLeod brought me, Jack. You were so angry when you came back, and tore the letter—oh, I—I—it hurt me to think that you suspected me

“Good gosh!” exploded Jack. “Oh, I must ’a’ been a fool. This letter—” he held it out toward the crowd—“was from her father. I was fool enough to think my own wife was a spy for the sheepmen. I tore a corner off, in tryin’ to take the letter from her. And on the part I got, was, ‘Find out what—’. Just those three words. And I thought Eph King was askin’ for information about the cattlemen. Here is what the letter says—including what I tore off:

“Dear Molly: Just a short note to let you know that I have found out how things are for you and Jack down there. Why didn’t you write and tell your old dad about it? De Larimore told me how they had treated you, and it makes me mad enough to come down and whip the whole valley. See if you can find out what Jack wants to do. I have plenty of work for a man like Jack. If he don’t want to work with sheep, I can turn the Turkey Track ranch over to him. He knows enough about cattle to make that ranch pay——”

“Turkey Track?” interrupted Marsh Hartwell wonderingly.

“I’ve owned it for two years, Marsh,” said King softly. “Yuh see, I couldn’t keep out of the cattle business. The man you call Larrimer was recommended to me by Jack Noonan, about the time I bought the Turkey Track, so I made it appear that Larrimer was the owner.

“Larrimer framed up this thing and kept me posted. He and his men were the ones that shot the old man at Kiopo Pass. He told me that he had it fixed for us to drive straight into the valley, but later on he said his plans had gone wrong. Then he said that there were some men who suspected him and that it would be impossible to break through his side of the line.

“He told us that the dead-line was mined with dynamite, and that a sparrow couldn’t cross it. We had no way of finding out just how strong the line was. He wanted us to wait, so we waited—until Hartley came across and told us the truth. Now I’m goin’ to give Jack and Molly the Turkey Track for a weddin’ present. And I wish you’d see about gettin’ me to a doctor, cause I don’t want to die off, when there’s so much hatchet-buryin’ goin’ on, Marsh.”

“Just as soon as we can get yuh to one, Eph,” said Marsh. “We’ll take yuh to the Arrow, while one of the boys rides after the doctor.”

“What about me?” Thus Abe Allison.

No one had paid any attention to him. He had taken no part in the shooting, made no effort to run away. Now the crowd considered him, rather amazed to think that he had been overlooked.

“Oh, yeah,” Hashknife looked at him critically. “You were one of Ed Larrimer’s men, wasn’t yuh, Allison?”

“Uh-huh,” Allison looked around at the crowd. “I’m as guilty as ——, I reckon. To me, this wasn’t a killin’ proposition. But I’m not beggin’. I knew it was crooked work; so I’ll take my medicine.”

“He never killed anybody,” said Larrimer, whose wound was being bound up by one of the sheepmen. “Abe was straight until he worked for me.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said the sheriff firmly. “Get me a lariat, Sunshine. We’ll make a clean sweep of the whole gang while we’re at it.”

“Who will make a clean sweep?” asked Hashknife.

Sunshine stopped and looked back at the sheriff.

“You better answer that, Sudden,” he grinned.

“Well, all right,” grudgingly. “I’ll admit that Hartley made a clean sweep. I’ll help a little by puttin’ Allison where he belongs.”

“Let’s talk about it a little,” said Hashknife. “It appears to me that we all forgot Allison, until he chirps up and asks us what to do with him. My idea of the right thing to do would be to ask Mr. Allison to grab his hat, rattle his hocks out of this country and promise to never come back.”

“You mean—to turn him loose?” asked the sheriff, a trifle amazed. “Why, he’s a rustler——”

“Was, yuh mean,” Hashknife grinned softly. “I reckon he’s what you’d call a complete cure, Sudden.”

The sheriff scratched his head; his eyes squinted thoughtfully.

“You ought to be satisfied, Sudden,” observed Sunshine. “You’ve got enough now to brag about for the rest of yore life.”

Some one laughed. Sudden hunched his shoulders and glared at Sunshine, but turned to Allison, half choking with anger.

“You here yet? Whatsa matter—ain’t yuh got no horse? Want us to haul yuh away? My ——, some folks can’t take a hint!”

He whirled on his heel and barked an order at Sunshine.

“Get some of these reformed sheepherders to help yuh rig up a litter of some kind. We’ve got to pack Eph King to the Arrow. And some of yuh fix up Larrimer, so he can ride a horse. Can’tcha move? My gosh, I don’t want to do everythin’.”

The crowd hastened to construct the litter. Allison had not moved, and now he turned to Hashknife, his face twitching nervously.

“Did he mean that I could go away—free, Hartley?”

“Are you here yet?” grinned Hashknife.

Allison took a deep breath and started toward the corral, but after a few strides he stopped and looked at Hashknife.

“Kinda queer, ain’t it?” he whispered foolishly. “I—I want to run, but I’m scared to do it.”

“You don’t have to run,” said Hashknife.

“I know it.” He smiled queerly. “I don’t have to—but I can’t hardly help myself.” He brushed the back of his hand across his cheek. ‘I want to say somethin’ to you—but I can’t, it seems like. I—you know, don’tcha, Hartley?”

“Yeah, I know, Allison.”

The freed rustler nodded, turned and walked slowly to the corral, as if trying desperately to hold himself in check. Hashknife smiled thoughtfully and looked at Molly and Jack. The girl’s eyes were filled with tears, but she was smiling at Hashknife, a smile that repaid him for everything he had done.

“Everything is all right—thank you,” she said softly.

“It always was all right,” nodded Hashknife. “Sometimes it takes us quite a while to find it out—but it’s worth more then.”

Marsh Hartwell came to Hashknife. There were tears in the big man’s eyes, and his hand trembled slightly as he held it out to the tall cowboy and said hoarsely:

“Hartley, I just want to say that Marsh Hartwell and Lo Lo Valley owes you a mighty big debt. We’re goin’ to pull off a big meetin’ at the Arrow, just as soon as we can notify those on the dead-line, and if there’s anythin’ in Lo Lo Valley that you and your pardner want, you sure can have it.”

Hashknife shooks hands gravely with him and turned to Sleepy.

“Cowboy, this is our chance. Is there anythin’ yuh want real bad?”

“Yeah, there is.’” Sleepy scratched his ear. “I want a chance to sleep. This is the dangest hoot-owl country I ever got into. And I’ve got to have a package of tobacco. Thassall, I reckon. Now what do you want, Hashknife?”

“Me?” Hashknife smiled widely. “Well, I’d kinda like to see the expression on Mrs. Marsh Hartwell’s face when she sees her two kids comin’ home with their dads, and finds out that everythin’ is all right. That’ll be all I want.”

Hashknife turned away and looked out beyond the corral, where Abe Allison was riding up the slope of a hill. He drew rein and waved his sombrero in a sweeping arc. Hashknife threw up his right hand in a peace sign. Sudden Smithy, who was superintending the moving of the wounded, looked up and waved at Allison as if it was the departure of an old friend.

The menace of Kiopo Pass was gone forever; all dead-lines wiped out. Sunshine Gallagher straightened up and took a deep breath.

“I knowed it would work out like this,” he said wisely.

“Some day,” said Sudden severely, “you’ll git caught lyin’.”

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