Part 12

Breed turned to obey the order, but men were already producing ropes to tie up Lavelle and the two men from Black Wells. Jud Mahley needed no rope. Monte Sells and Brent Allard had disappeared in the confusion, picking up Frank Asher and Mesa Caldwell at the 76A and leaving only the tracks of four horses to show that they were all through with the Modoc country.

Hashknife gathered up his money from the floor and walked outside, while men tugged at his sleeve and demanded that he tell them the whole story. Uncle Jimmy shoved them aside and grabbed Hashknife with both hands.

“One of them punchers confessed to stealin’ cows!” he blurted. “Lavelle hired ’em to do it. And Lavelle gave Mahley the shotgun to kill yuh with. You sure was right, Hashknife. I’ve got to tell Ma and May.”

He ran across the street toward the sheriff’s office, and Hashknife followed him. The crowd had already got there with Lavelle and the two punchers. Bud was lying on the sheriff’s cot, exhausted from the rough ride, but conscious.

The crowd almost mobbed Bud, trying to exhibit their glee in his exoneration; but he did not know what it was all about. His wife, white of face, her eyes staring with fright, watched them and listened with ears that caught only a jumble of words.

Then Cleve Lavelle and the two cowboys were pushed roughly past her and into the cells at the rear, while Uncle Jimmy almost knocked her down in his joy and excitement.

“Bud is cleared!” he shouted in her face. “Don’tcha know what I’m sayin’? I tell yuh, he’s cleared!”

She tried to smile. It was like a dream. He shook her violently, as if trying to force her to understand. Ma Miller caught him by the arm and yanked him away.

“Don’t shake her, you ninny!” grunted Ma. “What happened, Jim? Tell me what happened?”

She shook him roughly with both hands.

“Don’t shake me, woman!” he exploded. “I’m jist about to bust.”

Hashknife came in and Uncle Jimmy pointed at him.

“He done it--the son of a gun--he done it! I tell yuh, he was the one what done it. I dunno how he done it, but he did.”

Dinah Blewette shoved in and tried to shake hands with Mrs. Daley. For once in his life, Dinah did not try to talk.

“What is it all about?” queried Mrs. Daley. “I--I don’t----”

“It means that Bud is cleared,” explained Sody. “Lavelle was the guilty man. Hashknife Hartley put the deadwood on him.”

Mrs. Daley lifted her head and looked at Hashknife, her eyes filling with tears of gratitude. Bud had lifted on one elbow and the men stepped aside to let him see what was going on. They had told him enough to let him know that he was cleared. Hashknife looked at Bud and a smile came to his face, as he said:

“Bud, I’m comin’ back some day, when yo’re well. And I’m goin’ to knock ---- out of yuh for believin’ somethin’ that yuh only heard one side of.”

Bud blinked painfully and looked at his wife, who was coming toward him, her hands outstretched. He knew what Hashknife meant.

“All right, Hashknife,” he said hoarsely. “I hope you’ll come soon; and I’ll take the lickin’ with my hands down.”

Hashknife turned and faced Breed, who gripped his hand tightly.

“Monte Sells and Brent Allard pulled out,” he whispered.

“I know it,” replied Hashknife. “But you don’t need ’em. They were technically guilty, thasall. Mebbe they’ll do better now.”

“They’ll have twelve hours lead,” said Breed meaningly. “Mebbe this will be a lesson to ’em. It ought to, anyway. I reckon we’ll have to settle up Lavelle’s estate and square things with Bud. He owes Lavelle five thousand, and Lavelle owes him for a lot of cows; but we’ll see that Bud gets a square deal and that nobody suffers from it, Hartley.”

* * * * *

Hashknife nodded and walked out, with Sleepy treading on his heels. Some one called their names, but they did not heed. Came the whistle of the southbound train, late as usual. They turned and headed for the depot, where they climbed aboard the creaking smoker and sat down.

A moment later the car lurched ahead, and the lights of Modoc passed from view. Sleepy’s nose squeaked on the window glass as Hashknife said--

“Gimme yore Durham, Sleepy.”

“Why don’tcha buy yuh some once in a while?”

He handed over the sack and leaned back against the seat.

“Where did yuh get that rosette, Hashknife?” he asked.

“From Breed. I took one of the plain ones off my own chaps and had it in my pocket. When Breed showed me that rosette, I palmed it and put the other one in the drawer. I thought it would shock Mr. Lavelle. I had to bluff, Sleepy. I wasn’t sure of it all, but I reckon I guessed right. Here’s what was among that money that the hold-up man gave me that night.”

Hashknife drew out the piece of silver. It was so badly worn that the engraving and inscription was hardly visible; showing that it had been carried and handled much. One side was blank. The other showed the faint outline of a shield, on which was a tiger springing to the attack.

It was surrounded with a ribbon bearing the faint inscription in Latin:

In hoc signo spes mea.

And below was the one word--LAVELLE.

“What does it mean?” asked Sleepy. “I _sabe_ the Lavelle, but I dunno that other jargon.”

“It’s Latin, Sleepy. I had quite a time with it m’self. It’s been a long time since I studied Latin, but I managed to make it out. It means--In this sign is my hope. That shield and tiger must be the family crest of the Lavelle family.

“I knew danged well that nobody but Lavelle would have it; so I had him dead to rights. He made a ---- bad mistake that night. When they doped us at Black Wells, I knew they were tryin’ to get it back for him. Yuh remember, I told him we were goin’ there?

“I knew that Lavelle turned Bud loose that night, but it sure took me a long time to find out why. A streak of bad luck hit the Rest Ye All, and Lavelle got superstitious. I made a guess that he had told Monte Sells that the big pay-roll money was comin’ through that night. He had to have that hold-up pulled off, and nobody but his own gang would do it. He had Jud Mahley with him that night, because Jud was the only one he could trust.”

“And Lavelle was in love with May Daley,” mused Sleepy. “That’s funny, ain’t it?”

“Funny?” Hashknife looked sideways at Sleepy. “What in ---- is so funny about that?”

Sleepy’s mouth formed an unspoken, “Oh!” and he settled down in the seat, while the car wheels sent out their _clickety-click clickety-click_, and the engine whistled dismally around the sharp curves of the Modoc hills. Hashknife sat humped in his seat, his eyes half-shut in speculation.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about, cowboy?” asked Sleepy.

“About a range where there ain’t no more trouble, Sleepy. I’m kinda tired of it all now. I’m gettin’ so that I can’t think fast, and m’ gun-hand kinda cramps on me--kinda. Ho, hum-m-m!”

Sleepy glanced sideways at him and grinned softly.

“Yore medicine is still good, Hashknife. When you git so danged old that yuh can’t walk no longer, I’ll put yuh in a wheelchair, hang a sign around yore neck and take yuh along with me.”

“A sign on my neck?” laughed Hashknife. “What do yuh mean?”

“Jist a sign,” smiled Sleepy. “And on it I’ll have printed: ‘_In hoc signo spes mea._’ Only I’ll have yuh find me the Latin word for ‘under’ instead of ‘in.’”

And the medicine-man smiled in appreciation.

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the March 30, 1924 issue of Adventure magazine.]