Part 8

“Strong?” queried Lavelle.

“Well, I took one drink and it affected the moon,” grinned Sleepy. “And that’s no danged imagination either.”

Lavelle laughed and handed out a box of dusty-looking cigars.

“I remember that you said you was going to Black Wells,” he said indifferently. “It used to be a wild place a few years ago.”

“I’ll bet they’re wild yet,” laughed Sleepy. “I wrote my initials on the back-bar of the Welcome saloon with a six-gun.”

“You did?”

Lavelle grew interested and would like to have heard more, but Sleepy decided that he had told quite enough. Sleepy dropped his cigar into a cuspidor and began rolling a cigaret.

“Did you hear that Red Blair died?” asked Lavelle.

“Three times,” said Hashknife. “First two times I didn’t believe it, but three times is a charm. Did he ever wake up?”

Lavelle shook his head. He did not like the way Hashknife treated the subject, but could hardly see where it would be policy to chide him for his attitude.

“There’s three thousand reward for Bud Daley.”

Hashknife grinned at Lavelle’s statement but suddenly sobered and leaned across the bar toward Lavelle.

“I hear you’ve lost yore luck, Lavelle?”

Not a muscle of the gambler’s face moved for several moments. Then his eyelids twitched slightly, and his lips parted.

“What do you mean, Hartley?” he asked coldly.

“I just heard that Sody Slavin busted the stud-game last night. I hear that you quit cold, with the best cards in sight.”

Lavelle laughed, but without mirth. Hashknife was looking him straight in the eyes, and the gambler turned his head away.

“Well, he didn’t break me,” he said slowly, “and as far as quitting--I know enough to quit when I’m beat, Hartley.”

Hashknife grinned thoughtfully and tossed away his cigar. He knew that Lavelle was mad, and wondered just how far he could go with his baiting. Lavelle had started to go around the end of the bar, when Hashknife turned to him again.

“What’s yore particular hoodoo, Lavelle?”

“Hoodoo?” Lavelle stopped and looked queerly at Hashknife. Then he came back.

“What did you mean by that?” he asked softly.

“Yore bad-luck medicine,” explained Hashknife, although he knew that Lavelle understood the question.

“I’ve knowed a lot of superstitious gamblers,” continued Hashknife after a moment. “They believed in signs and all that kinda stuff, and I wondered what yore pet hoodoo was, thasall.”

Lavelle laughed shortly and shook his head.

“Not me, Hartley. I believe in good luck and bad luck, but I have no charms to bring me luck.”

“No, I didn’t think yuh did,” said Hashknife.

Lavelle looked quickly at him, but did not reply. Sleepy was itching to know what it was all about, but he knew, deep down in his heart, that Hashknife was not talking in vain. Lavelle walked from behind the bar and went toward the back room without another word, while Hashknife laughed silently and rested his elbows on the bar.

A moment later Monte Sells, Frank Asher, Mesa Caldwell and Brent Allard came, rattling their spurs and arguing over the fact that the sheriff wanted them to start on their man-hunt today. Monte glanced quickly at Hashknife and Sleepy and stepped aside to see what Brent Allard would do.

Brent was in the rear, crowding in behind Caldwell, who also stepped aside, leaving Brent almost within reach of Hashknife. He looked up and stopped in his tracks. No one spoke. Brent’s two hands had been against Caldwell’s back, and they remained in that same position for several moments. Then they slowly relaxed, but he kept them above his belt-line.

Hashknife was grinning at him, and a foolish grin came to Brent Allard’s lips.

“Hyah, Allard?” said Hashknife easily. “Long time I no see yuh. Wyomin’, wasn’t it?”

“Uh-huh.” Allard wet his lips with a dry tongue and cleared his throat raspingly. “I--I come there from Oklyhomy.”

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife. “I remember hearin’ that the sheriff run yuh out of Oklahoma. Boot-leggin’ to the Injuns, wasn’t it, Allard?”

Allard grinned foolishly; Monte snorted disgustedly. He felt that Allard was too frightened to resent an insult. Hashknife’s eyes flashed to Monte, considered him coldly for a moment, and turned back to Allard.

“You workin’ for the 76A, ain’t yuh, Allard?”

“Yeah. I’ve been here quite a while, Hartley.”

“Wasn’t it one of yore outfit that got shot out where we’re livin’? We packed him in. We jist found out that he died.”

“Yeah,” said Monte harshly, “and we’re lookin’ for the man that shot him.”

Hashknife squinted at Monte and at the rest of the 76A outfit. They shifted uneasily under his steady, half-contemptuous gaze. They remembered that Allard had declared that Hartley could read their minds, and four pairs of eyes shifted uneasily.

“You’re lookin’ for that man, are yuh?” queried Hashknife slowly.

“You’re ---- right!” grunted Monte.

“So are we,” declared Hashknife. “Come and have a drink.”

The invitation was unexpected. For a moment they hesitated, but only for a moment. They had expected trouble. Allard laughed nervously, but was the first one to reach the bar, where he filled his glass with a shaky hand.

“Here’s hopin’ we find him,” said Hashknife seriously.

“If you’re huntin’ for him,” said Allard nervously, “you won’t need hopes.”

They drank deeply, except Hashknife and Sleepy, who took cigars. Monte grinned at their choice, but the grin left his face when Hashknife said seriously--

“We was over at Black Wells yesterday, and Jud Mahley told us to give yuh his regards.”

“The ---- he did!” blurted Monte. “Can’tcha think of anythin’ funnier than that to say?”

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head. He wanted to find out if Jud Mahley was a friend of the 76A boys--and he found out quickly.

“Mahley never meant it,” laughed Caldwell.

“We’ve got a ---- of a job ahead of us,” said Frank Asher disgustedly. “We’re goin’ to help the sheriff find Bud Daley.”

“That’ll be quite a chore, I’d imagine.” Hashknife hunched backward against the bar and proceeded to crumble the cigar between his long fingers.

“I’ve knowed Bud a long time, and if he ain’t changed, you’ll have to bring him in on a stretcher.”

“And we ain’t got a ---- thing agin’ him,” complained Brent Allard. “The law don’t mean nothin’.”

“It never did, to you, did it?” laughed Hashknife.

“Aw, you know what I mean,” protested Allard. “Bud’s all right.”

“He’s all wrong,” said Hashknife. “The danged fool never tried to get away. That bandit had to almost throw him off the train.”

The 76A boys exchanged quick glances, as if questioning each other. Monte half-smiled and moved in a trifle closer. It was evident that he did not want any one, except those immediately concerned, to hear his question.

“You got a good look at the two men who took Bud away from Dug Breed, didn’t yuh?” he asked.

Hashknife nodded seriously, but his face broke into a grin.

“Yeah, we got a good look--especially into the muzzle of their guns. They were masked, yuh know.”

“I _sabe_ that part of it,” nodded Monte. “It’s kinda hard to describe a masked man. But I thought that mebbe yuh was able to kinda pay attention to their size and--you know what I mean.”

“Didn’t they say anythin’?” asked Allard.

“One of ’em did,” said Hashknife. “But I reckon he changed his voice quite a lot. The other one said nothin’. If I remember right, they were both kinda tall. One was kinda skinny--the one that didn’t talk--but the other one wasn’t fat.”

“That’s a good description,” stated Mesa Caldwell.

“It must ’a’ been quite a good-sized gang,” observed Sleepy, “and it looks like they intended to take Bud away from the sheriff. They never touched any of the other passengers--never even went into the cars.”

Monte scratched his chin thoughtfully and motioned for the bartender to fill up their glasses again.

“The express robbery must ’a’ been done by tenderfeet,” grinned Hashknife. “They never got a cent for their trouble.”

“I dunno what they’d expect to get on a branch railroad.” Thus Sleepy wisely. “They never carry money.”

“Sometimes they do,” said Monte. “The mines at Dixon ship bullion from the Kalura, and the money for a big pay-roll comes in from the bank at Burke.”

“They was probably figurin’ on that pay-roll money,” observed Hashknife. “Somebody must ’a’ got the wrong dope.”

“Yeah, they must have,” agreed Monte dryly.

In a few minutes Charley Morse came in and told them that Breed was in need of their services. Hashknife and Sleepy watched them all ride out of town, heading into the hills, with the intention of looking through the Crooked Cañon country.

* * * * *

The sun was nearly down when Hashknife and Sleepy rode in at the ranch again and found Mrs. Daley and Dinah Blewette there. Dinah had driven her down there in the buckboard after some clothes she had forgotten to take with her.

Dug Breed and the man-hunters had crossed the road just ahead of them, and Mrs. Daley questioned Hashknife as to whether some one had given the sheriff information about Bud’s hiding-place. Hashknife assured her that no one seemed to know just where Bud was located, but that Breed was making the search on general principles.

She seemed to gather a certain amount of satisfaction from this, but she knew that evading the posse would only make him safe for the time being. Dinah took no part in the conversation; being content to nod or shake his head.

Mrs. Daley gathered up what articles she desired and was putting them into a battered telescope valise, when there came the sound of a running horse and a muttered curse, and a man came up the steps. He flung himself into the doorway, leaning heavily against his elbow, swinging a six-shooter in his right hand.

It was Bud Daley, unkempt, unshaven; his face drawn and haggard. Hashknife had taken a step toward him, but Bud’s leveled gun caused him to stop quickly.

“Bud, don’t yuh know me?” asked Hashknife.

Bud stared at him, licking his dry lips.

“Good ----! Hashknife Hartley!” Bud’s voice was a croak. “And Sleepy Stevens! Where did you come from?”

His gun-hand waved and dropped to his side weakly.

“Bud, you’ve been hit, ain’t yuh?” Hashknife crossed quickly to him, as Bud lurched forward.

“In the leg,” breathed Bud. “The posse is close behind me.”

Sleepy quickly closed the door behind Bud, who sank down in a chair. May, her face white with fear, threw an arm around Bud’s shoulder and began crying.

Hashknife ran to a window and scanned the hills, which were already dimming in the fading light.

“How far behind yuh is that posse, Bud?” he asked.

“Close,” panted Bud. “I think they knew I was headin’ home.”

“Where did they hit yuh?” queried Sleepy. “In the leg?”

“Yeah. Through my thigh, I think. It’s bleedin’ quite a lot. They’ve got me, I guess. I had a rifle; but it wouldn’t do me no good to kill ’em. Can’t kill everybody, yuh know. Ha-ha-ha!”

Bud laughed from sheer weakness, but there was no mirth in it.

“Don’t, Buddie,” begged his wife. “Don’t laugh like that. We’ll take you to a doctor.”

“And from there to the pen,” said Bud wearily. “Anyway, it’s better than dodgin’ in the hills. It’s a losin’ game. But, Hashknife, where did you fellers come from? I can’t believe it’s you two.”

“It’s us all right,” said Hashknife, his face glued to the window pane.

The posse had come out on the sky-line of a hill, about five hundred yards away and were bunched, as they debated.

Just away from the front porch stood Bud’s horse, one foot on the dragging reins, its head down as it panted wearily from its long run. The buggy team was tied near the back of the house, out of sight of the sheriff and posse.

Hashknife turned from the window. Sleepy had cut away part of Bud’s overall-clad leg and was trying to stop the flow of blood. Hashknife examined it quickly and slapped Bud on the shoulder.

“It went plumb through, Bud. You don’t need a doctor; we’ll fix it up ourselves.”

* * * * *

Dug Breed was highly elated, but still cautious. He knew that Bud was in that house, but getting him out might be a different matter; hence the deliberation on the hilltop.

“He’s hit, I tell yuh,” insisted Charley Morse. “I could tell the way he was ridin’--one foot out of his stirrup.”

“That’s right,” admitted Breed. “He’s plugged; but that makes him a bad _hombre_ to drag out of a hole. If he wasn’t hurt, I don’t think he’d hole up at home. Kinda funny he didn’t shoot back at us, though.”

“Nothin’ funny about that,” snorted Monte. “Bud ain’t no danged fool, Dug. He knows too much to waste ammunition on flyin’ targets. From now on, he’ll shoot--and he’s a good shot, too.”

Breed nodded, as he squinted at the house below them. Then:

“We’ll surround the place. Monte, you and Caldwell swing to the left and work into that old washout over there; Frank can watch the front, while me and Charley and Brent can swing to the right and work in back of the barn and corrals.”

“You’ve overlooked another bet,” said Brent Allard quickly. “There’s Hartley and Stevens to look out for.”

Breed squinted at Allard and back at the house.

“Do yuh think they’d back Bud’s play?”

“You’d be a ---- fool to take a chance on ’em not doin’ it. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Breed deliberated, but shook his head stubbornly.

“We’ll go ahead with our program. Better move fast, ’cause a movin’ object is harder to hit. Let’s go.”

Swiftly they separated and began their encircling movement. Frank Asher rode straight down the hill, with the intention of reaching a thicket of greasewood about three hundred yards from the house, but he had only gone a short distance, when he drew his gun and sent two shots into the air.

A man had run from the front door of the ranch-house--a man who limped badly. He caught the horse and mounted slowly. Breed had heard the shots and drew rein, swinging up his rifle. His horse lunged badly on the steep side-hill, making it impossible for him to draw a bead; so he dismounted and began shooting.

But the rider was wasting no time in seeing where the shots were coming from. He swung his horse around the corner of the house, galloped straight across the open ranch-house yard, hurdled the fence and bored straight into the hills. The encircling movement had failed.

Breed swore bitterly and mounted again, racing ahead as he stuffed shells into the loading-gate of his rifle. Monte Sells and Mesa Caldwell were riding swiftly along the slope to the left of the ranch-house, while Frank Asher swung wide and followed in the wake of Breed and the other two riders.

And far ahead of them rode the quarry, riding into the dusk of the hills, holding a straight line toward the Crooked Cañon country. Mile after mile reeled away behind them. It was almost dark now. Breed scowled at the fading light as he roweled his weary horse to greater efforts.

Suddenly he threw up his head and laughed triumphantly. Monte and Caldwell, better mounted than the rest, had caused the rider to swing farther to the right, and Breed had caught a glimpse of him, cutting around the side of a cañon, heading toward the bottom.

“Got him, by ----!” swore Breed.

He yelled shrilly at Morse and Brent Allard and waved at Frank Asher. Swiftly they gathered around him, their horses blowing heavily.

“We’ve got him, boys!” panted Breed. “He’s headed into that blind cañon just ahead of us. All we’ve got to do is to smoke him out. C’mon.”

“Bud wouldn’t head into a blind cañon,” protested Allard.

“Well, he did,” said Breed, laughing. “He didn’t know that I seen him, and he thinks that’s the last place we’d ever look for him.”

A blind cañon is one of those freaks of nature; like an alley, which ends in a blank wall. Usually the sides are precipitous, as is the end. Even the wild things shun them as they would a trap.

The entrance to this one looked harmless enough, sloping away gently to the bottom; but further along the sides reared higher and higher, impossible of foot-hold. Monte and Caldwell came in from the opposite side and the whole posse met at the mouth of the trap where they stopped to rest their horses.

“He can’t get away,” declared Monte, staring into the gloom of the cañon. “I’ve been in there, and I know that you’d have to have wings to get out. But how did Bud happen to run in there? He knows this place as well as we do.”

Breed laughed and dismounted to tighten his cinch.

“That’s where he tried to outsmart us, Monte. He figured that we’d never look for him here. It was lucky that I seen him headin’ down here. We’ll move in to where the sides break straight up and bottle him up. It would be dangerous to move in on him in the dark. He’s hurt, I think; and a night up there won’t make him any more active than the law allows.”

Breed swung back on his horse and they moved ahead. Suddenly they stopped. A rider was coming slowly out of the narrow neck of the cañon. Breed threw up his rifle, but the rider did not pay any attention to it. He was looking up at the sides of the cañon. Then he moved in closer; close enough for them to see that it was Hashknife Hartley.

Breed swore hollowly and lowered his gun. Allard laughed nervously, a chuckling laugh of vindication. Hashknife rode up to them, his face serious, as he motioned back toward the far end of the cañon.

“Say,” he remarked easily, “that ---- cañon’s blind.”

“Huh!” Breed crowded the disgust of his soul into one grunt. The rest of the posse merely nodded.

“Yessir, it’s blind,” continued Hashknife. “A feller could never get out that way.”

Then he seemed to consider the posse for the first time.

“You fellers goin’ in that way? Don’t do it.”

Breed spluttered angrily for several moments before his tongue finally shaped words.

“Say, what in ---- do yuh think you’re doin’? You--huh!”

“Me?” queried Hashknife innocently. “Whatcha mean?”

“You know ---- well what I meant! I’ve got a good notion to arrest you.”

“Yeah?” Hashknife seemed amused. “Why don’tcha, Breed?”

Breed looked around at his posse as if trying to seek an answer, but he found them grinning foolishly. Brent Allard seemed almost convulsed with mirth, and it angered Breed.

“What the ---- tickles you so ---- much, Allard?”

“Wall,” laughed Allard, “I told you you’d be a ---- fool to overlook Hartley.”

“Yeah!” Breed snorted and looked back at Hartley, who was grinning softly and offering his sack of tobacco to Monte.

“I reckon we better call it a day,” observed Caldwell. “I know I’ve had all the exercise I need, and my horse twisted two shoes off on that scab-rock below here.”

Breed swung his horse around and led them back out of the cañon to the open hills, where he stopped and faced Hashknife.

“Hartley,” he said, “I won’t forget this. You made a monkey out of me and my posse.”

“I’m sorry,” said Hashknife soberly. “I didn’t mean for yuh to ever catch me; but that danged cañon ruined it.”

“How about goin’ back to the ranch?” suggested Morse.

“Not my gang,” said Monte firmly. “If Bud stayed there while we ran the heads off our broncs, he ain’t there now.”

“Stevens would see that Bud was taken care of,” laughed Allard.

“All right!” snapped Breed. “It’s too late to do anythin’ tonight anyway.”

He swung his horse to the left and they headed across the dusky hills toward Modoc town while Hashknife rode alone down the hills toward the Triangle-D, grinning into the night.

IV.

That same evening Cleve Lavelle stood near one of his roulette tables, which was losing heavily. His face was as expressionless as the face of a savage, but his eyes shifted nervously, as the dealer paid out on nearly every turn of the wheel.

He knew that every one was talking about his run of bad luck, and, like a flock of buzzards, they had come to the kill. He turned away from the roulette and walked to a stud game. Mediocre players were bucking the game, and nearly every one of them had an array of red, white and blue chips in front of them.

Lavelle walked to his private office at the rear and sat down alone, chewing savagely on his cigar. Alone, his features relaxed and he swore softly to himself.

“If this keeps up, I’ll be flat broke in a short time,” he muttered to himself.

Then he threw his cigar aside and paced the length of the room.

Came a knock on the door, and he wheeled quickly. It was Dug Breed. He squinted at Lavelle and came to the center of the room, where he leaned on a table.

“Well, what luck?” queried Lavelle uneasily.

It was not often that Dug Breed came to his private office, and he felt that Breed must have a good reason for it now.

And with little omission, Breed told Lavelle of running Bud Daley to cover, only to have him escape them. Lavelle listened in silence to the telling, a speculative expression on his face. Then he laughed shortly; an ugly laugh.

“Breed, you are a mighty poor sheriff,” he declared.

“All right.” Breed shrugged his shoulders. “It was just a case of mistakin’ Hartley for Bud Daley, thasall.”

“That’s all,” nodded Lavelle. “You had your chance, and missed.”

“Didn’t miss entirely, Lavelle. Bud was hit.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose so.” Lavelle was sarcastic, and it nettled Breed.

“Well, it was just a case of Hartley bein’ smarter than I was,” admitted Breed.

Lavelle laughed at Breed’s admission, but grew serious.

“It’s too ---- bad you didn’t plug him by mistake.”

“I was mad enough to plug him on purpose, Lavelle.”

“Well, what are you going to do next, Breed?”

“Search me. I’m goin’ to watch Hartley and Stevens, for one thing. They know where Bud is, and sooner or later they’ll lead me to him. Next time I won’t be fooled.”

“You better not,” said Lavelle coldly. “You make another mistake like that, and you’ll not be the next sheriff of Modoc.”

Breed lifted his eyebrows slightly and backed slowly to the door, where he stood and looked intently at Lavelle.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” demanded Lavelle.

“I was just thinkin’,” said Breed slowly. “They say that you’ve lost your luck, and I was wonderin’ if it would affect you politically.”

Lavelle came toward him, a scowl on his face.

“What do you mean, Breed?” he snarled.

“It takes money to run politics--even in a county as small in population as this, Lavelle.”

“Don’t let that bother you, Breed. I’ll be leading the parade next election, and don’t you forget it. You either ride with me or you walk alone. Those cheap gamblers out there are only winning chicken-feed.”

“Yeah--all right.” Breed turned and opened the door. “I’ll see how things go, Lavelle.”

“Just a moment,” said Lavelle, coming closer. “If you need any help, my boys will be free to ride with you.”

“And a ---- of a lot of good they’ll do me!” snorted Breed. “When Hartley laughed at me, they laughed with him. _Adios_.”

Breed slammed the door shut, leaving Lavelle staring after him. Then Lavelle went back to the table and selected a fresh cigar from a box. For a long time he chewed on the unlighted weed, his face drawn in a heavy frown.

“Breaking me, are they?” he muttered. “My luck is all gone, eh? I put him in office, but he’d quit me in a minute--the coyote.”

Lavelle laughed softly, bitterly, as he crumpled the cigar in his clenched hand. From the gambling-room came the sounds of laughter, the rattling of chips, the drone of a dealer’s voice. Business was in full sway, and Lavelle knew that the Rest Ye All was losing money every minute.

He went back to the games, where men jostled each other for a chance to place a bet. None of them paid the slightest attention to Lavelle. His games were on the square--no chance for a fixed wheel, a crooked deal--and they knew it. It was just one of those unaccountable runs of ill-luck in which every game in the house suffered heavily.

The stud game halted temporarily while the dealer came to Lavelle and drew him aside.

“Every chip in the rack gone,” he said softly. “My game is about four thousand in the hole right now. I’ve paid out about two thousand in cash.”

“Fill your rack,” said Lavelle shortly, and walked away.