Part 9

“Well--” the long-nosed one grinned slightly--“that’s kinda hard t’ tell, stranger. Ol’ Pete went t’ New Mexico ’bout three year ago, and died of tick-del-aroo; so it’s kinda hard for t’ give yuh his address.”

Hashknife thanked him gravely and they went back to the Cheyenne.

“What kind of a ---- disease did old Pete Duncan die of?” asked Sleepy.

“Tic douloureux,” laughed Hashknife.

“Didn’t yuh ever hear that name before? It’s neuralgia of the face, I think. Prob’ly he died of a sore head. A lot of the old timers used that name for mostly every disease. It sounds like a lot, don’t it?”

“It sure does.”

A few minutes later they ran into Buck Hardy, and he drew them aside to impart the information that the sheriff had released Cliff Parker.

“I reckon Jud knows what he’s doin’,” said Buck. “Yuh see, he never did arrest Cliff.”

“Where’s Cliff now?” queried Hashknife.

“Gone home, I reckon. Jud was afraid somebody might take exception to seein’ Cliff runnin’ loose; so Jud went with him to get his horse. By golly, I came ---- near gittin’ Cliff lynched, didn’t I? That’s what liquor does to a feller. I’m all through with that stuff, y’betcha.”

“The preacher kinda saved yuh,” laughed Hashknife.

“Dang right he did. He sure helped everybody, and I’ll betcha he has a crowd to his church tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah. The place is all fixed up fine now. He sure worked hard to get it fixed. The ghost of the old Chuck Luck Saloon will sure turn over in its grave tomorrow.”

Farley came in and joined them.

“Buck told yuh, didn’t he?” he asked.

“Yeah,” smiled Hashknife. “Some of ’em will likely yelp about it, but it was about all yuh could do. Did he go home?”

“Well, he started home. Let’s have a drink.”

They went over to the bar and made known their wants.

“Give me whisky,” said Buck seriously. “When yo’re quittin’ liquor, whisky is the best stuff to taper off on.”

Slim Cole joined them and Hashknife asked him about the Countess.

“Can’t find her,” said Slim shaking his head. “I tell yuh, I’m worried about that girl. Somethin’ must ’a’ happened to her.”

“What could happen to her?” asked the sheriff. “Things don’t usually happen to a dance-hall girl.”

Slim’s lips formed an angry reply, but he turned away and walked across into the gambling room.

“Mebbe he was stuck on her, too,” whispered Buck.

“Funnier things than that have happened,” said Hashknife dryly, and Sleepy grinned knowingly.

They drifted away from the bar and watched the play in the gambling room, which was growing heavier all the time. Cowboys swore feelingly, as their month’s wages were swept away in a few turns of the wheel or the turn of a card. Some of them were fortunate enough to keep ahead of the game, but few were able to stand prosperity and strewed their money recklessly; talking at the top of their voices to no one in particular, and laughing at their own witty remarks.

“Well, shall we go home?” asked Hashknife.

“Might as well,” Sleepy yawned widely. “I could use a little sleep.”

Just outside the door they found the sheriff and another man, talking earnestly. The sheriff turned to Hashknife.

“This is Jack Woods, the depot agent, Hartley. He says that the passenger train left Silverbend an hour and a half ago and ain’t showed up yet. It don’t take over forty minutes for the run.”

“And the wires are dead,” added Woods. “Went dead just after the train left Silverbend.”

“Ain’t much yuh can do, except to wait, is there?” asked Hashknife.

“Not much,” agreed the sheriff. “Let’s walk up to the depot.”

They were nearly to the depot when they heard the far-away whistle of an engine.

“There she comes!” exclaimed Woods, increasing his pace. “We’ll soon know what caused the delay.”

* * * * *

The headlight of the engine was in sight when they reached the platform. The train clanked in slowly and stopped with a decided jerk. Several men were standing in the open door of the express car, holding lanterns, and the conductor came hurrying from the rear of the train.

“Anything wrong?” asked Woods. The conductor lifted his lantern nervously.

“Oh, is that you, Woods? We were held up at Meteor Creek. Engineer shot. Got to get a doctor for him right away.”

“This is the sheriff,” said Woods quickly. “We were afraid something had happened. The line is cut between here and Silverbend.”

“I’ll go after the doctor,” offered Sleepy, who went running down the street, while Hashknife and Farley climbed into the express car where the engineer was stretched out on a cot groaning with a broken right arm.

The through safe was lying on its side, door wide open, and there was a strong odor of dynamite in the car. Passengers were unloading from the train and walking about the platform.

“Tell me about it,” said the sheriff.

“It was a one-man job,” said the conductor, placing his lantern on the wrecked safe. “He flagged us down with a red lantern on the far side of the Meteor Creek bridge, and he was into the cab before the engine crew realized what it was all about.

“He took them back and uncoupled the express car. I had swung down to see what was the trouble, and he drove me back with a couple of shots. Then he made the crew pull the express car over the bridge and up the line two miles. Oh, he knew his business.

“He threatened to dynamite the door of the express car; so the messenger let him in, and he made them all look on while he loaded the safe with dynamite. The engineer made an attempt to stop him and got a bullet in his arm. It took nerve, I’ll tell you.”

“How much money did he get?” asked the sheriff.

“That’s hard to tell.”

“Enough,” said the messenger shortly.

“This side of Meteor bridge, eh?” grunted the sheriff. “He probably had his horse planted there.”

“Yore horse,” corrected Hashknife.

“Yeah, my horse, I reckon. And there ain’t a bronc in this doggone range that could catch him. There ain’t a bit of use goin’ out there. He knew where he was goin’ when he left that train--and we don’t.”

“Better wait until mornin’,” agreed Hashknife.

Sleepy arrived with the doctor, who had the injured man removed to the waiting-room of the depot.

“Well, he didn’t leave his card,” observed Sleepy, as he and Hashknife went back to the hitch-racks after their horses.

“That’s right, nobody mentioned the trey of spades.” Hashknife started to mount his horse, but hesitated and handed the reins to Sleepy.

“Wait here a minute.”

He went into the Cheyenne and found Sufferin’ Stockton, who had just left his game to get some supper.

“Sufferin’, did you ever know a gent by the name of Pete Duncan?”

“Old Pete Duncan? Sure did. He left here and went to Old Mexico and----”

“Died of a pain in his face,” added Hashknife, grinning. “Where did he live around here?”

“D Bar ranch. He sold out to Blackie Dahl.”

“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, and bolted out of the place to join Sleepy. But instead of riding toward the Maverick ranch they swung out of town in the opposite direction and took the road which led to the east.

“You ain’t turned around, are yuh?” queried Sleepy.

“Not yet. I’m just beginnin’ to get straightened out.”

Hashknife glanced at his watch. It was well past midnight. A moon poked itself over the crest of the Thunder mountains and lighted up the yellow ribbon of road ahead of them.

“I’m glad there’s a little light on the subject,” stated Sleepy peevishly. “Either you think I’m a mind-reader, or yuh want to keep me plumb ignorant. I’ll betcha yo’re afraid you’ve made a mistake, and that I’ll laugh at yuh, if yuh have.”

“I’m lookin’ for somethin’, Sleepy.”

“The ---- yuh are! By golly, I thought yuh was just takin’ a ride. Well, that makes it better and relieves my mind quite a lot.”

Hashknife laughed, but did not enlighten Sleepy, who knew that Hashknife was not in the habit of talking about what he was going to do. It was a strange road to both of them, but they knew that it led to the D Bar ranch, which was about six miles from Oxbow.

“That old moon sure makes it nice for us,” observed Hashknife, as they galloped along over the dusty road.

“Yeah? Is this a six-shooter mission, Hashknife?”

“Yuh never can tell, Sleepy.”

“Well, it’s somethin’--to know that much about it.”

The road swung farther into the hills, going onto the higher ground, as they neared the D Bar ranch. A right-hand curve brought them out onto the brow of a hill, where they could see the outlines of the ranch buildings below and to the left of them.

They drew up their horses and dismounted.

“Drops us below the skyline,” observed Hashknife, as he squatted on his heels and began rolling a cigarette.

“There’s a light in the house,” said Sleepy. “That’s Blackie Dahl’s place, ain’t it?”

“Must be. Mebbe we better move closer and find out what’s keepin’ him up so late.”

“Yo’re the general of this army, Hashknife.”

Hashknife laughed and straightened up.

“We’ll walk in from here, Sleepy. It ain’t far, and we can keep kinda under cover thataway.”

They tied the horses just off the road and went down through the sagebrush toward the ranch house. The light had disappeared now, as they made a cautious advance. They were almost to the tumble-down fence, which partly enclosed the ranch house, when Hashknife grasped Sleepy by the arm.

A rider, leading a horse, had appeared from around behind the house and was heading northwest. It was not light enough to distinguish colors, but it was light enough to show that there were two horses and one rider.

“Whoever that is, he’s takin’ a pack-horse along,” declared Hashknife. “Can’tcha see the pack on the rear animal?”

“Plenty plain,” grunted Sleepy. “I’ll betcha that’s Blackie Dahl, and he’s makin’ his getaway.”

“Looks like it, sure enough. C’mon.”

They trotted over to the house and looked around. The rider had disappeared in the hills. Hashknife knocked on the front door with the barrel of his gun, but no one answered. Cautiously he tried the knob and found the door unlocked.

They went inside and found a small oil lamp on the table. Hashknife scratched a match and touched it to the wick. The weak illumination showed them a dirty, disordered room; smelling strongly of liquor and grease. The table was littered with dirty dishes, the rusty stove was gobby from spilled food. But Hashknife paid little attention to the room, as he carried the lamp from place to place, searching. On a crude mantel he found some empty cartridge shells, which he examined and showed to Sleepy.

“A feller down at the store would call ’em ‘Mow-zers’,” grinned Hashknife. “I had a hunch that we’d find a Mauser here, but it ain’t here. Vincent Roche was shot with a high-power gun, shootin’ solid-point bullets.”

After a final inspection, Hashknife blew out the lamp and led the way outside.

“We’ll get our broncs and see if we can catch sight of that jigger and his pack-horse, Sleepy. I’ve an idea he’s the feller we’re lookin’ for, and he won’t travel so awful fast.”

“I’ll foller yuh blindly,” complained Sleepy, as they panted back up the slope to their horses. “I’ll betcha you ain’t got no ---- of a fine idea where we’re goin’, nor what we’re liable to find.”

“You’d win,” laughed Hashknife.

“And that pack-horse sure shows that somebody is pullin’ out for a good long stay, Hashknife.”

“Longer than that--mebbe. C’mon. We’ve got to keep off the ridges, cowboy; so peel the old eye ahead.”

* * * * *

And while Hashknife and Sleepy rode through the moonlit hills, trying to catch sight of the rider ahead of them, Dad Parker and Cliff sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house, talking seriously. Cliff had told them of the attempt to lynch him. Making a clean breast of it, he told Milly and Dorothy of the many things that had happened to him; of how, in a drunken haze, he had bumped into the jewelry store robbery, and of how Hashknife and Sleepy had saved him. He did not spare himself.

“I’m not out of the woods yet,” he told them. “Until the real Trey of Spades is caught--I’m liable to be it. The sheriff had my hat. He still thinks that Hashknife or Sleepy stole it from him, but they swear they didn’t.”

“Where is their interest in it all?” asked Milly.

“I think they’re detectives. Vincent thinks they are, too. They may be Government agents. You know, the Trey of Spades stole registered mail, and Uncle Sam don’t lie down and let a mail robbery go unnoticed.”

Dorothy listened silently to it all. Then:

“You were not in the hills the night I came, Cliff?”

“No. I was rolled up in a blanket, with my hands and feet tied and a gag in my mouth; and you rested your feet on me all the way home that night. I didn’t know much about it. I had been hit pretty hard, and I was soaked with whisky to begin with.”

“You girls better sleep over it,” advised Dad Parker. “It looks worse now than it will in the mornin’. We’re goin’ to church tomorrow afternoon.”

“I’m going to town right now,” declared Milly. “Vint needs me. Whether he is right or wrong, I’m going. Will you go with me, Cliff?”

“Sure thing.”

“We’ll hitch up the team,” said Dad Parker slowly, “and all go. I’ll wake Harmony and tell him that----”

“Who’s this comin’?” wondered Cliff. Two men rode into the ranch and came straight up to them.

“Howdy, folks,” called one of them.

“It’s Franklin, of the Diamond V,” said Cliff. “How are yuh, Frank?”

“Travelin’ in good company, too,” laughed Franklin. “Brought the minister with me.”

“The minister?” said Dad wonderingly.

“Yes, the minister,” laughed the Reverend Mr. Jones, dismounting. “This is a queer time to come calling, isn’t it?”

“What brings you here?” asked Dad.

“It appears that a lady is missing,” explained the minister. “She is a singer in the Cheyenne dance-hall. There seems to be considerable apprehension over her absence. Mr. Cole organized sort of a search party, but she is not to be found in Oxbow.

“A number of the boys volunteered to make a search of the surrounding country, and I offered my services; so Mr. Franklin and myself came in this direction.”

“The Countess missing?” queried Cliff.

“That’s her,” said Franklin. “Where are them two punchers that’s workin’ here?”

“They’re in Oxbow,” said Cliff.

“They pulled out for home quite a while ago. Right after the train robbery.”

“Train robbery?”

“Didn’t yuh know about that?” asked Franklin. He told them about the robbery--or what he knew of it.

“Well,” laughed Cliff, “they can’t blame me for that. If it hadn’t been for the preacher, I’d be danglin’ on a rope now.”

“Yuh sure would,” agreed Franklin. “It was an awful fizzle.”

“Mebbe not,” said Cliff dryly. “Farley had Hartley and Stevens in there with him. You fellers got off lucky.”

“They seem like a nice pair of fellows,” said the minister.

“You don’t know half of it,” said Cliff. “If I was the Trey of Spades I’d sure hightail it out of here.”

“What do yuh mean by that?” asked Franklin.

“Well,” laughed Cliff, “Dad thought he hired a pair of cowpunchers.”

“Thought he did?”

“Yeah. Mebbe the Trey of Spades thought so, too. I’ll go down and hitch up that team, Dad.”

“Did Cliff mean that them two fellers are detectives?” asked Franklin.

“He seems to think so,” replied Dad.

“Are you going to town?” asked the minister.

“Yes. We were coming in tomorrow to church--or rather today--but Milly is anxious to see Vincent Roche.”

“We might as well be movin’,” said Franklin. “That bronc of yours needs plenty of time to go anywhere, Jones.”

The minister laughed shortly and mounted.

“We’ll see you at church,” called Dad.

“Not me--yuh won’t,” called back Franklin, as they rode away back toward Oxbow.

“Why won’t you come to church?” asked the minister, after a long period of silence.

“Don’t care for it, that’s why.”

“Don’t believe in it?”

“Mebbe not.”

“Franklin, who do you think shot Vincent Roche?”

“Who?” Franklin laughed hoarsely, as he swung his horse in closer to the minister. “Who do I think shot him? Listen to me you ---- sneak! I know you. Preacher ----! You ride too well, and you’ve got a six-gun under yore vest. ---- you, I don’t know what you know, but I hate a ---- detective!”

As Franklin snapped out his last sentence he fired his gun almost against the minister. The two horses whirled wildly at the crash of the heavy revolver, and the minister went headlong to the ground, sparks of fire drifting from his clothes where the powder had ignited them.

Franklin jerked his horse under control and spurred back to where the minister lay, a blacker blot in the shadow of the sage. The gray horse had only gone a short distance away.

The minister had fallen far enough away from the road to be invisible at night. Franklin looked cautiously around, as if debating what to do next. Then he rode out to the gray horse, caught the reins and led it further back against the hills, after which he spurred on toward Oxbow.

And Franklin might have been surprised to see the minister get to his feet, brush the dust off his black suit and move away from the road, while the wagon from the Maverick ranch went past.

“That is the advantage of a shoulder holster,” said the minister, half-aloud. “The bullet was fired almost against the gun. So it was Franklin, eh? The last man I would have suspected. Well, I suppose I shall have to walk to town.”

And while the minister plodded along the dusty road in the moonlight, Sid Franklin rode into Oxbow, a potential two-time murderer, but with a feeling of security in his heart.

“It’s too ---- bad I didn’t have a trey of spades to stick into his vest,” he told himself. “By ----, it might not be a bad idea to do it after all.”

He strode into the Cheyenne, with that idea in mind.

The crowd had thinned considerably, but there were still a few men playing the games. The floor was littered with cards; so Franklin waited his chance to pick up a trey of spades. In order to allay suspicion he picked up several more, and amused himself by spinning them across the room.

Finally he slipped one into his pocket and sauntered out of the place, stopping at the bar to find out whether any one had found the Countess--which they had not. Then he got his horse and rode furiously back to where he had left the minister.

At first he thought he had made a mistake in the place, but closer inspection showed that it was the right place, but the body was not there. For a long time he sat on his heels, his mind in a whirl. He had been an awful fool he was forced to admit.

He had virtually confessed to the shooting of Roche, and had failed to make sure that the minister’s lips were sealed.

“Held the gun right agin’ him, too,” he told himself. He took the card out of his pocket and looked at it closely. Then he swore hoarsely and tore it into bits.

It was a joker! He had thrown away the wrong card.

“I’ve gotta keep under cover,” he told himself. “And I’ve got to kill that ---- detective before he can tell on me. I’ll go to his shack and finish the job.”

He rode swiftly back to Oxbow, tied his horse at a little-used rack, and made his way around to the minister’s little shack, which was located some little distance from the center of town. He walked boldly to the door and knocked loudly, but there was no response.

“----!” swore Franklin. “He ain’t got here yet. No wonder--I made him walk.”

A light streak had appeared in the eastern sky, proclaiming that daylight was not far away. He noticed this and swore nervously. His future was not half as rosy as that sky was becoming. But still the minister did not put in an appearance. Finally he left the house and walked back to the street. He had made up his mind that there was only one thing for him to do, and that was--flight.

There were several men in front of the Cheyenne, which Franklin avoided. He did not want to waste time in idle words with any one, because time was worth money to him now. He passed between the Rodeo restaurant and the vacant building, walked around to the hitch-rack--and cursed bitterly.

His horse was gone.

* * * * *

And while the Gods of Fate juggled with Sid Franklin’s future, Hashknife and Sleepy rode higher into the hills, traveling over a strange country, following some one whom they knew not. Twice in an hour they had seen the rider and a led horse top the skyline of the hills, and they were sure that it was the same man they had seen leave the D Bar ranch.

He had swung in a quarter-circle, until now he was heading almost west of Oxbow. They had traveled slowly.

“Goin’ to be daylight pretty soon,” observed Hashknife. “If he’s makin’ a getaway, he’ll likely hole up at daylight and we’ll have a chance to look him over.”

They had crossed the railroad near the point where the train had been held up, although they did not know it.

“I thought he was headin’ for the main divide,” said Hashknife, “but he’s swingin’ too far to the left now. There might be a pass over there, where he can go through, but my private idea is that he’s huntin’ a hole to crawl into.”

“I hope he’s been worth follerin’,” said Sleepy. “If we’ve just been trailin’ some prospector, I’ll be kinda peevish.”

Hashknife laughed shortly. It had been hard traveling. The hills were rather brushy, dry; which made it difficult for them to travel with any degree of silence.

Daylight swept away the haze and they found themselves on the slope of a timbered cañon. There was no sign of their quarry, although they sat there and studied the country for several minutes.

“We’ll swing around the head of this cañon,” suggested Hashknife, after studying the broken slope of the opposite side. “If that jigger knows this country, he wouldn’t go down there.”

They rode slowly along the rim, scrutinizing the depths, and were just about to swing back to higher ground, when Sleepy drew up his horse and pointed down through the timber.

“See it down there?” he asked, as Hashknife swung around and came back to him. “See that horse down there?”

“A black horse!” snorted Hashknife, and added: “In a brush corral. Whatcha know about that?”

He dropped off his horse and hunted for a better view.

“There’s a shack down there, Sleepy!” he called softly from where he crouched on the rim of the cañon. “Yuh can’t see it very plain, but it’s there.”

Together they studied the place. It was impossible to get a clear view of the shack, which was quite a little distance below the brush corral.

“We’ll go further up the cañon and see if we can find a way to sneak down,” said Hashknife. “I think our man is down there, and he’s the jigger that took the sheriff’s horse, I reckon.”

“It won’t take us long to find out,” grinned Sleepy.

“If he ain’t already seen us. We better go danged quiet.”

They drew away from the rim, circled wide and came in at the upper end of the cañon, where it was possible to find a fairly easy slope down through the heavy brush.

* * * * *

Sid Franklin leaned on the hitch-rack for some time. He was both frightened and angry. Whether his horse had pulled away and gone home, or whether some one had stolen it, he had not the slightest idea. He could not remember whether he had tied the animal securely or not.

Finally he resolved to steal a horse from the Cheyenne rack and ride back to the Diamond V, where there were plenty of good horses. But he was destined to more disappointment. As he neared the rack, the sheriff, Buck Hardy, and Cliff Parker came out of the saloon and saw him.

“Sid, I want yuh to go with us,” said the sheriff. “Get yore horse right away and bring him around to the office.”

“Huh!” Franklin debated swiftly. He had thought at first that the sheriff meant that he was under arrest, but now he knew that Farley wanted him to ride with the posse.

“Somebody stole my bronc,” he said calmly. “I tied him to the rack around there a while ago, but he’s gone.”

“Did he leave his card?” asked Buck.