The Project Gutenberg eBook of Dancing Devil range

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Title: Dancing Devil range

Author: W. C. Tuttle

Illustrator: Kuhlhoff

Release date: May 9, 2025 [eBook #76049]

Language: English

Original publication: New York, NY: Short Stories, Inc, 1948

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76049

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DANCING DEVIL RANGE ***

DANCING DEVIL RANGE

by W. C. Tuttle

Hashknife Wasn’t Exactly the Size and Shape to Play Santa Claus; Still and All, Peace on Earth Was a Long Way from Dancing Devil Valley That Particular Season

A long, dusty freight train rattled and clanked through the desert hills, seemingly in no hurry to anywhere. Outside it was almost dark, and there were no lights inside the caboose, where Hashknife Hartley sprawled on an uncomfortable seat and gazed wearily through a dusty window. Across the aisle was Hashknife’s partner, Sleepy Stevens, stretched out on the seat, his head pillowed on his war-sack.

Hashknife was inches over six feet tall, of slender, steel-muscled manhood, his sombrero pulled low over his gray eyes. Sleepy Stevens was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder and beam, slightly bow-legged. Sleepy had a grin-wrinkled face, wide mouth and innocent-looking blue eyes, which seemed amazed at the world.

In garb they were merely a pair of drifting cowboys; well-worn Stetsons, colorless shirts, stringy vests, little more than a depository for tobacco and papers, faded overalls and high-heel boots. There was nothing fancy about these two cowpokes. Their gun-belts were home-made, form-fitted by wear, and even their Colt guns, tucked into short holsters, had plain wooden butts, blackened by wear.

A sleepy-eyed brakeman climbed down from the cupola and wiped a grimy forearm across his dusty eyes and lighted his lantern. He said, “We’re pullin’ into Northgate, boys.”

Sleepy swung around on the seat, yawned widely and picked up his war-sack. The train was slowing down, as they came out on the platform. Each one of them picked up a heavy saddle and stepped down. There were few lights in Northgate, the railroad point for all of the Dancing Devil range.

There were huge loading corrals along the tracks, indicating that much livestock was shipped from Northgate. The train stopped, with the caboose close to the depot, and the two men swung down. The conductor crossed in front of them, going into the depot, where a kerosene lamp yellow-lighted the windows. A man came from the near corner of the depot, walking swiftly toward the rear platform of the caboose.

He had just reached the steps and was about to enter the caboose, when a shotgun blasted from down behind the loading platform. The man twisted around, tried to grasp the doorway, but missed, and went backwards off the platform, falling in the middle of the tracks behind the caboose.

Hashknife and Sleepy dropped their impedimenta and ran over to the caboose. There was no sign of the shooter. The conductor, depot-agent and a brakeman came running. They picked the man up and placed him on the platform while Hashknife told them where the shot came from. There was no one in sight. The victim had stopped a dozen buckshot, and was beyond any medical assistance.

There was no law officer in Northgate, the sheriffs office being at Tomahawk Flats, thirty miles south, center of the Dancing Devil range. Someone summoned a doctor, and other curious people arrived. A cowboy said, “I know who he is—he’s Oren Blakely. I think he worked for the Circle H, down at Tomahawk Flats.”

Hashknife and Sleepy secured a room at a little hotel, and, after considerable haggling, bought two horses from the man who owned the livery-stable and feed corral. They told him they were leaving for Tomahawk Flats in the morning. He said, “if yo’re lookin’ for work down there—”

“What about it?” asked Hashknife quickly.

“I just meant that they prob’ly ain’t lookin’ for cowpokes. Yuh see, the bank went busted and that busted most of the cowmen, makin’ things kinda bad down there. If a feller was lookin’ for work— But that’s yore business.”

“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, but he didn’t say whether it was for the advice or the information.

Over at the hotel they heard a man say that they had sent for the sheriff and the coroner. Another man said, “It ain’t goin’ to be a very merry Christmas down there this year.”

In their little room, Hashknife sprawled on the bed, smoking a cigarette, while Sleepy looked moodily from a dusty window. Sleepy said, “I just hope we ain’t playin’ Sandy Claws for Bob Marsh.”

Hashknife laughed shortly. “Where’d yuh get that idea?”

Sleepy sat down and began manufacturing a cigarette.

“Distrust of Bob Marsh,” he replied. “Bob sets there at his desk, his big, brown eyes as full of honesty as a coyote pup is full of fleas, and explains that all on earth he wants us to do is come down here, get the best possible price on three, four cattle spreads, and let him know.”

“Well?” suggested Hashknife curiously.

“That’s all we’ve got to do,” sighed Sleepy. “No rustlers, no horse-thieves—just a couple real estate men on horseback.”

“Sounds all right to me,” said Hashknife. “We get paid so much for the job, and if the deals go through we get more money. It’s an honest job, Sleepy. Bob Marsh, as secretary of the Cattlemen’s Association, can’t afford to be mixed up in a crooked deal.”

“Yeah, I know but—well, a man was murdered tonight.”

“Men,” remarked Hashknife quietly, “are murdered every day.”

“Yeah, I know, but—you heard that man at the livery-stable, sayin’ that everybody in the Dancin’ Devil country are broke. The bank went busted—”

“Are you lookin’ for boogers, Sleepy?”

“No, I’m tryin’ to figure out why Bob Marsh got us down here. If he can’t get us into trouble one way, he’ll—well, all right.”

“I’ve just thought of somethin’ else,” said Hashknife soberly. Sleepy looked sharply at him and said, “Yeah? What?”

“It ain’t long until Christmas, pardner.”

“I heard that mentioned tonight, High Pockets. Christmas! Heat and dust. Yuh know, I’d like to spend a Christmas in the snow agin, Hashknife. It ain’t Christmas down here, except on the calendar. We had real Christmases in Idaho.”

“We had ’em in Montana, too,” said Hashknife. “My old man, bein’ a range preacher, was strong for things like that. I ’member the church trees decorated with popcorn in strings, popcorn balls, and little, red sacks of mosquito-nettin’, full of hard candy, with a tired-lookin’ orange in the bottom. They’d read telegrams from Santa Claus, showin’ that he was comin’—and then he’d come, all in a bear-skin coat, sleigh-bells, whiskers—”

“Bringin’ a pair of skates for little Hashknife,” suggested Sleepy.

“They called me Henry,” smiled Hashknife, “but I never got any skates. A range preacher didn’t make money enough—and we had a whopper of a family. We was poor folks, Sleepy.”

“Poor folks in Tomahawk Flats, too, they say. Be a bad Christmas down there—and we’re goin’ down to try and buy ’em out as cheap as possible.”

Hashknife nodded slowly. “That’s life, Sleepy.”

“It’s a tough life for busted folks. Yuh know,” Sleepy began rolling a cigarette, “I’ll bet yuh a dollar agin a doughnut that we don’t buy any spreads.”

“Anythin’ to base that bet on?”

“Bob Marsh. Listen, tall-feller; Bob Marsh used that as an excuse, or my original name ain’t Stevens. He wanted us to come here and let Nature take her course. Yuh can’t fool me, feller; I’m wise to Bob Marsh. No, I don’t say that Bob’s crooked, but he’s allus been a connivin’ critter.”

“He told the idea as straight as a string, Sleepy.”

“And here we are,” added Sleepy. “We get off the train—and what happens? A man is blasted down with a load of buckshot, that’s what happened. He poked cows for one of them poverty-stricken outfits at Tomahawk Flats.”

Hashknife grinned. “A coincidence, Sleepy. Prob’ly a grudge between two men—nothin’ to do with us.”

“No? Nothin’ t’ do with us, sez he. Huh! And yore long nose has been wigglin’ and sniffin’, like the nose of a bloodhound, ever since that poor devil done a hooligan off the end of that caboose. Nothin’ to do with us, eh? Let’s go to bed, before yuh get me all riled up.”

Hashknife laughed. It was like Sleepy to complain of things that might happen. They had been together a long time, these two drifting cowboys, always trying to find out what was going on over the next hill, only working long enough to suffice for their few wants, and then going on, always looking, helping some under-dog, asking nothing for themselves.

Hashknife, with his ability to solve range mysteries, could have sold his services to the law, and made money. But neither law nor money meant anything to them. They had seen the law miscarry too often. They loved justice—which is not necessarily law. At rare times they worked for the Cattlemen’s Association, asking only that they be given a free hand and not be hampered by rules. But neither of them enjoyed nor appreciated the work. Bob Marsh would have almost given his right hand to have them work for his organization. In fact, he used every sort of ruse to get them on certain jobs, knowing that Hashknife, confronted by a problem, would never give up, until it was solved. That was why Sleepy mistrusted Bob Marsh’s casual suggestion that they make some money for themselves by asking prices on some cattle ranches.

They found the depot-agent in the little restaurant next morning, eating breakfast with Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, and his deputy, Frenchy Arnett. The agent recognized them, and told the sheriff that these were the two men who had just arrived on the freight train, and were present when Oren Blakely was shot. Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and sat down at their table. He was unable to tell them any more than they already knew about the shooting.

Nick McGarvin was a big, two-fisted sort of person, and Hashknife mentally listed him as a much better man with his fists or gun than with his brains. Frenchy Arnett was small, dark, hatchet-faced, with a sour disposition and need of sleep. The agent went back to the depot, and the sheriff remarked:

“You two came in on the freight, packin’ saddles, bought two broncs from the feed-corral, and said you was headin’ for Tomahawk Flats tomorrow morning—that bein’ today.”

“The corral man told yuh,” said Hashknife. “Did he also tell yuh what else we said?”

“No, he didn’t. What else did yuh say?”

“I don’t remember,” replied Hashknife. “It was prob’ly just as important as what he told yuh.”

The sheriff nodded, but Frenchy grinned and looked sideways at the sheriff. Frenchy said, “It’s allus best to write it out. Things like that require study.”

“What are you talkin’ about?” asked the sheriff.

“Nothin’, Nick.”

“Tells us some more about us,” suggested Sleepy soberly. “It’s shore interestin’.”

“We don’t know any more,” replied the sheriff. “It’s my duty to know things.”

“Yuh mean—findin’ out about everybody’s deep, dark past?” asked Sleepy.

“Askin’,” corrected Frenchy. “Nick’s good at it.”

“Any idea who shot the man, Sheriff?” asked Hashknife.

“No. He’s worked for the Circle H for over a year, and I ain’t never knowed him to have trouble with anybody. ’Course, I’ll have to check up with Sam Hack—he owns the Circle H. Sam might know who Oren was feudin’ with—I dunno.”

They finished breakfast, and Hashknife and Sleepy decided to ride to Tomahawk Flats with the two officers, who had, so far, failed to find out why Hashknife and Sleepy were going there. As they were saddling at the livery-stable, a rider, on a very tired horse, swung off the street and into the stable:

The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.”

Jim Bailey swung off his saddle and came over close to the sheriff. He said, “Nick, I got here as quick as I could. Somebody shot and killed Chiquita Morales last night!”

The big sheriff stared at Jim Bailey, while Frenchy Arnett said, “Aw, Gawd, they didn’t do that, Jim!”

Bailey nodded grimly. “She musta been in town, Frenchy—in a buggy. They tied the horse about a mile out of town and shot her.”

Hashknife did not ask any questions as the sheriff said wearily, “We’re headin’ home right now, Jim. Doc Miles left about three o’clock with the body of Oren Blakely.”

“It’s shore gettin’ to be a awful tough country,” sighed Jim Bailey. “She was settin’ there in the buggy—”

“Shut up!” snapped Frenchy sharply. He dropped his reins and walked over to the big, sliding doors, where he stood, staring out at the street. Jim Bailey shook his head.

“Chiquita was Frenchy’s sweetheart,” whispered the sheriff.

“That’s what he thought—mebbe,” said Bailey.

Bailey and Frenchy rode ahead, leaving the sheriff to ride with Hashknife and Sleepy.

“We heard that the bank went busted in Tomahawk Flats,” remarked Hashknife.

“Robbed,” corrected the sheriff. “Three men.”

“Cleaned it out, eh?”

“Nothin’ left—and it busted a lot of folks. Yuh see, Thomas Colton owned the bank—the Cattleman’s Independent Bank. Old Ed Weed was the cashier. It was a good bank, too, with plenty cash. Tom Colton is a fine feller—everybody liked him. He played square with everybody—never hounded ’em on mortgages and all that.

“Well, a short time ago, three men got into Ed Weed’s house, made him give ’em the combination of the safe, took his keys, tied Old Ed up so tight that he ain’t rid of the kinks yet, and took their sweet time in bustin’ the bank. They emptied the vault. As far as we can find out, there wasn’t a thin dime left. It broke a lot of folks, I’ll tell yuh that. I lost seven hundred dollars myself.”

“Where,” asked Hashknife, “does this Chiquita Morales figure in the deal, Sheriff?”

“She don’t. Her father, Pete Morales, owns a little rancho. Chiquita is about eighteen. I reckon, and as pretty as a bug’s ear. I’m past forty and I’m married, but every time she looked at me and grinned—I lost at least fifteen years of age. They’re poor, them Morales are. Poor old Pete, this’ll hit him hard.”

“No idea who busted the bank, eh?” queried Sleepy.

The sheriff sat disgustedly. “We’ve got a prisoner,” he said.

“Oh, yuh caught one of ’em, eh?” remarked Hashknife.

“Quien sabe? Yuh see, it’s thisaway. Andy Davidson—we call him Uncle Andy, and his wife, Aunt Judy—the finest folks yuh ever knowed—have a son, Johnny. Johnny’s fine. Hell, yuh can’t have a pa and ma like them, and not be fine. Johnny’s engaged to marry Nell Frawley on Christmas Eve. Well, Johnny’s in jail.”

“It don’t seem to work out,” said Hashknife.

“That’s right—but there he is. Yuh see, Johnny wears a ring. That is, he did. Navajo, I reckon. Big ring, silver and with a turquoise cross. Anybody’d know that ring. Tom Weed says that one of the men who robbed the bank wore that ring. Johnny didn’t have it on his finger when we arrested him, and he can’t tell us where it is. He just sets there in his cell, staring at the bars. It’s a tough situation, Hartley.”

“Well, can’t he prove where he was that night?” asked Sleepy.

“If he can—he won’t. Yuh can’t get a word out of him.”

“What does his girl think of the deal?” asked Sleepy.

“Nell Frawley. Lord, I dunno what she thinks. Nell is one of the finest yuh ever seen, and yuh can’t beat her folks. They got hit awful hard in that bank bust, but I don’t reckon they got hit as hard as Uncle Andy Davidson. He’s flat—but he ain’t kickin’. If Johnny was out of jail—well, I don’t think Uncle Andy is givin’ a thought to losin’ the money.”

“I can imagine,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “A fine Christmas for folks like that.”

“That’s right, Hartley—I’d plumb forgot about Christmas. Peace on earth—don’t fit so good in Dancin’ Devil Valley this season.”

After a full minute of silent riding the sheriff commented, “I plumb forgot to ask you fellers how come yo’re headin’ for Dancin’ Devil Valley?”

Hashknife studied the bobbing ears of his horse for several moments, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. Then he looked at the sheriff and said, “Sheriff you know what a wild goose is, don’t yuh?”

“Of course, I do.”

“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.

The sheriff scratched his stubbled chin, looked sideways at Hashknife, but rode on, thinking it over. These two rather puzzled the law officer. They looked like a pair of drifting cowpokes, but why would a drifting cowpoke be looking for wild geese in the Dancing Devil country, he wondered. Funny thing, too—when that Hartley person looked at you and said something—you believed him. Even such a fantastic thing as chasing a wild goose.

It was afternoon, when they arrived in Tomahawk Flats, and the sheriff and coroner left immediately to get the body of the murdered Mexican girl. Men had guarded it since the discovery. Hashknife and Sleepy registered at the hotel, where folks talked about the crime wave.

The murder of Oren Blakely was secondary in importance. A man might get killed at any time, but for somebody to deliberately murder a girl—that needed attention.

“I seen Pete Morales and his old woman a while ago,” one man said. “Gawd, you’d think the roof fell on both of ’em.”

“It shore did,” nodded a grizzled cowman. “I lost one—once—but she wasn’t shot to death. That’s worse—if it can be.”

“Yeah, I knew. Mrs. Morales just sat there, countin’ her beads, movin’ her lips, never looked up at all. She wasn’t cryin’—jist countin’ ’em, I reckon.”

“I kinda figured that her and Frenchy would get hitched,” said another of the men. “They used to go down into Mexico to dances, and all that. Frenchy can talk Mexican pretty good.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went up to their room to leave their war-bags. Sleepy flung his bag into a corner and stood there, his hands on his hips, looking at Hashknife, who sat down to roll a cigarette.

“Go ahead, pardner—say it,” he remarked.

“Yeah! Just a couple real-estate men on horseback!” snorted Sleepy.

“Bob Marsh didn’t know things like this would happen, Sleepy; he’s no fortune teller. It just happened, that’s all.”

“Yea-a-ah? All right—be stubborn. We’re here, ain’t we? Pitch-forked into it by Bob Marsh. He knowed the bank was busted. Mebbe he knew Johnny Davidson was in jail. We came straight from his dog-gone office. Real-estate, yore eye!”

Hashknife lighted his cigarette and inhaled deeply.

“It’s a terrible thing—murderin’ a girl, Sleepy.”

“That’s right—terrible! Terrible thing to murder a man, too.”

“Even if Bob Marsh knew—”

“Losin’ faith in him, eh? That’s fine. Now we can start even.”

“And there’s a job to be done, Sleepy,” after a long pause, “we’ve got a good alibi for bein’ down here—real-estate men on horseback.”

They ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they found Frenchy Arnett, more than half-drunk, imbibing tequila with his meal. He didn’t speak to them—merely looked at them through bloodshot eyes, and went on drinking. Frenchy was gone, when they paid for their meal.

“Frenchy fill pretty bad—I theenk so,” said the Mexican proprietor.

“Tequila won’t help him much,” remarked Sleepy.

“Notheeng help heem much, amigo. Too bad.”

The murder of Chiquita Morales had sobered Tomahawk Flats. Even in the big Pasatiempo Saloon men talked in subdued tones, placed chips carefully into the jack-pots. The roulette-layout was not even uncovered. A man said, “I’d shore like to pull the rope on that dirty murderer.”

Another man laughed shortly and said, “Fine chance. The best our sheriff can do is put Johnny Davidson in jail. Wouldn’t have got him, if the blamed fool hadn’t worn that ring.”

“One cinch,” said a gambler, “they can’t put that onto Johnny; he was locked up tight. But I can’t figure out why anybody’d shoot the girl. As far as that goes, why was Oren Blakely shot?”

“Oren was a good hombre,” remarked another. “I talked with Sam Hack a while ago, and he said that all he knew was that Oren left the ranch, headin’ for here. Why he went to Northgate, nobody seems to know.”

“Somebody did,” said the gambler, “and that somebody had a shotgun and a load of buckshot. Well, I dunno—it beats me.”

“Beats the sheriff, too,” said another. “You watch—he’ll never get either of the killers.”

Hashknife and Sleepy slept late next morning, ate breakfast in the hotel dining-room, and when they came back to the lobby they saw an elderly couple, talking with the hotel-keeper. The man was small, thin, bow-legged, smooth-shaved, almost bird-like in his movements. The woman was gray-haired, tall, slender, sad-looking. The hotel-keeper saw Hashknife and Sleepy come from the dining-room doorway, and motioned to the man, who got up very quickly from his chair and came over to Hashknife.

“Your name is Hartley?” he asked quietly.

“That’s right,” smiled Hashknife.

“I’m Andy Davidson—AD spread. Mind talkin’ to me for a few minutes?”

“I’d like to, Mr. Davidson.”

“Everybody calls me Uncle Andy.”

“My friends call me Hashknife, Uncle Andy.”

“Yeah, that’s what—that’s the name in the letter I got a few minutes ago. I’ll show it to yuh.”

Hashknife read the short letter from Bob Marsh, which said:

I am in receipt of your telegram a few minutes ago, and in reply I can say that two men, Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens are either now in your town, or soon will be. I have perfect confidence in them and their ability. Please keep this confidential. For that reason I am writing you, rather than to use a telegram.

There was a postscript, which said, “Give my regards to Sleepy.”

Hashknife smiled slowly, folded the letter and gave it back to Uncle Andy, who was looking closely at him. Hashknife motioned to Sleepy, who came over.

“Uncle Andy,” said Hashknife, “I want you to meet Sleepy Stevens. Sleepy, this is Uncle Andy Davidson. He just got a letter from Bob Marsh.”

“Bob’s quite a hand to write letters,” remarked Sleepy. “Did he send me his regards?”

“By doggies!” exclaimed Uncle Andy. “He did just that!”

“He always does,” said Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m glad to meet yuh, Uncle Andy.”

They shook hands, and Uncle Andy introduced them to Aunt Judy Davidson, who also shook hands with them soberly.

“We’re in a peck of trouble, boys,” said Uncle Andy.

“We heard about it,” said Hashknife quietly. “Trouble seems plentiful around here. Yuh see, we just got off the train at Northgate when Oren Blakely was shot.”

“Oren was a nice boy,” offered Aunt Judy. “I’m sorry about him. Isn’t it terrible about Chiquita Morales? I liked her.”

“Is there anybody you dislike?” asked Hashknife smiling. Aunt Judy thought carefully, finally shaking her head. “I just can’t remember any,” she said seriously.

They sat down and Uncle Andy said, “How much of the story have you heard, Hashknife?”

“The sheriff told us most of it, ridin’ down here.”

“Nick has been awful nice to us,” said Aunt Judy. “It isn’t his fault—he had to do his duty.”

“She excuses everybody,” said Uncle Andy.

“You, too?” queried Sleepy.

“Not always, Sleepy. I’m about the only person she ever blames.”

“Tell me about this ring—the evidence against yore son,” said Hashknife.

“Well,” replied Uncle Andy, “Johnny bought it from a feller in Northgate. It’s a big, silver contraption, and the settin’ is a turquoise, cut in the shape of a cross. Anybody’d remember it, if they seen it once. Awful gaudy, I thought.”

“Beautiful,” added Aunt Judy. “It was a little small for Johnny, and he had to wear it on his little finger. Very heavy.”

“Ed Weed recognized it,” said Uncle Andy sadly. “He’d seen it lots of times. But Johnny, darn his soul, won’t tell what he done with it. Just sets there and shakes his head. Yuh see,” Uncle Andy cleared his throat harshly, “yuh see, Johnny and Nell Frawley was due to get married Christmas Eve.”

“Loveliest girl I ever knew,” said Aunt Judy wearily.

“I’m wonderin’ if Johnny would talk with me,” said Hashknife.

Uncle Andy shook his head. “I don’t believe he would. Won’t talk to anybody, not even a lawyer. Stubborn’s a bull calf.”

“He might,” said Aunt Judy hopefully, but added, “He ort to. Nobody can help him, if he won’t talk.”

“Let’s try it,” suggested Hashknife. “He can’t no more than refuse.”

“All right,” replied Uncle Andy. “We’ll try, but don’t say I didn’t warn yuh, Hashknife.”

They found Nick McGarvin in the office. He didn’t think that Johnny would talk, especially to strangers, but was willing for them to try. Johnny Davidson was a good-looking young cowboy, but he had stubborn eyes and a stubborn chin. Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to him, but he didn’t seem interested.

“These here men want to help yuh, Johnny,” explained Uncle Andy. “But before they can help yuh, they’ve got to hear yore story.”

“I have no story,” declared Johnny stonily. “Nothin’ to tell.”

Hashknife moved in close to the bars, and Johnny looked at him, rather defiantly, at first. Their eyes met for several moments, and Johnny turned away, looking at his mother.

“Johnny, you ought to talk to him,” she said quietly.

Johnny looked at Hashknife again, and a weak smile twisted his lips for a moment. Then he said, “All right, what do I talk about?”

“That ring, Johnny,” replied Hashknife. “We’ve got to know what yuh done with it.”

Johnny shook his head. “It won’t do a bit of good,” he said. “It can’t do any good now—it’s too damned late, Hartley.”

“Why is it too late?” asked Hashknife.

“Because Chiquita Morales is dead. Oren Blakely is dead, too.”

Uncle Andy said, “What did Chiquita—”

“Wait!” interrupted Hashknife. “Johnny can tell us—in his own way. Go ahead, Johnny.”

Johnny gnawed at his lower lip for several moments, his eyes bleak. Hashknife noticed that his hands were clenched behind him. Finally he said:

“I traded that ring, to Chiquita Morales for a pinto horse. She wanted the ring—I wanted that pintado. I—I was goin’ to tell Nell about it. I dunno—mebbe Nell was a little jealous of Chiquita. She didn’t mean anythin’ to me, Chiquita didn’t. There wasn’t any bill-of-sale—nothin’ to prove I traded. I was goin’ to get the pinto—and that’s all there was to it.

“She wanted the ring to wear to a dance—so I let her have it. I was down at Agua Verde that night, but I left there about seven o’clock. On the way back, at a little rancho, there was a lot of music, so I stopped to see what was goin’ on. It was a dance—a pretty wild dance, too. Chiquita was there with Oren Blakely. Everybody was drunk, except Chiquita, and there had been several fist-fights. Oren was drunk, too. Chiquita wanted to go home—to get away from the place. Well, at least, I’m a gentleman—I hope. We got Oren on a horse, and all three of us came back across the line. Oren wasn’t too drunk then; so we put him on the road to the Circle H, and I took Chiquita home.”

“And you was afraid that Nell would find it out?” asked Uncle Andy.

“Yeah, I was,” admitted Johnny. “Maybe I had no business doin’ it—takin’ her home, and all that—but I did.”

“Was she wearin’ the ring at the dance?” asked Hashknife.

“No, she wasn’t,” replied Johnny. “I asked her where it was, and she told me she left it at home, because it was too big, and she was afraid she’d lose it.”

“I’ll explain it to Nell,” offered Aunt Judy.

“Thanks, Ma—but I’d rather tell her. I didn’t take Chiquita to the dance—didn’t even know she was there—and when she explained that she was scared to stay there—what could I do?”

“Couldn’t anybody at that rancho testify that you were there, instead of robbin’ a bank?” asked Uncle Andy.

“I doubt it, ’cause I didn’t mix in the dance. And, anyway,” said Johnny, “nobody knows what time of night the bank was robbed. Ed Weed didn’t know. They woke him up, but he never seen a clock.”

“I heard that Chiquita was to marry Frenchy Arnett,” said Hashknife.

“Quien sabe?” Johnny smiled sourly. “Chiquita liked to have fun. She asked me to not tell Frenchy. I wouldn’t, anyway. It wasn’t my business.”

“Johnny,” said Hashknife, “do you know of anybody who hated Oren Barkley enough to shoot him? Maybe somebody who knew he took Chiquita to a dance.”

Johnny shook his head. “No, I don’t, Hartley. Frenchy was supposed to be keepin’ steady company with Chiquita. Frenchy was either in Northgate, or on his way up there, when she was killed. Oren wasn’t quarrelsome. In fact, that night was the first time I had ever seen him drunk. Oh, he took a drink now and then, I suppose, but not enough to affect him.”

“Well, much obliged, Johnny,” said Hashknife, shaking hands through the bars.

“Yo’re welcome, Hartley. Glad to have met yuh—and you, too, Stevens.”

He kissed his mother between the bars, and they went out. Aunt Judy took hold of Hashknife’s shoulders and turned him around on the sidewalk, looking straight into his eyes.

“I just wanted to find out why Johnny talked to you,” she said as he smiled slowly at her.

“Don’t be silly, Ma,” grinned Uncle Andy.

“I’m not silly,” she said quietly, and turned away. Hashknife patted her on the shoulder.

“I dunno how it was done—but it was,” Uncle Andy said. “Hashknife, we want you and Sleepy to make the ranch yore home. We’ve got room out there, and we’d sure admire havin’ yuh stay there.”

“Later—maybe,” said Hashknife. “Thank yuh both a lot.”

“Make it when yuh can; we’ll be lookin’ for yuh.”

Nick McGarvin, the sheriff, was a little amazed over the willingness of Johnny Davidson to talk to a stranger. And he was also a bit curious as to just why Andy Davidson had brought these two strangers to the jail for the conference. He asked Johnny, who thought it over for several moments.

“I don’t know, Nick,” he said. “Mother and Dad brought ’em in here, and Hartley, the tall one asked me questions.”

“Which you answered,” said the sheriff dryly.

“That’s right, I did—but don’t ask me why, Nick. It is kinda funny. Somethin’ about him—I dunno what.”

Pete Morales and his wife came to town, and the sheriff asked Pete if he knew anything about Chiquita trading a pinto horse to Johnny Davidson for a turquoise ring.

Pete shook his head sadly. “Mi amigo,” he said wearily, “I know notheeng, excep’s Chiquita ees died. I see no reeng.”

“Did you know that Chiquita went to the dance in Mexico with Oren Blakely?”

Again the little Mexican shook his head. “No,” he said huskily. “I tell her, ‘Kip to hell from those dance at Miguel’s rancho. Bad pippil down there.’ But I theenk she go anyway.”

Nick McGarvin went back to his office. Frenchy hadn’t showed up yet. The death of Chiquita Morales was a terrible blow to the little deputy—and he was drinking too much.

Sam Hack and his only remaining cowboy, Gus Staley, came over to the sheriff’s office. Hack was a tall, gaunt man, with deep-set eyes, long arms and huge, bony hands. Hack was really a newcomer to the Dancing Devil range, having bought the NK spread from the bank, which had it on a foreclosure, and registered his own brand. Oren Blakely had been one of his two men. Gus Staley was rather a nondescript cowpoke, who liked liquor and cards.

Hack wanted action. He said, “Nick, you’ve got to do somethin’ about the murder of Oren. Yuh can’t let things like that go—”

“Suggest somethin’,” replied the harassed sheriff. “It’s easy to talk about, Sam. Nobody knows why Oren headed for Northgate, nobody knows who wanted to shoot him. Everyone seemed to like him. If you know anythin’ else, let me know.”

“Well,” replied Hack soberly, “I wish I could, Nick. Has Johnny Davidson talked yet?”

“Johnny talked this mornin’, Sam. He wouldn’t talk to me, and he wouldn’t talk to his ma and pa—but he talked to a stranger.”

“Meanin’ what?” asked Hack flatly.

The sheriff shook his head. “I dunno, Sam—I can’t figure it.”

And then the sheriff told them what Johnny told Hashknife.

Sam Hack and Gus Staley listened closely while the sheriff related Johnny’s story, and the sheriff finished with:

“I asked Johnny why he told all this to Hartley, when he wouldn’t talk with anybody else, and he said he didn’t know.”

“Kinda funny,” remarked Hack. He turned to Staley, “Gus, did you know that Oren took Chiquita to that dance?”

Staley shook his head. “Oren didn’t talk much,” he replied. “He was drunk when he got back to the ranch that night, but he didn’t say where he’d been, I figured he got drunk here.”

“Gus,” said the sheriff, “you’ve been with Oren a long time. If I remember right, you came here with him. Do you know anybody who hated him enough to shoot him?”

“Hell, no!” snorted Gus Staley.

“Well, there yuh are,” said the sheriff, shrugging helplessly. “Gus has been bunkin’ the man all this time, and even he don’t know who’d shoot him.”

“Who is Hartley and Stevens?” asked Hack.

The sheriff smiled. “I rode all the way down here from Northgate with them two,” he said, “and all I know is that they’ve each got two legs and two arms. Yuh might ask Andy Davidson—he seemed to know ’em.”

“Just a couple driftin’ cowpokes, eh?”

“You name ’em,” replied the sheriff. “They came in on the freight-train, got off at Northgate, just before Oren climbed on and got shot. They had their saddles along with ’em, and I know they bought two horses at the feed corral.”

“Well,” yawned Hack, “we’ve got to be driftin’, Nick. When is the inquest?”

“Tomorrow mornin’, Doc Talbert told me. You’ll be here?”

“Yeah. After all, Oren was one of my boys.”

Hashknife and Sleepy sprawled on chairs under the porch of the hotel. Hashknife, as relaxed as a cat, smoked thoughtfully, paying little attention to activity on the street.

“How much of Johnny Davidson’s story do yuh reckon a jury would believe?” inquired Sleepy.

“Very little, Sleepy.”

“Do you believe him?”

“Certainly, I believe him. With all the lies possible, he told a story that can’t possibly help him. The girl is dead—and he didn’t have to tell the truth about the ring. The kid’s honest.”

“Yo’re like Aunt Judy—everybody is all right.”

Sam Hack and Gus Staley came past the porch and went on up the street. Both of them looked curiously at Hashknife and Sleepy. Frank Olds, the hotel-keeper, standing in the doorway of the hotel, waved a greeting to them, and he said to the two cowboys:

“That’s the feller Oren Blakely worked for—Sam Hack. He’s the tall one; the other is Gus Staley.”

“Is Hack an old-timer down here?” asked Hashknife.

“No, he came here a little over a year ago and bought out the NK. Bought it from the bank, I reckon—they held a big mortgage, and Kinney, the owner, couldn’t make the grade.”

“You knew Blakely?” asked Sleepy.

“Yeah. Nice boy, too. I know most everybody. Growed up here.”

“I hear,” remarked Hashknife lazily, “that the bank bust hurt folks pretty hard around here.”

“Busted some of ’em. Yuh take Andy Davidson and Ed Frawley, they got hit awful hard. Had most all their money in the bank, I’ve been told. Davidson just sold a train-load of cows, and they tell me he lost every cent in the bank. Frawley got hit about as hard. They ain’t kickin’—’cause they ain’t that kind.”

“What do yuh think of Johnny Davidson’s chances?” asked Sleepy.

“Well, I’ll tell yuh; with that ring as evidence, and with a Dancin’ Devil jury, he’s got about as much chance as a celluloid cat has in hell. The jury will believe Ed Weed. I hate to see it happen to the Davidson family, but Johnny is stuck.”

“What happened to the banker?” asked Sleepy.

“Oh, he’s still livin’ here. Tom Colton’s his name. Got sort of a no-good son, named Harry. He tried to make a banker out of him, but it didn’t work. Make a better banker for a faro game, I reckon. Drinks like a fish, Harry does.”

After all this information Frank Olds went back to his hotel work, and Hashknife and Sleepy walked over to the livery-stable. The stableman was also a loquacious soul. He was standing in the rear doorway of the stable, staring out at a rather dilapidated top-buggy. He said, complainingly, “I wish they’d take that damn thing away from here.”

“Why?” asked Sleepy.

“That’s the buggy Chiquita Morales was killed in. They brung it here. Said that it was mebbe evidence. Huh! Blood all over it, too. I sleep in the tack-room—and I dream about that blasted, old buggy. Chiquita was awful pretty. I dunno, I reckon it’ll stay there, until the sheriff takes it away.”

Hashknife walked out and looked it over. Not much of a buggy, the worn cushion spattered with gore, dried black now, a broken buggy-whip in the old socket, ready to fall off the dash. Sleepy and the stableman had turned to talk with someone, when Hashknife pulled the seat-cushion loose from the back. Something rattled loosely, and Hashknife readied in and picked it up. One swift glance and he put the object in his pocket, shoved the cushion into place and walked back to the doorway.

A young man was talking with the stableman, paying him some money. He was wearing “store-clothes,” except for his high-heel boots, and seemed just a trifle inebriated. A good-looking young man, too, except for the deep lines of dissipation in his face. After he went out, the stableman said:

“That’s Harry Colton, the busted banker’s son. He keeps his horse here in the stable, and pays his bills regular. I hate to see a young man drinkin’ thataway. His old man tried to keep him straight, but I don’t reckon it was any use. Too much money and nothin’ else to do.”

“Mebbe,” suggested Sleepy, “he won’t have too much money now.”

“Did yuh hear what he said?” asked the stableman.

Sleepy shook his head.

“He said he’d prob’ly have to sell his horse. Can’t afford to pay feed bills much longer.”

“He might cut down on his whiskey bills,” suggested Hashknife.

“You don’t know Harry,” grinned the stableman.

They walked back to the hotel and went up to their room, where Hashknife took the object from his pocket and placed it on the table. It was a huge, Mexican silver ring, with a turquoise cross. Sleepy stared at it, picked it up gingerly and examined it. He put it back on the table and sat down by the window.

“It was under that seat cushion,” said Hashknife.

“Maybe,” suggested Sleepy, “Chiquita thought she was bein’ held up, and hid it under the cushion.”

“It kinda figures out like this,” said Hashknife. “Chiquita made the trade with Johnny. She wasn’t in love with Johnny, but it kinda seems that she—well, she wasn’t a one-man woman. Before the robbery, she let somebody have that ring. Maybe she got it back. Maybe she was scared to keep it. Maybe she hid it under the cushion. Maybe—”

“After all that,” interrupted Sleepy, “what do yuh think actually happened?”

“I don’t know,” grinned Hashknife, and pocketed the ring.

“This can’t help Johnny none,” said Sleepy.

“I don’t reckon it can help anybody,” smiled Hashknife, “but it’s a mighty pretty ring.”

They went back to the hotel lobby, where they were accosted by an elderly, well-dressed man. He said, “You are Mr. Hartley?”

“That’s my name,” nodded Hashknife.

“I am Thomas Colton, Mr. Hartley. Shall we sit down?”

Sleepy sprawled on a chair near a window, while Hashknife and Thomas Colton, former banker, sat down together.

The banker said, “I have a confidential letter from a land syndicate in Phoenix, saying that they are interested in buying cattle ranches in the Dancing Devil range, as an investment, and asking about prices. Today I received this telegram, which I will show you.”

The telegram was sent to the banker, and signed James Morison. It read:

ADVISE YOU THAT A MR. HARTLEY IS AUTHORIZED TO CONTACT RANCH OWNERS AND CONSULT THEM ON PRICES.

Hashknife read the telegram and handed it back to Colton, who said quietly, “The bank holds paper against nearly every ranch down here—rather big paper, I might say, and—”

“I understand that,” interrupted Hashknife, “but mortgages have nothin’ to do with my job. I merely ask prices.”

“And I might say,” continued the banker, “that few, if any, can meet their mortgages. Confidentially, Mr. Hartley, the ranches of this valley are in bad shape. I mean, financially, of course.”

“Nothin’ wrong with the ranches?” queried Hashknife. “This looks like a good range.”

“Oh, it is, indeed! That is one reason that the bank was generous. Have you made any inquiries, Mr. Hartley?”

“I didn’t want to rush ’em,” said Hashknife. “Why?”

“Well, I—no reason at all, except that I—well, I might be able to get a better price than you could—knowing conditions.”

Hashknife smiled as he looked at Colton. “Maybe yuh don’t think I’m the right man to buy cattle ranches,” he suggested.

“No, no, I didn’t mean that! After all, the Cattlemen’s Association wouldn’t recommend a—well, a man who wasn’t capable.”

“Thank yuh,” said Hashknife dryly. “You go ahead, Mr. Colton. Maybe you can do better than I could. Anyway, it’s worth tryin’.”

“Well, thank you, Mr. Hartley. I’ll see what I can do, and then we can compare notes. I’ll see you again—and thank you. It might be well to not mention our little talk to anyone?”

“I’ll keep still,” agreed Hashknife.

Sleepy was curious, and came over as soon as Colton left. Hashknife told him the conversation, and Sleepy said, “What’s he tryin’ to do—beat us out of our jobs?”

“Even a banker can make a mistake, pardner,” smiled Hashknife.,

“He’s shore mistaken if he thinks he can take our jobs over,” declared Sleepy. “I like to draw money for loafin’.”

A double inquest was held next forenoon in Tomahawk Flats, and it seemed as though everybody in Dancing Devil Valley came to listen. Because they had been present at the shooting of Oren Blakely, both Hashknife and Sleepy were called to the stand to testify. Both Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy were there, and with them sat Ed Frawley and his daughter, Nell. Huddled together were Pete Morales and his wife, listening closely, but not understanding much of what was said. Frenchy Arnett was there, still half-drunk. Sam Hack and his one man, Gus Staley, were there, and Uncle Andy introduced Hashknife and Sleepy to Buck Nolan, who owned the Bar N.

There was no one to testify in the murder of Chiquita Morales. They put Pete Morales on the stand, but Pete either didn’t understand, or had nothing to tell them. The jury in both cases brought in the only possible verdict—killed by a party or parties unknown.

Hashknife and Sleepy met the Davidsons on the street after the inquest, and were introduced to Nell Frawley and her father. Nell was a pretty, brunette, tall and willowy, but very sad over the plight of Johnny Davidson. Aunt Judy said, “Ed, you and Nell are comin’ out to have supper with us, and I’m askin’ Hashknife and Sleepy to come out with us.”

“What are we waitin’ for?” asked Sleepy quickly.

“But, Aunt Judy, we didn’t intend—” began Ed Frawley.

“Don’t lie to me, Ed Frawley,” she said. “I saw that hunger-for-sour-milk-biscuits in your eye, when I mentioned supper.”

“Well, I—uh—shore,” agreed Frawley, while Sleepy remarked:

“Speakin’ about love—I ain’t et a sour-milk biscuit since ol’ Settin’ Bull got up and leaned against a tree.”

“As Sleepy said,” remarked Uncle Andy, “what are we waitin’ for, folks?”

“It isn’t noon yet,” said Ed Frawley.

“Don’t you folks eat at noon?” asked Sleepy soberly.

“Let’s go out to the ranch,” said Aunt Judy. “I’ve got to fill him up, before he starves on our hands.”

The ranch-house and buildings at the AD were well-kept, the grounds clean. Uncle Andy admitted to Hashknife that Aunt Judy was responsible for the appearance of the place.

They met Ted Evans and Eddie Connors, the two cowpokes.

“I’ve allus wanted to see what you looked like, Hartley,” remarked Connors.

“Wanted to see what I looked like?” queried Hashknife.

“Yeah, that’s right. I heard about you up on the Wind River, and then I heard more about yuh in Colorado, and the last feller to speak about yuh was from the Thunder River country.”

“I didn’t know I was worth talkin’ about,” said Hashknife.

“Well, I’m tellin’ yuh,” grinned Connors. “If yo’re half as good as the lies I’ve heard—yo’re a ring-tailed wonder.”

“I’m not, Connors,” assured Hashknife.

“Men will lie, yuh know.”

“Then I shore ran into several, Hartley—and they all lied about the same things.” “What’s this all about?” demanded Aunt Judy.

“Somebody tryin’ to ruin my reputation, Aunt Judy.”

“Ruin it!” exclaimed Connors. “Lemme tell yuh what—”

“Don’t repeat it—there’s ladies present,” interrupted Hashknife, and went into the house with the others.

Nell volunteered to help Aunt Judy in the kitchen, and two ranch owners sat down with Hashknife and Sleepy in the main room. There was plenty of food for conversation, but no one seemed inclined to start it, until Ed Frawley, his pipe drawing well, said, “Andy, have you talked with Tom Colton?”

“Not for a couple of days, Ed.”

“I talked with him this mornin’. It seems that he’s representin’ a land-buying syndicate, and they’d like to buy the Rafter F—if they can get it cheap enough.”

“Yea-a-ah? The buzzards are already wingin’ in, eh?”

“That’s what I told him.”

“I can see his angle,” said Uncle Andy. “We owe money to the bank, which don’t exist now. Him bein’ the owner of the bank, wants his money out of the deal.”

“And we can’t pay him,” said Frawley flatly. “If we get any kind of a decent offer, we’ll have to sell.”

Uncle Andy turned to Hashknife, “Sorry to talk about somethin’ you don’t know about,” he said. “I’ll tell yuh how I’m fixed. I owe the bank twelve thousand dollars. Not long ago I sold a lot of beef, and I put twenty-eight thousand dollars on deposit. I wanted to pay off that mortgage right now, but Colton said— Oh, I don’t understand bankin’, Hashknife. Somethin’ about havin’ to pay a lot of interest and a bonus if I took it up now; so I let it lay. Well, the twenty-eight thousand dollars is gone—and I can’t pay the mortgage.”

“I’m in the same boat,” said Frawley. “My mortgage was due two days after the robbery. I owed Colton ten thousand, and I had—well, I had enough in there to pay it off and not mind.”

“Tough deal,” murmured Hashknife. “Just how was this robbery pulled off?”

“I can tell yuh what Weed said,” replied Uncle Andy. “Weed is a bachelor, livin’ alone. Been here years. He said he went to bed, but he don’t know what time—maybe nine o’clock, and went to sleep. He don’t know what time he woke up, but the lamp was lighted and three masked men was around him. They told him they wanted the key to the bank and the combination of the vault.

“One of them told him that he’d either do what they want, or they’d kill him, take the keys to the bank and bust it with dynamite. They got the keys and the combination, tied Weed up tight, and pulled out. They had all night to do the job—and they shore done a complete job.”

“And he saw that turquoise ring, eh?” said Hashknife.

And Davidson nodded slowly. “He says he saw it plain.”

“Weed is honest, eh?”

“Honest as a dollar,” sighed Uncle Andy. “I’ve talked with him several times, and he’s just about sick. Weed is pretty old, and he ain’t got any job. Everythin’ he owned was in the bank, too.”

“I told him,” said Frawley quietly, “that if things got too tough he could come out and live with us.”

“I told him the same thing,” said Uncle Andy, “and so did Buck Nolan. Buck didn’t owe the bank anythin’, but he lost every dollar he had in there.”

“Seems like we’re askin’ Weed to join us in the poor-house,” said Frawley dryly. “I know I can’t keep goin’. I’ve got a couple good cowpokes out at my place, but I can’t afford to keep ’em more’n a couple weeks longer.”

“This looks like a mighty good range,” remarked Sleepy.

“There ain’t any better,” declared Uncle Andy warmly.

“Maybe they’ll offer yuh a good price.”

“Why should they?” asked Frawley. “Colton didn’t suggest any price. He said they’d naturally buy as cheap as possible, and he said for me to figure out my lowest price. He’ll prob’ly make you the same proposition, Andy.”

Uncle Andy stared thoughtfully at the carpet for several moments, before he said quietly:

“We’ve been here a long time, Ed. It ain’t just like sellin’ a piece of property—it’s home. Yuh can’t tear up roots that have gone as deep as ours, my friend. We ain’t young men—me and you. Ed, I just can’t sell the AD.”

“I feel the same, Andy,” replied Frawley.

“Will Nolan have to sell, too?” asked Hashknife.

“I dunno, Hashknife,” replied Uncle Andy. “It hit him hard, but he don’t owe the bank anythin’.”

“What about Sam Hack?”

“I don’t believe he had much in the bank. Yuh see, he’s only had the Circle H a little over a year. He bought out the NK from a feller named Kinney. The bank had to foreclose a mortgage on the NK, and I reckon Hack made a good deal for the spread. He’s buildin’ it up.”

“How long,” asked Hashknife, “has Colton owned the bank?”

“A little over two years,” replied Frawley. “Weed worked for the bank for at least twenty years Harry Colton was in college when his father bought the bank, and has only been here about a year. He’s no good. Drinks like a fish, and gambles like a fool. He had the gall to want Nell to marry him.”

“That,” declared Sleepy soberly, “don’t take much gall.”

“You know what I mean, Stevens,” laughed Frawley.

Hashknife walked out into the kitchen. Aunt Judy was working at the stove, while Nell was on the back porch, talking with Eddie Connors, who went down the steps and headed for the bunkhouse. Hashknife went out on the shaded porch. Nell said, “Your ears must have burned, Mr. Hartley.”

Hashknife smiled and Shook his head.

“I haven’t felt ’em.”

“We were talking about you.”

“That’s a pretty dry topic for conversation,” he said soberly.

“Eddie didn’t think so. Oh, I didn’t want to be curious, but Uncle Andy talked about you—and Eddie—” She hesitated.

“That’s the trouble,” he said quietly. “Somethin’ ordinary happens, and somebody with a big imagination spins a windy about it. The next feller enlarges it. Well, after it’s been told several times, you’ve either got wings and one of them halos, or a forked tail and a pair of horns. But even with all the lies, the poor devil remains a tired ol’ cowpoke, just gettin’ along in his own dumb way, Ma’am.”

“You’re not so old,” said Nell.

“I’m old enough to know better, Ma’am.”

“I don’t like to be called Ma’am. My name is Nell.”

Hashknife smiled slowly. “I like that name. I’m Hashknife.”

“Just a poor, old, tired cowpoke,” she said slowly. “Johnny said you just looked at him, and he decided to tell the truth, but he wouldn’t talk to anybody before that. How did you do it, Hashknife?”

Hashknife looked at her thoughtfully. “I just asked him, Nell.”

“Do people always do what you ask?”

“Well,” Hashknife grinned widely, “I don’t ask—much. Did you know Chiquita Morales very well?”

“Are you practicing on me?” asked Nell quickly.

“No, I just wondered if yuh knew her pretty well.”

“Not too well,” replied Nell. “Chiquita was pretty, tiny, full of life. She liked to have a good time, wear pretty clothes. But the Morales are poor people. I don’t believe they had much control over her. I liked her. She was very generous, sympathetic, but very emotional.”

“Do you think she would have married Frenchy Arnett, Nell?”

“No, I don’t, Hashknife. Frenchy was too slow for her. She went to that Mexican dance with Oren Blakely, and Frenchy didn’t know it. If Chiquita wanted to go some place she’d ask most any man to take her—she didn’t have any favorites, it seemed.”

“The Morales’ are pretty poor, eh?” remarked Hashknife.

“Yes, they are. I never could understand where Chiquita got money to buy fancy clothes, but she wore plenty.”

“Maybe some cowpoke bought ’em,” suggested Hashknife.

“At forty dollars a month?”

“No, that don’t go far,” admitted Hashknife. “Did you ever know her to go to dances with Harry Colton?”

“With the banker’s son? You amaze me, Hashknife.”

Hashknife smiled slowly. “I even amaze myself, at times, Nell.”

“No, I never have seen them together,” she said. “No reason why not. After all, Harry Colton isn’t too good, in spite of his money. Now that his father is broke, I don’t know what he will do.”

Aunt Judy came out on the porch to cool off.

“Who are you folks plottin’ against?” she asked.

“The forces of evil, Aunt Judy,” replied Nell.

“Well, it must have been pleasant plotting—the way you’ve been smiling. Isn’t she a sweet girl, Hashknife?”

“Aunt Judy!” protested Nell.

“I’ve been thinkin’ that all along,” grinned Hashknife.

“How come you never got married?” asked Aunt Judy.

“Well,” replied Hashknife thoughtfully, “I don’t reckon I’ve ever had time. My old Dad was a range-ridin’ sky-pilot up on the Milk River in Montana. He had a houseful of kids, and mighty little money to take care of ’em. When I was still a sprout, I got a horse and a riding rig. I had itchin’ feet. Dad said, ‘Son, I’ve been watchin’ yuh a long time—lookin’ at them hills. You want to see what’s on the other side. When you was born the good Lord put a wanderin’ brand on yuh. I’ve seen that brand growin’. You’ll never call any place home, never be held by any ties. I’ve tried to teach yuh to shoot square—it’s the best I can do.’”

“And you started wandering,” said Aunt Judy.

“All my life, Aunt Judy— Dad’s prophecy was right. Sleepy is of the same breed—we can’t stay put.”

“Helping people,” said Nell quietly.

“Who told you that?” he asked.

“Eddie Connors. I think it is wonderful. We need help, Hashknife.”

Hashknife squinted thoughtfully across the hills. After a long pause he said, “Yeah, I reckon yuh do, Nell.”

“Johnny and me were going to get married Christmas Eve.”

“That ain’t far away, Nell, and there ain’t much to work on, but we’ll hope that it’s all written our way in the Big Book.”

“Big Book?” queried Aunt Judy quickly.

“There is a big book, yuh know, Aunt Judy,” said Hashknife.

“I’ve never heard of it before.”

“I’ve never seen it,” smiled Hashknife. “No mortal’s eyes have ever seen it—but the finger of Fate writes in that book. It shows what we do, how we live, how we die—and when.”

“That’s fatalism!” exclaimed Aunt Judy. “You don’t believe in that, do you, Hashknife?”

“I believe,” replied Hashknife, “that you’ll never die until your number is up on the board, Aunt Judy. Bein’ careful is a human trait, but it won’t save yuh. Men have gone through hell and high water all their lives, only to trip over a chair in the dark and break their neck. What’s yore argument against it, Aunt Judy?”

“Well, I—when you started, I had several—but I guess I’ve forgotten what they were.”

“School is dismissed,” grinned Hashknife.

It was a wonderful supper. Aunt Judy was a fine cook, and Sleepy almost ate himself under the table. They got back to Tomahawk Flats about nine o’clock, and were standing in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon, when a horse and buggy drove up. A man had just come out of the saloon, and the driver called to him, asking directions for finding Thomas Colton’s home. Then the buggy turned and went back up the street. The man had leaned out of the buggy, his face full in the lights of the saloon. Hashknife said quietly, “Did you see that feller, Sleepy?”

“No, I didn’t pay any attention. Sort of a fat man, wasn’t he?”

“Sort of—yeah. I’ve seen that face before, but I can’t quite place him. C’mon.”

“Are yuh goin’ to try and run him down?” asked Sleepy.

“I hadn’t thought of that—but I’m curious.”

Thomas Colton’s home was only two blocks off the main street, but there were no lights on the street, and the night was dark. They found the horse and buggy at Colton’s front gate. There were lights in the house, but the windows were shaded. Sleepy wanted to know why they ever came down there, in the first place. Didn’t Mr. Colton have any right to have a visitor.

Hashknife laughed. “That visitor,” he said, “is a man we both knew in Wyomin’, Sleepy. His name was Slim Regan. What it is now, who knows?”

“Slim Regan?” queried Sleepy. “I ’member him. He was a gambler and a promoter, wasn’t he?”

“That’s the person—I’m dead sure. Maybe he didn’t recognize me—my back bein’ to the light, and we ain’t seen him for at least five years. Maybe he’s livin’ straight now—who knows?”

They started back, when they heard footsteps on the wooden sidewalk, coming from the opposite direction. The walker was wearing spurs. It was too dark for them to see him, but he turned in at Colton’s gate and went to the house. There were no lights, when the door was opened, but they heard it close behind him.

“Maybe the Coltons are havin’ a party,” suggested Sleepy.

Hashknife didn’t offer any suggestions, but started down the road, heading in the direction from which the spur-wearing person came. After a short distance they cut over to the sidewalk, and went on, until they found the horse, tied to a tree almost at the outskirts of town. It was a tall roan animal, and with the aid of a match they were able to decipher the Bar N brand on the animal. Sleepy said, “That’s Buck Nolan’s mark, Hashknife.”

They sat down in the darkness and waited possibly fifteen minutes, but no one came along.

“Even if he did come for the horse, it’s too dark to recognize him. Anyway, there ain’t no law,” said Sleepy.

“I reckon yo’re right,” agreed Hashknife.

“No use settin’ here.”

They were almost back at Colton’s house, when they heard the rasp of buggy-wheels, as the vehicle was turned around. A few moments later the horse and buggy came past them, traveling fast, heading back toward where the horse was tied. The Colton house was dark.

“Well,” remarked Sleepy, “what’s funny about that?”

“I didn’t say it was funny,” replied Hashknife.

They went up to their room at the hotel and went to bed. Sleepy said, “Ain’t we even goin’ to try and get prices on ranches?”

“We’ll let Colton see what he can do first. After all, he knows values better than we do.”

They met Thomas Colton next morning, and he asked them if they had discussed prices with any of the ranchers.

“We’re leavin’ that to you, Mr. Colton,” said Hashknife.

“Well, that is right, Mr. Hartley. No use of both of us working on the same idea. Are you leaving here soon?”

“I’ll tell yuh,” replied Hashknife soberly, “if we can buy at a good price, we might take over a spread ourselves.”

This seemed to confuse Colton. He said, “Well, I—yes, of course. I had no idea you—well, why not?”

“If we got it cheap enough,” said Hashknife. “We like this range. After all, a feller ought to settle down.”

“Yes, I believe—we will talk about it again, Mr. Hartley.”

Mr. Colton went on. Sleepy braced against a porch-post, looked inquiringly at Hashknife.

“Settlin’ down, eh?” he remarked. “That’s wonderful. Goin’ to buy a ranch. Total assets about twenty-five dollars.”

“If we could get it cheap enough—” said Hashknife.

Aunt Judy and Uncle Andy came to town before noon, and were talking with Hashknife and Sleepy in front of the sheriff’s office, when Buck Nolan came riding up to the office. He nodded to them, started for the office doorway, when the sheriff came out.

“Nick, there’s a buggy wrecked in Horseshoe Canyon,” said Nolan. “I saw where it went over the rip-rap, and it’s down there about a hundred feet below the grade. I was comin’ down from Northgate and—”

“Yuh mean—a buggy and team went off the grade, Buck?”

“It sure looks like it, Nick. Yuh can see some of the buggy, all smashed up on the rocks down there.”

“I’ll get Frenchy. You take us back there, Buck. Maybe Hartley and Stevens will go with us; we’ll need plenty help. I wonder who went off the grade.”

Hashknife looked curiously at Buck Nolan, big, raw-boned, just a bit gray. Buck was riding a sorrel, bearing his own brand. Then Hashknife and Sleepy hurried to the stable to get their horses. Sleepy said, “I’m wonderin’ a little, too, Gardner.”

“We don’t know the man—if its Regan,” said Hashknife.

“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy.

It was several miles out to Horseshoe Canyon. Frenchy went along, but showed little interest. He was sober, but his brown eyes were bloodshot from too much whiskey.

The coroner went in a spring-wagon, taking plenty ropes along. The wheelmarks on the edge of the grade were very plain, and they could see part of the smashed buggy. There was a trail into the canyon just above the wreck, and they went down on foot.

Slim Regan had been thrown clear of the buggy, but straight into a jumble of jagged rocks. The scent of whiskey still lingered on the dead man’s clothes, and there was a smashed bottle in the bottom of the buggy. They took the body to open ground, where the coroner examined the pockets of his clothes, but all they found was a pocket-knife and a few dollars in silver coin. There was not a scrap of paper to identify him.

It was quite a task, getting the body back to the grade. The coroner said that there was no question of its being an accident. Hashknife made no comments. The coroner could be right, except that the wheel marks on the edge of the grade showed the buggy traveling south, instead of north. Sleepy had noticed that detail, too.

As they rode together off the grade, the latter said, “If Slim Regan wanted to pile his carcass into the canyon, why did he turn the buggy around and make the dive? It’s just as fatal, goin’ north as it is south.”

Hashknife nodded grimly. He said, “Keep yore eyes open, pardner—there’s brains workin’ down here. They didn’t want anybody to know that Regan was in Tomahawk Flats last night. Regan rode up in front of the Pasatiempo Saloon and asked a man where Tom Colton lived. Who was the man he asked, Sleepy?”

Sleepy scowled thoughtfully, and finally said, “Hashknife, I ain’t exactly sure. Yuh see, I wasn’t payin’ much attention, but I kinda seem to remember that it was Gus Staley. I can’t be sure—but I think it was. He works for that feller Hack.”

“Yeah, that’s right. Regan went to see Tom Colton, stayed there maybe half an hour, and then pulled out. Regan is a gambler.”

“Was,” corrected Sleepy, “until he hit bedrock. What do yuh make out of it?”

Hashknife didn’t say. He thought it over and finally remarked, “Sleepy, I wish we knew who the man was who walked in the dark and wore spurs.”

“And rode a Bar N roan,” added Sleepy. “But what does it add up to?”

“I dunno. Doc Talbert said he’d make a complete examination of the body. That might help our case.”

But Doctor Talbert’s examination didn’t help them any. Any evidence of foul play, except by gun-shot, would have been wiped out by the man’s fall onto the rocks. Nick McGarvin asked that everybody take a look at the body, hoping that someone would identify him, but to no avail. The keeper of the livery-stable at Northgate had rented him the horse and buggy, but had no idea where the man was going. He gave the name of Jim Hendricks, paid in advance for the rig, and said he would be gone overnight. Asked about Hendrick’s having any baggage, the stableman said he wasn’t sure, but believed the man had a small valise.

Hashknife met Sam Hack and Gus Staley on the street and stopped to talk with them.

“Did you look at the dead man, Staley?” he asked.

“Yeah—sure, I seen him, Hartley. I don’t—”

“Think back,” said Hashknife. “Wasn’t he the same man who drove up in front of the Pasatiempo that night and asked you how to find Thomas Colton’s house?”

Gus Staley looked blankly at Hashknife. “I dunno what yuh mean,” he replied. “I never seen the man before. You must mean somebody else. I never seen him in a buggy in my life.”

“I see,” murmured Hashknife. “Well, it don’t matter.”

“Didn’t the man run off the grade comin’ here?” asked Hack.

“Yeah, it looks thataway,” replied Hashknife. “A couple hundred yards further along the grade is a place where he could turn his outfit around. Maybe he was comin’ back—I dunno.”

“You ain’t sure he ever was down here, are yuh?” asked Hack.

“Him or his ghost.”

“Ghost?” Staley spat viciously into the dusty street. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do yuh, Hartley?”

“I know what I have seen,” replied Hashknife seriously, “but I never try to impose my ideas on other people.”

“That’s all damn foolishment!” snorted Staley. “When yo’re dead—yo’re dead, and that’s all there is to it.”

“That’s the best way to look at it,” remarked Hashknife.

Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the funeral of Chiquita Morales, but they heard that Frenchy Arnett paid most of the expenses. Thomas Colton had approached Uncle Andy regarding selling the AD, but Uncle Andy avoided making any definite price. He knew he would have to sell eventually, but held off. Hashknife talked with Johnny at the jail, but Johnny was little help. He stuck to his story that he’d traded the ring to Chiquita for a pinto horse, and that she didn’t wear the ring to that dance in Mexico. Hashknife didn’t tell Johnny that he’d found the ring in the Morale’s buggy. Johnny said, “I’m stuck, Hashknife. If Chiquita had lived, she could have testified that I didn’t own the ring.”

“That,” said Hashknife, “is why she died. Johnny, do yuh know of any man around here she liked well enough to give that ring?”

Johnny shook his head. “Chiquita, I believe, was a good girl. She liked a good time, and she didn’t have to want for men to take her places. She wanted money, fine clothes and all that. Yuh see, a cowpoke’s wages don’t cover that, Hashknife.”

“Where did she get her finery, Johnny. Pete Morales couldn’t afford to buy things for her.”

“Yeah, that’s right—I never thought of that. Well, she never tried to get money from anybody—as far as I know.”

“Johnny, did Harry Colton ever go out with her?”

Johnny leaned against the bars of his cell and thought it over. Finally he said quietly, “I’m just wonderin’.”

Johnny might have said more, but Frenchy Arnett came in. He was sober, but grim-faced. Hashknife said, “Frenchy, wouldn’t you like to know who shot Chiquita?”

Frenchy shut his eyes tightly for a moment and his jaw tightened. “Sure would,” he said quietly, but firmly. “I know she went to a dance with Oren Blakely. That was right; Oren didn’t do it. Damn right, I’d like to know, Hartley.”

“Maybe you can help us find him, Frenchy. Did you ever give her money to buy clothes?”

“Give Chiquita money? No! Why do you ask that?”

“They say she wore nice clothes.”

“Chiquita always looks nice—silk skirt, pretty shoes.”

“Pete Morales didn’t have money to buy them with, Frenchy.”

Frenchy thought it over. Suddenly he faced Hashknife, his eyes hot. “You mean to say somebody gave her money—Chiquita?”

“Keep cool,” advised Johnny. “Hashknife wants to help.”

“She was my girl,” said Frenchy huskily. “If she wanted money, I’d give it to her. Who gave her money? Oren Blakely didn’t have money to give to women. Who gave her money?”

“You knew about Johnny tradin’ her that ring for a pinto?”

“Sure—I heard that. That is all right—the pinto belonged to her.”

“Frenchy, Chiquita loaned or sold that ring to the man who killed her. Johnny is in jail for a robbery, and the evidence is that ring he traded Chiquita. She could have told who had that ring. She didn’t tell, because she didn’t want that man in jail—but he didn’t take a chance.”

Frenchy shrugged his shoulders. “Chiquita go out with other men. Sometimes I warn not here—sometimes I have no money to spend. I am not her husband—I can’t say no. Maybe she don’t tell me. That is her business.”

“Frenchy, did she ever go out with Harry Colton?” asked Hashknife.

Frenchy’s lips shut to a thin line and he walked over to a barred window, but came back.

“I think she did,” he said quietly. “I accuse her of it, but she just laughed at me. How did you know this, Hartley?”

“I didn’t—I just wanted to find out what men she went out with. Chiquita is gone now, Frenchy. Nothing can change that. Our job is to find the man who did it.”

“Sure, she’s gone—now,” breathed Frenchy and walked away, his eyes filled with tears. Hashknife looked at Johnny and shook his head. “I’ll see yuh later,” he told Johnny.

Hashknife met the sheriff and Sleepy in the office. Hashknife said, “Nick, I’ve had a talk with Johnny and Frenchy.”

“Yeah? Did yuh find out anythin’ yuh already didn’t know?”

“If anybody asks yuh, Nick,” replied Hashknife soberly, “you can tell ’em that Dancin’ Devil is in for some surprisin’ things—very soon. In fact, before Christmas.”

Nick McGarvin’s jaw sagged a trifle. “Yuh mean—yuh know somethin’, Hashknife?”

“You’d be surprised, Nick.”

Leaving the sheriff to think this over, Hashknife and Sleepy walked back toward the hotel.

“He’d be surprised, eh?” remarked Sleepy.

“That’s what I told him, Sleepy.”

“What’d he be surprised about?”

“The few things I know, pardner. Listen, will yuh? Our only chance to find out somethin’ is to scare the guilty into doin’ somethin’. It works, when brains fail—and I don’t mind admittin’ that mine have failed.”

“I know what yuh mean,” said Sleepy quietly. “We paint black circles around our heads, with a bull’s-eye in the middle.”

“That’s right. Nick’s human. He’ll pass the word.”

“Well, all I can say is that we better find a quiet, remote spot, where we can practice dodgin’ bullets,” said Sleepy. “Yuh know, I think I like it better than settin’ around, pardner. This ain’t our idea of a good time, anyway.”

“But just remember, Sleepy; we ain’t dealin’ with dumb rustlers in this game—but I figure that even the smartest men will get scared and make a break—when they’re scared, enough.”

Tomorrow night would be Christmas Eve. They brought m a big fir tree for the little church, but it seemed that the Christmas spirit was lacking. Someone told Hashknife that Thomas Colton was going to be the Santa Claus for the church celebration. The Davidsons and the Frawleys were in town, and Uncle Andy told Hashknife that Colton had asked him to make a price on the AD.

“He wanted it in a hurry, too,” declared Uncle Andy. “I told him it wasn’t anythin’ I could hurry with.”

“Did he suggest any price?” asked Hashknife.

“Well,” replied Uncle Andy grimly, “he said I’d be lucky to get much more than the cost of the mortgage.”

“What about Frawley?”

“He’s goin’ to talk to Colton this afternoon, he said.”

“Tell him to hold off makin’ any deal, Uncle Andy.”

The little cowman looked quizzically at the tall cowboy.

“What’s time got to do with it, Hashknife?” he asked.

“Well, maybe a better price. Anyway, you’ve got plenty time, after the notice of foreclosure to redeem the property.”

“Not with the mortgages from Colton. It specifies that when the bank shuts down on the mortgage—yo’re through.”

“I see. Mortgage expires—ranch gone, eh?”

“That’s the only way he’ll loan money, Hashknife.”

A few minutes later he met Ed Frawley, who drew him aside.

“What’s goin’ on?” asked Frawley quietly. “A man over in the Pasatiempo told me that—well, he said somethin’ was goin’ to happen before Christmas—somethin’ you said. At least, that’s the rumor.”

“I hope it’s right, Frawley. Funny how things like that get in the wind.”

“You mean—there’s ain’t anythin’ to it, Hashknife?”

“Quien sabe?” replied Hashknife soberly. “A lot can be done in an hour—and Christmas ain’t until day after tomorrow.”

He found Sleepy in front of the hotel, and told him, “I reckon Nick McGarvin spread the word.”

“I heard it,” nodded Sleepy. “Frenchy Arnett cornered me, and wanted to know. He said, ‘If yuh know who shot Chiquita—don’t arrest him; just let me know who he is.’ I said we would. Aw, I didn’t mean it—but what else could I tell him? He ain’t no deputy sheriff now—he’s a wolf with the rabies, pardner.”

The Davidsons and Frawleys stayed in town for supper. Hashknife and Sleepy stayed together, ate supper in a little Mexican restaurant, where they could sit against the wall. The Mexican who operated the restaurant, usually very voluble, was quiet, serving the enchiladas and frijoles hurriedly, one eye on the door.

“I wonder what he’s thinkin’,” remarked Sleepy.

“I wonder what he knows,” said Hashknife. “They tell me he was Chiquita’s uncle. Maybe he don’t want his place messed up with us.”

It was dark outside, as they paid their bill. With a hand on the knob, Hashknife drew back, turned and came back to the little counter, where the Mexican was at his cash-box.

“Amigo, is there a back door to this place?” he asked*

“Sure,” nodded the Mexican. “Go t’rough the keetchen.”

They went swiftly through the kitchen, redolent with spices and other odors, out through an old door and into the alley. There was a short, narrow alley, leading to the main street, and they could see the silhouette of a man, leaning against the right-hand wall, evidently watching for somebody. Hashknife kicked a wooden box aside, making a clatter, and the man moved quickly, stepping up on the wooden sidewalk.

Hashknife didn’t hesitate, but led the way up the alley. The man had passed the little restaurant and was standing at the edge of the sidewalk just beyond. It was too dark for them to see what he looked like, except that he was tall. Finally he went on up the street toward the hotel.

“Do yuh think he was tryin’ to dry gulch us?” asked Sleepy.

“Who knows? He was waitin’ for somebody, but we scared him away from the alley. He could look through the window and see that we’re gone.”

They went slowly up the sidewalk, watching closely, until they were at the front of the hotel. Hashknife peered through the window, as he heard Frank Olds, the hotel man, speak sharply to someone. Olds was over near the foot of the stairs, looking up toward the hallway, when he suddenly lifted his arms, shaking his head and protesting, but began walking up the stairs, both hands up.

Hashknife jerked away from the window, whispered sharply:

“Stay here! Trouble in there,” and ran down the alley toward the rear stairs of the hotel.

Sleepy moved over to the open doorway of the hotel. The sheriff was crossing the street, and Sleepy said, as he came up:

“Hold it, Nick—until we hear from Hashknife.”

“What’s wrong?” asked the big sheriff.

“I don’t know, Nick. Hashknife saw somethin’ through the window, and he ran around to the back stairs. He told me to—”

Sleepy stopped, when two, closely spaced shots rattled the windows beside them. Both men sprang through the doorway, into the hotel, as a figure staggered into view, sagged at the top of the steps and came pin-wheeling down into the lobby. Hashknife ran to the top of the stairs, gun in hand, stopped for a moment, but came on down. Behind him came the disheveled, excited hotel man, waving his arms.

The stranger was sprawled at the foot of the stairs, tall, gaunt, unkempt. Hashknife was looking down at him, as Sleepy and the sheriff came over. The excited hotel man was jabbering:

“He stuck me up, I tell yuh! Made me come up there, or he’d kill me. Hartley, how on earth did you ever beat him? He heard you comin’ up the stairs. How did you beat him?”

“I didn’t beat him—he missed me,” said Hashknife coldly.

“That’s Cass Trent!” exclaimed the sheriff. “Why he’s— Hartley, there’s a half-dozen rewards for this hombre. He’s livin’ across the border for over a year. He’s a killer.”

“Was,” corrected Sleepy, and looked around at the crowd, swiftly gathering. The sheriff said:

“What was Cass Trent doin’ here—stickin’ up a hotel?”

“He wasn’t stickin’ me up,” denied the hotel keeper. “He was goin’ to bush somebody in that hallway. I came and peeked down the stairs and I seen him. I told him to git out of here, and I was goin’ up and run him out—but I didn’t. Man, the bore in his gun looked like a tunnel in a hill!”

“Goin’ to bush somebody?” queried the sheriff. “Who?”

No one seemed to know. Nick McGarvin looked at Hashknife and found the tall, lean cowboy smiling a little. The sheriff said, “Oh,” and waited for Doctor Talbert to arrive.

A search of Trent’s pockets revealed five hundred dollars in currency, all in a packet, and the usual impediments carried by cowboys. They took the body to the doctor’s place. Nick McGarvin said, “He got what was comin’ to him. Hashknife—yore cleared—and congratulations. They say Cass Trent never missed.”

“They all miss sometimes, Nick,” said Hashknife soberly.

“But why would he try to bush you?” asked the sheriff. “You didn’t even know him.”

Hashknife shook his head. “No, I didn’t, and I never heard of him, until now. He was hired to kill me, Nick.”

“Hired? Good gosh! Who hired him, Hashknife?”

“I can’t tell yuh—’cause I’m not sure.”

The excitement was mostly over, as soon as the body was removed, but there was still a lot of discussion going on. Trent’s name was well-known down there. Hashknife and Sleepy went over to the Pasatiempo Saloon, listening to the gossip. Harry Colton was at the bar, already more than half-drunk. Hashknife shoved in beside him, and Colton resented it. However, he looked at Hashknife, and decided to give him room.

Hashknife was only at the bar a few moments when the sheriff came in. Men were asking him questions about the affair at the hotel, when Hashknife drew him aside, whispered a few words. The sheriff looked at him in amazement, but finally nodded. About a minute later the sheriff arrested Harry Colton, who tried to shove the law officer away, swearing indignantly. The incident brought a lot of attention, but the sheriff was firm.

“Harry, yuh better go peacefully,” he said.

“You’re crazy!” snarled the young man. “Why arrest me? What’s the charge?”

“Murder,” said the sheriff coldly. “You killed Chiquita Morales.”

“That’s a lie!”

“It’s the truth, Harry. You’ve still got that turquoise ring. It’s in yore pocket. Take it out—and deny it!”

The arrest had sobered Harry Colton. Swearing his innocence, he felt in his pocket and took out the turquoise ring. He took one good look at it and flung it at the back-bar. The next moment the big sheriff had crashed Colton against the bar and deftly handcuffed him. Harry Colton was not swearing nor protesting now, he seemed too stunned to even notice the crowd, as the sheriff led him outside. The bartender recovered the ring, and gave it to a man to give to the sheriff.

Word that Harry Colton had been arrested for the murder of Chiquita Morales spread swiftly. The sheriff was in a quandary as to what to do about Frenchy Arnett. Hashknife got Frenchy aside and explained to him that arrest didn’t mean that Harry Colton was guilty. Frenchy laughed shortly, but promised to keep his trigger-finger under control.

“I think yo’re wrong, Hashknife,” confided the sheriff.

“Maybe I am,” admitted Hashknife, “but it’ll stir things up.”

“It shore will, if a mob decides to lynch Colton.”

Sleepy showed up, having been on a mission, and reported quietly, “Sam Hack went to tell Thomas Colton, but he’s back at the Pasatiempo. I heard Colton tell him he’d be right up to the jail.”

“You stay here and keep yore eyes open, pardner,” ordered Hashknife, and went swiftly up the street.

Hashknife wasn’t sure of anything. When he had dropped that turquoise ring into Harry Colton’s pocket, he was acting on a vague sort of hunch; a hunch that this was the time to force the issue. There was a light in the living-room of the Colton home. Colton hadn’t been to the jail. Hashknife came straight to the house, so it was evident that Thomas Colton was taking his own sweet time in reacting to the arrest of his son. Hashknife circled to the rear of the house, working along a low fence, when he heard a door close quiet. A moment later someone came toward the fence, climbed over it and headed south. The man was evidently carrying something, which he lifted over the fence.

Hashknife trailed him as close as he dared. The man crossed the street, far from any lights and walked swiftly down the road, which led south from Tomahawk Flats. But he only went a short distance and stopped off the road. A minute later he was coming back. Hashknife dropped flat, as the man went past him, panting a little. He saw him turn into the main street.

Hashknife saw the man was not carrying anything when he returned; so he went on in the darkness, just off the road, searching as well as he could in the darkness, and almost fell over a valise, which had been left behind a small clump of brush, only a dozen feet off the road. The heavy valise was locked, and Hashknife didn’t bother to try and open it. He picked it up and went back to Colton’s house, where he left the valise against the low fence.

There was a light in the house, but the blinds were down.

Hashknife tried the kitchen door and found it unlocked. Quietly he opened the door, and listened, but there was not a sound. He closed the door, moved ahead to the partly opened doorway, which opened into the living-room, stepped aside against the wall and waited for something to happen.

He had been there about ten minutes, when he faintly heard footsteps on the plank walk, which led from the street. There was a sharp knock at the front door, and then the door opened. He was unable to see who had come, but heard more than one come in. A voice called:

“Colton!”

When there was no reply, he heard a man swear bitterly, damning the Colton family back several generations.

“Where the devil did he go? He never came to the jail. Yuh don’t suppose—?” a voice began.

“Suppose what?” asked another man.

“Never mind. Where did Hartley go? I seen Stevens there, but I didn’t see that long-legged bloodhound. That damned Trent! He made a mess of the deal. Five hundred dollars, all shot!”

“Never mind the five hundred dollars,” said the other nervously. “We’ve got to find Colton. Don’t yuh realize that Harry will talk? He ain’t got the guts of a cottontail. Let’s head south.”

“No, we won’t head no place—not till we find Colton. Damn it, we’ve got to find Colton! Where did that ring come from?”

“That beats me. I threw it away, I tell yuh. I heard it hit the buggy—maybe that fool Harry found it. He’s half-crazy, anyway. He should have been dumped into the canyon with Regan. We’d have been safe, that’s a cinch.”

“Regan got what was comin’ to him. Askin’ the Association to send a man down here to buy ranches! Said it’d look legitimate. Legitimate—hell! They sent Hashknife Hartley. He found it out, and lost his nerve. Scared to write or wire us—came down himself, and wanted to get out of the deal.”

“Never mind what happened to Regan—what’ll happen to us?”

“Nothin’!” snapped the man. “Maybe we’re through here, but we can live like kings in Mexico. Yuh see—”

The man stopped short. Hashknife heard the door click shut, and Colton’s voice saying, “Keep your hands where they are—both of you.”

“What’s eatin’ you, Colton?” asked one of the men anxiously.

“What did you two do with that valise?”

“Are you crazy? What valise?”

“Don’t lie to me—you got it. I cached it beside the road, got Harry’s horse and saddle, and when I got back there—it was gone. I’ll give you ten seconds to tell me where—”

There was the sound of a scuffle, the thud of a falling body, and a voice drawled:

“Jist set right there, my fine-feathered friend! Pick up his gun, before he gits any bright ideas. Standin’ on a loose rug ain’t safe, Mister Colton—not when I’ve got m’ toe through a hole in one end of it. All right, all right! This gun’s easy on the trigger, my friend. Start tellin’ us where yuh put the money.”

“Money!” panted Colton, his voice husky. “You fools, I want to know where you put it. Put that gun away. Listen; I couldn’t leave the money here; so I cached it. along the road—in a valise—but it’s gone, I tell you!”

“Ain’t he a cute thing?” queried a voice sarcastically. “Why, you lyin’ pup! Scared somebody’d find it! You was goin’ to pull out with the money, and leave us to face the music. I’ve got a damn good notion to blow yore head off, Colton. Maybe I will. If you don’t—”

“Sh-h-h-h-h!” hissed a voice. “Somebody comin’!”

“Git in that chair, Colton! Guns out of sight!”

Someone knocked on the door, and one of the men said, “Come in!”

Hashknife heard the door open, and a voice said, “Come in, Sheriff. Oh, Mr. Stevens, too!”

Hashknife stepped into the doorway, shoving the door wider. He could see Colton, white-faced, sitting in a chair, looking toward the doorway. He could also see part of one of the other men, and he held a gun behind him, and cocked.

“Colton, you didn’t show up,” Nick McGarvin said, “and—and we’ve got to tell yuh. Harry had a gun hidden on him some’ers—and he shot himself. No, he ain’t dead, but—he-e-ey! What’s this all about?”

“Set down!” rasped one of the men. “Keep yore hands in sight. All right, Colton—where’s that money? Our money? Our only chance is to get out of here now—and we don’t go without that money.”

“I told you,” husked Colton, “that somebody got it. If you two didn’t—”

“You ain’t lyin’, Colton?”

“Would I lie—now? I’ll hold these two. Get your horses, and we head for Mexico.”

“Broke? Colton, I don’t trust you—not a bit. Tell us where that money is, or I’ll shoot yuh flat. If we can’t get the money, why should we bother with you, you sneakin’ coyote. Either you get that money—and we all go south—or you die here and we pull out together.”

“He ain’t givin’ yuh much choice, Colton,” said Sleepy. “Yuh might as well play square with ’em.”

“Keep yore nose out of this, Stevens!” snapped one of the men. “One cinch, when we leave here—you won’t be on our trail.”

“Hashknife will,” reminded Sleepy calmly. “And if yuh ask me, I don’t believe yo’re goin’ any place. Yuh see, yuh don’t know where he is.”

“Hartley!” whispered Colton. “Maybe he followed me an’—”

“I’m gettin’ out!” declared a man.

“Money be damned—my hide’s worth more’n any money.”

The man wasn’t taking any chances with his partners. With his forty-five tensed at his hip, he began backing toward the doorway to the kitchen. The door was open just wide enough to let him through—but he didn’t make it. A dull thud sounded, just as he was almost out of their sight, and he went right back, head down, shoulders sagging, buckled at the knees and sprawled flat onto his face, almost into the sheriff.

For a moment it seemed that everyone except Sleepy was off guard. Sleepy shot out of his chair and dived into one of the men, blocking his gun-hand, and the force of his dive crashed over the table, knocking the lamp off, and plunging the room into darkness. A gun flashed twice, but the spurts of flame went straight toward the ceiling. Hashknife flung the door wide open, as a man came at top speed, but the tall cowpoke dropped to his knees and the man tripped, going into the air and coming down with a crash against the old kitchen stove.

Hashknife was on him like a flash, gathering in the man’s two arms.

“Light somethin’, will yuh?” Sleepy was yelling. “I think this hombre is petterfied, but I’d like to be sure.”

The amazed and excited McGarvin managed to light matches. Sleepy was astride Sam Hack’s back, his hands locked behind him, and Sam Hack was having trouble getting enough air. McGarvin quickly handcuffed him.

“When yuh get a little time on yore hands,” Hashknife called, “I could use some rope or somethin’. Better find a lamp, Nick; you’ll burn yore fingers with all them matches.”

Sleepy came out with a rush, lighting matches, while the sheriff found and lighted a lamp. Thomas Colton had struck his head against his own stove and was in no shape to try a getaway. They dragged him into the living-room, and stood back, panting a little. Gus Staley groaned and sat up, trying to caress his aching head. He peered at the three men, who were looking at him, groaned dismally and lay down again.

Someone had heard the two shots, which knocked shingles off the roof, and in a few moments plenty of folks were running forward. Sleepy tried to keep them back, but it was no use. Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley were there, Buck Nolan, Frenchy Arnett, and most everybody else, who could get in. The sheriff was at a loss as to what to do next; so Hashknife took charge.

“Folks, will yuh give us room, please? Gus Staley! Gus, do yuh know what I’m sayin’?”

“To hell with you!” groaned Staley. “I don’t talk.”

“If you don’t, one of the others will. And the man who talks first gets off easiest. Shall I wait for the others?”

Gus Staley, his eyes just a bit off center, looked at the faces around him and decided to talk. He said, “I didn’t do it.”

“All right,” said Hashknife, “we’ll start from the first, Gus. You and Hack and Harry held up the bank and took all the money.”

“It wasn’t stealin’,” whined Staley. “Colton planned it. His idea was to break the county—and buy it back, cheap.”

“And Harry wore that turquoise ring, eh?”

“He bought it from Chiquita—and forgot he had it on.”

“You shot Oren Blakely, Gus.”

“That’s a lie!” husked Staley. “Hack killed him. He refused to go in on the deal, got scared and pulled out. Hack was afraid he’d talk. I liked Oren. Hell, I wouldn’t have done it—myself.”

“Why did you kill Chiquita Morales?”

“Hack got scared,” whispered Staley. “Harry was a fool to wear that ring. Chiquita could have told who had it. Harry wanted to make Chiquita swear that he never had the ring, but Hack said the safest thing was to shut her mouth. I wasn’t there—it was Hack and Harry. Yuh can’t kill women and have yore luck last.”

“Who hired Trent to shoot me tonight, Staley?”

“Colton. He paid him five hundred dollars.”

“Gus, we know why and how you fellers killed Regan. Wasn’t he usin’ the name of James Morrison?”

“Yeah—he was the syndicate—the yaller pup.”

“Folks,” said Hashknife wearily, “you’ve heard the story. I can’t tell yuh any more. In fact, if Gus hadn’t been scared, I couldn’t have told yuh half that much.”

Uncle Andy and Ed Frawley shoved their way over to the sheriff, and Uncle Andy said, “It all came too fast, Nick. Does this mean that Johnny’s free?”

“Why, shore he’s free. Don’t paw me around—go and paw Hashknife.”

But Hashknife wasn’t in sight. He and Sleepy had gone through the crowd and were outside, heading for the main street. Uncle Andy went galloping past them, intent only on finding Aunt Judy and Nell Frawley. They paid their bill at the hotel. The old hotel keeper said, “Some excitement, eh? I heard there was more trouble down at Tom Colton’s home. What happened down there—or don’t yuh know?”

“That’s right,” nodded Hashknife and they walked out, smack into Aunt Judy, Nell Frawley and Uncle Andy. Uncle Andy grabbed Hashknife by the sleeve and turned him around, while Aunt Judy planted a kiss on his cheek. Not a word had been said, until Hashknife said, “Aw, gee!” He turned Aunt Judy around, facing the lights of the hotel, and she was crying.

“I thought that kiss kinda ran a little,” he said. “When yuh see Nick, Uncle Andy, you tell him that valise-full of money is jist outside Colton’s south fence.”

“No, yuh don’t!” whispered Uncle Andy. “No, yuh don’t. Eddie Connors said that you two allus pull out on folks. You’ve got yore war-sacks with yuh—but yuh ain’t goin’. Nossir, yuh ain’t. This time, yuh don’t go. Hashknife Hartley, tomorrow night is Christmas Eve—and you brought peace to Dancin’ Devil. Johnny’s free to marry Nell t’morrow night—we get our money back—and you just try to leave here!”

“You won’t go—will you?” asked Nell, her voice choked. “You can’t even think of it, Hashknife—not this time.”

“Well,” said Hashknife quietly, “I reckon we can stay.”

“Can stay!” snorted Uncle Andy. “You’ll stay, if I have to hog-tie yuh. You ain’t the right size nor the right shape, but if Sandy Claus ever came to Dancin’ Devil Valley, yo’re him.”

“Let’s go get Johnny,” said Aunt Judy quietly. “The sheriff just went down there.”

Hashknife and Sleepy, still holding to their war-bags, stood in the hotel doorway. Frenchy Arnett came past, stopped and looked at them. Sleepy said, “How’r yuh comin’, Frenchy?”

“I’m all right,” replied Frenchy. “Everythin’ is all right. Yuh see, Chiquita sold that ring; she wasn’t tradin’ it. Yeah, I reckon it’s all right.”

Frenchy went on. Sleepy said, “Well, yuh can’t run away from everythin’. Maybe they’ll make you best man. But tell me somethin’, Tall-Feller; how’d you manage to suspect Tom Colton?”

“’Member the first time he talked with me, Sleepy. He had a telegram from James Morrison, who turned out to be Regan. After we took this job, Regan didn’t have time to get a letter about us, and the telegram didn’t mention who we were. But Colton said, ‘After all, the Cattlemens’ Association wouldn’t recommend a man who wasn’t capable.’ How would he know who recommended us, unless he had another wire ahead of the one I read?”

“That wasn’t much to go on,” said Sleepy.

“It was enough,” smiled Hashknife. “Maybe I better send a telegram to Bob Marsh, and tell him the ranches ain’t for sale.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea, pardner; and when yuh write it—give him my regards, will yuh?”

They grinned at each other, went back and registered again.

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 25, 1948 issue of Short Stories Magazine.

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DANCING DEVIL RANGE

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