Part 3

“I don’t think so.” Hashknife shook his head and half-turned toward the bar. As he turned away Blackie’s right hand flashed to his gun, which seemed to fairly hop from the holster to meet him. But before it could swing level, Sleepy’s gun jarred the whole room and Blackie staggered sidewise, his gun falling to the floor.

Blackie stumbled into a table, caught himself with one hand and swore viciously as he tried to find out how badly he was hurt. The bullet had ripped across the front of his chaps and smashed against his six-shooter between the cylinder and the butt. It had taken a chunk out of Blackie’s second finger and the shock had numbed his hand and wrist.

“You dirty coyote!” Sleepy walked over to Blackie, who cringed back against the table. “I’ve got a good notion to bend this gun over yore empty head and collect bounty on yore ears. You’d be a bad man--behind a bush.”

“That was a dirty trick,” agreed Slim. “And I think that Blackie got off cheap. By golly, that was straight shootin’ if anybody stops to ask yuh.”

Blackie scowled and stepped away from the table. He had nothing to say. He was shocked sober now. His finger was bleeding badly and he looked curiously at it.

“Better bind it up,” advised Hashknife. “The bone ain’t busted, is it?”

Blackie shook his head.

“No, it’s all right.”

Jud Farley and Buck Hardy came cautiously into the place and looked around.

“Heard some shootin’,” stated Farley, squinting at Blackie’s bleeding finger. “Didn’t know but mebbe the Trey of Spades had showed up again.”

“That’s a question,” said Hashknife slowly.

Blackie turned and shot a malevolent glance at Hashknife as he walked outside without saying a word. Farley watched him go out through the door and turned to Hashknife.

“What happened, Hartley?”

“Lemme tell it,” begged Sufferin’. “My ----, don’t let a story like that git ruined in the tellin’.”

“Go ahead,” grinned Farley. “You won’t dare to lie, ’cause a lot of yuh all seen the same thing.”

Sufferin’ grinned and launched into his story, which lost nothing in the telling. Farley listened closely, thoughtfully. He knew Blackie Dahl fairly well. In fact he had tried at odd times to catch Blackie stealing cattle, but failed.

“He’s a bad boy,” agreed Farley, after Sufferin’ had finished. “Also it isn’t good policy to merely disarm a man like Blackie. It’s like takin’ a fang out of a rattler.”

“I hardly ever kill a man, unless I have to,” said Sleepy dryly. “Of course, sometimes yuh have to work on ’em the second time, but that’s all right. It kinda makes yuh feel that yuh didn’t act too hasty.”

“Um-m-m!” Farley squinted at Sleepy, whose face was as innocent of guile as that of a year-old baby.

“I’ll buy a drink,” stated Slim Cole. “By golly, I will. And I’ll buy a lemonade for Dad Parker.”

“Well,” laughed Dad, “I might have taken a lemonade with Blackie and saved all this trouble. But I won’t quarrel with you, Slim.”

“Don’tcha try it,” said Slim seriously. “I’m no fool.”

“I’ll do my best,” laughed the bartender. “I know that yuh put lemons and water in it. These here fancy drinks sure do puzzle me.”

“Cliff didn’t come in, did he?” asked Slim. Dad Parker shook his head.

“He prob’ly don’t know we had a holdup,” grinned Slim. “He pulled out about an hour too soon.”

“Did he?” The old man squinted thoughtfully at the backbar. “What time was the holdup, Slim?”

“About four o’clock.”

“Vint Roche missed it, too,” offered Sufferin’. “He left ahead of Cliff. Vint was ahead of the game, but Cliff had his reg’lar luck. If Vint had stayed the Trey of Spades would have been a couple hundred better off.”

“Here’s the lemonade,” grinned the bartender. “Them lemons has been here a year or so, but I s’pose they’re all right.”

“Thanks,” muttered the old man. He was more interested in wondering where Cliff had been from three o’clock in the morning until about eleven.

“Didja hear about our church?” asked Sufferin’.

“What church?” queried Buck.

“The old Chuck Luck saloon is to be reformed,” laughed Slim. “Lot of the old jiggers around here was tryin’ to take up a collection to build a church; so I--yeah, they came to me first. They always come to a saloon to get money to build a church--so I thought I’d get off cheaper by lettin’ ’em have the old saloon building.

“They’re fixin’ it up. I let ’em have some chairs and donated enough to buy song books. That preacher Jones ain’t such a bad sort of a jigger. He lets my soul alone. He wanted to make a deacon out of me.” Slim laughed. “I offered to put in a roulette wheel and give him a percentage. We’re still deadlocked on our trade.”

“What denomination is he?” asked Hashknife.

“What does that mean?” queried Sufferin’.

“Is he Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, or what?”

“I dunno,” said Sufferin’ seriously. “He packs a Bible, if that’s anythin’ to go on.”

“And he sure can read it,” declared “Hunky” Smith. “I heard him rasslin’ with it over at the Box M. They had quite a meetin’ over there. Jimmy Delaney sung a song. By golly, that feller sure can sing. He married old Flint Moore’s daughter, yuh know.”

“The minister is all right,” said Dad Parker softly. “We need him in the Thunder range. I’m glad we’re goin’ to have a church in Oxbow, Slim. A little Gospel won’t hurt any of us.”

“A little won’t,” admitted Sufferin’. “It’s like delirium tremens, Dad. A little shot of it will make yuh look at things different; but too much is plumb liable to collywobble yuh.”

“Where did you get that idea, Sufferin’?” asked Dad.

“From my Pa.” Sufferin’s nose twitched violently. “Pa was a good man, I’d have yuh know. When he drank whisky he kept two distilleries workin’ nights; when he fought, he never knowed when he was licked; and when he got religion, he got all there was. And when he died--” Sufferin’ wiped away a tear--“they found a Bible inside his shirt-front. There was three bullets stickin’ into that Bible.”

“Was he in the war?” asked Hunky.

“A private one,” nodded Sufferin’. “It was him agin’ three deputy sheriffs and a U. S. marshal. Yuh see, Pa was always tryin’ things out. He didn’t believe everythin’ he heard or read.

“He wanted to prove things for himself. A preacher told him that anybody would suffer if they broke the Ten Commandments. Pa wanted to be sure about this; so he picked out the eighth one and broke it all to thunder. From the looks of Pa when they brought him in, the preacher had the right hunch.”

Sufferin’ was so serious that his listeners did not smile, although several of them, including Hashknife and Sleepy, had very moist eyes and aching belt-lines.

Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker crossed to the store and made their purchases. There was no sign of Blackie Dahl. The old man was very thoughtful on the way back to the ranch.

“Blackie is a bad man,” he told them. “It seems that he has pretty much had his own way, and this incident is not going to set well on his mind. Just be as careful as you can.”

“Dontcha worry about him,” smiled Hashknife. “He won’t be so cocky next time. Shootin’ that six-gun out of his hand made us kinda ace-high with him.” Hashknife turned and looked at Sleepy. “Just where did yuh aim to hit him, Sleepy?”

“Somewhere between the belt and the chin,” chuckled Sleepy. “I come dang near pullin’ what yuh call a ‘fox-pass.’ I’m like Buck--I’m shootin’ low.”

“Do you mean to say that you did not deliberately shoot that gun out of his hand?” demanded Dad Parker.

“Give me more credit than that,” laughed Sleepy. “There wasn’t no time for fancy work. I aimed to cut him off about at the lower vest-pocket. Any old time I shoot, yuh can bet all yore roll that I’m shootin’ to kill.”

“Blackie ain’t noways slow on gettin’ his gun,” observed Hashknife. “I didn’t look for him to do it, but yuh never can tell about his type. And he ain’t exactly a coward. Peculiar sort of a jasper, I’d say. Didja notice the look he gave me when I kinda connected him with the Trey of Spades?”

“I did,” nodded Sleepy. “He sure throwed a lot of hate into that look. Mebbe he is the Trey of Spades, at that.”

“What kind of a feller is the sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“Salt of the earth,” replied Dad Parker. “Jud Farley is one white man. Buck Hardy is pretty much of a danged fool, but he’s as honest as the day is long. They’re both old timers in the Thunder country. Jud isn’t what you’d call a thinkin’ sheriff, but he tries as hard as the next man.”

“Have you any idea who the Trey of Spades is?”

“Not the slightest. From his work, I would say that he is an experienced hand at the game. He has never made a false move yet. His hauls have not been big, but big enough to make folks uneasy. No, I do not think it is any one who belongs around here.”

“Prob’ly don’t,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “I sure hope not, anyway.”

“Why do you say that, Hartley?”

“’Cause it ain’t nice to think of home folks runnin’ their neck into a noose.”

They rode on to the Maverick ranch, put up their horses and were shown their bunkhouse quarters by Harmony.

“Yuh won’t have much chance to loaf around,” informed Harmony. “Nothin’ but work around here. Seems like I have it all to do, too. Some day I’m goin’ to start right off across the hills and not quit runnin’ ’till I git so ---- far away from a cow ranch that all I’ll ever see of a cow is a pitcher of one on a condensed milk can.”

“Ain’t this a good outfit to work for?” laughed Hashknife.

“Good? Is any of ’em good, I ask yuh? I s’pose that Dad Parker is as good as any to work for. It don’t make much difference who yuh cook for. You’ve got a ---- of a job anyway yuh look at it.”

“Miss Parker helps yuh, don’t she?”

“Milly? Help? Yeah.” Harmony spat dryly and turned to the door. “She makes doughnuts. Vincent Roche likes doughnuts. I’ll be ---- if I’d make ’em for him.”

“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I think we’re goin’ to like it around here. It’s quiet, harmless and the food is fair.”

“Fair, eh? Quiet, harmless, ----! Say, how did you fellers happen to come along and land jobs here?”

“Just happened.” Hashknife stretched out on a bunk and squinted up at the ceiling.

“Uh-huh. I heard Cliff talkin’ to Milly after yuh left. He kinda opined that mebbe yuh was sent in here.”

“Sent in here? What for, Harmony?”

“Well, the sheriff ain’t been able to catch the Trey of Spades.”

Hashknife laughed and shook his head violently.

“Nothin’ like that, Harmony. We’re just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers, tha’sall. The Trey of Spades don’t bother us, and as long as he lets us alone, we’ll let him alone.”

“I wasn’t tryin’ to pump yuh,” reminded Harmony.

“You got any idea who he is?” asked Sleepy.

“Prob’ly.” Harmony grinned and hitched up his belt. “I mostly always do have an idea on things--wrong ideas. If I ever do hit it right I’ll quit cookin’ and buy me a tin star. I seen in a magazine where I can become a detective for a dollar and six-bits, includin’ star. All I’ve got to have is a gun and a clever mind.”

“Yuh could buy a second-hand gun,” grinned Sleepy.

“That’d make me mechanically perfect,” sighed Harmony. “But I’d still be a ---- of a good cook.”

* * * * *

For the next few days Hashknife and Sleepy were busy. The home corrals were in a bad state of repair and the line fences had been neglected for months. Dad Parker gave them a free hand. Cliff gave them no assistance. In fact he spent little time at the ranch, and it was hinted that Cliff was “stuck” on a dance-hall girl in Oxbow, who was known as the “Countess.”

“And if that ain’t ----, I’ll eat m’ shirt,” declared Harmony confidentially. “Cliff’s fi-nan-seer is comin’ to visit the ranch in a few days. She’s a dinger of a girl, too. Name’s Dorothy Clement.

“She was here last summer for a couple months. Her and Milly used to go to school together. Cliff got stuck on her last summer and Milly told me that they was goin’ to git married this fall. That’s why Dad helped Cliff to git a start. Done him a ---- of a lot of good, didn’t it? Blowed in everythin’ he owned, and now he’s stuck on a dance-hall skirt. Life’s a ---- of a queer deal, any old way yuh look at it.”

“We’re all queer,” declared Hashknife.

“Well, I run kinda true to form,” stated Harmony seriously. “I’m a ---- fool all the time.”

“Yo’re just a human bein’,” laughed Hashknife. “Mebbe yo’re a little more human than some of ’em, Harmony. What kind of a feller is this Vincent Roche?”

“That’s a question, Hartley. Vint is a wild ridin’, high-rollin’ sort of a jigger. The Diamond V ain’t makin’ no money, but Vint is sure spendin’ a-plenty. His dad left the ranch to him, and he’s made a monkey out of it.

“I’m plumb scared to death that Milly is goin’ to marry him. He’s one of them doughnut eaters and wears plenty of vi’let perfume. But don’tcha ever get the idea that Vint ain’t hard-boiled. Cliff was all right until he got to trailin’ with Vint. ’Course he wasn’t no mamma’s angel child before--but tryin’ to keep up with Vint--” Harmony shook his head sadly. “Well, Cliff is seven kinds of a ---- fool, tha’sall.”

“I ain’t seen the preacher around here since Cliff bawled him out,” observed Sleepy.

“Aw, that egg!” Harmony’s nose wrinkled disgustedly. “He’s stuck on Milly, too. I’ve seen that comin’ on for quite a while, but it wasn’t none of my business. He may go to heaven when he dies, but he won’t git far on this earth.”

“Do you know Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.

“Yuh danged right! He’s a tough jigger, Blackie is. Dad told me what happened down at the Cheyenne, and I can say that you was plumb lucky. Blackie’s sudden, y’betcha. And you take my advice--look out fer him.”

Hashknife promised that they would follow his advice, and started for the bunkhouse when Mildred called to them from the front porch. Dad had just come in with the mail, but was not with her.

“Somethin’ we can do, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.

“Come and sit down here on the porch,” said Mildred, and they accepted her invitation. She had a letter in her hand which she had been reading, and there was a worried expression on her face. She hesitated about opening the conversation.

“I just had a letter.” She indicated the one she held. “Dad just brought it from Oxbow, and it is from the girl that Cliff is engaged to marry. She is coming here to spend a month--and Cliff is in town, drunk. Dad tried to get him to come home, but it was no use.

“Dorothy Clements--that is her name--will arrive in Oxbow about five o’clock today, and she expects Cliff to meet her at the train. She thinks that Cliff is an angel.”

Mildred got to her feet and walked to the edge of the porch with the letter clutched tightly in both hands.

“Oh, it is just too bad! Dorothy is a lovely girl. I can’t bear to tell her what has happened to Cliff--but she will have to know. Dad is all broke up over it. Cliff is killing Dad by inches, but Dad says nothing.”

“Yeah, it sure is too bad,” agreed Hashknife softly. “But it might all come out in the wash, ma’am. Do yuh want us to go down and bring her in from Oxbow?”

“Would you?” Quickly. “Dad and I could go, but there is too much danger of us running into Cliff. You know what he is like when he is drunk. He would be sure to suspect that Dorothy was coming in tonight, because he knows that she is coming soon.”

“Won’t it look kinda queer to her to not see any of the family there to meet her?”

“Yes, I suppose it will. But I--I----”

“You go along with us,” suggested Hashknife. “We can give Cliff a bum steer. Leave it to me and Sleepy, will yuh, ma’am?”

“Yes, I will, mister,” mimicking Hashknife’s expression. “Why don’t you call me Milly, like everyone else does? I hate to be called ‘ma’am.’ I won’t mind calling you Hashknife and Sleepy. Harmony told me that you were a couple of non-pa-reels. I don’t know what he meant, but it was quite a lot for Harmony to say about anyone.”

Hashknife and Sleepy laughed as they got to their feet.

“All right, Milly,” said Hashknife seriously. “The carriage will be ready any old time yuh say. We’ll hitch that roan team to the spring-wagon, and I’ll betcha Miss Dorothy won’t miss anybody until she gets her breath back ag’in.”

“All right, Hashknife. Better put in some robes, because it will be cool riding home.”

An hour later they drove the half-wild team up to the front of the house, and Sleepy swung to their bits until Mildred was into the seat. Then he swung them around and managed to climb into the rear of the wagon as Hashknife drove them through the gate on the run, swinging into the main road on two wheels, and heading for Oxbow in a cloud of dust.

* * * * *

Cliff Parker’s future had assumed an indigo tint. There was a sour taste of liquor in his mouth, as he leaned against the Cheyenne bar and considered everything in general. The aproned bartender was openly sympathetic and also philosophic.

“They’re all alike,” he told Cliff. “The Countess wasn’t no exception, son. She accepted your money, loved yuh accordingly and then transferred her attentions. I dunno what she can see about Blackie Dahl--but wimmin are queer cattle. Aw, cheer up, Cliff. There’s lots of wimmin’. I’ve been in love lotsa times.”

“Oh, go to ----!” groaned Cliff.

“Hit hard,” observed the bartender to himself, and then to Cliff: “Why don’tcha go home and sober up? You’ve been drunk for a week. Next thing yuh know you’ll be seein’ little red devils with green hats and goggle-eyes. Grab on to yourself.”

Cliff shoved away from the bar, spat viciously and searched his pockets for tobacco and cigarette papers.

“You hadn’t ought to hold no bad feelin’s toward Blackie.” Thus the bartender thoughtfully. “He never took her away from yuh--she just went.”

“Yeah, she just went,” nodded Cliff dryly. “She’s straight as a string, but she didn’t play square. I don’t sabe her. She don’t drink, smoke nor swear.”

“But she sure can sing,” said the bartender. “That’s all Slim hired her for. By golly, she sure don’t have nothin’ to do with anybody, unless she wants to. Next thing we know she’ll be snaggin’ the preacher. Ha, ha, ha! I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Aw, shut up!” Cliff resented this accusation. He hated the minister.

“She’s over in the Rodeo restaurant, eatin’ with Blackie,” continued the bartender. “Prob’ly fried oysters.” That was the bartender’s idea of something out of the ordinary.

Cliff walked outside and leaned against the doorway. It had been an effort for him to keep his hands off the loquacious bartender. He realized for the first time that he was making a fool of himself, bringing disgrace upon his father and sister.

It seemed weeks since he had been home and he wondered, in a detached sort of a way, if every one was all right. His mouth was dry and his throat ached.

“I’m in awful shape,” he told himself. “Kinda jiggly all over. I wonder if that bartender--aw, to ---- with the red devils!”

He squinted across the street at the Rodeo restaurant. What was it the bartender had said, he wondered? Wasn’t it something about fried oysters?

“When did I eat last?” he asked himself. He couldn’t remember.

Then he swung away from the building and crossed the street toward the restaurant. As he stepped up on the wooden sidewalk the Countess came out, followed by Blackie Dahl.

The Countess was not of the approved type of dance-hall girl. She was slightly above medium height, slender, graceful. Her face was well modeled, and chemicals had had nothing to do with the tinting of her dark auburn hair.

She was well dressed, with none of the artificial colors and bangles of the honkatonk, and there were no lines of dissipation in her creamy complexion. There was a half-smile on her lips, as she listened to Blackie Dahl who was shutting the door behind them.

Cliff glanced at her, in a detached sort of a way, and almost bumped into Blackie, who tried to step around Cliff to join her. But he did not watch his step, and stumbled over Cliff’s foot, taking a header square into a porch post.

He threw out both hands to save himself, but his head hit the post a resounding whack. An ordinary man would have been knocked unconscious, but Blackie Dahl was no ordinary man--so far as thickness of skull was concerned.

He swore dazedly, got to his feet quickly, and, with only one instinct left--to walk--he strode boldly into a hitch-rack, a few feet away, and was knocked flat on his back.

The Countess did not look at Cliff, who leaned against the café door and gazed seriously upon Blackie’s acrobatics, but there were tears on her cheeks, as she started across the street alone.

Blackie managed to get to his feet, but he was too dazed to understand what had happened to him. He could see the Countess going away from him; so he followed her, or as near as he could, with his erratic course.

“If he was tryin’ to entertain her, he’s loco,” declared Cliff to himself. “She didn’t even wait to see if he got up.”

Then he turned and went into the restaurant.

Five miles of dirt road had taken most of the ambition out of the roan team, and they were willing to stop at a side-street hitch-rack. Hashknife and Sleepy went to the depot with Mildred, where they found that the train was several hours late.

“Isn’t that bad luck!” exclaimed Mildred impatiently. “If we stay here very long, Cliff will surely find us or see that team.”

“Don’t yuh worry about that,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll take care of Cliff for yuh.”

The depot agent came back to the window and looked out at them. He had been in charge of the Oxbow station for years and knew every one.

“Miss Parker, why don’tcha go upstairs and visit with my wife until train time?” he asked. “She don’t have a lot of company, and she’ll be tickled to have you. Supper is almost ready, I think.”

“Oh, that would be just lovely,” agreed Mildred.

“You bet it would,” agreed the agent, laughing. “Come on and I’ll go up with you.”

“That’s sure a swell idea,” grinned Hashknife, patting her on the shoulder. “You go ahead and don’t worry about anythin’. Me and Sleepy will be here when the train comes.”

They left the depot and walked up the street to the Cheyenne, where they ran into Blackie Dahl. Blackie was cold sober, and one of his eyes had assumed a purple shade. He merely nodded to them and walked away. The bartender grinned covertly and set out the glasses.

“I dunno who done it to him, but I think it was Cliff Parker.”

“What did they fight over?” grinned Hashknife.

“Mebbe it was the Countess, I dunno. Cliff left here and I think he went over to the Rodeo restaurant, where Blackie and the Countess was eatin’ oysters, prob’ly. Anyway, it was only a little while until the Countess comes in and goes back toward the dance-hall, with Blackie trailin’ her. He’s sure owl-eyed.”

“Where is Cliff now?” asked Hashknife.

“Gosh, I dunno.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Not so very. He’s kinda got a hang-over. If he don’t brace up he’s goin’ to see things, don’tcha know it? A young feller like him can’t gurgle hooch forever without annexin’ a few queer animals. But he ain’t the kind yuh can advise. Have another on the house--the boss ain’t here.”

They accepted the invitation and strolled around the place. The Cheyenne was quite an institution. The bar-room was about fifty feet long by twenty-five feet wide, adjoining the gambling room, which was of the same proportions, with a wide, arched doorway connecting the two rooms. At the rear was the dance-hall, which was about fifty by thirty, with a small stage built across the right-hand end. Wide doorways opened from both the bar-room and the gambling room.

The appointments were not elegant, but they were substantial. Slim Cole drew the business of Thunder range, and his games were on the square. Over the bar was this caption:

_WE ARE NOT IN THIS BUSINESS FOR YOUR HEALTH_

And in a huge frame in the gambling room was this statement:

YOUR HOME AND BUSINESS FIRST _We don’t Want Money with Tear Drops on its Trail_