Thicker than water

by W. C. Tuttle

CHAPTER XVII—KID GLOVER

“No such a thing! You’re crazy, all of yuh!”

Old Chuckwalla fairly danced up and down on the sheriff’s office floor and his mustaches bristled angrily. He shook a gnarled fist at Slim Caldwell.

“You long-legged gallinipper!” he roared. “You accuse me of bustin’ yore hen-coop of a jail, do yuh? You think I let Rance McCoy out, eh? I’d shore crave to know where yuh got that idea.”

It was the day after they had found DuMond’s body, and Chuckwalla had just been told that Rance had been delivered from the jail. Slim had come out openly and asked Chuckwalla where he had taken Rance. Of course the old man was properly indignant.

“You swore you’d bust the jail,” reminded Slim.

“Uh-huh. Shore I did. I was mad—and drunk. But I never done it, Slim. Honest to God!”

“Then where in hell is he?” demanded Slim. “If you didn’t take him out—who did?” Chuckwalla waved his arms helplessly.

“How’d I know?”

Slim turned and looked at Hashknife, who was smiling at old Chuckwalla.

“What do you think, Hashknife?”

“Oh, I dunno. You know Billy DuMond is dead, don’tcha, Chuckwalla?”

“Heard he was. That ain’t nothin’ to tear a shirt over. This country would ’a’ been better off if DuMond had been strangled in infancy. Blame Rance for it, don’tcha? Sure, yuh would.”

Chuckwalla glared indignantly and backed to the door.

“Where are yuh goin’?” asked Slim.

“To hunt for Rance McCoy. Somebody’s got to find him—and the sheriff’s office is full of incompetent chair-warmers.”

“Where are yuh goin’ to look?” asked Chuck.

“That’s none of yore business.”

He went up the sidewalk, tramping heavily, his spurs rasping on the worn boards. Slim shrugged his shoulders wearily and leaned back in his chair.

“Now, what do yuh think, Hashknife?”

“The old boy seemed very emphatic, Slim.”

Hashknife walked to the door and looked up the street. He saw Lila enter Barker’s store.

“I think I need some tobacco,” he said, and left the office. Slim watched him out of the door, and saw him join Lila. He started to follow him, but decided not to.

He met Lila at the store entrance. She was taking some packages down to Parker’s house; so he walked along with her.

“Things are breakin’ kinda bad for yuh, ain’t they?” asked Hashknife.

Lila nodded. It seemed to Hashknife as though she did not want to talk about it.

“You heard about DuMond’s death?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Do yuh think Rance McCoy killed him?”

“Not if he was murdered, as they say he was. Rance McCoy would have killed him in a fair fight.”

“They think Chuckwalla took him out of jail.”

“I know they do. But I don’t believe it. Chuckwalla talks a lot. He’s just a big-hearted old man, rough on the outside. He wouldn’t hit Scotty McKay, unless it was in a fair fight.”

“You don’t dislike Rance McCoy, do you?”

“Dislike him?”

Lila turned her head away, but not too quickly for Hashknife to have seen the tears in her eyes.

“I don’t dislike him,” she said wearily. “I was hurt and sick over it all. It seemed so unfair that no one had told me who I was—and what I was. You don’t know what it means, Mr. Hartley. And now they’ve taken my school away.”

“Yeah, I heard about it, Lila. I’m callin’ yuh Lila because everybody else does.”

“That’s all right.”

They stopped at the Parker gate.

“I’ve heard that Rance McCoy and his son never did hitch very well,” said Hashknife.

“Not very well,” admitted Lila. “They’ve always been at swords’ points, even when Angel was a little boy. Rance McCoy has always stood by Angel, even when Angel deserved severe punishment, but there never seemed any love between them. Even when Angel and I were little, he used to take Angel’s part against me.”

“Case of blood bein’ thicker than water, eh? Oh, I didn’t mean to say that, Lila.”

“But it is true.”

“Yeah, I reckon it is.”

“Do you believe in heredity?” Lila was painfully serious now. It was a question that hurt her to propound.

“Heredity? If yuh mean physical forms, color, disposition—yes. If yuh mean inherited vices, physical failings—no. Horse-stealin’ don’t necessarily run through a family. Preachers’ sons don’t usually make preachers. Blindness ain’t inherited; so why should any other physical ailment be? I knowed two weak little folks up in Montana that raised a heavy-weight fighter. But yuh can make yore own heredity, Lila—most folks do.”

“You mean—thinking about it?” anxiously.

“Thinkin’ the wrong way about it.”

“But—but what if other folks think against you?”

Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.

“That’s an Injun idea, Lila. Never admit that yore medicine is weaker than that of the other feller. Yore mind is the only one that can hurt you.”

Lila sighed and shifted her packages.

“Anyway,” she said, trying to smile, “your theory is worth thinking about.”

“It’s worth usin’,” seriously. “I know, because I’ve shore used it. You quit worryin’ about yourself—and about anythin’. You’ve done no wrong; and when you’re right, yuh don’t need to worry about anythin’.”

“Perhaps that is right. Oh, I hope everything will come out right for Rance McCoy. Slim Caldwell likes you; he told me he did.”

“Well,” grinned Hashknife, “that makes two folks he likes, Lila, ’cause he didn’t need to tell me who the other one was.”

Lila blushed quickly and hurried toward the house. At the porch she turned and waved to Hashknife, and he knew she was smiling.

He went back to the office, where the doctor was dressing Scotty’s head. Slim had gone up the street, but Chuck and Sleepy were still there.

“Let’s go down and take a look at the shack we didn’t see yesterday,” suggested Hashknife.

Chuck quickly agreed. They took a pair of rifles from the sheriff’s gun-rack, saddled their horses, and headed out of town, after leaving word with Scotty to tell Slim where they were going.

They took the road which led to the Half-Box R, crossed the bridge where they had found DuMond’s body, and then swung to the left, following the river. The country was very rough, and the buck-brush grew thick, with here and there a large patch of greasewood and occasional jackpine clump.

But Chuck knew the location of the hidden shack, and led them straight to it. There was no clearing to show that any kind of a habitation existed. The front end of the dwelling had been built of jackpine poles, more like the entrance to a tunnel than a human abode.

The old door was still in place, but sagging open. Just at the entrance, where they dismounted, was a space of possibly twenty feet long of fairly bare ground. There were horsetracks here, and Hashknife squatted on his heels to study them closely, while Sleepy and Chuck kept an eye on the sagging door.

“C’mere, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. He pointed a forefinger at a track in the dusty earth. In fact there were two tracks close together, apparently made by the same animal, but one track showed a smooth shoe, while the other mark plainly showed a calked shoe.

“The Ghost!” snorted Sleepy. “Yessir, that’s him.”

“Yore gray horse?” queried Chuck.

“Yeah,” nodded Hashknife.

“Yuh mean to tell me yuh know the footprints of yore own horse, Hashknife?”

“I ought to—I shoe him myself, Chuck. Notice that track? That’s his left front foot. Put a toe-calk on that foot and he’ll stumble badly; so I always shoe him with light calks on the rest, and leave that one plain. But the worst of it is, we don’t know how long ago these tracks were made. A track would look fresh a long time in that dry earth.”

Practically all of the cabin was a dugout, and, except for the entrance, was of dirt walls. The floor was of dirt. At the rear was a small fireplace, and the rusty old stovepipe barely cleared the top of the brush on the slope of the hill.

There had not been a fire in the dugout for a long time, and the only sign of occupancy was an empty bean can, still containing a few fairly fresh beans, and on the dirt floor were a number of cigarette-butts. Hashknife examined them and decided that some of them had been smoked but a short time ago.

They came back to the sunlight and mounted their horses.

“Somebody’s been here lately,” decided Hashknife. “And that person ate canned beans, smoked cigarettes, and rode my horse. If Kid Glover stole my horse, and still rides him, he came back from Welcome instead of keeping on goin’.”

“He’d probably know about this dugout,” said Chuck. “The Kid was here quite a while, and lots of the Reimer stock range through here. I wish I knew why he stole yore horse, Hashknife. He probably don’t know whose horse he got, and I don’t think it would make any difference to him if he did. The Kid shore is a cold-blooded person, and if he’s got any conscience at all, I’m an evangelist.”

“Let’s ride over to the Half-Box R,” suggested Hashknife. “Butch Reimer might have some word of Glover.”

“He wouldn’t give the Kid away, Hashknife. But we’ll ride over, anyway. Yuh never can tell.”

But they were spared the ride. As they struck the road below the bridge they met Reimer and Blackwell, traveling toward town.

“Hyah, cowboys,” grunted Butch. “What do yuh know?”

“Not much,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t seen anythin’ of Kid Glover, have yuh?”

A queer expression flashed across Butch’s eyes as he looked quickly at Hashknife.

“Haven’t seen him; have you, Hartley?”

“Nope. But if he’s ridin’ my gray horse, he’s been around here lately.”

“How do yuh make that out?”

“Found the track of my horse.”

Butch laughed shortly.

“Yuh don’t mean to say yuh know the track of yore horse, do yuh, Hartley?”

“Yeah. Shod him myself, Butch.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Butch drew the brim of his hat farther down over his eyes as he looked out across the broken hills.

“Kinda funny, ain’t it—him comin’ back?”

“What’s funny about it?” demanded Butch.

“It’s a free country.”

“Pretty free,” admitted Hashknife.

They bunched together and headed back toward Red Arrow. Hashknife would have given much to know what was going on behind Butch’s little eyes, which seemed busy scanning the road and the surrounding country. There was little conversation. Hashknife was doing a bit of thinking himself. Blackwell talked to Chuck and Sleepy, but seemed to avoid Hashknife.

“Inquest tomorrow,” said Hashknife, breaking a long silence between him and Butch.

Butch nodded shortly.

“Bury Billy in town, I reckon. Got no relatives that I know about. I hope they git old Rance.”

“Think Rance shot him?”

“Sure. He was the only man who wanted to kill old DuMond.”

“But he wanted to kill him fair, didn’t he?”

“If he had a chance. Billy was scared of him.”

“And you think Rance McCoy deliberately murdered him?”

“I reckon that’s what the jury will say.”

“I suppose they will.”

After a few minutes of deliberation, Butch turned in his saddle and looked squarely at Hashknife.

“What do you think of it?” he asked.

“I dunno,” evaded Hashknife.

“I jist wondered. You’ve had so dam’ much to say about it. I believe in leavin’ things like that to the sheriff and the court, and if the rest of the folks would do the same, we’d be better off.”

“Some folks would,” agreed Hashknife meaningly.

“Some folks would what?”

“Be better off.”

“Mm-m-m-m.”

Butch touched spur to his horse and moved in beside Chuck, leaving Hashknife to bring up the rear. But the tall, gray-eyed cowboy didn’t seem to mind. He grinned widely and began rolling a cigarette.

Hashknife and Sleepy testified at the inquest on the following day, but the questions were perfunctory. There was no evidence to connect Rance McCoy with the killing; so the coroner’s jury decided that Billy DuMond had been killed by a gun-shot wound, fired by a party or parties unknown. But they did recommend that the sheriff apprehend Rance McCoy.

Which was a rather ridiculous recommendation, as the sheriff already wanted Rance on the charge of robbing the Wells Fargo Express Company. Hashknife had asked Slim not to exhibit the black sombrero, and Slim respected Hashknife’s wishes to the extent that no mention was made of the hat.

Reimer and his crew were there, but none of them made any mention of the hat. After the inquest Butch Reimer asked Slim who had the hat, and was informed that the hat was locked up in the office safe. Butch did not comment on it, nor did he ask just why Billy DuMond’s hat should be locked up in a safe.

Billy DuMond’s body was duly interred that day, and there were no mourners. Butch Reimer paid the preacher and the doctor, who acted in the capacity of undertaker, and Billy DuMond was consigned to what was known as the “Red Arrow Cemetery”—the wind-swept slope of a hill surrounded with greasewood.

“I’m goin’ to git the man who shot Billy,” Butch Reimer was heard to declare, and every one knew he meant Rance McCoy.

“You better not announce yore approach,” grinned Jim Langley, who came in for the inquest. “He’s one hard old jigger.”

Langley had Jess Fohl with him. Jess drank quite a lot of liquor before the funeral, and cried all the way back to town, where Langley told him he’d cut his ears off if he took another drink. Langley came down and talked with Slim and Hashknife about old Rance. Langley did not seem to think that Rance shot DuMond, but he would not even venture a guess as to who had killed him.

“Why don’tcha think it was Rance?” queried Hashknife.

“It’s like this,” explained Langley. “Rance got that hundred and thirty-two thousand dollars cached. Chuckwalla busted jail for him, and old Rance has high-tailed it out of this country, takin’ the stuff along. As soon as things blow over, old Chuckwalla will hit the grit. Now, you jist watch and see if I ain’t right, Slim.”

“And you think Rance was so anxious to get out of the country that he wouldn’t stop long enough to kill DuMond, eh?” asked Hashknife.

“I don’t think he would.”

“And you don’t think old Rance will ever come back?”

Langley shut his lips tightly for a moment, as he shook his head in the negative.

“No,” he said, “I’d almost bet he won’t.”

“Well, we better work on it from a different angle, Hashknife,” said Slim seriously.

“Are you workin’ on it, Hartley?” asked Langley.

“Well, I’m kinda helpin’ Slim,” laughed Hashknife.

Later on that day Langley and Butch Reimer met in front of the Red Arrow and discussed the case. Reimer had imbibed a few drinks and was inclined to be big-voiced.

“What we need is a sheriff who can arrest and hold a man,” he said. “Slim’s all right in his way, but he don’t weigh enough. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Langley laughed with him.

“Slim’s got a feller workin’ with him who’s jist a little skinnier than Slim,” laughed Langley.

“Oh, that Hartley person. Don’t look like much, does he, Jim? But lemme tell yuh somethin’.” Butch grew very confidential. “Slim says this feller is a wonder as a detective. Accordin’ to Slim, this Hartley’s got a nose that can smell out crime like a bloodhound follerin’ boot-tracks in the snow.”

“Is he a detective?” asked Langley.

“And then some, accordin’ to Slim.”

“Well,” said Langley seriously, “yuh never can tell much about a man, lookin’ at him from the outside. But Slim is goin’ to need more than a thin-faced puncher to clear up all this mess.”

“That’s true. Say, have yuh seen anythin’ of Angel lately?”

“He’s workin’ for me,” laughed Langley. “Quite a drop, eh? Well, he was kinda sour on the world, Butch, and jist for fun I offered him a job. He’s busted, he says. Old Rance cleaned him out that night, I reckon. He’s a good puncher. For some reason he’s sore at Slim.”

“On account of that girl,” said Butch. “They’re both stuck on her.”

“Shucks!” exclaimed Langley. “She was the one who busted up Angel’s games that night. She swore he was crooked. He wouldn’t want her, Butch.”

“Mebby not; I was jist guessin’; but Slim sure does. Where do yuh suppose old Rance is hidin’ out?”

“He ain’t hidin’; he’s foggin’. Betcha ten to one he never comes back, Butch.”

“No, I wouldn’t bet on it, Jim.”

“How much do yuh want to bet?”

They turned quickly to face Hashknife, who had come up behind them unnoticed.

“Why, I—I dunno,” faltered Langley. “How much do yuh want to bet, Hartley?”

“Anywhere from a hundred to a thousand—at one-to-ten, Langley. It looks like easy money to me.”

Hashknife had exactly fifty dollars in his pocket. If it hadn’t been that Sleepy’s luck had been good at the Red Arrow, both of them would have been broke by this time.

But Langley wouldn’t bet, and Hashknife had been sure of it. He knew Langley’s type very well.

“Anyway,” declared Langley, “that’s my personal opinion. I may be wrong, of course. But why would you bet on a thing like that, Hartley?”

“I’d bet that the moon was made of cheese if somebody would give me odds like that. And I really think he’ll come back, Langley.”

“Well,” dubiously, “you may be right. He’d be a fool to come back, I think, don’t you?”

“Looks thataway to me,” agreed Butch. “I wouldn’t.”

Langley had some purchases to make, so he excused himself and went down to Parker’s store, leaving Butch and Hashknife together.

“Jim just told me that Angel is punchin’ cows for him,” said Butch.

Hashknife smiled. “I wondered where he’d gone.”

“The old man busted him, Hartley. By golly, the old man sure went out of this country well heeled. He can afford to lose his ranch. I’ll be danged if I think he’ll ever come back. I’d hate to even take Langley’s ten-to-one bet on a thing like that.”

“Well, I’ll take it, Reimer. And if Kid Glover ever shows up at yore place, I wish you’d let me know. I want that gray horse, and I won’t go hard with the Kid. He merely traded with me, and I’ll consider that he’s over bein’ color-blind.”

Butch smiled grimly.

“I’ll tell him, Hartley. But do yuh really think he was back in this country?”

“I’d know them hoof-marks in hell. And if he was headin’ out of the country, he wouldn’t come back here from Welcome, just to make tracks in the dust.”

“No, that’s a fact. But lemme tell yuh somethin’, Hartley; if you meet Kid Glover, shoot quick. He’s a bad man, and if he knows you own that horse, he’ll kill yuh when yuh meet.”

“Oh, I’m not worryin’ about that, Reimer; but thanks, just the same.”

“You’re welcome.”

“He’s kinda goin’ back on his own friends,” said Hashknife to himself, as he went back to the office. “Warns me to shoot first, eh?”

Slim wanted to go down across the river and watch the old dugout, but Hashknife had no liking for that tangle of brush at night, so they decided to make it an early morning call instead. Slim had sent out telegrams describing old Rance McCoy, warning the officers of the neighboring counties to be on the lookout for him; but as yet no one had reported seeing him.

It was about midnight that night, and Hashknife and Sleepy were in their room talking over the events of the day. The town was very quiet when they heard a horse running up the street, a splattering of hoof-beats, denoting that the rider had, in the parlance of the range, “spiked his horse’s tail” across the street from them at the Red Arrow Saloon.

Hashknife cautiously blew out the lamp before raising the window and shade. Excited voices showed that something had excited them. He could see a horse and several men in the light from the saloon window. One man ran down the street toward the sheriff’s office, while another headed the opposite way.

“We better go down and listen to this, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. They drew on their boots and headed for the saloon. Slim was just arriving on the scene, pulling on his shirt.

Dell Blackwell, of the Half-Box R, was the rider.

“Now tell me jist what happened,” said Slim, half out of breath.

“Somebody shot Eddie Corby. Here’s the way it was. Me and Butch and Jim Kendall and Eddie was playin’ poker in the bunk-house. Butch was losin’, and he got so mad he tore up the cards. He always does that. Well, we didn’t have another deck in the bunk-house.

“Butch said he had several decks in the ranch-house, but he’d be damned if he’d go after one. Eddie said he’d get it, and Butch told him they was in a cupboard in the front room. Eddie was gone jist a few minutes when we hears a gun go off.

“We busted out to see what was goin’ on. We was all kinda jumpy since DuMond got shot, yuh see. But there wasn’t nothin’ to be seen, because it was dark as hell. There’s a light in the house, and we all went up there. The front door is wide open, and there in front of that cupboard lays Eddie, shot from behind.

“I think he’s dead, m’self; but Butch says to bring a doctor. Looks t’ me as though he’d been shot with a thirty-thirty, and I don’t think he’s got a chance in the world. And that’s all we know about it, Slim.”

“Why would anybody shoot Eddie Corby?” wondered Slim Caldwell.

Corby was an inoffensive sort of person, who was not physically strong enough to be a cowboy; so he worked as a horse-wrangler and helped around the ranch.

“It’s got me beat,” declared Blackwell. “Eddie never done anythin’ to anybody. Why, he hardly ever went off the ranch. Personally, I think somebody mistook him for Butch. They’re about the same size, and Butch is the only one who sleeps in the ranch-house. I wouldn’t tell this to Butch, ’cause it’d scare hell out of him.”

“Who’d shoot Butch?” asked Slim quickly.

“Who knows? Butch might have enemies, Slim.”

“I suppose he might. I’d better saddle up. When the doctor shows up, tell him I’m goin’ out. Mebby I’ll beat him there. Want to go along, Hashknife?”

Hashknife shook his head quickly.

“You don’t need me, Slim.”

“I’ll take Chuck. I left him tryin’ to get his legs out of his coat-sleeves. Made a mistake and grabbed his coat instead of his pants.”

Hashknife and Sleepy went back to the hotel.

“What’s gone wrong with this country?” asked Sleepy. “Ain’t they got no respect for human life?”

“Not in their frame of mind. From now on, look out. When they start playin’ this here tit-tat-toe stuff with bullets, yuh never know when you’re goin’ to be ‘it.’ I don’t like the rules they use.”

“What do you know?” demanded Sleepy.

“Guessin’ a little, Sleepy.”

“Yea-a-ah? Who shot this Corby person?”

“That’s a pretty blunt question, cowboy. We better hit the hay and catch up a little sleep.”

“Say!” demanded Sleepy. “Why won’t yuh never let me in on anythin’ yuh know?”

“Dunno anythin’. Do you believe in heredity?”

“I sure do, you descendant of a clam.”

It was after daylight the next morning when they brought in the body of Eddie Corby, but Hashknife was not there. He had ridden away from Red Arrow an hour before daylight, alone, leaving Sleepy to look and listen to everything that happened in town.

Sleepy protested against this, but Hashknife usually had his way in matters of this kind. He rode straight to the Circle Spade, where he found Chuckwalla Ike just starting to cook breakfast. The old man looked Hashknife over quizzically, but invited him to eat with them.

“Ridin’ early, ain’tcha?” he asked.

“It’s nice to ride early,” smiled Hashknife. “Ain’t nobody liable to bushwhack yuh early in the mornin’.”

“Are you expectin’ to be bushwhacked, Hartley?”

“Somebody killed Ed Corby at the Half-Box R last night.”

Chuckwalla frowned heavily and caressed his mustache.

“Killed Ed Corby?”

“Shot him in the back. Understand that somebody shot through an open door. Anyway, I guess he’s dead. Blackwell brought the news about midnight. He came after the doctor, but he said he was sure Corby was dead.”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Ed Corby! I don’t make sense out of that. Corby was a harmless sort of a jigger. Wasn’t very well. I’ll be damned! Probably lay that onto Rance McCoy.”

Hashknife sprawled on a kitchen chair and rolled a cigarette, while Chuckwalla, muttering to himself, went ahead with his breakfast preparations.

“I came to talk with yuh about Rance McCoy,” said Hashknife.

Chuckwalla turned quickly, as though on the defensive.

“What about?”

“I want the truth.”

“The hell yuh do! Well, now——”

“Don’t flare up,” said Hashknife. “If you turned Rance McCoy loose, it’s all right with me. I’ve got a pardner, Chuckwalla, and I’d bust any jail on earth to get him out. What you tell me won’t go any further—but I want to know the truth.”

Chuckwalla flung a frying-pan on the stove and came back to face Hashknife.

“I didn’t bust that jail!” he snorted. “Lot of you fools won’t believe me, eh? Well, don’t! I don’t ask yuh to. I want to find Rance McCoy as bad as you do—mebby worse. Now, what do yuh think of that?”

“I believed yuh the first time, Chuckwalla. Now, let me ask you a question. Why did Rance McCoy borrow money from the bank a few days ago?”

“Did he? He never told me. Why, he had money. Didn’t he bust the bank at the Eagle? Shucks, I don’t believe he borrowed money.”

“Did yuh ever know Billy DuMond to have a lot of money?”

“Hell, no! Never got over forty a month since I knowed him.”

“When I found his body,” said Hashknife slowly, “I found a paper in his pocket. It was an I.O.U. for seventy-eight hundred dollars, signed by Angel McCoy.”

“Ha-a-a-aw?” Chuckwalla gawped at Hashknife blankly.

“I’ve still got the paper, Chuckwalla.”

“Hell’s delight!” Chuckwalla yanked viciously at his mustache. “How could Angel borrow seventy-eight hundred from DuMond—unless——”

“Unless what?”

“Unless DuMond robbed that train.”

“Yeah, he might,” reflected Hashknife. “It was the same amount they tell me Rance McCoy won from Angel.”

“By God, that’s right! Mebby DuMond loaned him that much. But DuMond is dead and he can’t never collect. I’ll bet Angel’s glad. He’s the kind who would be glad.”

“You ain’t got much use for Angel, eh?”

“The pup! Rance ort to have wrung his neck when he was young. He shore caused Rance plenty grief.”

“What did Rance think about Lila leavin’ him?”

Chuckwalla shook his head slowly and turned back to the stove.

“That hurt him, Hartley. He didn’t say much, but I know him pretty well. He loved Lila. I reckon she’s about the only thing he did love, and she turned him down jist because he never did tell her who she was. She hadn’t ort to have done that. Queer idea, ’pears to me.”

“What do you know about her parents?” asked Hashknife.

“No more than you do. He never told me anythin’. Even after Billy DuMond talked about it, old Rance never did explain anythin’. But I seen tears in his eyes one night. And the old fool was readin’ a book upside down. Don’t let anybody tell yuh he ain’t got feelin’s.”

“But who do yuh think busted the jail for him?”

“Probably busted it himself. Mebby they forgot to lock him in. That dam’ sheriff’s force! I’d like to see one of the old-time sheriffs ag’in. They’d keep their man, y’betcha.”

Chuckwalla stepped outside and hammered lustily on an old triangle with a piece of drill-steel, calling Monty Adams and Steve Winchell to breakfast.

The two sleepy-eyed cowboys exhibited no surprise at finding Hashknife at breakfast. Chuckwalla told them about Ed Corby’s death, and they marveled exceedingly.

“What’s new about Rance?” asked Steve. “We’re gettin’ kinda anxious about the old man, Hartley.”

Hashknife could tell them nothing.

“Yuh don’t need to worry about yore pay,” said old Chuckwalla. “The Circle Spade is worth it.”

“Who’s worryin’?” flared Steve. “We’d sooner work for our board for Rance McCoy than to get a raise at any other ranch.”

“Yuh ought to—he lets yuh do as yuh please.”

“Can yuh imagine a disposition like that?” queried Monty. “Chuckwalla, you ought to have rattles, like a snake; you’ve got the disposition of one.”

The old man chuckled over his pans. He delighted in rough sarcasm.

Hashknife left right after breakfast. Chuckwalla came out to his horse and shook hands with Hashknife.

“I hope yuh can get some track of Rance,” he said. “I tell yuh, I’m worried about the old man.”

“It’s time somebody got worried about him,” said Hashknife.

He rode back almost to the river and then turned southwest, intending to take another look at the old dugout, and wondering if he could find it again. He felt sure he could come in from the opposite direction and find it.

Hashknife traveled slowly and cautiously, trying to pick up some of the landmarks he had noticed when they were in there before. Down among the breaks he struck an old cattle-trail, which he felt would lead him fairly close to the dugout, but it split up at an old waterhole in a brushy coulee.

There were plenty of Half-Box R cattle in that part of the range, many of them as wild as deer. Hashknife worked his way back to the top of a rocky ridge, where he dismounted and made a cigarette. The breeze was from the west, and before his cigarette was rolled his nose caught a peculiar scent.

He lifted his head quickly, sniffing at the breeze. It was the unmistakable scent of frying bacon. Somewhere in that tangle of hills, and not far away, somebody was cooking breakfast.

Hashknife tied his horse behind an outcropping of granite boulders, and began working his way slowly ahead, stopping often to sniff at the breeze. He was obliged to travel a crooked course, winding around the upthrusts of granite, the tangle of greasewood and sage.

Now he could smell wood-smoke, mixed with the odor of coffee, but it was evident that the cook was using very dry wood which made little or no visible smoke. Suddenly Hashknife stopped short and leaned in close to a boulder. Just ahead of him in a little clearing was a man, squatting at a tiny fire. He had his back to Hashknife, as he ate from a small frying-pan, and drank from a tin can, which flashed back the rays of the sun.

The man was bareheaded. Around his throat was a dirty-white handkerchief. He wore no coat nor vest over his faded blue shirt, and his broad, bat-wing chaps seemed fairly new. The sun glinted on the heads of the cartridges in his belt, and a heavy gun sagged from his holster. His hair appeared very black at that distance.

Just behind him was a bright-colored blanket, spread out on the ground, and on it lay a rifle and several odds and ends. Finally he shook the coffee grounds from the can and poured the grease from the pan. Placing the two utensils together, he stamped out the fire with a thrust of his foot, hitched backwards to the blanket, where he began rolling a cigarette.

It seemed to Hashknife that the man would never turn around. He leaned back on one elbow and smoked slowly, apparently taking his ease. Magpies chattered at him from a tall greasewood across the coulee. They had evidently scented food.

Suddenly a horse nickered, fairly close at hand. Like a flash the man was on his feet, crouched, his head swinging from side to side, as he scanned the hills to the north and west. Then he whirled around and looked in Hashknife’s direction, but Hashknife had thoughtfully flattened himself against the rock.

Then the man stooped quickly, scooped up the blanket, took his cooking utensils, and faded into the brush, like a shadow. But Hashknife had seen his face, and it was no one he had ever seen before. The man was dark, thin-faced, with rather a long neck. His hair was very straight and appeared coarse, curving down over his forehead in a decided mat. He was about five feet, ten inches tall, but would not weigh more than a hundred and twenty-five.

After his sudden disappearance Hashknife relaxed and watched across the coulee. It was possibly five minutes later that he saw two riders, going slowly through the brush, about a hundred yards north of him. It was Jim Langley and Angel McCoy. As far as Hashknife could judge from their actions, they were not looking for anybody.

They passed out of sight, heading toward the Circle Spade ranch. But Hashknife held his position, and in a few minutes he saw a rider cutting along the side of a hill below him—a bareheaded man, riding a tall, gray horse. He was looking back, as though watching Langley and Angel. Finally he turned and rode deeper into the cañon.

Hashknife grinned slowly and went back toward his horse.

“So that’s Kid Glover, eh?” he mused to himself. “He’s a tough-lookin’ hombre, and he’s still ridin’ Ghost. And he’ll just about stick around here until I trade horses with him—and have one more horse than I’ve got now.”