The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Son,” said Nanah seriously.

“Relate by marriage!” exploded Sleepy.

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

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

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

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

Hashknife shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find the men that done the job.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nanah nodded quickly.

“Do you speak Navajo?” asked Marion.

Hashknife shook his head.

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

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

Marion laughed at the expression of Nanah’s face.

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

“That’s right,” said Hashknife. “Doncha do it, Nanah.”

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

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

Hashknife smiled over his cigaret.

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

Marion smiled.

“Yes, I have, Mr. Hartley.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Marion shook her head slowly.

“I guess we’ll get along all right.”

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

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

“Oh, all right,” laughed Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you.”

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

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

“I’m disappointed,” said Sleepy seriously.

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

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

“Hello,” he said.

“How’s the head?” asked Hashknife.

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

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

“Who rides that thing?” he asked.

“An attorney from Blue Wells,” said Hashknife.

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

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

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

“What can you do?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy shuffled his feet.

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

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

“Can yuh handle a rope?” asked Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t mention it, Marion.”

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

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

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

“Come again,” said Hashknife cordially.

Barnhardt flashed a glance at him, as he held out his hand to Marion.

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

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

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

“Means well to Lee Barnhardt,” smiled Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

Jimmy colored quickly.

“Well, not awful well.”

“Well enough to call her Marion.”

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

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

“It’s none of his business.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’ve met Chet Le Moyne?”

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

“Where did you meet Tex Alden?”

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

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

Jimmy looked at Hashknife in amazement.

“Why, how did you know that?”

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

Jimmy rubbed his nose and grinned foolishly.

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

“And that night you got shot.”

“Gee! Do you think he shot me?”

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

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

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

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

“Undoubtedly.”

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

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

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

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

“And take chances on bein’ killed?”

Jimmy nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He loves me,” she said.

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

Marion colored slightly.

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

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

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

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

“What was it?” she asked.

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

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

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

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

“But—but—” faltered Marion.

“Stay where yuh are,” cautioned Hashknife.

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

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

“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well?” he said rather defiantly.

“Not so well,” said Hashknife coldly.

He circled the horse, but there was no rifle in sight.

“What’s the idea?” queried the man.

“That’s what I want to know. Who are you, pardner?”

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

“Yeah? Good rifle shot?”

“Fair.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Get a look at ’em, eh?”

Goode grinned widely, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.

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

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

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

Goode’s eyes narrowed.

“And yuh thought I done it, Hartley?”

“I found yuh here.”

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

Hashknife lowered his gun and let down the hammer.

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

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

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

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

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

Goode looked curiously at Hashknife, his lips pursed thoughtfully.

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

Hashknife nodded. He liked Goode for that remark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hashknife nodded seriously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you a fatalist?” asked Marion.

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

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

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

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

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

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

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

“Cowpunchers of disaster,” corrected Hashknife.

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