Part 2

Hoban met him at the hitch-rack and tied the team, while Allenby got ponderously from the buckboard, the springs of which seemed to sigh with relief. He looked questioningly at Hoban, as though wondering why he was not busy at the loading pens. He could also see Omaha Olsen and Ed Clayton, standing in front of the Elk saloon.

It did not take Hoban long to inform Allenby of his loss, and the big man stiffened, as though to withstand a physical blow. His face paled with anger and then he hunched forward, as if to grapple with his foreman.

“Gone?” he muttered thickly. “You mean that some one stole them?”

“Yuh might say they have,” said Hoban slowly. “The padlock on the big gate has been smashed. I told the sheriff about it.”

Allenby shook his head like a wounded bull. The pocket-book was Frank Allenby’s vital spot, and it nauseated him to think of losing those Herefords. Then he shut his teeth with an audible snap and surged ahead toward the Elk saloon, where he stopped in front of Omaha and the cattle buyer.

“I know about it,” said Clayton sympathetically.

“By ----, I know about it, too!” roared Allenby. He was almost crying with anger. “I know who stole those Herefords. By ----, I know! I’ll----”

“Go ahead and tell me who stole ’em.”

Swan River Smith had crossed the street unnoticed and had heard Allenby’s statement. Allenby turned his head and glared at the sheriff. But Allenby’s glare did not affect Swan River in the least. The big cattle man’s dominating personality meant nothing to the little sheriff.

“Go ahead,” urged Swan River. “I’d shore like to hear his name.”

“That’s my business!” snapped Allenby.

“And mine,” added the sheriff. “If you know who stole yore cows tell me his name. If you don’t know, Allenby, if yore only makin’ a wild guess--keep it to yourself.”

“I’ll do as I ---- please!”

“Yeah?” Swan River looked him over coldly. “All right. Free speech is yore right, Allenby. But if you ain’t got evidence enough to back up the name you mention--the law ain’t backin’ you.”

“I don’t need the law. I’ll be my own law, by ----!”

“Huh!” Thus the sheriff softly, as he turned and walked back toward his office. Allenby glared after him. Omaha and Clayton smiled; but Hoban’s face did not change a line.

“Little pup!” sneered Allenby, half under his breath; but the sheriff was too far away to hear it.

“He isn’t much,” agreed Clayton. Hoban looked sharply at the cattle-buyer. Hoban knew that Swan River Smith was a thoroughly capable officer, with a fine record behind him.

“Do yuh know who stole ’em?” asked Omaha innocently.

“Do I know who stole ’em?” parroted Allenby. “I do know.”

“Well, let’s go and get ’em back.”

“Fool!” snorted Allenby. “Do you suppose they’d leave ’em where we could find ’em?” He spat viciously and turned to Clayton.

“When will your man be here, Ed?”

“He’s due any time now. You just keep calm and let Jim Seeley work on this case. He’ll put a stop to it.”

“That’s the detective?” asked Omaha.

“Sh-h-h-h!” cautioned Clayton. “Don’t tell everybody about it.”

“I hope he can handle it,” said Allenby wearily. “I can’t stand losing any more stock. Freeman, the secretary of the association, promised to furnish me with a couple of men, who, he said, are the best in the world on this kind of a case. But they refused to take it. I offered them five thousand dollars for a conviction, but they refused.

“I know who is doing the dirty work, Clayton. I know it just as well as if I had a confession from them; but I need evidence. Nobody else is losing stock. It’s spite work, that’s all it is. For over two years I’ve been losing cattle. I sent one man to the penitentiary, and next time I’ll send two. If I don’t stop ’em, I’ll be broke. I’m going home now.”

“You heard about the train robbery, didn’t you?” asked Clayton.

“Yes. The sheriff chased them to Tecoma, but they got away into the Bearpaw country.”

“Suppose there’s any connection between the train robbery and the rustlers?”

“No. Too far apart. Are you coming out to the ranch today?”

“I may be out later.”

Hoban untied the team and watched Allenby ride back toward the ranch, before joining Omaha and Clayton at the Elk bar.

Hashknife and Sleepy had finished their breakfast in time to see Allenby ride away. The sheriff was standing in the doorway of his office when they arrived, and told them that the big man was Frank Allenby.

“Allenby ain’t no woolly little sheep when he’s contented,” explained Swan River, “so right now he’s a ragin’ wolf with nothin’ in sight to bite into. Somebody busted into the loadin’ pens last night and lifted three hundred Hereford cows that were due to take a railroad ride this mornin’.”

“Lifted ’em out of a loadin’ pen, eh?” grinned Hashknife. “I’ll tell a man that’s the real handy way to get ’em. Sheriff, I’m of the opinion that this county ain’t so law-abidin’ that it aches.”

“Naw, she ain’t,” agreed Forty Dollar, trying to get a number nine foot into a number seven boot. “’F you was a deputy sheriff here for a while you’d find out. This here ain’t no office--it’s a job, y’betcha.”

“Any clues left by the light-fingered gents?” asked Sleepy.

Swan River shook his head.

“Not a clue. There’s so darned many cow tracks in this country, and no rain for two months, that yuh never could trail ’em.”

“Just have to trust to luck, eh?” Thus Hashknife, interested.

“Yeah--luck.”

“Have much rustlin’ to contend with?”

“Mm-m-m, not so much. It’s a queer thing about the rustlin’. Somebody has been stealin’ cows from Allenby for over two years. I’ve tried every scheme I could think of to nail the guilty party or parties; but they’re too slick for me.”

“Only from Allenby?” queried Hashknife.

“He’s the only one that reports a loss.”

“Uh-huh,” Hashknife squinted thoughtfully. “Kinda looks like somebody had a grudge against Mr. Allenby, don’t it?”

“Do yuh think so?”

“Well, what do you think, sheriff?”

Swan River Smith rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He knew who Allenby suspected. There was a dead weight of evidence against that party right now; but Swan River wanted to be fair. He did not know who Hashknife and Sleepy were, except their names, and he did not want to make any mistakes.

“We don’t want to horn into yore business,” said Hashknife, reading the sheriff’s hesitancy. “It ain’t nothin’ to us, yuh see. We’d kinda like to get our broncs back though. Them was sure two goshawful good horses.”

Swan River looked up grinning.

“I’ll betcha they were,” he said. “I’d just like to help yuh get ’em back, to see how good they are. C’mon out to the stable.”

They went out through the rear door, with Forty Dollar bringing up the rear, stamping his feet to try and stretch his boots. If facial expression means anything he was accomplishing little.

“These are m’ dude boots,” he explained to Sleepy. “When I dress--I dress to kill.”

“Yourself?” asked Sleepy innocently.

Forty Dollar grinned painfully and rested on his high-heels, bracing one hand against the stable door, while the others went inside.

“I want yuh to take a look at the gray and the pinto,” said Swan River, pointing out the two horses in adjoining stalls. Hashknife looked them both over carefully and came back beside the sheriff.

“Notice the brands?” asked the sheriff.

“Both HB animals,” said Hashknife. “No other brands.”

The sheriff squinted at the rumps of the two horses, chewing reflectively on a straw.

“I didn’t need to look at the brands,” he said slowly. “I knew the two horses we were chasin’ yesterday. Yuh couldn’t mistake that pinto. That black head shows it up a mile away. And there ain’t many gray horses bein’ rode around here.”

“Kinda looks like Hank Bell’s goose was about cooked,” observed Forty Dollar, limping in from the doorway.

“That’ll be about all from you,” said the sheriff. “Yo’re just pessimistic from tight boots.”

They went back to the office, where Forty Dollar managed to take off the offending, if gaudy, footwear and put on his old boots.

“Them that wants to be dudes can be dudes,” he declared. “’F I can find the drummer what sold me that pair of boots, I’ll kick him seven times with each one. I want food, by golly. You fellers had breakfast yet? Yeah? Well, I reckon I can eat by my lonesome.”

* * * * *

Forty Dollar grabbed his hat and crossed the street to the Blue Front restaurant, while the other three men lounged in the doorway of the office, smoking thoughtfully. A man rode in past them and dismounted at the Elk saloon. He was not many years past his majority; a thin-faced youth and rather frail of physique.

“That’s Allenby’s son,” said the sheriff. “Harry Allenby. The old man thinks that Harry is the finest piece of man-flesh that ever was whelped. I dunno what in ---- he’s ever goin’ to make out of the kid. Allenby is so ----ed stingy that he wouldn’t let the kid go to college; yet he expects him to be President of the United States, I reckon.”

“Kinda figures to have him be a self-made man, eh?” smiled Hashknife.

“Somethin’ like that. I like Mrs. Allenby. She’s sure a nice little woman--too ----ed nice for Allenby. And June is a dinger. June is the daughter. She’s about a year younger than Harry, and I reckon he’s about twenty-four now.”

While they were discussing the Allenbys’ affairs two more riders came into the far end of the street and rode toward them. Swan River squinted thoughtfully, watching them ride to the Elk saloon rack.

“There’s Bud Bell and ‘Sticky’ Clay,” said Swan River. “Bud is the one on this side--the feller that Allenby sent to the penitentiary. Clay rides for the HB outfit, and he’s a gunman if there ever was one. Oh, oh! C’mon.”

The two men had tied their horses and were going toward the saloon door. Swan River stepped off the sidewalk and hurried toward the saloon. After a moment of hesitation, Hashknife and Sleepy hurried after him.

“There’s three men from Allenby’s in there,” explained Swan River, as they reached the sidewalk. “Mebbe it won’t mean anythin’, but yuh never can tell.”

As they went inside Clayton was just buying some chips in a poker game, while Omaha and Hoban were deep in the mysteries of trying to play pool on an uneven table, on which the cushions were as “dead” as strips of mattress. Harry Allenby was at the bar, with a bottle at his elbow, squinting sidewise at Bud Bell and Sticky Clay, who were also at the bar, being served by “Snowy” Barnette, the proprietor.

As far as outward appearances went there was no cause for the sheriff to feel any uneasiness. Bud turned his head and looked at Swan River Smith. It was their first meeting since Bud had come back from the penitentiary. But if Bud felt any malice toward the sheriff, his gray eyes did not show it.

“Hello, Bud,” said the sheriff softly. “Goin’ to shake hands with me?”

A slight smile flashed across the young man’s thin lips and he nodded quickly, as he held out his hand.

“Why shouldn’t I, Swan River?” he asked. “You wasn’t to blame.”

They shook hands solemnly. Omaha and Hoban stopped playing long enough to observe this meeting, and those in the poker game were silent until it was over. Harry Allenby took a lonesome drink and braced his elbows on the bar, hooked one heel over the bar-rail and studied the poker players.

“Howdy, Clay,” said the sheriff.

Sticky Clay grinned, showing two rows of bad teeth, and motioned for the sheriff to join them in their drink. Clay was wry-necked, sallow complexioned and almost bald. He seemed to be in bad health, but those who had had trouble with him declared that there was nothing sickly about him.

“Invite yore friends,” said Sticky, noticing that Hashknife and Sleepy were with Swan River.

“I’ll take a cigar,” said Hashknife. “Little too soon after breakfast to drink.”

“Thasall right,” grinned Clay. “I don’t diagnose no man’s inside workin’s. ’S everybody set? Here’s hopin’ yuh never get caught.”

“Here’s hopin’ I don’t have to catch yuh,” smiled the sheriff.

Harry Allenby laughed harshly. The saloon went silent. Swan River had spoken loud enough for every one to hear.

“You won’t have to,” said Harry meaningly. “A sheriff can do as he ---- pleases.”

Swan River’s eyes narrowed, but he turned away, ignoring the implied insult. He knew that Harry had been drinking more than was good for him, and was willing to excuse him for his words. Bud was only a few feet away from Harry, with no one between them.

“You’re drunk, Harry,” said Clayton, shoving back from the table. “Better go out and get some fresh air.”

Hoban and Omaha carefully placed their billiard cues on the table and moved slowly toward the bar. Harry looked at them and laughed.

“I don’t need any help,” he assured them, waving them away with a slight gesture of his left hand. “I can take care of myself, y’betcha. Maybe it’s none of my business, but when the sheriff comes in and tries to put himself in right with a ---- jail-bird of a horse-thief, I’m ----ed if I----”

His right hand jerked to his gun and he swayed from the bar, but his defense was too slow. Before he had finished speaking, Bud Bell had flung himself forward, and Harry Allenby went down from a smash full in the face that flattened his nose and loosened his front teeth.

He fell at the feet of Omaha and Hoban, who made no move to assist him, as they were looking at Sticky Clay, who had stepped into the center of the room, six-shooter swinging at his thigh, a grin on his lips. Harry got slowly to his feet, spitting gore; but the fight had all been taken out of him. His gun was still in its holster, but he had enough for one day.

“Yuh can put up yore gun, Clay,” said Hoban. “The kid’s been drinkin’ too much, thasall.”

Sticky Clay grinned and snapped the gun back into the holster. Bud Bell’s face was still white with anger, but he turned his back on the blubbering young cowboy, who was being led back to a bucket of water by Omaha Olsen. Clayton looked up at Swan River and said:

“Overlook that, will you, sheriff? Harry is just a fool kid, and he had too much liquor.”

“I’ll do the best I can,” said Swan River seriously. “I hope this will be a lesson to him. Somebody’ll kill him for talkin’ too much one of these days, Clayton.”

“I suppose they will,” agreed Clayton, and resumed playing.

* * * * *

Bud and Sticky left the place and crossed to a general merchandise store. In a few minutes Swan River, Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, where they met Forty Dollar. He wailed mightily when Swan River told him what had happened.

“Jist my darned luck!” he exclaimed. “Seems like I’m always eatin’ when anythin’ good is pulled off. ’F I ever want to see anythin’ of the world, I’ll have to starve, I reckon. Betcha forty dollars this won’t be the end of it.”

“I hope you lose that forty dollars sometime,” grunted the sheriff. “You’ve been offerin’ that bet ever since I’ve knowed yuh.”

“Nobody ever takes me up, Swan River. I’m game.”

“Oh, ----, you never had that much money. I reckon I better go up to the depot and collect a lot of telegrams from the express company. They’ll swamp me with ’em for a while, even if there wasn’t a two bit piece in that safe.”

“How much did they lose?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno. They prob’ly don’t know yet. Anyway, there ain’t a ghost of a chance to--” Swan River hesitated, cleared his throat harshly and headed for the depot.

“I’d say that he was a square-shooter,” observed Hashknife.

“Swan River?” Forty Dollar grinned softly. “Yeah, he’s all right. He’d play square with a horse-thief. That’s why our jail ain’t hardly ever occupied. But don’tcha ever get the idea that the little feller ain’t a fighter.”

“I wouldn’t choose him,” smiled Hashknife.

They sauntered across the street and met Bud, who was coming out of the store, followed by Sticky Clay.

“Hyah, Bud,” greeted Forty Dollar, holding out his hand.

“Old Forty Dollar Dion, how are yuh?” said Bud softly. “Long time I no see yuh.”

They studied each other for several moments.

“Yuh look all right, Bud,” said Dion.

“Yeah, I’m all right, Forty. It seems good to see yuh again.”

“Thank yuh, Bud. Say, I want you fellers to meet Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens. Gents, this is Bud Bell and Sticky Clay.”

The four men shook hands. Bud Bell’s eyes never turned from his study of Hashknife, even when he shook hands with Sleepy. It was evident to both Hashknife and Sleepy that Bud Bell had recognized them by name. Sticky’s eyes squinted reflectively, as he seemed to try and place them. Hashknife and Sleepy had never traveled incognito, even when knowingly going into an enemy country. Moolock was a long ways from any place where they had operated, and it was not surprising that more men did not recognize them by name.

There came an awkward pause, broken by Sticky Clay.

“We better be gettin’ back to the ranch with this stuff, Bud.”

“All right,” said Bud. “Pleased to have met yuh, gents.”

They walked across to their horses and rode out of town, while Hashknife, Sleepy and Forty Dollar sauntered down to the office.

“Did you ever know that tall puncher?” asked Clay, as he and Bud rode out of town. “Seems like I’ve heard that name.”

“I don’t know him,” said Bud slowly, thoughtfully, “but I’ve heard about him, Sticky. There was a man in the penitentiary, servin’ time for murder, who told me about him. This convict was part of the Moon River gang. Hartley sent him to the pen.”

“Was he the only one of the gang in the pen?” asked Sticky.

“Yeah--the rest died with their boots on.”

“Oh, yeah,” muttered Sticky. “What do yuh reckon he’s doin’ around here, Bud?”

Bud shook his head slowly.

“I dunno. Mebbe Allenby has hired him.”

“Well, mebbe,” said Sticky dubiously. “Yuh never can tell. Still, when you knocked Harry Allenby down, and Hoban and Omaha were comin’ from the pool table, I seen this tall puncher’s hand swing back toward his gun, and he kinda humped a little. I seen all this out of the corner of my eye. Mebbe he’s hired by Allenby, but I’m wonderin’ what would ’a’ happened if Allenby’s gang had started anythin’.”

Bud shook his head and examined his skinned knuckles, which had come in contact with Harry Allenby’s teeth.

“I heard,” said Sticky Clay, “that Clayton, the cattle-buyer, is goin’ to marry June Allenby.”

Bud looked up quickly, but Sticky was looking straight ahead, his sombrero pulled low over his eyes. For several moments they rode silently. Bud’s thin lips twisted painfully, as he said--

“Well, she’d sure make him a good wife.”

“That side of it is all right,” observed Sticky. “She’d make any man a good wife.”

“If he was lucky enough to get her,” said Bud softly.

Sticky squinted sidewise under the protection of his wide hat at Bud, who was gazing unblinkingly at the bobbing ears of his horse.

* * * * *

Frank Allenby fairly boiled with indignation when Chet Hoban told him what had happened in the Elk saloon. Harry had refused to come home with Hoban and Omaha. Hoban told Allenby exactly what had transpired, without excusing Harry in any way.

Allenby did not stop to consider that Harry had been a foolish young man; he only saw the disgrace to the Allenby family in having an ex-convict knock his son down in a saloon brawl.

“Why didn’t you and Omaha defend him?” he demanded hotly.

Hoban shook his head slowly.

“Harry was wrong; and Sticky Clay had every man in the room covered before Harry went down. And Clay will shoot.”

“Well, perhaps,” grudgingly. “And Harry wouldn’t come home, eh?”

“No.”

“He must feel the disgrace keenly.” Allenby turned away and went into the house. Hoban squinted after him and went back toward the bunkhouse, where Omaha was stretched out on a bunk, reading a paper-backed novel.

“How’d he take it?” asked Omaha.

“Rearin’ straight up,” said Hoban humorously. “I told him that Harry wouldn’t come home, and he said that Harry must feel the disgrace keenly.”

“My ----!” grunted Omaha. “‘The disgrace keenly,’ eh? Didja tell him everythin’ that Harry said?”

“Every word, cowboy.”

“He ought to be proud of his offspring.”

“That’s the ---- of it, Omaha--he is.”

June Allenby was in the living room of the ranch-house when her father came in after his talk with Chet Hoban, and she could see that he was greatly perturbed. June was a tall, slender girl, with an unruly crown of soft brown hair above a face that the cowboys of the Moolock swore, “has anythin’ beat that ever came over the hills.” But June was not of the clinging-vine type, nor was she ever guilty of parading her own beauty.

Allenby flung himself down in an easy chair that creaked a protest, and stared moodily at the well-worn Navajo rug under his feet.

“What has gone wrong now, Dad?” asked June, closing the book she had been reading.

He lifted his head and stared at her.

“Wrong? Everything is wrong. Bud Bell whipped your brother in the Elk saloon today. Knocked him down like a dog!”

Allenby grasped the arms of the chair, as though trying to tear them from their moorings.

June colored slightly and looked away.

“Why did he do it?” she asked calmly.

“Why?” snorted her father. “Possibly Bud Bell thought it would help to pay me back for sending him to prison.”

“Don’t you know what started it?”

“What difference does that make?”

“Had Harry been drinking?”

“Drinking? He doesn’t----”

“Yes, he does, Dad. Omaha told me----”

“Oh, pshaw! They all drink a little. Harry isn’t a drinker.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t take much liquor to make him drunk.”

Allenby stared at June for several seconds. He chuckled angrily and got to his feet.

“June, are you trying to defend Bud Bell?”

“No, I----”

“You met him at several dances before----”

June sprang to her feet and they looked squarely at each other. Then Allenby laughed harshly, and June whirled on her heel and left the room.

“By ----, that would make the ---- laugh,” he told the empty room. “That ---- rustler!”

He turned to the front door as a vehicle rattled over the hard ground outside, and he stepped out to see Clayton and a stranger getting out of a buggy. The stranger was of medium size, dark-featured and with a small, black mustache. He was dressed in dark clothes, soft shirt and a stiff-brim Stetson hat.

“Mr. Allenby, meet Mr. Seeley--Jim Seeley.”

They shook hands jerkily. Clayton took a big suit-case from the buggy and placed it on the porch.

“Kind of a pretty place yuh got here, Mr. Allenby,” said Seeley, glancing around. “I never seen a cow-ranch with so much paint before. You believe in dudin’ it up, don’tcha?”

“Just because it is a cattle ranch, there is no need of living like savages,” replied Allenby.

“Mr. Allenby is several jumps ahead of the rest of the country,” declared Clayton. “He’s progressive. His ranch-house is as fine as a home in the city, and I’ll defy you to find a broken board, loose post or a loose wire on the place.”

Seeley laughed.

“I’m not goin’ to look.”

“Well, you couldn’t find it,” declared Allenby proudly. “I’ve seen to it all myself. Do you intend to stay right here?”

“Why not?” asked Seeley. “I’m workin’ for you now.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you,” said Allenby. “And when I hire a man I want him where I can see that he is on the job all the time. Come on in and meet the family.”

Seeley shot a side glance at Clayton, who was trying to suppress a smile, and they followed Allenby into the house.

“Now who do yuh reckon that is?” queried Omaha, who was looking out of the window and saw the three men going into the house.

Hoban joined him and took a look at the stranger.

“That must be the private investigator that Clayton sent for,” said Hoban dryly. “Allenby has had the detective idea for quite a while, it seems. He lost faith in the Cattle Association, and had some words with the secretary, who promised to get him a first-class cow detective; but it seems that Allenby didn’t ante high enough to get this man.”