Part 5

“Now that’s a good idea,” he said seriously. “Suppose Mrs. Daley goes up to yore ranch and leaves us in charge here. We’ve got to have a place to sleep, and I don’t like that hotel. We’ll run the ranch for a few days.”

“Why, you wouldn’t want to do that,” protested Mrs. Daley.

“Sure, we’d enjoy it,” said Sleepy enthusiastically. “We hate hotels.”

“But there’s nothing here to do.”

“_Esto buena_, as the Mexican says,” laughed Hashknife. “If we wanted work, we’d ’a’ grabbed Uncle Jimmy’s offer.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Daley dubiously. “I don’t know. There isn’t a very big stock of food in the house, and the----”

“Ne’ mind the food,” grinned Sleepy. “We’ll haul some out. If we see a fat JM on the hill, we’ll eat steaks.”

“I’ll herd one down to yuh,” offered Uncle Jimmy. “Or yuh might beef a 76A. Lavelle wouldn’t miss one.”

Hashknife happened to be looking at Mrs. Daley and noticed the quick flush that came to her white cheeks at the mention of Lavelle.

“Lavelle owns the 76A?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “He’s the he-hawk of this country. Two of his men are in that sheriff’s posse, but I’ll betcha he’ll give ’em---- when he finds it out.”

“Mr. Lavelle has been very kind to us,” murmured Mrs. Daley.

“Well, I’m glad we’ve got a place to stay,” observed Hashknife, looking around. “Yuh don’t mind if we keep them two broncs for a while, do yuh, Uncle Jimmy?”

“I should say not. Keep ’em as long as yuh want ’em. If there’s anythin’ else on the JM that yuh want, come a-hootin’ and have at it. Ma, you and May git yore stuff into the buggy. By golly, it’s goin’ to be fine to have May back home ag’in. If Bud----”

Uncle Jimmy stopped and squinted toward the hills. The tears had come to Mrs. Daley’s eyes again, but she turned and went into the house, while Ma Miller glared at Uncle Jimmy before following her inside.

It did not take them long to pack up what clothing Mrs. Daley wanted to take to the JM ranch, and they drove away down the dusty road. Uncle Jimmy and Sody shook hands with Hashknife and Sleepy, promising to drop in on them very soon.

“Bring yuh down a fat yearlin’ t’morrow,” promised Uncle Jimmy, “and mebbe Sody’ll bring yuh a hatful of aigs.”

* * * * *

They went out through the rear gate and swung into the hills, cutting across to the JM, which was about three miles to the North. Hashknife and Sleepy locked the house, mounted their horses and headed back toward town, itemizing the groceries they would need.

“Bacon,” said Sleepy. “What do yuh think of the proposition?”

“May’s prettier than she ever was,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We gotta have a few cans of tomatoes.”

“Ma’s a dinger, Hashknife. How about some beans?”

“Beans? Sure. Who do yuh reckon stole Bud’s cows? And matches. I never did live in a place where there was enough matches. And Uncle Jimmy ain’t no--Sleepy, don’t let me forget canned peaches. I love peaches. How’s yore Durham?”

“Mine’s all right; how’s yours? You ought to buy some tobacco for yourself, Hashknife. Honest, yuh ought to do that. And if you forget bakin’-powder, I’ll massacree yuh. ’Member the time we-- Say, that posse sure got told about themselves, didn’t they? Ma sure rattled their skeletons for ’em.”

“And salt’n pepper,” added Hashknife. “I suppose that posse went back to Modoc and got drunk.”

And so they enumerated jerkily all the way back to Modoc, filled with joy at the prospect of doing their own cooking and of eating it.

To one who did not know Hashknife Hartley they might have classed him with the average irresponsible cowboy, but back in his serious mind was the germ of an idea.

Sleepy did not originate ideas. He was content to follow Hashknife’s lead in all things; content to sit back and let the lanky one work out the salvation of both. In many things, Sleepy Stevens was a pessimist, an arguer, but open to conviction. He was outspoken in his likes and dislikes, as was Hashknife, ready to do battle for a friend, caring little for the future. Men had said that these two were animated antidotes for range poison--a title which had caused them much amusement.

Neither of them was a wizard with a six-shooter. In fact, their marksmanship was criticized by both; but cold nerve had carried them through some tough battles against men who were reputed to be lightning on the draw.

Both of them were good average rifle-shots, although neither would admit it. Sleepy loved trouble. His idea of bliss was to swap lead with somebody. Not hand to hand swapping; but a battle in the hills, long-range rifle-work. The _sping-g-g_ of a high-power bullet, ricocheting off the rocks, was music to his ears.

But Sleepy was not blood-thirsty. It was all in a day’s work with both of them. And their work had made them confirmed fatalists; confirmed humorists. They had laughed at death, laughed at life.

“And why not?” Hashknife had questioned. “Nobody knows what life is. Neither do they know what death means. When yuh see somethin’ that yuh don’t know nor understand, ain’t it better to laugh than to cry over it?”

Hashknife was partly right when he prophesied that the posse had gone back to Modoc to get drunk. Breed and his deputy were cold sober, but the others were having their fill at the Rest Ye All bar, while their weary horses nodded at the hitch-rack.

Hashknife and Sleepy tied their horses at a rack in front of a general merchandise store and were ordering their groceries, when Breed came in. He watched them sack up their stuff and then followed them outside.

“Goin’ batchin’?” he asked.

Hashknife grinned and nodded, as he tied a sack behind the cantle of his saddle.

“We’re goin’ to live at Bud Daley’s ranch for a while.”

“Oh, thasso?” The sheriff was interested. “You knew Bud, didn’t yuh?”

“Yeah, we used to know him pretty well.”

“His wife goin’ to stay there?”

“Nope. She’s gone out to the JM ranch. We’ll be there alone.”

“What’s the idea?”

Hashknife knotted a string and squinted at it critically before he said:

“Well, now I don’t reckon you could call it an idea, sheriff. We jist got tired of the hotel, thasall.”

“Uh-huh.”

The sheriff scratched his chin thoughtfully. Naturally, he wanted all the information possible. Bud Daley was still at large, and this might be a scheme to get him a grub-stake. But it might not be an opportune time to mention such a thing, he realized; so he nodded and walked away.

Sleepy went to the hotel, paid their bill, took their valises and came back to the horses. The half-broke bronchos objected to the valises, but were soon convinced that this excess baggage was there to stay. Dug Breed watched them ride away and grew thoughtful.

These two men rode well, he observed. They both wore guns, and their guns and belts seemed more practical than ornamental.

“That tall jasper ain’t no man to fool with,” he mused. “I dunno about the shorter one. I wish I knew what they are goin’ to do out there at Bud’s ranch. They’re friends of Bud’s, that’s a cinch. But I can’t stop ’em. There’s no law against ’em living out there.”

Breed shook his head, rubbed some of the dust out of his sleepy eyes and went across the street to the Rest Ye All.

* * * * *

The 76A ranch was located about five miles northeast of Modoc. Lavelle had spent much money in making it the finest cattle-ranch in the country, although he did not spend much of his time at the ranch-house. A Chinese cook and a Chinese house boy had charge of the ranch-house, while Monte Sells was in charge of the ranch.

While no one had objected openly there were many who did not exactly care for Sells, “Red” Blair, Frank Asher, “Mesa” Caldwell and Brent Allard, Lavelle’s cowpunchers. They were a hard-riding, hard-drinking crew of men, who gave Lavelle back their salaries over the green cloth, or drank it up over his polished bar.

Just now Red Blair and Brent Allard were enjoying a cigaret siesta in the shade of a big cottonwood near the big red stable at the 76A. Red was lying flat on his back, his sombrero half-across his face. Blair was a big man, with high cheek-bones, eyes deeply set under bushy brows and a flaming thatch of red hair.

Allard was a smaller man, colorless, tow-headed, but with a cruel mouth and a deep knife scar along his right jaw-bone. His cigaret hung limply from his lips as he humped over on his haunches and drew meaningless patterns in the dirt with his forefinger.

“I’d jist like t’ know where Monte got his information,” he said musingly.

Red Blair grunted and brushed a fly off his nose.

“He won’t tell,” continued Allard complainingly.

“---- the flies!” Red grunted angrily, and sat up slowly to reach for a match.

“Wonder if the posse caught Bud Daley yet?”

Allard shook his head and spat disgustedly.

“I’d jist like to know who stuck up Dug Breed.”

“You ought to buy a dictionary,” said Red wearily.

“Why?”

“You want to know so ---- much.”

“Yeah?” Allard dug savagely at the dirt. “I don’t like to risk my neck for nothin’, Red.”

“You didn’t risk yore neck.”

“Didn’t, eh? Aw, I know. You fellers think yuh can do anythin’ yuh want, as long as yo’re workin’ for Cleve Lavelle. Sure. He makes the sheriff and all that, and we’re perfectly safe. But Lavelle didn’t have nothin’ to do with this, yuh must remember.”

“He’d have somethin’ to say,” replied Red easily. “Yuh don’t see the sheriff moseyin’ around here, do yuh? Dug Breed knows which side his bread is buttered on, y’betcha.”

“Stick yore head in the sand like an ostrich,” grunted Allard. “That bird ain’t the only animal that rams its head out of sight and thinks nobody can see the rest of it.”

“Why don’tcha go back to Oklahoma?” queried Red. “You ain’t got the guts of a canary-bird, Allard.”

Red got to his feet, slapped his hat on his head and squinted toward the road.

“Here comes Monte and Frank,” he grunted, “and they’re ridin’ kinda loose.”

Allard got up and they walked down to the corral where Monte Sells and Frank Asher had dismounted. Both men had been drinking and were in a joyful mood.

“We’ve been upholdin’ the law,” declared Asher, yanking the saddle off his panting animal and almost upsetting himself.

“Yuh look like you’d been holdin’ up a saloon,” observed Red caustically.

“Didja find Bud Daley?” asked Allard.

“Find ----!” snorted Monte angrily. “Breed led us all over the ---- hills in the dark. Mebbe he thought Bud would be carryin’ a lantern.”

“Yeah, and we went to Bud’s house,” laughed Asher. “Breed wanted to search the place, didn’t he, Monte? Ma Miller was there. And what she told Breed was a plenty. Man, she sure read his sign for him.”

“Read our epitaph, too,” laughed Monte. “Said we’d be high-tailin’ it a long time ago, if we had an honest sheriff.”

“Wonder where Bud went,” said Allard.

“You better go down and join Breed,” snorted Monte. “He’s in the same fix you are.”

“Did Breed give up the posse idea?” asked Red.

“As far as we’re concerned,” laughed Monte. “Lavelle was sore as a boil, when he found that me and Frank was on the posse. Lavelle spent a lot of money tryin’ to clear Bud; and he said he’d be ---- if he wanted his men to help run him down in the hills.”

“Bud’s wife still at the ranch?” queried Red.

“She’s gone out to the JM,” said Asher. “Anyway, that’s what Breed told us before we left. Couple of strange punchers goin’ to batch at the Triangle D. Friends of Jim Miller, I reckon. They came out there about the time that Ma Miller hoodled us out of the house.”

“Who are the strange punchers?” asked Red. “Didn’t yuh hear their names?”

“Aw, Breed said that one of ’em was named Hartley, or somethin’ like that. I don’t know whether that’s the name or not.”

Allard moved in a little closer, his lower lip sagging, as if his half-smoked cigaret weighed pounds.

“Didja say ‘Hartley,’ Frank?”

“It was somethin’ like that, Brent. I didn’t pay much attention to the name.”

“What kind of a lookin’ feller, Frank?”

“Tall, skinny geezer.”

“The other one was shorter? Kinda sad-faced and bow-legged?”

“That’s him.”

Allard brushed the cigaret off his lip and cleared his throat.

“That’s Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens, by ----! And I’m draggin’ m’self off this range right away.”

Monte Sells stared at Allard for a moment and broke into a laugh. Allard was squinting into space, his lips shut tight.

“What’s the matter with you, Allard?” asked Monte. “You act like this feller might be gunnin’ for yuh.”

Allard shook his head quickly.

“No, he ain’t gunnin’ for me, Monte. At least, I don’t think he is. But he’s jist bad luck, thasall. I’ve seen his work--him and the bow-legged one.”

“Why you ---- fool!” exploded Red angrily. “What can he do to you?”

“Not a ---- thing!” snapped Allard. “’Cause I ain’t goin’ to give him a chance. I’m goin’ away--a long ways away.”

“Not a gut in his body,” declared Red inelegantly, pointing at Brent Allard. “Runnin’ away from a spook.”

“Thasso?” Allard flushed indignantly. “I’ve got all I need to keep me in a healthy condition, Red. And I’m goin’ to keep ’em, too. I wonder what them two are doin’ around here.”

Monte laughed shortly and hitched up his belt.

“They’re just livin’ at the Triangle D, thasall.”

“No, that ain’t all,” declared Allard. “Jist livin’ ain’t all where they’re concerned.”

“They were on the train the night of the hold-up,” volunteered Frank.

“Uh-huh-h-h,” said Allard triumphantly. “And you ---- fools think they’re jist livin’ here, eh?”

“Detectives?” queried Red a trifle uneasily.

“Malignantly,” nodded Allard. “Hashknife Hartley can read yore mind, I tell yuh.”

Monte laughed sarcastically and slapped Allard on the back.

“We’ll see that our minds are clear of all evil, when we meet him, Brent. Don’t be a fool. Hartley is just a human bein’, ain’t he? Well, I reckon we know how to deal with human bein’s, don’t we?”

“You said a heap,” laughed Red. “If that pelican monkeys around us, we’ll sure clip his wings, eh, Monte?”

“Hop to it,” said Allard wearily. “But don’t ask me to help yuh. I’ve warned yuh, thasall.”

Allard turned and walked toward the bunk-house, while the rest of the cowboys looked after him, a laugh on their lips.

“Scared plumb stiff,” declared Monte.

“And,” observed Frank seriously, “it ain’t like Brent to get scared thataway. He ain’t no coward, Monte.”

“That’s right,” muttered Red. “Brent’s no coward, but right now he’s scared. Mebbe we better investigate this Hartley person. It’s better to be safe than sorry, Monte.”

“That’s true enough, Red. If he’s here to find trouble, we’ll sure guide him to plenty of it, won’t we?”

“Danged right. And we’ll label it in big letters, so he won’t make no mistake. I’m kinda anxious to see this pair of whip-poor-wills, m’self. If they’re dangerous, the sooner we find it out the better it will be for all of us.”

“Mebbe they’ll be in town tonight,” grinned Monte widely. “If they’re not, we know where they will be.”

“That’s my idea, too,” laughed Red.

III.

Dug Breed was greatly disgruntled over his failure to find any clue to Bud Daley’s whereabouts. He had not expected to find any trace of the train-robbers. The express messenger and the engine crew said that there were several masked men in the gang; but their failure to do more than damage the through-safe and the interior of the car hardly made them worth bothering with.

Breed was of the opinion that the hold-up was planned only as a means for taking Bud Daley away from him, because of the fact that an organized gang would hardly stick up a train and blow the express safe unless they were reasonably certain of some remuneration.

But he could hardly understand just who would do such a job. The JM outfit might have done such a thing. There were four men at that ranch. But Breed well knew that Sody Slavin was too drunk that night, and that Uncle Jimmy Miller had been at the depot to see Bud leave. This was a perfect alibi for the JM.

“I don’t _sabe_ it a-tall,” he told Charley Morse, his deputy, who was tilted back in an office chair, trying to coax a tune from a home-made banjo.

Charley balanced the banjo on his knee while he rolled a cigaret. Charley was not very keen mentally, and Breed’s worries bothered him very little.

“Bud’s prob’ly got a gun, by this time,” he observed.

“Yeah, he prob’ly has,” agreed Breed.

“And he’ll use it, too.”

“What would you do, if yuh had twenty years starin’ yuh in the face? Wouldn’t you use a gun, Charley?”

“Y’betcha.”

“All of which makes Bud a dangerous man,” mused Breed.

“Gotta outsmart him, thasall,” declared Charley, picking up his banjo and hunching to a comfortable position.

“Yeah? How would you outsmart him, Charley?”

Charley yawned widely and rubbed his nose. Charley was not slighted when they passed around noses.

“He’s got a wife, Dug,” said Charley. “He’ll want to see her, won’t he? Stick him up when he comes home.”

“Uh-huh?” Breed squinted reflectively. It was not such a bad idea, at that, he agreed.

“He’ll come home after grub, I reckon,” added Charley. “Feller has got to eat.”

“But his wife ain’t home, Charley. She’s at the JM ranch.”

“Does Bud know it?”

Breed glared at Charley and spat disgustedly.

“How in ---- do I know what Bud knows?”

“Have to watch both places, I reckon.”

“All right. As soon as it gets dark we’ll pull out. You go to the JM and I’ll watch Bud’s place. It ain’t likely that he knows she went to the JM, Charley. Don’t let nobody see yuh, _sabe_? Cache yourself away where yuh can watch the house all night.”

“----!” Charley threw the banjo on the table and fumbled for a match. “Set there all night, eh? I had a ---- of a good idea, didn’t I?” Charley rubbed an ear violently. “Next time I’ll keep my danged mouth shut. Bein’ real smart didn’t git me anythin’.”

“You prob’ly won’t have much to do, Charley?”

“Only keep awake. I played poker all night, I’d have yuh know.”

“That ain’t my fault. You better take a shotgun along, ’cause you’re cock-eyed already.”

Breed went across the street to the Rest Ye All, where he sat in at a poker game. It was shortly before dark when the boys from the 76A rode in and proceeded to regale themselves with plenty of liquor.

Breed noticed that they talked among themselves, ignoring the games, but drank plenty of whisky. Then they went out and were gone quite a while, drifting back in singles to meet at the bar again.

“Lookin’ for somebody,” Breed decided.

More cowboys drifted in, and in a little while Breed cashed in his chips and drew out of the game. Charley was at the office, with the two saddled horses, and in a few minutes they were out of Modoc and on their way, unseen by any one in the town.

* * * * *

About a mile out of town the road forked; one road leading to the JM and the other to Bud’s ranch. Breed gave Charley final instructions and they separated.

There was no moon, but the sky was brilliant with stars. The road led along the slope of the hills, winding in and out of the hollows, crossing an old water-course, deep in the shadows of cottonwood and willow, only to lead straight back into the sage-covered hill again.

Further on it skirted the side of a hill, and Breed could see a light in the ranch-house window. Somewhere a horse nickered shrilly. Breed drew up, dropped to the ground and placed a hand over his horse’s muzzle. After a minute or two he went on, walking and leading his horse.

The road led in past the stable, but Breed dismounted in the brush before reaching the stable, tied his horse and went cautiously past the corral and stopped at the corner of the stable. He was not in a position to watch the entire house; so he went back to an open window, climbed inside the stable and felt his way to the door, which he found unlocked.

He shoved the door partly open and sat down. From here he could see part of the front porch, all of one side and the kitchen door. The horses moved uneasily for several moments, but settled down to their feeding.

He could not see the lighted window now. It was warm there in the barn. He found a saddle-blanket and a box, with which he made a comfortable seat, and settled down to his long vigil. He felt sure that Bud would not show up before midnight, if at all.

Then he did the natural thing under the circumstances--fell asleep. After all, a sheriff is only human, and he was comfortable.

He did not know what awakened him, but he suddenly found himself wide awake and staring out through the doorway. A man was between him and the house, bulking large in the half-light. As far as Breed could determine, this man was watching the house. Then he began moving slowly toward the front porch, apparently cautious.

Breed grunted to himself, drew his gun and stepped softly outside.

“He ain’t takin’ no chances,” he observed to himself. “Bud always was cautious, and he don’t know who might be in the house.”

Swiftly but softly, Breed crossed toward the man, who was so intent on the house that he did not think of any danger from the rear, and when within about twenty feet, Breed stopped and spoke:

“Put ’em up real high, young feller.”

The man whirled swiftly, and his answer was an orange-colored streak of fire and the crashing report of a revolver. Breed felt the wind from the bullet, ducked instinctively and shot from his hip. The man grunted, staggered sideways and went to his knees, shooting as fast as he could, while Breed’s gun stabbed streaks of fire in his direction.

Then a bullet struck in the gravel a few feet from Breed and threw a spray of fine rocks into his face. He ducked sideways and almost ran into a bullet, which was coming from another direction; while from three different directions came the barking reports of six-shooters, all throwing lead at the sheriff.

Breed did not stop to question any one. He almost decided not to bother with a horse, but his course was in that direction. Luckily the corral gate was open, which gave him a chance for a long run before his jump, and he barely scraped a heel on the top pole of that seven-foot corral.

Hashknife and Sleepy were in bed when the first shot caused them to sit up, like a pair of mechanical toys. The next shot sent them out of bed, gun in hand and running toward the door; but the fusillade caused Hashknife, who was in the lead, to stop short, and Sleepy bumped violently into him.

“What the ---- are yuh tryin’ to do--knock m’ teeth out?” demanded Sleepy. “Yore danged elbow is jist like a bay’net.”

“Aw, hire a hall!” snapped Hashknife. “What’s goin’ on around here, anyway?”

The firing ceased. Some one ran past the front porch, crunching heavily on the gravel. Hashknife cautiously opened the door and peered out. All was serene. From far away came the sound of a running horse, and somewhere in the hills a coyote barked snappily and wailed dismally, as if protesting against being disturbed.

“Well, now that sure does beat ---- by a neck!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Jist why do they pick our little ranch to stage a battle?”

“Some of it was danged close, too,” said Sleepy. “Them first few shots were right up against our house.”

Hashknife led the way back to the bedroom, where they proceeded to dress and buckle on their belts.

“She’s a small world,” complained Sleepy, “when they have to come out to our yard to have their fights. What do you make of it, Hashknife?”

“Mebbe somebody was havin’ fun with us, Sleepy.”

“Well, they’ve had it, cowboy. I’m a-quiverin’ all over.”

They went out on the front porch and looked around. There was not a sound to be heard. Hashknife led the way around the corner and stopped short. A man was lying flat on his back, looking up at the sky, arms outstretched. A few feet from him was a heavy six-shooter.

Hashknife knelt beside him and felt of his heart. He was still breathing, and as Hashknife touched him he groaned aloud.

“He ain’t dead, is he?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah. They always groan thataway after they’re dead.”

Hashknife got to his feet and dusted off his knees.