Part 3

“He wouldn’t,” agreed Omaha, turning away from the window. “I don’t like to appear disloyal, but personally I think that Allenby is so stingy that he takes out his false teeth at night to save the wear and tear from his snores.”

* * * * *

Omaha went back to his paper-backed novel, while Chet Hoban sat down to play a game of solitaire. About fifteen minutes later Harry Allenby came in. His nose was badly swollen, as was his upper lip; but he was well loaded with liquor, and if he had been disgraced he did not show it.

“Whoozup at th’ house?” he asked thickly, trying to point in the direction of the ranch-house.

“Clayton and a stranger,” grunted Hoban.

“Whooza stranger?”

“I dunno,” Hoban was trying to concentrate on the layout.

“Zasso?” Harry sat down on the bunk and looked owlishly at Omaha, who grinned behind his book.

“He’s a detective, sonny,” said Omaha patiently. “He’s come here to save yore papa’s li’l cowlets.”

“Zasso?” Harry blinked thoughtfully. “Zee a goo’ one?”

“Shore is,” nodded Omaha. “He’s the jigger that found the ‘Lost Chord,’ if yuh know what that is.”

“Yezzir, I dunno. Ol’ man up at the house?”

“Yeah, he’s there. If I was you I’d doctor up that nose and lip, Harry. Yo’re a ---- of a lookin’ thing, if yuh ask me.”

“You better crawl into bed and sleep it off,” said Hoban, without looking up. “Don’t let yore dad see yuh drunk.”

“Zasso?” Harry stumbled over to a mirror and looked at himself with one eye shut.

“I’m a sweet lookin’ lily, tha’s a cinch,” he concluded.

He came back to the center of the room, as though the sight of himself had sobered him a little.

“I’m goin’ back to town,” he decided.

“You better stay right here,” advised Hoban. “Shuck off yore clothes and go to bed.”

“Not ’f I can get away without the folks seein’ me.”

He opened the door cautiously, peered out for several moments before going out after his horse. Omaha went to the window and watched Harry make his sneak back toward town.

“Danged fool kid,” opined Hoban.

“Yeah,” nodded Omaha, “he’s a fool all right, I s’pose. Still he’s old enough to know what he wants. I blame Allenby more than I do the kid. He won’t even pay Harry a cowpuncher’s wages.”

Some one was talking just outside the door; so Omaha went to the window and looked out at Swan River Smith and Forty Dollar Dion, who had just ridden up to the bunkhouse.

“The law has found us out, Chet,” he said as he threw the door open.

“Howdy, officers,” he called. “Get down and appear amiable.”

“Hello, Omaha,” grinned Swan River. “Is Allenby at home? I mean ‘Mr.’ Allenby.”

Omaha grinned widely and pointed toward the house, where Allenby, Clayton and Seeley had come out on the porch. Clayton got into the buggy and drove away, and after a few moments of conversation Allenby and Seeley came down to the bunkhouse.

Allenby did not introduce Seeley to any of them, but spoke directly to the sheriff--

“Something you wanted, Mr. Smith?”

“Nothin’ I exactly wanted, Mr. Allenby,” said the sheriff. “It was kinda in regard to yore loss of last night. In reply I can say that I ain’t been able to find any clue--yet. In yore talk of this mornin’ you kinda intimated that you suspected somebody of purloinin’ yore cows, and if you ain’t got nothin’ else to do right now, I’d kinda like to have yuh explain yore suspicions to me. Sincerely yours, Swan River Smith, sheriff of Moolock.”

Swan River had intoned the whole statement, as though dictating a letter, and Allenby’s ears reddened quickly. Omaha smothered a grin; but Forty Dollar Dion laughed outright. Allenby glared angrily at Forty Dollar, but that worthy did not mind.

“Are you trying to be smart, or just funny?” Allenby asked the sheriff.

“It’s all in the point of view,” said Swan River evenly.

“All right,” Allenby spat viciously. “As far as my losses are concerned, you may just forget them. I am not asking any assistance from the sheriff’s office, and I don’t care to have you volunteer any. I hope you understand what I mean.”

“----, you didn’t leave many loopholes for a mistake to crawl through,” grinned Swan River. “But yore likes and dislikes don’t mean nothin’ to me, Allenby. I’m the sheriff of this county, and I want to tell you----”

“Pardon me, but you can’t tell me anything.” Thus Allenby.

“That’s the whole trouble with you,” said Swan River slowly. “You think that yore a tin god around here, Allenby. Another thing yuh might do without any advice from me--and that is to look after that half-baked kid of yours.

“He came danged near gettin’ what was comin’ to him today, when he opened his mouth too wide. You’ve brought him up to think too ----ed much of the name of Allenby. Now I’m tellin’ this to you for yore own good. And yuh might preach it to him and practice a little of it yoreself. When you’ve got some evidence that’ll hold good in court, let me look at it. In the meantime, think what yuh please, but keep yore mouth shut. I hate to conduct coroner’s inquests. _Adios._”

The two officers turned their horses and rode away, leaving Allenby gasping with wrath. Omaha stepped back into the bunkhouse, where he could laugh in safety, while Allenby spluttered and told the wide world what he thought of Swan River Smith.

Finally he introduced Seeley to Chet Hoban, but did not tell Hoban what Seeley’s business was. In fact Allenby was too mad to tell anything.

“We’re going to town, Chet,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll hitch up the team myself.”

He and Seeley went toward the stable, and Hoban leaned against the doorway until they drove away. Omaha, his face tear-streaked, came out to watch them depart.

“Prob’ly goin’ down to tell his son that the fatted calf is almost ready for the barbecue,” said Omaha hoarsely.

“More likely goin’ down to save his little lamb from the slaughter,” said Hoban. “Me and you better fix a new lock on this bunkhouse, Omaha. The next thing we know, somebody will steal us.”

* * * * *

For the next two days Moolock was devoid of excitement. Hashknife and Sleepy spent their time loafing around the Elk saloon and the sheriff’s office. They had made the acquaintance of several cowboys, but had not tried to secure work. Hashknife suggested that they move on, but Sleepy demurred.

“Somethin’ tells me that Moolock is a good place for to be, Hashknife,” he stated. “The poker games ain’t too avaricious, they put up good food, and I ain’t found a bug in that hotel. Yuh don’t find many places as good as this, cowboy.”

Swan River and Forty Dollar had scoured the country, trying to see what they could see; but there was no trace of Allenby’s three hundred Herefords. The express company had flooded Swan River with correspondence regarding the robbery but as yet they had offered no reward.

“I marked them off my slate, as soon as they got into the Bearpaws,” stated Swan River. “I’d like to see you fellers get yore broncs back.”

“Me, too,” said Sleepy. “They was the best pair of animals that ever wore a saddle, y’betcha. Whooee, but that roan of mine was a bird.”

“I’ll betcha,” nodded Swan River. “It could run a mile in spite of----.”

“Just about that fast,” agreed Sleepy. “It was one of them famous A-rab steeds, noted for endurance. It was the horse that the old emperor or somethin’ or other meant when he yelled that he’d trade his kingdom for a horse. Yessir, I’m sure pinin’ a lot for that hammer-headed, ring-boned hunk of coyote bait.”

“Speakin’ of horses,” observed Hashknife, “I’d like to play somebody a game of bottle-pool for the championship of Sweden.”

“I’ll poke yuh a game,” offered Forty Dollar quickly.

Swan River and Sleepy agreed to hold stakes and keep the score, but before the quartet reached the Elk saloon, Jack Merton, owner of the Arrowhead outfit, and Pete Sepulveda, one of his cowboys, came riding down the street, leading two horses.

Hashknife and Sleepy looked quickly at each other, as they recognized their horses. There was no mistaking Hashknife’s tall bay and Sleepy’s hammer-headed roan. Merton waved to the sheriff, and he and Sepulveda tied the four horses to the Elk saloon hitch-rack, and the four men waited for the two riders.

“Seen anybody that lost two horses?” asked Merton, a tall well-built cowboy, with a pleasant cast of countenance, indicating the horses. “These two were camped at my stable this mornin’; so I brought ’em in, sheriff. One’s branded with a JK and the other with a Triangle-6. They don’t show in my register book.”

“They belong to us,” grinned Hashknife.

“F’r gosh sake!” exclaimed Swan River.

“Is them the two saddle-racks yuh been wailin’ about? Well, well, well! Huh!”

“What about it?” asked Merton interestedly.

“Well,” Swan River scratched his head thoughtfully, “it ain’t ready for explanation, Jack. You just take my word for it that the horses belongs to these gents, will yuh?”

“Anythin’ you say, Swan River,” Merton grinned and hitched up his chaps.

“That’s fine of yuh,” admitted Swan River, and proceeded to introduce Merton and Sepulveda to Hashknife and Sleepy.

They all adjourned into the saloon, and a few minutes later another rider came into town.

It was not difficult to see that this rider’s veins carried a certain percentage of Indian blood. He was nearly six feet tall, a trifle gaudy in his spotted calf-skin vest and scarlet muffler, together with a canary-yellow shirt. He was about forty-five years of age, with a deeply lined face and prominent cheek-bones.

He looked over the horses at the rack, especially the two strange ones, before dismounting. Seemingly satisfied with his inspection he tied his sorrel horse at the rack, adjusted his belt and went into the saloon.

“Well, here’s Sam Bass comin’ to town!” exclaimed Swan River, as the newcomer approached the bar. “How are yuh, Sam?”

“Pretty ---- good, you bet,” laughed Bass. “Hello, Forty Dollar. Hello, Merton. How are you? By golly, here’s Pete Sepulveda!”

“Have a drink,” invited Swan River.

“Sure I drink whisky. Pretty ---- dry these days.”

They poured out their drinks and Swan River introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Sam Bass, who grunted and grinned widely.

“I see two strange horses at the rack,” he stated. “I don’t know the brands; so I s’pose strangers here. You ride bareback, eh?”

“Well, here’s regards,” said Hashknife, ignoring Bass’ question. He knew that Swan River did not want to explain about the lost horses. Bass noticed the evasion, and elevated his brows slightly; but drank his liquor and did not bring up the subject again.

“You don’t happen to know of somebody that wants to hire a couple of good punchers, do yuh?” Thus Hashknife, speaking to Merton.

Merton shook his head and motioned to the bartender to get busy again.

“No, I don’t,” he said. “I’ve got a full crew. Maybe Sam needs some help.”

“Not much,” replied Bass quickly. “I got too much help now. ‘Pinon’ Meade and Lem Elder set in the shade all the time.”

“Must take a lot of shade for all three of yuh,” observed Swan River.

Sam Bass laughed loudly, nodding excitedly.

“By golly, that’s right!” he exploded. “I’m lazy too. Swan River knows. Some cattlemen work all the time. Look at Allenby. He make new fence, paint it pretty; paint the house. He’s rich. Sam Bass let ranch go to ----; he’s poor.

“Allenby work all the time; worry, too, I guess. He’s ---- fool. Sam Bass never work much, never worry no time. He’s ---- fool, too. Let’s have another drink, eh? Drink to two fools.”

“Allenby wouldn’t appreciate that,” laughed Merton. “He sure thinks he’s a wise man. Personally, I think that Sam Bass is right.”

“Danged right he is,” agreed Forty Dollar. “Any old time a man says that Allenby is a fool, I’ll agree with him.”

“What about Allenby losin’ three hundred head of Herefords?” asked Merton. “Was it a fact?”

“You ask Allenby,” laughed Forty Dollar. “It gave him plumbago.”

“Plumbago is lead,” stated Swan River. “You don’t mean plumbago; you mean lumbago, Forty.”

“Thasso?” Forty Dollar emptied his glass and wiped off his chin. “If I shoot a man, I give him plumbago, do I?”

“If yuh shot him with a lead-pencil, Forty.”

“My ----!” grunted Forty Dollar.

“That liquor shore does take a-holt of yuh, Swan River. Shoot him with a lead-pencil!”

Forty Dollar stared around at the rest of the men, his eyes wide with wonder.

“You fellers better exchange a few last words with Swan River Smith, while he still has a little _sabe_ left,” he said softly. “It shore is the turnin’ point in his glorious career. I’d rather see him dead than to not know anythin’. ---- knows he’s always been bad enough, but this is too much.”

Forty Dollar Dion buried his face in his elbows on the bar and began crying.

“That danged fool always gets a cryin’ jag on, after about six drinks,” said Swan River disgustedly. “Let him cry.”

* * * * *

Someone passed a sack of tobacco and they were rolling cigarets, when a tow-headed youngster, his eyes wide with wonder, tiptoed into the saloon and looked at the group at the bar.

“What do yuh want, sonny?” asked the bartender.

“I--I want the sheriff,” faltered the youngster.

“Me?” asked Swan River. “What do yuh want, son?”

“You--you better come out here.” The lad turned and fairly ran out of the place.

“Mebbe I better,” agreed Swan River quickly, and he was followed by every one, except Forty Dollar and the bartender.

The boy was on the sidewalk, pointing excitedly toward the hitch-rack, where a man sat drunkenly on a horse, reins dragging.

“That looks danged funny!” exclaimed the sheriff, as they all hurried out to the man. He was roped to the saddle with a long lariat, and tied to the rope, where it circled the man’s neck, was a fairly fresh cowhide.

It was Seeley, Allenby’s detective. His face was gray as ashes, except where it was caked with blood; and there was blood all over his shirt. It appeared that the man had been shot in the head and in the body. Hashknife took out his knife and cut the ropes, while the others lowered the man to the sidewalk.

He groaned painfully and collapsed. Swan River sent one of the men after a doctor. Hashknife spread out the cowhide. It had been taken from a Hereford two-year-old, and the brand on the right shoulder was a Half-Circle Cross.

“Does anybody know him?” asked Swan River. “Ain’t he the feller who was stayin’ at Allenby’s place?”

“He was here with Allenby yesterday,” offered the bartender, who had left Forty Dollar alone.

“It kinda looks like he’d collected the hide of one of Allenby’s missin’ Herefords,” said Hashknife. “He’s got creased along the head, and it kinda looks like there might be a bullet in his right shoulder, which made him lose quite some gore.”

The youngster came racing back with the information that the doctor wanted them to bring the man down to his home. Some one got a blanket from the hotel, and there were plenty of men to carry the wounded man down to the doctor’s office. Swan River carried the cowhide over in front of his office and draped it across the little hitch-rack.

“What do yuh make of it, Hartley?” he asked seriously. “Why would anybody shoot this man, tie him to a saddle and send him back with that cowhide?”

“You want my opinion, Swan River?”

“Y’betcha.”

“Well, I ain’t got one. It kinda looks to me like somebody was tryin’ to take a slap at Mr. Allenby.”

Swan River sighed deeply. All this was only piling up misery for him.

“I suppose I’ve got to make an arrest pretty soon,” he said slowly. “I ain’t got a bit of evidence to make it on; but the arrow points just one way. Still--I dunno.”

He got up and walked to the door of the office. Hank and Bud Bell were dismounting at the general store.

“There’s old Hank Bell,” he told Hashknife, pointing at the angular little man, who carried his right arm sharply bent at the elbow. They disappeared into the store, and Swan River turned to Hashknife.

“That pinto and gray belong to old Hank,” he said softly. “Bud rides the pinto.”

“You still got ’em in yore stable?” asked Hashknife.

“Sure thing. When they start inquiring about lost horses, it’ll be time enough for me to do my talkin’. Nobody, except the four of us, know about ’em.”

Hashknife walked up to the store and went inside. He was curious to see old Hank Bell. Bud was buying some cartridges from the proprietor, who was telling him about the stranger who had been shot. Old Hank seemed indifferent to the telling, but Hashknife could see that the old man was not missing a word of it.

Old Hank was of the old school of cattlemen. He was small, wiry of frame, thin faced; his white hair reaching to his collar. His eyes were small and as hard as agate, but there were enough grin-wrinkles around them to prove that old Hank Bell was not always serious. His right arm was crippled in such a way that he was unable to reach below his waist; and Hashknife noticed that the old man wore his holster on the left side, tied down.

“Regular old he-wolf,” Hashknife told himself. “Taught himself to draw and shoot left-handed.”

The proprietor finished telling his story, and a ghost of a smile flitted across old Hank’s lips, when the proprietor spoke about the Half-Circle Cross cowhide that was hanging from the man’s neck.

Bud turned and nodded to Hashknife. He spoke aside to his father, who shot a quick glance at Hashknife. Pete Sepulveda came into the store and spoke to Hashknife--

“That feller was shot twice, Hartley. The one creased his head and won’t amount to much; but the other one went plumb through him. He was shot from behind. The doctor dunno whether it’ll kill him or not. Do you know who he is?”

“Nope. Somebody said he was stayin’ at Allenby’s place.”

“Allenby just drove in. I seen him comin’ as I came in here.”

Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. Allenby and his daughter were in the buckboard, stopped in the middle of the street, talking to one of the men who had just come from the doctor’s office. As Hashknife watched them Allenby whipped up his team and went toward the doctor’s place.

Bud completed his purchases and walked across to the Elk saloon, followed by his father, who gave Hashknife a searching glance as he went past.

“He’s a tough old pelican,” declared Sepulveda. “Don’t think he’s been in a shootin’ scrape since he got his arm smashed; but I’m bettin’ that he _sabes_ how to shoot left-handed. Them old jiggers shoot first and talk afterward.

“Old Hank used to be awful fast with a gun. He had a funny way of gettin’ his gun, Hartley. He’d kinda swing his hand behind the holster--like a feller might swing his hand when he’s walkin’--and on the back swing he pulled and shot all to once. I dunno how he done it. I’ve tried to do it. They tell me that he learned Bud how to do it; but I ain’t never seen Bud have to shoot--yet.”

They walked outside and joined Sleepy and Merton.

“Allenby is throwin’ a fit,” declared Sleepy. “He acts like he was the one that got shot. I asked him who this feller was, and he told me it was none of my business--which it wasn’t. I’ve heard a lot of profanity, but Allenby’s got ’em all skinned.”

“Not in front of his daughter, did he?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she didn’t stay; she drove back to the post-office.”

Swan River Smith and Sam Bass were coming down the street toward the store; but crossed the street and went to the White Horse saloon.

“I’ll buy a drink,” offered Sepulveda, and Sleepy accepted; but Hashknife shook his head.

“Thank yuh just the same, Sepulveda. Mebbe I’ll join yuh later.”

Sleepy and Sepulveda went to the saloon, leaving Hashknife leaning against the front of the store, cogitating over certain things.

Bud Bell came out of the saloon, as Sleepy and Sepulveda went in. He declined their invitation to drink and came over to the store.

“How is everythin’ today, Hartley?” he asked, as he went past.

“Oh, kinda interestin’,” smiled Hashknife.

June Allenby was coming down the street, carrying some packages in her hands. It was the first time that Hashknife had seen her, and he was forced to agree with Forty Dollar Dion, that June Allenby was a “dinger.”

It was not like Hashknife to stare at a lady, but he did. In fact he was so interested in her that he did not hear Bud Bell come out of the store. June lifted her eyes from the sidewalk and looked straight past Hashknife, who turned his head and discovered Bud Bell.

They had both stopped and were staring at each other. Hashknife wished that he was on the opposite side of the street instead of almost directly between these two. Then Bud stepped to the edge of the sidewalk, as though to start across the street; but the girl halted him with a motion of her hand.

“Bud,” she said, “aren’t you going to even say hello?”

Bud’s hand went uncertainly to his sombrero, but his eyes shifted from June and glanced quickly around.

“Yes’m, I reckon that wouldn’t hurt anybody--and I don’t want to hurt you.”

He stepped off the sidewalk and headed swiftly across the street. Hashknife watched June’s face, as she followed him with her eyes until he went into the Elk saloon. Hashknife wanted to speak to her--to tell her that he would help to straighten things out--but he was tongue-tied. Perhaps she read his intentions in his eyes as she passed him and went into the store.

“She loves Bud Bell!” he told himself wonderingly. “Can yuh beat that? This is sure a queer old world. And in spite of all the trouble Frank Allenby has caused Bud Bell, I’m bettin’ that Bud Bell loves Allenby’s daughter. He said he didn’t want to hurt her. I wonder if he meant--oh, well, let’s see.”

He hooked his thumb over the waistband of his overalls and considered the situation for a space of time. His eyes shifted to their two horses at the Elk saloon hitch-rack.

“By golly, I’ve got to fix a place for them broncs,” he told himself, “and this is as good a time as any, I reckon.”

He turned on his heel and went slowly down the street.

* * * * *

Hashknife was barely out of sight when Allenby came from the doctor’s home. His face was black with anger and his hands were clenched at his sides as he strode along. Near the door of the Elk saloon he stopped and studied the horses at the hitchracks. Over in front of the store stood the two horses which Hank Bell and his son had ridden.

“Both here,” muttered Allenby, half-aloud. “By ----, I’ve stood enough!” He turned, spat viciously, grimacing, as though he tasted wormwood and gall, and went into the saloon.

Swan River Smith and Pete Sepulveda saw him cross in front of the White Horse saloon, and they lost no time in crowding into the saloon behind him. He was standing in the middle of the room, looking at Hank Bell, who was standing at the bar with Sleepy and Sam Bass. He did not notice that the sheriff was behind him.

Bud was sitting beside a card-table, looking at an old newspaper, but now his eyes shifted to Allenby.

“I’ve stood about all I’m going to, Bell,” Allenby spoke to old Hank in a shaking voice. Hank Bell turned slowly, his left hand swinging back of him, as though to shove him away from the bar.

“Look out,” whispered Pete Sepulveda, who knew what that movement meant.

Allenby was not a gunman. It is doubtful if he could have hit Hank Bell at that distance; but his anger had made him forget all caution. He wanted to crush this little, crooked-armed old man. But Hank Bell was not going to fight him. He stood there, poised easily, his left hand splayed out behind him.

But before anything more could be said, Swan River Smith butted Allenby with his left shoulder, while with his right hand he snatched Allenby’s gun from its holster. The jolt turned the big man half-around and he struck at the little sheriff; but Swan River easily dodged the blow and stepped between Allenby and Hank Bell.

“And that’ll be about all of this show,” said Swan River calmly. “If you fellers want to go gunnin’ for each other, you better go out on the flat somewhere.”