Part 12

“Don’t do it,” advised Marsh quickly. “That would chase ’em away, don’tcha see, Sudden? We’ve got to nail that whole gang at once; put enough men down there to stop every one of ’em, sabe?”

“And let Eph King send his sheep across, eh?”

“We got to take that chance, Sudden.”

“And Eph King knows it, I’ll bet.”

“You’ll probably win.”

“Uh-huh. Say, Marsh, let’s take a little sashay down that way. We can kinda act like we wasn’t goin’ nowhere. Them jiggers are liable to pick up their beds and pull out.”

“Let’s do that,” suggested Jack. “Let’s do somethin’ besides talk. My ——, I can’t stand it much longer.”

“You ain’t heard nothin’ from your wife?” Thus Sunshine.

Jack shook his head sadly.

“I’m afraid—now. With that bunch of rustlers around here, it’s hard to tell what has happened to her. That sun is almost down—and she’s been gone since yesterday. C’mon.”

They rode down through the hills, swinging to the east of the Arrow ranch, taking a course almost directly between the Arrow and Jack’s place. There were no cattle in sight. Ordinarily the hills were filled with Arrow, Turkey Track and Circle V cattle in that part of the range, but there were none of any brand now.

Suddenly the sheriff drew rein and pointed excitedly. About a mile away a group of horsemen were riding swiftly in the direction of the rustler’s shack. It was impossible to tell who they were or how many men were in the crowd, but they were making good time, and going almost away from the sheriff’s crowd.

“There they go!” blurted Sunshine. “And they’re goin’ like ——! I’ll betcha they’re wise to somethin’ and are beatin’ it for the shack to get their stuff.”

“It sure looks like it,” agreed the sheriff nervously. “We’re not exactly equipped for battle, but we’ll give ’em a run for their money. Hit the grit, boys!”

Only the sheriff and Sunshine had rifles, but Marsh and Jack gave no heed to this, as they sent their horses into a swift run down through the hills. The brush whipped into their faces and tore at their clothes, but they stood up in their stirrups and prayed that their horses would keep their feet over the rough going.

Then came the _spang!_ of a distant rifle shot, echoing through the hills. It was followed by a scattering volley.

“Somebody has jumped ’em!” yelled the sheriff. “Ride ’em high and keep goin’!”

* * * * *

But what the sheriff had thought was the rustler’s gang was Hashknife’s crew from the sheep camp. He had led them straight through the dead-line unchallenged, much to the wonderment of Eph King. No one even questioned their right to pass, and Hashknife knew that the word had not been passed to let them through, because no one knew that he was going to bring a crowd back across the line.

Hashknife had taken them east from the sheep camp until almost due north from the Turkey Track ranch, and then had twisted to the southwest, crossing Slow Elk Creek and turning south.

Hashknife, King and Steen had talked over what they were going to do, and decided to sweep down on the shack, kill or capture all the rustlers in sight and then ambush the rest when they came. It was a good scheme, and might have worked fine, except for the fact that two men were at the corral and saw them top the crest of the coulée.

One of these men had a rifle in his hand and he proceeded to take a snapshot at them before running back toward the shack. The sheepmen jerked to a stop and fired a scattering volley at the two running men, which did nothing more than kick up the dust or tear splinters off the side of the shack.

Then they dismounted, scattered in the brush and started to surround the shack, when several riders broke from cover farther down the coulée and rode away at breakneck speed. They were evidently on their way to the shack when the first shot was fired. Hashknife took a long-range shot at them, but they were traveling fast through the brush and his bullet did not stop any of them.

Those in the shack were not at all idle. They were all armed with rifles, and they were making things warm for the sheepmen. Hashknife and Sleepy crawled to a spot where they could shoot at a window, and proceeded to flip the old curtain with such regularity that the rustlers quit using that window as a loophole.

“This here is worth waitin’ for,” grinned Sleepy. “I wish I had my old .45-70, Hashknife. This here .30-30 is all very fine, but them bullets mushroom too quick. They don’t bore through them old weathered boards. It’s like throwin’ rocks down there.”

_Wham!_

A bullet struck just in front of Sleepy, filling his eyes with dirt. He rolled over, clawing at his face, trying to blink the gravel out of his eyes.

“Somebody throwed the rock back at yuh, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife humorously. “You forget that there’s desperate men in that shack, cowboy.”

A man ran out of the shack and headed for the corral, where several horses were tied. Twice he swerved, when bullets whizzed past his ears, but before he could reach the horses he lunged sidewise and went flat on his face.

“Must be gettin’ hot inside the shack,” observed Hashknife, as he stuffed some cartridges into the loading gate of his rifle.

“I feel sorry for them poor —— down there.”

Sleepy squinted through his tears and spat painfully.

“Go ahead and feel sorry for ’em, if yuh want to, Hashknife. And if yuh happen to have any sorrow left, pass it around to one whose vision is filled with dancin’ stars. Talk about spots in front of yore eyes!”

Hashknife turned his head and looked back up the slope. Eph King was running toward his horse, and as Hashknife watched him he climbed into his saddle and spurred into a gallop. Hashknife squinted wonderingly. King was traveling rapidly now, and Hashknife watched him crossing the ridge behind them.

Four other riders had come into sight, riding in from the west, and traveling fast, as if attempting to cut in ahead of King. One of them fired a shot, and it appeared to Hashknife as if King almost fell off his horse.

“Stick here and keep shootin’,” ordered Hashknife, backing out through the brush. “I’ve got to make a call.”

Sleepy blinked through his tears at Hashknife, who was running low toward his horse. Sleepy wiped his stinging eyes with the back of his hand and settled down again.

“I’ll stick here,” he said aloud. “But I won’t guarantee to do any shootin’. That danged cow thief down there almost rocked me to sleep.”

* * * * *

Hashknife reached his horse, mounted on the run and spurred away in the direction taken by King. He topped the rise, riding high in his saddle, but could see nothing either of the pursued or the pursuers. He remembered that there had been several riders below the old shack when the battle started, and he wondered if they had circled to attack them from the rear.

But Hashknife did not waste much time in speculation. As fast as his horse could run they went across that broken land of sage and greasewood, heading northeast. He could not hear the shooting now. It was slightly uphill now and the horse was tiring fast, but Hashknife showed no mercy on his mount.

Off to the east, beyond the next ridge, several shots were fired, but Hashknife did not alter his course. He tore his way up through the brush and swung on to the old road. He drew rein long enough to scan the country, but there was nothing in sight. Then he spurred on, heading toward the Turkey Track.

Again he heard the faraway snap of a shot; too far away to interest him now. At the same spot where he had watched the Turkey Track with Sleepy and Jack Hartwell, he dismounted and left his exhausted horse, head down in the greasewood thicket.

A cautious scrutiny of the Turkey Track ranch house showed him that there was no one in sight, so he circled to the left, keeping himself concealed, until he was almost at the rear of the place. Then he ran swiftly across the open space at the rear of the house and slid into the willows along Deer Creek. For several moments he remained quiet, watching the house. He had been forced to cross in the open, and there was a possibility of being seen.

Satisfied that no one had discovered him, he went swiftly down through the willows until he was at the corral. Just beyond was the big stable, and about a hundred feet beyond was the bunk house, a low building. To the right was the ranch house.

Hashknife leaned against the corral fence and looked at the horses. There were seven of them, nosing around at loose wisps of hay. Hashknife grinned as his eyes shifted to four of them, which seemed little interested in anything. Cautiously he worked around the side of the corral and went over to the stable, where he glued his ear to a crack.

Satisfied that there was no one in the barn, he circled the building, with the intention of taking a look at the bunk house; but the fairly close sound of a revolver shot caused him to draw back and run around to the opposite side, where he peeked around the corner.

A black horse, now almost white with lather, stumbled into the yard, its rider swaying sidewise in the saddle. It was Eph King. Behind him came Marsh Hartwell, Jack Hartwell, Sudden Smithy and Sunshine Gallagher. The sheriff drove his horse in close to King and caught the big sheepman before he could fall from his saddle. The others were off their horses immediately and helped place King on the ground.

Hashknife did not leave his position. Some one yelled a question from the bunk house, and Hashknife saw Slim De Larimore, Curt, Steil and Allison running from the bunk house to the group around King.

Hashknife jerked back and began rolling a cigaret, while his eyebrows drew together in a frown of concentration. He lighted the cigaret and peeked out again. The crowd was still standing around the prostrate figure of King, and Hashknife could hear them arguing over what had happened. Sunshine was talking loud enough to have been heard a quarter of a mile away.

“I suspected that King was the leader of the rustlers. By golly, we sure got him, didn’t we? Eh, Slim? Sure gave us one awful run.”

“That’s all right,” said Marsh Hartwell. “But I want to know who is doin’ all that shootin’ down there. Eph King was probably the leader of the rustlers—but who drove him away? It wasn’t our gang.”

Hashknife stepped away from the stable and walked toward them. Jack and Sunshine were facing him and saw him coming, but neither of them gave any indication of it. Hashknife was unhurried, smoking calmly on his cigaret. The sheriff was talking now.

“I dunno, Marsh. Mebbe it was some of our gang. We better leave King here under guard and go back.”

“One of my men will take care of him,” said De Larimore, and turned to see Hashknife standing within twenty feet of him.

“Not one of yore men,” said Hashknife calmly. “That would be too easy, Ed.”

Slim De Larimore did not move. Curt and Steil were close together at Slim’s left, with Allison behind them. Slim’s eyes shifted sidewise, as if looking for a way out, but he did not even move his feet. They thought Hashknife had either been killed or crippled.

“Ed?” said Jack Hartwell in a strained voice. “Hartley, did yuh call him Ed?”

“That’s his name,” said Hashknife evenly. “Ed Larrimer. I dunno where he got the De Larimore. Mebbe he got it like he usually got his horses, cows and saddles.”

“What do you mean?” breathed the owner of the Turkey Track.

“Just what I said, Larrimer. Long time I no see yuh, eh? I seen Curt and Lee Steil before. They call him ‘Casey’ Steil, I hear. Well, a feller has a right to his name, I reckon. But names don’t mean nothin’, except that a feller by the name of Preston knew you as ‘Ed’. You killed him, but yuh didn’t kill him quick enough.

“Always be sure that yore man is dead, Larrimer. Dead men tell no tales. And yuh didn’t change yore name enough. Larimore and Larrimer ain’t so different. And somebody told me what yuh looked like, acted like, and they said yuh was from Texas.”

“—— you, what do yuh mean?” gritted Larrimer. “My name is De Larimore, and I own this ranch. I can prove it ——”

“You don’t need to, Ed. Anyway, it’s too late for proofs. We are engaged with somethin’ kinda interestin’ now, and we don’t care what yore name is nor whether yuh own the Turkey Track, or not. What I want to know right now is this: Where is Jack Hartwell’s wife?”

Larrimer’s elbows jerked slightly and he twisted heavily on one heel, as if bracing himself.

“What in —— would I know about Jack Hartwell’s wife?” he asked thickly. “I’ve got all the——”

“I asked yuh where she is, Ed,” reminded Hashknife coldly. “You ain’t the kind of a man that would steal a woman—but yuh did. Now, —— yore dirty heart, where is she?”

Larrimer shrugged his shoulders helplessly and turned to the sheriff.

“Where did you find this —— fool?” he asked. “He’s loco.”

“He sure is crazy.” Thus Casey Steil anxiously.

“After it’s all over, we’ll find her, Jack,” assured Hashknife confidently. “Just remain where yuh are. We’ve got to kinda hurry things up, ’cause King has got to have a doctor.”

“He’ll be lucky if he ever gets one,” growled Marsh, wiping his sweat-stained face with the sleeve of his shirt. “Any dirty rustler that——”

“He’s no rustler,” said Hashknife quickly. “Eph King is pretty much of a gentleman, Hartwell. When he found out that a gang of cow thieves were takin’ advantage of you cattlemen, he led his gang down here. And they’re down there at that little shack, bustin’ up that crew of rustlers right now.”

“Brought his men?” queried Marsh with astonishment and unbelief in his face. “Was that what the shootin’——?”

“That’s it, Hartwell. I came with ’em. My pardner is down there now, helpin’ them sheepherders to wipe out the rustlers.”

“Why did King run away?” asked the sheriff.

Hashknife had never taken his eyes off Larrimer and his men, who remained motionless.

“He didn’t run away,” said Hashknife. “I seen him start, and I knew why he started. He wanted to catch the men who were responsible. We got to the shack too quick, I reckon. Four of the gang hadn’t quite reached there, and was able to make their getaway.

“If some of yuh will take a look at four of them horses in the corral over there, you’ll see that they came home real fast. Eph King was headed for the Turkey Track, when you headed him off. He knew where the leader of the gang was headin’ for, Sudden. You fellers made a mistake in throwin’ lead at Eph King, ’cause he was merely comin’ to collect from the man who had double-crossed him—Ed Larrimer, the man who planned the scheme that would put every cowman in Lo Lo Valley on a dead-line, while him and his crew from the JN outfit looted Lo Lo Valley. Hold still, Curt! Easy everybody!

“Ed, you and yore gang killed old Ed Barber. Boomer Bates mistook MacLeod for me or Sleepy, and killed him. Yore gang broke into Hork’s store and stole them shells, so that the cattlemen would be short of ammunition. And you killed Preston. He knew you as Ed Larrimer. Mebbe you was afraid that Jack Hartwell’s wife might tell what passed between you and Preston at Jack’s ranch, so you killed Preston and kidnapped Jack’s wife. Now, you murderin’ pup, what do yuh say?”

For several moments Larrimer did not move nor speak. Then he straightened slightly, wearily and turned to the sheriff.

“Sudden, I’ve never heard so many lies in my life. I don’t even know half what he’s talkin’ about. The man is crazy.”

Larrimer’s voice was absolutely sincere, convincing. Sudden cleared his throat and shifted his feet, while Jack looked imploringly at Hashknife, who was still tensed, grinning. King was trying to sit up, bracing his hands against the ground.

“Help him, Jack,” urged Hashknife softly.

Jack went quickly to King and lifted him to a sitting position. The big sheepman turned his white face to the crowd, staring at every one. Then—

“I heard,” he said hoarsely. “Hartley knows. I don’t know how he knows—but it’s true. I——”

Ed Larrimer darted sidewise, drawing his gun, realizing that King was able to prove too many things against him, but his hand jerked away from his gun and he whirled completely around, when Hashknife’s bullet smashed into his shoulder. Curt tried to jump behind Marsh Hartwell, but the big cattleman smashed him in the ear, knocking him sidewise and into Steil, who was just pulling the trigger on his six-shooter.

Steil’s gun and Hashknife’s sounded as one report. They were too close for a miss. Steil lowered his gun, looked foolishly at Curt, who was lying almost across his feet, and then sat down heavily. Larrimer was flat on the ground, clutching at his smashed shoulder, cursing weakly while Steil sat in silent contemplation of the dead man across his feet.

The sheriff stepped over and put his hand on Steil’s shoulder, but Steil did not respond. His head merely sagged a trifle lower.

“Good ——!” muttered Sudden. “He must ’a’ been dead before he hit the ground. Did he hit yuh, Hartley?”

“No-o-o,” said Hashknife softly. “He killed Curt. He was fallin’ right in front of Steil’s gun. Don’t let Larrimer get hold of that gun with his left hand. He’s ambidexterous.”

Sudden stepped over and picked up the gun, toward which Larrimer was working. A group of horsemen were riding down into the ranch, and Hashknife recognized Sleepy and Bill Steen in the lead.

There were thirteen men in the crowd—but one of them was roped to his saddle. The sheepmen had come through without a casualty. They dismounted and came over to the group. Steen ignored the questions and went to King.

“Eph, are yuh badly hurt?” he asked anxiously.

“I don’t know, Bill. I got hit twice and I feel kinda weak. Everythin’ is all right now. Hartley put the deadwood on’ em. The sheriff thought I was one of the rustlers, and they shot me up quite a little but that’s all right.”

“I’m danged sorry,” said Sudden. “I didn’t know, yuh see.”

Hashknife turned to Jack.

“The men will help yuh search the ranch, Jack. Yore wife must be around here somewhere.”

“She’s in the loft of the barn,” said Larrimer weakly. “It’s no use makin’ any more trouble. We didn’t harm her any.”

“We got Jack Noonan, Hashknife,” said Sleepy, pointing at the man on the horse, who was trussed up tightly with ropes. “He was the only one worth bringin’ back. Yuh see, the rest of ’em stuck to the ship. Dang yuh, why did yuh run away from me?”

Sleepy looked at the bodies of Curt and Steil and at Ed Larrimer, who was sitting up, holding to his right shoulder.

“Well, I’ll be danged if it ain’t Ed Larrimer, the Texas Daisy!”

“Oh, go to ——!” groaned Larrimer. “I should have turned the gang loose to kill you two and let the cows go to ——”

“You came danged near gettin’ us the first night we showed up here,” laughed Hashknife.

“I know it. If we’d have known that it was you two, you’d never got out of Jack Hartwell’s place alive, I’ll tell yuh that, Hartley.”

“Here comes Jack and his wife!” exclaimed Sleepy.

* * * * *

They were coming from the stable. Molly’s clothes were badly torn, and her face bore evidence that she had not enjoyed her enforced stay in the hay loft, but she was unhurt, laughing just a trifle hysterically. Every one was trying to shake hands with her, but she ran to her father and dropped down beside him.

“I’m all right,” he told her. “Kinda leaky, but still on the job, Molly. Don’tcha worry. Everythin’ will be all right now.”

Molly hugged him and turned to the crowd.

“Jack says that everything is all right again. Oh, I hope it is all right, because everything has been all wrong for so long.”

She lifted her eyes and looked up at Marsh Hartwell, as if it was all meant for him. For several moments he looked down at her, as if wondering what to do. Then he walked over, reached down and held out his hand to Eph King.

“Eph,” he said, “I don’t understand it—all. But, by ——, I understand enough to offer yuh my hand—and my friendship. Will yuh take it? I ain’t goin’ to blame yuh, if yuh don’t. I’m all through blamin’ folks for doin’ things.”

King grinned weakly and held up his hand.

“I reckon we might as well be friends, Marsh. I’ve packed a lot of hate in my heart, too, but all the bad blood in me has leaked out today. I—I hope——” He turned and looked at Bill Steen. “Say, Bill, take the boys back to camp and begin’ runnin’ the sheep over Kiopo Pass. They don’t want ’em over here—and I don’t blame ’em.”

He turned to Marsh Hartwell and they shook hands gravely.

“Been a long time, Marsh. I been kinda lonesome to hear a cow bawlin’.”

“Come over any time, Eph,” said Marsh shakily.

“Yore cows are all safe,” said Sleepy. “Noonan says that they are all bunched about fifteen miles from here, out along the railroad. They were goin’ to start movin’ ’em into Sunland in the mornin’, ’cause Larrimer swore that he couldn’t hold Eph King any longer.”

Jack had gone to Molly and put one arm around her shoulder, turning her to face the crowd.

“Boys,” he said, “we thought that the comin’ of the sheep was the worst calamity that could happen to Lo Lo Valley, but I reckon it’s the best thing that ever happened to Molly and me—outside of the comin’ of Hashknife Hartley and his pardner.”

“Shucks!” said Hashknife softly. “It was fate, Jack, just fate.”

“Fate might have brought yuh here, but it was plain —— nerve that kept yuh here,” declared Sudden. “I apologize, Hartley. If yuh want me to, I’ll git down on my knees and ask yore pardon.”

“——!” snorted Sunshine. “Yuh ought to do that anyway. I knowed all the time that——”

“This is no time to lie, Sunshine,” said the sheriff. “They fooled you as much as they did me. At least be honest at a time like this.”

Hashknife grinned widely and looked at Molly.

“Mrs. Hartwell, I’m sure glad for yore sake. The night me and Sleepy found yuh——”

“And I thought Sleepy was a ghost,” laughed Jack. “He had on Molly’s nightgown!”

“Oh, I forgot,” said Mrs. Hartwell, anxiously. “That night——”

She searched inside her waist and drew out a sheet of paper, which she handed to Jack.

“That is the letter that McLeod brought me, Jack. You were so angry when you came back, and tore the letter—oh, I—I—it hurt me to think that you suspected me

“Good gosh!” exploded Jack. “Oh, I must ’a’ been a fool. This letter—” he held it out toward the crowd—“was from her father. I was fool enough to think my own wife was a spy for the sheepmen. I tore a corner off, in tryin’ to take the letter from her. And on the part I got, was, ‘Find out what—’. Just those three words. And I thought Eph King was askin’ for information about the cattlemen. Here is what the letter says—including what I tore off:

“Dear Molly: Just a short note to let you know that I have found out how things are for you and Jack down there. Why didn’t you write and tell your old dad about it? De Larimore told me how they had treated you, and it makes me mad enough to come down and whip the whole valley. See if you can find out what Jack wants to do. I have plenty of work for a man like Jack. If he don’t want to work with sheep, I can turn the Turkey Track ranch over to him. He knows enough about cattle to make that ranch pay——”

“Turkey Track?” interrupted Marsh Hartwell wonderingly.

“I’ve owned it for two years, Marsh,” said King softly. “Yuh see, I couldn’t keep out of the cattle business. The man you call Larrimer was recommended to me by Jack Noonan, about the time I bought the Turkey Track, so I made it appear that Larrimer was the owner.

“Larrimer framed up this thing and kept me posted. He and his men were the ones that shot the old man at Kiopo Pass. He told me that he had it fixed for us to drive straight into the valley, but later on he said his plans had gone wrong. Then he said that there were some men who suspected him and that it would be impossible to break through his side of the line.