Bluffer’s Luck

Fog and rain, with the spluttering arclights shining like moons out of the drizzle and a mist; the rattle of wheels on cobbles, soughing of fog-horns down on San Francisco Bay; the far-off din of a cable car gong, and always the dismal patter of rain along the gutter.

A girl stopped at the entrance of a cheap boarding house, where a single electric bulb partly illuminated the faded sign. Her faded old raincoat glistened in the light, and her cheap felt hat leaked drops of water as she glanced up at the sign.

It was not because she was unfamiliar with that sign. Nan Whitlock had passed under it several times a day for a number of months, because it was her home. That is, it was the only home she had, and just now she was wondering how much longer she could call it home.

After a short period of reflection she went inside, passed the dining-room door and started up the stairs. Beneath the raincoat was a small parcel, and she quickly slipped it farther out of sight as a step sounded on the stairs above her.

It was Mrs. Emmett, the landlady, a short, chubby sort of woman, but with features prematurely hardened from forcing payments. Just now she narrowed her eyes and glanced upon Nan Whitlock as she partly blocked the stairs.

“I was just at your room, Miss Whitlock,” she said. “Unless you and Miss Allan pay for that room before breakfast to-morrow, I’ve a new inhabitant for the same.”

“Was—was Miss Allan there?” faltered Nan.

“She was not. I’m tired of promises, and I just heard that Miss Allan’s show closes to-morrow night.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Nan meekly.

“Oh, ye do? And I suppose I was to be left holding the sack, as they say, eh? Well, I’m not. I’ve had her trunk put in storage to-day, and she’ll not get it until the rent is all paid.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Emmett.”

“She’ll be sorry, too, I’m thinking. Oh, I don’t mean to be cross about it, but business is business. If I have to, I’ll attach your wages, my dear. With a fly-by-night like Madge Allan, all I can do is take her trunk. You tell her, will ye? And, of course, that means both of ye get out, unless the money is paid. Her with her fine clothes and fur coats, and a taxi at the door almost every night! And she can’t pay twenty dollars rent! Well, you two think it over, my dear. Unless I miss my guess, I’ll have a vacancy after breakfast.”

She stepped aside and walked grandly down the stairs, while Nan hurried on to her room, where she lighted the gas jets, threw off her wet coat and sat down rather heavily. Nan was not pretty, but she had an oval face, wistful gray eyes, and a wealth of wavy auburn hair. Twenty-two her last birthday, and out of a job again.

“Attach my wages,” she said, half aloud. “Fine chance. With it all in my pocket.”

The steam in the radiators clanked furiously for a moment. Nan got to her feet, took a pair of old slippers from under the bed and removed her wet shoes.

Then from a locked drawer in the dresser she took a gas plate, with a long hose, which she attached to one of the gas jets. From the parcel she had carried she produced hamburger steak. From another locked drawer she took a frying-pan, a small coffee-pot, and a box which contained bread, butter, eggs and coffee.

On the wall was a printed warning that the management positively did not allow cooking in the rooms. Nan hung her wet hat over the top of it and proceeded with her cooking. The room was full of the savoury odours when Madge Allan came in. She slammed the door quickly behind her and grinned at Nan.

Madge Allan was a different type than Nan Whitlock. Madge was a tall, willowy blonde, affecting much rouge, flashily dressed. Just now her face was streaked with rain, and her Hudson seal coat looked rather bedraggled.

“Well, I dodged her,” she said triumphantly. “Stood out there in the rain until the noblest Roman of them all went to the kitchen to take a fall out of the cook for using too much shortening in the pie crust, and then I took them stairs four at a time. Hamburger and onions! My Gawd, honey, don’t you ever lose your appetite for dainties like that?”

Nan shrugged her shoulders.

“No dodging it now,” she said rather bitterly. “Lost my job to-day. Cutting down the force, they said. They’ll pay a dividend on what they’ll save on my salary, I suppose.”

“Aw, gee, that’s tough!” Madge flapped her hands dismally against her wet coat. “Canned in the winter, like a—a—what do they can in the winter, Nan? Pshaw, that’s too bad. And my show closes to-morrow night.”

She came over closer to Nan and put a hand on her shoulder affectionately.

“Don’t you worry, kid, I like you a lot, because you never ask questions. One of these days I’m going to fall into some money, and when I do, we’ll—well, you wait. Oh, it won’t be long. Nope, I don’t crave hamburger. Jack Pollock is taking me out to the Cliff House for dinner to-night if I can get out of here without giving up my coat to the landlady.”

“She’s taken your trunk, Madge.”

“My trunk!” Madge whirled around and looked at the corner of the room, where her trunk had been. Her lips tightened and her eyes flashed with anger.

“She told me about it on the stairs,” said Nan slowly. “I haven’t even a trunk for her to take; so she’ll probably put me in jail.”

Madge shook her head quickly.

“No, she won’t. I’ll make Jack give me enough to pay up the rent. He’s a good scout, and he’s got plenty. Anyway, he can advance me that much and he’s gambler enough to take a chance.”

“Advance you that much?” queried Nan. “Are you going to work for Jack Pollock, Madge?”

“Not the way you think. I’d be a poor stick in his gambling house. No, it’s just a private deal, kid. Well, I’ve got to meet Jack right away, and as long as Mrs. Julius Cæsar has the trunk, I won’t mind if she does meet me now. But it might not be so good for her. Now, don’t worry, kid. This is just one evening, and to-morrow is another day. Forget the job and enjoy the hamburger. Lock the door behind me, because if that old battle-axe ever gets a whiff of that aroma, she’ll send for the fire department.”

Nan laughed and locked the door behind her. She was fond of the breezy Madge, and Madge was fond of her. They had met several months before, when both of them were looking for a rooming house.

Nan was an orphan, raised by an aunt in Portland, Oregon, who died leaving nothing but debts, but luckily she had lived long enough to give Nan a good home and to educate her. Nan had tried clerking, but the wages were too small, and her last venture had been as a stenographer in a broker’s office. Now this position had vanished, and all the money she owned was in her pocket-book, and that hardly sufficient to square up her room rent.

As she ate her home-cooked meal she wondered what Madge had meant about falling into money. In discussing their affairs, Madge had said that she didn’t have a relative who wasn’t poorer than the proverbial church mouse.

Nan did not care for the sleek Jack Pollock, a gambler, although he had always seemed decent enough.

She washed her dishes and put everything away neatly. There was still an aroma of cooked foods when the landlady knocked softly on the door.

“I have a letter here for Madge Allan,” she said, when Nan cautiously opened the door a few inches. “She said something about getting money from home, and this letter might just be the one she’ll be looking for.”

The last was rather sarcastic as she handed the letter to Nan, sniffing at the hamburger-tainted atmosphere.

“That’s queer,” she said. “I’d almost swear that ain’t no odour from my kitchen.”

“I really can’t smell anything,” said Nan.

“Then you’ve got a fine cold, young lady. Somebody in this house has been cooking hamburger and onions.”

“Don’t you think that is rather astonishing?”

“Astonishing! If I find out who it is I’ll astonish them. I run a boarding house, I’d have you know.”

“Yes, I know you do, Mrs. Emmett. Good evening.”

Nan closed the door and tossed the letter to the table, listening to Mrs. Emmett going down the creaking stairs. Nan was tired of Mrs. Emmett, tired of the eternal grind of trying to make enough money to keep body and soul together.

But to-morrow she must go in search of another position, and possibly in search of another place to live, unless Madge was fortunate enough to raise the price of their delinquent rent. Nan had little to move. One valise carried her worldly goods.

It was about eleven o’clock that night, and Nan was fast asleep when Mrs. Emmett knocked loudly on the door.

“There’s a telephone call, Miss Whitlock! The man said it was very important.”

Nan crawled out of bed and wrapped herself in one of Madge’s dressing robes, wondering what man could have any important conversation with her at eleven o’clock.

She pattered down the stairs to the telephone, while Mrs. Emmett stood within earshot.

“This is Miss Whitlock,” said Nan sleepily.

“Emergency Hospital, Miss Whitlock,” said a heavy, masculine voice. “You are Madge Allan’s room-mate?”

“Yes,” said Nan weakly.

“Do you know where Miss Allan’s relatives live?”

“Why—no,” faltered Nan. “What is the matter?”

“I’m very sorry,” said the man slowly. “Miss Allan was killed an hour ago in an accident. A Mr. Pollock was badly injured, but was able to give us your name. He said⸺”

“You say she was killed?”

“Instantly. We would like to get in touch with some of her relatives. Mr. Pollock didn’t know⸺”

Nan sagged away from the telephone, sick at heart.

“Who got killed?” interrupted Mrs. Emmett.

Nan braced up and turned back to the telephone.

“Why, I—I don’t know where any of them live,” she said wearily. “Somewhere in the East, I think. She spoke of a cousin somewhere in Arizona, but I don’t remember the place.”

“I see. Well, thanks, just the same, Miss Whitlock.”

The receiver clicked back into place and Nan turned from the phone.

“Miss Allan was killed in a wreck, Mrs. Emmett,” said Nan. “She is at the Emergency Hospital.”

“Well, can ye imagine that now? And her all alive and well a few hours ago. And me threatenin’ to turn her out in the morning. Dear, dear!”

Mrs. Emmett walked away, shaking her head. Near the telephone was an old rocking-chair, and Nan sank down in it weakly. The one person in the whole world who had been a real friend to her had been snuffed out like a candle in the wind. Nan didn’t know what to do. She knew there was no use of her going to the hospital, at least, not that night.

It was draughty there in the hall, so she stumbled back up the stairs, and sat down in her room, her knees weak from the shock. The rain whipped dismally against the windows, coming in from the bay, where the fog-horns bellowed unceasingly. She had propped Madge’s letter against a book on the table, and now she picked it up. It was postmarked Lobo Wells, Arizona.

Perhaps this letter would give a clue to Madge’s relatives, she mused. With no thought of anything but a desire to help in the matter, she opened the envelope and drew out the enclosure. It was a typewritten letter, and pinned to it was a cheque for one hundred dollars, made out to Madge Singer.

Nan looked it over curiously. It was drawn on the Bank of Lobo Wells, and signed with an inky scrawl, which she finally deciphered. The letter read:

“My dear Miss Singer,—Your uncle, Jim Singer, has passed away, and his last will and testament, executed by me, shows you to be his sole heir. Am enclosing certified cheque for one hundred dollars for your expenses, as I expect you to come here at once.

“As I understand it, you have never known your uncle personally, and have never been in Lobo Wells. Come direct here, go to the hotel and get in communication with me at once.

“Very truly yours,

“Amos A. Baggs,

“Attorney at Law.”

Nan stared at the letter, trying to understand what it meant. Finally she realised that possibly Madge had taken the name of Allan as a theatrical nom de plume, and that her family name was Singer. Perhaps, thought Nan, this inheritance was the money Madge had spoken of “falling into soon.” Madge had mentioned some relative in Arizona, and Nan thought she had mentioned a cousin; but it might have been an uncle.

Nan fingered the hundred-dollar cheque. It was more money than she had possessed in over a year. It was certified. Any one signing Madge Singer’s name to it could draw the money. And Madge Singer was dead. Nan shut her hand tightly over the cheque.

“There is no Madge Singer,” she told herself. “Only Lobo Wells, Arizona, knows that there ever was a Madge Singer. Why not cash the cheque?”

Nan was not a crook, but adversity caused her to grasp at straws. She needed clothes. This cheque would solve that problem. It would pay her room rent, give her a chance. She stared at the rain-washed window and at the four walls of the shabby room. Madge Allan’s rather hard, mocking laughter seemed still to echo from those walls. She had often laughed at Nan and told her to go ahead and gamble with life.

“Bluff them, kid,” she had often advised. “You don’t need to be bad to bluff. Life is a gamble and a fight; but the fight is a lot easier if you bluff the gamblers. Take all you can get.”

That was Madge Allan’s philosophy of life, take a chance.

“Madge would do it,” Nan told herself as she hugged the old robe around her white throat to keep out the chill.

She read the letter again, a tight feeling in her throat.

“⸺have never been in Lobo Wells—have never known your uncle personally.”

She dropped the letter in her lap. Who would know? Nobody in Lobo Wells. Something was telling her to take a chance. It hammered in her ears above the moaning of the fog-horns.

Take a chance, take a chance, take a chance.

It was like the clicking of car wheels on a railroad track. Ahead of her was the hard, dreary round of job-seeking, the pitifully few dollars in her pocket, no place to call home.

She carefully folded up the letter and cheque, put them in her purse. She felt weak and foolish over it all. Her face was white in the cheap mirror over the dresser.

“If they throw you in jail you won’t have to pay rent,” she told herself. “They don’t have landladies in jails—not to make collections. Anyway, I wouldn’t be stealing from live people. Her uncle is dead and Madge is dead. A dead woman’s shoes!”

Nan crept back into bed after turning off the gas jet. She forgot that on the morrow she would be minus a bed. The horrors of job-hunting were also forgotten. She was wondering whether a medium-sized, red-headed girl could substitute for a tall, willowy blonde in Arizona.

“I tell yuh, nothin’ never happens around here,” declared Johnny Harris. “Gimme three cards, mostly aces.”

“Some day,” said Smoky Ash seriously, “yo’re goin’ to fill one of them two-card flushes yo’re always drawin’ to, Johnny. How many do you desire, Harry?”

Harry Cole, owner of the Oasis Saloon and Gambling House, indicated that he wasn’t drawing any cards.

“Out on a limb, eh?” grinned Johnny. “Some day I’m goin’ to saw that limb off between you and yore bank roll.”

He peeked carefully at the cards he had drawn, spat disgustedly and shoved the cards aside.

“Just like I said,” he declared plaintively, “nothin’ ever happens in Lobo Wells. Punch cows twenty-nine days in the month for enough to have a few drinks and try to make two danged deuces beat a pat hand.”

Johnny Harris was lean, lank, with a long nose, sad eyes and stringy hair. He had been voicing the same complaint as far back as any of them could remember, but he stayed on at the JP ranch in spite of all the drawbacks.

Harry Cole was an ex-sheriff of Lobo Wells, a man about forty years of age; a big man physically, swarthy of complexion, with black hair and a small moustache. Just now business was dull, and he was playing draw poker with a few of the cowboys, who had finished loading a train of cattle.

“Nothin’ never happens nowhere as fur as that goes,” said Smoky Ash, who also worked for the JP outfit. “Yuh can read about things happenin’ in the newspapers, but they don’t. I’ve heard that them newspaper fellers are bigger liars than cowboys. That’s prob’ly exaggerated, but—I’ll pass it to a pat hand, Harry. Make yore bluff, feller.”

Cole smiled and made a sizable bet, but there was no opposition, so he yawned and raked in the pot.

“Didja ever try sleepin’ for that?” asked Johnny. “Yuh might dislocate yore jaw and then⸺”

Johnny had glanced toward the door, where a man was coming in, and he did not finish the sentence. The newcomer was of medium height, dressed in an old suit of store clothes, with an old felt hat on his head, disclosing a tinge of gray hair at his temples.

His face was rather long, deeply lined, and his greenish-gray eyes were as hard as agates. He came slowly, unblinking.

“My Gawd, if it ain’t Len Ayres!” blurted Johnny. “Len, you old son-of-a-sea-cook!”

Harry Cole jerked around so quickly that his elbow swept some of his stacked chips to the floor as Johnny kicked back his chair and arose to greet Len Ayres. Smoky got to his feet, a grin on his lips, waiting for a chance to shake hands with the man who did not smile.

“By golly, it’s good to see yuh ag’in, Len,” declared Johnny.

“It’s—it’s kinda good to be back, Johnny. Hello, Smoky. Still the same as ever, eh? Hello, Sam,” he nodded to Sam Lytel, of the OK outfit, and turned to Harry Cole.

“Changed yore occupation, eh?”

“Hello, Len,” said Harry hoarsely. “Yes, I’ve changed. Went out of office two years ago, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know it. A fellow don’t hear much about the outside world where I’ve been for the last five years.”

“Well, it’s good to see yuh back, Len,” declared Johnny, “and I’ll buy a drink.”

“Thank yuh, but I’m not drinkin’, Johnny. Found out I didn’t need it, yuh see.” He turned to Cole. “Who took yore job?”

“Ben Dillon.”

“Bennie Dillon, eh?”

“And he hired ‘Breezy’ Hill for a deputy,” added Johnny.

A semblance of a smile flashed across Len’s hard mouth.

“Breezy Hill? About as much fitted to be a deputy as I would be to be Governor of the State. He still drinkin’?”

“He ain’t never slacked up none,” grinned Smoky.

Johnny Harris cashed in his few chips, and a few minutes later he and Len Ayres walked outside and sat down together on the edge of the wooden sidewalk.

“How much do yuh know of the things that happened after yuh left, Len?” asked Johnny.

Len’s lips tightened perceptibly.

“Harmony wrote me two or three letters,” he said slowly.

Jim Singer—“Harmony” Singer he was always called—had been Len’s best friend, and owned the Box S outfit.

“He told yuh about yo’re—yo’re wife, Len?”

Len turned his head away, nodding quickly.

“Yeah, he told me, Johnny. She got her divorce right away and married Charley Prentice.”

“But that ain’t all, Len.”

“I know—she died. Harmony wrote me about it.”

“Charley’s still got the kid, Len.”

“He’s seven now,” said Len slowly. “Do yuh ever see him?”

“Every little while, Len. They call him Larry Prentice. Yuh see, he wouldn’t remember yuh, Len.”

Len shook his head, but his eyes were soft now.

“I know it, Johnny. He was such a little feller when I went away. That was the hellish part of it—leavin’ the kid. Oh, I wasn’t fooled in my wife, Johnny. But that kid—he didn’t know better than to like me. He was my kid!” Len’s voice was savage. “I used to talk to myself about him at first—I mean until I got that last letter from Harmony—the one about Della marryin’ Charley. He wrote me one after that, about her dyin’.”

“You heard about Harmony Singer, didn’t yuh, Len?”

Len stared at Johnny for several moments.

“Heard about him? What do yuh mean?”

“O-oh,” breathed Johnny softly. “You didn’t hear about him gettin’ killed?”

“About him gettin’ killed? Harmony Singer?”

Johnny nodded sadly.

“Yeah, about a week ago, Len. Horse dragged him to death. They buried him in the old cemetery. I thought you’d heard.”

Len shut his eyes tightly, his lips quivering slightly. For possibly a minute neither of them spoke. Then—

“He was my friend,” said Len.

“I know it, Len. Old Whisperin’ and Sailor are still out there at the ranch. It was a shock to them. They’re gettin’ old, don’tcha know it?”

“Yeah, that’s right. But old Harmony. You say a horse dragged him to death, Johnny?”

“Uh-huh. Harmony was in town here and he had a lotta drinks. You know how he could drink, Len. Well, he wasn’t ridin’ a particularly bad bronc, but I s’pose he—well, anyway, the horse drug him home. He was shore in a awful shape. Whisperin’ Taylor found him. Queer old coot, Whisperin’ is. It hurt him a lot—him and Sailor Jones.”

“It hurts me too,” said Len softly. “I liked Harmony.”

“He was a square shooter, Len.”

“My best friend. Nothin’ could make him believe the things they said about me.”

“I know it.”

A man was going down the opposite side of the street, and Len looked across at him, squinting his eyes sharply.

“Amos Baggs, eh?” he said bitterly. “Still here.”

“Yeah, he’s still here, Len. But he ain’t prosecutor no more. Still runnin’ a law office. Nick Collins beat him bad at the election after you left. I reckon Amos is still sour over that election.”

“He ain’t changed much,” Len said slowly.

“His kind don’t change, Len. He shore can say mean things in a court room.”

“Don’t I know it,” bitterly. “You don’t know how I wished for a six-shooter then, Johnny. I wanted to fill his whole body with lead. Mebbe I still want to. But if I ever do anythin’ they could send me back there for, they’ll never take me alive. I know what that place is now. You probably wonder why I came back, Johnny. Sometimes I wonder too. Lack of brains, mebbe. No sane man would ever come back here, after what happened to me. But I paid the penalty, didn’t I? And my kid is here,” he added softly. “My kid, Johnny. Oughtn’t that bring a man back?”

“Shore,” said Johnny thoughtfully. He thought he knew why Len Ayres came back. Perhaps the kid had something to do with it, but it was the money that had brought him back.

Nothing had been proved, except that Len had robbed the Lobo Wells bank and half-killed the cashier. They found Len’s hat there on the floor, where it fell off in his getaway. That hold-up only netted him seven thousand, but there were others, a lone-handed train robbery, which netted the bandit about ten thousand dollars, a stage robbery of five thousand dollars. Of course, they were unable to fix the blame for all of these on Len, but his description fitted that of the bandit.

Len had had no chance to spend any of the money; so the people of Manzanita Valley knew he had cached it, and that he would come back and get it when his five years were up. Len’s wife had married the cashier of the bank, where Len had left his hat, but she had died from pneumonia a short time later.

Len had managed to beat his way back from the penitentiary and was in Lobo Wells without a cent in his pocket. The town was not changed; the same people were there, except those who had died off.

“Well,” Len said finally, “I reckon I’ll go out to the Box S, Johnny.”

“How are yuh goin’, Len?”

“Walk, I reckon. Ain’t been on a horse for a long time.”

“Ain’t scared to ride, are yuh?” smiled Johnny. Len had been one of their best riders.

“No-o, I ain’t scared.”

“I’ll get yuh a bronc at the livery stable, Len. Never mind about the money. You’d do it for me. C’mon.”

Johnny secured a horse and saddle at the stable, and Len climbed into a saddle for the first time in five years. The stable keeper was a man who had come to Lobo Wells after Len had been sent to the penitentiary, but he had heard men tell of Len Ayres, the single-handed bandit.

“So that’s Len Ayres, eh?” he said to Johnny. “Well, he don’t look so mean.”

“He ain’t mean,” replied Johnny quickly. “There ain’t a mean bone in his body.”

“Jist looks kinda sour, thasall.”

“You go through what he’s gone through, and you’ll shore look sour. Charge that horse up to me, and I’ll pay yuh on the first of next month.”

“Sure, thasall right, Harris. Didn’t the cashier of the bank marry Ayres’s wife after he was sent up?”

“Yeah, but she died.”

“That’s what I heard. That little boy belongs to him, they say. Nice lookin’ kid, too. I wonder if there’s any truth in this talk about Ayres makin’ a cache of all that money he stole.”

“Don’t let that ache yuh,” said Johnny seriously. “He paid what the law asked, didn’t he?”

“He paid for the bank robbery.”

Johnny yawned heavily.

“Yea-a-ah, that’s right. I reckon he’ll get along.”

Len rode out to the Box S, located about three miles south-east of Lobo Wells. As far as any change in the country was concerned, Len might have been away only a week. There were the same old chuckholes in the road, which had never been repaired. The cattle along the road looked the same. He saw an old spotted steer, with extra long horns, which he was sure was the one which had driven him to the top of the corral fence one day.

He halted on the edge of a small mesa and looked down at the huddle of unpainted buildings which constituted the Box S ranch. Nothing had been changed in five years. For a long time he sat there, lost in memories. Off to the westward he could see the smoke of a train heading for Lobo Wells. Beyond that was the green ribbon, which marked the twisting of Manzanita River, now only a small stream. Far to the south was the blue haze of the lower valley, and to the north and the east stretched the Broken Hills, piled-up mesa and broken cañon, fantastically coloured in the changing lights.

Finally he rode on down to the ranch, where he dismounted at the old front porch, tied his horse and halted at the bottom step.

“That jist makes seventy-seven times I’ve done told yuh that I don’t know, Sailor,” declared a querulous voice. “Why don’tcha ever go out and cut wood, ’stead of settin’ in there and askin’ questions? How in hell do I know what’s to become of this here rancheria?”

“Don’t chide me, you ol’ weepin’-willer,” retorted the voice of Sailor Jones, so named because he got drunk one day and sent to a mail-order house for a rowboat.

“You make me bilious,” said Whispering Taylor.

“Yeah, I’ll betcha! It’s yore cookin’ that makes yuh bilious. I’m goin’ to quit yuh, before I git dyspepsy. Anyway, there ain’t no future for a feller around here no more.”

“Future!”

“Yea, future. I’m three year younger than you are, ain’t I? By the time I’m yore age⸺”

“You’d be older, if yuh didn’t lie.”

“I ain’t sixty yet.”

“Not yet—yo’re past it, feller. Why didn’tcha stop arguin’ and use up some of yore youthful wim and wigger on the woodpile? I shore hate to argue with a child. Go set on the corral fence and repeat yore ABC’s, while a man mixes up some biscuits in peace, will yuh?”

“Put some sody in ’em this time, Whisperin’, will yuh? You allus leaves out somethin’, and I’d rather have anythin’ left out rather than sody.”

“Mebbe you’d like to make’ em, eh?”

“No, I wouldn’t, Whisperin’. I’ll get yuh some wood, if yuh crave it real hard. But I’d shore like to know what’s to become of this here rancho, since Harmony died.”

“That makes seventy-eight times,” groaned Whisperin’.

“I never asked yuh, you bat-eared pelican! I said I’d like to know, thasall. You couldn’t tell me.”

Len smiled softly. He had known these two men for years, and they had always argued like this. Came sound of a squeaking boot, and Sailor Jones came out on the porch.

He stopped short, staring at Len. Sailor was a little, wizened person, with high cheek-bones, crooked nose, deep-set blue eyes and a wide, thin-lipped mouth. His slightly gray hair was thin, and stood up on his head like fox-tail tops.

He blinked rapidly, rubbed the palm of his right hand violently on his thigh, as he cleared his throat, which action caused his prominent Adam’s apple to jiggle nervously.

“By Gawd!” he said softly. “If it is, I’m glad, and if it ain’t, I swear that me and the gin bottle ain’t never goin’ to git together no more.”

“Yeah, it’s me, all right, Sailor,” said Len slowly.

Sailor came slowly to the steps and stopped.

“Yeah, it’s you, Len,” he said softly. “It’s you jist as sure as the Lord made little apples. You ain’t changed. Nossir, you ain’t changed—much. Len!” He shoved out a skinny hand. “My gosh, I’m shore glad to see yuh again!”

“Hey!” yelled Whispering from inside the house. He had heard Sailor say Len’s name, and out he came, with a skillet in one hand and a rag in the other.

He stopped short in the doorway, his mouth sagging open. Whispering was nearly six feet tall and would weigh two hundred and forty pounds. His face was like a full moon—a fairly red moon, too, and his head was as innocent of hair as a billiard ball.

He dropped the skillet with a clang, strode out and shoved Sailor inside.

“Git out and let him shake hands with a man!” he blurted in his high-pitched voice. “Len, you dern old pelican! Oh, you dog-gone rascal! Sneakin’ in on us thataway! Shut up, Sailor!”

“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”

“Then don’t. Len, c’mon up here on the verandy and let me look at yuh. Same person. Don’t say anythin’, Sailor.”

“I wasn’t sayin’ anythin’.”

“Don’t, I tell yuh. I jist want to contemplate Len.”

“I’ll help yuh,” grinned Sailor.

“I don’t need yuh. Go git some wood.”

Len laughed aloud for the first time since he reached Lobo Wells, and Whispering patted him on the arm.

“Well, I’m glad to see you both,” he said. “In fact, you don’t know how glad I am, boys. It’s good to be back.”

“Yeah, I’ll betcha,” said Sailor. “You shore had a long drag out there, didn’t yuh, Len. Five year.”

“It was a long time, Sailor—a mighty long time.”

Whispering sighed and looked sidewise at Sailor, who went creaking down the steps and headed for the woodpile. Len chuckled softly and Whispering shook his head sadly.

“Jist as ornery as ever, Len. Gittin’ old, I reckon. C’mon in and watch me throw a feed together.”

They started in the house, when Whispering stopped and turned to Len.

“You heard about Harmony?” he asked softly.

Len nodded.

“Jist awhile ago.”

“Yeah, he’s dead, Len. Bronc drug him to death. Reckon he got drunk, as usual. He drank pretty heavy, yuh know. Me and Sailor tried to slow him down. Even drank up his liquor, tryin’ to keep him from gettin’ to it. That was Sailor’s idea. He gits one once in a while. Well, come on in. Harmony said he wrote yuh about yore—yore wife, Len. That shore wasn’t no good news to send to a man in yore position. But he said he had to do it, yuh know. I see the kid once in a while. Looks like you, Len. ’Bout seven year old now, ain’t he? Uh-huh. Good-lookin’ kid.”

“I ain’t seen him,” said Len slowly. “He wouldn’t remember me, Whisperin’.”

“No, that’s true. Still, he’s yore flesh and blood. I said to Harmony that I’d hate to be in Charley Prentice’s shoes when you came back, Len.”

Len shook his head slowly.

“Charles Prentice didn’t do me no dirt, Whisperin’. I wasn’t blind. My wife was the wrong woman for me, and she might as well have married Charley as anybody else.”

“Well, I don’t know how yuh felt about her, Len. Me and Harmony talked about her a lot, yuh see. Of course she sold the place you had in town and all yore horses, saddles and all them things. Harmony was pretty mad. He tried to save somethin’ out of it, but it wasn’t no use. She comes out here and talks with Harmony. Said she wanted to git a line on some money you had. To hear her talk you’d think it was a lot of money, Len. She knowed that Harmony was yore best friend, and she thought he’d know. But he said he didn’t know anythin’. She got what was in the bank, but it wasn’t what she expected, by any means.”

Len smiled thinly.

“I wonder if she meant the money they say I stole?”

“No, that wasn’t it,” quickly. “She said it was money you got when some kin of yours died in the south. Said she never got on to it, until she found an old letter of yours, after you went away.”

“Oh, I see,” grunted Len thoughtfully. “Well, how’s this outfit gettin’ along, Whisperin’?”

“Fine! Yessir, it’s shore doin’ well. Old Harmony’s made money here. He was thinkin’ of puttin’ another man or two on the job. We’re raisin’ cows, pardner. The three of us has handled things fine, but she’s growin’ pretty big. The last round-up count showed about a thousand head of Box S brands, not countin’ horses. Harmony’s been raisin’ a lot of horses. A year ago he sold a hundred head to the United States for cavalry horses. Got a hundred apiece for every danged one. And he sold twenty head to a feller who wanted ’em for polo, whatever that is. Got a top price for every one of ’em. And he sold quite a bunch of steers to a Chicago buyer, too.

“Oh, I’ll tell yuh, this ranch is shore on a payin’ basis. Betcha she’s payin’ better than the JP right now, even if the JP is the biggest. Silver Prescott keeps himself broke payin’ wages to a lot of lazy punchers. The OK is doin’ right well, I think. Oscar Knight was over here the other day and he said everythin’ was fine. We don’t see many of the boys these days. I’ll tell yuh, me and Sailor has shore been busy. But”—Whispering shook his head—“we dunno what it’s all about. Nobody left to pay us wages. We don’t even know who owns this here rancheria.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Len slowly. “It will all come out in the wash.”

“Oh, shore. Well, here comes Sailor with six sticks of wood. That’s his limit. How would yuh like some dried apple pie?”

“You know how I used to like it, Whisperin’?”

“I shore do, Len.”

“Well, I ain’t had none for five years.”

The trip from San Francisco to Lobo Wells had seemed interminably long to Nan Whitlock, but her nerve almost failed her when she heard the brakeman calling: “Lo-o-o-bo Wells, next station! Lo-o-o-bo Wells!”

Nan had rather shocked the landlady by paying the rent the morning after Madge Allan had been killed, and rather mystified the authorities, who were looking for more information about Madge Allan, only to find that Nan had faded out of the picture. Mrs. Emmett had offered to turn Madge’s trunk over to her, but Nan refused it. It had been a simple matter to cash the hundred-dollar cheque.

But now she was facing the test, as the train ground to a stop at the weather-beaten depot, and she came down timidly, carrying a large valise. She had not replied to the lawyer’s letter, so there was no one at the station to meet her.

Except for a cowboy who leaned negligently against a corner of the depot, watching the depot agent and a brakeman unloading some stuff from the express car, the platform was empty. After a few moments the train went on and the cowboy went into the station with the agent.

With the train out of the way, Nan was able to get her first look at the town of Lobo Wells. And her first impression was not a flattering one. The station and tracks seemed to be a barrier across one end of the main street, which was narrow, dusty, with crooked wooden sidewalks and false-fronted wooden buildings, many of them out of line.

Saddle horses nodded at the hitchracks in the noonday sun, and a bunch of loose horses milled around a corral behind a livery-stable, throwing clouds of dust.

It was very hot there on the old platform. Pitch oozed from the pine planks, and Nan could feel the heat through the thin soles of her shoes. The cowboy came from the station, stopped on the edge of the platform and looked at her.

It was Len Ayres, but a different Len Ayres than had come back to Lobo Wells three days before. Whispering had loaned him enough money for a new outfit of clothes, and Len had always been slightly inclined to the gaudy, in raiment. His shirt was a robin’s-egg blue, with scarlet muffler and a tan sombrero. His chaps were a second-hand pair, but nearly new, with fancy rosettes, cut in the extreme of bat-wing type. His belt and gun were the same he had worn before his arrest, having been kept at the Box S by Harmony Singer.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said slowly. “Were you lookin’ for somebody especial?”

“Well,—I suppose not,” replied Nan helplessly. “Foolish of me to expect any one, because no one knew when I was coming. But I wish you could direct me to the office of an attorney by the name of Baggs.”

Len started slightly, but nodded. This girl was rather good-looking, evidently from the city, and he wondered why she would come to Lobo Wells to seek Amos Baggs.

“Do you happen to know him?” she asked.

“Yeah, I know him, ma’am. Lemme pack that valise, and I’ll take yuh up to his office. Do you know Baggs?”

Nan shook her head as she surrendered the valise to Len.

“No, I have never seen him.”

“Uh-huh. Kinda hot to-day. We’ll hit the shady side.”

“Thank you so much.”

Nan stole several glances at the hard-faced cowboy with the greenish-gray eyes, as they walked up the creaking sidewalk. He was the first cowboy she had ever seen, except on the stage, and it struck her that his raiment was a trifle theatrical, until she saw several others, who were dressed much the same. The big gun swinging from his hip looked businesslike.

“Do you take care of cattle?” she asked.

A smile flashed across Len’s lips.

“Yes’m,” he said shortly, and a moment later: “This is Baggs’s office, ma’am,” indicating the doorway just ahead of them. Len had not met Baggs since his return, but as they came up to the doorway, Baggs stepped out.

Amos Alexander Baggs was not a prepossessing person, except for height, which was well over six feet, exaggerated by thinness. His nearly bald head showed some gray hair, weak eyes, a thin nose, rather short for a long face, and a determined mouth and chin. He wore a white collar and a flowing black tie above what was once a fancy vest, the rest of his raiment being rusty black, badly wrinkled.

He jerked slightly at such close contact to the man he had sent to the penitentiary, and blinked his watery eyes at Nan.

“This is Mr. Baggs,” said Len slowly.

“Thank you so much for directing me and carrying my bag.”

“Thasall right, ma’am.”

Len gave Baggs a hard glance, nodded to Nan, and went across the street. Baggs looked after him for a moment and then turned to Nan.

“You wanted to see me?” he asked.

“About a letter you sent me,” said Nan. “I—I am Madge Singer.”

Baggs’s eyes opened a trifle as he looked her over.

“Oh, yes—yes! Come right in. I was wondering about you. Just came in, eh? Didn’t know whether you’d come or not. Mm-m-m-m. Much better than I expected. Sit down there while I close the door.”

Nan sat down, while he bustled around, finally coming back to his desk, which was strewn with papers and books. He filled and lighted a cob pipe, nervously tamping the tobacco with his skinny forefinger. Pipe drawing to his satisfaction, he turned to Nan.

“Well, well! What do you think of Lobo Wells? Quite a place. I won’t go into any details, because I suppose Jack Pollock has explained things. Knew Jack well. Used to work for Harry Cole, over across the street, when Cole first opened up. Him and Harry were very close—very.

“Now the thing for you to do is to go to the hotel, register for a room and stay there to-night. The will has not been probated yet, but there’s no reason why you can’t take over the ranch at once. No argument, because there are no other heirs. You will probably have to live at the ranch for a month or two, you understand. But it’s a comfortable place. I’ll go down to the hotel with you. Pretty hot to-day, isn’t it? We get plenty of heat here, but it’s healthful. You’ll be as brown as a berry in a week. Look kinda pale. This will do you good. Know who that puncher was—the one who brought you here?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Nan, her mind in a whirl.

“That was Len Ayres. Just got back from serving five years in prison. I was prosecuting attorney at that time, and I secured his conviction. He pulled some big robberies in this country, and he’s thoroughly bad. The officers are watching him. By the way, he’s staying out at your ranch. But we’ll stop that. Two other old men out there. Been there for years. Perhaps you better keep them on the job. Friends of your late uncle.” Baggs laughed crookedly and got to his feet.

“We’ll go down to the hotel now. Did you bring a trunk?”

“I’m travelling light,” smiled Nan.

“That’s sensible. How is Jack Pollock?”

“He was all right the last time I saw him,” said Nan truthfully.

“That’s fine.”

They were halfway back to the hotel, when Baggs said:

“Do you know, I wasn’t looking for your type. Not a bit. But I like you better. You look innocent. I don’t mean any disrespect to either party, but you’re not the kind of a girl that I’d expect Jack Pollock to take up with. That’s a fact. I’ll introduce you to Harry Cole as soon as convenient. Just for your own sake, I’d advise you to keep away from the cowboys around here. They’re a wild lot.”

Nan’s face was rather red, but it might have been from the heat. She disliked Baggs, and she couldn’t see why he should promise to introduce her to Harry Cole. But she realised that, as Madge Allan, she must understand what it was all about, and she wondered how it would turn out.

Baggs registered for her, and went away while the bearded proprietor showed her to a room in the front of the two-story half-adobe hotel, which, by comparison, made her last room in San Francisco look like a palace.

“This ain’t no bridal sweet,” he told her, “but it gives yuh a view of the street. Ain’t no ice water, ’cause there ain’t no ice, but we filter it pretty good. You goin’ to be here long?”

“Not very.”

“Uh-huh. Well, nobody stays long at a hotel. You ain’t a drummer, are yuh?”

“Drummer?”

“Yeah—sellin’ things.”

“No, I’m not.”

“I seen yuh go past with Len Ayres. Know him very well?”

“Not at all. He directed me to Mr. Baggs’s office.”

“Uh-huh. Well, Baggs can tell yuh all about Len. He sent Len to the penitentiary. ’F I had my choice between the two, I know which one I’d take. Well, I hope you’ll be comfortable, ma’am.”

“Which one would you take?” asked Nan, hardly knowing why she asked the question.

The bearded man stopped at the door and grinned back at her.

“I ain’t sayin’, ma’am, because I’ve got to live here, and yuh can’t afford to cross-fire the law.”

Len Ayres went across the street to the Oasis Saloon from where he watched Amos Baggs take Nan to the hotel. When the lawyer went back to his office, Len crossed the street and sauntered up there.

He found Baggs at his desk, filling his pipe, but the former prosecuting attorney seemed to lose interest in his pipe when he looked up and saw Len.

Len eyed him close for several moments.

“Thought I’d drop in and renew old acquaintance, Amos,” he said slowly. “You ain’t scared of me, are yuh?”

Amos cleared his throat dryly and shifted his feet.

“I don’t know why I should be afraid of you, Ayres.”

“I didn’t know. After the things you said about me at that trial⸺”

“Oh, that’s part of my job—was part of it, I mean.”

“You didn’t mean it, Amos?”

“Well—no, I didn’t mean much of it. You see⸺”

“You meant part of it, didn’t yuh, Amos?—the dirty and mean parts. But we’ll let that go. I’ve paid the price. I remember yuh spoke about the debt I owed to society. Well, I paid it, and I hope the society you spoke about is satisfied.”

“Oh, everything is all right now, Ayres.”

“Well, that’s fine, Amos. You must feel better. I remember yuh kinda talked as though you was part of that society. You almost cried, if I remember right. You said I was a menace. I don’t think you lost any money in that robbery; so you must have been sincere. But that’s all past and done; so we might as well be friends, Amos. I was just wonderin’ who the young lady is.”

Amos was visibly relieved. He had always dreaded the day that Len Ayres might come back to Lobo Wells, but it was turning out much better than he had expected.

“That young lady is named Singer,” he told Len. “Madge Singer. I reckon she was the only close relative Harmony Singer had. Anyway, he made out his will and left her everything he owned, which included the Box S ranch and everything on it, and any money he might have in the bank.”

Len rubbed his nose vigorously and stared at Baggs, who continued:

“She was his niece. Brother’s girl. He knew where she was in San Francisco; so we got in touch with her. He made out this will quite a while ago, and I kept it here in my safe. Seems like a nice girl, doesn’t she?”

“Yea-a-a-ah, she does,” drawled Len slowly. “So she was a niece of Harmony Singer, eh? And she’s over here to take charge of the property. Goin’ to run the Box S, Amos?”

“She hasn’t mentioned her plans yet. It’s a little too soon for her to know what she’s going to do. I’ll take her out there to-morrow, and I think she will take charge.”

“Did she ever live on a cow ranch?”

“I don’t believe it. Looks like a sensible girl.”

“Yeah, she does. Well, well! Madge Singer. Funny the old man didn’t never say anythin’ about her to me.”

“I guess he didn’t know much about her before you left. I never heard him mention her until about a year ago. Seems that her father died and her mother married again, or something like that. I think he wrote to Harmony before he died and told him about the girl.”

“Uh-huh. Well, it’ll seem funny to have a woman boss, Amos.”

“A woman boss? You ain’t goin’ to stay out there, are you, Ayres?”

“Probably. She’ll need more help than she’s got out there.”

“But—but she can hire plenty⸺”

“I don’t cost any more than the rest of ’em, Amos.”

“I know that, but—well, that will be up to her, of course.”

“And after you tell her what you know about me, she’ll want somebody else, eh?”

“I didn’t say that, Ayres.”

“No, but you meant it. Let me tell you something, pardner: If that young lady tells me that she don’t want me on that ranch, I’ll know who advised her. For five years I’ve wanted a chance to whittle off your damn ears, Amos Baggs. A while ago we agreed to be friends, didn’t we? Well, you play the game on the square or there’ll be whittlin’ done.”

“You can’t threaten me, Ayres.”

“No, but I can make you a promise.”

Amos Baggs turned away, rubbing his palms on the arms of his chair.

“I don’t see why you ever came back here,” he said pettishly. “You’d be better off a long ways from here.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know, Amos. But there’s one thing you do know—you value your ears.”

Amos swung around in his chair, his weak eyes snapping.

“Let me tell you something, Ayres. Everybody knows you came back here to dig up that money you stole, and you might care to know that the officers are watching every move you make. And just remember, if they catch you with that money you took from the Wells Fargo—you’ll pay for that mighty steep.”

Len smiled thinly. It amused him to see Amos Baggs mad.

“Sheriff Ben Dillon and Breezy Hill, eh? Amos, those two boys are fine fellers, but they have trouble every mornin’ findin’ their own hats. If they do catch me, I’ll split with you and save my skin. Is that a bargain?”

“You get to hell out of my office!”

Len turned and walked out, leaving Baggs to fume over his pipe. Finally the lawyer got to his feet, flung the pipe on the desk and walked down to the bank. Charley Prentice looked up from his work as Baggs leaned against the bank railing.

Prentice was a man about forty years of age, sallow, nervous. He dressed well, as befitted his position.

“You’ve seen Len Ayres?” asked Baggs softly, although only a bookkeeper was in the bank with Prentice.

Prentice glanced toward the door, shaking his head.

“I knew he was back, Amos. Is he bitter? You know what I mean.”

“Bitter?” Amos smiled crookedly. “I suppose he is. Len never was noted for having a charitable disposition, Charley.”

“Say anything about me?”

“Not to me.”

Prentice twisted a pencil nervously between his fingers.

“The kid, Larry, knows he came back, Amos. Some of the kids told him, and he asked me about it. They made fun of him about his dad coming back from prison, but the kid didn’t understand. We never told him about Len.”

“That don’t affect you. Forget that part of it. Don’t let him bluff you, Charley. He tried to bluff me, but I showed him I couldn’t be bluffed. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“I don’t know,” replied Prentice.

“Well, I’m not.”

“You never married his wife.”

“No, I didn’t do that.”

Some people came in the bank and Amos went back to his office, where he filled his pipe again, after which he strolled down to the sheriff’s office.

Ben Dillon, the sheriff, was in the office, but his greeting was none too pleasant. Ben had been elected to office fresh from a cow-ranch farther down the valley, and he hated the clerical end of his job.

Ben was fat, and ordinarily good-natured, but he disliked Amos Baggs, because Amos acted superior, because of his vast knowledge of law, and tried to instruct Ben in office duties.

“What’s on yore mind now?” asked Ben.

“Nothing much, sheriff. You know that Len Ayres is back, of course.”

“Shore do. What about him? Ain’t he got a right to be here?”

“Oh, I suppose he has. But you know what folks are saying.”

“About him comin’ back to dig up what he stole? Shore.”

Ben stretched his legs and began rolling a cigarette.

“Ain’t that the natural thing for him to do, Baggs?”

“Natural, perhaps.”

“Oh, I know what yuh mean. I’ve heard a lot about it. Fact of the matter is, I’ve been notified to watch him. Uh-huh! Grab him if he shows up with money. I’ve got a hell of a lot of time to trail Len Ayres around these hills, watchin’ for him to dig up a pot of gold! Know what I told ’em? I sent a wire to Wells Fargo and told ’em to send their own detectives in to watch him. I’m here for the suppression of crime—not to hunt for hidden treasure.”

Ben laughed softly over his cigarette.

“Personally, I’m not interested, Mr. Baggs, attorney-at-law; and it’s none of yore damn business, as far as I can see. You ain’t prosecutin’ attorney of this here county this season; so I don’t know why yo’re hornin’ in. ’F I remember right, you said a lot of nasty things about Len Ayres, when you sent him over the road, and since he came back, I’ve been listenin’ for you to holler for help. I’ll tell him that yo’re still interested in his future, and that you warned me to keep an eye on him.”

“You don’t need to do that,” quickly. “I merely talked it over with you, sheriff.”

“Crawfishin’, eh?” laughed Ben. “Do yuh know, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to see you lose yore ears, Baggs.”

“Who told you that?”

Ben removed his cigarette, stared for a moment at Baggs, and emitted a deep chuckle of amusement.

“Some one else had the same idea?”

Baggs turned and walked out of the office, while Ben slapped himself on the thigh and grinned widely.

“If that bat-eared owl thought he was goin’ to get sympathy from me, he shore knows better now,” he told himself. “I ain’t playin’ no brotherly love act with Len Ayres, and I’ll slap him in jail as quick as I would any thief, but I wouldn’t give Baggs that much satisfaction. And that jigger is worried about his ears, I’ll tell myself that much.”

“Nossir! Not now nor never! Why, listen, Len—aw, that’s onreasonable. No danged female could run a cow ranch. I tell yuh, I won’t stand for it. Me and Sailor has talked it over among us, and he feels the same as I do. Of course, his opinion ain’t worth nothin’, as far as that is concerned, but we’re ready to step right out when she comes.”

Whispering Taylor waved his arms a few times, kicked a stick of wood under the stove, and glared at Len Ayres, who was tilted back in a chair against the kitchen wall, hands locked around his knees.

“Step out where, Whisperin’?” he asked calmly.

“That’s the whole trouble, Len. Me and Sailor ain’t as young as we used to was. I might git a job cookin’ some’ers, but old Sailor’s a total loss on the job question. Jist a couple of old derelicts. Len, it’s awful to git old, don’tcha know it?”

“Yeah, that’s right, Whisperin’. If I was in yore place, I’d stay here—if she’ll keep yuh—and I think she will. Looks like a sensible girl. Of course, she’d be advised by Baggs, but he’s a friend of mine, and I’ll ask him to tell her to keep you and Sailor.”

“You ain’t tryin’ to be comical, are yuh, Len?” Whisperin’ asked.

“What about?”

“About you and Amos Baggs bein’ friends.”

“No-o. He’ll do what I ask, Whisperin’.”

“Uh-huh?” dubiously. He walked to the kitchen door.

“That’s enough wood, Sailor!” he yelled.

“Fetch in both sticks, will yuh?”

Sailor came staggering in with an armful of wood, which he flung down with a great clatter.

“Think yo’re funny, don’tcha?” he asked Whisperin’. “I’ll betcha I can cut more wood in a day than you can. Betcha forty dollars, I can.”

“What’ll yuh use for money, you spittin’ old badger?”

“Oh, I’ve got the money.”

“You have not. Sailor, me and Len has decided that the best thing for me and you to do is to stay right here.”

“You and Len has, eh? I ain’t got a thing to say about it, eh? Well, I’m not stayin’. No danged female can tell me what to do.”

“Where’d yuh go, you old ram?” asked Whisperin’.

“Well, I’d find a job, I’m three years younger than you are, Whisperin’, I—I can get a job.”

“What doin’?”

“Punchin’ cows.”

“Yeah, you could! Can’t even fork a gentle horse.”

“You tryin’ to pick a fight with me, Whisperin’?”

“Fight, hell! I never fight with kids. Go out on the porch and quarrel with Len; I’ve got to cook a meal.”

In the meantime Amos Baggs had secured a livery-stable rig and was bringing Nan out to the Box S. The road was rutty, and the buggy springs threatened to throw them both out at any time, so conversation was limited.

“Of course, you’ll take charge of the place,” explained Baggs. “I’ll handle all the details. Pollock said you had plenty of nerve, and he’s a good judge of women. I suppose you might as well keep those two old men. One is a very good cook. And I have decided that you will keep Len Ayres. He is a good cow-man and can advise you in everything in that line.”

“You mean the man who just came back from prison?”

“Exactly.”

“But is he a safe person to have around?” smiled Nan.

Baggs’s right hand went instinctively to his ear, but jerked back quickly.

“I—I think so,” he faltered. “We’ll give him a trial. Try to make the best of it, because it’s well worth your while. I’ll keep you instructed.”

They drove in at the front of the ranch house, and Len met them. Whispering and Sailor stayed in the kitchen, eyeing each other, as they heard Len talking to Nan. The three of them came in the house together.

“I reckon you better occupy Harmony’s old room,” said Len. “It’s the best in the place.”

Len led the way, carrying Nan’s valise. It was a rather small room, with one big window and a single bed. The floor was covered with Navaho rugs and on the walls were some old pictures. The top of an old dresser was covered with a piece of calfskin, hair-side up, and above the dresser hung two Winchester rifles, while twisted around a head-post of the bed was an old cartridge belt, supporting a holstered Colt.

“I suppose we may as well remove the guns,” said Baggs.

“Not on my account,” said Nan.

“But you won’t want that six-shooter at the head of your bed,” said Baggs.

“Leave it there, please,” replied Nan.

“Oh, well, if you really care for it.”

He turned to Len, in whose eyes was a glint of amusement.

“Miss Singer has decided to keep you, Ayres,” he said. “You will help her run the place.”

Len bowed shortly.

“I’ll be going back now,” said Baggs. “I will keep in touch with you, Miss Singer.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baggs.”

She and Len walked out on the porch and watched Baggs ride back down the road. Len leaned against a porch-post, his eyes very sombre, as he watched the dust cloud settle behind Baggs’s equipage. Nan brushed a lock of hair from her forehead and studied Len’s profile for several moments.

“You don’t like him, do you?” she asked.

“Baggs? No, I don’t reckon I do.”

“He asked me to keep you here.”

“Well, that shore was thoughtful of him,” smiled Len.

“Knock us down to the lady, will yuh?”

Len turned quickly. Just outside the door stood Whispering and Sailor, side by side, as stiff as a pair of statues; Whispering’s huge frame entirely blotting out the doorway, while little Sailor, his legs bowed a trifle, seemed less than half the size of his big companion.

“Me and the kid want to meet the lady,” said Whispering, indicating Sailor with a jerk of a huge thumb.

Their actions were so ludicrous that Nan wanted to scream, but they were in deadly earnest.

“Miss Singer,” said Len hoarsely, “I want yuh to meet Whisperin’ Taylor and Sailor Jones.

“Boys, this is Miss Singer, the new owner of the Box S.”

“T’meetcha,” said Sailor, jerking his head nervously.

“Shore a pleasure, ma’am,” said Whispering, and Sailor gave him a glance filled with disgust.

Nan held out her hand to Whispering, who looked at it, looked at her, but finally shook hands gently. The small, white hand looked too frail for him to essay a real handshake. Sailor didn’t wait for a handshake, but went back in the house.

“Well,” said Whispering resignedly, “the place belongs to you, ma’am. We’re at yore beck and call, I reckon.”

“I don’t want you at my beck and call,” said Nan. “You will do just as you have been in the habit of doing.”

“Minus the profanity,” added Len, grinning.

“Oh, shore—shore,” Whispering studied Nan’s face closely. “Yeah, I can see old Harmony in yuh, ma’am. Yore eyes are kinda like hisn, except his was brown. Yore uncle was a man. One of the whitest men on earth, I tell yuh. His word was as good as a gold bond. He played the game according to rules.”

Nan blinked quickly. These two men seemed to be measuring her to see if she came up to the standard of Harmony Singer.

“Well, I—I hope I can make good,” she said. But she looked at Len Ayres, and his greenish-gray eyes seemed to accuse her of a lie.

“You’ll make good,” he said softly. “After all, all yuh need to do is to be honest and play the game on the square.”

“Be honest and play the game on the square,” she repeated to herself as she sat in her room a few minutes later. Did he suspect that she wasn’t on the square, she wondered?

She could hear the men talking in the kitchen, and she opened her door just a few inches.

“By God, I never shook her hand!” said Sailor. “I never did kowtow to no woman. I may work for her, but I’ll not shake her hand, Whisperin’. You acted like a plumb fool over her. Yeah, yuh did! Didn’t I hear yuh say that her eyes looked like the ones Harmony had? I shore did. Makin’ a fuss over her eyes!”

“Well, she’s nice, ain’t she?” asked Whispering mildly.

“Nice? Oh, I s’pose she’s nice. Huh! I seen Len makin’ eyes at her, too. I sh’d think he’d had enough of wimmin. Last one married ag’in almost before the gate closed behind him. Well, it’s his business, I reckon. I know I don’t want her.”

“By golly, that ort to relieve her, Sailor. I’ll betcha she’s tremblin’ in her room, waitin’ for somebody to tell her that you don’t want her. Say, git me some wood. I’m minglin’ a reg’lar feed for this evenin’.”

“Panderin’ to her stummick?”

“I’ll pander to the seat of yore overalls, if yuh don’t shut yore yap and git out of here.”

“Oh, I’ll go all right. You burn more wood than any danged cook I ever seen. You ort to git a job in the North Woods. You’d burn all the timber on a quarter section jist to bake one pan of biscuits.”

The kitchen door slammed shut. There was silence for several moments, broken by a rattle of tin dishes in the kitchen, and then Whisperin’s voice raised in song:

“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘and fame’s unfadin’ flowers,

I ride my good top hoss to-day, and I’m top hand of the Lazy J,

So Kitty-cat, you’re ours!’”

Came a verse of unintelligible words, and another chorus:

“‘Oh, glory be to me!’ says he, ‘we’ll hit the glory trail.

No man has lopped a lion’s head and lived to drag the critter dead,

Till I shall tell the tale.’”

It was the old southern Arizona cowboy song of High-Chin Bob, who tried to subdue a mountain lion alone with a rope. Old Whisperin’s voice quavered through the last chorus as Sailor came in to crash down his armful of wood.

“Singin’ to her already, eh?” he sneered.

“You didn’t want her, didja, Sailor?”

“I don’t like to see you make a fool of yoreself at yore age, Whisperin’.”

Nan softly closed her door and threw herself on the bed for a good cry, but the tears would not come. Instead she laughed rather hysterically. For some reason or other she couldn’t find anything to cry about, so she sat up, powdered her nose and tried to think calmly.

“You are a despicable liar,” she told her image in the old mirror. “Just a common thief, Nan Whitlock. You were weak enough to get into this mess; now get yourself out clean.”

That night Charley Prentice got as drunk as the proverbial boiled owl. For several years Prentice had totally abstained from all liquor, but this night he drank himself blind drunk at the Oasis and took two quarts of whisky home with him.

It was nothing unusual for a man to get drunk in Lobo Wells, but for a man in Charley Prentice’s position it was not quite the right thing. Harry Cole had tried to dissuade him, but he refused to accept advice.

“You don’t want that stuff, Charley,” said Cole. “You can’t afford to fill yore skin with hard liquor.”

“Lemme alone,” said Charley owlishly. “My business.”

And Amos Baggs, not at all a teetotaller, looked with disfavour upon Charley. He had a few drinks with Charley, arguing against it all the time, but Charley was too drunk to care what Amos thought.

After Charley staggered away with his two bottles, Amos conferred with Harry.

“That’s all wrong,” said Amos. “He’s been sober and clear-minded for a long time. And you know Charley. What’s wrong with him, Harry?”

“Scared,” said Cole softly. “He’s scared of Len Ayres. I’ve always told yuh that Prentice is a damn yellow pup, Amos. Drinkin’ to hide the yellow. He kept talkin’ to me, just when he starts to drink this evenin’, and he kept wonderin’ why Len came back. I told him to forget it. Damn him, he snivels when he gets drunk. Scared of his shadder.”

“You don’t think he’d do anythin’ foolish, do yuh, Harry?”

“Nothin’ more than get drunk. To-morrow is Sunday, so he can sober up—if he wants to. But he took two quarts with him; so it don’t look so good.”

“I had a run-in with Len,” said Amos. He had imbibed enough to expand a little. “He started in to talk smart to me, but he didn’t get far with it. He’s got it in for both of us, Harry. Let’s have a drink.”

They turned to the bar.

“I was talkin’ to Ben Dillon to-day,” said Cole. “He said that the Wells Fargo people evidently think Len came back here to dig up the money he stole from them.”

“He told me about it,” nodded Amos, filling his glass to the brim. It was not often that he bought a drink. “Said he told them to put their own detective on the job. Harry, I’m of the candid opinion that Ben is about as much of a sheriff as you were.”

“I wasn’t so bad,” laughed Cole.

“No, you were all right, Harry. I’d like to see you in office again.”

“Not me. Oh, I had enough of it. Well, here’s regards.”

But Charley Prentice did not sober up the next day. Amos went out to see him, intending to read him a temperance lesson, but Charley was stretched out on a couch, soggy drunk. Minnie, the Indian woman, who did the cooking and housework, was on the porch with the little boy, who was a miniature edition of Len Ayres.

“Charley Prentice drunk,” said the squaw, explaining the whole thing in three words.

“How are you, Larry?” asked the lawyer.

“Aw right,” replied the boy. “I’ve been talking to Minnie about my other dad, but she don’t do much, except grunt. What do you know about him, Mr. Baggs?”

“Why, I don’t know, Larry,” said Baggs thoughtfully.

“Yes, you do know. All the kids know about him.”

“What did they tell you?”

“They said he’d been in prison for stealing money.”

“Mm-m-m-m—well, that’s about the size of it, Larry.”

“But he’s my dad, ain’t he?”

“Yes, I guess he is. But Charley Prentice is your dad now.”

“How do you figure that out? How many dads can a feller have, anyway?”

Baggs took great pains to explain to Larry just how it happened that his name was Prentice. The boy listened.

“Aw right,” he said defiantly. “Then my name ain’t Prentice, it’s Ayres. Len Ayres is my father.”

“Yes, that’s true, Larry. After he was sent to prison, your mother married Charley Prentice. You were two years old at that time. But wouldn’t you rather have a father who is cashier of a bank than to have one just out of prison?”

“Can I take my pick?”

Baggs laughed softly. “I suppose you can, Larry. Mr. Prentice has been mighty good to you, young fellow, and you will be very wise to stay with him. If you want my advice⸺”

“You said I could take my pick,” reminded the boy quickly.

“You listen to me, young man.” Baggs’s voice assumed authority. “You are just at the age when you need some one capable of looking after your welfare. You are not old enough to judge for yourself. Charley Prentice can do this; Ayres can’t. For all you know, he may be back in prison within a month, and then you would be a county charge. Know what that means? No, of course not. Well, you stick to Charley Prentice.”

Baggs adjusted his hat and walked away, leaving the boy looking after him with troubled eyes.

“What’s a county charge, Minnie?” he asked

“Dunno,” grunted the squaw.

“You don’t know much, do you, Minnie?”

“Know I don’t like Baggs.”

“Gee, I feel the same way about it. I wish I could talk with Len Ayres, Minnie. He wears blue shirts and red handkerchiefs. I seen him the other day, but he didn’t see me. What do you suppose Mr. Baggs meant about him maybe goin’ back to prison in a month?”

“Maybe,” grunted Minnie. “He don’t say sure.”

“Uh-huh. I guess maybe I’ll have to see him.”

“I guess I go make pie. You go play with kids.”

“Don’t want to play with kids. I want to be a cowpuncher, Minnie.”

“Go ahead,” grunted Minnie. “Good job.”

Larry wandered away. He didn’t want to play with the other boys; so he wended his way down to the sheriff’s office, where he found Breezy Hill, the deputy. Breezy was long-faced, bony of face and body, with bushy eyebrows and a shock of sandy hair, which stood up like the roach on a grizzly bear. One side of his face bulged with a huge chew of tobacco most of the time.

“Hyah, Larry!” he called, when the boy stopped in the doorway.

“Hyah,” grinned Larry. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Meditatin’ on my sins,” seriously.

“What’s a sin?”

“A sin?” Breezy spat thoughtfully, and Larry came in beside the desk. “That’s kinda hard to answer, Larry. But it ’pears to me that a sin is somethin’ we all want to commit, but we’re scared of what folks will say.”

“Would folks say somethin’?”

“Would they?” explosively. “Good gosh. I’ll say they would! I’d almost bet that ninety per cent. of the conversation of folks deal with the sins of somebody else. You know what I mean? They talk about the wrong things somebody else has done.”

“Like that talk about my dad?”

Breezy blinked thoughtfully for a few moments. “Yeah,” softly. “I reckon. You don’t remember him, do yuh?”

“Does that make any difference, Breezy?”

“Yo’re a queer little cuss, Larry. What do yuh mean?”

“He remembers me, don’t he?”

“Well, if he don’t!”

“Mr. Baggs says I must stay with Mr. Prentice, or I’ll be a charge on the county.”

“Amos Baggs said that, eh? You ain’t payin’ him for advice, are yuh, Larry? Yuh know a lawyer charges to tell folks what to do.”

“I didn’t pay him nothin’.”

“That’s the stuff! Don’t pay him anythin’. If he makes a yelp, you send him to me. I’ll bend a gun over his head.”

Larry stared at Breezy for a moment, wide-eyed.

“Wouldn’t that be a sin, Breezy?”

“Ord’narily it is, Larry; but when yuh pick the right person, it’s a favour to the rest of the world How’s yore—how’s Mr. Prentice to-day?”

“Drunk.”

“Yea-a-ah? Gosh, that’s somethin’ new.”

“I never seen him drunk before.”

“Huh!” Breezy masticated rapidly. He knew that Prentice had not been drunk for a long time, and he wondered why the cashier of the Lobo Wells Bank had fallen off the water wagon.

A man stepped off a horse at the little hitchrack in front of the office and came to the doorway. It was Len Ayres. Little Larry’s eyes were as big as quarters.

“Hyah, Len,” said Breezy pleasantly. “Whatcha know?”

“Nothin’ much, Breezy.”

Len came in, his spur chains jingling, looked sharply at the boy, and then at Breezy. It was the first time he had seen his son in over five years.

“Don’tcha recognise this young feller, Len?” asked Breezy.

Father and son looked at each other steadily. The boy was backed against the side of the desk, and it seemed as though he had stopped breathing.

“Yeah, I believe I do,” said Len slowly, and then held out his hand. “Hello, little pardner.”

Shyly the boy shook hands with him, swallowing heavily.

“Mighty nice kid,” said Breezy huskily. “Me and him have become good friends, Len. He’s smart.”

Len nodded slowly, his eyes on the boy.

“How are yuh, Larry?” he asked.

“I’m—I’m fine.”

“That’s great, Larry; you shore look good.”

“Looks jist like you, Len,” said Breezy.

For several moments none of them spoke.

Then the boy said: “My name ain’t Prentice; it’s Ayres.”

Len lifted his head and looked at Breezy.

“Mr. Baggs said I could have my choice,” continued the boy, “but he said if I didn’t stay with Mr. Prentice I’d be a charge on the county.”

Len winced, but the muscles of his lean jaws tightened. “Mr. Baggs said that, did he, Larry?”

“Just a while ago. He came out to see da—Mr. Prentice.”

“Oh, yeah. And what did Mr. Prentice say about it?”

“He didn’t say, because he was drunk and asleep.”

“Drunk?” Len looked questioningly at Breezy.

“Somethin’ new,” said Breezy quickly. “First time he’s been drunk in years, Len. The kid never seen him drunk before.”

“No, I never did,” supplemented Larry. “First time. He’s got two bottles with him.”

“And Mr. Baggs came out to see him, eh?”

“Oh, yes. He comes out there every little while. They’re good friends.”

Len nodded slowly.

“Do yuh go to school, Larry?” he asked.

“Yes; this was my second term. I’m in the second grade.”

“Gee, that’s fine. You don’t remember me, do yuh, Larry? No, of course yuh couldn’t.”

“I don’t remember you. Nobody ever told me about you, until the kids did.”

“What kids?”

“Oh, the kids I play with. They said they heard about you at home.”

“Oh, I see—heard about me at home. I’m sorry, Larry.”

“Sorry I heard about you?”

“Sorry for what you heard about me.”

“It’s all right now, ain’t it? It was just a sin. Breezy says that sin is somethin’ we all want to do, but we’re scared what folks will say about us. You wasn’t scared, I guess.”

Len’s mouth sagged a little. Perhaps he never expected to hear this from the mouth of a little boy. He glanced sharply at Breezy, who seemed to be choking over his tobacco.

“No,” said Len softly, “I reckon I wasn’t scared, Larry, and I’m glad that you think it’s all right now. I don’t know of anybody I’d rather have feel thataway.”

“That’s fine,” said Larry. “The kids say you’ve got pots and pots of money buried somewhere, and you came back to dig it up.”

Len blinked rapidly, shook his head at Breezy, and walked back to the doorway, where he looked out at the street.

Larry walked over to him and touched his hand.

“You ain’t mad, are you?” he asked.

Len turned impulsively and took the earnest little face between his two big hands.

“No, I’m not mad, little pardner. I reckon I’ve got to stand for what folks say. It’s all right. Just don’t believe everythin’ yuh hear, ’cause it ain’t all true. When the devil paints some of us, he kinda leaves the colours to folks’ imagination, and some of ’em pick strong colours.”

“Did the devil paint you?”

“Yeah, I reckon he did, Larry.”

“You don’t look it.”

“That’s fine. It shows that you are my friend, Larry.”

“Don’t friends see those colours?”

“They wouldn’t be friends if they did, Larry.”

“Uh-huh. Well,” Larry sighed, “I suppose I better go home. Minnie will have dinner ready, and she’ll be callin’ me.”

“All right, pardner; I’ll see yuh later.”

They shook hands, and Larry went up the street, looking back at his father.

“Can yuh beat that, Len?” said Breezy, coming to the door to watch the boy out of sight.

“No, yuh can’t, Breezy. That kid is deep, I tell yuh. There’s a lot of stuff in his little head. But it don’t seem like he’s my kid. He was such a little geezer when I went away, and now he talks like a man. Breezy”—Len lifted his chin, the lines of his face tightening quickly—“I want that boy. I didn’t never think much about it since I came back. Seems that he’d growed away from me, but right now I want him. He’s a man’s boy, that little feller. But when yuh come right down to cases, I ain’t got no right to him; not with my reputation.”

“The law can’t stop yuh, Len. Charley Prentice never adopted him. He’s yore son.”

“Oh, I know that, Breezy. He’s only seven, and he don’t savvy what his dad—don’t savvy my reputation. After a while he’ll realise what it all means, and then mebbe he won’t have no respect for me.”

“That kid,” declared Breezy warmly, “won’t never go back on yuh, Len.”

“Shore nice of yuh to say that, Breezy. Mebbe yo’re right, but it’s a chance. What do yuh think of Prentice gettin’ drunk?”

“I dunno. Ain’t no crime, unless yuh go too far. A feller in his position hadn’t ort to drink much. But I reckon it’s his business. Lord knows, Prentice is old enough to know what he wants. How’s things at the Box S? What about that girl?”

Len shook his head, and a smile creased his lips.

“Who knows, Breezy? She don’t know a thing about the job. But she’s willin’ to admit it. Whisperin’ and Sailor are already quarrellin’ over her. But that’s nothin’ new; they quarrel over religion, politics, love and war. Whisperin’ is nice to the girl, and Sailor swears Whisperin’s in love with her. Neither of them realise that they are growing old. Sailor won’t have nothin’ to do with her.”

“I suppose she laughs at both of ’em, eh?”

“No, I don’t think so, Breezy. She ain’t that kind.”

“City girl, eh?”

“Oh, shore. She’s made me foreman. Said Baggs advised it.”

“Holy gosh! Baggs advised—oh, no, Len!”

“Well, she says he did.”

“What do yuh suppose struck him?”

“His ears burned, I reckon.”

Breezy thought it over for a moment, and laughed. “Yuh mean that somebody was talkin’ about him?”

“He knew somebody was thinkin’ about him, Breezy.”

“I don’t savvy it, Len, but that’s all right. Folks usually have to write it out for me. It kinda surprised me to hear that Baggs advised it. The whole country talked about the things he said at yore trial, and lots o’ folks said that you’d come back some day and squeeze his Adam’s apple until the juice choked him to death.”

Len laughed and shook his head.

“Baggs is worth more to me alive than dead, Breezy. Well, I reckon I’ll be travellin’ along. Be good, old-timer.”

“Same to you, Len.”

He watched Len mount his bay horse and ride out of town.

“Worth more alive than dead,” repeated Breezy to himself. “Now, what did he mean by that, do yuh suppose? Oh, well, he’s deep, Len is. If I was in his place, I’d never stop to consider the worth of anybody. But I shore pity Baggs if Len ever thinks his usefulness is over.”

Nan’s first week at the Box S was so interesting that she forgot to be lonesome. Len found a gentle horse for her to ride, and bought her a pair of overalls, shirt and wide hat at Lobo Wells.

Side-saddles were unknown in that country. She suffered in silence, and by the end of the week most of the soreness had subsided, giving her a chance to enjoy riding. Either Len or Sailor rode with her, and sometimes they both took her along. Sailor didn’t like it. He was woman-shy, and didn’t care who knew it.

Whisperin’ stayed at the ranch, doing the cooking and chuckling at Sailor’s discomfiture. Their arguments lasted far into the night, neither of them conceding a point.

It was Friday morning when Amos Baggs rode out again. Nan was alone in the house, but the men were down at the corral. Baggs sat down and inquired as to her health and the state of affairs at the ranch. He said he was sorry not to have been out sooner, but business had kept him in town.

“I’ve got everything fixed up at the bank,” he said, as he drew out a cheque and placed it on the table. “If you will just sign this cheque, Miss Singer.”

Nan looked at the cheque, which had been drawn in favour of A. A. Baggs for the sum of one thousand dollars. She looked at Baggs, her eyes a trifle wide.

“What is this for?” she asked.

“My fee for handling the case,” he smiled. “Just sign your name, and everything is fine.”

Nan hesitated, and a moment later Len came in. He had seen Baggs’s horse and buggy at the front of the house.

He nodded coldly at Baggs, stopping just inside the doorway.

“Well, I don’t know,” said Nan. “It—it doesn’t seem right for me to be signing cheques just yet.”

“What was it?” asked Len.

“Just a matter of signing a cheque covering my fee,” said Baggs coldly. “It doesn’t concern you, Ayres.”

“For how much?” asked Len, paying no attention to Baggs.

“A thousand dollars,” replied Nan.

“Don’t sign it. This will hasn’t been probated yet.”

“That makes no difference,” said Baggs hotly. “Everything is in order, as far as the will is concerned.”

“It’s never in order until the court passes on it, Baggs.”

Baggs got to his feet, his lean jaws working violently.

“Just what right have you to advise this woman, Ayres?”

“I’m her foreman, Baggs. She don’t know much about this business. She ain’t got no more right to sign that cheque than I have, and you know it.”

“Do you mean to say that I’ve got to wait another month, until court opens again, before I can get my just fees from this case?” Baggs laughed shortly. “What do you know about the law, Ayres?”

“Plenty. You take my advice and get off this ranch.”

Baggs almost exploded with wrath. “Me get off? Off this ranch?”

“Please don’t have any trouble,” said Nan hastily.

“It won’t be any trouble,” grinned Len. “Baggs knows it won’t, as well as I do. You pull out, Baggs. When that will has been probated properly, and Miss Singer has the right, she’ll sign yore cheque, but not before.”

Baggs left, and as far as they could see, and hear him, he was whipping the horse and talking to himself.

“Was that the right thing to do?” asked Nan dubiously.

“Sure thing,” smiled Len. “You don’t own this property until the court says the will is all right. Oh, there probably won’t be any argument about it in this country, even if you signed the cheque now, but you can’t be too careful. And that fee is pretty stiff in a small case like this.”

“I want to do the right thing,” said Nan softly.

“That’s fine. You don’t mind if I call yuh Madge, do yuh? Out in this country we usually call folks by their first names, yuh know.”

“I don’t mind, Len.”

“That’s a lot better.”

“But my folks always called me Nan. My name is really Madge, but”—Nan thought quickly—“they called me Nan.”

“Kind of a nickname, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I like it better than Madge. Fits yuh better.”

Baggs went back to town in a towering rage, his horse all a-lather, and turned it over to the stable-keeper, who was a trifle particular how his stock was treated.

“Didja win the race?” he asked Baggs sarcastically, but the Lobo Wells lawyer strode away without any reply.

“Acts like he’d lost two bits,” reflected the stableman, as he rubbed down the horse.

Baggs went back to his office and filled his pipe, but he was too mad to smoke. Breezy Hill came sauntering along and stopped in the doorway. Baggs glared at the deputy and went back to his pipe.

“If Charley Prentice don’t lay off the booze, he’ll see a lotta pink snakes pretty soon,” said Breezy.

“Are you his keeper?” asked Baggs.

“Well, I ain’t been appointed yet,” said Breezy calmly. “But he’s goin’ to need one if he keeps drinkin’.”

“I guess that’s his business.”

“Mebbe,” Breezy grinned widely. “You ain’t sick, are yuh, Amos? I seen yore buggy horse when yuh came in. You must ’a’ been in a hurry. Out at the Box S, wasn’t yuh?”

“That’s none of your damn business.”

“Coil up and bite yourself,” advised Breezy, and walked away.

It was after banking hours, and Breezy found Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper of the bank, at the office talking with the sheriff about Charley Prentice.

“I don’t know what to do,” said Johnson. “I hate to notify the directors, but something must be done. Prentice has been drunk all the week. Keeps a bottle in the washroom. I can’t understand him, and he can’t understand anything.”

“I reckon the directors ort to know about it,” said the sheriff. “A man in his condition ain’t responsible. I’ll go and have a talk with him, before yuh do anythin’, Johnson.”

“That’ll be fine, sheriff.”

Later that afternoon the sheriff went out to Prentice’s home, but Prentice was asleep, doubled up on the couch in the living-room, fully dressed, badly in need of a shave and a haircut.

“What do yuh reckon is the matter with him?” the sheriff asked the Indian woman.

“Drunk.”

“That’s easy. But why is he drinkin’?”

“I dunno,” heavily. “Mebbe scared. Keep close to gun.”

“Scared, eh? What’s he—oh, yeah.”

It suddenly dawned on the sheriff that Prentice was afraid of Len Ayres. Prentice’s evidence had been instrumental in sending Len to prison, and a short time later he had married Mrs. Ayres. And now he was drinking himself blind through a fear that Len would do him bodily injury.

“Well, yuh can’t beat that,” he said aloud. “Yellow pup.”

“I dunno,” said the squaw, which absolved her of everything.

The sheriff went back and dropped in at the Oasis, where he met Harry Cole. Charley Prentice being uppermost in his mind, he told Cole that he had discovered why Prentice was drinking so heavily. Cole was interested.

“Prentice is yellow,” declared the sheriff. “I don’t think Len would ever hurt him, do you?”

“I doubt it,” said the gambler thoughtfully. “You think Prentice is yellow, Ben?”

“A streak up his back as wide as this street. His cook says he’s stayin’ close to a gun. That means he’s packin’ one, Harry. Johnson will prob’ly notify the directors and Charley will lose his job.”

“He ain’t notified ’em yet, has he?”

“Not yet. But he’ll have to pretty soon.”

“I suppose so.”

The mail had arrived a few minutes before the sheriff left the Oasis, so he sauntered over to the little post office, where there was usually a knot of men, waiting for distribution. Amos Baggs was there, but he looked so sour that the sheriff did not talk with him.

Baggs was one of the first to get his mail, and the sheriff idly watched him open an envelope and scan the contents. A blank stare overspread the face of the lawyer, succeeded by a sag of astonishment. He blinked rapidly several times, shut his teeth with a determined snap, and walked out, striking his shoulder against the side of the door as he made his rather blind exit.

“I’ll betcha that’s bad news,” said the sheriff to himself, as he headed for the little window, where the postmaster handed out the mail.

But the sheriff didn’t know half how bad it was. Amos went back to his office and flopped down in his chair, limp as a rag. He stared blindly at the wall for several minutes, before he took out that letter and looked it over again. It was from San Francisco, and read:

“Dear Baggs,—More tough luck and a scheme gone wrong. I’m in a hospital with a broken arm and some smashed ribs, but that is only part of it. The girl who was to work with you on that deal was instantly killed in the same accident. Sorry I couldn’t notify you sooner, but I’ve been in bad shape. Will write you more about it later.

“Sincerely,

“Jack Pollock.

“P.S.—Tell Harry about it.”

Baggs crumpled the letter in his hand, scratched a match and applied it to the paper, after which he placed the paper on top of a cuspidor and watched it fade to writhing ashes.

His face was pale, and in his eyes was a queer expression of wonderment. Absently he picked up his pipe and lighted a match, but the pipe would not draw, and with a bitter curse he threw it across the room.

Finally he surged to his feet, stood for a moment, as though undecided, but finally locked his office and went across the street to the Oasis Saloon.

Manzanita County was not heavily populated, nor were there many towns, which possibly accounted for the fact that Lobo Wells was the county seat. Lobo Wells was really the head of the valley, at the north end, being situated near the mouth of Manzanita River, and almost against the hills. Manzanita River promised much, near its source, but as it flowed farther south the desert sands were too much for its existence, and it finally ceased to be a stream less than twenty miles south of Lobo Wells.

Fifteen miles due south of Lobo Wells was the town of Kernwood City on the bank of the fast fading stream, an outfitting place for a few scattering cattle ranches in that vicinity.

On the stage road to Kernwood City, below Lobo Wells, was the OK ranch, owned by Oscar Knight. Three miles west of Lobo Wells was the JP ranch, owned by “Silver” Prescott, the biggest ranch in the Manzanita country, while to the east, almost against the Broken Hills, was the Box S. Between the JP and the OK was the little Circle A, which had been owned by Len Ayres, but which his wife had sold to the JP. It was only a JP line camp now.

The Broken Hills were well named. Jagged cañons, towering, vermilion cliffs; a world on edge and on end, where still remained evidences of the cliff dwellers. Ten miles east of Lobo Wells was the Devil’s Punch Bowl, a miniature Grand Cañon, without inlet or outlet, almost round in contour.

It was the morning after Amos Baggs had received the letter from Jack Pollock. Harry Cole, ex-sheriff, now boss gambler of Lobo Wells, came down the stairs of the hotel and paused at the little counter to exchange a few words with the hotel-keeper, as was his custom, before going to breakfast.

Harry Cole had been a hard-riding cowpuncher before his election as sheriff, but his county office and his present occupation had smoothed off some of the rough edges and his huge frame was carrying extra weight. Perhaps liquor had something to do with it. Cole was not an early riser, because he did not retire early. He exchanged a few words with the man behind the desk, and his eyes idly roved over the dog-eared register, which usually remained open at the same page for weeks at a time. But this morning there were two strange names entered in a scrawling hand: H. Hartley and D. Stevens.

“Couple o’ cowpunchers,” explained the proprietor. “Got in late last night. Said they rode in from Kernwood.”

Harry Cole smoothed his moustache and lighted a cigarette.

“Train just got in,” said the proprietor, apropos of nothing whatever.

“I heard it whistle,” nodded Harry. He flung a match in the cuspidor, brushed off his fancy vest and walked to the doorway, where he stopped.

A man was coming up that side of the street, carrying a small valise, and Cole recognised him as John T. Grant, president of the Lobo Wells Bank, who lived in Randall, about fifty miles south-east of Lobo Wells. Grant was nearing sixty years of age, a kindly appearing man, with snow-white hair and a slight limp.

For years he had been in active charge of the Lobo Wells Bank, but for over six months he had transferred most of the work to Charley Prentice, while he conducted the business of the Randall Bank, owned by the same group of stockholders.

“Good-morning, Mr. Grant,” said Cole pleasantly.

“Oh, good-morning, Mr. Cole.”

The banker switched the valise to his left hand, while he shook hands with the big gambler.

“Yo’re quite a stranger around here,” laughed Cole.

“Yes, indeed.”

The banker sighed deeply and looked around.

“I came rather suddenly,” he said confidentially. “Perhaps you are in a position to give me a few facts regarding Charley Prentice.”

Harry Cole studied the face of the old banker curiously, wondering who had told him about Prentice.

“I have been informed,” said the banker sadly, “that Charley is drinking heavily and neglecting his work.”

“I don’t know anythin’ about the work,” said Cole.

“But you do know he is drinking?”

“Well, I don’t reckon it’s any secret, Mr. Grant.”

“Thank you. I’m very sorry, because I had implicit confidence in Charley Prentice. Do you know of any reason why he should suddenly take to drink, Mr. Cole?”

“I’m sure I don’t.”

“Thank you.”

The banker walked on and entered the bank. Charley Prentice was seated at his desk in a dejected attitude, and looked up at the banker through bloodshot eyes. He needed a shave and a haircut, and his collar was soiled, his necktie askew.

“Well, Charley,” said the banker coldly.

Prentice got to his feet, a crooked grin on his lips.

“Wasn’t looking for you to-day, Mr. Grant,” he mumbled.

“I suspected as much,” Grant said, dryly. He glanced around the bank, but no one was there, except Johnson, the bookkeeper, who was busy at his work. Prentice tried to straighten his tie, to adjust himself generally.

“I’m sorry, Charley,” said the old man slowly. “We’ve had some bad reports on you lately. At first I didn’t believe it, but when the report came again, I felt obliged to come and see for myself. I’d have staked anything on you, Charley.”

Charley Prentice’s face twisted foolishly.

“Well, what’s wrong?” he asked thickly.

“You’re drunk right now, Charley; unfit for work. Go home and sober up.”

“You mean—I’m fired?”

“That is what it amounts to, Charley. I’m sorry.”

Charley Prentice took a deep breath and looked around. Perhaps he was a trifle sorry too, but he was also mad. He shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he stood on unsteady legs.

“Fired, eh? That’s fine! After all, I’ve—who reported me? Who told you I was drunk, eh?”

“That doesn’t matter,” said Grant mildly. “It doesn’t seem to be any secret around here.”

“Doesn’t, eh? I’ll tell you who reported me—Len Ayres. He’s the one. By God, he said he’d get me. Well, he got me, didn’t he? Ha, ha, ha, ha! That’s fine. But I’ll fix him. I’ll show him if he can come back here and—well, well! So you believed him, eh? You took his word for things. He said I was drunk, and you believed him. Came sneaking in to find out, eh? Well, I’m not worrying about the job.”

“Charley, you better go home and sober up.”

“Sober? I tell you, I’m as sober as a judge! Look at me.”

“That’s the trouble—I can see you, Charley.”

Charley shrugged his shoulders and walked out, but he didn’t go to his home—he went to the Oasis. The old banker sat down at his desk and lit a cigar with trembling fingers. Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper, came over to him and shook hands.

“I’m sorry, too, Mr. Grant,” he said. “It was rather hard for me to send you those reports.”

“I understand. Is Len Ayres back here in Lobo Wells?”

“I hear he is, Mr. Grant. I don’t know him, of course.”

“Charley Prentice married his wife after Len was sent to the penitentiary for robbing this bank.”

“I have heard the story.”

“Ayres is a bad man, Johnson—a gunman.”

“Charley Prentice was taking a chance, don’t you think?” Johnson inquired.

“I suppose he was. Still, five years is a long time, and the woman was pretty. I understand that she left everything to Charley—everything she took from Len Ayres. The court awarded her everything in the divorce.”

“Broke Ayres, eh?”

“Financially. He’d be a hard man to break physically.”

“I think Prentice is afraid of him, Mr. Grant.”

“That may be why he is drinking. I’m really sorry about it.”

“I liked Prentice, Mr. Grant.”

“We all did; but business is business, Johnson.”

That same day Nan rode with Len Ayres. Sailor had a touch of rheumatism, which made riding a painful pastime, so he stayed at the ranch.

By this time Nan had become accustomed to the saddle, and was really enjoying the riding. Len had never had much to say to her about himself or his past, and most of his conversation consisted in explaining the duties connected with running a successful cattle ranch.

This particular day he was more quiet and thoughtful than ever. They rode westward from the Box S, crossed the railroad tracks and forded the river between Lobo Wells and the OK ranch. They followed the river for a short distance, but swung west again along a small stream, until they reached a tumbledown sort of a small cattle ranch.

They drew rein on a slope above the cluster of small houses, which were deserted, and Len studied them for a long time. Finally he turned to Nan, a whimsical smile in his greenish-gray eyes.

“There’s a monument to busted hopes,” he said slowly.

“I don’t understand, Len,” she said.

“No, that’s right; you wouldn’t,” he said gravely. “I don’t reckon many folks around here realise it. To them it’s just an old deserted ranch. The range country is full of ’em, Nan. But this one happened to have been mine—once. It was when I took a step upward from bein’ just a cowboy.”

“Oh, was this your ranch, Len?”

He nodded and began the manufacture of a cigarette.

“It’s a line camp for the JP now. They own it.”

“Why did you sell out?”

He sighed as he scratched a match on the leg of his batwing chaps and lighted his cigarette.

“I didn’t have much to say about it, Nan. The court gave my wife a divorce and all the property. She sold it.”

“Oh, that was too bad.”

“They call it justice, Nan. I had a nice start in cattle and horses.”

“I have heard some of it. Whispering told me part of it. She married a banker, didn’t she?”

“A bank cashier,” he nodded. “Quite a jump from the wife of a wild cowboy. But she was ambitious, I reckon.”

“Whispering said that she was very pretty.”

“I suppose she was. She knew it. That ruined her, Nan.”

“Knowing that she was pretty?”

“Shore,” Len smiled wistfully. “It spoiled her. When a woman finds out she’s pretty, she’s like a young man who finds out he’s a good shot. They’re both goin’ to hurt somebody before they get through.”

“I’m glad I’m not pretty, Len.”

He turned in his saddle and looked at her closely.

“No, you’re not pretty, Nan; but yo’re good-lookin’. You’ve got good eyes, pretty teeth and red hair. Some day, some feller is goin’ to think yo’re beautiful, and he’ll tell yuh. But you’ve got plenty sense, and yuh won’t break his heart, because yuh know yuh ain’t beautiful.”

Nan flushed hotly under his diagnosis. No woman cares to be told that she is not beautiful, even if she knows that it is the painful truth.

“Don’t get mad at me, Nan,” he said quickly.

“I’m not mad, Len.”

“That’s fine. I reckon I got kinda rough with yuh, but when I look down at that place I kinda lose faith in women and men. That’s where my boy was born, Nan. I remember that night so well. I rode for the doctor to Lobo Wells and got him out of bed. He wanted to hitch up his buggy horse, but I made him pile on to my bronc, ’cause we needed him bad.

“I said I’d hitch up his horse and foller behind. I was so excited that I plumb forgot that I was ridin’ a bad bronc, and about halfway between here and the town I picked up the doctor. He was scratchin’ matches in the middle of the road, tryin’ to find his medicine case. The bronc throwed him flat. But we got there in time.

“Oh, he was a fine little boy. I was the nurse. The cattle business went flat with me. We didn’t have no cook; so I done the cookin’ and the nursin’. This is the first time I’ve seen the old place in over five years, Nan—and it hurts. Memories hurt, even if they’re happy memories. Mine are both kinds.”

“Was she happy with this other man, Len?”

“Quién sabe? I hope she was, Nan. Everybody is entitled to happiness. Accordin’ to my viewpoint, she didn’t play square. She wasn’t happy nor satisfied for a long time. Nan, a woman has got to love a man to live with him in the range country. Not only that, but she’s got to sacrifice a lot. Girls who are born to it get along the best. They don’t know anythin’ else.”

“It is a lonesome life,” said Nan slowly. “But I think I could learn to love it, Len. The city seems so narrow beside this country. I could understand hate in a city, but not out here.”

“There will always be hate, as long as men live, Nan.”

“Did you love your wife, Len?”

He looked queerly at her, turned away and rubbed the palm of his right hand on his saddle-horn.

“I admired her, Nan. Mebbe I loved her. I loved my baby. She said I loved the baby more than I did her. Women get queer notions. Do you get queer notions, Nan?”

“About what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That was a foolish question. Didja ever have a sweetheart, Nan?”

“I suppose I have,” laughed Nan.

“Didja love him?”

“I don’t think I did, Len.”

“Uh-huh. My wife used to tell about the sweethearts she had. I reckon she kept quite a tally. But she said she never loved one, until she met me. If that was the case, God was mighty good to them other boys.”

“Did she sell everything you owned, Len?”

“Shore. I had a house in town, too. Wasn’t worth much, but she sold it. She took what money I had in the bank. Whisperin’ says she wasn’t satisfied with what she got. There was another bank roll, and she thought it was where she could get it, but it wasn’t in sight. Baggs, yore lawyer, wrote me a letter, askin’ where it was. I reckon she hired him to write the letter.”

“You didn’t tell him, did you, Len?”

Len smiled bitterly.

“No, I didn’t, Nan. I told him where he could go, but he didn’t take my advice. Queer jigger, that Baggs person.”

“Has he a good reputation, Len?”

He looked at her queerly.

“Why do you ask that question, Nan?”

“Just curiosity, I suppose.”

“I suppose I’m prejudiced, Nan. Yuh see, he sent me to the penitentiary. The evidence wasn’t so awful. They found my hat in the bank, after a robbery. Kinda foolish for a man to leave his hat, after robbin’ a bank, wasn’t it?” He smiled wryly at her, as he eased himself in his saddle.

“But Baggs is a bitter devil,” he continued. “He said a lot of dirty things about me durin’ that trial, and he made the jury believe ’em. I didn’t have any friends on that jury, Nan; Baggs saw to that, and Charley Prentice was the star witness. He swore he recognised me, and the judge sent me up for five years.”

“Why did you come back here, Len?”

“Why?”

“With all the bitter memories and the things against you.”

He looked at her, his greenish-gray eyes half-closed thoughtfully.

“Mebbe I came back to dig up the money they say I hid.”

“I’m sorry I asked that question, Len.”

“Oh, it don’t matter, Nan. Everybody wonders, I reckon. Well,” he picked up his reins, “I suppose I’ll dig it up some day. Hope to. Right now, it don’t look promisin’, but yuh never can tell.”

“Don’t you want to go down and look at the old place, Len?”

He shook his head quickly.

“I don’t think so. Whisperin’ told me that they tore up all the floors and dug all around, lookin’ for my cache. I s’pose every cowpuncher in this country has hunted for my buried treasure in the last five years. They can dig for five more, and never find it, Nan. Well, we might as well start back home.”

“All right, Len. Do you know, I was just wondering why Baggs asked me to make you foreman of the Box S, when he was so bitter toward you before.”

“Mebbe he felt sorry for me,” smiled Len.

“Perhaps,” doubtfully. “I wouldn’t trust him too far.”

“You wouldn’t? Well, I guess that’s right. Yuh see, I don’t trust anybody, Nan.”

“You’d trust me, wouldn’t you?”

He turned and looked squarely at her for a moment.

“Mebbe I’ll tell yuh about it sometime,” he replied enigmatically, and they rode slowly back toward the river.

Len’s reply worried Nan. Did he know she was an impostor, she wondered? She knew that Len had been very close to old Harmony Singer. Whispering had told her about the friendship between these two men for years, and that Harmony had looked upon Len almost as a son. She wondered what it was behind those greenish-gray eyes that caused Len to look so queerly at her at times.

If there had been any other claimants to the Box S Nan would have slipped quietly out of the country, but Whispering had told her that she was the only living relative of Harmony Singer, as far as he knew. Some one had to own the ranch.

She was afraid of Amos Baggs, but she did not know what his game was. And why did he ask her to keep Len Ayres, she wondered? Was Len in on the deal in some way? She had no one to talk with; no one to confide in. It was just a case of going ahead day by day, waiting to see what might develop, at least until the will had been probated.

Nothing more had been said about the cheque which Baggs had asked her to sign, but as they rode in at the Box S Len turned to her and said:

“Baggs is probably sore about yuh not signin’ that cheque for him, Nan; but you stick to it. After the will is probated, it’ll be all right. Stick as close to the law as yuh can—it’s the safest thing to do.”

“He can’t make me sign it,” smiled Nan, and Len looked sharply at her for a moment.

“No, I don’t reckon he can. Anyway, his price is pretty steep for just notifyin’ yuh. I suppose he got paid as he went along, and never ran any bills. But don’tcha worry about Baggs.”

“Oh, I’m not worrying about him, Len. I’d rather take your advice than his.”

“Well,” drawled Len, “I wouldn’t go so far as that, if I was you, Nan. He knows a lot about the workings of the law, while about all I know is the effects of it.”

Nan slipped to the ground and handed her reins to Len. “You shouldn’t remind yourself of that all the time, Len,” she said.

“I’ve got to,” he told her seriously. “Why, if I didn’t remind myself all the time of them five years, I’d go out and—and prob’ly get sent back again. Nan, don’t never do anythin’ that might send yuh to jail.”

He turned abruptly and started toward the stable with the two horses, leaving Nan rather breathless, looking after him. Came the soft drumming of the old triangle beside the kitchen door, and she turned to see Whispering grinning at her.

“Supper time, boss,” he said, his red face beaming like a full moon. “Amos Baggs came out to see yuh to-day, and me and Sailor shore sent him back home talkin’ to himself. First time I ever seen Amos Baggs with a skinful of liquor. Oh, he wasn’t drunk, but he had plenty. He was jist a mongrel when he showed up here, but me and Sailor shore sent him home with a pedigree.”

“Did he say what he wanted?” asked Nan.

“Never had no chance, ma’am. We didn’t listen—we talked. You hop into yore other clothes quick, ’cause them biscuits are due to rise out of the oven right now. Sailor felt so good over his talk with Baggs that he cut me plenty good wood for once in his rheumatic existence.”

“Was Mr. Baggs angry?” asked Nan.

“I dunno,” grinned Whispering. “But ’f he wasn’t, he’s shore deaf as hell or got a wonderful disposition.”

“Mister, do you know how to fly kites?”

One “Hashknife” Hartley, newcomer, sitting on the wooden sidewalk in front of the Lobo Wells Hotel, lazily turned his head and looked at little Larry Ayres, half hidden by a huge home-made kite, from which a rag and string tail dragged several feet behind. The boy’s face was very serious as he questioned the lean, lanky stranger, whose gray eyes were hidden beneath the wide brim of his sombrero. “I can’t git it started,” confessed the boy helplessly.

Hashknife’s lips parted in a wide, lazy grin.

“Pretty big kite for a small boy, don’tcha think, buddy?”

“I wanted her big. My name’s Larry, and I’ve got plenty of string.”

“Then yo’re all right—except for a start. Make it yourself?”

“Me and Minnie. Minnie’s Injun, and she don’t know beans about a kite. But she made the paste and gave me a nickel for string. What I need is help, right now.”

“That’s a common need,” grinned Hashknife, as he got up from his seat. “I reckon yore need is as worthy as most; so we’ll fly the kite, Larry. What’s the rest of yore name?”

“There’s some argument about that,” said Larry seriously, grasping the kite in both hands and kicking the tail away from his feet. “We’ll go out on the flat near my house, where we can get a run at it.” He led the way, while the lanky cowboy followed him, grinning a little. There was plenty of open country, but of wind there was none, and after a few ineffectual trials they decided that kite-flying was a failure.

“Yuh need wind,” explained Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Larry. “We don’t get much wind about here. What’s yore name?”

“My name is Hartley, Larry. Why did you say there was an argument about yore name?”

“Because my real dad went to jail for a long time, and my other dad was named Prentice. But my name is Ayres, just the same. Do you know Len Ayres? He was a bank robber—but he ain’t now.”

“Oh, I see,” nodded Hashknife thoughtfully. “But yo’re still livin’ with yore other dad, ain’t yuh?”

“I’m still stayin’ at his place. But he’s drunk. He’s the cashier of the bank.”

“Oh, yeah—and he’s drunk, eh? Not so good for a bank cashier, is it, Larry?”

“I guess not. He didn’t used to drink at all, but now he’s drunk all the time. Me and Minnie keep away from him, ’cause he swears at us. He’s got a gun, too.”

“Lookin’ for trouble, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“I dunno. Minnie says he’s got trouble inside. What does she mean by that?”

“He ain’t sick, is he, Larry?”

“He never had any doctor.”

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, Larry, I reckon the kite ain’t a success.”

“I guess we better wait for a wind, Mr. Hartley.”

Larry leaned the kite against a fence post and walked back to the main street with Hashknife, where they met Breezy Hill, the deputy sheriff. Larry managed the introduction very well, and the two men grinned at each other as they shook hands.

“We been tryin’ to fly a kite, Breezy,” explained Larry.

Breezy grinned. “That’s shore fun. I ’member once down in southern Kansas, when me and another feller flew a kite. He made it out of half-inch hardwood strips, covered it with rawhide, and hooked on a hundred and fifty feet of half-inch rope. Then I tied off on my saddle-horn and went straight into the wind. I got my right arm broke and lost a sixty-dollar saddle. Ho, ho, ho! They have wind in Kansas!”

“I wish we had wind here,” sighed Larry.

“Well, I came here to git out of it,” laughed Breezy.

They walked down towards the livery stable, where Sleepy Stevens had gone to see that the stableman had taken good care of their horses, and found him near the wide front door. Hashknife introduced him to Breezy. Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder, with rather a blocky face, deeply lined with grin-wrinkles, and with wide, innocent-appearing blue eyes.

The raiment of both Hashknife and Sleepy were typical of the south-west ranges. Overalls tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots, thin, faded shirts, stringy vests, well-worn silk neckerchiefs and Stetson hats, more or less weathered. Both men wore holstered guns, sagging heavily from their belts, which had seen so much service that they fitted perfectly to the curve of hip and thigh.

There was nothing ornamental about their garments. Neither man was inclined to ornaments, and even their heavy Colt guns bore handmade plain wood handles.

As the three men and the boy were talking, Amos Baggs, driving a livery rig, turned his horse in through the open doorway. The Lobo Wells lawyer’s chin was set at a belligerent angle as his weak eyes glanced at the group at the doorway, but he did not speak until after he had turned the rig over to the stable keeper and came back to the doorway. He ignored Hashknife and Sleepy, speaking directly to Breezy, who seemed rather amused.

“I’ve been out to the Box S,” he told Breezy. “Went out to see Miss Singer, who is my client, as you know, Hill. She wasn’t there, and I was ordered off the place by Whispering Taylor and that other old skunk, Sailor Jones. They threatened me with a gun.”

“Ye-ah-ah?” drawled Breezy, evidently unimpressed. “With a gun, eh? Yuh know,” reflectively, “either one of them old jiggers will shoot. They say that Sailor killed several men down in the Panhandle, and Whisperin’ had so many notches in his gun that it ruined the balance of it and he had to throw it away.”

“That has nothing whatever to do with this case,” said the lawyer.

“Merely proves that you was wise in comin’ away, Baggs.”

“It may seem funny to you,” said Baggs angrily, “but to me there was little humour in the situation. I have a perfect right to visit that ranch. I handled the affairs of Harmony Singer, and I have been retained by Miss Singer in an advisory capacity. I shall advise her to discharge those two men at once, and I shall force the sheriff’s office to give me protection. This is a fine state of affairs for a civilised community.”

“You shore must have run into a hell of a lot of grief out there,” grinned Breezy, “but I’d hate to see the old fellers lose their jobs. They’d jist about massacree yuh, Baggs. You couldn’t have ’em put in jail for tellin’ yuh a few things, but if you get ’em fired—you better go on a vacation.”

“I refuse to be bullied!”

“Go ahead. Anyway, you better tell yore troubles to Ben Dillon, ’cause he’s the sheriff. I’m jist his hired man, and I ain’t supposed to know anythin’. He’d tell yuh his opinion.”

Baggs snorted angrily and went up the street, mopping his almost bald head with a gaudy handkerchief, while Breezy chuckled out loud.

“Ben’ll tell him his opinion all right. Ben hates Baggs, and he likes them two old codgers.”

“Baggs is a lawyer, eh?” asked Hashknife.

“Oh, shore. Used to be prosecutin’ attorney of this county. He done some lawin’ for old Harmony Singer, who owned the Box S. Old Harmony up and died from bein’ dragged by a horse, and he left everythin’ to his niece. I guess she hired Baggs to handle her lawin’.”

“Was the place worth much?”

“Oh, shore. The Box S is a good layout.”

“Is the girl runnin’ it?”

“I reckon she is, with the help of Len Ayres and them two old jiggers that made Baggs so uncomfortable.”

“Len Ayres is my father,” said Larry.

“Yeah, that’s right, Larry,” agreed Breezy. He turned to Hashknife. “I’m gettin’ hungry, and I hate to eat alone; will you boys join me?”

“I reckon we can eat,” grinned Hashknife, and they walked up to a restaurant, where Larry left them.

Breezy was rightly named. He loved to talk, and during the hour he spent in the restaurant with Hashknife and Sleepy, he gave them a résumé of Lobo Wells for the past five years. He talked until even the bland-faced Chinese waiter wondered what it was all about, because cowboys usually bolted their food and finished in haste.

“And nobody ever did find Len Ayres’s cache, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“If they did, they never told anybody. Why, even after Len’s wife married Prentice and sold Len’s old ranch, they tore up the floors and dug all around the place. I reckon they had an idea he cached the money near home. He’s back again now, and he’s the only one who knows where it is.”

“I suppose the sheriff is keepin’ a watch on Ayres, eh?”

“He’d have a swell chance, Hartley,” Breezy said.

“Yeah, that’s true. Not a chance in a million.”

“And Charley Prentice drank himself out of a job since Len came back. Hardly ever took a drink before. Now he’s lost his job,” the deputy added.

“Scared that Ayres might kill him for what he done?”

“Looks thataway. Took to booze like a calf to milk. Makes it tough on the kid. But at that, I’ll betcha the kid would quit Prentice any time to go with Len.”

Hashknife nodded. “And you say that Amos Baggs was the prosecutor who sent Ayres to the pen?”

“Shore was.”

“Who was the sheriff—the same one you work for?”

“No-o-o. Harry Cole was sheriff then. He owns the Oasis Saloon and Gamblin’ Palace. His term ran out the followin’ year after Len went over the road.”

“Uh-huh. And Prentice was cashier of the bank when Len Ayres robbed it, eh?”

“Y’betcha. And then he turned around and married the wife of the man who robbed him. Kinda funny, eh?”

“Funny to us, I suppose,” said Hashknife slowly. “Fate is a queer thing.”

“Are you one of them fellers who believes that everythin’ is cut out for people?” Breezy asked. “That it don’t make no difference how careful yuh are, nor how wise yuh are?”

“Somethin’ like that,” nodded the tall cowboy. “There’s a Big Book somewhere with it all written down. On that book is the things yuh are to do and how yuh finish. You can’t dodge it, Hill.”

“Yuh mean that yuh can’t help bein’ what yuh are and doin’ what yuh do, Hartley?”

“You shore can’t.”

“Hm-m-m-m,” thoughtfully. “It seems to me that when yuh feel thataway about life, yuh can forgive folks for what they do.”

“Why not?”

“Well, that’s kinda human, Hartley. But from what I’ve seen and heard in my life, yore lodge ain’t got a hell of a big membership. Let’s go over and meet Ben Dillon. He’s hawg-fat and he ain’t so awful smart, but he’s human enough and lazy enough to forgive anybody. If you boys are lookin’ for jobs, I’ll see Silver Prescott for yuh. He owns the JP outfit, and he’s a good man.

“And there’s Oscar Knight’s OK outfit. He don’t use so many men as Silver Jim does, but he’s plumb white man. Of course, the Box S is out of the question, unless Baggs manages to git them two old men fired, which I hope he don’t. It wouldn’t be the Box S without them two old terriers. Whisperin’ Taylor does the cookin’, while Sailor Jones cuts the wood, does the horse wranglin’, and helps with the ridin’. And there ain’t a minute when they’re together that they don’t quarrel. But lemme tell yuh this much—don’t pick on one of ’em when the other is in hearin’ distance.”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed, as the three walked across the street to the sheriff’s little office.

Ben Dillon did not prove as communicative as Breezy Hill. While being good-natured and friendly, Dillon was inclined to be just a little reserved with strangers. Breezy explained that Hashknife and Sleepy were looking for jobs with some outfit, which seemed reasonable to the sheriff.

It was late in the evening when Hashknife and Sleepy got their first chance to see the notorious Len Ayres. They were in the Oasis Saloon playing a game of pool when Len came in. Breezy was in the game and pointed Len out to them as he stopped near the bar, looking the room over.

Hashknife was more interested in Charley Prentice, although he did not know who Prentice was. The ex-cashier was standing at the bar where he had imbibed considerable whisky, and his extreme nervousness had attracted Hashknife.

His eyes seemed dilated and he continually fussed at his sleeves, rubbed his chin, and otherwise gave evidence that his nerves were in a bad way. Hashknife decided that this man was on the verge of delirium tremens, and would bear watching. His clothes were wrinkled, his collar dirty and he had not shaved recently. He left the bar and came down toward the pool table, walking rather unsteadily and acting as though he didn’t know what to do next. Hashknife was in the act of making a shot, but lifted his cue and looked at Prentice, who was so close that he interfered with the cue.

Hashknife was about to speak to him when he noticed that Prentice was staring at Len Ayres, who was watching a poker game. For the space of possibly five seconds Prentice looked at Len Ayres, and then, without any warning, slipped a hand in his coat pocket, quickly drew out a heavy Colt revolver, snapped back the hammer and pointed the gun at Len’s back.

As quick as a flash Hashknife swung his billiard cue in a short arc, struck Prentice’s right wrist a sharp blow, knocking the gun out of his hand. But the force of the blow also caused Prentice to jerk back on the trigger, and the gun went off before it clattered to the floor. The bullet drove into the floor just short of the poker table.

Len Ayres whirled at the report of the gun, and Hashknife saw as swift a piece of gun play as he ever saw in his life. Len had whirled, drawn his gun and was backing away, swinging the muzzle of his gun menacingly, almost before the thud of the shot had died away in the room.

But all he saw was Charley Prentice, clinging to his right wrist with his left hand, the gun on the floor at his feet, and Hashknife dangling a billiard cue in his two hands.

The room was in an uproar in a moment. Harry Cole stepped close to Prentice, grasping him by the arm, while Prentice mumbled plaintively and tried to draw away, but the big gambler yanked him back, his eyes snapping.

“Yuh can put up yore gun, Len,” said Breezy nervously. “I seen it all. Prentice tried to shoot yuh in the back, but Hartley here smashed him across the wrist with a pool cue. Mebbe I better put the danged fool in jail.”

“Not on my account,” said Len.

“But he tried to murder yuh, Len. If Hartley⸺”

“If Len ain’t kickin’, where do you come in?” interrupted Harry Cole. “Too much liquor. Bed is the place for him—bed and a doctor.”

“Oh, all right,” grunted Breezy. “Might handcuff him at the same time.”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Cole, and led Prentice out of the saloon.

Len holstered his gun and came slowly over to Hashknife.

“Len, I want yuh to meet Hartley,” said Breezy.

“I want to meet him, Breezy,” Len said soberly, as they shook hands. “And I want to thank Hartley for what he done.”

“Yo’re welcome, Ayres.”

“That’s fine. I reckon he kinda had me foul. I didn’t see him there, Breezy. Mebbe I wouldn’t have noticed him, anyway. He ain’t the same man he was when I left here.”

“He’s older, Len; and he’s been drinkin’ heavy. Lost his job.”

“No!”

“Fact. Old man Grant fired him.”

“Gosh, that’s kinda hard luck.”

Hashknife looked closely at Len Ayres, who seemed genuinely sorry to hear that Prentice had lost his position. Ayres might be a bad man, but Hashknife decided that there was nothing petty about the man. Breezy introduced him to Sleepy.

“I reckon I’m lucky you boys came to Lobo Wells,” he said. “I’m shore indebted to yuh, Hartley. Any time I can do anythin’ for yuh, just yell loud enough for me to hear.”

“Yuh ain’t indebted to me,” grinned Hashknife. “I’ve been watchin’ that feller for quite a while, expectin’ any minute that he’d start trompin’ on snakes. I don’t think he’s responsible for what he done.”

“I reckon he knew what he was doin’,” said Breezy.

“I reckon he did,” nodded Len. “But it’s all past now. I wouldn’t get any satisfaction out of jailin’ him, Breezy. Yuh see,” he shifted his eyes to Hashknife. “I know what it means to be behind the bars.”

“I’ve got friends on both sides of ’em,” said Hashknife. “I dunno which ones I prefer; possibly the insiders.”

“I’ve seen some pretty good men on both sides,” agreed Len.

“Speakin’ of people yuh don’t like, Len,” said Breezy, “we saw Amos Baggs to-day, after he was out to the Box S. He shore was fit to be tied. Said that Whisperin’ and Sailor ran him off the ranch. Gee, he shore was boilin’.”

Len smiled thoughtfully.

“I guess he would be. I didn’t know they ran him off.”

“Well, that’s the way he’d put it, Len. Said he was goin’ to have the lady boss fire both of ’em.”

“He did, eh?” The greenish-gray eyes hardened for a moment. “Mebbe the lady will have somethin’ to say about it, Breezy.”

“I was thinkin’ that myself. How do yuh like her, Len?”

“Well, she’s all right, I reckon. Don’t know anythin’ about the business, of course.” He smiled suddenly. “Gives Whisperin’ and Sailor somethin’ to quarrel about. Sailor swears he don’t like her and that he’ll quit the job the first time he gets a chance. But I’d hate to be the person to say a word against her where he could hear it.”

Harry Cole came back and walked up to Len.

“I took him home and had one of the boys get a doctor,” he told Len. “Charley is in bad shape.”

“That’s too bad, Harry; I hope he gets along all right.”

Cole looked sharply at him, but walked away without further conversation. Len held out his hand to Hashknife, as he said:

“I’ve got to be goin’ back, but I want yuh to know I appreciate what you did for me, Hartley. Come out to the Box S.”

“Thanks,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll see yuh later,” and then he turned back to the table and picked up his cue.

The next few days were quiet ones in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy met Silver Jim Prescott of the JP ranch, but he had no jobs open. It was the same with Oscar Knight, the little bow-legged owner of the OK outfit. He sized both men up seriously and told Hashknife frankly that he was sorry he didn’t have a job for them.

But the pair did not seem worried about the inability to secure work, and made no effort to move farther down the valley, where there were other cattle outfits. They spent much of their time at the Oasis, playing pool or poker, and loafing around the sheriff’s office, imbibing local colour and gossip from Breezy, who never seemed to run out of conversation.

Charley Prentice had narrowly succeeded in evading an attack of delirium tremens, but was now back at the liquor again. Hashknife had met him several times, but Prentice did not recognise him. Hashknife had been introduced to Amos Baggs, who was also drinking more than was good for him, which caused the Lobo Wells lawyer to appear morose and grim.

“I don’t like this place,” decided Sleepy. “Nothin’ ever happens around here, Hashknife. Another week in this town and I’ll start sproutin’ like a potato.”

Hashknife grinned slowly.

“It ain’t very fast, Sleepy. But ain’t it restful?”

“Yeah, it’s shore restful.”

“All my life I’ve wished for a peaceful town. This is it, Sleepy; Peaceful Town. Lobo Wells sounds like a place where things might happen, but she’s misnamed. Mebbe.”

“Why the mebbe, cowboy?”

“Who knows what’s under the surface? Consider dynamite; it’s just a brown cylinder. Just about as dangerous as a stick of wood, unless yuh monkey with it. Never judge anythin’ by what yuh can see, Sleepy. And for a change I’d suggest that me and you ride out to the Box S.”

“Suits me. Anythin’ to get away from this town.”

Whispering Taylor looked upon them with suspicion until it dawned upon him that Hashknife was the tall stranger who had prevented Charley Prentice from shooting Len Ayres. Len had told him about the incident.

“I’m Whisperin’ Taylor,” he told Hashknife. “Len and Sailor are out in the hills some’eres to-day. Git down and rest yore feet. I’m bakin’ some apple pies and there’ll be a-plenty for everybody. Tie yore broncs in the stable and heave a few oats into ’em.”

Nan, hearing voices, came out on the porch, and Whispering managed to perform a sort of introduction, after which he headed for the woodpile in a hurry.

“Len told me about you,” smiled Nan. “I’m glad you came out to see us.”

“Yes’m,” nodded Sleepy quickly. “Nice place yuh got, ma’am.”

“It really is nice.”

“One of the nicest I ever seen,” seriously. “And it’s kind of a novelty to find a woman runnin’ a cow ranch.”

“Oh, I’m not running it—much. I leave that to the men.”

“I reckon that’s the right thing to do.”

“Won’t you put up your horses and stay for supper? Len and Sailor will be along pretty soon, and I feel sure they would be sorry if you didn’t stay.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll stay.”

“I expected that,” said Hashknife seriously. “Thank yuh, Miss Singer.”

“By golly, that’s a pretty girl,” declared Sleepy, as they unsaddled their horses at the stable.

“Not bad,” said Hashknife.

“I’d tell a man!”

Hashknife chuckled softly. Sleepy felt the same about every girl he met, and still he had never had a girl he could call his own.

“What are you grinnin’ about?” asked Sleepy.

“Nothin’. Only I’ve heard that same thing before, Sleepy.”

“Well, why not? I’m old enough to know what I—aw, quit it! Just because yo’re girl-proof, yuh don’t need to think I am.”

“I never thought yuh was, pardner. Go ahead. This would be a great country to settle down in—and sprout.”

“A feller could move, couldn’t he? Say, who ever started this argument? My gosh, can’t I even look at a girl?”

Hashknife chuckled loudly as he removed his spurs and shook himself loose from his batwing chaps.

“You’ve got my permission, pardner,” he said.

“Thank yuh kindly, sir.”

They went back to the house and sat down on the porch. Sleepy sat on the steps, hugging his knees and watching Nan, as they talked. She had absorbed considerable range knowledge from the three men at the ranch and was able to discuss the cattle business rather fluently for a beginner.

Hashknife mentioned different ranges and the things they had seen in their wanderings from Alberta to the Mexican border, and Nan seemed greatly interested. “You must have done a lot of wandering in your time,” she said.

“Quite a little,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “There’s a lot of trails behind us, and I hope there’s a lot ahead. But yuh never can tell. That’s the best of life—the uncertainty of the future. Always gamblin’ with to-morrow; takin’ a chance. Do you believe in takin’ chances, Miss Singer?”

Nan looked away quickly to escape those level gray eyes of the tall, serious-faced cowboy. Did she believe in taking chances? It seemed to her as though this man knew.

“I suppose we all take chances,” she said softly, not looking at him.

“Yeah, that’s true. When we get up in the mornin’ we take chances.”

“Might choke on a aig,” drawled Sleepy, and they all laughed.

“Do yuh like this life?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t know,” said Nan quickly. “I have never been so lonesome in my life, and yet I am happier than I have ever been. Why, I haven’t seen a woman since I’ve been here. I’ve been too busy to go to Lobo Wells. I suppose there are women in the town.”

“Yeah, I’ve seen some,” nodded Hashknife. “But not the kind you’ve been used to seein’. Paint, powder and styles don’t mean anythin’ to ’em. They’re hard-workin’ folks and they don’t get much enjoyment out of life, but they’re human. They won’t never say mean things about yuh, and no matter who yuh are or what you’ve been, they’ll shoot square with yuh. It ain’t a case of the survival of the fittest out here, like it is in the city. They don’t drive the weak ones to the outside of the herd for the wolves to pull down. All they ask is honesty, ma’am. Yore word is yore security.”

Nan drew a deep breath. All they asked was honesty. And she wasn’t honest. But if she had been honest she would still be tramping the streets, looking for work, or working for a small wage and living in a hall bedroom, cooking hamburger over a gas jet.

“Everybody ain’t honest,” said Sleepy.

“If they was,” said Hashknife softly, “we’d settle down, pardner.”

“And sprout,” added Sleepy.

Nan didn’t know what they meant, and it was possibly just as well for her peace of mind that she did not, although they knew nothing wrong of her. To her they were but two drifting cowboys, looking for work, but the back trails that Hashknife had spoken about knew them for more than that.

Their partnership had begun when Henry Hartley, a long, gangling cowboy, fairly fresh from the Milk River country in Montana, drifted south and became a rider for the brand from which he had later been nicknamed.

And on this same ranch was Dave Stevens, nicknamed Sleepy, a cowboy with an itching foot. Together they rode the range of the Hashknife, bunking together, sharing what they had, until the horizon called them and they rode away together, for ever ordained by Fate to keep on going, always looking to see what was on the other side of the hill.

Hashknife was the son of a range preacher, who propounded the gospel of life in bunk-house or in the open; teaching men how to live rather than how to die; and Hashknife had absorbed much of his philosophy as a foundation.

But through some kink Hashknife had been born with a keenly analytical mind. He knew that every effect must have a cause. His keen eyes registered impressions of things that other men might overlook, and as Sleepy had said: “He hears the grass grow.”

It seemed as though fate threw them into troubled places. Unconsciously they would blunder into a range mystery, where Hashknife would be in his element until it was cleared up. Again they would accept an assignment from a cattle association to clear up some trouble.

Sleepy analysed nothing. He was the man Friday, supreme in his confidence in Hashknife’s ability, following along, never knowing just when they might strike the end of the trail; but always ready to back Hashknife with a smoking gun or the weight of his two hard fists.

It had not been a remunerative partnership. They were poorer in pocket than the day they had ridden away together. They did not ask for pay—did not wait for it. The job was the thing.

And there had been many mighty hard jobs. Death had ridden knee to knee with them many times; struck at them from beside the bushy trail, lashed out of the darkness, darted out at them from a pall of powder smoke; but still it fell short.

Their life had made them confirmed fatalists. Perhaps that and their sense of humour carried them on. Neither of them was a split-second gunman. At times they marvelled at their luck, which left them unscathed while gunmen went down, leaving them to carry on.

“Some day there won’t be no other side of the hill,” Sleepy had predicted.

“It comes to every man,” Hashknife had agreed. “But if we’re lucky we’ll get high enough up to peek over the top.”

It was nearly supper time when Len and Sailor rode in. Len seemed pleased to find Hashknife and Sleepy there.

“I was wonderin’ if you’d left the country,” he told them.

“We don’t move very fast,” grinned Hashknife. “Miss Singer invited us to supper, so we decided to stay.”

“I’m shore glad she did.”

Sailor was friendly enough, and even intimated to Whispering that these two punchers never came from any mail-order house, which was quite a lot for Sailor to say about anybody.

After supper Len decided to ride to Lobo Wells with them. They were out of tobacco at the ranch and there were a few other small purchases to be made. Nan shook hands with them and asked them to come back soon. After they had ridden away with Len, Nan said to Whispering:

“I like those two men, Whispering. I think the tall one has the cleverest eyes I have ever seen.”

“Don’t get fooled on no cowpuncher,” advised Sailor. “Clear eyes ain’t no bay-rom-eter on his conscience. Most honest man I ever knowed was plumb cross-eyed and had a sty on one of ’em.”

“Yore idea of honesty,” said Whispering. “I was kinda impressed by this tall one m’self.”

“Shore yuh would; didn’t he brag about yore biscuits?”

“I dunno,” Whispering shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I look at you, Sailor—and wonder. To begin with, yore parents must ’a’ been easy-goin’ folks, or they’d ’a’ strangled yuh early in life. To think of a man at yore advanced age havin’ lived all this time!”

“Advanced age!” snorted Sailor. “My gosh, to hear you talk you’d think I was sixty-five.”

“To hear you talk, I’d think yuh was a hundred, Sailor.”

“Some day,” said Sailor ominously, “I’m goin’ to take you out and whip yuh, Whisperin’.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? I’ve heard that lotsa times. You’ll probably wait until we both have to travel in wheel-chairs, and then settle it with a race instead of a fight.”

“What is all this argument about, anyway?” choked Nan.

“He started it,” said Whispering.

“I did not,” bristled Sailor. “You said⸺”

“Yeah? I said what?”

They looked blankly at each other for several moments.

“You better git me some wood, Sailor,” said Whispering. “That last yuh got was better’n usual, but the woodbox is empty.”

“Yeah—all right. It was some of that old corral that me and Len tore down. It’s danged hard to saw—but thasall right.”

The three cowboys rode to Lobo Wells, where Len made his few purchases, while Hashknife and Sleepy stabled their horses, and they met again at the Oasis. Johnny Harris and Archie Moon were in from the JP ranch, and Len introduced them to Hashknife and Sleepy.

The Oasis was busy that night. Harry Cole nodded coldly to them, as he went past them and entered his private room at the rear of the building. Johnny and Archie wanted to play pool; so they made it a three-handed game with Sleepy. After taking one drink, Len said he was going back to the ranch, and urged Hashknife to come out soon.

Breezy Hill dropped in for a few minutes, and Hashknife went back to the office with him.

“Somebody said that Len was in town,” said Breezy, after Hashknife had spoken about being out at the Box S. “Charley Prentice was around here early this evenin’, half drunk and half loco. I dunno whether he’s got a gun or not, but a man in his condition ain’t safe—not after what he tried to do to Len the other night.”

“Fit to be locked up,” agreed Hashknife. “Is he home now?”

“I think he is. I was up past his house a while ago, but everything was quiet. I kinda worry about that kid.”

And the kid, as Breezy termed him, was also worried. He and Minnie, the squaw, stayed close to the kitchen, while Prentice sprawled on a couch in the little living-room, talking to himself at intervals.

“We go ’way pretty soon,” decided Minnie. “No good stay here. Worse all time.”

“But where’ll we go, Minnie?” asked Larry anxiously.

“I dunno.”

Larry humped in a chair, resting his chin on his two hands. “I guess we’ll git along,” he decided. “Mebby I can git a job, Minnie.”

The fat, stoical face of the squaw did not change expression, as she said: “Sure.”

Suddenly there came a sharp knock on the front door; a rat, tat, tat, as though some one struck the door with a hard object. They heard Prentice growl angrily and the couch creaked protestingly, as he heaved himself upright. Larry stepped to the doorway and watched Prentice pick up a gun from the table and go lurching toward the door. He fumbled for the knob, found it and yanked the door open.

Surging ahead he hooked the point of his left shoulder against the side of the doorway and stopped suddenly.

“This is Ayres, you dirty dog!” snapped a voice, and the next instant a gun spat fire twice from beside the little porch, while the echoes rattled back from the frame buildings across the street. Came the crash of a body falling on the porch—silence. Larry turned, white-faced, white-eyed, and stared at the squaw, whose lips were tightly shut, her eyes dilated a little.

Slowly she walked past Larry and went out to the porch. Larry didn’t follow her, but his wide eyes were glued on the front door, until she came back, softly closing the door behind her.

“Plenty dead,” she said slowly.

“Dead?” whispered Larry, almost choking over the word.

“Shot twice,” she said, nodding. “Die quick.”

“We—we ought to get the doctor,” faltered Larry.

“Doctor no good now; better get sheriff.”

The sheriff! Larry blinked painfully. What would he tell the sheriff? What could he tell the sheriff? Tell him what they had heard? He wanted to cry, but fought down the impulse. He came over close to the squaw and she looked queerly at him.

“Minnie,” he said, “you didn’t hear anythin’, didja?”

She stared at him for a moment. Then:

“White man law,” she said.

“White man law, Minnie?”

“One man kill—one man hang.”

“Oh! Minnie, you mean they’d hang—him?”

“White man law hang him sure.”

“You would tell ’em, Minnie?”

She looked at him for several moments, her round face as blank of expression as the wall behind her. Finally she spoke.

“Minnie not white man; Minnie Injun.”

“You won’t tell, Minnie?”

“You go tell sheriff; Minnie hear nothing.”

Without another word he bolted from the rear of the house and went running toward the street. The sound of the shots had been heard by a number of people, but as there had been no further disturbance they decided that some cowboy was merely working off some extra steam by shooting holes in the sky.

Hashknife and Breezy did not hear the shots, and were unprepared for the entrance of little Larry, choking for breath, as he stumbled into the sheriff’s office. Breathlessly he blurted out his story of the killing.

“Yuh say he’s dead?” asked Breezy. “Sure he’s dead, Larry?”

“I didn’t look,” panted Larry. “Minnie said he was.”

“Take it easy, son,” advised Hashknife calmly. “You say that somebody knocked on the door, and when Prentice went to the door this somebody shot him twice?”

Larry nodded quickly.

“Not a word spoken?” asked Hashknife.

“We—we didn’t hear nothin’.”

Ben Dillon was just coming from the Oasis as they went past, and he joined them. He had heard the two shots, but did not know just where they had been fired.

They found Charley Prentice sprawled on the little front porch, one arm dangling over the edge, lying on top of his own revolver. They secured a lamp from Minnie, placed it on a chair, so that the body was illuminated, and Breezy went after the doctor, who was county coroner. The sheriff questioned Minnie, and her story, told in monosyllables, was practically the same as Larry had told.

The coroner came and they examined the body. He had been hit twice, and either bullet would have killed him. No one offered any suggestions as to who might have killed Prentice, except Breezy’s remark: “I guess he was plumb scared to death that Len⸺” And then Breezy ended his remark with, “I didn’t think how that sounded.”

Hashknife was watching little Larry’s face in the lamplight, and he saw the little fellow look sharply at the squaw, who merely looked back at him with a blank stare. The boy sighed deeply and moistened his dry lips with his tongue.

They placed the body on a blanket and carried it down to the doctor’s office. Hashknife looked back towards the house, where the squaw stood in the doorway, holding the lamp shoulder-high, her other arm around the shoulders of little Larry.

Lobo Wells was just a little shocked over the killing of Charley Prentice. They did not call it murder, although it was obvious that Prentice had been murdered. Tongues did not wag in Lobo Wells, but every one felt that there was just one man in the country who might kill Charley Prentice.

The following morning Ben Dillon and Breezy Hill rode out to the Box S. Len was saddling a horse for Nan, and finished the job before coming up to the house to meet them. Nan was talking to them, but they had not told her about Prentice.

Len nodded and smiled as he tied her horse to the porch.

“You boys must have started early, didn’t yuh?” he asked.

“Pretty early, Len. Charley Prentice was killed last night.”

Len’s greenish-gray eyes opened a trifle wider as he looked from Ben to Breezy.

“What killed him?” he asked slowly.

“Couple of forty-fours, Len.”

“Yeah?” Len’s eyes did not waver. “What time was this?”

“After you left town—a while after. Just what time was it, Breezy?”

“I never looked,” confessed Breezy. “Yuh remember when yuh left, Len? Well, me and Hartley went over to the office, and it was ten or fifteen minutes later when Larry came to tell us.”

“Did Larry see it?” asked Len.

“Nope. Somebody knocked on the door, and when Prentice answered the knock, they shot him dead on his own porch.”

Nan was staring at Len, and he turned his head to look at her. “You were back early,” she said, as though it might help him.

He smiled thinly.

“Yeah, I wasn’t very late,” and to the sheriff: “Well, what do you think about it, Ben?”

The sheriff shrugged his broad shoulders.

“There’s no clue, Len. You didn’t see Charley last night, did yuh?”

“He was at home when Len came in,” said Breezy quickly.

“No, I didn’t see him,” said Len. “Shot with a forty-four, eh? That’s the size of my gun, Ben.”

“Mine, too,” said the sheriff glumly. “Prob’ly eight out of every ten punchers in this country pack the same size.”

“Don’t leave yuh much to work on, Ben,” said Len dryly.

“Not much. Well, I just wanted to tell yuh about it.”

“To give me a chance for a getaway?”

Ben Dillon looked straight at him, as he said:

“Ain’t nobody accused yuh, have they, Len?”

“Not in words.”

“Plenty of time to talk about a getaway when they do.”

“Thank yuh, Ben. I’ll come in and see yuh.”

“All right. Pleased to have seen yuh again, ma’am.”

They lifted their hats and rode away. Len leaned a shoulder against the porch and watched them disappear down the road. His lips were shut tightly as he turned and looked at Nan.

“You didn’t do that, Len,” she said.

“That part of it don’t matter,” he said bitterly. “It’s what people think. Sure, I killed him. I might as well say I did, because I can’t prove I didn’t.”

She came closer to him, searching his tensed features.

“But you didn’t really kill him, Len; you couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t I, Nan?” He laughed shortly. Suddenly he sobered, his eyes thoughtful. “I forgot about the boy,” he said, as though to himself. “It’s tough for him—mighty tough, Nan.” He turned quickly. “Do yuh mind if we don’t ride this mornin’? I’d like to go to town—to Lobo Wells.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Len.”

“That’s kind of yuh. I guess I better go now.”

He turned toward the stable.

“I want you to know that I believe in you, Len,” she said.

He stopped, but did not look around.

“That’s mighty sweet of yuh, Nan—I’ll remember it!”

He saddled his horse quickly, rode away to Lobo Wells, arriving but a few minutes behind the sheriff and deputy. He tied his horse to the Oasis hitchrack, but did not enter the saloon. The sheriff had gone to the doctor’s office, but Hashknife and Breezy were in the sheriff’s office and saw Len ride in.

“Whatcha suppose he wants?” grunted Breezy. “Somethin’ must have struck him real sudden.”

They came to the doorway and watched Len cross the street and stop in front of Amos Baggs’s office, where Baggs was just coming out.

The Lobo Wells lawyer eyed Len suspiciously, but there was no anger in Len’s eyes.

“I jist wanted to ask yuh a few questions,” said Len. The lawyer nodded shortly, remembering that Len had prevented Nan from signing that thousand-dollar cheque.

“Charley Prentice never adopted my son, did he, Baggs?”

Baggs’ face twisted thoughtfully.

“No-o-o,” he drawled. “No, he never adopted him, Len.”

“Nothin’ to prevent me from taking that boy, is there?” asked Len.

Baggs walked to the edge of the sidewalk, spat thoughtfully and turned to Len.

“Nothing legal.”

“Meanin’ what, Baggs?”

“There still remains the moral aspect of the thing.”

Len’s eyes hardened.

“Meanin’ that I ain’t fit to take him, Baggs?”

“In plain words: no, you are not, Ayres.”

Splat!

Len’s open right palm landed on the lawyer’s left ear, with every ounce of his lithe body behind it, and Mr. Baggs went sideways off the sidewalk, landing on his shoulders in the dusty street.

For a moment Len looked down at him, rubbed the hot palm of his hand on his thigh, and walked on up the sidewalk, as though nothing had happened. Baggs struggled to his feet, mouthing profanity, swearing dire threats, while Breezy fairly hugged Hashknife in the office door, chuckling with unholy glee.

Baggs climbed back on the sidewalk, trying to shake the dust off his clothes, shaking a fist at Len between swipes at his garments. Then he turned and came down toward the sheriff’s office, half trotting in his haste. Breezy shoved Hashknife back from the doorway and locked the door.

“Nobody home,” he grinned at Hashknife, who nodded. Baggs tried the door, knocked loudly, swore disgustedly, and went back to his office.

“Probably wants to swear out a warrant for assault,” grinned Breezy, unlocking the door. “Give him time to cool off, and he won’t feel so bad about it. I wonder where Len went.”

He wasn’t in sight on the street, because he had gone up to Prentice’s house and was knocking on the door. Minnie came to answer the knock, and behind her was little Larry. Len looked at the expressionless face of the squaw and then at the face of his son.

“I heard what happened last night,” he said slowly, “so I—want yuh to come out to the ranch with me, Larry.”

The boy’s face lighted up for just a flash—and then he remembered. He came past the Indian woman, came very close to his father, his hands behind him, but did not look up.

“Don’tcha want to come with me, Larry?” asked Len.

“I want to come, but I can’t,” he said.

“Why can’t yuh come, son?”

The boy took a deep breath, but he was game.

“If you hadn’t done that—last night,” he said.

“Done what, Larry? Look up at me. Done what?”

“What you done.”

Len looked at the squaw, whose eyes were fastened on his face.

“We not tell,” she said firmly.

Len’s eyes shifted to the boy.

“Do you think I killed Prentice?” he asked.

“We won’t tell. Me and Minnie will never tell, will we, Minnie?”

“Not by damn sight,” she replied inelegantly but firmly.

Len turned slowly around and walked away, lips compressed, his eyes staring at the ground. He didn’t understand, except that they believed he had killed Prentice and that they would not tell. The boy had refused to go with him, because he had killed a man. Len was dazed, wondering even when he went back to the hitchrack and mounted his horse. Hashknife and Sleepy were crossing the street and spoke to him, but he did not see them.

He rode back to the ranch, stabled his horse and sat down on the porch, trying to think. Nan came out and tried to talk with him, but he would not answer; so she sat down in a chair and waited for him to come out of his coma.

It was probably ten minutes later before he lifted his head and looked around. His eyes were bloodshot and Nan had never seen him look so old and tired. He tried to smile, but it was but a grimace.

“Nan,” he said slowly, “do you know how many people there are in the world?”

“Millions and millions, Len.”

“Funny, ain’t it?”

“What is funny about it, Len?”

“That out of all that millions of people, you are the only one who—do you still believe I didn’t kill Prentice?”

“I know you didn’t, Len.”

“That’s fine.”

He clasped his hands around his knees and looked out across the Broken Hills.

“When I was in the penitentiary I used to long for the hills and the old cow-towns, Nan. I dreamed of ’em every night. There was the sunrise in the cow-camp, with waddies saddlin’ cold broncs, the camp cook and his big black pot of coffee. There was the round-up. Hard-ridin’ days; wild nights, when it was all over. The dances at the ranch-house. I could lay there on my bunk and hear the fiddlers and the caller. I could laze along through the hills, where the wind riffled the tall grass, straddlin’ a dream horse, and see the cattle lift their drippin’ jaws from the water-holes. Night after night I’ve dreamed it all over, waitin’ for the day when I’d be free to come back to it all. But it ain’t like my dreams, Nan. I thought I was bad off in the pen, but I—I wish I’d stayed.”

“You wish you hadn’t come back, Len?”

“Yeah. I reckon I’ve lost faith in folks—all of ’em.”

“But you haven’t lost faith in me, Len.”

He looked closely at her for several moments, as he got to his feet.

“Mebby I’ll tell yuh about it sometime,” he said.

It was the same enigmatic answer he had given her before, as he walked down to the corral, where Sailor had just ridden in. Nan closed her eyes and tried to think what Len had meant. What had happened to him in town to cause him to come back in this frame of mind, she wondered?

He talked with Sailor for a while, but did not come back to the house with him. He sat down on a box beside the corral fence, giving no sign of life other than an occasional puff of cigarette smoke.

Nan heard Whispering and Sailor arguing about it in the kitchen.

“He ain’t drunk,” declared Whispering. “Yo’re crazy.”

“Well, he acts drunk. Look at his eyes, will yuh?”

“Aw, he wasn’t in town long enough to git drunk. Go and git me some wood, Sailor.”

“Well, if he ain’t drunk, whatsa matter with him?”

“Prob’ly bilious.”

“Yeah, that’s reasonable; yore cookin’ would do that.”

“That ain’t biliousness—that’s yore danged disposition. Nothin’ short of a pistol whippin’ will ever cure that.”

“Thasso? Mebby you think you can cure me?”

“I don’t want yuh cured, you old squint-eyed porkypine. Go git me that wood and stop arguin’. You make me sick.”

The inquest frightened little Larry. He didn’t know what it was all about, but he managed to tell the same story he had told Hashknife and Breezy. Minnie’s story was the same. There was no evidence to show who had fired the fatal shots; so the jury brought in the usual verdict.

Amos Baggs came to see the sheriff following the inquest, and complained against Len Ayres for knocking him down the previous afternoon. Hashknife and Sleepy were with the sheriff when Baggs called.

“It seems to me that yo’re a grown man, Baggs,” said the fat sheriff. “If anythin’, yo’re bigger than Ayres.”

“Do you think I’m going to fight him?” demanded Baggs.

“Well, yuh didn’t; so what can yuh do about it?”

“Do you think I’m going to let him batter me around?”

“Say, what do yuh think this is—a guessin’ contest, Baggs? What do I know about what you’ll do and what yuh won’t do? Yuh wasn’t aimin’ to have Len arrested for slappin’ yuh, was yuh?”

“It was plain assault.”

“Yea-a-a-ah, I s’pose it was; very plain. But it ain’t up to me, Baggs. Get the judge to swear out a warrant and I’ll serve it.”

Baggs was mad. He even glared at Hashknife, who grinned at him openly. He walked to the door, but turned to fire a parting shot:

“I suppose you don’t know who killed Charley Prentice.”

“Well,” said the sheriff wearily, “I didn’t do it, because I’m the sheriff; and you didn’t because you ain’t got the nerve.”

“That’s supposed to be a smart answer, isn’t it, Dillon?”

“It’s the right answer to a foolish question, Baggs.”

After Baggs had left the office, the sheriff declared: “I don’t like that feller.”

“I guess he knows it,” grinned Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the prosecutor who sent Ayres to the pen?”

“Yeah, and he shore piled it on a-plenty. I thought Len would kill him when he came back, but I guess the pen takes all the killin’ ideas out of a man. Nobody ever wants to go back.”

“Do you think Ayres really cached a lot of that money he stole?”

The sheriff laughed shortly.

“I suppose every man in this county has asked himself that same question, Hartley. Nobody but Len could prove it. They say he was the one who pulled the jobs, and he must have done somethin’ with the money. I think some folks had a sneakin’ suspicion that his wife knew where it was. But I don’t think she did.”

“Was she pretty?”

“Yeah, y’betcha. Prettiest woman around here.”

“How soon did she marry Prentice after Len was convicted?”

“Well, she got her divorce right away, and they was married inside of six months.”

“She must have known him before Len was sent up.”

“Oh, shore. They’d been friends a long time.”

“Len and Prentice?”

“Prentice and the woman. Oh, I suppose him and Len was good enough friends.”

“You wasn’t sheriff at that time, was yuh?”

“Nope. Harry Cole was the sheriff. Afterward he bought out the Oasis Saloon. He’s made good money over there.”

“What’ll become of the kid now?”

“Larry? I dunno, Hartley; never thought about him. Say, that is somethin’ to think about. Mebbe Len wants him. I’ll have to find out about that right away, because I don’t suppose Prentice left anythin’. Anyway, it probably can’t be touched until the estate is settled up. I’ll talk with Grant, at the bank, and see what he knows about Prentice’s finances.”

The next day they buried Charley Prentice in the little cemetery on the slope behind the town. The countryside came to pay homage to a man they had known as a good citizen. His sudden fall from grace meant nothing against a good record. Hashknife and Sleepy did not intend to go to the funeral, although the sheriff asked them to go with him.

They were sitting in front of a store, as the funeral came down a short side street and wended its way out of town. It was not over a quarter of a mile to the cemetery. The wagons, buckboards and riders were still turning the corner on to the main street, when Len Ayres rode in. He drew up in front of the Oasis and watched the procession.

And as the last vehicle turned the corner, he spurred his horse and fell in behind.

“Can yuh imagine that?” snorted Sleepy. “He’s goin’ to the funeral!”

Hashknife looked seriously at Sleepy and got to his feet.

“I reckon we’ll go along, pardner. C’mon.”

The cortege moved slowly, so they had no difficulty in reaching the graveyard in time. Len tied his horse to a fence and mixed in with the crowd around the grave. Hashknife and Sleepy managed to get to a vantage point where they could watch everything. Little Larry was the sole mourner, but he was too interested in the crowd to be much of a success.

They saw Len push his way in close to the grave, where he stood all during the ceremony, paying no attention to any one. In fact, he was the centre of interest, although he seemed unconscious of it. Amos Baggs stood across the grave from him, and if his expression was any criterion of his feelings, he was sorry that it wasn’t Len’s funeral.

Len stayed in the one spot until the crowd began to disperse, when he went slowly back to his horse and rode away. Breezy met Hashknife and Sleepy at the fence, bursting for a chance to talk.

“Can yuh ee-magine that?” the deputy demanded. “Stood right there and watched ’em plant Charley! That’s cold nerve, Hartley.”

“Do yuh suppose he was merely tryin’ to show his nerve?” asked Hashknife. “Yuh know it don’t take nerve to attend the funeral of a man you’ve never hurt in any way.”

Breezy tipped his hat over one eye as he scratched his head thoughtfully.

“Yeah, there’s somethin’ in that, too. Lordy, it shore gave the folks a shock. Amos Baggs almost fell in the hole—and I reached for a shovel. It ain’t right to say it, but I’ve always hankered for a chance to pat him in the face with a shovel. He makes me mad, jist to look at him. Wait till I git my horse, and I’ll walk back with yuh.”

They found Larry at the sheriff’s office, talking with Dillon, when they came back. The sheriff was trying to find out whether any one had made plans for the boy. He seemed just a little bewildered, but grinned at Hashknife.

“I’m still waitin’ for the wind to come along,” he said.

“That’s fine,” grinned Hashknife. “When she comes, we’ll shore fly that kite, Larry.”

“Y’betcha.”

“I had a talk with Grant,” said the sheriff, “and as far as he knows, Prentice didn’t leave a dollar. Gambled quite a lot, and the luck usually went against him. I dunno what about this boy.”

“I’ll betcha I know,” grinned Breezy. “Larry would like to go out to the Box S and live with his dad.”

Larry looked earnestly at Breezy for several moments, but finally shook his head.

“Yuh don’t?” Breezy was astonished.

“No, I don’t want to go out there,” he said.

“I guess I better go home to Minnie.”

He walked out of the office and Breezy whistled softly.

“Ain’t that funny? Why, the other day he was shore strong for Len. I don’t savvy what changed him so quick.”

“Was he very fond of Prentice?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t believe he was,” answered the sheriff. “I don’t believe Prentice cared much for him. Yuh don’t suppose the kid thinks that Len killed Prentice, do yuh? That might make him afraid of Len. Somebody might have told him that Len was the one who done the shootin’.”

“That would be a dirty trick,” said Hashknife quickly.

“Dirty tricks have been done,” smiled Breezy. “I wouldn’t put it past Amos Baggs.”

Nobody reproved Breezy for that statement. But Hashknife wasn’t satisfied. He left the office and made his way up to the Prentice home, where he found Larry in the yard. “No wind yet,” said the boy. “I reckon we won’t get any to-day.”

“Not much chance,” smiled Hashknife, leaning on the fence. “I wanted to ask yuh a question, Larry.”

“To ask me a question, Mr. Hartley?”

“Man to man, Larry.”

“What is it?”

“Did somebody tell you that Len Ayres killed Prentice?”

The boy blinked quickly and turned his head away.

“Just man to man, Larry,” urged Hashknife softly.

Larry shook his head.

“Nobody told me,” he said. “Not a soul, Mr. Hartley.”

“You didn’t even hear anybody hint it?”

“Do they think he killed Mr. Prentice?”

“Who do you think killed him, Larry?” countered Hashknife.

“I don’t know who killed him.”

“And you never even heard anybody hint that your father might have killed Prentice?”

After a moment of sober thought the boy shook his head.

“I didn’t know they thought he did,” said Larry.

“Thank yuh for answerin’ my question, Larry.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hartley. I hope we get some wind.”

“Yeah, I shore hope so. So long, Larry.”

“So long, Mr. Hartley.”

Hashknife went away unsatisfied. There was some reason why Larry did not want to go to Len; and Hashknife would never be comfortable until he had discovered who shot Charley Prentice—and why. He felt that Len Ayres was perfectly capable of killing a man, but he did not think that Ayres would ever commit murder.

He talked it over that night with Sleepy, but his grin-faced partner had no ideas on the subject, except the local thought that Len had killed him.

“Some folks think he done the right thing,” said Sleepy.

“Yuh can’t justify murder, Sleepy.”

“I ain’t tryin’ to. Anyway, it wasn’t my funeral.”

“Did Len strike you as a man who would call a man to his door and kill him?”

“I dunno, Hashknife. Readin’ human bein’s is like dopin’ out a race horse from a form-chart. They never run the way they should. I’d hate to think he would, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. What’s yore opinion?”

“The key to the whole thing is this, Sleepy: find the man who wanted to kill Prentice.”

“Yeah, I know that. But Prentice was well liked by most everybody. He never hurt nobody—except Len Ayres. Ask anybody and they’ll tell yuh the same thing. I’ve talked with a lot of ’em.”

“That’s what made it easy for somebody else to kill him, and get away with it, Sleepy.”

Sleepy laughed softly.

“Hashknife, yo’re funny. If you seen a man shoot another man, you’d prove that somebody else done it.”

“And get a confession from ’em, Sleepy.”

“And they’d be guilty. Go ahead, but don’t ask me to think. All I’m good for is to burn powder, anyway.”

“There ain’t much to think about—yet.”

“Well,” grinned Sleepy, “yo’re young yet.”

The next day Whispering made out a grub list, and Nan rode to town with him in a lumber-wagon. She had talked things over with Len and he had advised her to get some cheques at the bank to pay for the grocery list.

“Even before the will is probated, they’ve got to allow enough money to keep the ranch goin’,” he told her. “It may not be exactly accordin’ to law, but that won’t matter.”

Nan didn’t want to meet Amos Baggs. She hadn’t seen him since she refused to sign the thousand-dollar cheque for him. The Arizona sun had changed her complexion to an olive tan, and she might easily be mistaken for a native of the range.

They were obliged to cross the railroad tracks near the little sun-baked depot, and as a train was approaching, Whispering drew up the team some distance away. The train did not tarry long at Lobo Wells, and as it drew away Whispering whipped up the team.

They jolted across the tracks and headed down the main street. A man dressed in black, one arm in a sling, was going down the wooden sidewalk from the depot, carrying a valise in his free hand, and as they came abreast of him, he turned his head sufficiently for Nan to see his face.

For a moment she grasped the side of the seat to steady herself, turning her head away quickly. Her heart seemed to come up in her throat.

It was Jack Pollock, the San Francisco gambler! Madge’s friend! He was the last man she had ever expected to see again, and the last one she wished to see. Her mind was in a whirl, as the team drew up in front of the store. Whispering looked at her and put his hand on her arm.

“What’s the matter—too much sun?” he asked.

“I—I’m all right,” she said jerkily.

“Yo’re mighty white, ma’am. I’ll help yuh down and git yuh in the shade. A derned old wagon is the hottest place on earth, anyway. We’ll git some water for yuh.”

She walked shakily into the store, where Whispering secured a cup of cold water for her. The proprietor of the store was solicitous, but helpless.

“Oh, I’m all right now,” she said weakly.

“You set right here,” advised Whispering. “I’ll go up to the bank and git them cheques, and I’ll tell Grant about it. I know him well. You jist take it easy. Give Jim Albers here yore grub list, and he’ll fix it up while I’m away.”

Nan was more than thankful to Whispering. She didn’t want to go out on the street. It was cool in that dark corner of the store, and she wanted time to think. What was Jack Pollock doing in Lobo Wells, she wondered? Baggs had spoken about him, and Nan realised that Pollock was the one who was going to send Madge Allan to Lobo Wells to take over the Box S property.

Had some one suspected that she was an impostor and sent for Jack Pollock to prove the suspicion? She was at the end of her rope, and she knew it. A word from Pollock would prove who she was.

Whispering was coming back, grinning widely.

“Feel better? Got everythin’ fixed up. Grant said he’d take a chance on yore cheque. Got some pen and ink, Jim? How much does that total?”

Nan’s hand shook as she made out the cheque, but the men did not notice it. They loaded the stuff in the wagon and drove away. Nan did not draw a full breath until they were out of town. The colour came back to her cheeks and Whispering nodded approvingly.

“Oh, yuh look a lot better,” he told her. “Gosh, yuh shore looked like you’d seen a ghost, when we pulled up at the store. This sun does fry yuh plenty.”

Whispering didn’t know how near he had come to the truth when he said she had seen a ghost. He told Len about it when they got back to the ranch, but Nan assured them that she was entirely recovered.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in the Oasis Saloon when Pollock came in. He shook hands with Cole and with several other men, drank with them, and then went back with Cole to his private office.

Hashknife was tilted back against the wall, with his hat over his eyes, and after the two men had entered the back room, he tilted forward, got to his feet, and walked outside with Sleepy.

“Recognise the black-coated gent who just came in, Sleepy?” he asked.

“Didn’t pay much attention to him. Who is he?”

“I dunno who he is now,” thoughtfully. “About three or four years ago a gambler by the name of Jack Evans shot a feller in the Golden Arrow Saloon in Redfields. They quarrelled over a poker game, and Evans shot him with a derringer. The man didn’t die, but he was badly crippled, and there was a warrant for Evans, who got away. Remember that, Sleepy?”

“Yeah, I remember the shootin’. Is this Jack Evans?”

“If it ain’t, it’s his ghost. I don’t forget faces. Yuh see, I’ve played poker with him. He’s got a scar on the back of his left hand; sort of a white half-moon, where a Mexican pinned his hand to a poker table in Laredo. Wore a big cameo ring on the same hand. The ring may be gone, but the scar will show.”

“Do yuh reckon he’s still wanted in Redfields?”

“That’s not our business. Let Redfields capture their own criminals. What interests me is the fact that he’s here in a small town with one arm in a sling. Harry Cole and the bunch seem to know him very well; so this may be where he hangs out when the police need him pretty bad.”

“Do yuh think he’ll recognise you, Hashknife?”

“Not a chance in a thousand. We never locked horns in any way, and he prob’ly dealt cards to a lot of suckers since he dealt to me.”

They mentioned Pollock to Breezy.

“Jack Pollock? Shore I know him. He used to work for Harry Cole. Oh, he was here a long time. Yuh say he’s back? He’s all right, jist a little slick, thasall. Mebbe Harry sent for him.”

“I don’t know him,” said Hashknife. “Heard them call him Pollock. He’s got his left arm in a sling.”

“Yeah? Well, he prob’ly got clumsy on the deal. Some folks demand an honest deal, it seems. Oh, I don’t say he’s a crooked dealer, Hashknife. Lotsa other ways for him to git hurt. Might have fallen out of a balloon, f’r instance. I’d be the last one to ever say anythin’ against him.”

Hashknife dropped the subject, as far as the conversation was concerned, but did not dismiss it from his mind. It might be the natural thing for Pollock to visit the place where he had formerly lived and worked, but Hashknife did not figure that a man of Pollock’s reputation would do the natural thing. He took it for granted that Pollock was there for some other reason than a visit.

Hashknife drifted back to the Oasis a little later, giving Pollock plenty of chances to recognise him, but the gambler merely glanced at him and went on talking with Cole. Hashknife noticed that his left hand was bandaged to the knuckles, precluding any chance of an identifying glimpse of any scar on the back of that hand.

Pollock did not take a room at the hotel, but occupied one of Cole’s rooms over the saloon, where Cole’s other two dealers slept. Cole’s own bed was in his private office.

That evening about eight o’clock Amos Baggs came in to the sheriff’s office, where Ben Dillon was seated at his desk, writing a letter.

Baggs did not sit down, but stood beside the desk and came to the point immediately.

“I want to talk with you about Len Ayres, Dillon,” he said.

“What’s he done now, Baggs?”

“This has nothing to do with what he has already done; it’s what he might do. You probably know that he hates me for what happened during his trial five years ago. Well,” Amos sighed deeply, “he came to me with all kinds of threats. I tried to smooth things over, but it was no use. You wonder how he got the job of foreman on the Box S? I’ll tell you why he got it, Dillon; it was because he said he’d cut off my ears if I didn’t give it to him.”

“Bein’ your ears,” said the sheriff thoughtfully, “you wanted to save ’em.”

“Naturally. I asked Miss Singer to give him the job. I was retained by Harmony Singer during the last few months of his life, and as I drew his will and located the heir, it would naturally follow that I have charge of the business, at least until after the will is probated and the owner established.”

“Looks thataway,” agreed Ben, who knew little law.

“Well, I haven’t!” snapped Baggs. “Ayres has blocked me in every way. He hates me. I’ve been ordered off the ranch, and threatened with bodily injury if I return. Miss Singer does not confer with me in anything. If you were in my place, would you allow such a condition to remain?”

Ben rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. He looked up at Baggs, a quizzical expression in his eyes.

“Just how much do you value yore ears, Amos?”

Baggs adjusted his collar, shrugged his shoulders wearily.

“We’ll drop that matter,” he said flatly, and then as an afterthought, “I don’t suppose any effort is being made to discover Prentice’s murderer.”

“Any effort? Jist what kind of an effort do yuh mean? We ain’t made no house-to-house canvass, if that’s what yuh mean.”

Baggs put his lean hands on the desk and leaned forward.

“If I was the prosecuting attorney of this county, I’d⸺”

“But you ain’t,” interrupted the sheriff. “If yuh don’t mind, we’ll leave⸺”

Ben didn’t finish his advice. Came the crash of a window pane behind the sheriff, showering him with glass; a sharp cry from Baggs, the thud of a bullet smashing into the wall, and from somewhere outside came the whiplike report of a rifle, the echoes clattering back from the buildings.

Ben’s presence of mind caused him to fall over backward against the wall, clawing for his six-shooter. Baggs staggered sidewise, almost fell, recovered and stood there trembling like a leaf.

“Git away from the window, yuh damn’ ignorant fool!” roared the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t understand. His hands were clawing at his chest.

Some one shouted from across the street, men were running on the sidewalk. Ben slid low beneath the window sill, came up against the wall. He wasn’t going to get in line with that window again.

“They hit me,” said Baggs dumbly. “They hit me.”

“Stay right where yuh are, and they’ll hit yuh again,” said the sheriff sarcastically.

But the shooting was over. A man sprang on the sidewalk in front of the office and threw the door open. It was Breezy.

“Where was that shot?” he began, but stopped. Sleepy joined him in the doorway.

“They shot Baggs,” said the sheriff.

“He’s still on his feet,” grunted Breezy. “Where’d it hit yuh, Amos?”

They crowded around him. Sleepy picked up an object against the opposite wall, a small tangle of metal and smashed wheels.

“Here’s yore watch,” he said, holding it out.

An examination showed that the bullet had cut through Baggs’s left coat sleeve near the shoulder, ripped across his chest, barely scoring the skin, picking up his watch and fountain pen, and had torn his right coat sleeve, but did not tear his shirt.

Baggs’s face was white and he shook weakly. An inch or two to the right, and Amos Baggs’s career would have been closed. He sat down in a chair and covered his face with his hands, while more men crowded in. Harry Cole, one of his dealers, and several cattlemen came over from the Oasis.

Everybody wanted to know what it was all about. Baggs was unable to talk about it. The sheriff told them what had happened, they examined the evidence and departed, taking Baggs with them. He had a keen desire to stay with a crowd.

Breezy and Sleepy stayed with the sheriff, who hung a blanket over the smashed window and sat down to smoke it over.

“The question is: who wants to kill Baggs?” mused Breezy.

“Hang the whole town,” grunted the sheriff. “By golly, he almost grabbed a harp that time.”

“Are yuh sure they didn’t shoot at you, Ben?” asked Breezy.

“Not a chance. No sir, they wanted Amos.”

“A worthy want,” grinned Breezy. “Me and Sleepy was playin’ pool in the Oasis, and that shot sure sounded loud.”

Sleepy grinned over his cigarette, but suddenly sobered.

“Did any of yuh see Hashknife lately?” he asked.

“Not since supper,” replied the sheriff. “I seen both of yuh over at the restaurant.”

“That’s funny to me.”

Sleepy got to his feet and walked quickly out of the office. It was unlike Hashknife not to be in evidence when there was shooting going on. Sleepy went up one side of the street and down the other, as far as the depot, but did not find Hashknife in any of the buildings.

He came back to the Oasis, where he met Breezy, who had also been looking for Hashknife, but without results. Together they went to the livery stable, only to find that Hashknife’s gray horse was in its stall, contentedly munching hay.

“That’s shore got me beat,” confessed Sleepy.

“Well, he can take care of himself,” said Breezy.

“Prob’ly better than you think, Breezy. I suppose I might as well sit tight and wait for him to show up.”

They went back and finished their game of pool, but Sleepy’s mind was not on his shots. The attempt to murder Baggs made Sleepy nervous. As soon as they finished their game, Sleepy left Breezy, who was interested in a poker game, and went over to the hotel, never dreaming that Hashknife might be there.

He found his tall partner slumped down in an old rocker, reading a paper by the light of an oil lamp. The room was foggy with cigarette smoke, which eddied in the gust of wind from the open door. Sleepy noticed that the shade had been drawn over their one window.

“I’ve been huntin’ all over town for you,” he told Hashknife. “Didn’t yuh hear that shot?”

“Yeah, I heard it.”

“Yuh did? And you stayed here? Whatsa matter, cowboy?”

“Wasn’t anybody killed, was there?”

“Somebody dang near killed Amos Baggs, the lawyer.”

“No!”

“They shore did.”

Sleepy described how the bullet came through the sheriff’s window and within an inch or so of killing Baggs. Hashknife grinned through the recital. It was amusing to him.

“And you sat here, readin’ an old paper, and never looked to see what it was all about, eh?” said Sleepy. “Well, that ain’t a bit like you. Kinda losin’ interest, or was the paper so danged interestin’?”

Hashknife yawned widely and laid the paper aside.

“I was readin’ how to stay beautiful after yo’re over forty,” he grinned. “It’s worth readin’.”

“I’ll betcha,” laughed Sleepy. He leaned forward and looked closely at Hashknife. “Whatcha been doin’—cuttin’ yore ear with a razor?”

Hashknife reached up, fingered his ear and looked at the smear of blood on his fingers.

“Piece of that glass must have flew back,” he said.

“Piece of what glass?”

“From the sheriff’s window, Sleepy. I reckon my head was about on a level with Baggs’s vest pockets.”

“You mean that somebody tried to kill you instead of Baggs?”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “I don’t want to steal any glory from Mr. Baggs; but I’m afraid that’s about what happened.”

“And you didn’t do anythin’ about it?”

“Oh, shore. I ducked down the alley, sneaked in the backway and read the newspaper. Don’t tell anybody, Sleepy.”

“It’ll probably scare Baggs out of the country, Hashknife.”

“Be a great thing for the country.”

“But why would anybody try to kill you? Don’t set there and grin like a danged fool! Do you know what it’s all about?”

“Nope; that’s why it’s amusin’, Sleepy. Somebody is scared.”

“Scared?”

“Scared enough to shoot at me. I wish I knew why.”

“So do I,” seriously. Suddenly Sleepy grinned widely. “By golly, we won’t sprout, Hashknife. I believe Lobo Wells is human, after all.”

“Most places are, if yuh scratch ’em deep enough. Let’s go to bed and get a good sleep.”

The following morning Sailor Jones came to Lobo Wells after the mail. It was seldom that Sailor took a drink, but when he did, he hated to stop. Such was the case this morning. He got the mail, stuffed it in his hip pocket, and was ready to go back when somebody told him about Baggs nearly being killed.

“By grab, there is some good people left in the world!” he exclaimed, and offered to buy his informant a drink.

One drink was but a beginning, and by the time Hashknife and Sleepy found him he was standing at the Oasis bar trying to sing. If there was one thing Sailor didn’t have, it was a voice, but he merely nodded to Hashknife and continued:

“Tell the ki-yotes, when they come at night,
A huntin’ for their prey,
They might as well go further,
For they’ll find it will not pay;
If they attempt to eat me-e-e
They very soon will see-e-e
That my bones and hide are petrified,
They’ll find no meat on me-e-e-e.”

“That’s a great song!” applauded Hashknife.

“Ain’t she? Fit for a primmer-donner. How are yuh?”

“Fine. How’s everythin’ at the Box S?”

“Couldn’t be any better, if I owned it m’self. Say! Didja hear about old Baggs almost gittin’ his earthly envelope slit? Ain’t that great! But the only thing bad about it is the fact that the present gineration can’t shoot straight. ’F I’d been behind that gun, we’d be celebratin’ a funeral right now.”

“You wouldn’t kill a man, would yuh?” asked Sleepy.

“Men are different,” said Sailor owlishly. “I’m not speakin’ of men, Mister—er⸺”

“Stevens,” said Hashknife.

“To be shore. How’re yuh, Steve? Pleased to meetcha. Well, I’ve got to git home—’f I kin. Gittin’ old, boys. Tha’s all right,” he pointed a finger at the opposite wall. “Nex’ time the door comes around, I’ll bus’ right through.”

“I’ll walk to the hitchrack with yuh,” offered Hashknife.

“Well, tha’s nice of yuh, I’m shore. ’Preciate it. Whoa, Blaze! C’mon, par’ner.”

Hashknife walked out and helped him on his horse. He untied the rope, looped it around the horn, while Sailor gathered up his reins. Suddenly he surged back on the reins, swung the horse around in a sharp curve, socked home the spurs and let out a yell, which could be heard all over town.

The horse made a lunging buck, almost unseating Sailor, and the mail flew from his hip-pocket, scattering out behind him, as he went streaking down the street. Hashknife walked out and recovered the mail, putting it in his own pocket.

“He’ll probably miss it later, and come back for it,” laughed Sleepy, as they walked down to the livery stable.

A little later Hashknife happened to think about the mail, and took it from his pocket. There were two letters to Whispering Taylor, which Hashknife judged were from some patent-medicine manufacturers, and one letter addressed to Miss Singer, bearing the letterhead of Amos A. Baggs.

Hashknife turned the letter over and noticed that the flap was not securely fastened. In fact, it could have been opened by round handling. A flip of the thumb, and it was open. Hashknife was not in the habit of opening other people’s mail, but something told him to look at the enclosure. It read:

“Miss Singer,—I want to have a talk with you, so you’d better come to my office at once. It will be decidedly to your interests not to ignore this letter.

“Very truly yours,

“Amos Baggs.”

Hashknife put the letter back in the envelope and sealed it securely, after which he shoved his hands deep in his pockets and stood on the edge of the sidewalk, deep in thought. It was rather a queer letter, he thought. A threatening order from a lawyer to a client.

Hashknife was puzzled. He did not believe that Len Ayres had killed Charley Prentice, although there was no evidence that any one else disliked him enough to do it. And Hashknife hadn’t the slightest idea who had shot at him. He was satisfied that he had been the target, instead of Baggs. The underlying motives were well concealed, but Hashknife felt that somewhere he would dig up a key to the mystery.

He found Sleepy and together they rode out to the Box S. Sailor was sound asleep in the bunk-house, and Whispering was outspoken in his disgust of any man who would get drunk in the morning.

“He tried to tell us somethin’ about Baggs gittin’ killed,” said Whispering. “Was that right?”

Hashknife explained what had happened, and Whispering was duly impressed.

“Lobo Wells is wakin’ up to what it needs,” he said seriously. “I don’t back no murderer’s play, but I do think the town needs cleanin’ up, Hartley. Len’s gone over to the OK this mornin’. Knight wants us to go in with him on a trainload of beef; so Len went to talk with him. The boss is somewhere in the house, if yuh want to see her.”

Hashknife gave Whispering his two letters, and explained about Sailor losing the mail.

“That’s jist like him! Valuables don’t mean nothin’ to him, when he gits a drink or two. Look at these letters! ’F it hadn’t been for you they’d be lost, and I’d never know how to cure liver complaints and as-my.”

Nan came out through the kitchen and greeted them warmly.

“I thought I heard voices out here,” she said, “but I wasn’t sure it wasn’t Whispering and Sailor. They converse quite a bit, as you probably know.”

“Well, I put him to bed,” grinned Whispering. “He was wrong about Amos Baggs gittin’ killed—he was jist shot at. Hartley can tell yuh the gruesome details.”

Hashknife explained to Nan, and then gave her the letter. He watched her closely as she glanced at the letterhead, and there was a worried look in her eyes, as she thanked him for bringing it. After a few moments she went back in the house.

Whispering urged them to stay for dinner, but Hashknife wanted to get back to town.

Shortly after Hashknife and Sleepy rode away, Nan came out to the kitchen and asked Whispering to hitch the team to the buckboard and take her to town.

In the meantime Len had talked with Knight at the OK ranch. Knight happened to have been in Lobo Wells when the shot had smashed through the sheriff’s window.

“I suppose they’ll blame me for that,” said Len.

“They probably will,” smiled Knight. “Some of them will blame yuh for not shootin’ straighter.”

“I guess Baggs isn’t very popular.”

“It’s his own fault, Len. He can’t keep his nose out of things that don’t concern him.”

Len rode away from the OK, intending to go back to the Box S, but changed his mind and rode north to Lobo Wells. He was worried about Larry. Len wanted the boy, and he did not understand just why his son would not come out to the ranch with him. He had seemed so friendly that first day, but had entirely changed his attitude.

Instead of going in on the main street he went straight to the Prentice house. On the porch was a battered old telescope valise and a couple of half-filled gunny-sacks. Minnie answered his knock. She was wearing a rusty black dress, which fitted her like the casing on a sausage, a moth-eaten old feather boa, and on her head, perched high, threatening at any time to lose its balance, was a small black straw hat, decorated with a single eagle feather, pointing straight toward the sky.

“How do,” she said shortly.

“Howdy,” smiled Len. “Where’s the boy?”

Larry came in from the kitchen, a woebegone expression on his face. Len smiled at him, but the boy did not respond.

“I go way,” said Minnie. “Wait for stage now.”

“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Len.

“I go to my people down by Kernwood.”

“Yea-a-ah? Goin’ to stay?”

“Stay long time, I guess.”

“What about the boy?” asked Len, pointing at Larry.

Minnie looked at him, but said nothing.

“I guess I’ll be all right,” said Larry.

“You can’t stay here alone, Larry.”

The question seemed deadlocked until Minnie came to the rescue with:

“Baggs say nobody pay me now, I go home. Baggs say county take care of boy.”

“I can take care of myself,” said Larry quickly.

The Kernwood stage drew up in front of the house, and Minnie went waddling out with her valise and bundles. Len watched her climb aboard the stage, and then turned to Larry.

“Son, I want yuh to tell me what Baggs said. C’mon and sit down here with me, ’cause me and you are goin’ to have a talk about ourselves.”

Larry sat down on the opposite side of the steps from Len.

“Baggs told Minnie to go home,” he said wearily. “He said that the county would have to take care of me, but I can take care of myself.”

“Plenty nerve,” muttered Len admiringly. “Larry, why won’t yuh go out to the ranch with me? I need yuh—need another cowpuncher out there. Me and you would git along great. The boss is a nice lady.”

Larry thought it over for a while, torn between two emotions.

“Mr. Baggs said I hadn’t better.”

“Since when did you start takin’ orders from Baggs, Larry?”

Larry shut his lips tightly. He was a very little boy, but there were things he couldn’t forget.

“Will yuh tell me why yuh won’t go out and live with me?” asked Len. “I ought to know, Larry. After all, you are my son.”

“Well, I don’t know,” he was near tears now. “Mr. Baggs said it wasn’t the place for me. He said you—you⸺”

“He said I wasn’t fit to have yuh, son?”

Larry nodded miserably.

“Because I had been in prison, Larry?”

“I—I guess that was—was part of it.”

“I see. And he said I killed Charley Prentice, didn’t he?”

“He—he said you was a killer, and that folks wouldn’t care to have anythin’ to do with me if I lived with you.”

If Amos Baggs had been in reach at that moment Len might have lived up to the reputation Amos had given him.

“Son,” he said tensely, “would you believe me if I told yuh that I never shot Charley Prentice?”

The boy swallowed painfully, gripped his hands tightly around one knee, but finally shook his head.

“Why wouldn’t yuh, son?”

“Because, I—I know yuh did.”

Len got to his feet and stared down at the boy, who did not dare look up at him.

“You know I did?” asked Len wonderingly.

“I heard you.” Larry was crying now. “Me and Minnie promised never to tell. We heard you say: ‘This is Ayres, you dirty dog.’ And then the gun went off twice.”

“Good God!” said Len softly.

For a long time he stood there, staring off across the old town, his face like carved granite in the shadow of his wide sombrero.

“We never told nobody—but you,” whispered Larry.

“Thank yuh, son.”

“I dunno what to do,” said Larry miserably. “Minnie’s gone now.”

“You ain’t afraid of me, are yuh?” asked Len.

“No, I ain’t afraid of yuh.”

“Then won’t yuh try livin’ on the ranch? Yuh won’t have to have anythin’ to do with me—just live there.”

“I guess it would be all right—if I had a job.”

“Can yuh cut wood, Larry?”

“Yeah, I can cut wood—fine.”

“We need a wood-cutter pretty bad. Whisperin’ makes a lot of biscuits and pies and cookies, and he needs wood.”

“Minnie wasn’t much good on pies and cookies.”

“C’mon, boy; we’ll get yore clothes later.”

Larry closed the front door softly and walked out with Len, who untied his horse and they went down toward the main street; a man whose greenish-gray eyes registered a momentary triumph, his lips set in a killing resolve; and a boy who looked ahead at a future of pies and cookies—and a man’s job.

“We’re goin’ over and tell Mr. Baggs about it, Larry.”

“Sure. Guess he won’t like it much.”

“We’ll make him like it, pardner.”

In the meantime Whispering had brought Nan to town, and left her at the lawyer’s office. She realised that she was at the end of her string; the tone of the letter told her that much.

For the first time since the beginning of her masquerade she was afraid of the consequences, but she summoned up all her reserve strength and went into the office, prepared at least to battle for a chance to drop out gracefully, but realising that Baggs was not the type to be lenient with an offender.

He was there at his desk, bowed over some papers, a dead pipe between his teeth. She stopped near his desk and he stared at her for several moments, before he got to his feet and indicated his chair. No word had passed between them. He closed the door tightly and came back to stand near her.

“Well, Miss Impersonator, what about it?” he jeered. “Thought you could steal another woman’s identity, eh? Didn’t you know it was a prison offence? No? Just playing a joke on us, eh?”

He pointed a lean forefinger at her threateningly.

“Don’t you realise that I could send you to prison for a nice long time for what you’ve done? Maybe I will—it all depends on what you do, young lady.”

“What do you want me to do?” asked Nan helplessly.

Baggs walked to the window and looked out on the street. He was a firm believer in suspense. Finally he turned.

“I’ll tell you what you’ll do. Perhaps it isn’t what you want to do, but you’ll do it or go to jail. Pack up your little valise and catch the first train out of town. I’ll give you until to-morrow noon. That’s more consideration than I’ve ever shown anybody before. I guess I’m getting soft. I’ll fix up some sort of a story to cover the situation.”

“Can you prove that I am not Miss Singer?” asked Nan.

“Prove it?” Baggs laughed harshly. “Do you want me to?”

“By Jack Pollock?” asked Nan.

“Oh, you knew he was here, did you? Do you want me to bring him over here and face you with it? Your name is Nan Whitlock, or that’s the name he knew you by in Frisco. No doubt you’ve had a good many names. People who do what you attempted here would naturally have used many names.”

“Then I either get out or you send me to jail?”

“If you are here to-morrow noon, I’ll send⸺”

Came the sound of a swift, heavy step on the sidewalk in front of the office, the door was flung violently open and Len Ayres stepped in. Behind him was little Larry. For a moment Ayres looked at Nan, then he turned on Baggs, who had stepped back, a frightened look in his weak eyes.

“I just wanted to say a few short words to you, Baggs,” said Len hoarsely. “I’m takin’ my son out to the Box S to live there. Contrary to yore advice, the county won’t take him, because I won’t let ’em. You’ve done yore best to poison his mind against me, you dirty pup; and I want you to get this straight; if you ever do another thing against me, I’ll shoot yore dirty soul plumb out of yore skinny carcass.”

“Maybe that’s what you tried to do last night,” said Baggs rashly, and with one swift stride Len grabbed him, slammed him against the wall and held him helpless, while with a free hand he proceeded to slap Baggs’s face until the Lobo Wells lawyer shrieked for mercy.

When Len let him loose, Baggs slid weakly to the floor, holding his face in both hands. Len looked at him disgustedly.

“Gee, what a slappin’ he got!” exclaimed Larry.

Len turned to Nan, who had got to her feet.

“I suppose we might as well go home, Nan; that feller ain’t in no shape to talk business.”

Nan nodded, and they walked out together. Whispering was coming across to the buckboard, and they walked over there.

“Larry can ride with you folks,” said Len. “Larry, this is Miss Singer, the boss of the Box S, and this man is Whisperin’ Taylor, the man who makes the pies and cookies.”

“When I can git wood enough,” grinned Whispering, shaking hands with Larry.

“That’s what I’m comin’ out for—to cut wood,” said Larry.

“By golly, we’ll have plenty pie now. Pile in, Larry; the Box S Limited is ready to pull out.”

Larry shook hands gravely with Nan, and they started home, while Amos Alexander Baggs watched them from the window of his office, too mad to do more than grimace with his aching jaws and blink the tears out of his eyes.

It was from Horace Baker, elderly clerk of the court, that Hashknife learned some of the facts about Len Ayres’s trial. Baker had been clerk of the court for ten years, being elected every two years, because no one else wanted the office. The transcript of testimony was all on file, but Hashknife did not ask to read it.

According to Baker, a lone bandit had twice operated successfully within a period of a month. The Wells Fargo safe had been smashed one night between Lobo Wells and Randall, netting the bandit about ten thousand dollars.

Less than a month later the Kernwood stage, carrying five thousand dollars in the strong box, was robbed just out of Lobo Wells, and the description of the lone robber tallied closely to that of the man who had robbed the express car. Descriptions given by men who have been looking down the muzzle of a gun are seldom accurate enough for identification, so the officers merely waited for the bandit to break out again.

It had come sooner than they anticipated, it seemed. Charley Prentice, transferring money from his window to the safe near closing time, the bank being empty of customers at the time, turned his head at a sound and found himself confronted by a masked cowboy.

According to Prentice’s testimony, the man spoke hoarsely, demanding all the money in the safe. Prentice was in no position to refuse, and had given the man what later proved to be seven thousand dollars.

At this moment a man came along the sidewalk in front of the bank, which was still open, and the bandit struck Prentice a sharp blow on the jaw with his fist, knocking Prentice down and badly dazing him, and then leaped the railing and going out through a rear entrance before Prentice could recover.

The man who had stopped in front of the bank was Amos Baggs, at that time prosecuting attorney, and he came in just in time to see the bandit stumble in the rear doorway, his hat falling back into the bank. Baggs did not know that the bank had been robbed, until he found Prentice on his hands and knees trying to stand up.

Even then Baggs did not realise what had been done until Prentice managed to explain, when Baggs ran for the sheriff, Harry Cole. Then Baggs remembered the bandit’s hat, which they found against the rear wall of the bank near the door, and in the sweat-band had been stamped the initials L.A.

According to Horace Baker, Len had no defence.

He admitted ownership of the hat, but said it had been misplaced at home and that he had been wearing an old one. The hat was a nearly-new Stetson and so large that the jury smiled when he said that it had been misplaced.

But Len refused to tell them where the money had been hidden, and they convicted him on the strength of the hat. Prentice was partly able to identify Len as the robber, and his first description covered the cowboy fairly well.

Baker told Hashknife that he had known Mrs. Ayres for a number of years, and had known Prentice since he came to work for the bank.

“Was she a pretty woman?” queried Hashknife.

“Well, yes, she was; very pretty.”

“Did she attend the trial?”

“No, she didn’t. A great many people thought she was wrong in not attending, but I suppose she didn’t feel that way about it.”

“Was she happy with Len?”

“I don’t know, Hartley. She was a woman who liked to dress well and have a good time, and Len wasn’t makin’ much money. I’ve always had an idea that was why Len turned bandit.”

“To buy her things, yuh mean?”

“Yes.”

“Do yuh reckon she got the money?”

“I don’t believe she did. Some folks seemed to think that Prentice married her to get some of it. But I guess Len was too wise for all of them. He’s no fool. Some day he’ll dig up all that money, disappear out of the country and have a nice bunch of cash to start in business for himself.”

All of that was merely conjecture, and Hashknife left Baker’s office no wiser than he had been before. As far as he could learn from talking with the residents of Lobo Wells, they considered Len guilty of all three robberies, and it was the general opinion that some day Len would dig up the twenty-two thousand dollars and leave the country.

Hashknife wondered what Amos Baggs would have to say about his near assassination and as he left the little courthouse he decided to talk with Baggs. The buckboard, carrying Nan, little Larry and Whispering, was just leaving town as Hashknife came out on the street.

He paid no attention to whose equipage it was, but sauntered up the street to Baggs’s office, shoved the door open and walked in. Baggs was slumped down in his chair, his collar loose on one end and standing up past one ear, his necktie torn. He lifted a scarlet face and stared at Hashknife. There were plenty of welts in evidence, attesting to the fact that Len was heavy of hand.

“What’s the matter with you—smallpox?” asked Hashknife.

Baggs heaved himself up from his chair, fairly spitting with rage, not realising that Hashknife did not know what had happened.

“Get out of here!” he croaked. “Get out! By God, I’ll be well paid for this! I’ll kill somebody! I’ll⸺”

“You act as though yuh was mad,” said Hashknife calmly.

“Get out! Don’t talk to me! Will you leave this office?”

“Shore. I’ll tell the sheriff, so that he can come up and tie yuh to a tree.”

“Damn yuh! Leave the sheriff out of this. I’ll⸺”

Hashknife closed the door behind him, wondering what in the world was the matter with Baggs, who was still raving. He found Dillon and Breezy at the office, and told them what Baggs had said and how Baggs had looked.

“What do yuh reckon is eatin’ him?” wondered Dillon.

“Capillary fit,” said Breezy.

“You mean cataleptic fit,” corrected Dillon. “Capillary has somethin’ to do with hair, don’t it?”

“If it does, I mean capillary. His hair is so tight it cramps his brain.”

“I guess yo’re right, Breezy,” grinned the sheriff. “Mebbe he ain’t got over his scare of last night. I don’t blame him.”

“Who do yuh reckon tried to kill him?” asked Hashknife.

The sheriff shook his head wearily.

“I dunno. The longer I’m in this office the less I savvy about crime. I used to read detective stories, about ’em findin’ clues and all that, and puttin’ the deadwood on a criminal. Them writers lied. Yuh can’t do it. When a shot is fired in the dark, and all yuh see is the flash, how are yuh goin’ to deduct who pulled the trigger? Can’t be done. Who would bushwhack Amos Baggs? Why not kill him openly and get a medal? Who shot Charley Prentice? You answer it, I can’t. I’ve lost all faith in detective stories. I tell yuh, it’s all luck, when yuh catch a criminal. Instead of votin’ a man into this office, they ought to check up and find out who is the luckiest man in the county.”

“I guess there’s a lot of luck connected with it,” agreed Hashknife.

“A lot? It’s all luck. Brains don’t do yuh any good, unless yuh carry a horseshoe and a rabbit’s foot.”

Nan Whitlock was doing a lot of thinking about her luck, as the buckboard lurched over the rough road to the Box S. There was no question in her mind that she must get out of the Lobo Wells country before the following noon or go to jail. But how to get away without explaining? That was the rub.

Whispering and Larry kept up a spirited conversation, but Nan’s mind was too busy to allow her to join them. The boy seemed filled with joy over the prospect of living at the ranch, and boasted of his prowess with an axe.

“Yuh got to show me,” declared Whispering. “I’ve seen a lot of you braggin’ cowboys, old timer. How are yuh with a rope?”

“Pretty good,” admitted the seven-year-old.

“Don’t mean a thing. We’ve got to have ’em perfect.”

“Well, I can practice, can’t I?”

“Shore. Work yore string on the cat. When yuh can forefoot a cat, yo’re a dinger. I used to know a Mexican who could rope lizards with a fish line. How are yuh with a six-gun, Larry?”

“I never had one.”

“We’ll stop that. Sailor’s got an old one, and I’ll steal it for yuh. Needs quite a lot of fixin’, I reckon.”

“Well, I’ll fix it all right.”

“Gosh, yo’re shore a handy man for to have, don’tcha think so, Nan?”

“I think he is wonderful, Whispering.”

“More’n that; he’s almost unbelievable.”

Len was at the ranch ahead of them. Whispering drove the team up to the front porch and Nan started to jump out, but the restless team jerked ahead and Nan went sprawling.

For a moment she was dazed, but a sharp pain through her left ankle caused her to sit up quickly, and at the same instant Len reached her. Whispering was swearing at the team and trying to saw their heads off with the bits, while Larry clung to the seat with one hand and his hat with the other.

“Hurt yuh, Nan?” Len asked quickly.

“My ankle!” she whispered. “I think it is broken.”

“Gosh a’mighty, I hope not!”

He picked her up bodily and carried her in the house, while Whispering quickly tied the team and came in. Len took off her shoe and cut the stocking loose with his knife. The ankle was swelling rapidly, but after a quick examination Len said:

“I think it’s a bad sprain, Nan. Heat some water, Whisperin’.”

Len mixed some whisky with water and asked Nan to swallow it.

“It’ll do yuh good,” he said. “Yuh need a bracer.”

The liquor made her a little light-headed, but helped her to bear the pain of having the ankle soaked in hot water, and afterward Len bound it tightly with strips from a sheet.

She managed to get to bed, where she lay white-faced, staring up at the ceiling. Suddenly she realised that it would be impossible for her to leave within her allotted time. Len came in and sat down beside the bed.

“That was shore some shock for yuh,” he told her. “Yore face is almost as white as the pillow, Nan. Can I have Whisperin’ cook somethin’ especial for yuh for supper?”

“I couldn’t eat,” she said wearily. Suddenly an inspiration came to her, and she said:

“Len, I—I told Mr. Baggs I’d be in to see him in the morning. It was important, you see. But I can’t see him now, and I wondered if Sailor would go to Lobo Wells to-night and tell him what happened.”

“Why, shore, Nan. I’ll send Sailor right after supper. Is that all yuh want to tell him?”

“That’s all, Len; that I can’t walk. He will understand.”

“I hope he will. Is there anythin’ else?”

“No; just that.”

Len left the room, and in spite of the throbbing ankle Nan fell asleep, feeling sure that Amos Baggs would understand and be human enough to give her a few days of grace.

A short time after Hashknife had been ordered from Baggs’s office and had talked with the sheriff, he ran across Johnny Harris of the JP outfit, who imparted the information that Len had taken his boy out to the Box S. Johnny had seen Nan go to Baggs’s office and had also seen Len go there.

“I dunno what happened,” he told Hashknife, “but I saw Len go bustin’ into the office like he was goin’ to eat Baggs up. In a danged short time the girl comes out, lookin’ back, and then comes Len kinda backin’ out. The kid never did get all the way in. They piled into the buckboard with Whisperin’, and away they went, except Len, who piled on to his bronco and led the way.”

Hashknife got a grin out of this. He realised that Len had been the cause of Baggs’s scalded look about the face. That was the second time that Len had chastised Baggs. It was no wonder that Baggs was not in a gentle frame of mind.

After Johnny Harris left him, Hashknife sat on the sidewalk and tried to reason out the situation. Finally he gave up and went back to the sheriff’s office, where he tried to get the sheriff’s reactions on a few things. But Ben Dillon was not reacting just at present.

“Anyway,” he told Hashknife, “I don’t see why you’re so danged concerned. Yuh act as though you was sheriff, instead of me. If somebody wants to shoot Amos Baggs, that’s their business.”

“Do yuh feel the same about Charley Prentice?”

“Well, that ain’t such a hell of a mystery, Hashknife.”

“Then why don’tcha arrest the guilty man?”

“Not a speck of evidence.”

“Then why ain’t it a mystery?”

“’Cause it ain’t. Ask anybody.”

“Suppose I ask Len Ayres?”

“Yeah, that would be a sweet idea!”

Hashknife grinned at the fat sheriff.

“I’m goin’ to do that—to-night. I’ll betcha I’ll find out a lot more from him than I have from you.”

“I’ll make yuh a little bet on that.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife. “if I find out anythin’ at all, I’d win. You can’t tell me a thing.”

Harry Cole of the Oasis was also looking for information, and a short time after Hashknife left the office he came in. He wanted to know what the sheriff had deduced on the attempted assassination of Amos Baggs. The sheriff was getting touchy.

“I don’t know a danged thing, Harry. I’m goin’ to get me an answer book so I can talk back to you jiggers.”

“I suppose Baggs is a little curious.”

“If he is, he keeps it to himself.”

“You don’t need to be sore at me, Ben.”

“I ain’t sore at yuh, Harry. I ain’t sore at anybody. Just before yuh left, Hashknife Hartley was in here, askin’ me a lot of fool questions, which nobody can answer. Said he was goin’ out to ask the same questions of Len Ayres, and he’d bet he’d find out more from Len than he did from me.”

“What’s his idea of askin’ questions, Ben?”

“Answer yore own question. I don’t know.”

“Ben, who is this Hashknife Hartley?”

“A damn nuisance! I wish he’d get a job and go to work. I’m tired of him hivin’ up in my office. Breezy likes him, so here he stays. Mebby I’ll have to fire Breezy to git rid of Hartley and his grinnin’ pardner. Half the time I don’t have a chair to set on around here.”

The big gambler grinned lazily.

“This shootin’ stuff is gettin’ on yore nerves, Ben.”

“Didn’t it git on yore nerves, when you was sheriff?”

“They wasn’t shootin’ at me,” grinned Cole.

“Well, they ain’t shootin’ at me—yet. When they do, I’ll quit. It’s bad enough to be questioned.”

Ben raked his spurred heel across the top of his desk.

“Must be a damn brave man who shot at Baggs,” he said savagely. “When yuh have to bushwhack fellers like him it’s shore sneakin’. Next time I hope they pick some other place for the killin’, instead of my office.”

“Have yuh talked to Baggs about it, Ben?”

“Nope.”

“Did yuh know that Len took his kid home with him?”

“Did he? That’s fine.”

The sheriff was about out of conversation; so Cole went back to the Oasis.

After supper that night Hashknife saddled his gray horse and rode out to the Box S alone. Sleepy had found it easy to beat Breezy playing pool; so he was content to stay in town. Hashknife met Sailor just outside Lobo Wells, and told him he was going to the ranch. Sailor told him about Nan’s spraining her ankle, but did not mention that he was carrying a message to Amos Baggs.

Hashknife found Len at the stable, riveting a buckle on the headstall of his bridle by the light of a lantern, and Len seemed a little surprised to see him. Hashknife sat down on a box and rolled a smoke. He told Len what Sailor said about Nan’s injury.

“If it ain’t better in the mornin’ I’ll get the doctor,” said Len. “She’s asleep now. How’s everythin’ in town?”

“All in good shape, except Amos Baggs.”

Len looked up quickly.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Oh, his face is kinda sore, I guess.”

“Yea-a-ah? Did he tell about me slappin’ him?”

“I don’t think he did,” grinned Hashknife, and told Len how Baggs had ordered him out of the office.

“Kinda funny about somebody shootin’ at Baggs, Hartley.”

“Wasn’t it? I wonder who it was.”

Len shook his head, tested the buckle and laid the bridle aside. He rolled a smoke and leaned back against the wall, the aroma of his cigarette mingling with the pungent odours of the stable. Moths skittered around the lantern, a horse stamped uneasily.

“You came out alone?” asked Len.

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife. “I wanted to talk with you, Ayres.”

“Thasso?” curiously. “Talk about what, Hartley?”

“About you.”

Len smiled crookedly.

“Most folks talk about me to somebody else,” he said.

“I’ve talked about yuh to other folks,” said Hashknife seriously. “The whole danged trouble is the fact that they all feel too much alike about yuh, Ayres. Even those who say they like yuh a lot, admit that you got away to a mighty bad start in this country.”

“Even if that’s fact,” said Len grimly, “I don’t see where it’s any of yore damn business, Hartley. What do you care what people say about me? I can run my business.”

“I don’t blame yuh, Ayres. But listen to this, and you’ll know why this is my business: I’m here for the Wells Fargo. There, my cards are on the table. Mebby I’m a fool to tell you, but I’m takin’ a chance. The sheriff doesn’t know what I’m here for.”

“Wells Fargo, eh?” said Len softly. “So they’re doggin’ my trail, waitin’ for me to dig up that money so they can send me back to the rockpile.”

“They’re still curious about the ten thousand they lost.”

“Did they think you’d recover it for them, Hartley?”

“They’re not that foolish, Ayres.”

“So yo’re a detective, eh?”

“No; I’m a damn fool. No detective would be crazy enough to conceal his identity from the officers and expose it to the man he was to investigate.”

“That’s true. Well, suppose I tell yuh I don’t know where the money is?”

“I’d believe yuh, Ayres.”

“Would yuh? Yo’re a hell of a detective!”

“I know it,” grinned Hashknife. “Let’s go back a ways on this case. I heard that you turned bandit to furnish yore wife with more money than you could earn.”

Len got slowly to his feet and leaned against the wall, his face in the shadow now.

“That’s a new one,” he said grimly. “I suppose I threw away my hat in the bank to prove an alibi? What’s the use, Hartley? If I didn’t pull them jobs, you’d have a sweet time puttin’ the deadwood on somebody else, after all this time.”

“Don’tcha want it proved, Ayres?”

Len was silent a while. Then:

“Hartley, my son thinks I’m a thief and a murderer. Does that answer yore question?”

“It shore does. Did somebody tell him you shot Prentice?”

Len stepped away from the wall and walked to the stable door, where he looked out into the night. Hashknife puffed away on his cigarette and waited for Len to answer. Finally he came back and sat down again.

“Hartley,” he said softly, “yo’re a queer sort of a detective. You came here to spy on me, and yet you tell me who yuh are. I’ll shoot square with yuh. I’m as big a fool as you are; so I’m goin’ the limit with you. The night Charley Prentice was shot, my boy heard that knock on the door. When Prentice went to answer the knock, and threw the door open, my boy heard a voice say: ‘This is Ayres, you dirty dog!’ and then the shots were fired.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Hashknife leaned forward. “He told you he heard that?”

“Yeah, and that was why he didn’t want to come out here. To him, I’m a murderer. The squaw heard it too. They agreed to never tell anybody; but the boy told me. I reckon he wanted me to know why he didn’t want to come out here.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t bet with the sheriff,” said Hashknife.

“Bet what?”

“He wanted to bet that I wouldn’t find out any more from you than I already knew.”

Len laughed shortly.

“I don’t see what good it will ever do yuh.”

“I don’t either, Ayres; but it proves somethin’. Either you killed Charley Prentice, or the man who did kill him wanted the kid and the squaw to hear who was doin’ the shootin’. And another thing—if Prentice hadn’t died right away, he could have sworn who shot him.”

“Yeah, that’s true. If the sheriff knew what I’ve told you, he’d jail me too quick, Hartley.”

“Well, he won’t know it from me. But there’s another question, Ayres. This is pretty danged personal, but I mean it for yore own good. Was yore wife friendly with Prentice before you was arrested?”

Len shifted his position, but did not answer. He got to his feet and walked back to the door, where he leaned out and listened.

“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, as he came back. “I guess it was the dog. I don’t know how to answer yore question, Hartley. She had known Prentice a long time. We had a house in Lobo Wells, yuh know. My wife wasn’t the kind who liked to live out on a ranch. I’ll tell yuh the honest facts of the case; we didn’t get along so good. Mebby I was to blame. I worked hard to get a start, but she didn’t appreciate it, I guess.”

“What kind of a person was Harmony Singer?” asked Hashknife, going off on another tack.

“The best on earth, Hartley.”

“I’ve heard he was.”

“He stuck to me,” said Len softly, and added: “Like a father.”

“Did you know this niece of his before yuh came back?”

“No, I didn’t, Hartley.”

“Heard Harmony Singer mention her?”

“Well, he never spoke about his relatives. Harmony was kinda close-mouthed, yuh know. He was originally from New Mexico, and I guess he was a heller in his time. Died with his boots on, hung to a stirrup. But if Heaven is a place for white men, he’s there.”

Whispering came down to the stable. He was rather surprised to find Hashknife there.

“Nan woke up,” he told Len. “Says the ankle hurts quite a lot. Sailor ain’t back yet, is he? He’ll prob’ly get drunk again.”

“Come on up to the house, Hartley,” invited Len.

“I think I’ll be headin’ back for town,” said Hashknife.

Len walked over to Hashknife’s horse with him, and they shook hands, before Hashknife mounted. It was very dark along the road to Lobo Wells, so Hashknife did not hurry. He pondered deeply over what Len had told him, trying to figure some angle on which to work. It meant going back five years, and in five years many small details are lost.

He travelled along the dusty, sandy road, the tall gray horse eating up distance with a swinging walk. Less than a mile out of Lobo Wells the road crossed Manzanita River on an old bridge, a narrow old structure, which creaked threateningly. The river here was mostly a big pot-hole below the bridge at this time of year, where a few old cottonwood stumps stuck their tops above the pool of dirty water.

Just before he reached the south end of the bridge, the gray shied slightly. Hashknife jerked up the reins quickly, but was unable to see anything in the gloom. He rode on to the bridge and went slowly across.

The bridge sloped rather sharply on the north end, and as he rode down this incline he heard a sharp whistle, apparently some distance behind him; one sharp note. Instinctively he twisted in his saddle, looking back, and at the same instant he was blinded by a terrific flash, something hit him with a stunning force and he lost consciousness.

But even in his helpless, unconscious state, he seemed to hear voices. They seemed miles away, yet audible.

“Let me shoot him again.”

“He’s plenty dead right now.”

Then he seemed to be sailing through space, and he wondered whether a dead man was able to hear people talk. It seemed ridiculous, but who would know what a dead man could hear?

Sleepy and Breezy were playing pool at the Oasis, when the proprietor of the livery-stable came in. He wended his way to Sleepy and informed him that Hashknife’s gray horse had come back to the stable, sans rider.

Sleepy dropped his cue on the table and headed for the door, followed closely by Breezy. They trotted down to the stable, where they found the horse in a stall still saddled. Sleepy examined the horse and saddle by lantern light, but found nothing wrong with either.

“Must have broke away,” said Breezy.

“This horse don’t break away,” said Sleepy nervously. “What do yuh suppose happened, Breezy?”

“I gave yuh my theory, and almost got bit.”

“Saddle yore horse and let’s git goin’. Wait! You take my roan and I’ll ride Ghost. If this horse pulled out on Hashknife, it’s the first time he ever did. I’ll saddle the roan for yuh. He’s kinda foolish about strangers.”

A few minutes later they rode out of the stable and headed for the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know the road very well, but he took the lead, and they went streaking down across the old bridge, where the hoofs of their running horses sounded like the quick roll of a snare-drum.

Nor did they draw rein until they swept into the yard of the Box S. Len and Sailor were in the bunk-house, but came out at the sound of their arrival. In answer to their questions, Len told them approximately what time Hashknife had left there.

“That should have made me meet him,” said Sailor. “I never rode fast. By golly, that makes me wonder! After I left town and was pretty close to the bridge, I thought I heard a shot. I wasn’t sure which direction it was, and when I hit the other end of the bridge my bronco shied at somethin’ in the dark. He’s in the habit of shyin’ thataway, so I yanked him around and went on. It was so danged dark I wouldn’t know I was on the bridge, except that I could hear it under me.”

“That don’t sound so good to me,” said Sleepy. “If somebody bushwhacked my pardner⸺”

“Who in hell would bushwhack him?” asked Sailor quickly.

But Sleepy didn’t answer Sailor’s question. He swung the gray around and said to Len:

“Lend me a lantern, will yuh?”

“I shore will, Stevens; and I’ll go along with yuh.”

A few minutes later the three riders left the ranch, carrying the unlighted lantern.

Hashknife’s trip through space was rudely interrupted by a souse of cold water, which brought back consciousness in a flash. He flung out his arms weakly and encountered water on all sides. He was dazed, choked, fighting for breath, hardly knowing what it was all about. His head bumped something, which he instinctively grasped. It was an old stump.

He clung to this, trying to pump air into his tortured lungs, while a heavy weight seemed to press down on his head. As yet he did not remember anything. His past, present and future were all a blank, but still he fought for life. After a few moments he began to get back a glimmering of intelligence.

It seemed unnatural for him to be in the water. As he seemed to remember, he was not an amphibian creature. If he could only get that weight off his mind. He lowered his feet and touched bottom. After due reflection he shoved past the stump and his groping hands came in contact with some gnarled roots on the bank, where he managed to drag himself out of the water.

Again the world whirled around and he lost consciousness, but in a few moments he recovered again, his mind more clear, but his head one bunch of thumping nerves. Nausea overcame him and he sprawled on the bank, too sick to care about anything. He was still there when Sleepy and Breezy rattled across the bridge, and it roused him up a little.

He felt a little better, and he was beginning to remember. The events of the evening came back to him, although they seemed to have happened years before.

His clothes were soaked and his boots were full of water. He managed to remove his boots and empty them. It was rather difficult for him to get on his feet because everything seemed to whirl around, but he gritted his teeth and staggered ahead to the road.

Things were clearer to him now. He realised that he had been shot, but was unable to discover the exact spot where he had been hit. He was so wet that he could not distinguish blood from water, but he had a suspicion that he had been hit in the head.

“Bushwhacked,” he told himself. “That’s it.”

He dimly remembered the voices he had heard, and that one had suggested shooting him again. In spite of his condition he chuckled. Luck had been with him once more. It seemed an interminably long time before he saw the lights of Lobo Wells. They danced before his eyes like lanterns on poles, but he kept bravely on.

Something prompted him to keep off the main street, and he managed to find the rear stairs of the little hotel, where he climbed up and went to his room without seeing anybody. After he lighted the lamp and surveyed his features in the cheap mirror over the pine dresser, he got an idea of the extent of his injuries.

It appeared that a bullet had knocked a chunk of flesh off just above his left eye, and another had struck him a little farther back, behind the left temple, and had cut a jagged furrow to the top of his head. He mopped the gore away with a towel and examined the wounds, which did not pain him so much now.

“Looks as though I had been caressed with a few pieces of buckshot,” he told his reflection. “That bushwhacker misjudged his aim just enough to slip me two outside pellets. No wonder he thought I was plenty dead. That whole load would have torn my head off.”

He washed out the wounds, bound his head in a piece of pillow cover, stripped off his wet clothes and went to bed. His head ached too much for him to sleep, so he was still awake when Sleepy came in, stopped in the doorway and stared at Hashknife’s bandaged head.

Then Sleepy shut the door carefully and came over to the bed.

“My Gawd!” said Sleepy. “What happened to you, Hashknife?”

Hashknife told him, while Sleepy whistled softly.

“How didja get home?” asked Sleepy.

“Walked, I reckon. Don’t remember much about it.”

“I’m goin’ to get the doctor,” declared Sleepy. “You lay still and don’t try to stop me. Here’s yore hat.”

Sleepy picked the hat off the floor, where he had dropped it when he came in.

“We found it on the bridge. And that ain’t all we found.”

Sleepy dug down in his pocket, took out an object and handed it to Hashknife. It was a derringer, forty-one calibre, with a loaded cartridge still in the single barrel.

“It was down in the rut on the far side of the bridge,” said Sleepy at the doorway. “I’ll get the doctor right away.”

“Derringer, eh?”

Hashknife smiled weakly and shoved the derringer under his pillow.

Nan’s ankle was pretty sore the next morning, but she insisted on dressing, and Len carried her out to breakfast. Sailor had already eaten his breakfast, and was down at the stable.

Len told her about the boys going out to look for Hashknife, and that he was anxious to find out whether anything serious had happened. Little Larry was down at the stable with Sailor, who was saddling a burro for him to ride. They could hear Larry’s high-pitched voice as he gave expert advice on the matter.

“He’s a lovable little fellow,” said Nan. “This ranch will be wonderful for him, Len.”

“Then you don’t mind havin’ him here, Nan?”

“Oh, I love it.”

“I wondered if yuh would. Where do yuh want to sit this mornin’? You can’t do much movin’ around, yuh know, and I’d kinda like to ride to town and see if they found Hartley.”

“On the front porch. Don’t hurry on my account, Len.”

“Well, I won’t be gone long.”

He carried her out on the porch and made her comfortable in a rocker, stacking up some old magazines beside her.

“Len,” she said seriously, “you are awful good to me.”

“Mebby I am and mebby I ain’t,” he said brusquely. “See you later.”

Larry came up to see her after a while, his face flushed, clothes dusty.

“Me and the mule got along great,” he told her, with a triumphant note in his voice. “Sailor says I rode him to a frazzle. Sailor’s makin’ over a saddle for me. Well, I’ve got to get back to work, I s’pose.”

“What kind of work, Larry?” she asked.

“Cuttin’ wood for Whisperin’.”

“You should call him Mr. Taylor, Larry.”

“I did—once. Then he said we was well enough acquainted to call each other by our first names. What was all this about Mr. Hartley bein’ missin’?”

“Nobody seems to know, Larry.”

“Gee, I hope he’s all right. Me and him are waitin’ for the big wind to come along, so we can fly a kite. When yore ankle gets better you can help us.”

“All right, Larry. Perhaps your father will help, too.”

Larry thought a while.

“Mebby. It’s funny to think of him bein’ my father. Do you like him?”

“Why do you ask that, Larry?”

“Well, I guess he likes you.”

“Did he tell you that?”

“He told me that the boss was a nice lady. He wouldn’t say that unless he liked you, would he?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I hope he likes me, Larry.”

“Uh-huh. Well, I’ve got to cut some wood.”

It was after twelve o’clock when Whispering beat the dinner gong, and Sailor came up from the stable with Larry. Whispering asked Nan whether they should carry her to the table or serve her meal out there. She decided in favour of eating on the porch.

It was Sailor who brought the tray out there. Nan held it, while Sailor brought out a small table.

“You carried my message to Mr. Baggs, didn’t you, Sailor?” she asked, still holding the tray in both hands.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t,” he said. “Couldn’t find him last night, and I plumb forgot to tell yuh this mornin’.”

The tray slipped from Nan’s fingers, struck on her two knees and went upside down on the porch, the dishes clattering down the steps. Her arms fell limply to her sides and she sagged back in her chair, her face turning white.

“My golly!” blurted Sailor. “Whatsa matter? Yore ankle?”

For several moments Nan did not speak, while Sailor watched her anxiously. Hearing the crash of the dishes, Whispering and Larry came running out.

“I reckon her ankle hurt,” said Sailor.

“You prob’ly stepped on it!” snorted Whispering.

“Aw, I wasn’t near her. She⸺”

“It’s all right,” whispered Nan painfully. “Oh, I’m sorry about the dishes.”

“Shucks, that’s all right,” assured Whispering. “I’ll load up another bunch for yuh.”

Nan shook her head wearily.

“No, don’t do that, Whispering; I’m not hungry now.”

“I know how yuh feel,” he said. “I had a sprained leg once. Them pains shore do shoot through. You jist take it easy, and when yuh get hungry I’ll fix up a snack for yuh.”

They went back to the dining-room, leaving Nan to stare out at the hills, wondering what would happen next. She knew that Baggs would watch for her to leave Lobo Wells, and when she did not appear at the station he would have her arrested.

Several times Whispering came out to the porch, anxious to prepare a meal for her, but she had no appetite. Her eyes ached from watching the road to Lobo Wells, and when she did see a cloud of dust, presaging the approach of a rider, she clenched her hands and swore she would be game, while cold chills raced up and down her spine.

She recognised Len at a distance, but the other rider was not familiar, until they came in through the big gate, when she recognised the huge figure of Ben Dillon, the sheriff. She gripped the arms of her chair and watched them ride up to her and dismount. The sheriff was coming for her, she knew. Len’s face seemed very grave, as he said:

“Ben, you’ve met Miss Singer, ain’t yuh?”

“Howdy,” said the sheriff. “I ain’t never had the pleasure.”

Nan couldn’t speak. Their faces seemed blurred.

“You remember sendin’ Sailor Jones to town last night?” asked the sheriff.

“Hey!” blurted Len quickly. “She’s fainted, Ben.”

“By God, that’s what she’s done, Len! What do yuh do for⸺”

Len picked her up in his arms and carried her into the house, placing her on the couch.

“What’s the hell’s been goin’ on now?” wailed Whispering.

“Get some cold water!” snapped Len.

Len bathed her face with cold water, which revived her in a few moments. Her mind was clear again, and she waited for the sheriff to say or do something, but he walked from the room with Len. Out on the porch he said:

“She ain’t in no shape to talk, Len. Personally, I don’t think Sailor had anythin’ to do with it, but Breezy said that Sailor was along about that time, and I jist wanted to kinda find out if she knew what time he got home.”

“I told yuh she didn’t, Ben. Sailor never went up to the house after he got back. It was only a little while before Stevens and Breezy came bustin’ out, lookin’ for Hashknife. Anyway, Sailor wouldn’t bushwhack anybody, and yuh say that Hartley was bushwhacked.”

“Hartley never said anythin’—it was Breezy. Sleepy told him. I saw Hartley this mornin’, and he shore had a close call. It’s got me all balled up. If you can tell me why anybody would try to shoot his head off with a shotgun I’ll put in with yuh. Why, the man is a stranger around here.”

“Yeah, that’s true, Ben. Kinda funny. First off they kill Prentice; then they try to kill Amos Baggs. Now they ambush Hartley. Who will be next? What did Hartley say?”

“Grinned like a danged fool. I asked him if he wasn’t scared, and he said he shore was—scared to death.”

Len smiled and rubbed his chin.

“Yuh say they threw him off the bridge?”

“Yeah. Prob’ly thought he was dead.”

“Hm-m-m. I wonder if Hartley has any idea who done it, Ben?”

“I asked Stevens the same question, and he said he didn’t. I told Hartley I was goin’ to try and find out who shot him, and he said he’d be much obliged if I could. Sometimes he makes me so damn mad, with his grinnin’—but yuh can’t help likin’ him, Len. And he ain’t a man I’d choose for a fight.

“Packs his gun pretty low,” nodded Len, “and them eyes of his are pretty steady, even when he grins with his mouth.”

“How’s the boy, Len?”

“Fine.”

“Well, I’ll be driftin’ back. Sorry I bothered Miss Singer, Len; but this deal is gittin’ me up in the air.”

“That’s all right, Ben.”

Len Ayres watched him ride away, and then went back into the house. Nan was curled up on the couch.

“Where is the sheriff?” she asked.

“Oh, he went back to town, Nan. He said he was sorry to bother yuh, but there was a few things he wanted to know. Last night somebody tried to kill Hartley on the road between here and town. Shot him off his horse and threw him in the river. Sailor was the only man along the road at that time. Breezy Hill knew what time Sailor left town, and the sheriff wanted to see if you had any idea what time Sailor got back here to the ranch. I guess he didn’t believe me.”

“But I didn’t see Sailor after he got back last night,” said Nan wearily.

“That’s what I told him. Do yuh feel better, Nan?”

“Much better.”

“Ankle pretty sore, ain’t it? I’ll betcha. Mebby I better take yuh to the doctor, Nan.”

“Well, that—yes, Len, that would give me a chance to talk with Mr. Baggs. He expected me this morning. Sailor never delivered my message to him. I guess he wasn’t able to find Mr. Baggs.”

“Shore. But I’ll tell yuh what we’re goin’ to do, Nan: we’re goin’ to take yore case away from Baggs. I don’t trust him. We’ll demand the will and all the papers and turn ’em over to another lawyer. Jist cut Mr. Baggs off at the pockets.”

Nan stared at him rather wildly. The idea was good, but the consequences might be terrible. She thought quickly.

“I—I don’t know whether I could stand the ride, Len,” she said weakly. “This ankle is awful sore. Maybe you better have the doctor come out here.”

“Whatever yuh want to do, Nan. Shall I bring Baggs out?”

“We—we’ll let him—I’ll be all right in a few days. You just tell him I got hurt, will you, Len?”

“Oh, shore.”

After Len left the room Nan wiped the perspiration off her brow and offered up a prayer for this short respite. If Len explained her condition to Baggs it might save her for a few more days.

Hashknife, with seven stitches in his scalp, and bandaged like a turbaned Moslem, was around town, minus his hat. Questions came thick and fast, but he told everybody that it was a mystery to him. He fingered the derringer in his pocket, and wondered whether it belonged to Jack Pollock, who was around the Oasis, still wearing his arm in a sling. Pollock—if he were really Evans—had used a derringer in Redfields. The gun did not bear any identifying mark, and was small enough to conceal in the palm of a man’s hand.

Hashknife tried to remember the two voices he had heard, but the memory was too vague, the voices seemingly too far away, although he could remember what was said. But he decided that the approach of Sailor Jones had hurried them and they had thrown him over the railing of the bridge on the spur of the moment, when otherwise they might have been more critical of his real condition.

Amos Baggs was a little more than just upset that day. He had been to the depot and seen the last train of the day go through to the West, and Nan had not been at the depot. He swore bitterly and went back to his office, trying to think what to do next. He was sure that Len had advised her to stay, in spite of his warning.

If he had seen Len Ayres when the puncher rode up to the front of his office he would have beaten a retreat out through the back door, but he didn’t have time. Len did not waste words, but delivered Nan’s message as briefly as possible. And Amos Baggs almost hugged Len Ayres. The weight of the world lifted from his shoulders.

Len met Hashknife a little later and told him about it, after they had discussed the events of the night before.

“I dunno what struck Baggs,” said Len. “He was so sour and so scared when I went in, and as soon as I told him about Nan sprainin’ her ankle he got real happy. I don’t figure him.”

“That’s a queer thing to make anybody happy.”

“Shore is.”

“What was the message?”

“That she had been hurt and wouldn’t be able to see him to-day.”

Hashknife didn’t tell Ayres what he had read in the letter from Baggs to Nan, but he knew that Nan lost no time in coming in to see Baggs.

“There’s somethin’ wrong in that end of the deal,” he told himself. “Nice girl and a crooked lawyer. He’s got her scared, I think. I wish I had her scared enough to talk. I’ll just about fool around here until somebody blows my head off.”

Sleepy had the same idea.

“It ain’t worth it,” he declared. “Wire Wells Fargo that we’re off the job, Hashknife. It was a foolish idea, in the first place. They can’t expect us to do anythin’. I’ll be darned if I think Len Ayres has got that money planted.”

“Yuh don’t? Ain’t it funny—neither do I!”

“Fine! So what’s the use of stickin’ around here, lookin’ for somethin’ that neither of us believe exists.”

“Sleepy,” seriously, “what do yuh reckon they’re shootin’ at me for?”

“That question can’t be answered. And if we stick around here much longer it never will—by us.”

But Hashknife made no move to leave Lobo Wells. For the next couple of days he stayed close to town, waiting for his wounds to heal and being sure not to acquire any fresh ones.

Out at the Box S, Nan’s ankle was nearly well again. Much of the arguing between Whispering and Sailor had ceased, because Larry was cutting the wood, much to the amusement of everybody. His ideas of measurements were rather flexible, and at times Whispering was obliged to take the wood back and cut it again; but never when Larry might be aware of it.

Came Saturday night and Sailor rode to Lobo Wells with Len. Whispering had been complaining about rheumatism for days, so he decided to stay at the ranch. Nan had completely recovered the use of her ankle. She had heard no more from Amos Baggs, but she realised that there was no more to hear. He had delivered his ultimatum, but had been kind enough to allow her this extra time.

Little Larry went to bed early, thoroughly tired. Whispering was down in the bunk-house, either in bed or deep in a game of solitaire. Nan was reading in the living-room when she heard a noise on the porch. As she lowered her book the door opened softly and in came Amos Baggs and Jack Pollock, the gambler.

“We saw you through the window,” said Baggs softly, “so we didn’t bother to knock.”

Pollock was looking at her with a curious smile.

“Some difference between a hall bedroom in a Frisco rooming house and ownership of a ranch like this,” he said. “Kid, I’ll give you credit; you’ve got plenty of nerve. Too bad you didn’t get away with it.”

Nan did not answer him. Baggs came up to the table and removed some papers from his pocket, which he spread on the table at her elbow. He took out a fountain pen and handed it to her.

“Just sign on that lower line,” he said, indicating it with a bony forefinger. “Sign it Madge Singer.”

“What is it?” Nan managed to articulate at last.

“Power of attorney,” said Baggs. “You just sign it, young lady. I’ll need that to handle this case. We’ve got to say that you are suddenly called to Frisco.”

“I—I’d rather not sign it now,” she said.

“You’d rather not sign it now? What have you got to do with it, I’d like to know? You sign it. I’ve been pretty lenient with you, young lady; now you play square with me. Write your name on that line, and let’s get this over.”

Nan looked at Pollock, who was grinning at her. Baggs had been drinking, and his face was close to her.

“You say I’m going back to Frisco?” she asked.

“That’s none of your damn business,” Baggs said coldly. “You were an impostor. I’m merely saving you from jail. You’re not entitled to that much consideration, but I’m giving it to you. You sign Madge Singer’s name on that line, write a note to Len Ayres, telling him that you are suddenly called away, and we’ll all get out of here. You’ll either do this or stay in jail to-night.”

“Does Ayres know your handwriting?” asked Pollock.

“I don’t think he does,” said Nan weakly. She turned to Amos Baggs. “I guess I’d rather go to jail,” she said.

“You’re seventeen kinds of a fool!” snorted Baggs angrily.

Pollock was busy writing in a notebook. He tore out the page, and his eyes were hard as he looked at Nan.

“Let her go to jail, Amos,” he said. “She better take her stuff along, because she’s going to stay a long time.”

“I’ll pack my stuff,” said Nan firmly.

“With us watching you,” declared Baggs. “You’re too slippery, young lady. You’ve given us plenty trouble already. Hurry up; we want to get there before the jail closes for the night.”

Pollock laughed harshly, and then went to help her pack.

Sunday was not a busy day in Lobo Wells. Hashknife and Sleepy were at the livery stable, taking care of their own horses, while the stable-keeper was looking after the rest of the stock. As he led a pair of horses past the stall where Hashknife kept his gray he said to Hashknife:

“I think you lost yore pocket-book last night. I picked one up near yore stall this mornin’. It’s back there on the grain box.”

“All right,” grunted Hashknife, wondering what the man meant. Hashknife never carried a pocket-book in his life.

He hung up his currycomb and walked back to the grain-box, where he found a leather billfold. Inside it were twenty dollars in currency, some personal cards of people he did not know—mostly San Francisco people—and two tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco.

There was no owner’s name, but Hashknife was satisfied that it belonged to Jack Pollock. He put it in his pocket, intending to turn it in at the Oasis. The stable-keeper was out watering horses, when he and Sleepy left the stable, so Hashknife did not get a chance to speak to him about the billfold.

As Hashknife and Sleepy walked up the street toward the hotel, Len Ayres rode in. He tied his horse at the Oasis, but came directly across the street to them.

“How are yuh this mornin’?” said Hashknife.

“I don’t know yet, Hartley. Take a look at this.”

Len handed Hashknife a sheet from a notebook, on which was pencilled in a rather delicate hand:

“Dear Mr. Ayres,—I have just received an urgent message to come at once to San Francisco, so I’m leaving now for Lobo Wells. You will hear from me later.

“Sincerely,

“Madge Singer.”

“What’s wrong about that?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“I don’t know,” confessed Len rather lamely. “It don’t look right to me, Hartley. She didn’t say anythin’ about⸺”

“Baggs went out after her, while you were here in town last night, eh?” Hashknife took it for granted that Baggs was the messenger.

“Whisperin’ found this note on the table this mornin’.”

“She’s probably got an urgent message, as she says in the note. I don’t see anythin’ wrong with it, Ayres.”

“Mebbe it’s all right. In the first place, she always calls me Len, and in the second place, I call her Nan. Why did she use ‘Mr. Ayres’ and ‘Madge Singer’?”

Hashknife was inclined to smile.

“You might ask Baggs about it,” he suggested.

“I’ll do just that.”

Len went on up the street to Baggs’s office, while Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to the Oasis. Harry Cole was at the bar and invited them to have a drink. The place was nearly empty.

“How’s yore head this mornin’?” asked Cole, as he filled his glass.

“Head’s all right,” smiled Hashknife. “Have a big play last night?”

“Pretty good for the middle of the month.”

“Pollock around this mornin’?” Hashknife intended giving him the billfold.

“Pollock left on the eleven-thirty train for Frisco last night.”

“Thasso?”

“Yeah, he decided to pull out. Lobo Wells ain’t big enough for Pollock. He got smashed up in an accident in Frisco, so he came up here for a trip. I didn’t know you’d met him.”

“I hadn’t,” dryly. “Anybody else go west with him?”

“I don’t think so. What made yuh think they had?”

“Miss Singer went to Frisco on that same train.”

“Did she? I don’t think she knows Pollock.”

Hashknife and Sleepy left the saloon and walked up to the depot. The depot agent happened to be a genial sort of person, with plenty of time on his hands.

“You don’t sell many tickets, do yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Not very many; why?”

“Remember sellin’ two one-way tickets to San Francisco lately?”

“Yesterday. A gambler from the Oasis, the one with the bum arm. Said he was goin’ out on the eleven-thirty.”

“Was you on duty when that train pulled out?”

“Sure. But I didn’t see who got on. Didn’t pay any attention.”

“What time did he buy the tickets?”

“In the mornin’.”

“Do you happen to know the name of the conductor on that train?”

“Sure—Tony Lawton. Train 63.”

“Gimme a telegraph blank, and you can send this where it’ll catch him as quick as yuh can.”

Hashknife wrote:

“Did you pick up two people at Lobo Wells last night who had lost tickets and paid cash. Wire at once.—Ben Dillon, Sheriff.”

The agent squinted at it curiously.

“It’s all right,” he smiled, “but you’re not the sheriff.”

“That’s all right; he’ll get the answer, pardner.”

“Sure—that’s right. I’ll catch Tony right away.”

And the agent was as good as his word. Within an hour he was at the sheriff’s office with a telegram, explaining to Ben Dillon that it was an answer to the one a tall cowboy had sent.

“What tall cowboy?” asked the sheriff.

“I don’t know what his name is. He signed your name to the one he sent.”

The sheriff opened it and read this message:

“No passengers from Lobo Wells last night.

“Tony Lawton.”

The sheriff’s face twisted thoughtfully.

“Tall cowboy with a bandage on his head?”

“That’s the one. I forgot the bandage.”

“All right; I’ll keep it for him.”

A few minutes later the sheriff left his office, and as he started up the street he saw Hashknife talking with Amos Baggs in front of a store. He walked up and held out the telegram to Hashknife.

“I reckon this is the answer to one you sent,” Dillon said. “It says there weren’t any passengers from Lobo Wells last night. What does it mean?”

Hashknife took the telegram, scanned it and put it in his pocket.

“Who’s Tony Lawton?” queried the sheriff.

“He’s the man who signed this telegram. Thanks, Dillon.”

Hashknife left them abruptly and started for the livery stable. Amos Baggs had a queer expression in his eyes as he watched the retreating back of the tall cowpuncher.

“He’s got me beat,” declared the sheriff. “Signin’ my name to a telegram, and not even explainin’ the answer. He’s shore got plenty nerve.”

“It’s funny he didn’t explain it,” said Baggs.

“That’s right. It said: ‘No passengers from Lobo Wells last night,’ and was signed by a man named Tony Lawton. Mebbe it was one of them code messages. They usually sound queer.”

“That’s probably what it was,” agreed Amos. “If you knew what was in the message he sent, you might understand this reply.”

“Oh, it don’t make any difference, anyway. Did somebody leave Lobo Wells on the train last night?”

“I don’t know,” replied Baggs. “I go to bed before the train arrives here.”

“I guess it was a code message,” decided the sheriff, “but what a danged cowpuncher would be sendin’ a code message for is more than I can make out. He’s gettin’ too darn fresh, usin’ my name on his telegrams; an’ when I see him, he’ll hear about it.”

Hashknife picked up Sleepy at the livery stable, and they rode out to the Box S. Sleepy didn’t know what it was all about, but he went willingly. They found Len and Larry on the front porch.

“Do you think there’s enough wind to sail that kite to-day, Mr. Hartley?” called the boy anxiously.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to wait a while, Larry. Take a look at this, Len.”

He handed Len the answer to the telegram, explaining that he had wired the conductor on the train.

“I’d have bet on my hunch!” snapped Len. “That proves it. But where is she, Hartley? Nobody saw her leave. All we’ve got to go on is the note she left.”

“Do you know her writin’, Len?”

“Never saw it in my life.”

“Maybe she didn’t write it. Maybe she didn’t go away with Baggs. But there’s one cinch bet: she didn’t board that train last night in Lobo Wells. Jack Pollock, the gambler, is missin’, and Harry Cole says he left on that eleven-thirty train for Frisco. But this mornin’ the stable-keeper found a billfold, which looks as though it belonged to Pollock, and in it is two one-way tickets from Lobo Wells to San Francisco. Pollock bought the two tickets yesterday mornin’.”

“For gosh sakes!” blurted Len. “I’ll say you’ve found out a lot.”

“Don’t do us much good. What we want to know is this: did Pollock intend takin’ the girl with him last night; and what became of them? Do yuh know if she was acquainted with Pollock?”

“I never heard her say.”

“Did you talk with Amos Baggs about her goin’ away?”

“I couldn’t find him, Hartley; his office was locked.”

“Well, he’s still in town. That damn fool sheriff read the answer to that telegram right in front of him. Some folks never will have any brains, and it seems as though about the time they get elected sheriff they lose all their natural sense.”

“Do you think Baggs knows somethin’?”

“He knows that we know the girl didn’t go away last night, and that we know Pollock didn’t take that train. It may not be of any interest to him to know this—but he knows it, if it is.”

“Have you any idea why this was done, Hartley?”

“Nope; have you?”

Len shook his head wearily, but Hashknife had a feeling that Len knew more than he was telling. Whispering and Sailor came to them, seeking information—Len had told them that he didn’t believe Nan wrote the note—and now he told them that Nan did not leave on that eleven-thirty train from Lobo Wells.

“Yuh don’t mean to say that somebody kidnapped her, do yuh?” asked Whispering. “Wouldn’t nobody do that?”

“There’s always somebody that’ll do anythin’,” declared Sailor. “We ain’t had a first-class hangin’ for a long time.”

“Catch a rabbit before yuh skin him,” grunted Whispering. “The worst of it is, this must have happened while I’m down at the bunk-house last night.”

“We left yuh here to guard her,” said Sailor.

“You left me here ’cause I had rheumatism, yuh mean. Nobody told me to ride herd on her.”

“Well, boys, it couldn’t be helped,” sighed Len. “There’s no blame comin’ to anybody. Mebby everythin’ is all right. I guess I’ll go to town and have a talk with Baggs,” and then savagely: “And he’ll talk to me, or I’ll saw off his damn ears.”

“That would be my idea of a holiday,” grinned Whispering as Len hurried down to the stable to get his horse.

“Why does everybody hate Baggs?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno,” confessed Whispering. “I hate him for the things he said about Len at the trial. Old Harmony Singer hated him a-plenty. I had to talk pretty strong to keep Harmony from killin’ him. He shore was a tough old feller.”

“Singer was dragged to death, wasn’t he?”

Whispering nodded sadly.

“They didn’t make ’em better,” said Sailor.

“You knew Len’s wife?” Hashknife queried.

“Shore,” nodded Whispering quickly. “She didn’t shoot square.”

“Before he was sent up?”

Whispering and Sailor exchanged quick glances, and Whispering cleared his throat harshly.

“Afterward,” he said huskily.

Len was riding up from the stable, and the three of them went back to Lobo Wells. Len was plainly worried.

“I don’t know what to say to Baggs,” he confessed, as they neared the town.

“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “Just tell him that she went away without leavin’ any orders, and see what he has to say about it. No use rubbin’ him the wrong way. Don’t let him know that yuh suspect anythin’ wrong.”

“That might be best; I’ll do it.”

But Len got the surprise of his life when he went to see Baggs in his office. The lawyer was inclined to be dictatorial.

“No, I don’t know where Miss Singer went,” he said. “She left a note under my door sayin’ she was leavin’ for San Francisco and might not be back.”

He produced the note, written in the same hand and on the same kind of paper as the one she had left for Len.

“She didn’t tell me she might not be back,” said Len.

“Well, she told me. And, another thing, Ayres: I have power of attorney to run the Box S until she returns. Miss Singer signed the paper several days ago. If you want to see it⸺”

“Gave you power of attorney to run the Box S?”

“Exactly. And I’m going to run it, Ayres. You are through as foreman, and you can notify Taylor and Jones that they are also through.”

Len stared at him blankly.

“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh?” he asked softly.

“Not at all. You and your men move out, and I’ll hire a new crew. It has been done before, so I’m not setting any precedent. I have explained to the sheriff just what I intend to do; so the less you say or do about it the better it will be for you, Ayres.”

Len was mad. He wanted to take that skinny neck between his two hands and squeeze real hard. But he was forced to admit that Baggs had the whip hand.

“I suppose you’ll sign and cash that thousand dollar cheque now?” said Len slowly.

“If it suits me—yes. I have the right.”

Len studied the situation for a while. Then he said slowly:

“She’ll have to come back to have that will probated.”

“I don’t think so. She has been established here, and if it is impossible for her to be present—well, it is merely a matter of legal procedure. I don’t think the court will even raise a question.”

“Another friend of yours pulled out on the same train last night, didn’t he?”

“Who was that?”

“Pollock.”

“Did he? I didn’t know it. Why do you say he’s a friend of mine, Ayres?”

“I heard he was.”

“Don’t you believe everything you hear, Ayres.”

“Who brought Miss Singer to town last night?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t, Baggs?”

“I think that will be about all. If you will make out the pay-roll for yourself and the other two men I’ll give you a cheque for it. Be off the Box S by to-morrow evening.”

Len stifled an impulse to manhandle Baggs and left the office. Hashknife, Sleepy and Breezy were sitting on the sidewalk in front of the sheriff’s office, and Len went down to them. He drew Hashknife aside and told him what Baggs had done, while Hashknife whistled unmusically between his teeth.

“Showed you the note she left under his door, eh?” mused Hashknife. “She shore sneaked fast, Len. But where did she go from there? Who brought her to town? I felt sure that Baggs went out after her, but I just asked the man at the stable, and he said that Pollock was the only man who hired a rig from him last night.”

“Who is this Pollock person, anyway?” asked Len. “He came here after I went away.”

“Flash gambler, from Frisco. Unless I’m mistaken, his name used to be Evans, and he’s wanted for killin’. Looks to me like a slick-fingered killer. They tell me he used to work for Harry Cole of the Oasis. Cole told me that Pollock got busted up in a wreck in Frisco and was out here visitin’ while his arm healed up.”

“Hartley, do you think Nan ran away with Pollock?”

Hashknife studied Len’s face for a few moments.

“Len,” he said softly, “is this anxiety merely for the boss of the Box S, or is it⸺”

“I’m just a plain damn fool!” said Len savagely. “I’ve been a fool ever since I came back here. I suppose,” he added bitterly, “I’ll keep on bein’ a fool all my life.”

“And they are legion,” sighed Hashknife.

“What did you say, Hartley?”

“I just said that we’re in the majority.”

“Uh-huh—I suppose. Well, I hate to go out and break the news to Whispering and Sailor. They’ve lived there for years; sorta pensioned by Harmony. They’ll want to come in and kill Baggs. And, Hartley, I’m afraid it will require the sheriff to shake ’em loose from the Box S. I can land another job, but they can’t.”

“Well, he gave yuh until to-morrow night, didn’t he? Kingdoms have changed hands in shorter time than that. I’m goin’ up to my room and do a lot of thinkin’. And I’ve got a hunch that Nan didn’t run away with Pollock.”

“I hope yo’re right, Hartley. I’ll see what I can think about before I see yuh again.”

Hashknife went up to his room and sprawled on the bed.

“Of all the snake trails I ever follered, this is the worst,” he told himself. “What’s it all about, anyway? There’s one cinch bet, and that is that somebody around here is scared of me, and I don’t know what for.”

He reviewed the killing of Charley Prentice, who had been sober and industrious until Len Ayres came back. What was Prentice afraid of, he wondered? Was it because he had married Len’s ex-wife? Did he fear Len’s wrath so much that he drank himself to a physical wreck?

The evidence of little Larry would indicate that the man or men who killed Prentice wanted to throw the blame on Len. And would they commit murder merely to get Len out of the way? That was hardly reasonable, Hashknife decided. Did they want to close Prentice’s mouth, and at the same time dispose of Len? That sounded reasonable. Drunken men might talk.

For at least two hours the tall cowboy sprawled on the bed, his gray eyes blinking at the bare ceiling, until Sleepy came up and demanded to know whether Hashknife was playing a joke on his stomach or had he forgotten that it was past supper time.

Hashknife got up and washed his face in the cracked porcelain bowl. He placed his sombrero atop his bandages and did a few clumsy dance steps on the creaking floor, after which he sang softly:

“When my engine roars down through the cut,

I’ll tell yuh what to do:

If my darlin’s dead, just show the red;

If she bet-ter-r-r, show the blue.”

Sleepy looked at him curiously. It was not often that Hashknife sang a song—for which Sleepy was duly thankful, because Hashknife was not exactly a vocalist. But Sleepy knew that when Hashknife sang, even a short part of a verse, it was because he had solved something.

“What do yuh know?” asked Sleepy curiously.

Hashknife grinned softly and looked at himself in the old mirror.

“I know it’s time to eat, cowboy. Glad yuh reminded me.”

They found Ben Dillon and Breezy eating their supper; so they sat down at the same table. The sheriff masticated rapidly for several moments, his eyes on Hashknife. Then:

“Hartley, I’d like to have yuh tell me what that telegram meant. I’m not in the habit of lettin’ folks use my name on telegrams, the same of which I don’t know anythin’ about. The darn thing don’t make sense. You ain’t never showed me jist who yuh are, and—well, what about it?”

Hashknife smiled across the table at the sheriff, who grunted audibly, but waited for Hashknife to speak.

“I’ll pay for the telegram,” said Hashknife.

“That part don’t interest me none; I want to know what it was all about.”

Hashknife did not smile now. He looked at the sheriff with his level gray eyes, as he said softly: “I can’t tell yuh now, sheriff. Too many cooks always spoil the broth.”

“Yeah?” thoughtfully. “Well, you got a nerve, Hartley. Oh, it’s O.K. with me if all this is on the square.”

“It’s all right, I give you my word.”

Baggs had talked to the sheriff, telling him that he was firing the crew at the Box S, and saying that he might have some trouble over it.

“Kinda tough,” agreed Breezy, digging away at a tough steak with a dull knife. “Len’s got the kid to look after, too. Mebby he’ll rent the Prentice house and start housekeepin’. Be funny if he did, wouldn’t it?”

“Did Prentice own the house?” asked Hashknife.

“Belongs to Harry Cole,” said the sheriff. “Prentice rented from him.”

“Mebby Baggs will give us a job on the Box S,” grinned Sleepy.

“Stranger things than that have happened,” grunted Breezy.

“Shore,” grinned Hashknife. “I remember readin’ about the sea openin’ up and lettin’ the Hebrews go through dry-shod.”

“I never swallered that,” choked Breezy. “Must ’a’ been plenty mud. I don’t believe in mi-rackles, but the jigger that served this steak shore does. Hey, Charley! Take this steak back and try it on the next customer. I know when I’m whipped.”

“Don’t like taste?” inquired the Chinaman.

“Boy, I never got that far. Gimme some aigs.”

“Yessa.”

Hashknife turned to the sheriff, who was grinning.

“Pollock went away last night, didn’t he?”

“Yeah, he went away on the⸺” The sheriff hesitated as he remembered the wording of that telegram. “I heard he did,” he finished rather lamely. “What about him?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.”

“Do you know Pollock, Hartley?”

“Never met the gent in my life.”

“Then why are you so interested in him?”

“It ain’t so much the man as it is the things he does.”

“What’s he done?”

Hashknife paused with a forkful of food short of his lips. “Quién sabe?” he said softly.

“Well, I ain’t goin’ to git off. Harmony Singer told me that this was my home, didn’t he? No danged weasel-faced lawyer is goin’ to hoodle me out of my home. My work is sat’sfact’ry, and I stay here. Let him come out here. What do I care? I’ll jist pistol-whip him and retain m’ position. That’s me, all the time.”

Sailor Jones leaned back from the breakfast table at the Box S and glared at the red-faced Whispering, who was baking hot cakes. Across the table from Sailor sat Larry, his plate piled high with steaming cakes.

“I guess I’m about full,” the boy announced.

“Yuh ain’t full,” declared Whispering. “Yuh can’t be full of jist sixteen hot cakes. Eat up them five, and I’ll have some fresh ones for yuh. You satisfied, Sailor?”

“Got enough cakes—yeah.”

“Kinda puny, ain’t yuh? You only et ten this mornin’.”

“That lawyer took away my appetite. Mebby I better ride in and kill him. I’ll betcha I’d be thanked.”

“You’d be hung, you danged fool. Some few of us might e-rect a monyment to yuh, Sailor; but you wouldn’t know it. Git them killin’ notions out of yore head. Len says to go easy.”

“Yeah, he does!” snored Sailor. “And he never slept a wink last night. Looks like a complete accident this mornin’. ’F I ain’t as dumb as a horned toad, Len’s in love with Nan.”

“Yo’re crazy.”

“I can’t eat no more,” declared Larry at last. “Twenty-one is plenty.”

He slipped off his chair, sighed deeply, and went down to the stable to saddle his burro.

Sailor tilted his chair against the wall and rolled a smoke.

“What’s yore idea of this Hartley, Whisperin’?” he asked.

“I dunno. Len’s got faith in him. He shore dug up evidence that Nan never left on that train. But where’d she go? I’ll betcha she ran away with that gambler. Wimmin,” Sailor exhaled deeply, “are queer critters. I never understood ’em.”

“That’s funny, too,” grunted Whispering, “bein’ as you never had anythin’ to do with ’em.”

“I had a squaw wife once, Whisperin’.”

“Injuns are different, Sailor.”

Whispering sat down beside the table, resting his chin on his hands.

“I dunno what we’re goin’ to do, Sailor. Me and yuh have been together a long time, but I dunno who in hell would ever hire us two old wrecks together. We ain’t much good, that’s shore. Yuh jist kinda git old all to once, without realisin’ it, and nobody wants yuh.”

“I’m three years younger than you are, Whisperin’.”

“To hear you tell it—yeah. But yo’re too old, Sailor. We’ve got to look at this straight. There’s no jobs for us in this country. I might git on as a cook on some outfit—if they needed one awful bad. I can’t ride no more. You can’t even cook. Dang it, Sailor, we’re jist a couple of old derelicts. If we’d fought in the wars, instead of hidin’ in the brush, we could go to a home for soldiers.”

“I never hid in no brush, dang yuh! I was too young to go to war.”

“I wasn’t speakin’ about the Rev’lutionary War, Sailor.”

“Oh! Well, I fought Injuns. Me and them Apaches⸺”

“Uncle Sam ain’t offerin’ a home to fellers who fought to save their own lives.”

“I’m not askin’ him for a home, dang it!”

“You probably will be.”

Len came and sat down in the doorway. His gray-green eyes were bloodshot this morning and his hair hadn’t been combed.

“We’ll go in this afternoon, boys,” he said slowly. “I’ll get the money from Baggs. Don’t get drunk and act foolish. Save yore money this time.”

“I reckon that’s good advice, Len,” agreed Whispering. “We’ll need our money now. What’ll you do, Len—you and the kid?”

Len shook his head.

“I wish we could stick together, Len.”

“I guess we will, Whisperin’.”

“How can we do it?” asked Sailor quickly.

“I don’t know, Sailor.”

Len got quickly to his feet. Hashknife and Sleepy were riding in off the main road. They came up to the kitchen door and dismounted. Hashknife was grinning widely as they came in the kitchen.

“Smelled hot cakes,” he said. “How’s chances for some?”

“The best yuh ever seen,” said Whispering. He grabbed for a handful of wood and stoked the fire.

“Look upon us, will yuh?” laughed Hashknife. “Behold the new crew of the Box S!”

“What do yuh mean?” asked Len.

Hashknife chuckled as he sat down at the table.

“Gospel truth, Len. Amos Alexander Baggs himself hired me and Sleepy this mornin’.”

“No.”

“Shore did. Stipulated that we don’t keep none of you boys. Yo’re all fired.”

“We was all fired last night,” said Sailor.

“I don’t quite understand Baggs,” said Len slowly. “How did he ever select you two?”

“That,” said Hashknife, “is a question. Punchers are scarce, I suppose. Anyway, he explained that he needed us right away. Couldn’t seem to wait until the boys left. Said he’d send out a load of grub in a couple of days; so that was a gentle hint to get on the job and stay on it.”

“No other news?” asked Len.

“Not a thing. Gee, you shore make hot cakes, pardner. Wish we could keep yuh cookin’. Mebby we can talk Baggs into hirin’ yuh in a few days.”

“That’s all right with me—if he’d take Sailor, too.”

“Mebby we can fix it.”

“You take the job, if yuh can git it, Whisperin’,” advised Sailor. “I’ll git along. Pers’nally, I don’t know if I’d work for Baggs.”

“You’d work for me, wouldn’t yuh, Sailor?” asked Hashknife.

“Yo’re dang well right!”

“Well, yuh may be back here sooner than yuh think.”

“Thank yuh kindly, Hartley. I hope yo’re right. This is home to me and Whisperin’.”

“There’s no place like home,” said Hashknife thoughtfully.

“You re’lise it—when yo’re run out of it,” said Whispering, and turned away, wiping the hot-cake smoke out of his eyes.

“That damn smoke is kinda—kinda thick,” said Sailor, and sauntered outside.

Hashknife and Len exchanged glances of complete understanding. The smoke wasn’t at all distressing.

They loafed around the ranch all day. Len gave Hashknife all the information regarding the details of the ranch. Whispering cooked an early supper for them. Sailor hitched up a team to the buckboard to carry their belongings to Lobo Wells, and they drove away at sundown.

Len looked back and waved at Hashknife and Sleepy, but the two old men kept their eyes straight ahead. They didn’t want to look back. There was a suspicion of moisture in Hashknife’s eyes as he turned away, but his lean jaw was set with determination.

“Well,” said Sleepy expansively, “we’ve got a job on our hands, Hashknife.”

“We shore have, pardner. Hope the god of luck is with us. I’m still pawin’ in the dark, I tell yuh. Just guessin’, guessin’, without a danged thing to back me up. What do yuh do when yo’re holdin’ two deuces in a stiff poker game, Sleepy?”

“Think they’re a full house and play ’em hard.”

“That’s what I’m doin’; prayin’ to a special little god of mine—and bluffin’ like a fool. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll saddle up and sneak back to town.”

“Is this the end of the trail, Hashknife?”

“Who knows? I tell yuh, I’m bluffin’. I ain’t even got a pair of deuces. But when the other feller don’t know it⸺”

“Where does that girl come in on it, Hashknife?”

“We’ll ask her—if we’re lucky.”

“That’s a sweet job to give anybody! Whatsa matter with yuh, Ben? Them two old jiggers wouldn’t hurt anybody. I suppose old Baggs asked yuh to detail me to dry-nurse ’em, eh?”

Breezy Hill rasped his spurred heel along the side of Ben Dillon’s desk, giving vent to his displeasure.

“Demanded it,” grinned the sheriff. “Whisperin’ and Sailor are over at the Oasis, fillin’ their skins with liquor, and I don’t hardly blame Baggs for demandin’ protection. If I was in his place I’d ask the Governor to send troops and proclaim martial law.”

“Aw, they wouldn’t shoot him, Ben.”

“They won’t if we can stop ’em, Breezy. You keep sober and stay close to ’em. Len’s got his kid over at the hotel.”

“Can’t I take a drink, Ben?”

“Sure, but stay sober.”

“Oh, shore. Say! What do yuh think about Baggs hirin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to run the Box S?”

“It’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done. Thank gosh, we’re rid of ’em. I’ve been wishin’ they’d land a job.”

“I liked ’em,” said Breezy.

“Thasall right, Breezy; but they got to be pests.”

“I s’pose. Well, I’ll go out and night-herd them two old pelicans for yuh, Ben. But don’t ask too much of me. I’m not so danged stuck on Amos Alexander Baggs m’self.”

Not realising that Breezy was acting in an official capacity, Whispering and Sailor welcomed him with open arms. Len had drawn their wages from Baggs, and they had already forgotten that this was their last pay day at the Box S.

They bought Breezy a couple of drinks, which was sufficient to organise the deputy to a point where he began buying.

“We’re here,” said Whispering owlishly, “to show a man the error of his ways, ain’t we, Sailor?”

“That’s right,” agreed Sailor heartily if thickly. “We’ve dug up the hatchet and we’re packin’ a red belt. Didja know we got throwed out of our home, Breezy? Didja? Well, it’s a sholem fac’. Throwed out in the cold world.”

It had been over a hundred in the shade that day, so Breezy had little sympathy with that statement. He nodded and turned his back to the bar, while he surveyed the room. Several of the games were going full blast, and at a poker table, only a few feet away, sat Amos Alexander Baggs. He shifted his eyes toward Breezy and nodded, possibly acknowledging the guardianship.

Breezy turned back to the bar. The bartender served some drinks at the poker game and when he came back behind the bar he caught Breezy’s eye, indicated the poker table with a jerk of his head and said softly:

“You’ve got a drink coming, Breezy.”

He meant that Baggs had told him to serve a drink to the deputy.

“All right, thanks,” Breezy replied. “Whatcha havin’, boys?”

“Same thing,” said Whispering, and Sailor nodded. The bartender tried to indicate that the order was for one drink, but Breezy ignored it. So they all had a drink on Amos Baggs.

Amos Baggs saw the old punchers drink and it made him so mad he almost forgot to draw cards. Breezy grinned gleefully. Unless these two old rangers got too drunk to navigate, it promised to be a big evening. Len came in, circled the opposite side of the room to escape Whispering, Sailor and Breezy, and sat down in another poker game, where Harry Cole was doing the dealing.

More cowboys drifted in, until the range was fairly well represented, and there was more or less confusion. Whispering and Sailor grew loud in their talk and just a little incoherent at times, but Breezy enjoyed it.

It was about eight o’clock when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in. They left their horses at the outskirts of the town and came in behind the east side of the main street. It was barely dark now. They came in behind the Oasis saloon and sat down against the side of an old shed.

There was a light in Harry Cole’s private office, which had a rear entrance. To the left of this entrance, twenty feet away, was the rear entrance to the Oasis.

From where the pair sat they could hear some of the noise in the saloon, the sound of people going in and out of the place. Both Hashknife and Sleepy had cultivated plenty of patience. They sat there like a couple of images, invisible in the dark.

Hashknife had warned Sleepy that they might be there most of the night and Sleepy agreed that it would be a nice night for it, not knowing what it was all about—nor caring.

There was one building between the Oasis and a Chinese restaurant, but even at that distance they could hear the Chinese rattling dishes at the rear of the restaurant.

It was after nine o’clock when Hashknife suddenly touched Sleepy on the arm. Some one was coming around from the rear of the restaurant. The figure shuffled softly to the rear door of Cole’s office and knocked gently several times. Finally the door opened and they saw that it was a Chinese, carrying a loaded tray, covered with a white cloth.

It was Harry Cole who opened the door. He took the tray from the Chinese.

“I’ll send the tray back later, Charley,” he said.

“Yessa.”

Cole closed the door and the Chinese shuffled back around the building. Hashknife sighed and relaxed.

“Some busy gambler will eat,” whispered Sleepy.

Hashknife did not reply. It was a common thing for food to be brought to a gambling house, as many players do not care to stop playing long enough to go out and eat a meal. There had been a light burning in Cole’s private room when the tray came, but a few moments later the light was turned out.

It was so dark out there that all they could see was the indistinct skyline of the building, the only window in the rear of the Oasis being the one in Cole’s room. About five minutes after the light had vanished they heard the door open and close gently. Came the sound of a man walking on the hard-packed ground. He passed to the left of them, evidently picking his way carefully in the dark. Hashknife squeezed Sleepy’s arm sharply and whispered in his ear:

“Stay where yuh are.”

Then he got to his feet, turned to the right around the shed and ran swiftly on his toes, praying that he might not kick a tin can or run into anything. He had his bearings fairly well and it was easier to see ahead as soon as he got away from the buildings.

He didn’t know where the man was, didn’t wait to investigate further, but kept on running. Ahead of him was the dark bulk of a house, and he halted just in time to save himself from running into the fence.

Over the fence he went, dropping to his hands and knees, while he figured out his bearings. Then he went cautiously ahead, his hands reaching out in front of him, until he could touch the building. Quickly he worked to the right, found the corner and moved a few feet to the corner of the unrailed porch. From where he stopped he could reach out and touch the front door of the Prentice house.

Hashknife had been there possibly a full minute when he heard the latch of the old gate click softly. He slipped his gun loose, gripping it tightly and stepped up on the edge of the porch. He could hear the soft slither of gravel as the man came down the walk.

He stopped a few feet away, and Hashknife took a deep breath. He was afraid the man could see him, but his fear was unfounded, for at that moment the man whistled three soft notes. It sounded to Hashknife like the first three notes in “Taps,” as played by a bugler. Then the man came on boldly, moving up the three or four steps to the top of the porch.

He was within reach of Hashknife now, panting slightly. He moved forward and something struck Hashknife’s left elbow. A dish rattled.

“What in hell!” grunted the man.

There was no waiting now. Hashknife jerked forward, struck in the direction of the man’s head, and almost at the same time he reached out his left hand. The swinging gun reached its mark, the man grunted foolishly, and fell forward in to Hashknife, forcing him back against the wall, and at that moment the door opened behind Hashknife.

Came the clatter of falling dishes, smashing on the porch, the rattle of the heavy tray, a sharp exclamation of wonder from the doorway, and Hashknife whirled and dived straight in through the doorway, striking his left shoulder heavily as he came in.

He went to his knees, badly off balance, while a revolver spurted a flame a foot above his body, and the windows of the house danced from the concussion. Again the spurt of orange-coloured flame licked out through the darkness low enough to have scorched him, but he had dropped flat on the carpet.

Swiftly he rolled aside, his gun ready. A chair rattled, echoed by the concussion of Hashknife’s big gun, but only a shower of plaster attested the hit. But in the flash of the exploding powder Hashknife saw the man dart through the doorway into the kitchen. Swiftly he shifted his gun and fired again through the doorway.

Then he sprang to his feet in the darkness and ran to the doorway, stepping aside quickly. Came the slam of a closing door, a man’s swift step on the back porch. Hashknife whirled and ran out the front door. His boots crushed down on scattered dishes and he almost fell off the porch, but he regained his balance and stopped short. He heard the fence creak from a weight, and then came the sound of a man running swiftly.

A few steps carried him to the fence, which he vaulted, and then he started running towards the rear of the Oasis.

Things were not going so smoothly at the Oasis. Sailor Jones had arrived at the point where he was becoming unmanageable. He stood alone at the end of the bar and dared anybody to touch him. Every one in the saloon knew he was as drunk as a man might become and still keep his feet, but to outward appearances he was as sober as a judge.

And he was not to be ignored. Breezy tried to get close enough to grab his gun, but failed. Sailor was an old lobo wolf, drunk enough to imagine he was cornered and ready to kill. He kept his little bloodshot eyes upon Amos Baggs, who was perspiring copiously.

“I’m gonna kill shomebody pretty quick,” he said coldly.

The sheriff came over beside the bar and Sailor gave him a venomous glance. Ben grimaced despairingly. Amos caught his eye and indicated a strong desire to commune with the sheriff. Sailor had become the centre of attraction, it seemed. No one wanted to injure the old man, and they knew it would require drastic measures to stop him, so their best bet was to let him alone until the whisky reacted and put him down.

Len Ayres left his game and came over to the bar, ten feet away from Sailor Jones.

“What are yuh drinkin’, Sailor?” he asked pleasantly.

“Ain’t drinkin’,” sullenly. “Don’t nobody touch me. I’m in the market for a scalp and I’m not askin’ for much ha’r.”

“Don’t be a dang fool, Sailor. Let’s have a good time.”

“I’m havin’ a good time.”

The sheriff went over to Baggs, who whispered earnestly. The sheriff frowned heavily, shook his head. The other players seemed uneasy. Harry Cole got up from his table and came over there, keeping an eye on Sailor Jones.

Just a little, wizened old man, with deep-sunk eyes and fox-tail hair, his collar hiked up around his flaring ears, Sailor was almost mummylike in his immobility, the palm of one skinny hand rubbing the point of his hip above his holstered gun.

“Wash ’m, Shailor?” mumbled Whispering owlishly. “I’m for yuh, ol’-tim’r. Bite ’m, Tige!”

“You shut up,” warned Breezy, who felt obliged to show some authority.

“You shut me up, will yuh?” Whispering straightened himself belligerently. “You try ’t!”

“My Gawd—you, too!” wailed Breezy. “I guess we better wire for the troops.”

Baggs was getting up from his chair, shielding himself with the sheriff. His idea was to get out of there. Sailor laughed harshly, and snarled:

“Sher’f, you better pray along with Amos Baggs.”

The sheriff stopped; Baggs stopped. There was not much of Baggs projecting outside the bulky outlines of the sheriff, but Baggs didn’t know it. Possibly he felt much larger than the sheriff.

“I—I never done anything to him,” wailed Amos. His voice sounded thin and weak in the smoke-hazy room.

“Sound yore A-string,” said Breezy foolishly.

“Sailor,” the sheriff’s voice was not too confident, “if you start anythin’⸺”

But the sheriff didn’t finish his warning. A man staggered in the front door; a man in his shirt sleeves, blood running down the side of his face, his mouth wide open, as though he had been running a long ways. It was the man who did the cleaning in the Oasis; the swamper, as he was called.

The menace of Sailor Jones was forgotten. The man staggered and would have fallen, except that the sheriff grasped his arm. Every one in the place was on his feet now. Harry Cole came forward, staring at the man.

“What in hell happened to you?” asked Breezy.

The man looked at Cole but did not speak. His face was the colour of ashes, and he seemed about to collapse.

“I’ll take him in my room,” said Cole quickly. “No, I can handle him alone. Jerry, did you get kicked by a horse?”

The swamper’s head sagged, but he did not reply. Some one suggested getting a doctor. Baggs seemed to forget Sailor Jones and came down past him, watching Cole and the swamper going toward the door of Cole’s private room.

Suddenly the back door opened and in came Jack Pollock. It seemed as though he had tried to make his entrance as inconspicuous as possible and had run slap into the spotlight. He was without a hat and minus his usual starched white collar.

Harry Cole had halted with the injured swamper when Pollock made his abrupt entrance, and Pollock came toward them, hardly knowing what else to do. No one spoke. Pollock had not closed the door behind him. He came close to Cole.

“Your door was locked,” he said, as though explaining why he had entered the saloon.

Many of those present did not know Pollock was supposed to be on his way to San Francisco. The swamper was sagging like a drunken man and Cole was trying to hold him up with one hand.

It was then that Hashknife Hartley stepped in through the rear doorway, stopped short and looked around. He was without a hat, his bandages slightly askew. Pollock’s head jerked around and he watched Hashknife from over his right shoulder.

“I reckon we’re all present,” said Hashknife slowly. “Ah, there’s our old friend, Amos Baggs. Yes, we’re all here and accounted for, gentlemen. Sheriff’s here, deputy’s here. Len, are you here?”

“Over here, Hashknife!” called Len.

“Good boy! Len, take a look at Mr. Baggs and Mr. Cole. These two men owe you five years—five years of bustin’ rocks. Prentice was the third member, but they killed him, because he might talk. I’ve got ’em cinched so tight that any jury on earth would hang ’em on my evidence alone!”

It was said in such a matter-of-fact way, so coldly confident, that every one was stunned.

“They tried twice to kill me,” said Hashknife, “because they knew I’d hang ’em higher than a kite!”

Harry Cole’s right hand whipped in under his coat and a blued Colt flashed from a shoulder holster, but he was too slow, even with all his speed. Hashknife fired once, and the shock of the heavy bullet, striking Cole in the left shoulder, whirled him on his heel and he went down flat, with the sagging swamper falling half across him.

And almost at the same instant Sleepy, who had entered the front door, came with a football rush, folded both arms around the middle of Amos Alexander Baggs, and they crashed down in the middle of the floor, with Sleepy on top of him.

Pollock, who had jerked aside, seeking a way out, possibly thinking that he had not been included, was brought up short when Hashknife’s gun barrel dug deeply into his ribs.

“You ain’t goin’ no place, Pollock,” he said shortly.

The crowd was moving forward now, coughing from the powder fumes, wondering aloud what it was all about. Sleepy jerked Amos to his feet. The skid on the rough floor had removed some skin from the bridge of Amos’s nose, and the shock of the exposé seemed to have caved in his morale.

“I can talk, can’t I?” he panted anxiously. “Can’t I tell what I know? I have that right, sheriff. I—I know my rights. I’ll talk.”

No doubt Amos could see the outline of the gallows, and he wanted to save his skin at the expense of his confederates. Hashknife stilled the hubbub.

“Let him talk, if he wants to, boys. He has a right.”

“I know I have,” whined Amos.

Hashknife said a few short words to Len, who stared at him in amazement, but went hurrying out of the place. The sheriff moved the men back from Amos, who was panting heavily.

“Go ahead and talk,” said Hashknife. “Nobody stoppin’ yuh.”

Amos gulped and began:

“I never killed anybody. Honest to God, I never killed anybody. Harry Cole pulled the jobs. He was sheriff and I was the prosecutor. He wanted money. Prentice was crooked. He wanted Len’s wife. We needed some one to blame for the two robberies, so we framed to incriminate Len. Prentice stole that hat, and the bank robbery was a fake, but we sent Len to the penitentiary. I swear that’s the way of it. We didn’t think Len would come back here. Prentice didn’t have any nerve, and he worried. He thought somebody might find out about it; so he drank. Cole was afraid he’d talk, so he killed him. I didn’t know about it until after it was all done. But I never hurt anybody. I’m innocent of that. All I ever did was to protect them and take my share.”

“Cole tried to kill me, eh?” grinned Hashknife.

“I know he did. Pollock helped him the last time.”

“You dirty liar!” screamed Pollock.

“Oh, I’ve got yore derringer,” said Hashknife. “You left your callin’ card, Jack Evans. Yeah, I think there’s still a reward for you in Redfields.”

“Cole was right,” gritted Pollock. “He had the dope on you. I thought he was crazy. Well, damn you, all you can do is send me back to Redfields. I can square that all right.”

Some one had brought the doctor, who went to work on Cole and the swamper. The sheriff walked around in a daze, after putting handcuffs on Pollock. He came to Hashknife.

“I said you was a pest,” he said seriously. “Wasn’t that funny? I did, I tell yuh. Thought you was a pest; you and yore questions. I have to laugh.”

“Go ahead,” said Hashknife. “You can laugh, if you feel thataway.”

Breezy had charge of Amos Baggs and seemed to be getting a lot of joy out of his job. Harry Cole wasn’t dead, and the doctor said he would probably live, but Cole did not seem to have any opinions in the matter.

Suddenly another hush. The roar of conversation slowed down to dead silence. Len Ayres was coming in, and beside him, looking very white and wide-eyed, was Nan. Baggs looked at her, wet his dry lips with his tongue and stared down at the floor.

Len touched Amos on the arm and the lawyer looked up at him.

“Do you want to tell this part of it?” he asked. “Or shall I ask the lady to tell it? She don’t know what it’s all about—yet.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Amos huskily.

“Don’t lie about it,” warned Len. He turned to Nan. “You tell it.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I don’t know what it was all about.”

“Nan, don’t lie to me!” Len cried. “I knew all the time that you wasn’t the rightful heir to the Box S. I could block yuh any time I wanted to, but I—I didn’t. Somethin’ held me back, somethin’ that told me if I went slow I’d mebby clear myself.”

“Yo’re as clear as a bell, Len,” said the sheriff. “Baggs confessed the whole thing. Cole and Prentice and Baggs pulled the job. You are cleared of everythin’.”

Nan impulsively reached out and grasped Len by the arm.

“Oh, I’m glad!” she said. “Just so glad.”

“Are yuh? Then come clean on this deal, Nan. I’ve got the goods on yuh, so yuh might as well tell us.”

Nan looked around at the circle of faces, some of them blurred by the eddying tobacco and powder smoke. She looked at Hashknife, and his gray eyes were watching her closely.

“I took a dead girl’s name,” she said slowly. “She was my room-mate. We were both poor and out of jobs. She was killed in a wreck, and Jack Pollock was hurt at the same time.

“There was a letter to her from Amos Baggs, telling her to come and claim her inheritance. There was a hundred-dollar cheque in the letter. Well, I took it and came here. I’m an impostor. My name is Nan Whitlock—not Singer. Mr. Baggs said he’d send me to prison. Pollock had told him that I wasn’t the right girl. Baggs tried to get me to sign papers out at the ranch. He said I would be sent to jail if I didn’t sign them, but I—I said I’d rather go to jail.

“They—Baggs and Pollock—brought me to town that night and were going to send me to San Francisco, but we were late getting here and Pollock had lost his pocket-book, which contained the tickets and his money. They said they would protect me from the law until they could safely ship me away; so they took me to a house and kept me there, locked up. I—I didn’t know just why they were afraid to send me away. Then to-night I heard the shooting in the house, and—and that is about all I know.”

“Thank heaven!” said Len. “That’s good news.” He turned savagely on the handcuffed Baggs. “I’ve got the goods on you, Baggs. You or some of yore gang murdered Harmony Singer. I knew it, but I couldn’t prove it. I couldn’t prove anythin’, but Hartley did. So you picked a girl named Singer to inherit the ranch, eh? Goin’ to buy her out and split the pot, eh? You fool! His name wasn’t Singer. His name was Ayres. He was my uncle, Baggs. But he was kinda wild in New Mexico; so he changed his name when he came here. His name was Jim Ayres. Here!” he handed a folded paper to Hashknife. “Read it out loud, Hashknife. That’ll explain.”

It was an old sheet of writing paper, slightly yellowed, and the writing was in ink, slightly hard to decipher. Hashknife read aloud:

“‘This is to certify that Len Ayres has paid me the sum of ten thousand dollars⸺’”

“Wait a minute,” interrupted Len. “That ten thousand is the money I inherited about six months before this gang sent me to the penitentiary. Go ahead, Hashknife.”

“‘Ten thousand dollars in cash, and I hereby give him one-half of the Box S Ranch and everything on it, and one-half of the money in the bank, and of future profits. Len don’t want no deed, so this is a bill of sale. And this is also to certify that in case of my death, everything I own belongs to Len Ayres, and he is to give Whispering Taylor and Sailor Jones a home for life, or as long as he can get along with them. Very truly yours, Jim Harmony Singer Ayres. P.S.—This is my right name, except the Singer part, which is an adopted brand, and nobody’s business.’”

“The warden at the penitentiary kept that for me,” said Len slowly. “I didn’t want a deed, and I reckon most of yuh boys present know why. I managed to save this much out of the wreck.”

“You knew?” said Nan, looking up at him. “Was that why you said, Len, when I asked you if you didn’t trust me, ‘I’ll tell yuh about it some time’?”

Len looked at her closely, and there was a half smile on his thin, drawn lips.

“I reckon it was, Nan. But this ain’t no place to tell yuh about it. C’mon.”

They turned together and walked out of the saloon. Breezy took Baggs and Pollock, and Sleepy went with him. The doctor was working over Cole in Cole’s own room, while the swamper was sitting in a chair near the door, his head bandaged temporarily. He had been the one who carried the tray to the Prentice home.

The sheriff came to Hashknife, his eyes curious.

“What evidence did yuh have against them for all that stuff, Hartley?” he asked.

“Not a bit, Dillon; just a hunch.”

“You mean—you bluffed? How did yuh find the girl?”

“Imagination,” smiled Hashknife. “I had their tickets, and I knew they never left here. Where could they go, I wondered. What better place than the Prentice home, owned by Cole? They had to be fed. I saw a Chinaman bring a tray here. That would solve the problem. So we hid out there to-night and watched a tray come in. When that swamper took it to the Prentice house I had to bat him over the head, and it almost ruined things. But, as it was, it worked out right. Pollock was fool enough to try and warn Cole. The stage was all set when I came in, and they didn’t stop to realise that I didn’t have evidence. I didn’t ask questions, Dillon; I told ’em what they’d done—and they knew it was true.”

“Golly, but yo’re lucky! I’d never ’a’ thought of that.”

“Yeah, I’m lucky. It’s shore hard work, buildin’ up luck.”

Hashknife turned and started to walk out. On the bar rail sat Whispering and Sailor, dead to the world. Whispering had an arm thrown around Sailor’s shoulders and they were both snoring lustily.

“You boys can go home again,” said Hashknife softly, but they didn’t hear him.

He walked outside and crossed the street. In front of the sheriff’s office he found Nan, Len, and little Larry. Hashknife would have avoided them, but it was impossible. Len held out his hand and they gripped tightly.

“Dad never done nothin’ wrong,” said Larry. “Ain’t it great?”

“Shore is great, Larry,” replied Hashknife. “That fixes yuh up now.”

“And the mule stepped on the kite to-day, but I can make another—if we ever git any wind.”

“Even the wind will come, if yuh wait long enough, Larry.”

Hashknife noticed that Nan was crying, and that Len put an arm around her.

“Why don’t you thank him, Len?” she asked.

“Honey, they never built enough words. I can’t think what to say.”

“Thasall right,” said Hashknife. “Everythin’ is all right.”

He walked past them to where Sleepy was coming from the door of the sheriff’s office, and they slipped away in the darkness together. They rode to the rear of the hotel, where they secured their war bags. Their rent was all paid up.

They tied the bags to their saddles and mounted.

“East of here,” said Sleepy softly, “there’s some tall hills, and they say it’s twenty-five miles to the nearest town in that direction. I dunno what else is on that side of the hill.”

“Let’s take a look, pardner,” said Hashknife, and they rode away in the darkness.

On the south road a little while later, while a moon peeped over the rim of the Broken Hills, sending its blue rays down across the Manzanita range, travelled a slow-moving buckboard, loaded to capacity.

Len and Nan were on the seat, with Larry wedged between them, while in the back of the equipage, fitted in like sardines in a can, rode Whispering Taylor and Sailor Jones, both snoring heavily, at peace with the world. They were all going back home.