Part 2

“Not yet. He confines his robberies to hard cash. As yet he has made no big hauls, but he seems to have nerve enough to pull off any kind of a job.”

“Any suspicion of who he is?”

“No. He laughs behind his mask, talks like a man suffering from a heavy cold, and rides like the ----. He has never been seen in the daylight; so no one knows the color of his horse.”

“Kinda interestin’,” mused Hashknife aloud. “I like his idea of identifyin’ himself with a playin’-card. It’s like somethin’ yuh read about.”

“He probably read about it.” Thus Dad Parker dryly. “There’s a washbench around by the kitchen door, if you feel like takin’ a wash. I think that ‘Harmony’ has about prepared the dinner.”

“A little wash won’t hurt us,” laughed Hashknife, getting to his feet. A rider was turning in from the road, and as he neared the porch he waved at the old man, who motioned for Hashknife and Sleepy to wait.

The man rode up and dismounted. He was a man of possibly forty years of age, with a pale, esthetic face, deeply set, dark eyes and a sensitive mouth. From his garb it was plain to see that he was of the clergy, although he wore a sombrero hat and high-heeled boots.

As he removed his sombrero he disclosed a partly bald head above his high forehead. His horse was a decrepit gray, which had long ago outlived its usefulness on a cattle range, and his riding rig was of the poorest.

“Get down, minister,” said Dad Parker pleasantly. “You are just in time for dinner.”

“Perhaps,” the minister smiled, “perhaps I timed it, Mr. Parker.”

Dad laughed and indicated Hashknife and Sleepy.

“This is Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens, two newcomers to this country. Gentlemen, shake hands with the Reverend Jones, the man who rides on his church.”

Hashknife laughed as he shook hands with the minister.

“I never knowed one to ride a church before,” said Hashknife.

“Perhaps Mr. Parker is right, at that,” said the minister. “In this country a horse is more valuable than a pulpit.”

He shook hands with Sleepy, who made a wry face after the minister had turned away. Mildred came out and greeted the minister warmly.

“We will set another place at the table,” she said, as she turned and went back into the house.

Hashknife and Sleepy went to the washbench near the kitchen door and began their ablutions. Mildred was in the kitchen, talking to some one, whose voice immediately rose to a higher pitch.

“Well, my ----, who next! What do they think this is--a caf-fay? Preacher, eh? Ten Commandments and an appetite! Mebbe he’ll expect a yaller-legged hen, won’t he? By grab, I don’t do nothin’ around here, except work. Somebody always showin’ up at meal time. I wisht I had a job herdin’ sheep!”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Thus Mildred’s voice sorrowfully.

“Yuh don’t need to! Don’t waste sympathy on a cook. They’re the lowest order of humanity. Put a plug hat on one and he’s still so low he could walk under a snake. What does he drink--except liquor?”

“Tea, I think.” Laughing.

“Tea? Aw right. Give’m skim milk. I know that jigger. He’ll want to ask the blessin’, won’t he? Thank the Lord for somethin’ that I cooked, eh? That’s all the thanks I git. If I saved his life he’d thank me through somebody else, I s’pose.”

Came the banging of pans, as the cook vented his further displeasure on the utensils. Hashknife laughed joyously.

“That’s Harmony.”

“A human bein’,” Sleepy spluttered through the towel. “I’m for Harmony. Didja notice that preacher’s grip? Just like takin’ hold of a dead fish. By golly, I was afraid to let go of his hand for fear it would fall in the dirt.”

The cook came outside and looked at them. He was a short, heavily built man, with grizzled hair, wrinkled face and a walrus mustache. He glared balefully at the two cowpunchers for several moments before a grin overspread his face.

“Jist tryin’ to figure out which one of yuh was a preacher,” he said huskily. “Milly said we had comp’ny, but didn’t say how many, yuh see. Then she edged in on me and said that the preacher had arrived.”

“Yo’re Harmony, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.

“Yeah,” Harmony spat viciously. “I’m the best ---- cook in the county. Harmony Hobbs, that’s me. A disciple of peace and a promoter of brotherly love. I’ll have harmony, if I have to bang ---- out of everythin’ and everybody to git it. Howdy!”

They shook hands gravely and Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy.

“Hashknife Hartley, eh? Didja git that name from the old Hashknife outfit?”

“Uh-huh.”

“By ----! Say, it’s a small world, Hartley. Didja ever know ‘Saleratus’ Smalley, who used to cook for that outfit?”

“I sure did,” laughed Hashknife. “Did you know him?”

“No, but I knowed a man that did. It’s sure a small world, ain’t it.”

“Yeah, it ain’t very big,” laughed Hashknife.

“Uh-huh. Well, well! You sneak around to the front and come in with the main herd, gents. Dinner is get-at-able, right now. And don’t forget to bow yore heads.”

They laughed and went around to the porch, where the minister was talking to Mildred and Dad Parker. Harmony’s gong sounded its announcement and Dad Parker motioned them all into the dining room, where they sat down at the big table.

Harmony bustled around, placing food on the table, while they all waited for the minister to begin. Even Harmony stopped at the doorway, obeying some hereditary impulse, in spite of the fact that he outwardly detested ministers.

As they bowed their heads and the minister’s voice began in sonorous tones to invoke a blessing upon the food, there came the scrape of a boot heel on the threshold of the dining room and a soft laugh of derision.

Every one looked up quickly. Half-way inside the doorway stood Cliff Parker, a dark, thin-faced youth, handsome in spite of his lines of dissipation. His black, curly hair was in disorder, and there was a smear of blood on his cheek from a recent cut. Around his throat was a scarlet muffler, the ends swaying down over the front of an ornamented vest. He was still wearing a pair of heavy, bat-winged, beautifully stamped chaps, and around his waist was a heavy belt and holstered gun. His feet were encased in a pair of high-priced, extra-high-heeled boots.

He was still half-drunk, wholly sarcastic, reckless. As he encountered his father’s rebuking glance he laughed softly and glanced around the table. Harmony swore softly to himself, but it was audible to every one.

“More Sunday school, eh?” Cliff’s voice was as vibrant as a harp string. “The Reverend Jones is with us again. This makes three times in a little over a week, don’t it?”

“Cliff!” Dad Parker started to his feet. “What is the matter with you, son?”

Cliff laughed nastily and rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. His eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. The minister was looking at him wonderingly, and Hashknife was inclined to feel sorry for him.

“---- psalm singer!” sneered Cliff angrily. “Ridin’ all over the country, preachin’ hell-fire and brimstone--and gettin’ free meals. I suppose it’s a fair trade, though.”

“Cliff, be still!” warned his father hoarsely. “Don’t forget what you are and where you are. The minister is my guest.”

“You can have him,” Cliff laughed and leaned back against the wall. “You think he’s comin’ here to save our souls, don’t yuh? Souls, ----! He’s got a different reason than that, Dad.”

The minister’s face had gone a shade more pale and his eyes shot sidewise at Mildred, who was gripping the table-cloth as she stared at her brother. It was a plain inference that the minister was coming there to see Mildred, and Hashknife knew from the minister’s actions that Cliff was not far wrong in his suspicions.

“What do you mean, Cliff?” Dad Parker spoke softly now. He knew that there was no use antagonizing Cliff in his present frame of mind.

“Mean?” Cliff laughed. “Do you think that the sky-pilot is droppin’ in here so often just to see you--or me? Do yuh think that our souls mean anythin’ to him? Mebbe you can stand for a Gospel shark in the family, but I can’t.”

“Cliff!” Mildred’s face flushed angrily, as she got to her feet. “Cliff, you have no right to say such things!”

“Is that so?” Cliff turned angrily on her. “If you don’t sabe him--you’re kinda dense, Milly. I figured him out a long time ago.”

The Reverend Mr. Jones got slowly to his feet and turned to Cliff. He had recovered his composure now.

“I am sorry you feel as you do,” he said slowly. “There is no use in telling you that you are mistaken, because you have made up your mind as to certain things.” He turned to Dad Parker. “Mr. Parker, I am more sorry than I can say, and I sincerely hope that this will not affect our friendship.”

“No, don’t go--yet,” begged the old man. “This is not a thing that can----”

“Please.” The minister gave a gesture of impatience. “It is only an unpleasant situation that might be relieved by my absence. I will say good afternoon, and be on my way.”

He nodded to those at the table, turned and went out through the open door, leaving Dad Parker facing his erring son.

“Well, go ahead and explode, Dad,” said Cliff airily.

“Explode?” Dad Parker considered his offspring. “No,” he said slowly. “I am not goin’ to explode.”

“That’s good,” Cliff turned his head and looked at Harmony, whose mustache was jerking spasmodically. “What are you cryin’ about, Harmony?”

“Huh?” Harmony looked up quickly, “Who the ----’s cryin’?”

“Then yuh was laughin’,” declared Cliff. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself--laughin’ at a preacher.”

“Cliff, we still have guests--strangers,” warned Mildred.

“I seen ’em,” nodded Cliff, shifting his eyes to Hashknife and Sleepy. “I’m not apologizing to anybody today. Anyway, they don’t look like the kind of people yuh can apologize to and make ’em believe it; so I won’t try.”

“We’re not askin’ for an apology,” said Hashknife.

“That’s thoughtful of yuh,” said Cliff sarcastically, as he turned and walked out of the room. They heard him clump down the porch steps and walk away from the house.

“I don’t know just what to say,” Dad Parker turned back to his chair and looked at his guests.

“Then don’t try,” said Hashknife softly. “Whether yore son is right or wrong, he spoke his little piece in public. Now, let’s forget it.”

“I’m goin’ to thank you for that, Hartley,” said the old man, as he sat down. “I can’t understand Cliff.”

“Well, he had no right to say what he did,” declared Mildred warmly. “I think he owes me an apology.”

“I think these are among the best biscuits I ever ate,” said Hashknife seriously, “and that coffee would make any man leave home and hunt for a job on the Maverick ranch.”

Mildred was forced to smile at Harmony who beamed upon Hashknife and hurried away for another supply of biscuits and more coffee.

“I dunno why yuh specify any certain thing on this table,” stated Sleepy. “’S far as I can see, it’s the best line-up of reg’lar food we’ve surrounded in a long time.”

“I’m glad you like it,” said Mildred.

“Like it,” grinned Sleepy, “----, I love it!”

Sleepy’s inelegant compliment brought a general laugh and the former unpleasant incident was shelved for the time. They finished their meal and went out on to the porch. Cliff was in front of the bunkhouse, talking to another man who was sitting on the steps, holding the reins of his horse. The animal was a tall bay horse of racy build, and the sun sparkled on an ornate saddle of black leather and silver.

“Fancy lookin’ outfit,” observed Sleepy, as they sat down to enjoy a smoke.

Dad Parker frowned slightly, as he nodded and said:

“That is Vincent Roche, owner of the Diamond V ranch. His place is about twelve miles west of here.”

“Rides a runnin’ horse,” observed Hashknife admiringly.

“Yes, he is a little particular,” agreed Dad. “That saddle was made for him in Mexico City, and the horse cost a big sum. Roche is a plunger. I can’t admire his style, but there is no question of his nerve or ability.”

“Mebbe yore son is tryin’ to imitate him,” suggested Hashknife.

“That is the whole trouble,” said the old man sadly. “Roche and Cliff are altogether too friendly. Here he comes now.”

Hashknife and Sleepy studied the man as he walked up toward them. He was well dressed, athletic looking, with a free swing to his stride. Except for a weak chin, Vincent Roche was a handsome man. His eyes were cool, calculating, widely spaced; his forehead was broad. His ears seemed to be fitted snugly to the sides of his head, and there was a well-groomed look to his closely-cropped brown hair.

“Hello, Mr. Parker,” he called pleasantly, as he came up to them and held out his hand.

“Hello, Vincent.”

The old man was cordial enough, as they shook hands. He introduced Hashknife and Sleepy, and Roche accepted the introduction in an indifferent manner.

“Hear the old Cheyenne was held up this mornin’,” said Roche, smiling. “The Trey of Spades keeps up his deadly work, it seems.”

“They’ll get him one of these days,” declared Dad Parker. “He can only last so long, Vincent.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Roche seemed thoughtful. “I suppose it all depends on how long he keeps workin’, but you can’t expect him to quit, as long as things come easy.”

“Easy come, easy go,” quoted the old man. “He will keep it up too long, Vincent. They always do.”

“Well,” Roche laughed, “I suppose it is unlawful to say so, but I hope he keeps goin’ for a while. He’s a sport. It takes a lot of nerve to stick up a saloonful of men. And I kinda like his idea of a trade-mark, it keeps him from being identified with the common herd. Is Mildred in the house?”

Without waiting for an answer Roche brushed past them and went into the house, where he began talking to Mildred. Dad Parker sat down and they resumed their smoking.

“This is a pretty big range, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.

“Yes, pretty big,” replied Parker. “Lots of beef shipped out of here. Oxbow is the big shipping point. Quite a lot of horses shipped out of here, too; and they’re worth money now.”

“I wonder where we might get jobs,” said Hashknife. “It looks like a good range, and we’d kinda like to work a while and look it over.”

“With an idea of going into the business?”

“Possibly.”

“I don’t know. There’s the Box M southeast of here. They run a lot of cattle. Old ‘Flint’ Moore owns the place. Feller by the name of Delaney is foreman. There’s ranches scattered all across the county, and any of ’em might need a good man or two.”

“I--” he hesitated for a moment--“I might use a couple myself.”

“You mean that you need two men?” asked Sleepy quickly.

“I might.”

“Dad, I reckon you’ve had two punchers move right in on yuh.” Thus Hashknife seriously.

“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” Dad Parker grew thoughtful. “I really can use two men. I’ve only used one extra man up to this time. ‘Honey’ Davis quit me to go to work for Roche the other day. I ain’t worth nothin’ in the saddle any more, and Cliff--well, you see how it is. Yes, I guess you are hired, if you want the jobs.”

“And all the time you’ve been talkin’, we’ve been on yore payroll,” said Sleepy wonderingly. “Hashknife, we better hit for Oxbow and load up on tobacco, ’cause we’ve got a job.”

“Forty a month and food,” said the old man.

“The forty don’t interest me,” grinned Sleepy, “but the food does. C’mon, Hashknife. We don’t want to be late for supper.”

* * * * *

The sheriff and his deputy gave up the chase after an hour more of searching for further trace of the bandit, and rode back to Oxbow. The sheriff, in spite of several failures, was confident of ultimately putting the Trey of Spades behind the cell doors of his little jail.

But Buck, the deputy, was not so optimistic.

“My shootin’ is goin’ back on me,” he complained. “Can’t make out why I didn’t salivate that skinny jigger. I’ve got to do better than that, Jud.”

“Oh shut up!” snapped Farley. “Be danged glad yuh don’t have the blood of an innocent man on yore hands.”

“How do I know he’s innocent, Jud?”

“Hm-m-m!” Jud Farley wrinkled his brow in thought.

“There ain’t nothin’ to show that one of ’em ain’t the Trey of Spades,” continued Buck. “We don’t know ’em. They sure showed up there at a queer time, dontcha know it? How do we know that the Trey of Spades ain’t a stranger in this country? We don’t. By grab, mebbe I missed nailin’ him to the mast.”

“I don’t think so, Buck,” replied Farley.

“That horse never showed any signs of runnin’.”

“Thasso? Say, didja ever stop to think we didn’t get a look at the other horse--not close to? That animal was back there in the brush. By golly, you’ve got to use yore brains in this kind of a job.”

“Foresight, not hindsight, Buck,” smiled Farley. “The time to have thought of that was when we were there. It’s too late now.”

“Well, gimme credit for thinkin’ when I did,” requested Buck.

“All right. Better late than never, I suppose.”

“I ain’t supposed to do it all,” muttered Buck. “I’m only the deputy, yuh must remember.”

“You try rememberin’ it, too,” retorted Farley dryly, and Buck was squelched sufficiently to keep still for a while.

Oxbow was mildly interested in the return of the sheriff, although no one was surprised to see him come back without a prisoner. “Slim” Cole, owner of the Cheyenne, was volubly profane. The Trey of Spades had taken about five hundred dollars from Slim and he was very peevish.

In fact he was so peevish that he kicked Shy, the three-legged black cat, which was supposed to be the mascot of the Cheyenne gambling house.

“You’re goin’ to have bad luck for that, Slim,” declared “Sufferin’” Stockton, who dealt faro for the house. He was so nicknamed because of the many ailments that beset him, most of them being caused from perusing a medical book.

“The ---- I am!” snorted Slim. “Goin’ to have, am I? Say, Sufferin’, you’re about ten hours late on your prognosticatin’. I’ve had my hard luck.”

“Kickin’ a three-legged cat won’t help yuh none, that’s a dead immortal cinch.”

Slim glared across the table at Sufferin’ and said--

“Just where abouts in ---- do you feel bad?”

“Liver. Spots in front of my eyes, short breath. Kinda ----”

“Yesterday yuh had symptoms of tuberculosis. The day before that yuh had an ulcerated tooth and a double-headed carbuncle.”

“All right--” Sufferin’ grew sad--“mebbe I did. By grab, yuh don’t get no sympathy, no matter what yuh get, around here.”

“Know what you’ll have tomorrow, Sufferin’?”

“Feller never knows from one day to the other, Slim.”

“You’re goin’ to have blisters on your feet--from runnin’--if yuh don’t quit diagnosin’ yourself. You make me sick.”

“Your liver is out of kilter, too,” declared Sufferin’. “Late hours and liquor.”

“Hey! You gamblin’-house dudes! C’mon up and have a drink of yore own liquor.”

“Blackie” Dahl had come in during Slim and Sufferin’s argument and yelped at them from the bar. Blackie was a regular contributor to the Cheyenne’s exchequer, and too wild-eyed in his actions to brook a refusal to drink.

Blackie was wild, irresponsible, quick to anger. He owned the D Bar outfit and a chronic thirst. His was one of those little “starve-to-death” places, as they were known, and it was hinted that Blackie’s herd was composed of, and supported by, mavericks--unbranded calves.

Blackie was well named. His hair was as black as the proverbial raven’s wing, and he wore it long. His face was thin, evil, and his brown eyes were always bloodshot. There was nothing refined about Blackie Dahl. He boasted that his loop was wide.

“It’s all grist that comes to my mill,” he declared. “If it ain’t accordin’ to Hoyle--let ’em stop me.”

The inhabitants of the Cheyenne responded with alacrity and Blackie snorted contentedly, as they lined up at the bar.

“What’s all this talk about the Trey of Spades?” he asked Slim, who explained about the holdup.

“After I left here, eh? Knew too much to show up while I was here. I’d ’a’ sure shot the rest of the deck loose from him. Roche was here, wasn’t he?”

“He left here about two o’clock,” volunteered Sufferin’.

“Loser, as usual, eh?”

“Roche broke about even last night,” said Slim. “Cliff Parker lost about two hundred. I reckon he left about an hour after Roche left.”

“And the Trey of Spades comes along and takes the whole pot, eh?” Blackie laughed delightedly. “That whippoorwill is a dinger. I’m for him, by----!”

“Wait’ll he nicks you for a wad,” said Sufferin’.

“Me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Wait’ll he does, Sufferin’. He knows who to fool with. What did he look like?”

“Had two legs, two arms,” said Sufferin’, checking them off on his fingers.

“Yeah, and he had a head, too!” snorted Blackie angrily. “You jug-heads didn’t even take a good look at him. It was like takin’ candy from a baby!”

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker were coming in and those at the bar ceased their conversation. Dad Parker had decided to ride to town with them. He spoke to those at the bar.

“C’mon and have a drink, Parker,” invited Blackie.

“Thanks, Dahl,” smiled Dad, “but you know I neither drink nor smoke.”

“Yuh don’t, eh?” Blackie’s lips curled in a sneer. He knew that Dad Parker did not drink, and that it was through no ill-feeling that he declined, but Blackie’s brain was slightly warped from too much liquor. “C’mon and have a drink, I said!” he snorted angrily, as the old man started toward the rear of the room. Dad Parker turned and looked at Blackie, a smile on his lips.

“Thank you just the same, Blackie--I do not drink.”

“You just think yuh don’t,” Blackie surged away from the bar and advanced toward the old man, grasping him by the lapel of his coat. “When I say ‘drink’, they drink, Parker. C’mon!”

“Aw, he don’t drink, Blackie,” said Slim, crossing to them and trying to persuade Blackie to desist. “Don’t do that. He’s an old man.”

“Yea-a-ah?” Blackie whirled on Slim, his eyes blazing. “Where do you git in on this, Slim? You mind yore own ---- business, will yuh? I asked him to drink with me, and he’ll sure drink. C’mon, you old bible-back!”

“He don’t drink, pardner.” Hashknife spoke clearly, a half-smile on his lips.

Blackie whirled and looked at Hashknife closely. For several moments he considered these two strange cowpunchers, as if wondering that any one would interrupt his pleasure. Then he came slowly toward Hashknife, squinting quizzically at him.

Hashknife’s lips smiled, but his eyes were serious. He did not retreat; so Blackie stopped a few feet away, where he glanced questioningly around at those at the bar. His gaze came back to Hashknife and he licked his lips delightedly as he said--

“I didn’t quite git what you said, feller.”

Hashknife looked steadily into Blackie’s eyes, which wavered slightly.

“Yo’re a liar,” said Hashknife softly.

Blackie’s right hand jerked nervously, but he did not reach for his gun. There was something in those level eyes that told him to wait a while.

“That’s a fightin’ word,” he said hoarsely.

“That’s why I used it.”

“Oh!” It was more than Blackie could understand. He shifted his feet nervously.

“That’s why you used it, eh?”

“Yeah, I thought you was lookin’ for trouble.”

“Thought so, didja?”

“At first. Now, I know you want a chance to run.”

“Oh, the ---- I do?” Blackie fairly bristled.

“Right now you wish I wasn’t here.”

“Well, you’ve got some ---- queer ideas, feller.”

“Mebbe I have. I’ve met yore kind before. Yo’re all kinda hard to insult. In fact I don’t think it can be done.”

“Yeah? Are you tryin’ to insult me?”

“Spit on his boots,” advised Sleepy dryly. “Mebbe he’ll sabe that.”

“Who the ---- are you?” growled Blackie.

“I’m the guy that cleans up the mess after the big feller gets through,” grinned Sleepy.

“_Tough hombres,_ eh?” Blackie laughed. “If you came to Oxbow lookin’ for trouble, I reckon yuh can find it.”