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Discovering Diverse Content Through
Random Scribd Documents
 “Yeah? Good rifle shot?”
“Fair.”
“Uh-huh,” Hashknife considered Mr. Goode. He was not a soft-
looking person.
“Of course, it’s none of my business, but I’m just curious to know
who, or which one of us, you tried to kill a while ago, Mr. Goode?”
“Me?” Goode spat thoughtfully. “That’s a queer question, my
friend with the cocked Winchester. ’S far as I remember, I ain’t tried
to kill anybody for a long time.”
“No-o-o-o?” drawled Hashknife. “I hate to call a man a liar.”
“Prob’ly,” dryly. “I hate to be called one, when I’ve got my hands
in the air.”
“Sure. Yuh might care to tell me how yuh happen to be right here
about this time.”
“Cinch. I’m from the X Bar 6 outfit. Me and Ed Gast was back
toward Yaller Horn Mesa today, and when we’re on our way back I
decides to ride down to the Double Bar 8. Ed went on to Blue Wells;
so I cuts a straight line for here. Satisfied?”
“But not contented,” said Hashknife. “Just why didja want to come
to the Double Bar 8? You know —— well the three men from that
ranch are in jail at Blue Wells.”
“Oh, I knowed that all right. But I wanted to get a look at the two
men who are runnin’ the place.”
“Get a look at ’em, eh?”
Goode grinned widely, showing his tobacco-stained teeth.
“I reckon yo’re one of ’em, stranger. Yuh see, I lived at Black
Wells when you and yore pardner cleaned up the Modoc trouble, and
I heard a lot about yuh. I’ve always wanted to thank yore pardner
for killin’ Jud Mahley. It saved me a ca’tridge.”
Hashknife studied the face of the ex-Black Wells cowboy, but the
man seemed sincere.
“I want to believe yuh, Goode. But a while ago somebody fired a
rifle up here, and the bullet almost killed a woman in the Double Bar
8 patio.”
 Goode’s eyes narrowed.
“And yuh thought I done it, Hartley?”
“I found yuh here.”
“Yeah, that’s true. I heard the shot. It wasn’t long ago. But a shot
don’t mean anythin’. I seared up a flock of quail back there on the
hill, and I jist wondered if somebody hadn’t been out tryin’ to get a
meal of ’em.”
Hashknife lowered his gun and let down the hammer.
“I’m takin’ you at yore word, Goode,” he said. “There’s got to be a
reason for that shot—and I don’t reckon you’ve got one.”
“Well, I sure ain’t, Hartley. Any old time I go bushwhackin’, it
won’t be you, nor any of yore friends.”
“Well, that’s sure thoughtful of yuh. Do yuh know Miss Taylor?”
“Know who she is. Tex Alden intended to send me and one of the
other boys down here to run this ranch, but when you boys took it, I
reckon he changed his mind.”
“It didn’t make him mad, did it, Goode?”
Goode looked curiously at Hashknife, his lips pursed thoughtfully.
“Well, it hadn’t ought to,” he said slowly.
Hashknife nodded. He liked Goode for that remark.
“We might as well go down to the ranch-house,” suggested
Hashknife. “I reckon the shootin’ is all over.”
“I hope t’ gosh it is, Hartley. That’s nasty business.”
They went to the ranch-house, where Hashknife introduced
Goode to Sleepy and Jimmy. Marion had gone into the house, but
came out a few minutes later and was introduced. Hashknife
explained how he had met Goode.
It was possibly a half an hour later that Goode rode away. His
explanation of how he happened to be there on the hill so soon after
the shooting did not satisfy Sleepy.
“That jigger’s eyes are hard,” declared Sleepy. “Jist like moss-
agate. And he’s from Black Wells, Hashknife.”
“I sabe that,” smiled Hashknife. “But I don’t think he did fire that
shot. He don’t look like a hired killer, and it’s a cinch he ain’t got no
personal reason for killin’ any of us.”
“Ain’t he?” Sleepy smiled wisely. “Just suppose Mr. Goode is one of
that gang of train robbers? He knows what we done in the Modoc
country. Figure it out for yourself.”
Hashknife nodded seriously.
“Yeah, that might be true. Mebbe he thinks we’re here to work on
that case. I hate to get fooled on humanity, Sleepy. That feller may
be awful slick. He’s either innocent, or smooth as satin, because he
sure had an alibi on the end of his tongue.”
“But he didn’t have any rifle,” said Jimmy.
“A rifle is easy to hide,” said Sleepy, shaking his head. “Nossir, I’d
look out for Mr. Goode.”
“But that shot was fired at me.” Jimmy was not to be denied of his
thrill. “It went right past my ear.”
“And why would Goode shoot at Jimmy?” questioned Marion.
Hashknife laughed and picked some of the burrs off his knees.
“We’ve got to get an answer-book, folks. I’m glad that the
heirloom was only creased. But from now on we’ve got to be mighty
careful. Unless I’m mistaken, that shot was only a beginnin’.”
“Do you think you ought to stay here?” asked Marion nervously. “I
mean, to take a chance on your lives, just to help me out?”
Hashknife looked at Jimmy, who dug his heel savagely in the hard
ground, appearing ill at ease. Finally he looked up, noticing that both
Hashknife and Sleepy were waiting for him to answer Marion’s
question.
“Well,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, I’ll stay.”
“Three times—and out,” said Hashknife softly. “They’ve tried
twice, Jimmy.”
“I know,” seriously. “But,” he grinned and peeled some sunburn
off his nose, “I’m beginnin’ to think that you never will die until your
time comes.”
“And that thought will sure help yuh win a lot of fights where the
odds are all against yuh, Jimmy,” said Hashknife.
“Are you a fatalist?” asked Marion.
 “Well,” grinned Hashknife, “if I wasn’t, I’d ’a’ been scared to death
years ago.”
“I would like to hear about that Modoc affair,” said Jimmy.
Hashknife shook his head quickly.
“No, Jimmy. It wasn’t anything. Goode kinda got things twisted. I
hope Carrie Nation gets some food on the table pretty soon.”
It was like Hashknife to refuse to tell of things they had done.
After he and Sleepy Stevens had joined forces and left the Hashknife
outfit, fate seemed to throw them into troubled waters. Hashknife
was either blessed or cursed with an analytical mind. A range
mystery was food and drink to him. Sleepy’s mind ran in normal
channels, but he loved to roam, and his love of adventure,
fearlessness in the face of danger, made him a valuable ally to
Hashknife.
So for a number of years their trail had led them where the cattle
roamed, working on mysteries; more often than not, working for the
sheer love of the thing, rather than for pay. At times they had
stepped out of a pall of powder smoke, mounted their horses and
rode away ahead of the thanks of those whose future had been
made more bright by their coming.
“Soldiers of fortune,” a man had called them.
“Cowpunchers of disaster,” corrected Hashknife.
And in all their wanderings, the thing uppermost in their minds
was to find the spot where they might be satisfied to settle down
and live a peaceful life; both of them realizing all the while that they
would never be satisfied with peace. Always the other side of the hill
called to them—the irresistible call of the open, of the strange
places, which is always answered by men who can’t sit still.
 XI—THE SHERIFF WONDERS

After Goode rode back to Blue Wells he met Lee Barnhardt, who
was taking a drink at the Oasis, and Goode, who was also drinking,
told him of his visit to the Double Bar 8, and of the mysterious shot.
The lawyer was naturally interested and questioned Goode closely,
but Goode knew nothing of who had fired the shot.
“I met Hartley and Stevens,” offered Goode. “They’re the same
two jiggers that cleaned up that Modoc job.”
“Detectives?” asked Barnhardt.
“Oh, I dunno about that part of it. But that ain’t the only job they
ever cleaned up. There’s a lot more behind that one, and I’ll betcha
they’ve not been idle since then. I’m wonderin’ what they’re doin’
here.”
“Perhaps they’re working on that train robbery.”
“Pshaw, that might be it. I’ll buy a drink, Barnhardt.”
On his way back to the office Barnhardt met Le Moyne.
“What ever happened to that detective the Santa Rita was going
to put on that robbery?” asked Barnhardt.
Le Moyne smiled.
“Why, I guess the company didn’t think it was worth while, as
long as you folks had jailed some one for doing the job.”
Barnhardt laughed softly, knowingly.
“That’s all right, Chet. But when you hire detectives, why don’t
you get men whose reputations are not so well known?”
Le Moyne looked him over coldly.
“What do you mean, Lee?”
“Oh, I respect your secrecy. But really, Hartley and Stevens are
too well known to do much good.”
“Eh?” Le Moyne frowned heavily. “Those two men at the Taylor
ranch?”
 “Sure. The two best man hunters you could have hired. But it’s a
case of them being too well known.”
“Yeah?” Le Moyne smiled thinly. “Too well known, eh? But don’t
blame me—I’m not the Santa Rita company.”
“That’s true.”
“Personally, I know nothing about their reputation, Lee.”
“You don’t? Well, I don’t know very much, but I do know that
they’ve never lost a case. I’d hate to have them on my trail.”
“Well,” Le Moyne shrugged his shapely shoulders, “it seems as
though we had hired two very good men, Lee.”
“You have.” Barnhardt laughed and grew confidential. “Tex Alden
is as sore as a boil. He didn’t want them two men to stay at the
ranch. He intended to run the ranch himself.”
“He did, eh?” Le Moyne scowled. “Yeah, I suppose he would. I’m
glad he missed out on that. And I’m glad the sheriff and the railroad
detective had to make that arrest. It rather lets me out of any blame
in the matter, you see.”
“Certainly.”
“They’ve got plenty of help at the Double Bar 8,” said Barnhardt,
after a pause. “That tenderfoot, Jimmy Legg, who was at the AK
ranch, has volunteered his services. Tex sure is sore at him.”
“Sore at Legg? What for?”
“Well, Tex thinks Marion pays too much attention to Legg.”
“Well, does she?”
“I don’t know, Chet. She calls him Jimmy, and he calls her
Marion.”
“Does, eh? Say, Lee, where did that fellow come from?”
“Nobody seems to know. He tramped in here the night of the
hold-up. He said the train passed him. I can’t quite figure him out.
I’ve talked with Scotty Olson and Al Porter about him, and they’re
not quite sure what he is. He’s not a bad looking fellow, and I think
he has a way with women.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Well, you know, Chet; sort of a way of talking.”
 “Yea-a-ah, I guess I know what you mean,” sighed Le Moyne. “I’ll
see you later, Lee.”
Barnhardt went back to his office, glowing with the self
satisfaction that comes to men who love to gossip. Le Moyne met
Goode at the Oasis, and Goode was carrying just a little too much
liquor. Goode happened to be extolling Hashknife and Sleepy to the
bartender, who evidently didn’t care a bit about it.
“I tell yuh, they’re invin-shi-ble,” he declared. “Bes’ pair of two-
handed fighters on earth. Betcha odds, tha’s what’ll do.”
“Hello, Plenty,” said Le Moyne.
Goode goggled at Le Moyne.
“Howza paymashter? Whatcha usin’ f’r money these days, Chet?”
“Good yellow gold, Plenty. What do you want to bet on?”
“Don’t get him started,” advised the bartender. “He’s drunk. Wants
to bet odds that Hartley and Stevens will find the men who robbed
your pay-roll.”
Le Moyne laughed and bought a drink for every one at the bar.
“I’m tellin’ yuh,” declared Goode. “’F they was after me, I’d run
like ——, and pray every jump.”
“Bad men, eh?” asked Le Moyne, laughing.
“Wors’ you ever sheen! Gun-shootin’ mind-readers. Yesshir. Oh,
you’ll shee.”
He pointed a wavering finger in the direction of the bartender.
“Betcha oddsh. Betcha anythin’—”
Goode waved his arm, as if to encompass everything, and sat
down on the bar-rail, where he began snoring.
“Can’t stand much,” said the bartender. “Give him ten drinks of
hooch, and he’s plumb gone. Know anythin’ about Hartley and
Stevens?”
Le Moyne smiled and his brows lifted slightly.
“You knew the Santa Rita had detectives on the case, didn’t you?”
“Oh, I did hear they was goin’ to. What’ll yuh drink, Chet?”
“Same thing. I wonder where Goode found out so much about
those two men?”
 “I don’t know. He’s been out to the Double Bar 8 to see ’em, and
when he came back he met Al Porter here. They had a few shots of
hooch, and Goode told Al all about ’em. The more drinks he took,
the more he told. After Al went away, Barnhardt came in, and Goode
told it all over again. When Barnhardt went out, I was the victim.
You’re lucky he went to sleep.”
“I suppose I am,” laughed Le Moyne. “It appears that the Double
Bar 8 is well taken care of right now. Did any one find out who shot
that tenderfoot kid the other night?”
“Never tried to, I reckon. The kid went back to the AK.”
“He’s over at the Taylor place now.”
“Is that so?”
“That’s what I heard.”
“Oh, sure; I heard that too. You heard about somebody takin’ a
shot at the gang at the Double Bar 8, didn’t yuh?”
Le Moyne hadn’t; so the bartender told him what he had heard
Goode tell Barnhardt. It was interesting to Le Moyne, inasmuch as
the bullet nearly struck Marion.
“That sure beats ——!” snorted Le Moyne. “What kind of a
country is this getting to be? I wonder,” he squinted thoughtfully, “if
that shot was fired at Legg, the tenderfoot?”
“Might have been. What’ll yuh have, Chet?”
“Nothing; I’ve had enough.”
Le Moyne turned his back to the bar, while he rolled and lighted a
cigaret, his eyes thoughtful. Scotty Olson came in and spoke to Le
Moyne as he walked past, but the handsome paymaster of the Santa
Rita did not reply. Finally he walked out, mounted his horse and rode
away.
The sheriff came back to the bar.
“What’s the matter with Le Moyne?” he asked of the bartender.
“I dunno.” The bartender rested his elbows on the bar, chewing
on his cigar. “I told him about the bushwhacker out at the Double
Bar 8 almost killin’ Marion Taylor, and I suppose Le Moyne is sore
about it.”
 “Al Porter was tellin’ me about it,” nodded the sheriff. “I don’t
sabe it.”
“You’d be a wonder if yuh did, Scotty. This country is getting
pretty salty, don’tcha know it? First a train robbery, then an
attempted murder on the main street, and now they’re shootin’ from
the hills.”
“And what for?” wailed the sheriff. “My ——, I do hate a mystery!”
“Sure yuh do, Scotty. What’ll yuh drink? See-gar? Sure. These
ought to be good. Paid five dollars for that box of ’em three years
ago. Pretty dry? Well, my ——, you’d be dry, too, if yuh was kept in a
box in Arizona for three years. What-cha suppose anybody’s tryin’ to
kill off Legg for?”
“I didn’t know they was.”
“Somebody shot at him the other night, didn’t they? And Goode
says that shot was fired at him today.”
“He ought to go away,” said Scotty, looking gloomily at his cigar,
which seemed to be trying to expand into a rose, or a cabbage.
He flung it in a cuspidor, and smoothed his huge mustache.
“We never had no trouble around here until he came,” said Scotty.
“He’s a hoodoo, that —— tenderfoot!”
“How’s that dog comin’ along, Scotty?”
“First class. It bit me once, and Al Porter twice.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha! Don’t like officers, eh?”
“Takes after his owner, I reckon. Gimme somethin’ to take the
taste of that cigar out of my mouth.”
The sheriff drank a glass of liquor and scowled at Plenty Goode,
who still sat on the bar-rail, snoring blissfully.
“Don’t wake him up,” pleaded the bartender. “When that jigger
gets on one subject, he never knows when to quit.”
“I ain’t goin’ to wake him up,” wearily. “I suppose I’d better go out
to the Double Bar 8 and investigate that shooting. It won’t do no
good, though. I’ve got more prisoners now than I know what to do
with. Three of ’em—and a —— dog! I wish I wasn’t the sheriff.”
 “Well, cheer up, Scotty; somebody will prob’ly kill yuh very soon,
and then yore troubles will all be over.”
“I s’pose that’s true.”
The sheriff went back to his office, where he found Porter
cleaning a Winchester.
“Hear anythin’ new?” growled Porter.
“No. Reckon there’s any use investigatin’ that shootin’ at the
Taylor ranch?”
Porter inserted a piece of white paper in the breech of the rifle,
and squinted down the barrel.
“With two of the smartest detectives already there?” he replied.
“You’d find out a —— of a lot, wouldn’t yuh?”
“Mebbe that’s right. I understand they’re hired by Le Moyne, or by
the Santa Rita mine.”
“Mm-m-m-m-m,” Porter reached for the oil-can and proceeded to
lubricate the mechanism.
“I dunno how a detective can ever find out who held up that train,
if he spends all his time runnin’ a ranch,” said the sheriff.
“Not bein’ a detective, I don’t know,” said Porter coldly. “And
what’s a lot more I don’t care a ——!”
 XII—JIMMY TAKES A SHOT

For the next three days nothing startling happened at the Double
Bar 8, except that Jimmy Legg labored hard with the intricacies of a
rope, which invariably tangled around his legs, and a six-shooter,
which seemed to ignore the target entirely.
Hashknife and Sleepy humped against the patio wall, absorbing
many cigarets, while they solemnly gave advice to Jimmy, and
marveled that any man could shoot away so much ammunition and
never hit anything.
But Jimmy was persistent. He banged away merrily, satisfied if his
bullet came within two feet of a tomato-can, at twenty feet, trying to
follow Hashknife’s advice to shoot low. Apollo, the burro, entirely
recovered from his creasing, humped back in the shade of the patio
wall, and watched Jimmy with solemn dignity, jerking his one good
ear convulsively at each report of the heavy Colt.
Nanah had watched with interest from the door of the ranch-
house, until a misdirected bullet smashed through a window near
her, after which she lost interest in Jimmy’s marksmanship.
Hashknife and Sleepy rounded up several head of Double Bar 8
horses, getting Marion’s opinion on them as a remuda for the
coming round-up, and also trying them out. As a result, both of the
cowboys were stiff and sore from the unaccustomed shaking which
is usually meted out to a rider by horses which have not been ridden
for months. Jimmy Legg had tried one, and then retired to the
liniment bottle.
Marion decided to ride to Blue Wells, and Jimmy immediately
offered to ride with her. Jimmy had not been away from the ranch
since the mysterious bullet had nearly robbed him of an ear, and he
was anxious to go to town. Regardless of the fact that his torn scalp
had not been dressed by a doctor, it was doing very nicely, and he
was able to do away with the bandage.
 He and Marion did not indulge in much conversation on the way
to Blue Wells, because of the fact that most of Jimmy’s time was
occupied in handling his mount.
“This is rather embarrassing,” he told Marion. “I start to say
something to you, when this fool horse goes off across the country.
I’d rather be thrown off than to have my conversation interrupted
every time.”
“But you’re learning,” declared Marion.
“I hope so,” dubiously.
“Jimmy, does it mean so much to you—to be a cowboy?”
Jimmy reined his horse back into the road, clutched his hat just in
time to save it, and nodded violently.
“You bet! Say, it means an awful lot to me, Marion. Darn it, the
more I think about it, the more it means.”
Marion did not question him any further, as they rode down the
main street of Blue Wells. Marion dismounted at the sheriff’s office,
but Jimmy rode on to the Oasis hitch-rack, where he had seen
several AK horses tied.
At the Oasis bar he found Johnny Grant, Eskimo Swensen, Oyster
Shell and Tex Alden. Johnny fell upon him with a war-whoop of joy
and dragged him to the bar, while Eskimo and Oyster pounded him
on the shoulders and examined his scalp, much in the way of a pair
of monkeys, gibbering the while.
Tex turned away without speaking and walked outside, while the
AK gang leaned Johnny against the bar and demanded loudly of the
bartender that he work fast. They questioned Jimmy about the
shooting at the Double Bar 8, and his progress as a cowpuncher. In
fact, the questions came too fast for Jimmy to answer. But after the
second drink he managed to catch his breath, and told them some
of the happenings. But he would not drink any more.
“I’ve got to ride back to the ranch,” he told them solemnly. “I
brought Miss Taylor to town, and she is down at the jail, visiting with
her folks.”
The two drinks had made Jimmy rather expansive and he told
them about his roping and shooting lessons; which caused the AK
boys to double up with mirth.
“We was goin’ to stop at yore place on the way back,” said Johnny
Grant. “Bonnette said to tell Miss Taylor that her outfit can use from
our wagons. There’s plenty of room for all the bed-rolls, and three
extra men ain’t goin’ to kill off our cook.”
“Well, that certainly is thoughtful of him,” said Jimmy. “I know
Miss Taylor will appreciate it.”
“Aw, you better have one more drink,” urged Eskimo. “One more
won’t hurt yuh none.”
“Well,” Jimmy smiled expansively, “I suppose not. But I’ll buy this
one.”
All of which was acceptable, as it had been long enough since
pay-day to find the AK boys in financial straits. They drank a health
to Jimmy, and all walked outside. The main street of Blue Wells
drowsed in the afternoon sun. A few men humped in shady spots,
whittling, discussing nothing much in particular. Even the horses at
the hitch-racks drowsed.
Suddenly a commotion started at the sheriff’s office. It was not a
big commotion, but plainly audible on the silent street. A yellowish-
red dog darted out of the office door, whirled around once, as if to
get its bearings, and trotted up the street, looking back.
Out of the door came Al Porter. He had a heavy dish in his right
hand. Only for a moment did he hesitate, and then started toward
the dog, running stiffly, swearing. The dog was Geronimo, the
Exhibit A, in the case of the State of Arizona versus the Taylor Outfit.
Running as fast as he was capable, Porter hurled the dish at the
dog. But his aim was very faulty, which was attested to by a
splintering of window-glass from the front of Louie Sing’s restaurant.
The AK gang whooped with mirth. Jimmy Legg, forgetting that
ownership of Geronimo might cause complications, ran across the
street toward Porter, yelling at him to let the dog alone. Geronimo
stopped in an angle between the end of a bench and the wall of
Moon’s store, and anxiously watched Porter, who had picked up
several rocks about the size of eggs, and was preparing to bombard
the dog.
 Jimmy’s three drinks had made him reckless.
“You let that dog alone!” yelped Jimmy.
He was about twenty feet away from the swearing, perspiring
Porter, who paused long enough to consign Jimmy to a place which
was even more arid than Death Valley.
“By ——, I’ll learn that dog to bite me!” he roared. “I’ll smash in
his —— skull!”
The first rock struck the end of the bench and glanced into
Geronimo, who yelped more from fright than actual distress.
“Stop that, you dirty coyote!” yelled Jimmy.
Porter let fly with another rock, which narrowly missed breaking
one of the store windows, and whirled angrily toward Jimmy.
“Who’s a coyote?” he snorted.
His right hand swung back to the butt of his gun. It is barely
possible that Jimmy’s three drinks had ruined his perspective,
because he whipped out his gun and shot at Porter, almost before
his hand swung away from his hip.
The enraged deputy was off balance, unprepared, his right foot
lifted, as he had been following the swing of his throwing-arm. And
at the crack of Jimmy’s gun, his feet seemed to jerk from under him
and he came down in the hard street with a crash.
Jimmy stood there in the street, dangling the gun in his hand,
while Porter sprawled on his back, his knees jerking. The dog came
running toward Jimmy, barking joyfully, and almost knocked Jimmy
down.
“Good ——, go away!” panted Jimmy. “Gug-go away!”
The three boys from the AK ran past Jimmy, going straight to
Porter. The sheriff and Marion were coming from the office, while it
seemed to Jimmy that the rest of the world spewed out of every
doorway. Then he lost his nerve. Whirling on his heel, he ran to the
hitch-rack, mounted his horse and went flailing off down the street,
followed by Geronimo, barking wildly.
Porter got slowly to his feet, holding one hand against his head,
his face a mixture of anger and wonderment.
 “Where’d he hit yuh?”
“What was the matter?”
“Who shot yuh?”
Questions were fired at Porter, who groaned dismally and shoved
the anxious sheriff away.
“That —— fool!” quavered Porter. “Who’d ever think he’d shoot? I
was plumb off balance—kinda on one heel—and his bullet—take a
look at it.”
Porter held up his foot and they beheld the reason for the
deputy’s sudden drop. The heavy bullet had smashed into the high
heel, almost into the counter, and the impact had knocked Porter’s
sole prop from under him. And Porter had hit his head a resounding
whack against the ground, which accounted for the fact that Porter
stayed down a while.
“And he stole the dog!” exclaimed the sheriff.
“The dog stole him,” amended Johnny Grant.
“I hope t’ —— he keeps him!” groaned Porter. “I’m all through
with that dog, evidence or no evidence.”
“But we’ve got to have that dog, Al,” insisted the sheriff. “That’s
our main evidence.”
“Then you get him and do the feedin’. I never hired out as a ——
menagerie keeper. He bit me on the wrist, and when I kicked at him,
he bit me on the ankle and got loose.”
Tex Alden was one of those who had come from Moon’s store,
and now he spoke to the sheriff:
“Just why did that dog pull out with Legg?”
“Why, I dunno, Tex,” admitted the sheriff.
“Why did Legg defend the dog?”
The sheriff looked blankly around.
“I dunno that either, Tex.”
“All right,” Tex smiled crookedly and shrugged his shoulders. He
looked at Marion, but did not speak, and turned away.
“What’ll yuh do to that kid, Al?” asked one of the men.
 “Do to him?” Porter took it under advisement. “I dunno. He might
’a’ been right. I was so —— mad that I dunno just how things was.”
“You reached back for a gun,” reminded Eskimo, and the other
three AK cowboys nodded in confirmation.
“Yuh did, Al,” said Johnny.
“All right,” nodded Porter. “Mebbe I did.”
“And the kid thought yuh was goin’ to draw on him,” offered
Oyster Shell.
“Well, what the —— is all the argument about?” snarled the
deputy. “I’ll admit he was right. But,” Porter mustered a smile, “I
hope that —— dog bites him when he gits off that horse.”
All of which ended all arguments as far as the guilt or innocence
of Jimmy Legg was concerned—although Jimmy Legg, running his
horse back toward the Double Bar 8, considered himself a deep-
dyed killer.
He imagined that a posse was already on his trail, and once he
saw Geronimo far back in the road, just topping a rise, and his
imagination conjured up a dozen armed men, hot on his trail. The
shooting had made him cold sober, but the taste of liquor was still
on his palate.
His future was indefinite, because his thoughts ran in circles. He
could see the big deputy, lying flat in the street, his knees jerking.
Everything else was blotted out by that picture. He tried to
remember just why he had fired the shot, but it was like a half-
forgotten dream—something that had happened long ago.
His horse was plastered with lather, when he rode in at the patio
gate and dismounted near the well. Hashknife and Sleepy were just
coming from the ranch-house door, realizing from the condition of
the horse that something was wrong.
“What’s wrong, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
Jimmy flapped his arms weakly, and there was a decided catch in
his throat.
“I just killed the deputy sheriff,” he said.
Hashknife stepped closer and grasped Jimmy by a shoulder.
 “You done what?”
Jimmy gulped and nodded.
“Ye-yes, I did. I—I—”
“Take it easy, kid,” said Hashknife. “Set down here on the curb
and tell us about it.”
“I can’t,” Jimmy shook his head nervously. “I’ve got to keep going.
They’re after me, don’t you see?”
“All right, kid. If they’re after you, this is a fine place for ’em to
get you.”
“But I can’t stay here, Hashknife.”
“Sure yuh can, Jimmy. Let’s talk it over. Runnin’ away won’t help
yuh none. You’d lose out.”
Geronimo came into the patio, dust-covered, his tongue hanging
out, tail wagging. Jimmy had set a hot pace from town, but the dog
had found him. He sat down on his haunches in front of Jimmy and
put a paw on Jimmy’s knee.
“Where’d the dog come from?” asked Sleepy.
Jimmy looked at Geronimo, and Geronimo looked at Jimmy.
“He is my dog,” said Jimmy slowly. “It’s the dog they had in jail—
the evidence against Taylor.”
“Your dog, Jimmy?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, yes,” Jimmy nodded slowly. “You see, I was afraid to tell
anybody.”
“All right,” said Hashknife. “Now, tell us about the killin’ of the
deputy sheriff, Jimmy.”
And Jimmy told them, while the two cowboys asked a question
here and there to clarify things somewhat.
“Well, it looks to me as if it was a case of self-defense,” said
Hashknife, when Jimmy had finished his story.
“He really reached for his gun,” said Jimmy. “I realized it.”
“What I’d like to know is, how in —— did yuh ever hit him?”
queried Sleepy.
“I—I suppose it was because he’s larger than a tin can.”
“Where do yuh reckon yuh hit him?”
 “Oh, I don’t know,” wailed Jimmy. “It must have been through the
heart, because he fell down so quickly—and his knees were jerking.”
“That’s good shootin’, for the first time,” said Sleepy dryly. “Where
is Marion?”
“Oh, I forgot her! I must have been excited.”
“You prob’ly would be,” agreed Hashknife. “What I want you to do
right now is to tell me all about ownin’ this dog.”
“Oh, yes, about the dog,” Jimmy jerked nervously at the sound of
a noise outside the patio gate, but it was only Apollo, rubbing his
shoulder against the wall.
Jimmy sighed deeply.
“I suppose that was a dirty trick. But when I found out that—that
the dog was supposed to belong to a robber, I was afraid to claim
him. He ran away from me that night in Blue Wells, you see.”
And then James Eaton Legg went ahead and told them about his
experience with the express messenger. Hashknife grinned, when
Jimmy told of that battle in the express car, and of how the
messenger had described him as being a big, burly man, who tried
to draw a gun.
“His lyin’ saves you a lot of trouble,” said Hashknife, when Jimmy
had finished his tale. “He didn’t want anybody to think he had been
whipped by a smaller man.”
“I suppose so; but I’ll go to town and tell ’em that the dog
belongs to me. I might as well shoulder it all now.”
“I wish yuh wouldn’t,” said Hashknife. “Let things ride as they are
for a while. If they arrest yuh for shootin’ the deputy, mebbe yuh
can make a self-defense out of it. Yuh say that the AK boys saw it?
They’ll prob’ly alibi yuh, ’cause they don’t like the sheriff. Under the
circumstances a man could lie a little and not bend his conscience
too much.”
“Yuh should have stayed and seen the finish,” said Sleepy. “It
would ’a’ looked better.”
“I know it,” Jimmy sighed wearily. “But all I could think about was
to run away. I’ve never killed a man before.”
 “Prob’ly the first time he ever was killed, too.”
“Oh, don’t joke about it! It’s a terrible thing.”
“Pshaw, I wasn’t jokin’, Jimmy.”
“I know, but—”
A horse swung in through the patio gate, and Jimmy almost fell
off the curb; but it was only Marion. She looked at Jimmy and began
laughing. Geronimo barked joyfully and tried to jump up to her
stirrup.
But Jimmy only stared at her blankly, his mouth open.
“What’s the joke?” asked Hashknife seriously.
“Dud-don’t laugh,” pleaded Jimmy. “It isn’t anything to laugh
about.”
Between chuckles of merriment Marion managed to tell them
what Jimmy had done, while Jimmy, his eyes and mouth wide open,
leaned against the curb, gasping like a fish out of water.
Marion described how Jimmy had ridden out of Blue Wells,
followed by the dog, and Sleepy cried against the shoulder of her
horse. But Jimmy was too relieved to laugh.
“Well,” he said solemnly, “I guess I’ll have to pick something
bigger than a man next time. Really, there should be something big
enough for me to hit.”
“You ought to attack a fort,” laughed Sleepy.
They unsaddled Marion’s horse, while Jimmy took care of his own
exhausted mount. He was so happy that he tried to take the saddle
off without uncinching it.
“I expect the sheriff will be out here soon,” Marion told them. “He
wants that dog. It bit Al Porter twice today, but they’ve got to keep it
for evidence.”
“They don’t know it’s here,” said Hashknife. “Let’s hide it.”
“Hide it? But that wouldn’t be lawful.”
“It isn’t lawful to hold yore folks on that kind of evidence, either.
Where can we put the dog.”
“In the cellar,” suggested Sleepy. “The one beneath the kitchen.”
“But won’t they search?”
 “Prob’ly. Put a rug over the trap-door, and they’ll never see it.”
It did not take them long to dump Geronimo into the cellar, where
Sleepy made him a good bed and put in a bucket of water. The dog
accepted his new quarters without any protest, and Nanah grinned
when she put an old rug over the trap-door, and moved over a table
to rest on it.
The three men were in the bunk-house when the sheriff showed
up, about thirty minutes later. He looked around the patio, expecting
to see the dog, and dismounted. Hashknife shook hands with him.
Jimmy did not put in an appearance.
“You heard what happened in town, didn’t yuh?” asked the sheriff.
Hashknife agreed that he had.
“It ended all right,” remarked the sheriff. “Except that the main
exhibit of the Taylor case followed Legg out of town.”
“What exhibit was that?”
“The dog. Legg came here, didn’t he?”
“Oh, yeah. But I don’t know anythin’ about the dog. Jimmy said
the trouble started over a dog, and Miss Taylor said the dog followed
Jimmy out of Blue Wells, but it prob’ly went back.”
“Yea-a-a-ah? Went back—where?”
“Why, to Blue Wells.”
“I don’t think so, Hartley.”
“Didja search the town?”
The sheriff, of course, hadn’t. He had taken it for granted that the
dog followed Legg all the way to the Double Bar 8, and upon sober
reflection on his part it was reasonable to suppose that the dog had
stopped and turned back to town.
“The kid was kinda scared, wasn’t he?” asked the sheriff.
“Naturally would be,” grinned Hashknife. “He thought he had
killed Porter.”
“I dunno how he ever missed hittin’ Al some’ers beside in the
heel. They wasn’t twenty feet apart. That derned tenderfoot is goin’
to kill somebody before he gits through. He’s comin’ closer every
time. By golly, I dodge every time I see him. He’s such a bad shot
that he worries me.”
As they were laughing over Jimmy’s markmanship, Lee Barnhardt
rode in on his sway-backed mount and dismounted beside them.
“You rode too fast for me,” he told the sheriff. “I saw you start
out, but you didn’t stop when I yelled.”
“I didn’t hear yuh, Lee.”
Marion came from the house, and Barnhardt took some mail from
his pocket, which he gave to her.
“The postmaster said you forgot to get it,” he said. “I was coming
out; so I brought it.”
The mail consisted of a few circulars and a weekly newspaper.
“I asked for mail for you boys,” Barnhardt told Hashknife.
“We’re not likely to get any,” smiled Hashknife. “Thank yuh just
the same.”
Barnhardt turned to the sheriff.
“What about that dog?”
“Not here. Mebbe it never left town, Lee. Yo’re not worryin’ are
yuh?”
“Not me. I’d be just as well satisfied if it never came back.”
“That’s what I thought. Are yuh ready to ride back?”
The lawyer shook his head.
“I’m in no hurry, Scotty.”
“Well, I am. So long, folks.”
Jimmy ventured out after the sheriff had gone, and wanted to
know everything the sheriff had said. He was so glad to know that
the law was not on his trail that he even spoke pleasantly to Lee
Barnhardt.
Marion went in the house, and Sleepy sat down in the shade with
Jimmy, leaving Hashknife with the lawyer.
“Naturally, we are both working in the interests of the Taylor
family,” said the lawyer confidentially. “Now, I’d like to know what
progress you have made in your observations.”
Hashknife looked at him keenly.
 “I don’t reckon I understand yuh, Barnhardt.”
“No?” Barnhardt smiled knowingly. “For your own information I
will say that Chet Le Moyne admitted your connections with the
Santa Rita mining company.”
“He did, eh?” Hashknife was wearing his poker face now.
“Yes. It is rather difficult to keep a thing like that from becoming
common knowledge. Folks naturally wondered what your business
might be.”
“I suppose,” seriously. “But I don’t reckon it makes much
difference, does it?”
“Oh, no. I have not mentioned it to any one; but I was curious to
know what you had found out, because I am anxious for any new
development which will serve my clients.”
“Well, I can’t tell yuh much. In fact, I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”
“Anything you told me would be in strictest confidence.”
“Yeah, I realize that.”
But although the Blue Wells lawyer waited patiently, the tall
cowboy remained silent. Then—
“Just an inkling of what you are doing would serve to cheer up my
clients.”
Hashknife shifted his position and looked Barnhardt squarely in
the eye. The level stare of the cold-eyed cowboy caused Barnhardt’s
gaze to shift. He had the uncomfortable feeling that Hashknife could
read his mind.
“Barnhardt,” said Hashknife earnestly, “do you think I’m a ——
fool?”
“Oh, no; not at all. Well,” Barnhardt turned away, “I suppose I
may as well go back. No hard feelings, I hope. Being in charge of
the Taylor defense, I would naturally be interested in any new
developments in the case.”
Barnhardt mounted his sway-backed horse and rode away, his
elbows flapping, his trouser-legs crawling up. About a mile from the
Double Bar 8 he drew rein and let his horse walk slowly along the
dusty road, while he took an envelope from his pocket.
 The flap had already been torn loose. He drew out the letter and
perused it closely. The envelope, postmarked Chicago, was
addressed to H. Hartley, Blue Wells, Arizona, and the letter read:

Dear Sir: A wire from us to James Eaton Legg, San Francisco,

California, brought a reply from his former place of residence to
the effect that Mr. Legg had left there and had left his
forwarding address as Blue Wells, Arizona. This may be a
coincidence, or it may be because of some former information.
Trusting that you will be able to furnish us with valuable
information soon, we beg to remain,
Sincerely yours,
Leesom & Brand.

Barnhardt’s lips were shut tightly and the muscles of his jaw
bulged as he tore the letter into tiny fragments, swung his horse off
the road and scattered the bits of paper into a mesquite tangle. He
turned in his saddle and looked back toward the Double Bar 8, as he
reined his horse back to the road.
“Hashknife Hartley,” he said earnestly, “do you think I’m a ——
fool?”
But whether Hashknife did, or didn’t—Barnhardt had no way of
knowing. He could only guess, and possibly he guessed wrong. At
any rate he rode back to Blue Wells in a black frame of mind, and
the first man he met was Chet Le Moyne.
“I’ve just been out to the Double Bar 8,” he told Le Moyne. “And I
had a talk with your detectives.”
“You did, eh. What did they tell you?”
“That would be telling, Chet. I told them I knew they were
working for the Santa Rita.”
“Yeah?” coldly. “And then?”
“Oh, they didn’t deny it. But I don’t think they’ve found out very
much.”
“Possibly not.”
 Le Moyne watched Barnhardt ride down to his office, tie his horse,
and go inside. The face of the handsome paymaster twisted angrily,
as his gloomy eyes squinted against the sun.
“I wonder if Barnhardt is just a plain —— fool, or—”
Le Moyne shook his head and went on his way.

That evening Hashknife, Sleepy and Jimmy rode to Blue Wells.

There were few people in town, and while Jimmy and Sleepy played
pool at the Oasis saloon, Hashknife found the sheriff at his office.
The sheriff was pleasant and curious, especially when Hashknife
talked over with him the evidence in the Taylor case.
The subject of the AK boys’ locking the sheriff in his own cell
came up, and the sheriff explained that the reason no one
discovered his plight was because Al Porter, the deputy, was at
Encinas, visiting a girl, and did not get back until morning.
“Does that Santa Rita pay-roll come in at the same time every
month?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno.”
“They say that the paymaster always takes the money from here
to the mine.”
“I reckon he does.”
“And somebody would have to know it was comin’ that day.”
“Oh, they must ’a’ knowed about it, Hartley.”
“How would Taylor have found it out?”
“That’s hard to say. Chet Le Moyne, the paymaster, is kinda sweet
on Miss Taylor, and—”
“And he might have told her, eh?”
“I don’t say he did, Hartley.”
“But for the sake of an argument, it could ’a’ happened. She
might ’a’ mentioned the fact that Chet was comin’ in to get the pay-
roll, eh? Is that what yuh was thinkin’?”
“Mebbe.” The sheriff did not want to commit himself.
“And this Le Moyne was at the depot to get the pay-roll?”
 “Yeah. He was here earlier in the evenin’, and somebody said he
went out to see Miss Taylor.”
“But he was at the depot to get the money, was he?”
“Yeah.”
“And you think there was four men in on the deal?”
“Sure. The fourth one got on at Encinas. It was his job to put the
messenger out of commission, I reckon.”
“This happened out where the AK road turns off the Encinas road,
near the railroad track, I understand. They cut the express car loose
from the rest of the train, ran it up there, blew the safe and got the
money. The engine crew say they had sort of a battle with ’em, after
they left the car. Then the engine crew ran the engine and express
car back to where they had cut loose from the rest of the train,
picked it up and came on to Blue Wells. Is that it?”
“Yeah, that’s what happened.”
“This express messenger and the man who got on the car at
Encinas fought in the car, but finally fell out. Do yuh know if this was
before or after the train was cut in two?”
The sheriff cogitated deeply.
“I never did hear, but—say, it must ’a’ been after the train was
broken, because they picked up the messenger on their way to here.
Yessir, it must ’a’ been after they cut off the express car, because
that messenger sure was picked up. He never walked to the train.”
“The messenger described the man who fought him, didn’t he?”
“Well, he said it was a big, husky sort of a feller. I don’t think
there’s any question about him bein’ one of the gang. He used that
dog as a reason for gettin’ on that car.”
“They why did he walk to the scene of the robbery, take the dog
from the express car and disappear?”
“Prob’ly scared that some one would recognize the dog?”
“The messenger and engine crew had already seen it. If it
belonged to Taylor, do yuh reckon they’d take the dog back to their
ranch, where any one could find it?”
 The sheriff twisted his mustache thoughtfully. This was something
he had not thought about.
“Anybody would recognize that dog,” said Hashknife.
“Yore argument sounds pretty good,” admitted the sheriff. “But it
don’t make much difference, because we can’t find that dog. Al
Porter is glad, I suppose. The darn thing hates him. Bit him every
time it had a chance. Growls every time he shows up.”
“You’ll have to find the dog before the trial, won’t yuh?”
“I s’pose the prosecutin’ attorney will raise —— if it ain’t here.
Still, it’s been identified; so that prob’ly won’t make a lot of
difference.”
“What became of Wade, the railroad detective?”
“Oh, he went back. Yuh see, he decided that Taylor was guilty; so
there wasn’t anythin’ more for him to do here.”
Hashknife went back to the saloon, and they made it a three-
handed game of pool. It was about nine o’clock when they decided
to go back to the ranch, as there was no excitement at all in Blue
Wells. The moonlight was so bright that, following Hashknife’s
suggestion, they rode in single file, about fifty feet apart.
That shot from the hills had made Hashknife cautious, and he
knew that three riders, bunched, would make an easy target in that
moonlight. But their return was uneventful, except that there were
no lights in the windows of the ranch-house.
“That sure looks all wrong,” declared Hashknife.
“Mebbe not,” said Sleepy. “Marion and Nanah might be enjoyin’
the moonlight.”
“They might, but we’ll play safe by thinkin’ they’re not.”
The three men dismounted a hundred yards from the house and
went cautiously to the patio gate. There was not a sound. The rear
of the ranch-house flung a long shadow across the patio. Hashknife
watched and listened for a while, and then strode boldly inside. A
door creaked, and they heard Marion’s voice—
“Is that you, Hashknife?” she spoke softly.
“It sure is,” replied Hashknife. “What’s the matter?”
 “Come here.”
They went softly across the patio and up to the door, where she
let them in. They could see the silhouette of Nanah against a
window, where she was watching. Marion closed the door softly.
“There wasn’t any light,” said Hashknife.
“Nanah saw you leave your horses,” said Marion. “She knew who
it was. About half an hour ago Nanah and I were sitting on the back
porch in the moonlight. It was wonderful out there, but it was
getting cool; so we came in. There were no lamps lighted.
“And Nanah swears she saw a man looking in the window, where
she is now. I told her she must be seeing things, but she persisted.
So we did not light a lamp. We watched and watched, but the man
did not come back. I went to the rear door and opened it a little. It
squeaks a little, you know. Then I saw a man cross the patio. He
was all humped up, and it seemed to me as though he had been
looking in the window of the bunk-house. I can’t be sure about it.
I’m sure he did not suspect that I had seen him, because he stopped
in the gateway for quite a while. Then he stepped into the shadow
on the other side of the wall.”
“How long ago was this?” asked Hashknife.
“Not over thirty minutes ago.”
“He must have been lookin’ for us,” grinned Sleepy.
“And if he seen us sneak in here he’ll know we’re on to him,” said
Hashknife. “But we’ve got to take a chance. Come out on the porch.
Tell Nanah to light the lamps.”
The old Indian woman bustled around, lighting lamps, while the
rest of them followed Hashknife to the rear porch.
“I’ll go first,” whispered Hashknife. “One man only makes one
target. If the coast is clear, I’ll whistle a tune, and Sleepy, you and
Jimmy come over there.”
Hashknife kept well in the shadow in crossing the patio, and in a
minute or two he began whistling. Sleepy and Jimmy crossed to the
bunk-house, where the door was open. Hashknife lighted the lamp,
which was on a table about midway of the room.
 Then he motioned Sleepy and Jimmy back to the doorway, where
he followed them out, closing the door.
“Duck down as low as yuh can and sneak back to the house,” he
whispered. They got back to the house and crept silently in.
Hashknife stepped in close to a rear window, where he could get
a clear view of the patio, and watched through a break in the
curtain.
“If he didn’t see our horses, he’ll think we’re in the bunk-house,”
said Hashknife. “If he seen us leave our horses and do an Injun
sneak, he’ll know we’re on to him, and prob’ly fog away from here.”
“Do you think it’s the man who has been trying to kill me?” asked
Jimmy.
“Might be.”
Suddenly Hashknife jerked back. A blinding flash filled the room,
followed by a terrific jarring crash, which fairly threw them off their
feet. The lamp was extinguished; pictures fell from the walls, and a
moment later the house seemed to be bombarded with missiles from
every angle.
Hashknife had fallen back against a table, but now he got to his
feet, groping in the dark. Sleepy was swearing dazedly. Dust and
smoke eddied in through the broken windows, and with it was the
odor of dynamite; the unmistakable scent of nitroglycerine.
“Is anybody hurt?” gasped Hashknife, scratching a match and
holding it above his head. Nanah was sitting against the wall, her
eyes goggling out of an impassive face. Marion had got to her feet
and was reaching for something to steady herself with, while Jimmy
had backed against the wall, his arms outspread against it, his feet
braced.
“What was it?” whispered Marion, staring wide-eyed at Hashknife.
“Somebody dynamited us, I reckon.” He strode to the door and
flung it open, while the others crowded close behind him. Where
once had stood the adobe bunk-house, there was only a pile of
adobe bricks, twisted timbers. The patio was a mass of adobe. On
the porch of the ranch-house was the splintered door, torn from its
hinges and flung across the patio.
 Hashknife ran across the yard, vaulted across the débris and went
out through a gaping hole in the patio wall, heading for the stables.
Through some freak of dynamite explosion, the force seemed to
have been in the opposite direction to the stables, with the result
that none of the stock was injured, and the stable still intact.
It did not take Hashknife long to find that nothing had been
injured in the stable. A decidedly feminine shriek from the patio sent
him running back through the broken wall, where he almost ran into
Apollo, the ancient burro.
“He was under that pile of stuff,” yelled Sleepy. “Rised up like a
darned ghost and almost scared Marion to death.”
Marion was laughing foolishly, almost hysterically.
“—— good thing I see man,” declared Nanah solemnly.
“You bet it was!” agreed Hashknife warmly. “If yuh didn’t see that
man, we’d be in bad shape now, Nanah. Good gosh! Can yuh
imagine what would ’a’ happened to us, if we’d ’a’ been in that bunk-
house?”
“Yeah, and we’d better look a little out,” said Sleepy nervously.
“The little sidewinder that touched off that blast will prob’ly want to
see if he done a good job.”
“He’ll not come back tonight, Sleepy. He’s high-tailin’ it out of this
section right now. I’ll betcha yuh could hear that explosion in Blue
Wells.”
Marion shivered in the cold breeze, as she looked at the moonlit
wreck.
“Oh, what will happen next?” she wondered aloud.
“Somebody,” said Hashknife, “is goin’ to hear the echo of that
blast, and it sure is goin’ to ache his ears.”
They tried to find their bed-rolls, but the outer wall of the bunk-
house, which was about two feet thick of adobe, had fallen in on the
floor, and it would require much digging to get down even to the
bunk-levels.
They went after their horses and put them in the stable, after
which they borrowed a few blankets from Marion. Jimmy insisted
that he be allowed to stand guard with them, but Hashknife decreed
that Jimmy sleep in the house, while Sleepy rolled in his blankets at
the hay-mow window of the stable, which, since the bunk-house was
no more, gave him a fair view of the patio and rear of the house.
Hashknife went out about a hundred feet from the front of the
house, and coiled up in his blankets in the cover of a mesquite,
where he could watch the front of the ranch-house. But nothing
came, except the cold, gray dawn, which was a long time coming.
There was an exodus from Blue Wells, when the news of the
dynamiting reached there, and the Double Bar 8 held a great
gathering of the cattle-clan, who came to view the ruins and to give
an opinion. Some of them seemed to think that perhaps Apostle Paul
Taylor had had some dynamite stored in the bunk-house, and that it
had exploded.
Tex Alden came and viewed the ruins with gloomy eyes;
Barnhardt perched on a pile of adobe and crumbled the clay
between his fingers, and looked wise. The sheriff talked to every one
who seemed to have any kind of a theory—and knew no more about
it than he did when he came.
The women grouped around Marion, and “Oh’d” and “Ah’d,” like a
lot of old hens clucking over a sudden fright. Hashknife said nothing,
but listened much. Le Moyne came to him and tried to find out what
Hashknife thought about it, but went away with the feeling that this
tall cowboy knew less than any of them.
With Le Moyne was Dug Haley, who quarreled loudly with Al
Porter over what dynamite would or would not do. Sleepy Stevens
horned into the argument with a dissertation on “the dynamic
principles of combustion,” in which he used the words “epiglottis,”
“atomizer” and “dogmatic” numberless times; much to the confusion
of Al Porter, who was forced to admit that all he knew about
dynamite was that “the —— stuff busts and raises ——.”
It was not often that Antelope Neal, owner of the Oasis, went out
of Blue Wells, but he did ride down to see what had happened to the
Double Bar 8. Neal was a small, gray-haired man, who seldom had
anything to say. He was a square gambler, and was respected as
such in Blue Wells.
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