The Buckaroo of Blue Wells/Chapter 12

OR the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double Bar 8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a rope, which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter, which seemed to ignore the target entirely.

Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing many cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and marveled that any man could shoot away so much ammunition and never hit anything.

But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good ear convulsively at each report of the heavy Colt.

Nanah had watched with interest from the door of the ranch-house, until a misdirected bullet smashed through a window near her, after which she lost interest in Jimmy’s marksmanship,

Hashknife and Sleepy rounded up several head of Double Bar 8 horses, getting Marion’s opinion on them as a remuda for the coming round-up, and also trying them out. As a result, both of the cowboys were stiff and sore from the unaccustomed shaking which is usually meted out to a rider by horses which have not been ridden for months, Jimmy Legg had tried one, and then retired to the liniment bottle.

Marion decided to ride to Blue Wells, and Jimmy immediately offered to ride with her. Jimmy had not been away from the ranch since the mysterious bullet had nearly robbed him of an ear, and he was anxious to go to town. Regardless of the fact that his torn scalp had not been dressed by a doctor, it was doing very nicely, and he was able to do away with the bandage.

He and Marion did not indulge in much conversation on the way to Blue Wells, because of the fact that most of Jimmy’s time was occupied in handling his mount.

“This is rather embarrassing,” he told Marion. “I start to say something to you, when this fool horse goes off across the country. I’d rather be thrown off than to have my conversation interrupted every time.”

“But you’re learning,” declared Marion.

“I hope so,” dubiously.

“Jimmy, does it mean so much to you—to be a cowboy?”

Jimmy reined his horse back into the road, clutched his hat just in time to save it, and nodded violently.

“You bet! Say, it means an awful lot to me, Marion. Darn it, the more I think about it, the more it means.”

Marion did not question him any further, as they rode down the main street of Blue Wells. Marion dismounted at the sheriff’s office, but Jimmy rode on to the Oasis hitch-rack, where he had seen several AK horses tied.

At the Oasis bar he found Johnny Grant, Eskimo Swensen, Oyster Shell and Tex Alden. Johnny fell upon him with a war-whoop of joy and dragged him to the bar, while Eskimo and Oyster pounded him on the shoulders and examined his scalp, much in the way of a pair of monkeys, gibbering the while.

Tex turned away without speaking and walked outside, while the AK gang leaned Johnny against the bar and demanded loudly of the bartender that he work fast. They questioned Jimmy about the shooting at the Double Bar 8, and his progress as a cowpuncher. In fact, the questions came too fast for Jimmy to answer. But after the second drink he managed to catch his breath, and told them some of the happenings. But he would not drink any more.

“I’ve got to ride back to the ranch,” he told them solemnly. “I brought Miss Taylor to town, and she is down at the jail, visiting with her folks.”

The two drinks had made Jimmy rather expansive and he told them about his roping and shooting lessons; which caused the AK boys to double up with mirth.

“We was goin’ to stop at yore place on the way back,” said Johnny Grant. “Bonnette said to tell Miss Taylor that her outfit can use from our wagons. There’s plenty of room for all the bed-rolls, and three extra men ain’t goin’ to kill off our cook.”

“Well, that certainly is thoughtful of him,” said Jimmy. “I know Miss Taylor will appreciate it.”

“Aw, you better have one more drink,” urged Eskimo. “One more won’t hurt yuh none.”

“Well,” Jimmy smiled expansively, “I suppose not. But I’ll buy this one.”

All of which was acceptable, as it had been long enough since pay-day to find the AK boys in financial straits. They drank a health to Jimmy, and all walked outside. The main street of Blue Wells drowsed in the afternoon sun. A few men humped in shady spots, whittling, discussing nothing much in particular. Even the horses at the hitch-racks drowsed.

Suddenly a commotion started at the sheriff’s office. It was not a big commotion, but plainly audible on the silent street. A yellowish-red dog darted out of the office door, whirled around once, as if to get its bearings, and trotted up the street, looking back.

Out of the door came Al Porter. He had a heavy dish in his right hand. Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then started toward the dog, running stiffly, swearing. The dog was Geronimo, the Exhibit A, in the case of the State of Arizona versus the Taylor Outfit.

Running as fast as he was capable, Porter hurled the dish at the dog. But his aim was very faulty, which was attested to by a splintering of window-glass from the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant.

The AK gang whooped with mirth. Jimmy Legg, forgetting that ownership of Geronimo might cause complications, ran across the street toward Porter, yelling at him to let the dog alone. Geronimo stopped in an angle between the end of a bench and the wall of Moon’s store, and anxiously watched Porter, who had picked up several rocks about the size of eggs, and was preparing to bombard the dog.

Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.

“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.

He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring Porter, who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which was even more arid than Death Valley.

“By, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in his skull!”

The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into Geronimo, who yelped more from fright than actual distress.

“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.

Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking one of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.

“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.

His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective, because he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before his hand swung away from his hip.

The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot lifted, as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And at the crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him and he came down in the hard street with a crash.

Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand, while Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came running toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy down.

“Good, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”

The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to Porter. The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it seemed to Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every doorway. Then he lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the hitch-rack, mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street, followed by Geronimo, barking wildly.

Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head, his face a mixture of anger and wonderment.

“Where’d he hit yuh?”

“What was the matter?”

“Who shot yuh?”

Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved the anxious sheriff away.

“That fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I was plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a look at it.”

Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the deputy’s sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high heel, almost into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s sole prop from under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding whack against the ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter stayed down a while.

“And he stole the dog!” exclaimed the sheriff.

“The dog stole him,” amended Johnny Grant.

“I hope t’ he keeps him!” groaned Porter. “I’m all through with that dog, evidence or no evidence.”

“But we’ve got to have that dog, Al,” insisted the sheriff. “That’s our main evidence.”

“Then you get him and do the feedin’. I never hired out as a menagerie keeper. He bit me on the wrist, and when I kicked at him, he bit me on the ankle and got loose.”

Tex Alden was one of those who had come from Moon’s store, and now he spoke to the sheriff:

“Just why did that dog pull out with Legg?”

“Why, I dunno, Tex,” admitted the sheriff.

“Why did Legg defend the dog?”

The sheriff looked blankly around.

“I dunno that either, Tex.”

“All right,” Tex smiled crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. He looked at Marion, but did not speak, and turned away.

“What’ll yuh do to that kid, Al?” asked one of the men.

“Do to him?” Porter took it under advisement. “I dunno. He might ’a’ been right. I was so mad that I dunno just how things was.”

“You reached back for a gun,” reminded Eskimo, and the other three AK cowboys nodded in confirmation.

“Yuh did, Al,” said Johnny.

“All right,” nodded Porter. “Mebbe I did.”

“And the kid thought yuh was goin’ to draw on him,” offered Oyster Shell.

“Well, what the is all the argument about?” snarled the deputy. “I’ll admit he was right. But,” Porter mustered a smile, “I hope that dog bites him when he gits off that horse.”

All of which ended all arguments as far as the guilt or innocence of Jimmy Legg was concerned—although Jimmy Legg, running his horse back toward the Double Bar 8, considered himself a deep-dyed killer.

He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he saw Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still on his palate.

His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking. Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to remember just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-forgotten dream—something that had happened long ago.

His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio gate and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just coming from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of the horse that something was wrong.

“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in his throat.

“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.

Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.

“You done what?”

Jimmy gulped and nodded.

“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”

“Take it easy, kid,” said Hashknife. “Set down here on the curb and tell us about it.”

“I can’t,” Jimmy shook his head nervously. “I’ve got to keep going. They’re after me, don’t you see?”

“All right, kid. If they’re after you, this is a fine place for ’em to get you.”

“But I can’t stay here, Hashknife.”

“Sure yuh can, Jimmy. Let’s talk it over. Runnin’ away won’t help yuh none. You’d lose out.”

Geronimo came into the patio, dust-covered, his tongue hanging out, tail wagging. Jimmy had set a hot pace from town, but the dog had found him. He sat down on his haunches in front of Jimmy and put a paw on Jimmy’s knee.

“Where’d the dog come from?” asked Sleepy.

Jimmy looked at Geronimo, and Geronimo looked at Jimmy.

“He is my dog,” said Jimmy slowly. “It’s the dog they had in jail—the evidence against Taylor.”

“Your dog, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

“Oh, yes,” Jimmy nodded slowly. “You see, I was afraid to tell anybody.”

“All right,” said Hashknife. “Now, tell us about the killin’ of the deputy sheriff, Jimmy.”

And Jimmy told them, while the two cowboys asked a question here and there to clarify things somewhat.

“Well, it looks to me as if it was a case of self-defense,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his story.

“He really reached for his gun,” said Jimmy. “I realized it.”

“What I’d like to know is, how in did yuh ever hit him?” queried Sleepy.

“I—I suppose it was because he’s larger than a tin can.”

“Where do yuh reckon yuh hit him?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” wailed Jimmy. “It must have been through the heart, because he fell down so quickly—and his knees were jerking.”

“That’s good shootin’, for the first time,” said Sleepy dryly. “Where is Marion?”

“Oh, I forgot her! I must have been excited.”

“You prob’ly would be,” agreed Hashknife. “What I want you to do right now is to tell me all about ownin’ this dog.”

“Oh, yes, about the dog,” Jimmy jerked nervously at the sound of a noise outside the patio gate, but it was only Apollo, rubbing his shoulder against the wall.

Jimmy sighed deeply.

“I suppose that was a dirty trick. But when I found out that—that the dog was supposed to belong to a robber, I was afraid to claim him. He ran away from me that night in Blue Wells, you see.”

And then James Eaton Legg went ahead and told them about his experience with the express messenger. Hashknife grinned, when Jimmy told of that battle in the express car, and of how the messenger had described him as being a big, burly man, who tried to draw a gun.

“His lyin’ saves you a lot of trouble,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his tale. “He didn’t want anybody to think he had been whipped by a smaller man.”

“I suppose so; but I’ll go to town and tell ’em that the dog belongs to me. I might as well shoulder it all now.”

“I wish yuh wouldn’t,” said Hashknife. “Let things ride as they are for a while. If they arrest yuh for shootin’ the deputy, mebbe yuh can make a self-defense out of it. Yuh say that the AK boys saw it? They’ll prob’ly alibi yuh, ’cause they don’t like the sheriff. Under the circumstances a man could lie a little and not bend his conscience too much.”

“Yuh should have stayed and seen the finish,” said Sleepy. “It would ’a’ looked better.”

“I know it,” Jimmy sighed wearily. “But all I could think about was to run away. I’ve never killed a man before.”

“Prob’ly the first time he ever was killed, too.”

“Oh, don’t joke about it! It’s a terrible thing.”

“Pshaw, I wasn’t jokin’, Jimmy.”

“I know, but—”

A horse swung in through the patio gate, and Jimmy almost fell off the curb; but it was only Marion. She looked at Jimmy and began laughing. Geronimo barked joyfully and tried to jump up to her stirrup.

But Jimmy only stared at her blankly, his mouth open.

“What’s the joke?” asked Hashknife seriously.

“Dud-don’t laugh,” pleaded Jimmy. “It isn’t anything to laugh about.”

Between chuckles of merriment Marion managed to tell them what Jimmy had done, while Jimmy, his eyes and mouth wide open, leaned against the curb, gasping like a fish out of water.

Marion described how Jimmy had ridden out of Blue Wells, followed by the dog, and Sleepy cried against the shoulder of her horse. But Jimmy was too relieved to laugh.

“Well,” he said solemnly, “I guess I’ll have to pick something bigger than a man next time. Really, there should be something big enough for me to hit.”

“You ought to attack a fort,” laughed Sleepy.

They unsaddled Marion’s horse, while Jimmy took care of his own exhausted mount. He was so happy that he tried to take the saddle off without uncinching it.

“I expect the sheriff will be out here soon,” Marion told them. “He wants that dog. It bit Al Porter twice today, but they’ve got to keep it for evidence.”

“They don’t know it’s here,” said Hashknife. “Let’s hide it.”

“Hide it? But that wouldn’t be lawful.”

“It isn’t lawful to hold yore folks on that kind of evidence, either. Where can we put the dog.”

“In the cellar,” suggested Sleepy. “The one beneath the kitchen.”

“But won’t they search?”

“Prob’ly. Put a rug over the trap-door, and they’ll never see it.”

It did not take them long to dump Geronimo into the cellar, where Sleepy made him a good bed and put in a bucket of water. The dog accepted his new quarters without any protest, and Nanah grinned when she put an old rug over the trap-door, and moved over a table to rest on it.

The three men were in the bunk-house when the sheriff showed up, about thirty minutes later. He looked around the patio, expecting to see the dog, and dismounted. Hashknife shook hands with him. Jimmy did not put in an appearance.

“You heard what happened in town, didn’t yuh?” asked the sheriff. Hashknife agreed that he had.

“It ended all right,” remarked the sheriff. “Except that the main exhibit of the Taylor case followed Legg out of town.”

“What exhibit was that?”

“The dog. Legg came here, didn’t he?”

“Oh, yeah. But I don’t know anythin’ about the dog. Jimmy said the trouble started over a dog, and Miss Taylor said the dog followed Jimmy out of Blue Wells, but it prob’ly went back.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? Went back—where?”

“Why, to Blue Wells.”

“I don’t think so, Hartley.”

“Didja search the town?”

The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had stopped and turned back to town.

“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.

“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had killed Porter.”

“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the heel. They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’ to kill somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every time. By golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot that he worries me.”

As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt rode in on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.

“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start out, but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”

“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”

Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from his pocket, which he gave to her.

“The postmaster said you forgot to get it,” he said. “I was coming out; so I brought it.”

The mail consisted of a few circulars and a weekly newspaper.

“I asked for mail for you boys,” Barnhardt told Hashknife.

“We’re not likely to get any,” smiled Hashknife. “Thank yuh just the same.”

Barnhardt turned to the sheriff.

“What about that dog?”

“Not here. Mebbe it never left town, Lee. Yo’re not worryin’ are yuh?”

“Not me. I’d be just as well satisfied if it never came back.”

“That’s what I thought. Are yuh ready to ride back?”

The lawyer shook his head.

“I’m in no hurry, Scotty.”

“Well, I am. So long, folks.”

Jimmy ventured out after the sheriff had gone, and wanted to know everything the sheriff had said. He was so glad to know that the law was not on his trail that he even spoke pleasantly to Lee Barnhardt.

Marion went in the house, and Sleepy sat down in the shade with Jimmy, leaving Hashknife with the lawyer.

“Naturally, we are both working in the interests of the Taylor family,” said the lawyer confidentially. “Now, I’d like to know what progress you have made in your observations.”

Hashknife looked at him keenly.

“I don’t reckon I understand yuh, Barnhardt.”

“No?” Barnhardt smiled knowingly. “For your own information I will say that Chet Le Moyne admitted your connections with the Santa Rita mining company.”

“He did, eh?” Hashknife was wearing his poker face now.

“Yes. It is rather difficult to keep a thing like that from becoming common knowledge. Folks naturally wondered what your business might be.”

“I suppose,” seriously. “But I don’t reckon it makes much difference, does it?”

“Oh, no. I have not mentioned it to any one; but I was curious to know what you had found out, because I am anxious for any new development which will serve my clients.”

“Well, I can’t tell yuh much. In fact, I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”

“Anything you told me would be in strictest confidence.”

“Yeah, I realize that.”

But although the Blue Wells lawyer waited patiently, the tall cowboy remained silent. Then—

“Just an inkling of what you are doing would serve to cheer up my clients.”

Hashknife shifted his position and looked Barnhardt squarely in the eye. The level stare of the cold-eyed cowboy caused Barnhardt’s gaze to shift. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Hashknife could read his mind.

“Barnhardt,” said Hashknife earnestly, “do you think I’m a fool?”

“Oh, no; not at all. Well,” Barnhardt turned away, “I suppose I may as well go back. No hard feelings, I hope. Being in charge of the Taylor defense, I would naturally be interested in any new developmenst [sic] in the case.”

Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his elbows flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the Double Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the dusty road, while he took an envelope from his pocket. The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was addressed to H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:

Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw bulged as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off the road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He turned in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he reined his horse back to the road.

“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a fool?”

But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of knowing. He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At any rate he rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and the first man he met was Chet Le Moyne.

“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I had a talk with your detectives.”

“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”

“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were working for the Santa Rita.”

“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”

“Oh, they didn’t deny it. But I don’t think they’ve found out very much.”

“Possibly not.”

Le Moyne watched Barnhardt ride down to his office, tie his horse, and go inside. The face of the handsome paymaster twisted angrily, as his gloomy eyes squinted against the sun.

“I wonder if Barnhardt is just a plain fool, or—”

Le Moyne shook his head and went on his way.

HAT evening Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy rode to Blue Wells. There were few people in town, and while Jimmy and Sleepy played pool at the Oasis saloon, Hashknife found the sheriff at his office. The sheriff was pleasant and curious, especially when Hashknife talked over with him the evidence in the Taylor case.

The subject of the AK boys’ locking the sheriff in his own cell came up, and the sheriff explained that the reason no one discovered his plight was because Al Porter, the deputy, was at Encinas, visiting a girl, and did not get back until morning.

“Does that Santa Rita pay-roll come in at the same time every month?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno.”

“They say that the paymaster always takes the money from here to the mine.”

“I reckon he does.”

“And somebody would have to know it was comin’ that day.” “Oh, they must ’a’ knowed about it, Hartley.”

“How would Taylor have found it out?”

“That’s hard to say. Chet Le Moyne, the paymaster, is kinda sweet on Miss Taylor, and—”

“And he might have told her, eh?”

“I don’t say he did, Hartley.”

“But for the sake of an argument, it could ’a’ happened. She might ’a’ mentioned the fact that Chet was comin’ in to get the pay-roll, eh? Is that what yuh was thinkin’?”

“Mebbe.” The sheriff did not want to commit himself.

“And this Le Moyne was at the depot to get the pay-roll?”

“Yeah. He was here earlier in the evenin’, and somebody said he went out to see Miss Taylor.”

“But he was at the depot to get the money, was he?”

“Yeah.”

“And you think there was four men in on the deal?”

“Sure. The fourth one got on at Encinas. It was his job to put the messenger out of commission, I reckon.”

“This happened out where the AK road turns off the Encinas road, near the railroad track, I understand. They cut the express car loose from the rest of the train, ran it up there, blew the safe and got the money. The engine crew say they had sort of a battle with ’em, after they left the car. Then the engine crew ran the engine and express car back to where they had cut loose from the rest of the train, picked it up and came on to Blue Wells. Is that it?”

“Yeah, that’s what happened.”

“This express messenger and the man who got on the car at Encinas fought in the car, but finally fell out. Do yuh know if this was before or after the train was cut in two?”

The sheriff cogitated deeply.

“I never did hear, but—say, it must ’a’ been after the train was broken, because they picked up the messenger on their way to here. Yessir, it must ’a’ been after they cut off the express car, because that messenger sure was picked up. He never walked to the train.”

“The messenger described the man who fought him, didn’t he?”

“Well, he said it was a big, husky sort of a feller. I don’t think there’s any question about him bein’ one of the gang. He used that dog as a reason for gettin’ on that car.”

“They why did he walk to the scene of the robbery, take the dog from the express car and disappear?”

“Prob’ly scared that some one would recognize the dog?”

“The messenger and engine crew had already seen it. If it belonged to Taylor, do yuh reckon they’d take the dog back to their ranch, where any one could find it?”

The sheriff twisted his mustache thoughtfully. This was something he had not thought about.

“Anybody would recognize that dog,” said Hashknife.

“Yore argument sounds pretty good,” admitted the sheriff. “But it don’t make much difference, because we can’t find that dog. Al Porter is glad, I suppose. The darn thing hates him. Bit him every time it had a chance. Growls every time he shows up.”

“You’ll have to find the dog before the trial, won’t yuh?”

“I s’pose the prosecutin’ attorney will raise if it ain’t here. Still, it’s been identified; so that prob’ly won’t make a lot of difference.”

“What became of Wade, the railroad detective?”

“Oh, he went back. Yuh see, he decided that Taylor was guilty; so there wasn’t anythin’ more for him to do here.”

Hashknife went back to the saloon, and they made it a three-handed game of pool. It was about nine o’clock when they decided to go back to the ranch, as there was no excitement at all in Blue Wells. The moonlight was so bright that, following Hashknife’s suggestion, they rode in single file, about fifty feet apart.

That shot from the hills had made Hashknife cautious, and he knew that three riders, bunched, would make an easy target in that moonlight. But their return was uneventful, except that there were no lights in the windows of the ranch-house.

“That sure looks all wrong,” declared Hashknife.

“Mebbe not,” said Sleepy. “Marion and Nanah might be enjoyin’ the moonlight.”

“They might, but we’ll play safe by thinkin’ they’re not.”

The three men dismounted a hundred yards from the house and went cautiously to the patio gate. There was not a sound. The rear of the ranch-house flung a long shadow across the patio. Hashknife watched and listened for a while, and then strode boldly inside. A door creaked, and they heard Marion’s voice—

“Is that you, Hashknife?” she spoke softly.

“It sure is,” replied Hashknife. “What’s the matter?”

“Come here.”

They went softly across the patio and up to the door, where she let them in. They could see the silhouette of Nanah against a window, where she was watching. Marion closed the door softly.

“There wasn’t any light,” said Hashknife.

“Nanah saw you leave your horses,” said Marion. “She knew who it was. About half an hour ago Nanah and I were sitting on the back porch in the moonlight. It was wonderful out there, but it was getting cool; so we came in. There were no lamps lighted.

“And Nanah swears she saw a man looking in the window, where she is now. I told her she must be seeing things, but she persisted. So we did not light a lamp. We watched and watched, but the man did not come back. I went to the rear door and opened it a little. It squeaks a little, you know. Then I saw a man cross the patio. He was all humped up, and it seemed to me as though he had been looking in the window of the bunk-house. I can’t be sure about it. I’m sure he did not suspect that I had seen him, because he stopped in the gateway for quite a while. Then he stepped into the shadow on the other side of the wall.”

“How long ago was this?” asked Hashknife.

“Not over thirty minutes ago.”

“He must have been lookin’ for us,” grinned Sleepy.

“And if he seen us sneak in here he’ll know we’re on to him,” said Hashknife. “But we’ve got to take a chance. Come out on the porch. Tell Nanah to light the lamps.”

The old Indian woman bustled around, lighting lamps, while the rest of them followed Hashknife to the rear porch.

“I’ll go first,” whispered Hashknife. “One man only makes one target. If the coast is clear, I’ll whistle a tune, and Sleepy, you and Jimmy come over there.”

Hashknife kept well in the shadow in crossing the patio, and in a minute or two he began whistling. Sleepy and Jimmy crossed to the bunk-house, where the door was open. Hashknife lighted the lamp, which was on a table about midway of the room.

Then he motioned Sleepy and Jimmy back to the doorway, where he followed them out, closing the door.

“Duck down as low as yuh can and sneak back to the house,” he whispered. They got back to the house and crept silently in.

Hashknife stepped in close to a rear window, where he could get a clear view of the patio, and watched through a break in the curtain.

“If he didn’t see our horses, he’ll think we’re in the bunk-house,” said Hashknife. “If he seen us leave our horses and do an Injun sneak, he’ll know we’re on to him, and prob’ly fog away from here.”

“Do you think it’s the man who has been trying to kill me?” asked Jimmy.

“Might be.”

Suddenly Hashknife jerked back. A blinding flash filled the room, followed by a terrific jarring crash, which fairly threw them off their feet. The lamp was extinguished; pictures fell from the walls, and a moment later the house seemed to be bombarded with missiles from every angle.

Hashknife had fallen back against a table, but now he got to his feet, groping in the dark. Sleepy was swearing dazedly. Dust and smoke eddied in through the broken windows, and with it was the odor of dynamite; the unmistakable scent of nitro-glycerine.

“Is anybody hurt?” gasped Hashknife, scratching a match and holding it above his head. Nanah was sitting against the wall, her eyes goggling out of an impassive face. Marion had got to her feet and was reaching for something to steady herself with, while Jimmy had backed against the wall, his arms outspread against it, his feet braced.

“What was it?” whispered Marion, staring wide-eyed at Hashknife.

“Somebody dynamited us, I reckon.” He strode to the door and flung it open, while the others crowded close behind him. Where once had stood the adobe bunk-house, there was only a pile of adobe bricks, twisted timbers. The patio was a mass of adobe. On the porch of the ranch-house was the splintered door, torn from its hinges and flung across the patio.

Hashknife ran across the yard, vaulted across the débris and went out through a gaping hole in the patio wall, heading for the stables. Through some freak of dynamite explosion, the force seemed to have been in the opposite direction to the stables, with the result that none of the stock was injured, and the stable still intact.

It did not take Hashknife long to find that nothing had been injured in the stable. A decidedly feminine shriek from the patio sent him running back through the broken wall, where he almost ran into Apollo, the ancient burro.

“He was under that pile of stuff,” yelled Sleepy. “Rised up like a darned ghost and almost scared Marion to death.”

Marion was laughing foolishly, almost hysterically.

“ good thing I see man,” declared Nanah solemnly.

“You bet it was!” agreed Hashknife warmly. “If yuh didn’t see that man, we’d be in bad shape now, Nanah. Good gosh! Can yuh imagine what would ’a’ happened to us, if we’d ’a’ been in that bunk-house?”

“Yeah, and we’d better look a little out,” said Sleepy nervously. “The little sidewinder that touched off that blast will prob’ly want to see if he done a good job.”

“He’ll not come back tonight, Sleepy. He’s high-tailin’ it out of this section right now. I’ll betcha yuh could hear that explosion in Blue Wells.”

Marion shivered in the cold breeze, as she looked at the moonlit wreck.

“Oh, what will happen next?” she wondered aloud.

“Somebody,” said Hashknife, “is goin’ to hear the echo of that blast, and it sure is goin’ to ache his ears.”

They tried to find their bed-rolls, but the outer wall of the bunk-house, which was about two feet thick of adobe, had fallen in on the floor, and it would require much digging to get down even to the bunk-levels.

They went after their horses and put them in the stable, after which they borrowed a few blankets from Marion. Jimmy insisted that he be allowed to stand guard with them, but Hashknife decreed that Jimmy sleep in the house, while Sleepy rolled in his blankets at the hay-mow window of the stable, which, since the bunk-house was no more, gave him a fair view of the patio and rear of the house. Hashknife went out about a hundred feet from the front of the house, and coiled up in his blankets in the cover of a mesquite, where he could watch the front of the ranch-house. But nothing came, except the cold, gray dawn, which was a long time coming.

There was an exodus from Blue Wells, when the news of the dynamiting reached there, and the Double Bar 8 held a great gathering of the cattle-clan, who came to view the ruins and to give an opinion. Some of them seemed to think that perhaps Apostle Paul Taylor had had some dynamite stored in the bunk-house, and that it had exploded.

Tex Alden came and viewed the ruins with gloomy eyes; Barnhardt perched on a pile of adobe and crumbled the clay between his fingers, and looked wise. The sheriff talked to every one who seemed to have any kind of a theory—and knew no more about it than he did when he came.

The women grouped around Marion, and “Oh’d” and “Ah’d,” like a lot of old hens clucking over a sudden fright. Hashknife said nothing, but listened much. Le Moyne came to him and tried to find out what Hashknife thought about it, but went away with the feeling that this tall cowboy knew less than any of them.

With Le Moyne was Dug Haley, who quarreled loudly with Al Porter over what dynamite would or would not do. Sleepy Stevens horned into the argument with a dissertation on “the dynamic principles of combustion,” in which he used the words “epiglottis,” “atomizer” and “dogmatic” numberless times; much to the confusion of Al Porter, who was forced to admit that all he knew about dynamite was that “the stuff busts and raises .”

It was not often that Antelope Neal, owner of the Oasis, went out of Blue Wells, but he did ride down to see what had happened to the Double Bar 8. Neal was a small, gray-haired man, who seldom had anything to say. He was a square gambler, and was respected as such in Blue Wells.

Hashknife noticed that Tex Alden and Antelope Neal stood apart from the crowd for quite a while, talking confidentially, eying him at times, and causing Hashknife to suspect that he was the subject of their conversation.

When the crowd began to thin out, it seemed that Tex tried to start a conversation with Marion, but she evidently preferred the attention of Jimmy Legg, and Tex retired, his lips set in a thin line, his eyes hard and speculative.

Lee Barnhardt noticed that Marion had evaded Tex, and it seemed to amuse the Blue Wells attorney. He sidled in beside Tex, who paid no attention to him.

“Tex, you’re not going to let a tenderfoot tramp cut you out, are you?” he asked, possibly trying to be sympathetic.

Tex’s action was almost as sudden as dynamite. He hooked his right fist against Barnhardt’s jaw, knocking him almost through the patio gate. Needless to say, Barnhardt stayed down. Tex stepped over to him, glanced down, turned to the crowd and studied them coldly. Then, without a word, he walked to his horse, mounted and rode away.

Several men ran to Barnhardt and tried to help him to his feet; but standing up was one thing that Barnhardt did not care about in the least. He sagged weakly, goggle-eyed.

“As cool as a cow-cumber,” said Al Porter.

“Cucumber,” corrected Dug Haley.

“I said what I meant!” snapped Porter. “If you wants to correct me on vegetation, you better mean the same thing that I do.”

“There’s been enough fightin’,” observed the sheriff. “Did anybody hear what caused Tex to hit Barnhardt?”

Nobody had. Some one secured a bucket of water, which they sluiced over the helpless Barnhardt. It made a mess of him, but served to jolt him back to consciousness. After a minute or two he was able to stand on his feet, but his jaw did not function properly. Hashknife examined it but found it was not broken.

“Why did he hit yuh, Lee?” asked the sheriff.

“Idnuk,” said Lee painfully. Interpreted, this might be construed to mean “I don’t know.”

And this was all the explanation he was willing to mumble. He went out to his sway-backed horse, and headed for Blue Wells, riding slowly and caressing his jaw.

The sheriff was the last to leave, and he would have stayed longer, except that the four cowboys from the AK ranch rode in. They had heard of the dynamiting, in Blue Wells. The sheriff did not care for their company; so he rode away.

“My, that shore is another wreck of the Hesperus, ain’t she?” said Eskimo Swensen. “Wham! I’ll betcha she made some noise.”

“It came near being serious,” said Jimmy.

Johnny Grant grinned widely and slapped Jimmy on the back.

“You derned hoodoo! It looks as though this was the third time they’d tried to kill yuh off. I dunno what they’ll use next.”

“Tie him on a railroad track,” suggested Oyster.

Johnny drew Hashknife aside, and they sat down together on a pile of shattered adobe bricks.

“I’ve been wantin’ to talk with you, Hartley,” said Johnny seriously. “Yo’re workin’ on this hold-up case, ain’t yuh?”

“Well?” Hashknife admitted nothing.

“I heard yuh was; so I’m goin’ to tell yuh what I know about it.”

And while the other boys examined the wreckage, Johnny Grant told Hashknife of that night in Blue Wells, when they got drunk and locked the sheriff in his own cell. And of the incident at the train, when they staged an impromptu battle with the engineer and fireman; not knowing what it was all about.

He told Hashknife of the man who came along the track in the dark, went into the express car and got the dog.

“Somebody cut our broncs loose that night,” said Johnny. “I understand that the sheriff’s horses were also turned loose, and it kinda looks as though it was done to prevent a posse from trailin’ ’em. Of course, they wouldn’t know that Al Porter was in Encinas, visitin’ his girl, and that the sheriff was in jail.”

Hashknife grinned widely and thanked Johnny for his information.

“Thasall right,” said Johnny. “Yo’re sure welcome. Yuh see, we don’t care much for the sheriff and his deputy. They said we ought to be run out of the country; so we kept still about what happened to us. But when they jailed the Taylor outfit, I just got to thinkin’ that mebbe our evidence might help to land the right ones. I didn’t want to give it to Wade, the railroad detective, because he acted so smart; but I’m givin’ it to' you, because you—because I had a talk with Goode, over at the X Bar 6.”

“Well, that may not help us all the way out, but it’s somethin’ to grab on to,” smiled Hashknife. “That feller Goode probably lied a lot about us, but he means all right,I guess.”

“Well,” confessed Johnny gravely, “he sure scared me into tellin’ yuh all I knew.”

“You look like a feller that scares easy,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll betcha all three of you fellers would run from a shadow.”

“Well, yuh can’t do much damage to a shadow, yuh know. We’d like yuh to know that if yuh need three fellers that are strong in the muscle and weak in the head, yuh might call on us.”

“Thanks, Grant. I reckon Nanah and Marion are cookin’ dinner, and if I was you, I’d stick around for the meal. Marion wants to thank yuh for offerin’ accommodations to us on the round-up.”

“George Bonnette done that, Hartley. ’S funny Tex Alden didn’t offer to take care of yuh.”

“I reckon he’s sore about Jimmy bein’ here.”

“M-m-m-m-m-m. Hartley, no matter what yore personal opinion is of Tex Alden, he’s a white man, and a of a good cow-hand. Mebbe he’s kinda off-color on account of carin’ a lot for that girl, but he’s a square shooter—all the time.”

“Yeah? He ordered Jimmy Legg to get out of the country. That night Jimmy was shot, just after he had left Marion Taylor, at the front of the Blue Wells hotel. A little later on, a shot from the hill out there almost got him again.”

“I know that,” Johnny shook his head. “If I was goin’ off at half-cock, I’d nod toward Tex, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would, Grant—but I don’t.”

“No? Well, that’s good. I talked with Tex the other day. He admits that it looks as if he done it.”

Marion called to them from the rear door, and they headed for the wash-bench, dropping the subject of Tex Alden.

And while they ate dinner at the Double Bar 8, Lee Barnhardt rode into Blue Wells, stabled his horse and went to see the doctor, who did a little to alleviate the pain in his jaw. Back in his office, he filled his pipe and tried to enjoy a smoke, but flung the pipe aside, because he couldn’t keep his mind on tobacco. It was the one time in his life that Lee Barnhardt was thoroughly mad. Just now he hated everybody, and everything—especially Tex Alden.

And while his anger was at fever-heat, Scotty Olson, the sheriff, walked into the office.

“How’s yore jaw?” asked the sheriff.

“None of your business!”

The exclamation seemed to hurt Lee’s jaw, and he clapped a hand to the side of his face, shutting one eye tightly.

“I reckon it’s all well,” said the sheriff sarcastically. “Tex hit yuh a dinger of a punch, didn’t he. I never did see a feller flatten out prettier than you did. My, you was jist about as animated as a scarecrow, after yuh pull the braces out of it! I asked Tex a while ago why he hit yuh, and he said for me to ask you.”

“And you came to ask me, did you?” Barnhardt was almost crying with anger. “You haven’t a brain in your head.”

“I thought there was a reason,” said the sheriff mildly. “Of course, if he was jist doin’ it for fun—”

“Fun, eh?” gritted Barnhardt. “I’ll make him think it was fun. He owes the X Bar 6 eight thousand dollars, and he’ll pay it, or go to jail for embezzlement. I’ll show him! And for your own information, I’ll tell you that Tex knew the money for the Santa Rita was coming in on that train.”

“How did he know that, Lee?”

“By, I told him it was!”

“How did you know?”

“I guessed it.”

The sheriff sat down and studied the situation, while the lawyer caressed his sore jaw and wondered if he was showing good judgment in telling all this about Tex.

“And you think Tex held up that train, Lee?”

“I didn’t say that, Scotty.”

“No, I know yuh didn’t; but yuh hinted at it. If Tex hears this, he’ll hit yuh with somethin’ besides his fist.”

“I suppose.” Lee looked gloomily at the wall, one eye half shut from the pain in his jaw.

Came the sound of a step at the doorway, and Tex Alden came in. Barnhardt jerked up his head quickly and stared at the man who had knocked him cold.

“Hello, Scotty,” said Tex evenly.

He did not speak to Barnhardt, as he came up to the lawyer’s desk, drawing a bulky package from his pocket.

“I owe yuh that much, Barnhardt,” Tex said coldly. “Mebbe yuh better count it.”

Barnhardt swallowed heavily, but made no move to pick up the money. Tex eyed him for a moment, turned and walked out, without saying anything more. Barnhardt shifted uneasily, but finally picked up the package, walked to his small safe, opened it with a key, and put away the package.

He came back and sat down, making no explanation.

“Tex wasn’t very cheerful,” observed Scotty.

Barnhardt shook his head and sighed deeply.

“I think I’ll take a little trip, Scotty; kinda get away until time for that trial. I’ve been pretty steady on the job for two years, and a little change would do me good.”

“A change does anybody good,” admitted the sheriff. “I’d like to go with yuh. What’ll yuh do, close yore office?”

“I think so. I won’t be gone more than a week, but I think, under the circumstances, I should go away until things clear a little.”

“I suppose so, Lee.”

The sheriff thought it would really be a wise thing for Barnhardt to go away for a while, and he said so to Hashknife that evening, when Hashknife stopped at the office for a few minutes. They were discussing the incident at the Double Bar 8, and Hashknife wondered how Barnhardt’s jaw was feeling. The sheriff told of Tex’s bringing a package of money to Lee Barnhardt, and he also told Hashknife what Barnhardt had said about Tex knowing about that shipment of money.

“I wouldn’t tell that to anybody else,” said the sheriff. “But it appears that you’re workin’ on the case, and yuh ought to know about these things.”

“When does Barnhardt intend to leave?” asked Hashknife.

“He didn’t say; but I expect he’ll leave tomorrow. Between me and you, he’s scared of Tex Alden, and he wants to git away for a few days to let Tex cool off. Lee talks too much.”

“That’s a human failin’,” smiled Hashknife.

But Lee Barnhardt did not go on any trip. When he got up the following morning he found that some one had opened his safe during the night, and had looted it of everything it contained. The bank did not have a safety vault; so Barnhardt found himself cleaned out, as everything he owned was in his own safe.

He sat down at his desk and stared at the empty valise, which he had brought along and placed beside the safe. His clothes were packed in a larger valise. He seemed stunned, his vacant gaze fixed upon the half-open door of the safe.

The fruits of two years’ work had been in that safe, when he locked the office the night before. He had never feared a robbery, because a lawyer’s safe usually only held papers, of no value to any one, except to the lawyer.

His dazed condition passed, leaving him in a state of perspiration. He got to his feet and staggered over to the safe, peering within, trying to convince himself that it was only a dream. He went to the front door and gazed out at the street. It was fairly early in the morning, and there were few people in evidence. He heard the train leave the station; the train he had intended leaving on, and he turned away, choking a curse.

He went to his desk, and with shaking fingers he opened a drawer and took out a revolver, which he put in his pocket. He unbuttoned his vest, disclosing a narrow strap across his bosom, attesting to the fact that he was wearing a shoulder-holster. Then he sat down, trying to think just what to do.

“I’ve got to find Tex Alden,” he told himself. “Tex saw me put that money in my safe. him, he paid his debt before a witness, and then took it back—took everything in the safe. If he don’t give it back to me, I’ll kill him.”

He flung the two valises behind his desk and walked to the door. Al Porter was coming toward the office. Barnhardt tried to appear indifferent, although he knew Porter would question him. As Porter neared the office, Marion Taylor, Jimmy Legg and Sleepy came riding down the street. Porter came up to Barnhardt, but did not speak, and they watched the riders draw up in front of them.

“Good morning, Mr. Barnhardt,” said Marion. “We looked for you at the depot a while ago. Did you decide to not go away?”

Barnhardt nodded dumbly, because he dared not speak.

“Where’s the tall feller?” asked Porter.

“He went away on the train,” said Sleepy, beginning the manufacture of a cigaret.

“Went away, eh? Gone to stay?”

“No-o-o; just to Encinas.”

Barnhardt swallowed heavily and tried to smile.

“That’s where Al’s girl lives,” he offered.

“He may see her,” replied Sleepy seriously.

Porter stared at Sleepy, wondering if this innocent-eyed cowboy meant anything by that remark.

“We came in pretty early,” said Marion, “and I wonder if the sheriff will let me in the jail.”

“He’s in the office,” growled Porter. “I reckon he will.”

They moved on toward the jail, and Porter turned angrily to Barnhardt.

“That was a of a remark to make! You ain’t got no interest in my girl, have yuh?”

“Not a particle.”

“Then never mind about her; sabe? You monkey with my business and you’ll get worse than Tex Alden gave yuh.”

“Did you come up here to pick a fight?” queried Barnhardt.

“Any old time I look for trouble, I won’t pick out a  wide-mouthed lawyer, that’s a cinch.”

Porter turned on his heel and went to the stable, where he saddled his horse and rode out of town.

Barnhardt waited until the three riders had left the sheriff’s office, and then went down there. The sheriff looked quizzically at him.

“I thought you was goin’ away this mornin’, Lee.”

“Changed my mind,” said Barnhardt. “May go tomorrow.”

The sheriff nodded and looked at some papers on his desk.

“Hartley went away this mornin’,” offered Barnhardt.

The sheriff looked up.

“Yeah, they said he did; went to Encinas.”

“Yes. I guess he expected me to go on the same train.”

“Prob’ly did. I told him yuh was goin’ away this mornin’.”

Barnhardt went back to his office, his mind still traveling in circles. He knew what would happen if he accused Tex Alden of opening the safe. Tex was hot-headed, and Barnhardt knew he could never best Tex in any kind of a fair fight. If he accused Tex of theft, he’d never get his money and papers back.

So Barnhardt decided to wait and see, even if the waiting did gall his soul. No one, except himself and the man who opened the safe, knew that such a thing had been done. He had thought of having Tex arrested, but decided that his evidence against Tex only consisted of Tex’s knowing that the eight thousand was in the safe. Barnhardt had counted the package of money, when he was alone, and it contained that amount of currency.

Sleepy, Jimmy and Marion did not ride back to the ranch on the road, but circled through the hills. It was early morning, and they were in no hurry to return. A coyote invited them to a race, and they gave him what he was looking for. Only a barrier of mesquite, into which he sped like a gray shadow, saved him from Sleepy’s loop.

Flocks of white-wing doves hurtled past them, heading for the water-holes; quail called from the slopes; a deer broke from a thicket, and after a few short, stiff-legged jumps, headed up a slope, head cocked back, walking jerkily.

They were nearing the ranch when they described a flock of buzzards, circling low over a little ravine, like scraps of black paper, caught in the grip of a whirlwind.

“Somebody lost a cow,” said Sleepy, “and it’s eatin’ time for Mr. Buzzard.”

“I hope it isn’t any of our stock,” said Marion. “We can’t afford to feed any buzzards this year.”

Jimmy evinced a desire to investigate; so he and Sleepy rode down to the ravine, while Marion circled higher on the hill. The air suddenly filled with flapping buzzards, croaking hoarsely; possibly swearing in their own language on being interrupted at their morning meal.

It was not a cow, but a horse, which lay at the bottom of the ravine; a gray horse, partly eaten by buzzards, but with the brand still showing. Sleepy quickly noticed that its right fore leg was broken about half-way between knee and hock. Further investigation showed that the animal had been shot through the head, and that the shooter had held his gun so close that the powder had scorched the hair.

“Broke a leg and had to be shot,” said Sleepy. “Not so very long ago.”

They mounted and rode back to Marion, who had waited for them. Sleepy explained what caused the buzzards to congregate.

“What brand was on the animal?” she asked. Sleepy rubbed his nose thoughtfully. “Well, it happens to be a Double Bar 8.”

“One of our horses?”

“Yeah—a gray. Weigh about a thousand. Got some dark spots on the rump, and its fetlocks are almost black.”

“Why, that horse belonged to Buck! He didn’t ride it often. But I never heard Buck say anything about shooting it.”

“And pretty close to home, too,” observed Jimmy.

The little ravine where the horse lay was not over an eighth of a mile from the Double Bar 8 stable.

“If the wind had blown down from that direction, we’d ’a’ knowed it before this,” grinned Sleepy.

The discovery of this horse interested Sleepy. He felt sure that Buck would have mentioned it at the ranch. The horse had either fallen into the ravine and broke a leg or stepped into a hole. It was also very evident that the rider had mercifully put the animal out of its misery. And Sleepy wondered who, except some of the Taylor outfit, would be riding a Double Bar 8 horse so near the ranch.

He rode to Blue Wells that evening and met Hashknife, whom he told about the dead horse. They found the sheriff at his office, and he let them in to see Buck Taylor. Buck was glad to see them, but denied knowing anything about the horse being dead.

“I ain’t seen that horse for quite a while,” he said. “He wasn’t exactly a good cow-horse; so I let him drift. Plenty of speed, but he never seemed to sabe what it was all about. Who do yuh reckon killed him?”

“Somebody must ’a’ borrowed him, I s’pose,” said Hashknife.

“Well, I wish we was out of here,” sighed Buck. “With all this shootin’ and dynamitin’, I sure hate to stay here. I’d like to find the dirty snake that’s doin’ it all.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the jail and went to the livery-stable, where they had left Hashknife’s horse that morning. Hashknife had nothing to say about his trip to Encinas, and Sleepy knew that questions were useless. Hashknife always worked on the theory that a secret is safe only with one person.

It was about ten o’clock when they approached the Double Bar 8, riding silently. There was a light in the ranch-house window, and as they drew closer they heard Jimmy’s and Marion’s voices blended in “After the Ball,” accompanied by the old upright organ. The two cowboys drew rein and listened. Off to the left of them a horse nickered softly. They peered in that direction, thinking it was a loose horse.

Then they went on, their horses making little noise in the sandy road, and drew up just outside the patio entrance. They could hear Marion and Jimmy laughing, as Marion tried to strike the right chord on the old organ.

Something prompted Hashknife to walk from his horse to the patio entrance, where he stopped quickly. A man’s voice snapped a warning, a streak of flame flashed toward him, and a bullet crashed into the corner of the entrance.

Two men were running toward the broken place in the wall, stumbling over the débris. Hashknife drew his six-shooter and fired twice, yelling at Sleepy to circle the wall. Another bullet whined off the adobe wall near him, as he started across the patio, heading for where the men had gone out.

Sleepy had dismounted, and he did not think to mount and ride. In fact, he hardly knew what it was all about. He ran around the wall and almost collided with Hashknife, who sprang out through where the dynamite had wrecked the wall.

“What the was it?” panted Sleepy.

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” whispered Hashknife. “Listen.”

They stood against the ruined wall, straining their ears for the slightest sound. Then they heard the distant thud of running horses, growing fainter and fainter, as the riders faded away in the hills.

Hashknife swore softly, as he told Sleepy of the two men. Some one had extinguished the lamp in the ranch-house, and Sleepy called, telling them that everything was all right.

They found Marion and Jimmy on the back porch, and told them about the two men who had shot at Hashknife.

“Oh, I’m a fine guard!” said Jimmy bitterly. “Sleepy told me to keep an eye open. But we started singing, and—”

“Oh, it’s all right,” laughed Hashknife. “Nobody hurt. If we’d only gone over and investigated, when that horse nickered, Sleepy, we’d ’a’ had ’em cinched. But I didn’t look for ’em to come back so soon. That’s sure a puzzle. The further I go into this thing, the worse the fog gets.

“They wasn’t over here by the house. They could ’a’ looked in the window and seen who was in there. They might ’a’ been waitin’ for us to come back, but if they were, why did they let us walk in on ’em? I heard one of ’em snap a warnin’; so it kinda looks as though they didn’t expect us just then.”

“Do you think you hit either one of them?” asked Jimmy nervously.

Hashknife laughed.

“I was shootin’ for general results. A man runnin’ in the dark, jumpin’ through a broken wall, is a hard target. And when yuh hit a man with a .45 in any spot, except his hands, arms, or the end of his nose, he won’t go far; so I’ll admit that I missed ’em.”

For the next two nights Hashknife and Sleepy guarded the place, but no one came. The sheriff visited them, but they did not mention anything about the latest development. Hashknife was very thoughtful all the while, but admitted that he was getting nowhere in his deductions. He talked with Marion about Tex Alden and Le Moyne, and she seemed surprized when he told her that it was the general opinion that there was a rivalry over her between Tex and Le Moyne.

“Why, that is ridiculous,” she told Hashknife. “Mr. Le Moyne used to drop in here once in a while, but he hasn’t been here for over a month, except when they all came out to see the ruins of our bunk-house.”

“As far as Tex is concerned, the opinion ain’t far off, is it?”

Marion flushed.

“I liked Tex all right,” she admitted. “He is nice, as long as his temper doesn’t run away with him. Tex has a bad temper, you know.”

“And he hates Jimmy Legg, because Jimmy Legg happens to be here,” observed Hashknife.

Marion looked at Hashknife, her eyes puzzled. Then—

“You don’t think Tex was the one—” she hesitated.

“That tried to kill Jimmy?” Hashknife finished for her.

“Oh, Tex couldn’t do a thing like that, Hashknife!”

“No?” Hashknife smiled slowly. “Yuh don’t think so?”

Marion shook her head quickly.

“Not even if he was mad. He might be mad enough for a moment to kill some one, but not to shoot from ambush.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “I’ll have to mark Tex Alden off my list of customers. It seems that Tex lost eight thousand dollars to Antelope Neal, in a poker game. This was before we came here. Now I’ve been wonderin’ how Tex could afford it.”

"Yes, I heard about it, Hashknife. Tex works on a salary—the salary of a foreman—and he surely couldn’t afford to lose that amount of money. In fact, I don’t see where he got it.”

“I know where he got it,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t see where he’ll ever be able to pay it back.”

Further than that Hashknife would not say, although Marion was curious to hear more about Tex Alden.

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

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

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

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

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

“Jimmy’s out there,” said Hashknife.

“Do yuh call that protection, Hartley?”

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

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

Sleepy was glad to go home.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.

Nanah shook her head. She didn’t know where he was.

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

“You saw ’em goin’ that way?”

“Yes.”

“How many men, Nanah?”

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

“How long ago, Nanah?”

“I do’ know. Pretty sick in head.”

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

Hashknife ran through the house and came back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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