Part 1

The Trey of Spades

By W. C. Tuttle Author of “The Dead-Line,” “Just for a Laugh,” etc.

“This looks like the place, ‘Sleepy.’ In all my years, this is the first time I ever seen just the place to settle down. Look at the wide places, cowboy. Away over there is the river, cuttin’ almost down the center of it. Them green cañons are showing plenty of water, and look at the feed.”

“Hashknife” Hartley lifted his lean head, as he swung one long arm in an arc, encompassing the length and breadth of the Thunder rangeland. Sleepy Stevens, his companion, humped in his saddle, rolling a cigarette.

“Feast yore eyes upon her, cowboy,” urged Hashknife seriously. “She’s the range of our dreams. No fences and danged few ranches. If it was made to order it couldn’t hit closer to what we’ve wanted.”

“Gimme a match,” said Sleepy indifferently.

Hashknife fumbled for a match, but did not take his eyes off the panorama before him. Behind them and on both sides stretched the Thunder Mountains, half-encompassing a rolling range that only ended in a hazy distance--hundreds of square miles of rolling hills, small valleys, dotted with cottonwoods and live-oaks; an ideal cattle range. Far away, in the middle distance, the Bitter River pursued its irregular course; a green thread that split the land in twain.

“Yuh ought to give me a match with a head on it,” complained Sleepy. Hashknife turned in his saddle and squinted at him. There was a hint of reproach in Hashknife’s thin face, as he produced another match and handed it to Sleepy.

They were unlike, these two. Hashknife was well over six feet in height, bony, angular, with long arms and generous-sized feet. His face was bony, nose long, mouth large. The hair that showed from under his back-tilted sombrero was of the neutral shade. His eyes were gray-blue and set in a network of wrinkles.

Sleepy was of medium height, rather heavy of build. His face was blocky, and wrinkled from the weather and an over-developed sense of humor. Both men were dressed in well-worn cowboy clothes. Their horses looked weary, thankful for the siesta in the shade of the cliffs behind them.

“They don’t put enough ---- on their matches these days,” complained Sleepy as he barely managed to ignite his cigarette and puffed contentedly.

“Yuh ought to be glad we can find somethin’ without too much ---- on it,” grinned Hashknife, turning back to his survey of the landscape.

“I reckon that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Kinda pretty view from here, ain’t it?”

“Kinda!” Hashknife snorted aloud and turned his head. “My gosh, that’s the place we’ve been dreamin’ about----”

“Who’s been dreamin’ about?” demanded Sleepy indignantly. “Don’tcha mix me up in that dream, Hashknife. The only ones I ever have are a dream about me bein’ at a dance without nothin’ on but a pair of socks. Huh! By golly, I’m the only danged view that ever shows up in my dreams.”

“You ain’t got no imagination, Sleepy.”

“The ---- I ain’t! Don’t it take imagination to think yo’re at a dance without nothin’ on but----”

“I don’t mean that kind of imagination, Sleepy.”

“Oh, you mean the mild kind, eh? Well, I dunno about me. Prob’ly I do go a little too strong. The last dream I had----”

“Sleepy, I feel that this is the place we’ve hankered for. Right here is the place where we can speak about, when folks asks us where our home is. There’s peace down there, cowboy.”

Hashknife’s eyes were soft and speculative as he turned to Sleepy and motioned toward the country below them.

“God A’mighty made that country for cowpunchers, Sleepy. He sure knowed what they needed. And if they ever bring barb-wire into that paradise it’ll make the angels weep. Me and you will go down into her and we’ll find a little spot for ourselves.

“Mebbe we can buy out a small brand down there. We don’t need much, do we? We’ll start small, cowboy--and we’ll never get so big that we’ll forget that we stopped here to live peaceful. We’ve got enough money to give us a start.”

Sleepy squinted at Hashknife and turned away to look out over the sun-swept hills. He slowly cleared his throat, shifted in his saddle and looked at Hashknife.

“Me and you never had a home, Hashknife,” Sleepy’s voice was wistful. “We never had a place to speak about when folks asked us where we was from. All our lives we’ve just been driftin’ along, singin’ our song. And it ain’t always been easy travelin’, cowboy. The old boy with the scythe has just barely missed us on several occasions, and it sure seems like he’s swingin’ closer every time.

“Down there it looks good, Hashknife. It sure looks like a land of milk and honey; a land that’s so filled with peace that the coyotes have filed off their teeth and learned to eat grass. It looks like all of that, and more--but any old time yuh think it’s like it looks--yo’re cockeyed and crazy.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled softly.

“Thasso?” mimicked Sleepy. “Yo’re danged right it’s so. Me and you have always looked for a peaceful range. Hashknife, it’s like lookin’ for the end of the rainbow. There ain’t no such animile. No range is peaceful.”

“I dunno about that,” Hashknife shifted in his saddle and picked up his reins. “Anyway, a man can make his own peace.”

“Even if he has to make it with a six-gun, eh?”

“All peace is brought about through battle, Sleepy.”

“Sounds fine,” Sleepy gathered up his reins and settled in his saddle. “I’ll make yuh a proposition, Hashknife. We’ll go down into this country, find us the right kind of a place, if we can, and settle down.

“If there ain’t no ready-made peace, we’ll make some for ourselves. But right here and now, we’ll both agree to let other people’s troubles alone. To ---- with the whole gang, eh? We’ll fight for our own from now on. Is that a go?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching slightly, “that’s a good idea. It won’t hurt us none to agree to mind our own business. I’m in favor of it. All my life I’ve been hornin’ into other people’s business, and it’ll be kind of a relief to know that I’m handlin’ my own troubles.”

Sleepy grinned softly, as they rode off down the ridge, heading for the lower ranges, going into an unknown land. Far beyond the green ribbon of the Bitter River a tiny thread of smoke showed the passing of a railroad train, heading toward Oxbow, the county seat.

Lower and lower they went down across the rolling hills. Range cattle stared wide-eyed at them, or raced away through the brushy coulées, wild as deer.

“Fat as butter,” observed Hashknife. “Box M brand, mostly.”

“Betcha it gets colder’n ---- in the winter,” said the pessimistic Sleepy.

“Mebbe we can buy us some skates,” suggested Hashknife.

They both laughed as they swung around the head of a brushy coulée and angled down through a thicket of greasewood. Hashknife, who was in the lead, suddenly drew rein. A horseman had ridden across the coulée below them, riding low in his saddle and flogging his horse at a stiff gallop.

It was only a glimpse and the rider was gone.

“What do yuh make of that?” wondered Hashknife. “I’ll say that he was hurryin’.”

“Kinda racin’ for a train or trainin’ for a race,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe he was cuttin’ around some stock. That brush is so tall that yuh couldn’t see his horse.”

“Couldn’t even see much of the man,” smiled Hashknife, as he urged his horse ahead.

The heavier growth of greasewood forced them to swing lower into the coulée, and they managed to angle their way to the left at a point approximately where the rider had entered the coulée. An overhanging branch swept Sleepy’s hat off his head and he swore softly as he dismounted to recover it.

Hashknife rode on slowly to the edge of the thicket, where he drew rein and turned to look back at Sleepy. A moment later something struck the fork of his saddle a terrific blow. The horse swung sidewise and from beyond them came the spang of a high-powered rifle.

Hashknife flung himself sidewise out of the saddle and crashed down into the greasewood.

Sleepy had not mounted, and now he came running low in the cover, six-shooter in his hand.

“Hashknife!” he called softly. “Hashknife, you ---- fool, why don’tcha answer me?”

“Gimme a chance,” grunted Hashknife. “I’m all tangled up in this darned brush.”

“What did it hit?” asked Sleepy, his voice showing relief. “I heard the bullet hit somethin’, Hashknife.”

“Hit my saddle, I reckon. Can yuh see anybody?”

“Yuh don’t hear me shootin’, do yuh? Which way did it come from?”

“The way we was pointin’. Keep yore danged head down, can’tcha? I’ve got seven feet of greasewood up one leg of my pants, dang the luck. How in ---- am I goin’ to get loose, Sleepy? I can’t bend her over so I can slide loose from it.”

“Jump seven feet in the air,” chuckled Sleepy.

“I’ll prob’ly do that, if the bushwhacker discovers me in this condition.”

“Take yore knife and slit the leg of yore pants, Hashknife.”

“Yeah--and I ain’t got no other pants.”

Came a burst of soft profanity and a sigh of relief. After several moments:

“Cut it off with my knife.”

“Yore leg?”

“Naw--the greasewood. Seen anybody yet?”

“No such luck. My trigger-finger has gone to sleep. C’mon and help me look for ’em. This is yore peaceful land, Hashknife. Milk and honey!”

Hashknife came crawling out of the brush. His face was badly scratched in several places and one sleeve of his shirt was ripped from cuff to shoulder, but otherwise he was all right. His horse had swung around and moved to lower ground, where it managed to tangle the reins in a bush.

Hashknife examined his six-shooter carefully and squinted speculatively at the brush around them.

“Goin’ to set here and wait for ’em?” queried Sleepy, who wanted action.

“Debatable question, Sleepy. I figure that they thought they were shootin’ at the gent we seen foggin’ across the coulée. If we had showed any sense a-tall we wouldn’t ’a’ crossed his trail. The question is this: Was he right or wrong?”

“What do yuh mean?”

“Just wonderin’ whether we ought to help him or not. Question of persecution or prosecution.”

Sleepy wrinkled his nose disgustedly.

“There yuh go,” he declared. “A while ago we agreed to let the troubles of others alone.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “I suppose we ought to sneak out and get away the best we can regardless.”

“They dang near killed yuh,” reminded Sleepy, who did not like the idea of sneaking away from trouble.

They had been talking softly, but their ears had been alert for the least noise. There was nothing foolhardy about either of them, neither were they the least excited over the fact that a bullet had narrowly missed killing one of them.

The fact that it had missed was sufficient for them. Several years in the worst ranges of the west and southwest had made them confirmed fatalists; caused them to look upon death as something that would not come to them until their “time” had arrived, and resolved to meet it with a grin.

Just beyond them and to the left the hill was covered with a growth of greasewood, showing here and there a cropping of granite. A loose rock bumped down through the brush, dislodged by some one or something. They looked quickly at each other and Hashknife shook his head slowly.

“Too careless,” he whispered. “Watch the other side.”

They snuggled lower, paying little attention to the side of the hill, and were rewarded by seeing the stealthy approach of a man, who was worming his way through the greasewood with the skill of a savage.

He was going slowly, weaving his way along. The heavy thicket behind which they crouched prevented him from seeing them. Now another rock came rolling down the side of the hill, but this time they heard the unmistakable sound of the rock being thrown onto the hillside from a distance.

Hashknife grinned and held his gun in a position to cover the approach of the man, who was almost into them now, while Sleepy kept an eye on a possible approach from the hillside. Then the man crawled into the opening, about ten feet from them, and turned his head to look into the muzzle of Hashknife’s gun.

The man was of medium height and weight, grizzled, with a heavily lined, bronzed face and a pair of steady gray eyes. In his right hand he held a heavy Colt revolver. For a moment his eyes held a startled expression, which quickly changed to one of evident relief. His hand relaxed from around his gun and he lifted himself to a sitting position.

“Kinda nice weather for this time of year,” said Hashknife pleasantly.

The man nodded and glanced back on his trail.

“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He lifted his left hand and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There seems to have been a mistake made.”

“Does kinda seem thataway,” agreed Hashknife. “At least it had us wonderin’ what it was all about.”

“Um-m-m.” The man’s face widened into a grin.

“Yuh might as well call the rest of ’em in,” said Hashknife. “They’ll get sore arms from throwin’ rocks onto that side hill.”

The man turned, disclosing a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his vest, and called loudly:

“Hey! Buck! Come on in!”

“Aw-w right,” called a voice. “Comin’ right along, Jud.”

“Yo’re the sheriff, eh?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah. My name’s Farley--Jud Farley.”

“Mine’s Hartley,” grinned Hashknife. “This here curio with me is Sleepy Stevens. My friends call me Hashknife.”

“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Farley, as a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired man came clawing his way through to them. He looked at Farley and glanced quickly at Hashknife, who still held his gun in position. Farley’s gun was lying on the ground, and this seemed to greatly concern the newcomer.

“Tha’sall right, Buck,” assured Farley. “My hand got tired. Buck, meet Mister Hartley and Mister Stevens. Folks, this is Buck Hardy, my deputy. Buck, do yore little bow.”

“Aw, what the ----!” growled Buck.

Hashknife laughed and shoved his gun back into its holster. This action seemed to relieve Buck, who almost smiled as he put away his own gun and reached for the makings of a cigarette.

“One of you fellers almost got me,” declared Hashknife. “The bullet tore half of my saddle-fork loose.”

“That was me,” said Buck slowly. “I dunno what’s got into me lately. ’Pears like I’m shootin’ too low all the time.”

He said it with such sincerity that Hashknife laughed outright, and Farley’s eyes twinkled with laughter.

“Buck’s a good shot,” offered Farley.

“I used to be,” admitted Buck.

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I’m glad it happened now instead of the used-to-was. That shootin’ was too good to suit me. But you haven’t said just why yuh shot at me.”

“Yuh didn’t happen to be gunnin’ after the jasper that rode through here a while ago, did yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Did you see him?” Thus Farley quickly.

“Just about. He wasn’t paradin’ to any extent.”

“What color horse was he ridin’?”

“We didn’t see,” said Hashknife. “We were up the coulée a little ways and just got a glimpse. This brush hid the horse, and the man didn’t go slow enough for us to see what he did look like.”

“He was the whippoorwill we were after,” stated Farley, and added disconsolately, “By this time he’s erased himself plumb off the map.”

“Who was he?” asked Sleepy.

Farley smiled sadly and shook his head.

“Pardner, I’d sure give a lot to know.”

“He’s a ---- fool!” snorted Buck indignantly. “Any man that does what he’s done and wants folks to know that he’s the jigger that done it--he’s plumb crazy, tha’sall.”

“We call him ‘The Trey of Spades,’” said Farley slowly. “That’s his trade-mark.”

“Trade-mark?” queried Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. He’s a lone bandit--and a slick one, Hartley. This is the nearest we’ve come to gettin’ him. About four o’clock this mornin’ he went into the Cheyenne gambling room in Oxbow and stuck up the crowd. There was only seven men in there. He sure cleaned up a nice piece of change.

“He backed out of there, but at the doorway he took a playin’-card out of his pocket and flipped it back at ’em. It was the trey of spades. Me and Buck was just ridin’ in from a trip to Snake Creek, and we hit Oxbow just about the time that this was goin’ on.

“We seen this feller break for his horse. Somebody yelps that the Cheyenne has been held up; so me and Buck takes out after this feller. It was bright moonlight, and we sure runs him ragged, but we can’t stop him. Can’t tell the color of his horse either. Back about two miles from here he holes up in the brush and we think we’ve got him dead to rights, but he foxes us and gets away.

“Buck gets a glimpse of him foggin’ out; so we slides right after him. We’re pretty close behind him, and we’ve got a hunch that he hived up here again; so yuh can’t hardly blame us for takin’ a shot at yuh.”

“Sure looked to me like he was lookin’ over his back-track,” said Buck. “I dunno what’s wrong with me, anyway. By golly, I used to be able to hit a tomatter-can at that distance. Gotta fix them sights, I reckon.”

“Yuh don’t need to on my account,” grinned Hashknife.

Farley picked up his gun and shoved it into his holster.

“Well, Buck, I reckon we might as well ride along and see what we can see,” he observed. “This is just another time when we didn’t get the game.”

“I s’pose so--dang the luck.” Buck yawned widely.

“Which way is the town from here?” asked Hashknife.

Farley pointed west:

“Out thataway about ten miles, I reckon. About three miles from here you’ll hit the road that leads past Maverick ranch. Keep goin’ straight ahead and you’ll hit Oxbow.”

Hashknife and Sleepy mounted and rode out past where the sheriff and deputy were preparing to circle the coulée. Buck looked with gloomy eyes upon the havoc caused by his bullet upon Hashknife’s saddle.

“Mebbe,” he said hopefully, “that bullet hit a limb and was deflected. It could happen, yuh know.”

“Anybody would think that yo’re sorry to miss me,” observed Hashknife.

“No-o-o, it ain’t so much that as it is gittin’ to feel that yore shootin’ is gittin’ bad. I used to shoot pretty good.”

“C’mon, Buck,” laughed Farley, and then to Hashknife, “Hope we’ll see yuh ag’in, Hartley--both of yuh.”

“Y’betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll be around here for a while, I reckon.”

“This here land of milk and honey,” scoffed Sleepy, as they rode away. “A land of peace, Hashknife. I’ll bet there’s more real ---- to the square inch around here than any place we’ve ever hit.”

“Well, it won’t affect us,” laughed Hashknife. “Yuh must remember that we’re goin’ to mind our own business from now on.”

* * * * *

Old “Dad” Parker sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house and looked with gloomy eyes at the rider who was coming past the house, heading toward the bunkhouse. The rider was Cliff Parker, Dad’s twenty-seven year old son, a wild young blade.

Just now his clothes were disheveled, dusty, and his seat in the saddle was none too secure. In fact, Cliff Parker was drunk--disgracefully drunk. He half-fell from his horse in front of the bunkhouse, staggered inside and slammed the door.

Old Dad shook his head painfully and squinted off across the hills, his old eyes misty with sorrow. In his younger days, Dad Parker had been a powerful man, but now he was a gaunt, old man, with a mop of white hair, a deeply-lined face; an old, old man at sixty.

As he settled back in his chair a girl came to the doorway. She was a slender, capable-looking girl, attractive of features and with a wealth of soft, brown hair. There was a smudge of charcoal dust on her cheek, and her arms, bare to the elbow, bore evidences of contact with the flour barrel.

“I’ve been making some doughnuts, Dad,” she offered, with a smile. “Harmony said they wouldn’t be worth anything, but they look good.”

The old man nodded without looking at her. She studied him for several moments, her eyes shifting toward the bunkhouse, where Cliff’s horse stood.

“Cliff came home?” she asked softly, but he did not reply. Slowly she shook her head and a look of unutterable sadness came into her fine eyes, as she stepped out behind old Dad and put her hands on his shoulders.

“Some day he will quit it, Dad,” she said softly. “Cliff’s only a kid.”

“He’s almost thirty, Milly.” Dad Parker’s voice was husky. “He’s old enough to know better. Every time he goes to town he gets drunk. He’s gettin’ a bad reputation for drinkin’ and gamblin’.”

“Yes, that is true,” nodded the girl. “He loses more than is good for him.”

“His cattle are all gone,” said the old man. “He sold the last ten head a week ago, and I suppose the money is all gone.”

The girl turned away. She knew that Cliff had also sold four horses during the past week, which left him with only one, his favorite riding horse. Mildred Parker was not at all like her brother. Their mother was of French descent, impulsive, hot-blooded; and Cliff had inherited his wild traits from her side of the family. Mildred was twenty-three.

As she turned away she saw two strange horsemen swing off the main road and ride toward the house. It was Hashknife and Sleepy. Dad Parker watched them indifferently, as they rode up close to the porch and lifted their hats to the girl.

Their smile was contagious and Mildred found herself smiling back at them.

“We just stopped,” said Hashknife rather lamely. “We might say we stopped for a drink of water, or to ask the way to Oxbow--but we know the way, and we ain’t dry. We stopped, tha’sall.”

Mildred laughed with them. There was something so straightforward about the lean-faced cowpuncher that she liked him instinctively.

“This is the Maverick ranch, ain’t it?” queried Sleepy.

“This is the Maverick ranch,” replied Dad Parker. “Get off and rest your feet, gentlemen.”

“We didn’t aim to stop,” protested Hashknife, “and I don’t reckon we will.” But he was half-way off his horse as he finished. They dropped their reins and came up the steps.

“My name is Parker.” The old man had got to his feet and held out his hand. “Folks call me Dad. This is my daughter.”

Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and Mildred brought some chairs from the living-room.

“We just can’t stay long enough to set down,” protested Hashknife. “No, ma’am--honest to gosh.”

“Running away from some one?” asked Dad, a twinkle in his eye.

Hashknife laughed and fumbled for the makings of a smoke.

“No, not that. We’re kinda stubborn when it comes to runnin’ away. Nope, we just didn’t want to bother yuh.”

“You haven’t had any dinner, have you?” asked Mildred.

“Dinner?” Hashknife looked up quickly.

“Yes, ma’am. We couldn’t eat a thing, thankin’ yuh just the same.”

Hashknife turned to the old man and Mildred looked inquiringly at Sleepy, who stared at her for a moment. It was a look of understanding, but to make it more expressive, Sleepy reached down and cinched up his belt another notch.

Mildred laughed softly and turned into the house, while Sleepy wrinkled his nose joyously and rolled a cigarette. He was hungry, and he knew that Hashknife was half-starved.

“This is the first time we ever got into this range,” offered Hashknife. “It sure looks good.”

“It is good,” declared the old man. “It’s hard to beat the old Thunder range, Hartley. We’ve got everythin’ here.”

“Even to sheriffs that shoot on sight,” said Sleepy.

Dad Parker turned and stared at Sleepy.

“I didn’t quite get that.”

“Well, they do,” declared Sleepy. “One took a shot at Hashknife and tore half the fork off his saddle.”

Hashknife laughed and hastened to explain the incident. Dad Parker listened closely until Hashknife had finished.

“That was a close call, Hartley,” he said slowly. “And it was not a pleasant introduction to our country. You say this bandit held up the crowd in the Cheyenne this mornin’?”

“That’s what the sheriff told us.”

“And sooner or later Jud Farley will get him,” declared Dad Parker. “Farley is a good man. This bandit will leave his card once too often.”

“Is he a rustler, too?” queried Hashknife.