Part 8

“I think I got up and tried to find my way back to the street, but I bumped into things. I was wandering around like a lost pup, when all to once I got a flash of light in my eyes, and something stung my face. I can kinda remember hearin’ a gun go off, but I won’t swear to that.

“Anyway, something or somebody bumped into me, almost knocking me down, and a moment later somethin’ landed on my head. The next thing I remember was wakin’ up in the bunkhouse at the ranch. It was like a fool dream--even the next mornin’, when you made me ride into the part of a queer dream--somethin’ I had to do.”

“Yo’re liable to git a di-plomay,” said Hashknife softly. “Now, tell me about last night, Cliff. Did yuh leave there with Roche?”

“Yeah. I wasn’t very drunk last night. Roche won a pile of money, but I didn’t play, ’cause I was broke. We rode away together, late last night. We talked things over and he gave me a wad of money. He kinda blamed himself for me bein’ broke; so he gave me a poker stake.”

“That was it, eh?” Hashknife nodded slowly. It was dark in there, but Hashknife did not need to see Cliff’s face to know he was telling the truth.

“Where did you leave Roche?”

“Where the road forks. We talked a few minutes. He asked me to sober up and behave myself. I--I told him I would.”

“Will yuh, Cliff?”

“I was goin’ to. Now, I dunno what’ll happen.”

“Ain’t nothin’ goin’ to happen. Your story might not be much good in court, but it’s good with me.”

“Dad thinks I’m guilty.”

“What about Milly?”

“Prob’ly.”

“Does Miss Clement know?”

“Part of it. She thinks that I turned her down for another girl.”

“Didn’t yuh, Cliff?”

“By ----, I reckon I tried to, Hartley. Oh, I’m no good. I’ve rode ’em wild for the last few months, and I’m right where a lot of folks said I’d be. I had a start--once. Dad helped me out. He’s a good old dad. Milly’s a peach. But I don’t know why I act like I have. Mebbe I’m a throw-back.”

“Are yuh still engaged to Miss Clement?”

“I--I don’t know. Not if she’s got good sense.”

“She prob’ly hasn’t. Girls are kinda funny thataway--about fellers they like a lot.”

“Well, I’m sorry. I want to thank yuh for blockin’ my draw tonight. I suppose I might have killed Buck. And they’d ’a’ hung me, if you hadn’t rushed me out. Oh, I was sore at yuh, Hartley. But bein’ here behind these bars, with a drunken mob wantin’ to hang me--well, I kinda seen things different.”

“If yuh get out of this mess--will yuh be good?”

“Well,” Cliff hesitated for a moment, “I dunno. Human nature is a queer thing, Hartley. I don’t want to lie to you; so I’ll just say that, lookin’ at it now, I sure as ---- will. Once I get outside--I dunno.”

“I’m glad you’re a human bein’,” said Hashknife slowly. “I like folks that know somethin’ about themselves. So many men only know what they can see of themselves in a mirror. They never get deeper into their own mind than the root of their hair. You set down and enjoy yore surroundin’s, while I try to find out a few things.”

“You’ll tell ’em--at the ranch, won’t yuh?”

“They’ll have to know, Cliff.”

“Well, you tell ’em, Hartley. They’ll believe you.”

Hashknife went back to the front office, where Sleepy and the sheriff were repairing the front door.

“What did yuh find out?” asked the sheriff.

“Quite a lot,” said Hashknife. “Let me take that card yuh found on Roche, will yuh?”

“Y’betcha.” The sheriff gave him the card. “What good will the card do yuh, Hartley?”

“I dunno. C’mon, Sleepy. We’ll see yuh later, Farley.”

* * * * *

They crossed the street to the Cheyenne and went inside. The place was thronged with cattlemen. Many of them knew that Hashknife and Sleepy had been with the sheriff, but bore them no ill-will. In the gambling room they found Slim Cole, who greeted them with an expansive grin.

“The preacher sure saved you jiggers,” he declared.

“We appreciate that part of it,” replied Hashknife. “It was a fool idea, Slim. Whisky makes a mob forget that they’re human. But even if the preacher hadn’t showed up, there would have been plenty of crape hangin’ to Thunder County doorknobs tomorrow.”

“And that’s no dream,” agreed Slim slowly. “Well, I suppose they’ll let the law make the rest of the mistakes.”

“You don’t think that Cliff is guilty?”

“Do you?”

Hashknife grinned and took a playing card from his vest-pocket.

“Do you use this brand in here, Slim?”

Slim squinted at the card, examined it closely and shook his head.

“Nope, we don’t use ’em. That’s a high-grade card, Hartley. No gamblin’ house ever furnishes them kind.”

“How about this one?” Hashknife handed him the card which had been found on Vincent Roche.

“That’s the kind we use,” nodded Slim.

Hashknife pocketed the cards and looked around the room. In the dance-hall the orchestra was playing furiously, while half-drunk cowpunchers swung dizzily through the rapid-fire two-step.

“Is the Countess in there?” asked Hashknife.

Slim grinned widely, as he shook his head.

“She ain’t, Hartley. But if yuh really want to know where she is, I’ll impart the information that she’s down at the doctor’s place.”

“Interested in Roche, eh?”

“Well,” grinned Slim, “it might be the old doctor. He’s past sixty and homely as ----; but yuh can’t tell nothin’ ’bout the Countess. She sure does switch brands often.”

“How’s our friend Blackie Dahl?”

“That reptile!” Slim looked around. “He was here about the time the mob decided to rub yuh out, but he ain’t been in since.”

Slim moved away to a group around a faro game.

“You stick around here, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “I’m goin’ down to see how Roche is comin’ along.”

“Oh, yeah?” Sleepy was a trifle sarcastic. “Well, just remember the little birdies, Hashknife.”

Hashknife grinned and elbowed his way through the mob. The doctor’s house was on the outskirts of the town, tucked away in a clump of stunted cottonwoods. As he went through the gate and started up the narrow walk, the door opened and the Countess came out. She was dressed in black, with the exception of a filmy white scarf.

She recognized Hashknife in the light from a window.

“Good evening, Mr. Hartley,” she said softly.

“Howdy, ma’am.”

“You were going to see the doctor?”

“No-o-o, I reckon I was comin’ to see you.”

“To see me? How flattering! Really, I never expected to have you coming to see me.”

“Why not?”

“Well, for one thing, you seem too sensible.”

“I’m much obliged,” laughed Hashknife. “I wish Sleepy could hear yuh say that. Sleepy thinks I’m the big he-fool of ’em all.”

“No,” she said slowly, “you are not a fool, Mr. Man.”

“But I’m liable to be--most any time, ma’am.”

They moved down closer to the gate in the heavy shadows of the cottonwoods, where they leaned against the fence. From there they could hear the Cheyenne orchestra, the music softened by distance. Somewhere a half-drunk cowboy was trying to sing.

“Why did you wish to see me?” asked the Countess.

“To tell yuh a few things, ma’am. You’ll prob’ly tell me that it ain’t none of my business. Mebbe it ain’t. The fact is, I can’t mind my own business. You know what happened tonight, don’tcha?”

“The arrest of Cliff Parker--yes.”

“I work for his dad. He’s a fine old man. Cliff’s got a sister that’s awful nice and sweet, ma’am. She’s as game as they make ’em. And then there’s a little lady who came here to marry Cliff. She’s out there at the Maverick ranch, cryin’ her eyes out.

“She don’t know that Cliff is suspected of being a criminal, but she does know that Cliff got stuck on a girl here in town, and she thinks he don’t care for her no more.”

The Countess was silent for a while. Then she put her hand on Hashknife’s arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” she said softly. “Awful sorry.”

“And there’s Milly--the sister. Yuh see, her and Vincent Roche was kinda engaged, I reckon. She found out that Vincent Roche was kinda takin’ a lot of interest in some girl in town, too.”

“Vincent Roche.” The Countess spoke softly. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. Man. I didn’t know, don’t you see?”

“Yeah, I see. But bein’ sorry don’t help ’em out. I’m not blamin’ you. Good gosh, it’s all in yore business. But I thought I’d kinda let yuh know about it, ma’am.”

“Do you blame them--Cliff Parker and Vincent Roche?” There was a hint of laughter in her voice. Hashknife shifted uneasily.

“Well, I s’pose not,” he faltered. “I dunno just what to say, in a case like this. They’re human, ma’am.”

“And being human, they fall from grace and into love with a dance-hall jade.”

“Somethin’ like that, I s’pose. Still, you didn’t keep ’em trailin’ yuh forever.” Hashknife laughed softly. “You kinda look ’em over, don’tcha? I was just wonderin’ if yo’re lookin’ for a certain kind of a person, and discardin’ them that don’t measure up to what yuh want.”

“Perhaps.” She laughed softly. “Who knows? I may have designs on you.”

“No-o-o, I don’t reckon yuh have, ma’am. I ain’t worth investigatin’. The fact of the matter is, yuh can look right at me and tell what I am.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“Well, that’s good. Yuh saw a homely, long-legged puncher, who don’t amount to anythin’, and decided to let him alone. I looked at you and seen a new type of dance-hall girl. But honest Injun, ma’am, yuh hadn’t ought to waste yore voice in a place like the Cheyenne. Yo’re young, pretty, and you’ve sure got one dinger of a voice.”

“Do you like to hear me sing, Mr. Man?”

“Somethin’ like that song yuh sung the first day I seen yuh.”

“‘The Sweetest Story Ever Told’?”

“I dunno the name--but it sure was sweet. Well, I reckon I’ve taken up enough of yore time. If yuh don’t get back to the Cheyenne you’ll be losin’ yore job.”

“I suppose so.” Her voice was a trifle weary. “Was this all you wanted to tell me? Just warn me to keep away from Cliff and Vincent?”

“Not warn yuh, ma’am. Lord love yuh, that’s yore business. I just wanted to tell yuh what it means to others. If you don’t want ’em--I know who does.”

The Countess laughed and moved through the gate.

“Then you have no interest beyond trying to help your friends?”

“Ain’t that enough interest, ma’am?”

“Yes, I think that is enough. Do you believe that Cliff shot Vincent?”

“I know danged well he didn’t.”

“Then who did?”

“Remains to be seen, as the undertaker said.”

A rider was coming toward them from the rear of the south side of town, a shapeless blot in the dark, traveling slowly. It appeared that he was coming to the doctor’s home, but swung north and passed them. It was impossible to distinguish the color of the horse. The blot faded into the night, with only the soft thud of slow moving hoofs and the creak of saddle-leather to tell of its passing.

“Some cowpuncher goin’ home,” said Hashknife softly.

“It is wonderful here at night,” said the Countess. “The day brings out nature at her worst. It is like turning a spotlight onto the face of a miser. But at night, under the blue of the moonlight, or under the yellow lamp-light, the roughness is all gone, like an out-of-focus picture. I hate reality, but love mystery, the moonlight, blurred figures.

“I have watched them ride into town, a blotch of ink-like, shapeless things, which blends with more blots at the hitch-racks. Then they come clumping along on foot toward the lighted windows, which throw long, grotesque shadows behind them, until they suddenly take the shape of men under the lights. Then the mystery is gone. They are only human beings, laughing, talking, swearing in their friendly way. But I would rather see them in the night, goblin-like hulks, with their spur-chains rattling, saddles creaking.”

“I like it thataway,” said Hashknife softly. “I like the camp-fire in the hills, cattle trailin’ along in the moonlight, when the world is all silver and blue. Why, ma’am, even the bark of a coyote sounds like a welcome to me.”

“I love it, too, Mr. Man. It seems that we love the same things, doesn’t it?”

“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, “I wouldn’t go quite that far, ma’am. Yuh see, I ain’t got much use for Blackie Dahl.”

For a moment the Countess was silent, and then she laughed chokingly, almost hysterically. It was quite a while before she recovered her composure.

“I think I will go now,” she said, trying to keep the laughter out of her voice. “I don’t know whether you meant that or not--but it sounded like it. Good-by, Mr. Man.”

She went swiftly back toward the street, while Hashknife leaned on the gate and watched her disappear. He grinned to himself, as he rolled a cigarette.

“Birdies singin’?” he muttered to himself. “No-o-o, I don’t think so. But she’s danged nice--too nice to be singin’ songs in a honkatonk and mixin’ with folks like Blackie Dahl.”

He turned away from the gate and started toward the house, but stopped. Another horse and rider went pounding past, but this one was going in the opposite direction, and going fast. The cottonwoods obscured his view now, but as the rider swept past he was sure he caught a glimpse of something white. It was only a flash. He was unable to distinguish shapes, but he knew it was a horse and rider. The pounding hoofs died away in the distance.

“Somebody in a hurry,” he reflected, as he knocked on the doctor’s door.

The doctor answered the knock. He was a little old man with partly bald head and spectacles. Hashknife had never seen him before, and did not waste time in introductions.

“I just wanted to find out how Roche is gettin’ along?”

“Well,” the doctor hesitated. “He’s doing better than I expected, but he is still unconscious.”

“Do yuh think he’ll get well?”

“As long as he’s alive he has a chance.”

“Didja get the bullets out of him?”

“There were no bullets in him.”

“Went plumb through, eh?”

“Yes. Rather a small caliber bullet, I suppose.”

“I see. Well,” Hashknife turned away, “I’m much obliged, doctor.”

“You are welcome.”

Hashknife walked back toward the street, thinking things over. It was evident that Vincent Roche had been shot with a rifle. The average small caliber six-shooter, using black powder and an all-lead bullet, would hardly pass entirely through the body of a man, except in rare cases. And it would be too much of a coincidence for two of them to do so in succession.

He went back to the Cheyenne and joined Sleepy, who had been losing a few dollars on a roulette wheel. The crowd was fairly orderly. Buck Hardy had sobered enough to hate himself for what he had done, and was moping around, trying to square himself.

Hashknife stood in the entrance to the dance-hall for half an hour, but did not manage to see the Countess. Sleepy knew what Hashknife was looking for, and it amused him greatly.

“The tall feller is lookin’ for the fairy lady,” he told Slim Cole, loud enough for Hashknife to hear.

Slim laughed.

“They all fall for her, Sleepy. She’s a heart-breaker. The last time I seen Blackie Dahl he was eatin’ a handful of spikes. I’m tellin’ yuh she’s a hoodoo. There’s Cliff Parker in jail, Vint Roche in the hospital, and Blackie Dahl filin’ his teeth, like a cannibal gettin’ ready to eat ’em raw.”

But Hashknife merely grinned easily and let them joke at his expense. It was about an hour later that Hashknife saw Blackie Dahl in the gambling room. He was playing the roulette wheel, his sombrero tilted low over his eyes, a set grin on his lips.

And Hashknife grinned as he thought of how the Countess had laughed at his insinuation that she loved Blackie Dahl. He was not a lovable character. Several times he lifted his head and squinted at Sleepy who was watching the play. He had never paid any attention to Sleepy since the day Sleepy had shot the gun out of his hand; but Sleepy knew that Blackie had not forgotten the incident.

Someone touched Hashknife on the arm, and he turned to see the sheriff, who beckoned him to follow. They went outside and walked away from the doorway.

“I’ve got somethin’ for yuh, Hartley,” said the sheriff, as he handed something to Hashknife. Hashknife stepped back to the light from the window and squinted at another trey of spades. It was another of the expensive brand.

“Where did yuh find this?” queried Hashknife.

The sheriff laughed shortly and put the card in his pocket.

“The man that left that card took the fastest horse in the Thunder country, Hartley.”

“Yore horse, Jud?”

“Yeah--my black horse. I don’t use him much. Kept him in the stable with my other bronc and Buck’s roan. He could run a mile while our other horses were just thinkin’ about startin’. A while ago I went out to feed ’em. The black was gone, and stickin’ to the feed-box was this ---- card.”

“When did yuh see the black horse last?”

“This afternoon.”

“Hm-m-m!” Hashknife was thinking of the two riders, who had passed him, going in opposite directions. The first one had come from toward the sheriff’s barn, which was located behind the office and jail building.

“Somebody is expectin’ to travel like ----,” said the sheriff sadly. “That animal was worth a thousand dollars of any man’s money.”

“Mebbe the Trey of Spades is thinkin’ it’s about time to hit the grit, Jud.”

“Well, he picked somethin’ to hit it with.”

They went back into the saloon and joined Slim at the bar. The sheriff did not mention the stolen horse. In a few minutes Sufferin’ Stockton came to Slim and drew him aside. After a short conversation Slim came back to the bar.

“I was just wonderin’ what became of the Countess,” he said, as he filled his glass. “She went down to the doctor’s home quite a while ago. I sent Sufferin’ down there, but she left there early. She ain’t in the house nor in her room.”

“That’s kinda funny,” remarked the sheriff.

“The doctor told Sufferin’ that a strange man came there shortly after she went away.”

“That was me,” said Hashknife. “I talked with her. She was just startin’ back.”

“Aw, she’ll show up,” assured the sheriff. “So danged many things happen these days that we’re lookin’ for trouble.”

As they turned away from the bar, Blackie Dahl walked past them and went outside. Hashknife sauntered over to the door, and in a minute or two Blackie rode past the saloon, seemingly in a hurry.

Hashknife found Sleepy in the dance-hall and they sat down at a table.

“I’ve been waitin’ for the Countess to sing a song,” said Sleepy grinning, “but she ain’t showed up yet.”

“Somebody stole the sheriff’s race horse,” said Hashknife. “They left the trey of spades.”

“Another one?” Sleepy leaned his elbows on the table and squinted at Hashknife. “Comin’ kinda fast, ain’t they?”

“Too fast. It looks like a getaway, Sleepy. Farley says that the black horse can outrun anythin’ in the country. The Countess left the doctor’s house about fifteen minutes after I left you--and she ain’t never showed up since.”

“Thasso? This is gettin’ interestin’, Hashknife. Do yuh think she’s connected in any way with the Trey of Spades?”

“I hate to think so. We were standin’ at the gate down at the doctor’s house, when somebody rode past, comin’ from the general direction of the sheriff’s stable. It was too dark to see who it was. They were sure goin’ careful-like.

“A few minutes later another rider goes past me, travelin’ in the opposite direction, but this one was just hittin’ the highspots. It might have been the same rider, but whoever it was, they sure went away spinnin’ like a spike.”

“Went past you?” queried Sleepy. “Wasn’t the Countess with yuh?”

“Not when the last one went past. She had started for here.”

Farley came into the hall and headed for their table, where he took a seat.

“They’ve looked all around for that girl,” he said slowly. “None of the girls have seen her.”

“What do you think about her?” asked Sleepy.

“In what way, Stevens?”

“Think she’s mixed up with the Trey of Spades?”

“Huh!” Farley scowled thoughtfully. “I never thought of her in that way. I wonder if that horse of mine----?”

Hashknife interrupted him to speak about the two riders he had seen.

“By ----, I’ll bet that’s it!” said Farley emphatically. “She left you in time to meet him.”

“But it was only one rider, Farley.”

“And if it was her--why do they make their getaway now? We don’t know who the Trey of Spades is,” said Sleepy. “Their game is just as good as ever.”

“But, if Roche dies, they’re facin’ a noose,” argued Farley.

Hashknife shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ it, Farley. Why did the Trey of Spades try to fasten the crime onto Cliff Parker? Cliff and Roche rode away from town that night together. They parted at the fork of the road.”

“And that’s where Roche was found the next mornin’.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed Hashknife. “But did you notice Roche’s saddle? It was all gummed up with blood, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, it sure was.”

“Would a man spill that much blood before he could fall off his horse? Roche was hit hard enough to knock him plumb out of the saddle. I tell yuh, he was shot quite a long ways from the fork of the road, and they packed him back there on his horse. They stole his money and left him there, with a trey of spades stickin’ in his vest.”

“Well, that don’t mean anything to me, Hartley.”

“All right,” grinned Hashknife. “It only means to me that whoever did that job knew that Cliff and Roche rode away together that night. And the Trey of Spades--well, look at it thisaway, Jud: If the Trey of Spades wanted to throw suspicion of his crimes onto somebody else, he wouldn’t leave his trade-mark on every job.”

“Then you don’t think that the Trey of Spades shot Vincent Roche?”

“One of ’em did.”

“You mean--do you think there’s more than one?”

Hashknife smiled softly and began rolling a cigarette.

“Mebbe you’re right,” mused the sheriff. “I never thought of such a thing before. How about that jewelry store robbery?”

Hashknife scratched a match and puffed thoughtfully.

“That’s one thing that convinces me that the Trey of Spades did not shoot Vincent Roche. You found Cliff Parker’s hat out in that back yard, Jud. It was danged good evidence, wasn’t it?”

The sheriff nodded quickly.

“I could almost get a conviction on that hat.”

“And,” grinned Hashknife, “to keep Cliff Parker from stealin’ his glory, the Trey of Spades stole the hat from you, Jud.”

“You mean to say that he stole the hat to keep Cliff from bein’ arrested?”

“Just exactly.”

“Mebbe,” Jud wasn’t exactly convinced. “I had the idea that one of you fellers took the hat. You done yore dangdest to keep what you knew under cover. You found Cliff there, didn’t yuh?”

“Sure we did,” Hashknife grinned widely. “If we hadn’t he’d be in the penitentiary right now. My gosh, everythin’ was agin’ him.”

“He ought to thank yuh,” said Jud. “I was sure he pulled that job.”

“He saved the jewelry, Jud. The Trey of Spades bumped into him and scattered the loot all over. I reckon he bent his gun over Cliff’s head, thinkin’ Cliff was tryin’ to stop him.”

Farley nodded and got to his feet.

“I’ve got to keep movin’,” he said. “I’m gettin’ as nervous as an old lady.”

He moved across the dance-hall, dodging the dancers, and Sleepy turned to Hashknife.

“What about that string of pearls we found in Cliff’s pocket?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about them, Sleepy. Let’s go across to the store and get some tobacco.”

They crossed the street and went into a general store. There were a number of men in there, swapping lies. Hashknife bought some tobacco and cigarette papers.

“You got any high-power rifle ca’tridges, with solid jackets?” he asked the clerk.

“Nope. Nobody uses ’em here. I’ve got plenty thirty-thirties, with soft-noses, and some thirty-forties, same bullet.”

“Do yuh know anybody around here that might have some?”

“Nope, I don’t.”

“What was that?” One of the bystanders, a long-nosed person, wanted to be of assistance.

“High-power cartridges,” said the clerk. “Them solid pointed ones.”

“Oh! Nope, I dunno anybody what uses ’em. Ol’ Pete Duncan used to have one of them there Mow-zers. I reckon he had some.”

“Where could I find him?” asked Hashknife.