Part 10

“Get yuh a horse at the livery stable,” ordered Farley. “Cliff has to get one, too. And then come down to the office and get yore rifles. Me and Buck will have everythin’ ready.”

Inside of fifteen minutes the four men rode away from the office and headed for the hills to the west of Meteor Creek. There was little conversation.

“No use huntin’ for a trail,” said Farley. “We’ll just swing into the hills and see what we can see.”

They rode for an hour, finally grouping on the crest of a high ridge, where Farley examined the country through a pair of field-glasses. Franklin was watchful, nervous. Farley replaced his glasses in a leather case and turned to Franklin.

“Sid, if you was goin’ to hide out from the law in this country, where would yuh head for?”

Franklin grinned slightly and swallowed dryly.

“I dunno, Jud. I might head for the main divide, I s’pose. There’s lots of hidin’ places in these hills. How about that rocky cañon over there? The one where the creek sinks out of sight.”

“I know which one yuh mean,” said Cliff. “Vint Roche told me that there’s a cabin back near the head of it.”

“I know where it is,” said Farley thoughtfully. “Old Pete Duncan built it. He had an idea of catchin’ wild horse out there in the winter time, and he built it to live in. I never seen it, but old Pete told me the location.”

“Well, let’s go,” said Buck. “I hope to gosh there’s a bed in it, ’cause I’m asleep right now.”

They moved ahead. Franklin’s brow wrinkled in thought as he considered the Thunder Range, towering closer and closer. If the opportunity arose he was going to desert the posse and take chances on finding his way across that range and into a new country. He did not want to go back and face the minister.

Franklin had always borne a fair reputation. He did not have a face that would inspire any great amount of confidence. But he had just enough imagination to picture himself, standing on a breakaway platform, with a knotted rope tickling his ear. It was not a pleasant picture, and his face expressed his feelings.

“You must ’a’ et somethin’ that didn’t set well, didn’t yuh?” asked Buck, who was riding beside him.

“Too much Cheyenne hooch,” said Franklin quickly. “It sure sours on yuh.”

“You ought to quit it,” said Buck. “I sure did.”

“When?” queried Farley, looking back at him.

“Well, I’m taperin’ off,” corrected Buck.

“Yore taperin’ off came danged near bein’ my finish,” declared Cliff. “If it hadn’t been for the preacher, I’d be a ghost.”

“Aw, that was before I quit,” laughed Buck. “I sure pulled what you’d call a ‘fox-pass’ that time.”

“And I never even thanked the preacher,” laughed Cliff. “He was at the ranch about three o’clock this mornin’ with Franklin. We should have brought him along--him and his race horse.”

Franklin spat dryly and looked away, while the rest of them laughed. Far away to the south of them, a rider was skirting the side of a ridge; just a moving speck in that world of sage.

Franklin called Farley’s attention to him, and they stopped to use the glasses. For several moments the sheriff studied the spot, and handed the glasses to Franklin. One glance was enough for Franklin to know that it was his horse, but the distance was too great to identify the rider. He handed the glasses back to Farley.

“Recognize the animal?” queried Farley.

“It sure looks like mine,” declared Franklin. “It’s a red-roan, with a white face, and that’s what mine looks like.”

Farley used the glasses again, but the horse and rider had disappeared into a cañon.

“Goin’ in the same direction as we are,” said Farley. “We’ll kinda edge in on him.”

“Better edge in,” agreed Buck, “or we’ll miss that cañon.”

* * * * *

Hashknife and Sleepy tied their horses above the brush corral and worked their way silently down through the undergrowth. The tall black horse in the corral looked them over indifferently. It was a racy looking animal. Hanging to a snag near the corral was a saddle, with a loose rope dangling on the horn.

The cabin was well hidden in the brush, but the cover was heavy enough for them to come close without chance of being detected. They were almost to the corner of the cabin, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the arm and drew him down.

A rider was coming down the right hand side of the cañon, and was almost to the bottom. They dropped lower and waited for him to appear again. It seemed that he had stopped and was looking at the cabin. To the right of them was some down-timber and a tangle of brush, and Hashknife crossed swiftly to this with Sleepy on his heels.

This gave them a fairly good view of the front yard of the place, where two horses were standing. Both of them were saddled. On the ground was a blanket and a tarpaulin, thrown aside.

Then Blackie Dahl came from the cabin door and went to one of the horses. He looked around at the left-hand rim of the cañon and back at the cabin. He seemed undecided what to do. Hashknife and Sleepy had forgotten the other man.

Blackie tested the cinch on his saddle and turned to go to the other horse, when he stopped suddenly, looking toward where the other rider had stopped. For several seconds he did not move. Then his hand jerked back to his holster, and his revolver shot crashed out in the stillness of the cañon.

His shot was echoed by another--and another. Blackie turned, reached for his horse, as if trying to support himself, and fell sprawling on his face.

He did not move. The two horses sidled away from him, looking down at their fallen master. One of them nuzzled at him and threw up its head to look at the man, who was coming toward them.

This man was walking quartering to Hashknife and Sleepy so they were unable to see his face. He was wearing a gray shirt, black sombrero, which seemed very new, and wore his overalls tucked into the tops of his high-heeled boots.

He went slowly up near Blackie and touched him with his toe, but Blackie did not move. Then he whirled quickly and went into the cabin. Hashknife grinned widely and started to his feet, but Sleepy drew him back. Riders were coming down over the left-hand rim of the cañon, fairly sliding their horses in their haste.

“Sheriff’s posse!” exclaimed Hashknife. “Keep down.”

The posse dismounted and deployed through the brush, advancing on the cabin. They were almost to the cabin, when the man came outside. He had his back to Hashknife and Sleepy, but the sheriff was plainly visible to them.

“What in ---- are you doin’ here?” demanded Farley. His voice was filled with wonder and anger.

The man did not speak, but his hands dropped to his sides.

“You dirty horse thief!” It was Sid Franklin’s voice. “I’ve got you.”

With an almost imperceptible motion the man drew and fired. A second later another shot crashed out, and the bullet whined off a rock on the side of the cañon.

“Don’t move!” The man snapped his order. He had a gun in each hand now, and his hands were weaving back and forth, as he covered the posse.

“Drop your guns!” he snapped again. “Don’t be a ---- fool, like Blackie Dahl and Sid Franklin.”

“I’ll be ----!” exploded the sheriff, but obeyed.

Hashknife stepped out of his hiding place and began walking toward the man, his gun ready. The sheriff had dropped his rifle, and now reached slowly for his holster.

“Take ’em out easy,” advised the man.

The sheriff laughed and leaned sidewise to get a better view of Hashknife.

“None of that!” warned the man. “I’m no fool.”

“Look behind yuh,” challenged the sheriff. “Yo’re afraid to look behind yuh.”

“Shut up, ---- yuh!” The man was getting nervous. His arms tensed and his shoulders hunched slightly. He wanted to turn, but would not.

“Drop them six-shooters!” he snarled. “---- yuh, be quick.”

And it was then that Hashknife bunched himself and dived into the man like a football player making a hard tackle. They went down, with Hashknife on top, while both guns fired into the dirt as they fell.

The attack had been so unlooked for that the man was completely at Hashknife’s mercy, but he twisted over on his side and Hashknife looked down into the face of the Reverend Mr. Jones. The sheriff, Cliff and Buck were running to his assistance, while from the other direction came Sleepy, laughing joyfully.

“All right, ---- yuh!” snarled the prisoner. “I’ll behave.”

They jerked him to a sitting position, while Buck got a lariat and secured him.

“If you’ve got a trey of spades I’ll pin it onto yuh,” offered Hashknife.

“Thank you, I’m all out of cards,” said Jones.

“You killed Blackie Dahl?” asked Farley.

“Yeah, I killed him. Had to. He shot first.”

“Well, what in ---- was he doin’ here? Who is the Trey of Spades? Who shot Vincent Roche?”

“Hey! C’mere!” Buck called from the doorway.

“Go ahead--I’ll watch him,” said Sleepy.

Hashknife and Farley went into the cabin where Buck pointed at a pile of blankets on the floor.

“For gosh sake! How did she get here?” exploded Farley.

It was the Countess, bedraggled, disheveled, her face caked with blood, but with eyes that tried to smile and a mouth that trembled visibly. Hashknife knelt down beside her and peered into her face.

“Hello, Mr. Man.” Her voice was not very strong.

“How did you get here?” repeated Farley wonderingly.

“Our friend, Mr. Dahl, furnished transportation.” She tried to smile, but it was a dismal failure. “He met me last night, after I left you at the doctor’s home, and I think he hit me with his gun. He is not very gentlemanly, you know.

“I don’t remember much, except that he had me in a cabin. He didn’t know that I was conscious. Anyway,” she grimaced, “he packed me on a horse, just like a sack, and I nearly died. He had me roped on and brought me here. He thinks I’m dead. Yes, he does. I heard him say it out loud. He was going to leave me here.”

“He won’t never do it again,” said Hashknife softly. “He’s all through doin’ things like that.”

“The preacher shot him,” offered Buck.

“The Reverend Jones?”

“The Trey of Spades,” corrected Hashknife softly.

A moment or two of silence, and then came the smashing report of a rifle. The men rushed to the doorway just in time to see Sleepy kick a rifle out of Franklin’s hands. He had managed to get to his knees, but now he slid sidewise.

The pseudo preacher was lying on his face, arms outstretched.

“---- him!” wailed Sleepy. “He shot the prisoner!”

“The dirty spy!” Franklin managed to lift himself on one elbow. “He won’t never have a chance to squeal on me. I--I’ll bet his shoulder holster won’t save him this time. Why, dang his soul----”

Franklin slid back dead.

Hashknife stepped over and turned the other man. He was barely conscious, but managed to smile. Hashknife lifted him up.

“Thanks,” he whispered. “It’s all right. Saves time. Most of the money is under the bunk in my shack. The express loot is--is tied to the cantle of my saddle. I--I stole that black horse for a swift getaway. Tell Cliff I’m sorry I had to hit him that night. It was dark. I stole that hat to save him.

“I thought that Blackie shot Roche, but it was Franklin. He admitted it to me. Thought I was a detective. I--I had to make my getaway today, because I couldn’t preach. I’m sorry I--I fooled folks. They do need a preacher pretty bad.”

“Why did you use the trey of spades?” asked Hashknife.

“Superstition. Treys have always been lucky for me. I--I stayed at it too long, I guess. I was afraid somebody might suffer for my trade-mark. You tell the Countess,” he smiled up at Hashknife, “that she picked the wrong ones.”

His head swayed forward and Hashknife laid him down.

“What did he mean--about the Countess pickin’ the wrong ones?” asked Hashknife.

“I will tell you.”

He turned and looked at the Countess, who was leaning against the door. She sighed and felt of her aching head.

“You better set down,” advised Farley.

“No, I’m all right. I’m not a dance-hall girl. Mr. Cole knows who I am. He is a friend of the United States Marshal. I am a Government operative. You would call me a detective, I suppose. So I played the dance-hall girl and let men fall in love with me to see what I might learn. That is what he meant. I guess he knew who I was.”

“And that is why yuh let men fall in love with yuh?” Thus Hashknife. She looked at him closely.

“Perhaps I should have said ‘encouraged’, Mr. Man.”

“And the little birdies sing in the spring, tra, la, la, la,” said Sleepy softly. Hashknife looked at Sleepy closely, and a grin wrinkled his homely face.

“The next place we go, I hope we’ll find peace.”

“As far as I’m concerned--we’re half-way there right now,” said Sleepy.

“What I want to know is this,” said Farley thoughtfully, turning to Hashknife: “Did you suspect the preacher?”

Hashknife smiled softly and nodded his head.

“Yeah--in a way. I suspected Cliff, Vincent Roche and Blackie Dahl. By the way, Cliff, I’ve got a pearl necklace that belongs to you.”

“Have yuh?” asked Cliff. “That’s fine. I wondered where it went. I bought it for Dorothy, and lost it that night.”

“Yuh suspected Cliff and the others, eh?” queried Farley.

“Until I eliminated ’em. Blackie wasn’t smart enough; so I dropped him. Roche got shot, but the Trey of Spades kept on goin’; so that fact eliminated Roche. I never did suspect this Franklin person. I suppose he needed the money. I knew that Roche had been packed quite a distance after bein’ hurt, but I thought Blackie was the one that done it.”

“Vincent Roche is an old friend of my family,” said the Countess painfully. She was keeping up on sheer nerve now. “He knew why I was here, and he was doing everything he could to assist me. I want Miss Parker to know that Vincent Roche was not making love to me.”

Hashknife smiled and turned to Cliff:

“Is there a Mauser rifle at the Diamond V ranch?”

“Yeah. There’s an old one that Vint bought from old Pete Duncan. We used to shoot coyotes with it.”

“Well, that’s what Franklin used on Roche. It seems that Blackie wasn’t to blame for anythin’ worse than turnin’ cave-man.” Hashknife turned to the Countess.

“Blackie took you to the ranch and came back to town, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” she replied. “It was all rather hazy. He roped me to a horse, I know that much. And he thought I was dead; so he was going away and leave the door open. He knew that some one was using this cabin, and he was afraid to stay.”

“But what made you suspect the preacher?” persisted the sheriff.

“The smallest thing yuh could imagine,” grinned Hashknife. “Did yuh ever see him smoke cigarettes? Well, that’s what made me suspect him, Jud. He was a regular feller in everythin’ else. Nobody around here would ----”

“But he didn’t smoke,” declared Jud. “I’ll leave it to everybody that knew him.”

Hashknife stepped over and lifted one of the dead man’s hands--the left one. The thumb and first two fingers of it were yellow from nicotine stain.

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” declared Farley. “It--it kinda looks like his is the first cigarette fatality we’ve ever had in Thunder county, by gosh!!”

“How do you suppose he knew who I was?” asked the Countess.

Hashknife smiled at her.

“Because yuh didn’t fit yore job, ma’am. Anybody would suspect you.”

“Is that so?” She tried to smile at him. “And what did you suspect me of being, Mr. Man?”

Hashknife reddened slightly, and Farley stepped into the breach.

“I reckon we better load up the casualties, boys. We’ll have to recover that stolen money, too. By golly, it all worked out fine.”

The Countess was still looking at Hashknife, but he did not lift his head. Sleepy moved in closer to her and from his puckered lips came a few notes of “The Mocking-Bird.”

Hashknife looked up at her and grinned slowly. There was a wistful expression about his eyes, as he went to her and held out his hand.

“I suspected yuh of bein’ a mighty nice girl, ma’am; and I reckon my suspicions worked out. I hope I meet yuh agin’ some day. C’mon, Sleepy.”

“Ain’t yuh goin’ back with us?” queried Cliff, as they started toward their hidden horses back in the cañon.

“I reckon not,” said Hashknife, looking back at them. “We ain’t got nothin’ to go back after.”

“There’s a lot of thanks comin’ to you both, Hartley.”

“Tha’sall right, Cliff. Yo’re welcome. Be good. So-long, everybody.”

They turned and disappeared up through the brush, while the three men and the disheveled looking woman looked at each other wonderingly.

“Funniest thing I ever heard of,” declared Farley.

“What--what is funny about it?” queried the Countess.

“That’s what I say,” grunted Buck. “It may be funny, but it ain’t gettin’ a ---- of a lot of laughs out of me.”

And from the rim of the cañon, the two riders looked back before they rode on toward the high range.

“We’ll find the milk-and-honey land some day, Sleepy.”

“Hm-m-m. Gimme a match, Hashknife.”

They turned and rode away through the purple sage.

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