Two Fares East

by W. C. Tuttle

CHAPTER I: WEDDING NIGHT

The ranch-house of Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H outfit was ablaze with light. Two lanterns were suspended on the wide veranda which almost encircled the rambling old house; lanterns were hanging from the corral fence, where already many saddle-horses and buggy teams were tied. Lanterns hung within the big stable and there was a lantern suspended to the crosstree of the big estate.

It was a big night at the Flying H. One of the stalls in the stable was piled full of a miscellaneous collection of empty five-gallon cans, cow-bells, shotguns; in fact, every kind of a noise-maker common to the cattle country was ready for the final words of the minister. For this was to be the biggest shivaree ever pulled off on the Tumbling River range.

Inside the living-room was the assembled company, sitting stiffly around the room, more than conscious of the fact that they were all dressed up. Old gray-bearded cattlemen, munching away at their tobacco; old ladies, dressed in all the finery at their limited command; cowboys, uncomfortable in celluloid collars and store clothes; old Uncle Hozie, red of face, grinning at everybody and swearing under his breath at Aunt Emma, who had shamed him into wearing an old Prince Albert coat which had fitted him fifty pounds ago.

“Look like you was the groom, Hozie,” chuckled one of the old cattlemen. “Gosh, yo’re shore duded-up!”

“Glad I ain’t,” said Uncle Hozie quickly. “All them wimmin upstairs, blubberin’ over the bride. Haw, haw, haw, haw! She’d ort to have on a swimmin’ suit. Haw, haw, haw, haw!”

He winked one eye expressively and jerked his head toward the kitchen. His actions were full of meaning.

Curt Bellew got to his feet, stretched his six-foot frame, smoothed his beard and tramped down heavily on one foot.

“Settin’ makes me stiff,” he said apologetically. “Got t’ move around a little.”

He half limped toward the kitchen door.

“Does kinda cramp yuh, Curt,” agreed old Buck West.

His wife reached for him, but too late. He didn’t look toward her, but followed Curt Bellew.

One by one they complained of inaction and sauntered out.

“I never seen so many men cravin’ exercise,” declared Mrs. West. “Ordinarily Buck’s a great setter.”

The women grinned knowingly at each other. They all knew Uncle Hozie had opened the liquor. Aunt Emma came down the stairs, looking quickly around the room.

“Oh, they’re all out in the kitchen, Emmy,” said Mrs. Bellew. “Said they was gettin’ cramped from settin’ around.”

“Oh, I s’pose Hozie couldn’t wait any longer. He swore he’d get drunk. Said he had to get drunk in order to forget that coat he’s got on. But he’s been pretty temp’rance for the last year or so, and a little mite of liquor won’t hurt him.”

“I s’pose it’s all right,” said Mrs. West dubiously. “How is Peggy?”

“Standin’ it right good,” said Aunt Emma. “Never seen a prettier bride in my life. Laura Hatton dressed her, and that girl does show good taste, even if she is from the East.”

“I never set no great store by Easterners,” said Mrs. Bellew. “But Laura’s nice. And she’s pretty, too. She’s sure put the Injun sign on ‘Honey’ Bee. That boy ain’t worth the powder it would take t’ blow him to Halifax. This may sound like an exaggeration, but it’s as true as I’m settin’ here; Honey Bee cut L.H. on the side of my organ.”

“No!” exclaimed the chorus.

“Yessir! With his pocket-knife. Carved ’em right into that polished wood. I said, ‘My ⸺, Honey—what’r yuh doin’?”

“He jist kinda jerked back and looked at his knife, like he didn’t know. And then he says:

“‘Mrs. Bellew, I begs yore pardon—I thought it was a tree.’”

“He thought it was a tree?” exclaimed Mrs. West.

“Uh-huh. Dreamin’, I tell yuh. Thought he was out in the woods.”

“Good thing yuh caught him,” said Mrs. Selby, a little old lady. “He’d prob’ly put his own initials in it, too.”

“Crazier ’n a bedbug!” declared Grandma Owens, whose ninety years allowed her to speak definitely.

“Love, Grandma,” said Mrs. Bellew.

“Same thing, Annie. I’ve watched ‘em for ninety year, and they ain’t no difference—love and lunacy. Has the preacher come yet?”

“Not yet. Listen!”

From the kitchen came the sound of voices raised in song.

“Wa-a-a-ay do-o-o-on yon-n-n-n-der in the co-o-orn-field.”

“Drunk!” said Grandma flatly.

“Drinking,” corrected Aunt Emma. “Most of ’em can stand more than Hozie can, and he ain’t drunk until he insists on soloin’ ‘Silver Threads Among the Gold’. Up to that time he can undress himself and hang up his shirt, but when he starts on ‘Silver Threads’ he can’t even take off his own boots.”

“I wish they’d quit before Reverend Lake comes,” said Mrs. West. “He might not be in accord with such doings.”

“Won’t he?” Aunt Emma laughed softly. “Henry Lake may be pious, but he ain’t Puritanical. If he hears ’em, he’ll probably come in through the kitchen. Henry Lake has been givin’ us the gospel for twenty-five years, and no man can do that in this country, if he goes too strong against liquor.”

“Honey and Joe ought to be showin’ up,” said Mrs. Bellew.

“Oh, they’ll be here in time,” laughed Aunt Emma. “This is the first time Joe ever got married, and don’t you ever think Honey Bee is goin’ to be absent when there’s a chance to stand up at a weddin’ with Laura Hatton.”

Jim Wheeler came in from the kitchen and halted just inside the room. He was a big, gnarled sort of man, with mild blue eyes and an unruly mop of gray hair. His new boots creaked painfully and he seemed ill at ease in his new black suit and rumpled tie. Jim and Uncle Hozie were brothers, and Jim was the father of the bride-to-be.

“Preacher ain’t here yet?” asked Jim, drawing out a huge silver watch. “It’s almost eight o’clock.”

“Oh, he’ll be here,” assured Aunt Emma. “Peggy looks beautiful, Jim.”

“Uh-huh.” The big man seemed a trifle sad.

“You don’t seem to mind losin’ yore daughter, Jim,” said Mrs. West. “I remember when Sally got married; Buck cried.”

“Prob’ly drunk,” said Jim unfeelingly.

“Well, I like that, Jim Wheeler!”

A vision in white came down the stairs and halted near the bottom. It was Laura Hatton, the Easterner, who had come to Pinnacle City to attend the wedding of her old school chum. Laura was a tiny little blonde with big blue eyes and a laughing mouth which dismayed every cowboy in the Tumbling River country—except Honey Bee, who had been christened James Edward Bee.

“Wouldn’t you ladies like to come up and see the bride?” she asked. “She’s just simply a dream. Why, if I looked as pretty in wedding clothes as Peggy does, I’d turn Mormon.”

Jim Wheeler watched them go up the stairs and heard their exclamations of astonishment. Out in the kitchen an improvised quartet was singing “Wait till the clouds roll by, Jennie.” Jim Wheeler shook his head sadly.

“Don’t seem to mind losing your daughter,” he muttered.

Oh, but he did mind it. She would live in her own home. Her mother had been dead ten years. After her death it seemed to Jim Wheeler that nothing could ever fill that void. But Peggy had grown to womanhood, filling the old ranch-house with her joyful presence, and Jim Wheeler had thanked God for a daughter like her. Now she would go away to a home of her own.

“Nobody but me and Wong Lee left,” said Wheeler sadly. “And he’s only a ⸺ Chinaman.”

Some one was knocking on the door, breaking in on Wheeler’s thoughts. He opened the door for the minister of the Tumbling River country. Henry Lake was a tall, lean-faced man, near-sighted, dressed in a rusty suit of black. Weddings, funerals or Sunday sermons, he had worn that suit as long as any of them could remember.

He peered closely at Jim Wheeler, shoving out a bony hand. “Howdy, Jim,” he said pleasantly.

“Hello, Henry. Got here at last, eh?”

The minister nodded slowly.

“My old horse isn’t as fast as she used to be, Jim. We’re both getting old, it seems. But—” he looked at his watch—“I’m near enough on time. Where’s everybody?”

“Wimmin are upstairs with the bride, and the men—” Jim hesitated and glanced toward the kitchen door.

“Carry me-e-e-e ba-a-ack to ol’ Virginny,” wailed a tenor, while a baritone roared, “While the old mill wheel turns ’round, I’ll love you, Ma-a-a-a-ary; when the bee-e-e-e-es—”

And then came the reedy falsetto of Hozie Wheeler—

“Da-a-a-arling, I am growing o-o-o-old.”

The minister nodded slowly.

“The perfectly natural reaction, Jim. The sentiment contained in corn and rye.”

“Like a little shot, Henry?”

“Not now, Jim; later, perhaps. Is the groom here yet?”

“Not yet. Him and Honey ought to be here any minute now.”

The women were coming back down the stairs, and the minister went to shake hands with them. Aunt Emma cocked one ear toward the kitchen, and a look of consternation crossed her face. She grasped Jim by the arm and whispered in his ear:

“Shake Hozie loose, Jim! He’s silver-threadin’ already.”

Jim nodded and went to the kitchen.

And while the Flying H resounded with good cheer, while more guests arrived and while Peggy Wheeler waited—Honey Bee buzzed angrily about Pinnacle City. Honey had just arrayed himself in a blue made-to-order suit, patent-leather shoes and a brown derby hat. Everything had come with the suit, and Honey cursed the tailor for having acute astigmatism.

The pants were a full six inches too short and at least that much too big around the waist. Honey managed to squeeze a number eight foot into the number six shoe. And the hat should have been a seven and one-quarter, instead of a six and seven-eighths.

Honey Bee was a medium-sized youth of twenty-five, with tow-colored hair, shading to a roan at the ends, blue eyes, tilted nose and a large mouth. The blue eyes were large and inquiring and the mouth grinned at everything. Honey was a top-hand cowboy, even if he was somewhat of a dreamer.

But just now there was no smile on Honey’s mouth. He had hired a horse and buggy from the livery-stable and had tied the horse in front of the sheriff’s office. It just happened that Joe Rich, the sheriff, was going to marry Peggy Wheeler, and had promised Honey to meet him at the office at half-past seven.

Every cowboy in the Tumbling River range envied Joe. Never had there been a lovelier girl than Peggy Wheeler, and none of the boys would admit that Joe was worthy of her.

“It’s a love match, pure and simple,” Honey had declared. “Peggy’s pure and Joe’s simple.”

But just now Honey was calling Joe stronger things than simpleton. It was nearing eight o’clock, and no Joe in sight. The office was closed. Len Kelsey, Joe’s deputy, was out at the Flying H, probably drinking more than was good for him.

Honey didn’t like Len. Possibly it was because Honey thought that Joe should have appointed him as deputy. And it is barely possible that Joe would have appointed Honey, except that, in order to swing a certain element, he had made a pre-election promise to appoint Len.

Joe was barely twenty-three years of age. Too young, many of the old-timers said, to be a sheriff of Tumbling River. But Joe won the election. He was a slender young man, slightly above the average in height, with a thin, handsome face, keen gray eyes and a firm mouth. He had been foreman of the Flying H, and Uncle Hozie had mourned the passing of a capable cowhand.

“Plumb ruined,” declared the old man. “Never be worth a ⸺ for anythin’ agin’. County offices has ruined more men than liquor and cards.”

Honey Bee sat in the buggy, resting his shining feet across the dashboard in order to lessen the pain. The coat was a little tight across the shoulders, and Honey wondered whether the tucks would show where he had gathered in the waistband of the trousers. His cartridge-belt made a decided bulge under his tight vest, but he had no other belt; and no cowboy would ever lower himself to wear suspenders. They were the insignia of a farmer.

“I wish I knowed what kind of a figure that ⸺ tailor had in mind when he built this here suit,” said Honey to himself. “I know ⸺ well I measured myself accurately. I might ’a’ slipped a little on some of it, bein’ as I had to do a little stoopin’; but never as much as this shows. Now, where in ⸺ is Joe Rich?”

It was eight o’clock by Honey’s watch. He got out of the buggy and almost fell down. His feet had gone to sleep. And when he made a sudden grab for the buggy wheel he heard a slight rip in the shoulder-seam of his coat.

“My ⸺, I’m comin’ apart!” he grunted.

Honey had not seen Joe since about five o’clock, and something seemed to tell him that everything was not right. Joe slept in the office. He and Len Kelsey were together the last time Honey had seen them, and Joe said he was going to get a shave. But the barber shop was closed now.

Honey limped around to Joe’s stable and found Joe’s horse there. Then he went back to the buggy. It was after eight now, and the wedding was scheduled for eight-thirty. It was over two miles to the Flying H from Pinnacle City and Honey knew that the buggy horse was not a fast stepper.

Honey swore dismally and stood on one foot. He needed a big drink to kill the pain. Across the street was the Pinnacle bar, the most popular saloon in town. There was sure to be several men in there and they would be sure to make some remarks about Honey’s clothes.

Farther down the street was the Arapaho bar. Honey did not like the place. “Limpy” Nelson owned the Arapaho, and Honey did not like Limpy. But Honey knew that no one would make remarks about his appearance down there, because Honey’s friends frequented the Pinnacle—and friends were the only ones entitled to make remarks.

So Honey stifled his pride and went to the Arapaho, where he leaned against the bar. Old Limpy was the only person there, except a drunk sprawled across a card-table near the rear of the place.

Limpy squinted at Honey and shifted his eyes toward the back of the room as he slid the glasses across the bar.

“Didn’t somebody say that the sheriff was gittin’ married t’night?” asked Limpy.

Honey poured out his drink and looked at it wearily. Lifting the glass, he looked critically at it.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m waitin’ for him.”

“That’s him back there,” Limpy pointed toward the rear.

“Eh?” Honey jerked around, staring. “What’s that, Limpy?”

“Joe Rich. Drunk as an owl.”

“For ⸺’s sake!” Honey dropped his glass and limped back to the table where Joe Rich sprawled. He slapped Joe on the shoulder, swearing foolishly.

“Joe! Joe, you ⸺ fool! Wake up, can’tcha?”

But Joe merely grunted heavily. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn when Honey saw him last, and he had not shaved.

Dead drunk on his marriage night! Honey sagged weakly against the table, speechless. He could visualize all those people out at the Flying H, waiting for them. He shoved away from the table and looked at Limpy.

“My God, this is awful, Limpy! He was to get married at eight-thirty. It’s almost that right now, and look at him!”

“Pretty drunk,” nodded Limpy.

“Dead t’ the world! Who’d he get drunk with?”

“Alone, I reckon. He was shore polluted when he came here. Got a couple more with Len and went to sleep back there.”

Honey groaned painfully. Joe reeked of whisky.

“Oh, you ⸺ fool!” wailed Honey. “Joe, can’tcha wake up? Let’s go for a walk. Joe! A-a-a-aw, you drunken bum!”

Two men came in and walked up to the bar. They were Ed Merrick and Ben Collins. Merrick owned the Circle M outfit, and Ben was one of his cowboys. Merrick had been the one who supported Joe Rich and had asked Joe to appoint Len Kelsey deputy. Len had worked for the Circle M for several years.

They came back and looked at Joe.

“And this is his weddin’ night!” wailed Honey.

“For ⸺ sake!” snorted Merrick disgustedly. “He was goin’ to marry Peggy Wheeler.”

“Loaded to the gills,” declared Ben. “He’s shore a ⸺ of a fine specimen for sheriff.”

“Yuh can throw that in a can!” snapped Honey. “Since when did the Circle M start judgin’ morals?”

Evidently Ben did not know; so he shut his mouth.

“What are yuh goin’ to do?” asked Merrick.

“Put him to bed. My ⸺, I can’t take him out to the Flyin’ H. Joe! You brainless idiot, wake up!”

“We better help yuh, Honey,” said Merrick. “He’s plumb floppy.”

Honey managed to get the office key from Joe’s pocket, and between the three of them they managed to carry Joe back to his office, where they put him on his bed.

“What’ll yuh do about it?” asked Merrick when they came out.

“God only knows, Merrick!” wailed Honey. “I can’t go out there and say he’s drunk. Oh, why didn’t the ⸺ fool get shot, or somethin’? I—I—aw ⸺, I’ve got to go out there. I hope to ⸺ the horse runs away and breaks my neck. But there ain’t much hopes,” dismally. “These Pinnacle livery horses never did run away from home. Well, I—thanks for helpin’ me put him to bed.”

Honey limped out, untied the horse and got into the buggy.

“I’d rather go to a funeral any old time,” he told the horse as they left town.”

“By ⸺, I’d rather go to my own funeral. But it can’t be helped; I’ve got to tell ’em.”

It is not difficult to imagine the frame of mind of those at the Flying H when eight-thirty passed and no sign of the groom and best man. The aged minister paced up and down the veranda, trying to make himself believe that everything was all right.

Down by the big gate stood Jim Wheeler, a dim figure beneath the hanging lantern. All hilarity had ceased in the kitchen. Uncle Hozie was seated in the living-room between Aunt Emma and Grandma Owens, grinning widely at nothing whatever.

Upstairs in a bedroom were Peggy Wheeler and Laura Hatton. An old clock on a dresser ticked loudly, its hands pointing at a quarter of nine. Peggy sat on a bed, her hands folded in her lap. She was a decided brunette, taller than Laura, brown-eyed; well entitled to the honor of being the most beautiful girl in the Tumbling River country.

There were tears in her brown eyes, and she bit her lip as Laura turned from the front window, shaking her blond head.

“Nobody in sight, Peggy. I just can’t understand it.”

Peggy shook her head. She couldn’t trust herself to talk just now. Aunt Emma came slowly up the stairs and looked in at Peggy.

“I’ll betcha the buggy broke down,” she said. “They’ll both come walkin’ in pretty soon. Peggy, you dry them tears. Joe’s all right. Yuh can’t tell what’s happened. Bein’ the sheriff, he might have been called at the last minute. The law don’t wait on marriages. You just wait and see, Peggy.”

“Oh, I hope everything is all right,” sighed Peggy. “He’s twenty minutes late right now, Aunt Emma.”

Still they did not come. Some of the cowboys volunteered to ride back to Pinnacle City to see what the trouble might be, when the long-looked-for buggy hove in sight. They could see it far down the road in the moonlight. Laura had seen it from the bedroom window and came running back to Peggy.

“Good gracious, stand up, Peggy!” she exclaimed. “Your gown is all wrinkled. They’re coming at last. Heavens, your cheeks are all tear-streaked! No, don’t wipe them! You little goose, why did you shed all those tears?”

“Well, what would you have done?” laughed Peggy, allowing Laura to smooth her gown.

“I wouldn’t cry, that’s a sure thing.”

She darted back to the window, flinging the curtain aside.

“They’ve stopped at the gate,” she said. “I think they are talking to your father. Now he’s coming with them.”

Aunt Emma came running up the stairs, calling to Peggy.

“They’re here,” she called. “Goodness knows, it’s time.”

“I’m ready, Aunt Emma,” called Peggy.

Laura still stood at the window, watching the buggy come up to the veranda. But only Honey Bee got out of the buggy. He was talking to Jim Wheeler and forgot to tie the horse. Then they came into the house. A babel of questions assailed Honey, but Jim Wheeler’s heavy voice silenced them. Came several moments of silence. Laura had stepped back beside Peggy, who was listening.

“There ain’t goin’ to be no weddin’,” said Jim Wheeler slowly. “Joe Rich is dead drunk.”

A silence followed Jim’s announcement. Peggy looked at Laura, and the blood slowly drained from her cheeks. She grasped for the foot of the bed to steady herself. Then came Honey’s voice:

“Aw, ⸺ it, don’t look at me thataway!” he wailed. “This wasn’t anythin’ I could help. I was to meet him at seven-thirty, and he didn’t show up; so I waited until after eight. Then I found him in the Arapaho saloon—asleep.”

Aunt Emma was coming up the stairs, bringing the news to Peggy. She didn’t realize that Peggy had heard all of it. They met at the top of the stairs, and Peggy went past her, clinging to the railing. Aunt Emma touched her on the arm, but Peggy did not look up. At the top of the stairs stood Laura, her eyes wide, the tears running down her cheeks.

Peggy went into the living-room and stopped just inside the doorway. The minister caught sight of her and crossed the room, but she brushed him aside.

“Honey,” she said breathlessly, “is that all true?”

Honey Bee shifted his weight to one foot, nodding jerkily.

“My ⸺, I wouldn’t lie to yuh, Peggy!” he said. “It shore is ⸺ to have to tell the truth in a case like this. All the way from town I’ve tried to frame up a lie, but it wasn’t no use, Peggy. Mebbe it was my feet. A feller with an eight foot can’t think of no lies in a six shoe.”

Peggy’s eyes swept the assemblage of old friends, and their faces seemed blurred. No one spoke. Her father stood beside her, grim-faced, stunned.

“I’m sorry,” said Peggy simply, and went back toward the stairs.

Slowly the crowd gathered up their belongings and went away. Even Uncle Hozie was shocked to sobriety. Finally there was no one left in the big living-room except Honey Bee. He took off his shoes and coat and was going toward the front door when Laura Hatton came down the stairs. She had been crying.

Honey stared at her and she stared at Honey.

“Huh-howdy,” said Honey, bobbing his head. “Nice weather.”

Then he tried to bow, and the effort pulled the waistband of his pants away from his belt. He made a quick grab, and saved the day.

“Oh, why did you have to come and tell her a thing like that?” asked Laura. “Why didn’t you lie like a gentleman?”

“Lie like a gentleman?” Honey stared at her, his hands clutching the coat, shoes and waistline.

“Yes—lie!” said Laura fiercely. “You could have told that Joe had to chase horse-thieves, or something like that.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Honey. “Well, yeah, I could.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Them’s why!” Honey flung down the offending shoes. “By ⸺, yuh can’t be pretty and smart at the same time! Folks say that brains are in yore head, but they’re not. They’re in yore feet, I tell yuh! Pinch yore feet and yuh can’t think. That’s why I had to tell the truth.”

“I suppose so,” said Laura sadly. “Perhaps it is all for the best. You better go home, Mr. Bee; you’re half undressed.”

“Half?” gasped Honey. “If anythin’ makes me let loose—I’m all undressed! Good night.”

Honey climbed into his buggy and drove back to Pinnacle City, sadder and wiser, as far as clothes were concerned. The outfit had cost him forty dollars. He sat down on the brown derby when he got into the seat, but he was too disgusted to move off it.

He turned the horse over to the stableman and went to the Pinnacle Saloon in his sock-feet, carrying his coat. Some of the men who had been at the Flying H were at the saloon, having a drink before going home. Len Kelsey, the deputy, was there. Len was a tall skinny, swarthy young man, inclined to be boastful of his own abilities.

“You seen Joe?” asked Honey.

Len shook his head.

“Mebbe we better go over and see how he’s comin’ along,” suggested Honey.

They walked over to the office and found Joe still on the bed, snoring heavily. He opened his eyes when Honey shook the bed, and looked around in a bewildered way.

“Whazamatter?” he asked thickly.

“When yuh sober up, you’ll find out,” growled Honey. “You shore raised ⸺ and put a chunk under it tonight, pardner.”

“Huh?”

Joe lifted himself on one elbow and stared at the lamp. He blinked owlishly and looked at Honey. Joe’s eyes were bloodshot and he breathed jerkily.

“Whatcha mean?” he asked.

“Do you know what night this is?” asked Honey.

Joe squinted one eye thoughtfully.

“What night? What—” he sank back on the pillow and shut his eyes.

“Pretty sick,” observed Len. “Better let him sleep it off.”

“Oh, I suppose,” said Honey.

He threw some covers over Joe and they went out together, after turning the lamp down low.

But Joe did not go back to sleep. His head ached and his throat was so dry he could hardly swallow. Finally he got out of bed and staggered over to the table, where he turned up the lamp.

For several minutes he stood against the table, rubbing his head and trying to puzzle things out. On a chair near the bed was a white shirt and collar, gleaming white in the light of the lamp. On the floor was a new pair of shoes.

Suddenly the mist lifted from Joe’s brain and he remembered. It came to him like an electric shock. He was to be married!

He stumbled to the door and flung it open. It was dark out there, the street deserted. Wonderingly he looked at his watch.

Eleven o’clock!

Slowly he went back to the bed and sat down, holding his head in his hands. What night was it? he wondered. Was it the night of his marriage—or the night before? No, it couldn’t be the night before. He remembered everything. And now he remembered that Honey was wearing a white collar. Nothing but a marriage or a funeral would cause Honey to wear a white collar.

He felt nauseated, dry-throated. What had he done? There was a light in the Pinnacle Saloon; so he went over there. The cool night air revived him a little, but his legs did not track very well.

Honey and Len were at the bar, talking with the bartender, when Joe came in.

“Gosh, you shore look like the breakin’ up of a hard winter, pardner,” observed Honey.

Joe came up to the bar and hooked one elbow over the polished top. He wanted to sit down, but forced himself to stand.

“Honey,” he said hoarsely, “what night is this?”

“What night? Joe, you ⸺ fool, this was yore weddin’ night!”

Joe sagged visibly and Honey caught him by the arm.

“You better set down,” advised Len.

Joe allowed Honey to lead him to a chair, where he slumped weakly, staring wide-eyed at Honey.

“My weddin’ night?” he whispered. “Honey, don’t lie to me!”

“Nobody lyin’ to yuh, Joe.”

Joe slid down in the chair, his face the color of wood ashes. He lifted his right hand almost to his face, but let it fall to his knee.

“Don’t lie, Honey!” It was a weak whisper. There was still hope left.

“I ain’t lyin’, Joe,” said Honey sadly. “Good God, I wish I was! Len was there; he can tell yuh. I waited for yuh, like I said I would, Joe. But you never showed up. It was after eight o’clock when I went huntin’ yuh, and ⸺ yore hide, I found yuh in the Arapaho, drunk as a boiled owl.”

“Drunk as a boiled owl,” whispered Joe.

“Y’betcha. I couldn’t take yuh, Joe. ⸺, I’d do anythin’ for yuh, and you know it; but I couldn’t take yuh out there thataway, so I put yuh to bed.”

Joe groaned painfully.

“They—they were out there—everybody, Honey?”

“Everybody, Joe. I tried to think up a lie to tell ’em, but my feet hurt so ⸺ bad that I couldn’t even think. I had to tell ’em the truth. It was nine o’clock. Aw, it was awful.”

Joe had sunk down in the chair, breathing like a runner who had just finished a hard race.

“I seen Peggy,” said Honey. “My ⸺, but she was beautiful! And you hurt her, Joe. I could tell she was hurt bad, but she jist said she was sorry.”

“Oh, my God, don’t!”

Joe lurched out of the chair, panting, hands clenched. Suddenly he flung his hands up to his eyes.

“Oh, what have I done? I don’t understand it. I must have been crazy. Am I crazy now—or dreaming? No, I’m not dreamin’; so I must be crazy. Dead drunk on my weddin’—oh, what’s the matter with the world, anyway?”

He stood in the middle of the saloon, his eyes shut, his face twisted with the pain of it all. He stumbled forward and would have fallen had not Honey grasped him.

“You better go and sleep on it, pardner,” advised Honey.

“Sleep? With this on my mind?”

“Well, yuh got drunk with it on yore mind.”

“Aw, don’t rub it in on him,” said the bartender. “Better have a drink, Joe. You sure need bracin’.”

“He don’t need any more drinks,” declared Honey. “Good gosh, he plumb reeks of it yet. What he needs is sleep.”

“Sleep?” Joe smiled crookedly. “Oh, what can I do? I feel like I was all dead, except my mind.”

“Come out to the ranch with me, Joe,” urged Honey.

“And face the Bellew family?”

“You’ve got to face ’em all, sooner or later, Joe.”

“I suppose that’s true! Honey, what did they say? What did they do?”

“What could they do, Joe? I don’t think they said much. I know Peggy didn’t. They jist acted like they was stunned. It was worse ’n a funeral.”

“Hozie was drunk, and it sobered him,” offered Len.

“Poor old Hozie,” said Joe. “All my friends—once.”

“Aw, they’ll get over it, Joe,” said Honey. “They all like you awful well.”

“Did like me, Honey. Oh, I’m all through. I may not have any brains, but in spite of what I’ve done, I’ve got some pride left. I can’t face ’em. I know what they’re saying!

“‘Drunken bum! Drunken bum!’ Oh, I know it, Honey. No matter whether I’m guilty or not, I’ll always be the drunken bum who forgot his own weddin’. Is there anybody or anythin’ lower than I am?”

“You could put on a plug-hat and walk under a snake’s belly,” said Honey unfeelingly. “I’m not upholdin’ yuh, cowboy. Far be it from me to interrupt yuh when yuh start sayin’ mean things about yourself; but that don’t alter the fact that I’m yore friend, and I ask yuh to come out to the bunk-house and sleep yourself into a sane frame of mind. Right now yo’re as crazy as a locoed calf.”

Joe shook his head.

“Thank yuh, Honey, but I’m goin’ to saddle my horse and see if the wind will straighten me out. I’m sick as a fool, and I’ve got a lot of thinkin’ to do.”

Joe lurched out of the saloon and stumbled across the street, heading for his stable. Honey shook his head sadly and went back to the bar.

“He’s shore sufferin’,” said the bartender.

“Yeah, he is,” nodded Honey sadly. “He’s gittin’ all the hell a man ever gits. Yuh don’t have to die a sinner to get punished, I happen to know. Some gits it right here.”

“Have you suffered?” asked the bartender.

“What in ⸺ do yuh think I’m runnin’ around in my socks for? I’ll say I’ve suffered. Let’s have one more drink.”

CHAPTER II: “HANGING IS TOO GOOD—”

Pinnacle City was the oldest settlement in the Tumbling River country and had always been the county seat since the boundary lines had been drawn. Originally the place had been only a small settlement and the houses had been built along a wagon-road. And as the place grew larger this road became the main street, with very little added to the original width. In several places the road had twisted to avoid a mud-hole, and the main street was consequently very crooked.

But Pinnacle City had never become a metropolis. It was still the small cow-town; muddy in winter, dusty in summer, with poorly made wooden sidewalks which followed the contour of the ground fairly closely. The railroad had added little to Pinnacle City except a brick-red depot, warehouse and some loading corrals.

Eighteen miles southeast was the town of Kelo, and twelve miles northwest was the town of Ransome. Tumbling River ran southwest, cutting straight through the center of the valley. A short distance west of Pinnacle City were the high pinnacles of the Tumbling range, which gave the town its name. Barbed-wire had never made its appearance in the Tumbling River range, feed was good and there was plenty of water.

Five outfits ranged their stock in the Pinnacle City end of the Tumbling River range, the farthest away from town being Ed Merrick’s Circle M, located about eight miles due south. Midway between the town and the Circle M, and just on the east bank of Tumbling River, was Jim Wheeler’s HJ ranch.

Southwest, about three miles from town, was Curt Bellew’s Lazy B. This was on the west side of the river. A little less than three miles to the northeast of Pinnacle City was Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H; and four miles northwest of town was Buck West’s 3W3 outfit.

Jim Wheeler’s ranch was just between the wagon-road and the railroad, on the way to Kelo. The two bridges were less than half a mile apart. Jim Wheeler’s wife had died when Peggy was a little slip of a girl, but Jim had kept his ranch and raised his daughter, aided and abetted by Aunt Emma Wheeler, who had wanted to raise her. The HJ was a small ranch. Jim had been content to run a few cattle and horses. Wong Lee, the Chinese cook, had been with the HJ for years, and Jim swore that the county had always assessed Wong as personal property of the HJ.

Uncle Hozie Wheeler’s Flying H was a larger outfit, employing three cowboys, Lonnie Myers, Dan Leach and “Nebrasky” Jones, known as the “Heavenly Triplets,” possibly because there was nothing heavenly about any of them. Lonnie was a loud-talking boy from the Milk River country; Dan Leach hailed from eastern Oregon, and Nebrasky’s cognomen disclosed the State of his nativity. Uncle Hozie called them his debating society and entered into their State arguments in favor of Arizona.

Curt Bellew’s Lazy B supported three cowboys: Eph Harper, “Slim” Coleman and Honey Bee. Mrs. Bellew contended that the ranch could be handled with one man, but that Curt wanted to match Hozie Wheeler in numbers. She pointed out the fact that Buck West could run his 3W3 outfit with only two men, Jimmy Black and Abe Liston, just because Buck wasn’t so lazy he couldn’t do some of the work himself. Which of course was a gentle hint that Curt might do more himself.

The Circle M ranged more stock than any of the other ranches and only carried three men besides Ed Merrick. Ben Collins, “Dutch” Siebert and Jack Ralston made up the personnel of the Circle M, since Len Kelsey had left them to take up his duties as deputy sheriff under Joe Rich.

It was the morning following the wedding which had not taken place that Joe Rich rode up to the Flying H. All night long he had ridden across the hills, fighting out with himself to decide what to do, and he was a sorry-looking young man when he drew rein near the veranda of the Flying H ranch-house. He had ridden away without coat, hat or chaps. His trouser-legs were torn from riding past brush, his face scratched, his hair disheveled.

Uncle Hozie saw him from the window and came down to him. Lonnie Myers and Nebrasky were at the corral, saddling their horses. They merely glanced in his direction, recognizing him, but paying no attention. Uncle Hozie looked Joe over critically, but said nothing.

“Well, why don’t yuh say somethin’?” demanded Joe wearily. “My ⸺, Hozie, don’t just stand there! Swear at me, if yuh feel thataway.”

Uncle Hozie shook his head slowly and sighed. He had drunk a little too much the night before, and his spirits were not overly bright. A tin can rattled loudly, and they looked toward the stable, where Dan Leach was throwing out the stuff they had stacked in the stall for the shivaree.

Joe’s eyes closed tightly for a moment and he turned his head away. He knew what those noise producers had been meant for. A cow-bell clattered among the cans. Lonnie and Nebrasky were watching Joe from the corral.

“I don’t feel like cussin’ anybody,” said Uncle Hozie.

“Not even me?” asked Joe.

“You? Nope. What’sa use, Joe? If yuh cuss folks before they do wrong it might do some good. Afterward, it’s no use. Yuh can’t wipe out what a man writes in the book of fate, Joe.”

“And I shore wrote a page last night, Hozie.”

“Yea-a-ah, I’d tell a man yuh did, Joe.” Uncle Hozie cocked one eye and looked at Joe.

“There’s by actual count, seventeen ⸺ fools in this Tumblin’ River range—and yo’re all of ’em, Joe.”

“I admit it, Hozie.”

“You do? My ⸺, you didn’t think for a minute yuh could deny it, didja? Huh! Why don’tcha git down? My ⸺, I hate to talk to a man on a horse! Especially the mornin’ after. Kinda hurts my eyes to look up.”

Joe shook his head.

“No, I can’t stay, Hozie.”

“Nobody asked yuh to, did they?”

“No. Is Peggy here yet?”

“No, she ain’t, Joe,” softly. “They went home last night—her and Jim and Laura Hatton. Jim thought it was best. Emma tried to get ’em to stay a while, but they kinda wanted to be at home, where there wouldn’t be anybody to ask questions.”

“To ask questions!” echoed Joe. “That’s the worst of it.”

“I dunno,” sighed Hozie. “It’s the first weddin’ I ever seen that raveled right out thataway. Honey Bee showed up with his coat in one hand and his shoes in the other. He shore was the worst-lookin’ best man I ever seen.”

“Poor old Honey.”

“Yeah, yuh ought to feel sorry for somebody, Joe. I don’t sabe yuh; by ⸺, I don’t! I thought I knew yuh, but I reckon I don’t. I ain’t said what I think about yuh to anybody. Mebbe I ain’t had no chance; so many folks has said what they thought about it that I’ve kinda got their ideas and mine all tangled up. Mebbe after while I’ll git my own ideas straightened up to where I know they’re all mine, I’ll look ’em over.”

“I suppose they’d like to hang me, Hozie.”

“Hang yuh? Huh! Reminds me of a Dutchman I knowed. He runs into a gang of punchers that was goin’ to lynch a horse thief. Dutchy runs into ’em, and asks what it’s all about.

“‘Vat iss it all about?’ asks Dutchy.

“‘Goin’ to hang a horse thief,’ says a puncher.

“‘Oh, dot’s too bad,’ says Dutchy. ‘You shouldn’t hang a man for stealing von horse.’

“‘It was yore horse, Dutchy.’

“‘So-o-o-o? Don’t hang him; dot’s too good for him. Let me kick him in de pants.’”

Joe smiled bitterly.

“Do you think hangin’ is too good for me, Hozie?” he asked.

“I don’t say it is, Joe; but when I got a look at Peggy last night I shore wanted to give yuh some of the Dutchman’s medicine.”

Joe wiped the back of his hand across his cheek and wet his lips with a dry tongue.

“I reckon I’m all through in Tumblin’ River, Hozie.”

“Well,” Uncle Hozie bit off a huge chew of tobacco and masticated rapidly, thoughtfully. “Well, Joe, it ain’t for me to say. I got up as far as ‘Silver Threads’ last night myself, but of course it wasn’t my weddin’ night. But, accordin’ to some remarks I heard expressed last night, the folks of the Tumblin’ River ain’t takin’ up no collection to buy yuh a monument. Yuh see, Joe, Peggy is kinda well liked.”

“Kinda well liked! My ⸺!” Joe shut his jaw tightly and fumbled at his reins. “I’ll be goin’, Hozie.”

“Yeah? Well.” Hozie spat thoughtfully, but did not look up at Joe.

“Be good to yourself,” he said slowly.

Joe turned and rode away, never looking back. Hozie sat down on the veranda and Aunt Emma came out. She had been watching from a window.

“What did he have to say?” she asked.

“Joe? Oh, nothin’ much.”

“What excuse did he offer?”

“None.”

“Didn’t deny bein’ drunk?”

“Didn’t mention it.”

“Feel sorry about it, Hozie?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Well, what in the world did you two talk about?”

“Public opinion.”

Aunt Emma snorted.

“Public opinion, eh? Did you tell him what you thought of him?”

“Nope; wasn’t quite clear in my own mind, Emma.”

“I suppose not. If Jim hadn’t stopped yuh last night—”

“Oh, I know,” Hozie smiled softly. “My voice was kinda good, too. Curt Bellew said he never heard me sing so well.”

“Curt was drunk, too.”

“Thasso. Prob’ly accounts for him likin’ my voice. I’d like to sing to a sober man some day and get an honest opinion.”

“No sober man would listen to you, Hozie.”

“I s’pose not,” Uncle Hozie sighed deeply. “I suppose it’s jist sort of a drunken bond between inebriates that makes me feel sorry for Joe Rich, Emma; but I do. He looked so doggone helpless and lonesome this mornin’. No, I didn’t tell him I felt sorry. He don’t deserve sympathy.”

“He don’t deserve anythin’,” declared Aunt Emma.

“Hangin’—mebbe.”

“And you feel sorry for him?”

“I want to, Emma.” Uncle Hozie turned and looked at her. “I’ve worked with that boy a lot. Me and him have rubbed knees on some hard rides, and I kinda looked on Joe like I would on my own son. He was straight and square—until now, Emma. Mebbe,” he hesitated for a moment, “mebbe I’m feelin’ sorry for the Joe Rich of yesterday.”

“Well, that’s different, Hozie,” said Aunt Emma softly, and went back in the house. She had thought a lot of Joe Rich of yesterday, too.

Joe rode back to Pinnacle City and stabled his tired horse. He had spent all his savings for a little four-room house on the outskirts of Pinnacle and had gone in debt for the furnishings. It was to have been their home.

Len Kelsey was asleep in the office when Joe came in and sat down at his desk. He woke up and looked curiously at Joe.

“Wondered where yuh was, Joe,” he said sleepily.

“Yeah?”

Joe drew out a sheet of paper, dipped a pen in the ink bottle and began writing. Kelsey turned over and went to sleep again.

Joe finished writing, folded the paper and walked out of the office. Just south of his office was the old two-story frame-building court-house, and as Joe started to enter the front door he met Jim Wheeler and Angus McLaren, chairman of the board of county commissioners.

McLaren was a big, raw-boned Scot who owned a general store in Kelo. McLaren, Ed Merrick and Ross Layton, of Ransome, composed the board of commissioners.

Joe Rich stopped short as he faced Jim Wheeler. For possibly five seconds the HJ cattleman stared at the sheriff of Tumbling River, and then, without a word, he struck Joe square in the face, knocking him out through the doorway, where Joe went to his haunches on the sidewalk, dazed, bleeding from his nose and mouth.

Quickly the big Scotsman stepped in front of Wheeler, grasping him with both hands.

“Stop it, Jim!” he ordered.

Wheeler stepped back, his face crimson with anger, but saying nothing.

Joe did not get up, nor did he even look at Wheeler, who stepped past McLaren and went slowly up the street.

“Are ye hurt much, Joe?” asked McLaren not unkindly. He knew all about what had happened the night before.

Joe did not reply. He got slowly to his feet and leaned against the building, while he drew out the folded sheet of paper. Then he unpinned the silver star from the bosom of his soiled shirt, pinned it to the sheet of paper and handed it to McLaren. Then he turned and went slowly down the street.

McLaren stared after him. Joe Rich staggered slightly, but he was not drunk. McLaren unfolded the paper and read it carefully. It was Joe’s resignation, written to the board of county commissioners. McLaren put it in his pocket.

“Life’s queer,” said the big Scot thoughtfully. “Yesterday he was Joe Rich, sheriff of Tumblin’ River, the luckiest young man in the world. And today—nobody! Ye never know yer luck, so ye don’t; and who has the right to judge him?”

He turned and went back to his office.

Joe staggered off the main street and went down through an alley. He wanted to get off the street; to be where no one would talk to him. Strangely enough he felt no pain from the blow. Except for the fact that his face was bleeding, he was not aware he had been hurt.

The thought of Jim Wheeler knocking him down hurt worse than any blow, and he moved along blindly; not going anywhere—just away from everybody. He did not realize where he was until he heard a voice speak his name.

He was standing beside a picket-fence, and there was Honey Bee, holding the reins of his horse. The picket-fence was the one around Joe’s house; the one Aunt Emma had called “Honeymoon Home.”

“I seen yuh cuttin’ across this way,” explained Honey. “My ⸺, yuh shore got an awful lookin’ face on yuh, cowboy. Horse kick yuh?”

Joe shook his head. He didn’t want to talk with Honey Bee, but he knew there was no chance of getting away from him. Honey was tying his horse to the fence, and now he came over to Joe.

“Mebbe we better go in the house, Joe,” he said. “Yuh got to wash off that blood.”

Joe nodded and followed Honey to the house. It was not locked. Folks did not lock their houses in the Tumbling River country. Honey filled a basin with water and found a towel. Honey was rather rough but effective.

“Yo’re a ⸺ of a lookin’ thing,” he declared.

“Thasall right,” mumbled Joe. “Thanks, Honey.”

Joe slumped back in a rocking-chair and closed his eyes, while Honey put away the basin and towel.

“I’m wonderin’ what the other feller looks like,” said Honey, as he manufactured a cigaret.

“Jim Wheeler,” said Joe.

“The ⸺! Did Jim Wheeler hit yuh, Joe?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ll be ⸺! Jim Wheeler! What did he say, Joe?”

“Nothin’. Wasn’t anythin’ to be said.”

“Uh-huh. Makes it kinda hard for yuh, cowboy. Anyway, yuh had to meet him sooner or later. Ain’tcha goin’ out to see Peggy?”

“No, I can’t do that, Honey.”

“I s’pose not. I was past there today—this mornin’. Saw Laura. Didn’t sleep none, I reckon. She’s a darned pretty girl, but this mornin’ her eyes shore looked like two burned holes in a blanket. I pulled off an awful fox pass last night. I took off my coat and shoes, ’cause I shore was in misery, and then Laura comes hoppin’ in on me. I has to make my little bow, and my belt missed connections with my pants. Na-a-aw, I saved myself, all right; but it shore needed quick action. Either that tailor is awful cock-eyed, or I’m a queer built jigger.”

“You didn’t see Peggy?” asked Joe softly.

“Nope. I asked Laura how she was, and Laura asks me how any other girl would be under them conditions. If I was you, I’d go out and have a talk with her. But not the way yuh look now, Joe. Rest up a while. Let Len Kelsey run the office for a few days.”

“I resigned this mornin’, Honey.”

“Yuh resigned? Yuh mean you’ve quit bein’ sheriff? Aw, ⸺, why didja do that? You ⸺ idjit! Throwin’ up a job like that. Ho-o-o-o—hum-m-m-m! Joe, yo’re a ⸺ fool.”

“In every way, Honey.”

“A-a-aw, I didn’t mean it thataway, Joe. You know me. I’d go to ⸺ and half way back for you, and you know it. But you’ve shore dug yourself an awful hole, and you’ll never git out by quittin’ thataway. Laura is tryin’ to get Peggy to go home with her for a while. She’ll prob’ly have one awful time convincin’ Jim Wheeler that it’s the best thing for Peggy to do—but Laura is shore convincin’.”

“You mean that Peggy would go East, Honey?”

“Yeah, sure. She’s got friends back there; folks she knew where she went to school with Laura. Mebbe it’s the best thing for her to do. Jim ain’t got a lot of money, but he can afford it, I reckon. What do you figure on doin’, Joe?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Honey. I can’t make up my mind to anythin’. I just run in circles, and every way I turn there’s a blank wall; no way out.”

“Yeah, I s’pose so. Let’s go and buy a drink.”

Joe shook his head.

“I don’t think I’ll ever want another drink of liquor, Honey. I’m goin’ to sleep a while, and mebbe I can think my way clear.”

Honey came past the court-house and saw Jim Wheeler, Angus McLaren, Ed Merrick and Ross Layton just going into the place. They were going to consider the resignation of Joe Rich, and it did not take them long to decide on an acceptance.

Ross Layton was a saloon owner in Ransome. He was rather small, slightly gray, and affected flowing ties and fancy vests. The rest of his raiment was rather somber, a fact which had caused Honey Bee to remark—

“Looks like a ⸺ bouquet of flowers wrapped up in crêpe.”

There was no argument over the appointment of Len Kelsey as the successor of Joe Rich, and it was up to Len to pick his own deputy. They went from the court-house to the sheriff’s office, where they told Len of his good fortune. The skinny-faced deputy grinned widely and accepted his honors. As the three men were leaving Len said to Merrick—

“Send Jack in to see me, Ed.”

“All right, Len,” nodded Merrick.

Len and Jack Ralston had been bunkies at the Circle M, and it would be the natural thing for Len to appoint Jack as his deputy.

McLaren had some business to attend to at the Pinnacle City bank, so he left Merrick and Wheeler together. Layton had left them at the sheriff’s office.

“It’s sure funny how things change,” observed Merrick.

The owner of the Circle M was slightly under forty years of age, above medium height. He was rather good-looking and dressed well. However, he looked more like a gambler than a county official and a solid citizen. Perhaps this aspect was enhanced by the fact that he shaved regularly, kept his black mustache trimmed and waxed to needle-like points, and wore pants instead of overalls.

“I was thinkin’ about Joe Rich,” said Merrick.

Jim Wheeler shoved his hands deep in his pockets and did not lift his eyes from serious contemplation of his own boot-toes.

“I wanted to talk to yuh, Merrick,” he said slowly. “This sure has been a blow to me. Laura Hatton wants Peggy to go home with her. I dunno—mebbe’s it’s the best thing to do. I don’t mind layin’ my cards on the table.”

Jim Wheeler looked up at Merrick.

“I owe the Pinnacle City bank seven thousand dollars and I can’t ask ’em for any more, Merrick.”

“Uh-huh.” Merrick did not seem impressed.

“You know what the HJ ranch is, Merrick. Seven thousand is a lot of money against it. I’ve got to have another thousand, if I send Peggy back with Laura.”

“Well, I might let yuh have it, Jim. Bank got a mortgage?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ll take your note. How soon do yuh need it?”

“Any time in the next couple of days.”

“All right, I’ll let yuh have it, Jim.”

They separated and Merrick went to the Pinnacle Saloon, where he met Honey Bee. Honey had drunk enough to make him loquacious.

“Didja accept Joe’s resignation?” asked Honey.

“Nothin’ else to do,” replied Merrick. There was little love lost between these two men.

“Uh-huh.” Honey leaned against the bar and cuffed his hat to one side of his head.

“Who’sa sheriff now?”

“Len Kelsey.”

“O-o-o-oh, is that so? My, my! Things shore do change quick. If yuh had a lawyer and a doctor in yore Circle M, you’d kinda run the whole danged country, wouldn’t yuh?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Merrick grinned and invited Honey to have a drink.

“Well, I’ll drink with yuh,” agreed Honey. “I’m sad at heart.” They lifted their glasses to each other.

“Hits Jim Wheeler pretty hard,” said Merrick gravely.

“Sure does. Here’s how.”

“He tells me,” said Merrick, placing his glass on the bar, “that his daughter is goin’ East with Miss Hatton.”

“Yeah, I heard that,” said Honey sadly. “I didn’t know it was all settled.”

“I reckon it is. Anyway, I’m makin’ a loan to Jim. He’s in kinda heavy at the bank; so I’m lettin’ him have the money.”

“Uh-huh. Well, that’s nice of yuh.”

“Where’s Joe Rich, Honey?”

“I left him down at his new place, settin’ there, lookin’ at nothin’. That boy’s half crazy.”

“Must have been more than half crazy,” declared Merrick.

“Yeah. Now I’ll buy a drink.”

Honey went back to Joe’s place before he went to the Lazy B, and found Joe still sitting in the same chair. He told Joe what Merrick had said about Jim’s borrowing money from Merrick to send Peggy with Laura.

“How much did he have to borrow?” asked Joe.

Honey didn’t know.

“Jim Wheeler must be short of money,” said Honey. “Merrick said he was in pretty deep with the Pinnacle bank. They accepted yore resignation and appointed Len Kelsey, Joe.”

“Quick work,” said Joe shortly.

“Yeah, I’ll say it is. You were a fool to quit that job.”

Honey left him there and rode out of town. He intended going straight back to the Lazy B, but began thinking about Laura Hatton so strongly that he found himself crossing the Tumbling River bridge before he realized where he was heading.

Jim Wheeler arrived there ahead of Honey, and was sitting on the porch, talking with Peggy and Laura, while Jack Ralston, of the Circle M, sat on a step, hat on the back of his head. Ralston was a tall, curly-headed young man who thought quite a lot of Jack Ralston. He was a clever roper, and one of the best bronc riders in the country.

Honey scowled and wanted to keep right on riding, but he was so close that it might look queer if he didn’t stop. Peggy went into the house before Honey arrived. Ralston looked critically at Honey, nodded shortly, and resumed conversation with Laura.

Honey dismounted. Then he uncinched his saddle, shook it a little, and took plenty of time cinching it again. He knew he was of a hair-trigger disposition, and was trying to curb it. Ralston was telling Laura about how he rode Derelict, a locally famous outlaw horse, at a recent rodeo. Honey’s ears reddened slightly. Derelict had thrown Honey the day before Ralston had ridden him, and it had taken ten minutes for Honey to recover consciousness.

“It must be wonderful to ride a bucking horse,” said Laura. “I saw Lonnie Myers ride one at the Flying H. Oh, it was a lot of fun!”

“That was just an ordinary bucker,” said Ralston. “Any puncher can ride a half-broke bucker. Lots of the boys in this country think they’re riders, but when it comes to fannin’ the real buckers—they don’t show much. You wait until we have another rodeo, and I’ll show yuh some ridin’.”

“Yeah, he’s a good rider,” said Honey, still fussing with his latigo. “Awful good rider. I shouldn’t be surprized if he’s half as good as he thinks he is. Ridin’ broncs makes folks talk thataway. Of course, us ord’nary punchers don’t go lookin’ for glory in the bronc corral, so we never do get shook up very bad. But you can tell them good riders every time. They’re kinda buck-drunk, as yuh might say. They ain’t very tight-brained to begin with, and all that shock and jerk soon gits the inside of their heads kinda rattly.

“Oh, they’re all right, as far as that goes. Nobody expects ’em to do anythin’ but ride buckers. But they don’t know it, and the way them p’fessional bronc riders do talk! Mebbe they ain’t so much to blame, at that; but everythin’ is ‘I’ with ’em. Rodeos are all right, I s’pose. Folks get a lot of fun out of it; but them buckin’ contests shore do bring in undesirable citizens.”

Honey had spoken so earnestly that Laura Hatton did not realize he was talking about Jack Ralston.

But Jack Ralston knew. He got to his feet, glaring at Honey, who paid no attention to him at all. He adjusted the split-ear headstall of his bridle, looked it over critically and came over to the steps. Ralston glanced from Honey to Laura and then shot a glance at Jim Wheeler, who, in spite of the misery in his soul, was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Well, I’ll be goin’,” said Ralston. “Good day.”

Honey twisted his mouth into a wide grin as he watched Ralston ride away.

“He is very entertaining,” said Laura.

“Who—Jack?” Honey grinned widely. “Liars mostly always are.”

Jim Wheeler laughed and went into the house, for which Honey thanked him mentally. Honey sat down on the steps, cuffed his hat to the back of his head and sighed deeply.

“How’s Peggy feelin’?” he asked.

“Better. She’s going back home with me; it’s all settled.”

“Uh-huh,” said Honey gloomily. “Lotta luck in that for me.”

“For you?”

“Yeah; you goin’ away.”

“Oh!” Laura’s blue eyes opened wide. “Well, you knew I was only here on a visit, Honey.”

“Oh! shore; I knowed it. Yuh can’t stay, huh?”

“Not very well.”

“Uh-huh. I s’pose—” Honey hesitated awkwardly. “I s’pose you’ve got a lot of fellers back East, eh?”

He pointed north, but the direction made no difference. Laura smiled.

“Fellows? A few—perhaps.”

“Uh-huh.” Honey scuffed a heel against the step, rattling his spur-chain. “I s’pose you’ll be gettin’ married, huh?”

“When?”

“Oh, some of these days,” gloomily.

Laura shook her pretty head violently. “You bet I won’t! After what happened last night I wouldn’t marry the best man on earth.”

“I’m shore glad to hear yuh say that,” said Honey seriously.

“Why?” demanded Laura quickly.

“’Cause if yuh marry the man I hope yuh will, yuh shore won’t be gettin’ the best man in the world.”

Laura blushed and got to her feet. Honey got up, too, and they faced each other.

“You ain’t sore, are yuh, Laura?” he asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“No, Honey; I can’t get mad at you—but I do think you are awfully funny.”

She turned and walked into the house. Honey stared at the doorway for several moments before going back to his horse.

“She thinks I’m awfully funny,” he told his horse. “I must be—she didn’t even crack a smile.”

CHAPTER III: THE NEW SHERIFF

The following morning Joe moved his few effects from the sheriff’s office. Kelsey had just appointed Jack Ralston to act as his deputy, and was showing him where everything was in the office. Kelsey was inclined to be a little superior, and did not shake hands with Joe.

“What do yuh figure on doin’, Joe?” asked Ralston.

“Haven’t figured anythin’ yet, Jack. Probably leave in a few days.”

Kelsey did not ask any questions, nor did he look up from the desk when Joe went away. Joe took his belongings down to his little cottage, where he selected the few things he would take with him. He would turn the furniture and carpets back to the Pinnacle Merchandise Company and let somebody handle the sale of the house.

Later on he went up the street, intending to see about having the furniture taken back, when he saw Jim Wheeler and Ed Merrick standing in front of the Pinnacle Saloon. It suddenly struck Joe that this would be a good chance to go out to the HJ and see Peggy. He was ashamed even to face her, but he would feel like a dog if he went away from Tumbling River without seeing her again.

He turned and went to his stable, where he saddled his horse and rode away. There were times during his journey out there when he turned back. But he cursed himself for being a coward and went on. He was not going to ask her to forgive him. That idea had never entered his head.

Peggy was alone on the porch, sitting deep in an old rocking-chair, and did not see Joe until he came up the steps. She started to get up, but sank back, staring at him. Then the tears came and she threw one arm across her face.

“Don’t cry,” begged Joe. “Curse me, Peggy. I can stand it. I came out here to be cursed—and to say good-by. I haven’t any excuse that you or anybody else would believe; so I’m not askin’ anythin’—not excusin’ myself. But I didn’t want to go away without seein’ yuh again.”

“Oh, why did you do it, Joe?” she sobbed. “Why? Why?”

“I dunno, Peggy. It’s done. There ain’t anythin’ I can do to make it any different than it is. What’s the use of me sayin’ I’m sorry? I’ve been to hell since that night, and it’s a rough road. But I just want yuh to tell me good-by. It ain’t much to ask, even after what I’ve done. Just a good-by, Peggy.”

But she did not speak. Joe’s face was the color of wood ashes as he turned and went down the steps to his horse. For several moments he leaned against his horse, looking back at her, but she had not moved. She was just a huddled heap in the old chair. The sunlight slanted under a corner of the porch, striking across her hair.

He shut his lips tightly, swung into the saddle and rode slowly away. Peggy stirred. Laura had come to the doorway. She had been inside the living-room, listening.

“Where are you going, Joe?” asked Peggy softly. It was hardly more than a whisper. Laura looked curiously at her, wondering.

“You’re not going away—to stay, Joe?” said Peggy.

“He’s gone, Peggy,” said Laura. “Didn’t you know?”

Peggy looked up quickly, blinking the tears from her eyes, staring at Laura.

“Gone?” she asked.

“My dear, he went away after he asked you to tell him good-by,” said Laura. “Didn’t you know he went away?”

“I didn’t know, Laura.”

Peggy got to her feet and went to the side porch-railing. Far down the road toward the river bridge was a little cloud of dust which showed the passing of Joe Rich. Peggy turned and looked at Laura, but neither of them spoke. Joe Rich had gone away without even a good-by from the girl who still loved him; so there was nothing left to say.

Uncle Hozie Wheeler and Lonnie Myers were heading for the HJ ranch. They had crossed the railroad right-of-way at an old wagon-road crossing and struck the HJ road about half a mile west of the Tumbling River bridge. One of the boys had heard that Peggy was going East, and Aunt Emma rushed Hozie right down there to see whether there was any truth in the report. Uncle Hozie didn’t care for the solitary ride; so he took Lonnie along. Lonnie was long, lean, and sad of face, thin-haired and inclined to freckle. He was prone to sing sad songs in a quavering tenor and, besides that certain talent, had a developed sense of humor.

“That’s wimmin for yuh, Lonnie,” declared Uncle Hozie. “All she had to do was to hear that Peggy figures on goin’ away, and she chases us down here. Prob’ly wants to put her up a lunch. Ma’s funny thataway. If you’ve got good sense, you’ll stay single, Lonnie. Of course, there ain’t liable to nobody pick yuh. You ain’t e-legible.”

“What’s that, Hozie?”

“E-legible? Oh, that’s a p’lite word, Lonnie. It means that you wouldn’t be worth a lot to anybody. It means that nobody wants to hook a sucker when the bass are bitin’.”

“Oh, yeah. Joe Rich was e-legible, wasn’t he, Hozie?”

“He was—” said Hozie dryly. “He was a big bass when he was hooked, but a sucker when he was landed.”

“Uh-huh. Say, that Hatton girl is shore a dinger. I never did see hair and skin like she’s got. I’d be scared to touch her.”

“So would I—if Honey Bee was lookin’, Lonnie.”

“Aw, he jist thinks she’s his girl.”

“Mebbe. Huh!”

Uncle Hozie lifted in his stirrups and looked down the road.

“What’s this we’re comin’ to, Lonnie?”

It was Joe Rich, dismounted, standing in the middle of the road. Standing against the brush on the river side of the road was Jim Wheeler’s horse, and Jim Wheeler was in a huddled heap in the middle of the road.

Uncle Hozie and Lonnie dismounted quickly and went over to him. His right leg was twisted in a peculiar position and his head had been badly beaten. Uncle Hozie dropped to his knees and examined him as quickly as possible.

“Joe, for God’s sake, what happened to Jim?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Joe dully. “He—his foot was caught in the stirrup, Hozie. The horse dragged him. I just found him a minute ago. Yuh can see his—his leg’s broke.”

Joe pointed up the dusty road toward town.

“Yuh can see where the horse dragged him.”

The trail through the dust was plainly visible, and the condition of Jim’s clothes showed what had happened.

“Still alive,” panted Hozie. “Lonnie, ride to town as fast as yuh can. Get a hack and the doctor. We can’t move him any other way.”

Lonnie ran to his horse, mounted on the run and went racing up the road. It was shady along the road; so they made no effort to move Wheeler. Hozie paced up and down beside the road, his hands clenched.

“Where have you been, Joe?” he asked.

Joe, squatting on his heels beside the road, looked up at the old man.

“I was over at the HJ, Hozie.”

“Uh-huh. I wonder if there’s anythin’ we can do? By golly, I never felt so danged helpless in my life. I tell yuh, Joe, he’s awful badly hurt.”

“Awful bad, Hozie. I’m afraid he won’t live to get to town.”

“And we can’t do a thing.”

“Only wait, Hozie. Old Doc Curzon is pretty good. He’ll save Jim if it’s possible.”

It seemed hours before any one came. Len Kelsey and Jack Ralston were the first to arrive. Kelsey looked at Jim Wheeler, listened to what Hozie had to say and then walked up the road, trying to find the spot where Jim had fallen out of his saddle. Ralston squatted on his heels, smoking a cigaret, but had nothing to say.

Then came the doctor, followed by Lonnie driving a livery team hitched to a spring-wagon. Several cowboys were also among the interested spectators. The old doctor made a quick examination, after which they placed Jim Wheeler in the bottom of the spring-wagon and started back to town.

“How bad is he hurt, Doc?” asked Hozie anxiously.

“Pretty ⸺ bad!” snapped the old doctor. “Leg broke once—mebbe twice. Head battered up. Lucky to be alive. Be lucky to live. Don’t ask questions until I know something.”

“Hadn’t we better take him home?” asked Kelsey.

“Take him to my place,” said the doctor.

Joe mounted his horse and rode up beside Hozie.

“Somebody ought to tell Peggy,” he said.

Hozie nodded.

“You want to go, Joe?”

“You know I couldn’t, Hozie.”

“Sure. Lonnie, you go and tell her. Jist tell her—”

“A-a-a-aw, my ⸺!” snorted Lonnie.

“Me? Aw, I’d make a mess of it, Hozie.”

“Thasall right, Lonnie; it’s a mess already. Go ahead.”

Lonnie went, but Lonnie didn’t want to; and he didn’t mind telling the world that his vocation was punching cows and not being a messenger of bad news.

“Thasall right, Lonnie,” assured Hozie. “I won’t forget it.”

“’F yuh think I will, yo’re crazy,” said Lonnie.

Joe and Uncle Hozie rode back to Pinnacle City together. A crowd gathered around the doctor’s house, waiting for a report on Jim’s condition. But before such a report was forthcoming, Lonnie Myers drove in with Peggy and Laura in a buggy from the HJ ranch.

And when the report did come, it shocked every one. Jim Wheeler had died from concussion of the brain. The crowd moved silently away. Jim Wheeler was one of the old-timers, and his death, as Nebrasky Jones said, was “a ter’ble jolt to mankind of Tumblin’ River.”

Uncle Hozie took Peggy and Laura out to the Flying H, and Lonnie Myers proceeded to drink more whisky than was good for him, in order to forget.

“I was in there when the doctor told ’em,” said Lonnie. “Leave-that-bottle-where-it-is! I’m the only person that knows when I’ve got enough. Jist like a marble statue, that girl was. Didn’t say nothin’; didn’t do nothin’. Say! Why don’tcha git some liquor that’s got stren’th?”

“I betcha she feels bad, jist the same,” said “Slim” Coleman, of the Lazy B. Slim wasn’t very bright.

Lonnie looked pityingly at Slim.

“Oh, I s’pose she does, Slim. If I was in yore place, I’d go away before I tromp yuh to death.”

“Aw, you ain’t goin’ to tromp nobody, Lonnie; yo’re drunk.”

“I ain’t, but I will be,” solemnly. “And when I do git drunk, I’ll prob’ly forget that yo’re jist plain ignorant, Slimmie. Now, you better go spin yore rope where I can’t see nor hear yuh.”

Nebrasky Jones joined Lonnie, and within an hour Dan Leach rode in from the Flying H. Uncle Hozie and the girls had reached the ranch, and Dan said there was too much grief for him; so he came to town.

And thus the Heavenly Triplets got together. Nebrasky and Lonnie were far ahead of Dan, so far as drinks were concerned, and were already given to short crying spells. Lonnie insisted on repeating the story of how they found Joe Rich with Jim Wheeler. According to Lonnie’s varying stories, they found Joe and Jim everywhere along the road from the Tumbling River bridge to Pinnacle City.

Time after time he explained how he had broken the bad news to Peggy and Laura. His diplomacy was wonderful to hear, and some of his speeches left him breathless. When as a matter of fact he had said to Peggy:

“Jim’s been dragged and they’re takin’ him to town. Dunno how bad he’s hurt, but he shore looks dead to me.”

Dan had been with them about an hour when Kelsey came to the Pinnacle bar. Lonnie looked upon him with great disfavor. Joe had been a particular bunkie of the Flying H boys, and they were still loyal. No matter if Joe had resigned voluntarily, they felt that Len Kelsey was to blame.

Len walked back among the tables, where he talked to “Handsome” Harry Clark, who owned the Pinnacle. Harry was not handsome by any known standard of beauty, being a hard-faced, sandy-haired individual, with a crooked nose and one sagging eyebrow, caused by stopping a beer bottle in full flight.

“I don’ like ’m,” declared Lonnie owlishly. “Heza disgrash to—to anythin’ what’ver.”

“My sen’ments to a i-ota,” said Nebrasky. “But what can yuh do, Lonnie? Yo’re speakin’ of our sher’f, ain’tcha?”

“O-o-o-oh, u-nan-i-mushly!”

“Don’t be foolish,” advised Dan, who was half sober yet. “He’s the sheriff, no matter if he should have been drowned in infancy.”

“H’lo, Misser Cold-Feet,” grinned Lonnie. “Dan’s slowin’ up on us, Nebrasky.”

“Pos’tively,” nodded Nebrasky. “Old boy’s showin’ age.”

“Aw, yo’re crazy,” flared Dan. “But what can yuh do?”

“Flip ’m,” said Lonnie gleefully.

The gentle art of flipping a man consisted of two men getting one on each side of the one to be flipped, grasping him by arms and legs, and turning him completely over. It is a queer sensation, and harmless, if done right. Kelsey was inches taller than either Nebrasky or Lonnie.

The boys goggled wisely at each other and waited. Kelsey finished his conversation with Clark and came back past the bar.

“That shore was awful bad about Jim Wheeler, wasn’t it?” said Dan Leach.

The sheriff stopped beside the bar.

“It shore was,” he said emphatically. “That horse must ’a’ dragged him quite a ways.”

“It was like thish,” explained Lonnie thickly.

He moved to the left side of Kelsey, while Nebrasky stepped back, taking his position at Kelsey’s right.

“Me and Hozie Wheeler,” said Lonnie, “was ridin’—let ’er go, Nebrasky!”

And before the unsuspecting sheriff knew what was happening he had been grasped by arms and legs and was starting to imitate a Ferris wheel.

Exerting all their strength, the two drunken cowboys managed to swing Kelsey up to where his feet were almost pointing at the ceiling—but there they stuck. Their leverage was gone. Kelsey’s six-shooter fell from his holster, and his watch fell the full length of the chain, striking Kelsey in the chin.

Overbalanced, the two cowboys started staggering backward, stumbled into a card-table and went down with a crash, letting the struggling Kelsey drop squarely on the top of his head.

The crash was terrific. Nebrasky went backward, almost to the wall, working his feet frantically to try to catch up with his body, but went flat on his back. Lonnie caromed off the card-table and landed on his hands and knees, yelling for everybody to get out of his way.

But Kelsey suffered most. He had fallen about three feet on the top of his head, and was still seeing stars. Leach, being of a thoughtful turn of mind, kicked Kelsey’s six-shooter down toward the middle of the room, where it came to rest under a card-table.

Several of the saloon employees, including Clark, the owner, came to Kelsey’s assistance and sat him in a chair, where he caressed his head and made funny noises.

“You boys better go before he wakes up,” advised Clark.

“Is that sho?” asked Lonnie thickly. “Shince when did the Flyin’ H outfit learn t’ run, I’d crave to know?”

“Tha’s my cravin’, likewise,” said Nebrasky, trying to put his hat on upside down. “Whazze-e got any right to git mad ’bout, in the firs’ place? Goo’ness, it was all in fun.”

Kelsey was rapidly recovering, and he knew what had happened. His right hand felt his empty holster, and his eyes searched the floor. He had heard the gun fall when he was upside down.

“It’s under that card-table up there,” said Clark.

Kelsey saw it. He got up slowly and went toward his gun, while the Heavenly Triplets walked straight out through the front doorway. Possibly they did not go straight, but they were out of the saloon when Kelsey recovered his gun.

“I wouldn’t do anything, if I was you, Len,” said Clark. “They were all drunk and didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t they?” cried Len flatly. “Don’t never think they didn’t. It was all framed up to dump me on my head. I know that gang.”

“Better have a drink and forget it, Len.”

“Yeah, that’s fine—for you. By ⸺, you never got a bump like that—and forgot it.”

Kelsey walked straight to the street, but there was no sign of the three men from the Flying H. Kelsey lingered for several moments, then went on toward his office, while into the back door of the Pinnacle Saloon came Nebrasky, Lonnie and Dan, as if nothing had happened.

“Kelsey is lookin’ for you three,” said Clark.

“Kelsey?” Lonnie blinked seriously. “Kelsey? Oh, the sheriff? Lookin’ for us?”

“Whazze want?” asked Nebrasky.

“You better wait and see, Nebrasky.”

“Now that’s what I call shound advice, Harry.”

“I betcha I know what he wants,” said Lonnie. “He wants us to turn him the rest of the way over. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

This guess seemed so good to them that they sagged against the bar and whooped merrily.

Joe Rich, following the announcement of Jim Wheeler’s death, took his horse back to the stable and then went to the store where he had purchased his house furnishings and told the storekeeper to take them back, as there was little chance of their ever being paid for.

When Joe came out he met Angus McLaren, the big grave-faced Scotsman.

“Isn’t it too bad about poor Jim Wheeler!” exclaimed Angus. “I just heard of it, Joe.”

Joe nodded. His nose and lips were still sore from the weight of Jim Wheeler’s fist, and his right hand went involuntarily to his sore spots. McLaren noticed this.

“Ye shouldn’t bear any grudge now, Joe,” he said softly.

“Grudge?”

“Over what he did to ye, Joe.”

Joe shook his head.

“I suppose he had plenty of cause, Mac.”

“No matter; he’s dead now. They say ye found him.”

“Yeah, I did, Mac. I was on my way back from the HJ.”

“He wasn’t dead then?”

“No, not then. Hozie and Lonnie came along in a few minutes. He was alive then, but I think he died on the way in.”

While they were talking Len Kelsey came from the Pinnacle Saloon, rubbing his head, and went down to his office.

“Ye knew we appointed Len in your place, Joe?” asked McLaren.

“I hear yuh did, Mac. And Len appointed Ralston, eh?”

“That’s it. What do ye aim to do now?”

“I think I’ll leave here, Mac. There’s nothin’ in Tumblin’ River for me any more.”

“Ye might get on with the Circle M. Merrick will be short one man, now that Ralston is an officer.”

“No, Mac; I don’t think I’ll stay.”

“Mm-m-m-m,” McLaren considered Joe gravely.

“Joe, I’d have banked on ye. There’s a lot more folks in this country that would have bet a million to one that ye wouldn’t do a thing like ye done. Why did ye do it?”

Joe shook his head slowly.

“Mac, there’s things that I don’t even know; so I can’t tell yuh anythin’.”

“Well, ye were drunk, weren’t ye?”

“Ask Honey Bee, Ed Merrick, Ben Collins or Limpy Nelson. They all saw me, Mac. That should be evidence enough.”

“Ay,” McLaren sighed. “There seems to be plenty of evidence that you played the fool. I dunno.” McLaren took a deep breath and expelled it forcibly. “Well, I wish ye all the luck in the world, Joe Rich. I think you are payin’ for yer own sins; but ye are a young man and the world is wide.”

They shook hands gravely and Joe went back to his little cottage. It seemed queer that he should be leaving Pinnacle City; almost as queer as the fact that Jim Wheeler was lying dead at the doctor’s office. Joe didn’t know where he was going, except that it would be out through the south end of the valley; possibly down into Arizona. He would travel light. His war-bag contained a change of clothes, and that was all, except for a few trinkets.

He tied it to his saddle, covering it with a black slicker, and rode up to the county treasurer’s office, where he drew a warrant for his remaining salary. Then he cashed it at the Pinnacle City bank, and drew out the few remaining dollars he had on deposit there.

As he came from the bank he met Ed Merrick, who had just tied his horse farther up the street.

“Hello, Joe,” greeted Merrick. “What’s all this talk about Jim Wheeler gettin’ killed?”

“I reckon you heard right, Ed,” said Joe.

“Horse drug him to death?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I’ll be ⸺!”

Merrick went on down the street, and Joe noticed that he walked fast, as if he was in a big hurry. Joe heard some one call his name, and he turned to see the Heavenly Triplets coming across the street toward him from the Pinnacle Saloon. They were all very unsteady, but also very earnest.

Lonnie sagged back on his heels and considered the roll behind the cantle of Joe’s saddle. He sagged ahead and drew the slicker aside enough to disclose the war-bag.

“Where you goin’, Joe?” he demanded. “All packed up, eh?”

“I’m pullin’ out, Lonnie,” said Joe gravely. “I’m shore glad I had a chance to say good-by to you boys.”

“Na-a-awshir,” Nebrasky spoke with great deliberation. “Nobody c’n go way like thish, Joseph. Nawshir. Gotta have big party. Misser Rich,” gravely, “meet Misser Jones and Misser Leach.”

Dan and Nebrasky shook hands seriously with Joe.

“Pleased t’ meetcha,” said Nebrasky. “I used to know a sher’f that looked like you, par’ner. Oh, ver’ mush like you! I slep’ in the same bunk with him for two years. You jus’ passin’ through our fair city, Misser Rich?”

“Just passin’ through,” said Joe slowly. He saw Merrick and Kelsey leaving the sheriff’s office.

“Here comes Misser Kelsey,” grinned Lonnie. “’F he gits close enough we’ll complete the swing on him, Nebrasky.”

“He won’t never git close enough,” chuckled Dan. “That bird ain’t never goin’ t’ light close to any of us.”

Joe held out his hand to Lonnie, who gripped it quickly.

“So-long, Lonnie,” said Joe. “Be good to yourself.”

“Aw-right, Joe.”

Joe shook hands with Dan and Nebrasky, who did it in a dumb sort of a way. Perhaps they did not understand that Joe was leaving Tumbling River. Joe turned to his horse and started to mount. Merrick and Kelsey were close now, and Kelsey said to Joe—

“You ain’t leavin’ us, are yuh, Joe?”

Joe nodded.

“Yeah, I’m goin’, Len.”

“Uh-huh. Mebbe yuh better wait a little while, Joe. Somethin’ has come up just lately. Better tie yore horse and wait till we get this ironed out.”

“What do yuh mean, Len?”

“Has Hozie gone home?” Len spoke to Lonnie.

“Gone home? Of course he’s gone home. You seen him leave, didn’t yuh?”

Kelsey nodded. Lonnie seemed belligerent.

“When yuh found Jim Wheeler, yuh—uh—didn’t look in his pockets, didja, Lonnie?”

“Look in his pockets? What for, I’d crave to ask yuh?”

Kelsey turned to Merrick.

“Mebbe you better go down to the doctor’s place, Ed. Mebbe it’s still there. I don’t reckon anybody looked.”

Merrick nodded shortly and hurried away. Joe looked curiously at Kelsey, but the new sheriff was leaning against a porch post, rolling a cigaret.

“Just why had I ought to wait?” asked Joe.

“Just for instance,” Kelsey lighted his cigaret.

“That’s the new sheriff,” said Lonnie. “Cool and collected, always gets his man. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Kelsey winced. Nebrasky looked him over thoroughly.

“That’s him,” declared Nebrasky. “Yuh gotta look close at him to tell. Kelsey is his name. Belonged to the Circle M before the county bought him.”

“You think yo’re pretty ⸺ smart, don’t cha?” flared Kelsey.

“Don’t ’tagonize him,” begged Dan.

Joe stepped from his horse and faced Kelsey.

“What’s the idea of askin’ me to wait, Len?”

“Can’t tell yuh yet, Joe.”

“Suppose I decided to go ahead?”

“No, I don’t think yuh will.”

“I’m not under arrest, am I?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet, eh?” Joe laughed recklessly. “Well, I reckon I’ll be goin’ then.”

Joe turned back to his horse.

“Yo’re not goin’!” snapped Kelsey.

Joe whirled quickly. Kelsey had half-drawn his gun. It was a foolish move on Kelsey’s part; he should have covered Joe, if he wanted to hold him badly enough to resort to a gun-play. Joe did not hesitate. His right hand jerked upward and he fired from his waist.

Kelsey’s gun was out of the holster, but his hand flipped open and the gun fell to the sidewalk. He staggered backward, clutching his right forearm, while Joe swung into his saddle and rode swiftly out of town, heading south.

The revolver shot attracted plenty of attention, and it also served to sober the Heavenly Triplets. Kelsey swore bitterly as he clawed away his shirt sleeve. The heavy bullet had plowed its way through the muscles of his forearm, but did not touch the bone. The shock of it had caused Kelsey’s hand to jerk open, releasing his gun.

Folks were crowding in from every direction, trying to find out what it was all about.

“You better pack that arm to the doctor,” advised Lonnie.

Kelsey nodded and bit off more profanity. Ed Merrick came through the crowd and quickly got the story of what had happened.

“Go and get it dressed, Kelsey,” he said, after examining the wound. “No bones broke. Is Jack at the office?”

“Here,” said Ralston, shoving his way through.

“Better get on Joe’s trail, Jack,” said Merrick quickly. “He—you don’t need a warrant. Bring him back!”

Ralston ran down the street, while the crowd demanded that Merrick tell them what it was all about. But Merrick merely shut his lips and went to the court-house, followed by Angus McLaren, who was as much at sea as any of the crowd.

Once inside their office McLaren asked Merrick what the trouble was all about.

“I’m not accusin’ Joe Rich,” said Merrick. “But he was the one who found Jim Wheeler. Today I drew five thousand from the Pinnacle bank and loaned it to Jim Wheeler on his note. He had that money on him when he left town. There is no money in his pockets now, and no one has found any money on him since he came back, or during the time of the first examination. The money is gone, Mac.”

“And Joe was the first man to find him,” muttered McLaren. “Five thousand dollars! Merrick, that’s enough to tempt a man.”

“Yo’re ⸺ right it is! And Joe shot Kelsey in the arm.”

“Kelsey was drawin’,” reminded McLaren. “The boys say that Kelsey reached for his gun first. Joe wasn’t under arrest.”

“No, that’s true, Mac. But if Joe wasn’t guilty, why didn’t he stay until it could be cleared up? Ah! there’s Ralston!”

Through the window they saw the deputy ride up in front of the court-house, where he talked with several men. Merrick and McLaren went out to him. It seemed as if all the cowboys had disappeared. Ralston spurred over in front of the Pinnacle and went into the saloon, but came out again.

McLaren smothered a grin. The cowboys knew that Ralston would deputize them to ride with him, and they would be obliged to obey his orders; but if he couldn’t find them—that was a different matter.

“By ⸺, they all ducked!” snorted Ralston angrily.

“Looks like it,” agreed Merrick. “Well, I’ll go with yuh, Jack. If we can’t do any better, we might find some of the boys at my ranch. By ⸺, they won’t sneak out on yuh!”

Merrick crossed the street to the Pinnacle hitch-rack and mounted his horse. Ralston went back to the office and got an extra Winchester for Merrick, and they rode away at a swift gallop.

They had barely disappeared when the Heavenly Triplets showed up. They had rolled under the sidewalk near where Joe had shot Kelsey. From the depths of an empty wagon-box farther up the street came Abe Liston, of the 3W3. Slim Coleman, of the Lazy B, sauntered out of the narrow alley between the Pinnacle Saloon and a feed-store.

The Heavenly Triplets were fairly sober now—too sober to think of anything funny to do; so they headed for the Pinnacle Saloon.

“Hey, you snake-hunters!” yelled Slim Coleman. “Didn’t yuh ride away with the posse?”

“We shore did!” replied Lonnie. “Couldn’t find a thing. C’mon and have a drink, you man-hunter.”

“Sheriffin’ does make a feller kinda dry,” admitted Slim. “I’ll go yuh once, if I lose all m’hair. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha! I’ll betcha Ralston is mad enough to gnaw a nail.”

“Well, he can go plumb to ⸺, as far as we’re concerned,” declared Nebrasky. “Any old time we go huntin’ criminals, it’ll be when there ain’t nothin’ else to do. Anyway, I don’t look upon the shootin’ of Kelsey as a crime.”

They lined up at the bar and offered to sing a song for the drinks. But the bartender was a bit skeptical about the intrinsic value of anything they might sing.

“It’s all right with me, yuh understand,” explained the bartender. “But when Handsome starts checkin’ up the till at night—you know what I mean.”

“Oh, shore,” nodded Lonnie. “Some folks never appreciate talent. Howja like to have a free song?”

“Oh, I can absorb anythin’ that don’t hurt the rest of yuh. All I ask is that yuh don’t require my opinion. I’m honest.”

Angus McLaren came in and Lonnie invited him to share their hospitality. McLaren rarely drank anything, but no one had ever known him to refuse an invitation.

“We just got back from ridin’ with the deputy,” explained Nebrasky. “Ridin’ allus makes me dry.”

McLaren laughed and poured out a drink.

“Well, here’s hopin’ they never even catch sight of Joe’s dust,” said Leach.

“I dunno,” said McLaren. “Ye see, boys, it’s a serious charge they’ve put against Joe Rich.”

“Serious!” snorted Lonnie. “To shoot Kelsey? Why, Kelsey was reachin’ for—”

“I know that, Lonnie. But that’s not the charge. Today Ed Merrick loaned Jim Wheeler five thousand in cash and took Jim’s note for it. Jim rode away with the money. There’s not a cent on poor Jim—and Joe was the one who found him.”

“A-a-a-a-aw, ⸺!” Lonnie dropped his glass on the floor.

“Yuh mean to say that Joe got away with it?” asked Nebrasky.

“I’m not sayin’ anythin’, Nebr-r-rasky. It was told to me. I went to the bank, and they tell me Merrick drew the money.”

“Well, for ⸺’s sake!” snorted Lonnie. “That’s awful!”

“Aye, it is. Well, here’s luck, boys!”

McLaren drained his glass alone. The Heavenly Triplets and Slim had no taste for liquor now. They went outside and sat down on the edge of the sidewalk, humped over like four crows on a fence-rail.

For possibly five minutes they said nothing. Then Lonnie broke the silence with—

“Joe’s turnin’ out to be a humdinger.”

Nebrasky spat dryly and expounded—“Yuh never can tell which way a dill-pickle will squirt.”

“Five ’r no five—I hope he gits away,” said Leach.

“I thought there was somethin’ funny about him bein’ in such a hurry to git away,” said Slim.

“And you know yo’re a ⸺ liar, Slim,” said Lonnie.

“Yeah, I know it,” agreed Slim.

“Might as well go home, I s’pose,” observed Nebrasky.

“Yeah, and right here and now I want to proclaim,” said Lonnie, “there ain’t goin’ to be no drawin’ straws and all that kinda stuff; sabe? I don’t care a ⸺ which one of you two pelicans decide to break the news at the Flyin’ H, but I want yuh to know it ain’t goin’ to be little Lonnie. By ⸺, I’ve broke all the news I’m goin’ to today!”

“I guess we better not say anythin’ to ’em a-tall,” decided Nebrasky. “It ain’t no settled fact.”

“Shore—jist let it kinda drift,” agreed Leach.

“There goes Kelsey, wearin’ his arm in a sling,” said Slim. “He’s lucky it ain’t his head.”

“Come dang near bein’,” laughed Lonnie, and he headed for the hitch-rack.

Kelsey swore inwardly at the three punchers and wondered why Ralston didn’t deputize some of them to go with him. He met Handsome Clark at the door of a Chinese restaurant, and Clark told him that the cowboys had all disappeared when Jack Ralston showed up, and that Merrick had been the only one to ride with him.

Clark did not know about the missing money until Kelsey told him about it.

“No wonder he plugged you,” said Clark. “He probably had all that money on him.”

“Probably. It was all in currency—big bills, mostly.”

“How’s the arm?”

“Don’t hurt much. Won’t be usin’ it for a while. I never looked for Joe to shoot. He’s awful fast with a gun.”

Clark nodded.

“You drew first, didn’t you, Len?”

“Mebbe I did. He said he was goin’. Yuh see, I didn’t want to arrest him. There wasn’t any sure thing that the money wasn’t in Wheeler’s pockets. I just asked Joe to wait, and when he insisted on goin’ I didn’t know just what to do. If I’d had any sense, I’d have poked a gun in his ribs and made him wait. Live and learn, I reckon.”

“I suppose they’ll get him.”

“Mebbe. Joe knows this country and he must ’a’ been set for a getaway. Yuh can’t tell which way he’ll go. Headed out south, but he’s just as liable to be ridin’ north now. He’s no fool. And two men might not be able to find him. We can’t expect much help from the punchers.”

“No, it seems that you can’t, Len. Being a sheriff in Tumbling River has its drawbacks.”

Len left McLaren and went to the depot, where he sent wires to Kelo and Ransome, notifying the marshals of each place to watch for Joe Rich. And then he went back to his office to nurse his aching arm and swear at himself for half-drawing a six-shooter on a man like Joe Rich.

CHAPTER IV: RANGE FUNERAL

Bad news travels swiftly in the range country, and the following morning there was quite a gathering of the clan at the Flying H. People came to extend their sympathy to Peggy Wheeler and to the rest of the Wheeler family. Even the Reverend Henry Lake and his slow-moving old buggy horse showed up at the ranch, the minister dressed in his ancient best.

Aunt Emma Wheeler, Aunt Annie Bellew, Grandma Owens and Mrs. Buck West gathered together and talked in whispers of the white-faced girl upstairs who did not want to talk with anybody, while the men stood around at the rear of the house in the shade of the big cottonwood and drank up the rest of Uncle Hozie’s wedding liquor.

Honey Bee was there, longing for a chance to talk with Laura Hatton. A little later on Len Kelsey, his arm in a sling, rode out. The Heavenly Triplets were sober, but that did not prevent them from making a few caustic remarks about the sheriff when they saw him coming.

“You let him alone,” ordered Uncle Hozie. “My ⸺, ain’t there trouble enough, without you startin’ a debate with the law? Lonnie, you haul in yore horns; sabe?”

“Aw, he gives me a itch,” growled Lonnie.

“Go scratch yourself,” advised Uncle Hozie.

Kelsey brought no news of Joe Rich. He said that Ralston and Merrick had ridden through to Kelo, but found no trace of the fugitive. Ralston had come back to Pinnacle City at midnight.

“Yuh didn’t expect to catch him, didja?” asked Nebrasky.

“Sure we’ll get him,” confidently. “May take a little while.”

“Aw, ⸺!” snorted Lonnie. “You and Jack Ralston couldn’t foller a load of hay through a fresh snow.”

“Lonnie, I told yuh—” began Uncle Hozie.

“Yeah, I heard yuh,” interrupted Lonnie. “I’m not ridin’ him.”

Len smiled thinly.

“Thasall right, Hozie. You folks have kinda got the wrong idea of all this. I’m not an enemy of Joe Rich. My ⸺, I worked with him, didn’t I? In my business yuh don’t have to hate a man to arrest him. There ain’t nothin’ personal about me huntin’ for Joe. If he’s innocent, he ought to stay and prove it. Yuh can’t jist sneeze a couple of times and forget that five thousand dollars are missin’, can yuh?”

“No, yuh shore can’t, Len,” agreed Uncle Hozie.

Len didn’t stay long. His speech impressed all, except the three Flying H cowpunchers. They had no real reason for disliking Len Kelsey, except that he represented the law, and that he had succeeded Joe Rich. And they were loyal to Joe, even if he was guilty as charged. Theirs was not a fickle friendship; not something that merely endured in fair weather.

Uncle Hozie talked long and earnestly with the minister over the funeral arrangements, and together they went up the stairs to talk with Peggy. Laura left them and came down to the veranda, where Honey Bee beamed with delight.

“I was scared I wasn’t goin’ to see yuh,” he said softly. “How’s Peggy standin’ it?”

Laura sighed and shook her pretty head. “Peggy would be all right, if all those women wouldn’t sit around and talk about corpses they have seen. They all talk about successful funerals! As though any funeral could be a success! And they all gabble about Joe Rich. Honey, I actually think that some of them believe Joe Rich killed Uncle Jim.”

“Eh?” Honey jerked back, staring at her.

“Ex-cuse my language, but that’s a ⸺ of an idea! Who started that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. They talked about Uncle Jim being a good rider and a sober man and that the saddle did not turn. And he had all that money with him.”

“Well, I’ll be darned!” snorted Honey. “Did Peggy know Jim Wheeler was borrowin’ that money from Merrick?”

“Yes. She didn’t know how much. Now she says she can’t go. They talk about Uncle Jim having a big mortgage at the bank, and with this five thousand from Merrick—”

“Lotta money,” mused Honey Bee. “Huh-how soon do yuh aim to leave, Laura?”

“I don’t know. Not until after things are straightened up for Peggy. I sent Dad a wire, telling him that our plans had been changed.”

“Then yuh won’t be goin’ for a while, eh?” Honey sighed with relief. “That’s shore fine. Yuh won’t go back to the HJ, will yuh?”

“I think so. Wong Lee is still there and Uncle Hozie said one of his boys could go down there and help run the place.”

“Yea-a-a-ah? Uh-huh. Which one, I wonder?”

“I don’t know. Uncle Hozie spoke about Lonnie Myers.”

“Oh, yeah—Lonnie. Ain’t settled yet, eh?”

“No; he just spoke about it a while ago.”

Uncle Hozie and the minister came out, talking softly; so Laura hurried back upstairs to Peggy. Honey rubbed his chin thoughtfully and waited for Uncle Hozie and the minister to end their conversation.

And then Honey lost no time in backing Uncle Hozie against the wall.

“Laura tells me that Peggy is goin’ back to the HJ, after the funeral, Hozie.”

Uncle Hozie nodded slowly.

“She says she is, Honey.”

“Yo’re a pretty good friend of mine, aint’cha, Hozie?”

“Well—” Hozie pursed his lips and blinked at Honey—“I never throwed any rocks at yuh when yuh wasn’t lookin’.”

Honey leaned forward and whispered rapidly in Hozie’s ear.

“Huh? O-o-oh!” Hozie understood.

A few minutes later Hozie met Curt Bellew near the kitchen door.

“I jist wanted to ask yuh somethin’, Curt,” said Uncle Hozie. “I—uh—I been talkin’ to Peggy. Yuh see, Curt, she’s goin’ to stay at the HJ, at least a while. Won’t be nobody there but her and Laura and Wong Lee.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, I been talkin’ to her, yuh understand, Curt. She’s goin’ to need one man to help run things. I—uh—she said she’d like to have Honey Bee to run the place.”

“Oh, yea-a-a-ah!”

Curt lifted his eyebrows thoughtfully and hooked his thumbs over his cartridge-belt. He nodded slowly.

“Well, mebbe I can git along without that boy for a while, Hozie. He prob’ly won’t want to do it. Honey’s funny thataway. But you tell him I said he had to do it. If he kicks about makin’ the change—you tell him to come to me.”

“Yeah, I’ll do that, Curt,” solemnly.

They looked at each other seriously for several moments.

“And that ain’t the funniest part of it,” said Uncle Hozie. “Laura told Honey that I was goin’ to loan ’em Lonnie Myers to run the HJ—and there ain’t never been any mention of me loanin’ anybody.”

“She made it all up, Hozie?”

“’Course she did. Her father’s a broker in Philadelphia, and I s’pose Laura inherited her ability to tell p’lite lies from him. But it’s all right, ain’t it, Curt?”

“Fine! Ma will be glad. She has to watch Honey like a hawk to keep him from cuttin’ L.H. on all the furniture.”

They chuckled together for several moments. Then—

“Hozie, what’s this talk about mebbe Jim’s death wasn’t an accident?”

“Wimmin,” said Hozie quickly. “Old wimmin talkin’.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah, I s’pose it is. I don’t like it, Hozie. But a while ago I got to thinkin’ about Jim. Where’s that note? Ed Merrick must ’a’ signed a copy for Jim. Merrick’s got his copy, signed by Jim.”

“Whoever got the money must ’a’ took the note, Curt.”

“I s’pose. The money was all in big bills. By golly, I hope they find Joe Rich.”

Uncle Hozie sighed deeply. He loved Joe Rich like a son, and it was difficult for him to believe Joe guilty.

“It hurts Peggy,” he said slowly. “It hurts her as much as the death of her father. Yuh see, she loved Joe a lot.”

“I reckon we all did, Hozie—up to the day he was to be married.”

“Joe Rich of yesterday,” muttered Uncle Hozie.

“Whatcha say, Hozie?”

“Jist thinkin’ out loud, Curt. I’ll find Honey, and break the bad news to him.”

“Yeah; he’ll prob’ly be sore as ⸺.”

CHAPTER V: HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY

It was several days after the funeral of Jim Wheeler, and things in the Tumbling River range seemed back on an even keel again. Joe Rich was still at large. The sheriff had broadcast Joe’s description, and the county had offered a thousand dollars reward.

Kelsey and Ralston still searched the Tumbling River hills, hoping that Joe had not left the valley. Even the Heavenly Triplets were too busy to annoy the sheriff, but were looking forward to payday.

Honey Bee was firmly established at the HJ, much to the amusement of every one. Uncle Hozie had never told him that Laura had fibbed about Lonnie Myers’ going to run the ranch; so Honey believed Hozie had done him a great favor.

Peggy took little interest in anything. The shock had taken the spirit all out of her, and she realized that it would only be a question of time until the Pinnacle bank and Ed Merrick would own the HJ. Twelve thousand is a lot of money.

Aunt Emma did not like the arrangement at the HJ.

“Them two girls livin’ alone with one man.”

“Nothin’ of the kind,” denied Uncle Hozie. “Honey’s in love, and a man in love ain’t more’n half a man. Anyway, there’s Wong Lee.”

“A heathen Chinee!”

“He’s a Chinaman, but I’ll betcha he’s as much of a Christian as any of us.”

“Anyway,” declared Aunt Emma, “I’m goin’ to spend all the time I can with the girls.”

Aunt Emma was one of those who believed that Jim Wheeler had not died from an accident. She talked with the old doctor about the bruises on Wheeler’s skull, and he told her that they were caused by Jim Wheeler’s head striking the rocks.

“But how did he fall off?” queried the old lady. “Jim was a good rider, Doc. The saddle never turned with him.”

The doctor shook his head.

“I’m sure I don’t know, Mrs. Wheeler. I am not a detective. His leg was broken from being hung in the stirrup, I suppose.”

“He wasn’t hung to the stirrup when Joe found him.”

“Wasn’t he? Perhaps Joe Rich knows more about it than we do, Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Sure—but where’s Joe?”

“If I knew I’d be a thousand dollars better off than I am.”

But few, if any, of the men thought that it had been anything but an accident. A sudden dizziness, perhaps caused by indigestion, might have made him fall. And the horse, even if it was well broken, might have got frightened and dragged him. But there was no question about his being robbed.

It was the evening of the fifth day since Joe Rich had left Pinnacle City when a long train of dusty cattle-cars drew into the town of Kelo. Dusty, wild-eyed animals peered out through the barred sides of the cars, bawling their displeasure.

The wind was blowing a gale, and to the north an electric storm was coming down the valley. But there was no rain; only wind and a depressed atmosphere which presaged the coming storm. The engine clanked in past the depot and stopped with a jerk that shortened every draw-bar in the long line of cars.

In the caboose of the cattle-train sat a cowboy, humped over on a bench, holding his face in his hands. His broad shoulders twisted painfully and he gave vent to a withering curse when the caboose almost jerked him off the bench.

On the opposite side of the car sat a tall, lean-faced cowboy, his sad gray eyes contemplating the sufferer, who lifted his head, disclosing a swollen jaw. Two other cowboys were seated on the floor of the car, resting their backs against the side-seats, while they industriously shot craps for dimes.

“Hurt yuh pretty bad, Sleepy?” asked the tall cowboy.

The sufferer lifted his head, nodded slowly and inserted a big forefinger inside his mouth.

“Wursh a glew har glog daged dantist libed.”

He removed the finger, spat painfully and took his face in both hands again.

“Sleepy” Stevens was suffering the pangs of an aching molar. “Hashknife” Hartley, the tall, lean cowboy, nodded understandingly.

“It’s worse than I thought, Sleepy,” he said, his voice full of sympathy. “You’ve got what they call a Eskimo abscess.”

“Huh? How do yuh know?”

“I can tell by yore talk—pure Eskimo.”

“A-a-a-aw, —-! If you had this ⸺ tooth—”

“We’re goin’ to water these animals at Pinnacle City,” offered one of the crap-shooters. “You’ll have time to have that tooth pulled.”

“Hadn’t ought to be far now,” observed Hashknife.

He bent his long nose against the dirty window glass and peered out. The wind whistled past, and the sand sifted through the window. A lightning flash illuminated things and a rumble of thunder came to their ears.

A few minutes later a brakeman, carrying a lighted lantern, swung aboard.

“Wires down,” he said shortly.

“What’ll that do to us?” queried Hashknife.

“Not much. We’re late and we ought to lay out here and let Number 4 pass us, goin’ north; but we can’t get any orders, and the sidin’ is blocked with a freight that broke an axle. We’ll go on to Pinnacle City, and the passenger will have to foller us on a slow order.”

“Quite a storm, eh?” remarked a crapshooter.

“⸺ of a storm ahead of us,” declared the brakeman, going out again.

Finally the engine sent out its shrill blasts, calling in the flagman, and in a few moments the draw-bars jerked shudderingly. The cattle-train was on its way again, picking up the conductor at the station.

Sleepy groaned and hunched down in his chair. The tooth had been thumping for eight hours. And there was a question in Sleepy’s mind about finding a dentist in Pinnacle City. Few of the old cow-towns boasted a dentist, and the local doctor was usually more or less of a failure with forceps.

The long cattle-train moved slowly. There was considerable of a grade between Kelo and Pinnacle City, and the terrific head wind held them back. The conductor and brakeman got into the crap game, trying to kill time over the dreary eighteen-mile stretch.

The train rumbled and clanked along, unable to make much headway.

“Likely blow all the hair off them cow critters,” observed one of the cowboys.

The caboose was foggy with dust, and the oil lamps hardly made light enough for them to see the spots on the worn dice.

Suddenly the draw-bars clanked together and the caboose began stopping by jerks. Sleepy swore painfully, when it jerked him upright. The engine whistled shrilly, and the train ground to a stop. The conductor peered out, swore softly and picked up his lantern.

“Must be just about to the Tumbling River bridge,” he said.

“How far is it from town?” asked Sleepy.

“Couple of miles,” said the brakeman.

He too had picked up his lantern, and they went outside. A moment later the brakeman sprang back onto the steps.

“Bridge on fire,” he said. “Lightnin’ must have struck it.”

He lifted the top off a seat and took out several fuses which he tucked under his arm, picked up a red lantern and hurried out to flag down the track. Hashknife put on his sombrero and climbed off the caboose. It was a long way to the front end of the train, and the wind threatened to blow him off the side of the fill at any time.

The Tumbling River bridge was about a hundred and fifty feet across, built high above the stream. It was mostly of timber construction and one span of it was burning merrily.

Hashknife found the conductor and engineer looking over, both decided that it would be folly to try to run it. It had evidently been burning for quite a while.

“That shore hangs us high and dry, don’t it?” asked Hashknife.

The conductor nodded grimly.

“We’re here for a while,” he said. “Can’t take a chance on that thing, and we’ve got a passenger coming in behind us. They’ll be running slow, and won’t be hard to flag. The best thing for you boys to do is to go to bed. That span is sure to burn out in this wind.”

The wind was so strong that they had to yell in order to converse.

“Might as well be comfortable!” yelled the engineer.

The conductor nodded and followed Hashknife back to the caboose, where he broke the news to the rest of the boys.

“Ain’t that ⸺?” wailed Sleepy. “Two miles from a dentist, and the road on fire!”

“Better go to bed, Sleepy,” said Hashknife. “Mebbe yuh can sleep it off.”

But Sleepy told them in no uncertain terms that sleep was out of the question. One of the cowboys produced a pint of liquor, and this served to put Sleepy in better spirits. No one denied him any of it. Hashknife was curious about the passenger train which was following them, and went on to the rear platform.

Possibly they had been stopped for thirty minutes when Hashknife saw the beams of the passenger engine. The road was fairly crooked for several miles, and he could see the beams of the headlight, as it swung around the curves, throwing streamers of light off across the hills. It was not traveling fast. It came closer and closer, and Hashknife wondered why it did not seem to pay any attention to the rear flagman. Of course he was out of sight around a curve, but the speed of the passenger had not diminished.

It swung to the straight track, the beams of the headlight illuminating the rear of the stalled train. It was then that the whistle shrieked and the train quickly ground to a stop about a hundred yards short of the caboose.

A man dropped from the engine and came up to the caboose. It was a uniformed brakeman.

“What’s that ahead—a fire?” he asked, swinging up on the steps.

“Bridge on fire,” said Hashknife. “Looks like we’re here for a while.”

“Pshaw! Some wind, eh? Say, I wonder why nobody was flaggin’ the rear of this train?”

“They did,” declared Hashknife. “I saw the brakeman start back with his fuses and lantern.”

“You did? That’s funny, we never seen him.”

The conductor came out and corroborated Hashknife. In a few minutes the conductor of the passenger came along. He was a fussy little fat man, very important. He wheezed his profanity.

“Can’t get across, eh? ⸺! Wires down behind us. Nothing to do but wait. How did it happen you didn’t send out a flag? We might have rammed you.”

“Flag went out!” snapped the freight conductor.

“We didn’t see it,” said the brakeman. “I was in the cab.”

“Anyway, he went back,” declared the freight conductor. “It’s no fault of mine if you fellows can’t see.”

“Any chance of putting the fire out?” asked the passenger conductor.

“Not a chance. One whole span on fire and this wind is like a blow-torch. Looks like a complete tie-up for this division. There’s a section crew at Pinnacle City, but this will be a job for bridge builders.”

Hashknife went back in the caboose where Sleepy was lying on a seat, still caressing a sore jaw.

“Stuck completely,” said Hashknife. “No dentist for you tonight, cowboy.”

The brakeman came in to light a cigaret, and Hashknife questioned him about Pinnacle City.

“South of here is the wagon-bridge,” said the brakeman. “I ain’t familiar with this country, so I can’t tell yuh how far it is, but it can’t be a mile—not over that, anyway.”

He went out, and Hashknife turned to Sleepy.

“How about yuh, cowboy? It ain’t over three miles to town. Suppose we walk over and find a dentist?”

“⸺, I’d do anythin’ to stop this ache, Hashknife!”

“All right.”

Hashknife went down the car, where he picked up their war-bags and brought them back.

“You ain’t pullin’ out for keeps, are yuh?” asked one of the crap-shooting cowboys.

“Nope,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll meet yuh in Pinnacle City. Only a fool walks away and leaves his war-bag. Yuh never know what’s ahead of yuh.”

He dug down in his bag and drew out a well-worn cartridge belt to which was attached a scarred holster containing a heavy Colt revolver. He looped the belt around his lean hips, yanked the buckle together and proceeded to fill the cylinder with .45 cartridges.

Sleepy released his jaw long enough to buckle on his own armament, and swung the bag over his shoulder and they went out into the night. The train crew had left the caboose steps as the two cowboys swung down off the fill and stumbled their way to the barb-wire fence of the right-of-way.

“Blacker ’n the inside of a cat,” declared Sleepy, after they were away from the lights of the train. “Look out yuh don’t fall off the river bank.”

“It shore is kinda vague,” said Hashknife. “Jist take it easy.”

“Ain’t nobody breakin’ into a gallop,” retorted Sleepy.

They were traveling through a thicket of jack-pines, which whipped them across the face and tangled their feet. The wind was still blowing furiously, and there was a spit of rain in the air.

Hashknife was surging ahead, one hand flung up to protect his face from the whipping branches, when he almost ran into some object. It flashed into his mind that it was a range animal, perhaps a horse. Sleepy bumped into Hashknife and stopped with a grunt.

Then came the flash of a gun, a streak of flame that licked out into the wind not over fifteen feet from them. The wind seemed fairly to blow the report away from them. It was little more than a sharp pop.

Hashknife stumbled over a little jack-pine and went to his knees while Sleepy unceremoniously sat down. And then the animal was gone. Evidently it had borne a rider. The wind prevented them from hearing which way it went.

Hashknife crawled back and found one of Sleepy’s boots.

“Didn’t hit yuh, did it?” yelled Hashknife.

“No! What do yuh make of it?”

“Queer thing to do, Sleepy.”

They got back to their feet.

“How’s the tooth?” asked Hashknife.

“Tooth? Oh, yeah. Say, I forgot it. Let’s go.”

They went ahead again, stumbling along, while the rain increased, and they began to be very uncomfortable. Added to their discomfort was the knowledge that they had lost all sense of direction. Hashknife knew they were traveling parallel to the river until they were shot at, and from that time on he wasn’t sure of anything.

He felt they had traveled more than a mile, but they found no wagon-road. There were no stars to guide them, and the wind had shifted several times.

“‘We’re lost, the captain shouted,’” declared Sleepy, as they halted against the bank of a washout, where the wind and rain did not strike them so heavily.

“That wind was blowin’ from the north when we started, and we tried to foller the wind,” laughed Hashknife. “Is yore tobacco wet?”

They rolled a smoke and considered things.

“I wish we was back in that nice warm caboose,” said Sleepy. “Gosh, that shore was a comfortable place. But this is jist my luck. It makes five times we’ve started East with a train of cows—and never got out of the sagebrush.”

“Aw, we’ll pick ’em up in Pinnacle City, Sleepy.”

“Yeah, that’s great. But where’s Pinnacle City?”

“Two miles from the railroad bridge.”

“Good guesser.”

“It can’t be more than nine o’clock, Sleepy. By golly, there ought to be somebody livin’ in this place-where-the-wind-comes-from.”

“If they’re all like that jigger we ran into back there, I don’t care about meetin’ ’em,” declared Sleepy. “Anyway, the tooth has quit hurtin’. I think the swellin’ busted when we stopped at the bridge. That engineer shore knows how to spike his mount’s tail to the earth!”

“There’s only three things that are botherin’ me,” said Hashknife. “One is: Why did that party take a shot at us? And the other two are my boots full of water.”

“And there’s another small matter,” said Sleepy flapping his arms dismally. “We ain’t taken any nourishment since this mornin’, Hashknife.”

“Yeah, there’s that small matter,” agreed Hashknife. “Oh, if yuh ever stop to check up on things, Sleepy, the world is all wrong. But never stop grinnin’ and look back. The only place yuh ever see ghosts is behind yuh.”

“Well, that wasn’t no ghost that snapped his gun at us.”

“He shore wasn’t, cowboy. That jigger was plumb alive. Well, I dunno but what we might as well keep circlin’. Eventually we’ll wear a trail, if we keep goin’ long enough. I wish I knew which was south.”

They sloshed away from the brush and headed down a slope.

“There’s a light!” exclaimed Sleepy. “Straight ahead.”

A flurry of rain obliterated the light, but it flickered again.

“Light in a winder,” said Sleepy. “Must be a house.”

“Must be,” agreed Hashknife dryly. “Windows don’t usually occur without a house in connection.”

They struck a corral fence, followed it around to the stable and then headed for the house. It was the HJ ranch. But these two cowboys were far too wise to walk right up to a strange house in the dark, especially after having been shot at so recently; so they sidled up to the house and took a look through the window.

It was a side window of the living-room, and in the room were Peggy Wheeler, Laura Hatton and Honey Bee. It was evident to Hashknife and Sleepy that the living-room roof had sprung a leak and the three people were making an earnest endeavor to catch the water in a wash-tub, dishpan and numerous other receptacles.

A long dry period had warped the old shingles of the ranch-house to such an extent that they leaked like a sieve.

“Looks like a harmless place,” observed Hashknife.

“And not a ⸺ of a lot of advantage over bein’ outside,” said Sleepy. “Anyway, they look awful human.”

They walked around to the front door, clumped up the steps and knocked on the door. Honey Bee answered the knock by opening the door about six inches and peering out.

“We just wondered if yuh didn’t need a couple of good men to fix yore roof,” said Hashknife seriously.

Honey opened the door a little and peered out at them. He had never seen either of them before, but the lamplight illuminated their faces enough to show their grins.

“Fix the roof?” he said slowly. “Oh, yeah. Well, I’ll bet we do need help.”

He opened the door.

“C’mon in out of the wet.”

They shuffled the mud off their boots and came in. The two girls stood near the dining-room doorway, each of them holding a receptacle, looking curiously at Hashknife, who removed his dripping hat and grinned widely at them. Hashknife’s grin was irresistible. Honey grinned foolishly and shuffled his feet.

“My name’s Hartley,” said Hashknife. “This soakin’ wet object with me is named Stevens. He was sufferin’ from a bad tooth, and we went huntin’ a dentist in the rain.”

“Yuh went huntin’ a dentist?” queried Honey foolishly. “Wh-where didja expect to find one?”

“Sounds kinda queer,” grinned Hashknife. “Yuh see, we was actin’ as a couple of chambermaids to a train of cows, but the bridge caught on fire and we got stalled. Sleepy’s tooth shore needed help; so we started out to find the wagon-bridge, figurin’ to find this Pinnacle City. But we didn’t find the bridge.”

“Oh, yeah,” Honey scratched his head. “The railroad bridge caught fire. Uh-huh. Ho-o-o-old on!”

He ran across the room, grabbed up a wash-basin and placed it under a fresh leak. Then he came back and introduced the girls to Hashknife and Sleepy.

“My name’s Bee,” he said. “B-e-e.”

“Last or first?” asked Hashknife.

“Last. Say, I better rustle some wood for that fireplace. Kinda take the chill off the air. Gosh, you fellers shore are wet.”

Honey hurried away for some wood, while Hashknife moved some of the containers to more advantageous spots. There seemed to be no end to the leaks in the HJ ranch-house.

“Terrible, isn’t it?” smiled Peggy.

It seemed to her that these two strange cowboys, even with their wet garments and muddy boots, had brought a warmth and cheer to the ranch that was sorely needed.

“Oh, not so bad,” said Hashknife, squinting at a leak. “Didja ever stop to think how much worse it would be if them few little spots were the only place where it didn’t leak?”

“That would be terrible,” declared Laura.

“Yeah, it would. But suppose it leaked everywhere. That would be worse, eh?”

“Do you always look at things that way?” asked Peggy.

“Mostly,” said Hashknife seriously. “Why not, Miss Wheeler? Sunlight is brighter than shadows; and it’s a lot easier to find, if yuh look for it. Bright things are easier to see than dark ones.”

“You listen to him a while and he’ll prove to yuh that a leaky roof is a godsend,” laughed Sleepy.

“Well, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife. “If this roof hadn’t leaked, you folks would probably have been in bed—and we wouldn’t have seen their light, Sleepy.”

“That is true,” said Laura. “Oh, it was way past bedtime at the HJ ranch!”

Honey came in with an armful of wood, which he threw in the big fireplace.

“I’m makin’ a bet you fellers are hungry,” he said.

“Never mind that,” grinned Hashknife. “Point us the way to Pinnacle City, and we’ll be on our way.”

“Not in that rain,” declared Peggy quickly.

She went into the kitchen, where she called Wong Lee.

“Aw, don’t bother the cook,” begged Hashknife. “Pshaw, it ain’t worth it.”

“It’s no bother to Wong Lee,” said Peggy. “You boys get over by that fire and dry out a little. Wong Lee will get you a meal, and Honey will show you where to sleep. Laura and I will go to bed. Good night, everybody.”

“Good night, and thank yuh a thousand times.”

Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the room and shook hands with the two girls. Peggy smiled at Hashknife.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

The two cowboys went back to the fire and removed some of their wet garments, after which Hashknife went back to the porch and got their water-proof war-bags, which contained some dry clothing. They could hear Wong Lee shuffling about the kitchen, preparing them a meal.

He came to the door and looked in on them. He was a little, wizen-faced Celestial.

“Yo’ like some ham-egg?” he asked.

Hashknife grinned at him, but did not reply. A smile slowly stole across the Chinaman’s face and he bobbed his head.

“Yessa, velly good,” he said. “No tlouble.”

“You kinda got the Injun sign on Wong Lee,” grunted Honey. “Darned old rascal almost laughed. I tell yuh, he ain’t even smiled since Jim Wheeler was killed.”

“Thasso?” Hashknife borrowed Sleepy’s tobacco and rolled a cigaret. “What happened to Jim Wheeler?”

“Horse dragged him to death the other day.”

Hashknife shuddered. The thought of a man’s hanging by one foot to a stirrup never failed to rasp his nerves. He had seen men die that way, and once when he was but a youngster he had been thrown from a wild horse and had hung from a stirrup. Luckily the horse had whirled into a fence corner, where another cowboy was able to hold the animal and extricate Hashknife.

“Tough way to die,” said Hashknife.

“Y’betcha,” nodded Honey. “Head all busted up on the rocks, and his leg twisted. Golly, it shore was awful! He owned this HJ outfit. I work for the Flyin’ H, but I’m down here kinda helpin’ out. Hozie, Jim’s brother, owns the Flyin’ H.”

“Miss Wheeler is Jim’s daughter, eh?”

“Uh-huh. It’s shore been a hard time for her, Hartley,” Honey lowered his voice. “She was engaged to marry Joe Rich, and he got drunk on his weddin’ night. Didn’t show up. Then Peggy aims to go East with Laura Hatton. Yuh see, Jim wasn’t awful well heeled with money. He owes the Pinnacle bank quite a lot; so he borrows five thousand from Ed Merrick, who owns the Circle M, and gives Ed his note.

“Ed gives him the money, and Jim starts home with it. And that’s the last anybody ever seen of the money. Joe Rich was aimin’ to pull out of the country; so he comes out to tell Peggy good-by. And Joe was the one who found Jim Wheeler. Hozie Wheeler and Lonnie Myers comes ridin’ along just a little later, and found Joe with Jim.

“And when the sheriff finds out about the missin’ money, he tries to make Joe wait for an investigation, and Joe pops him through the gun-arm. That’s the last we saw of Joe. There’s a reward for him, and the sheriff has been ridin’ the hocks off his horse, but ain’t found nothin’. So yuh can see it’s been awful tough for Peggy.”

Hashknife had been standing on one foot like a stork, holding the other foot out to the blazing fire, while Honey sketched his story. Sleepy hunched down, his back to the fire, his damp hair straggling down over his forehead.

“I wonder,” he said, “if it ain’t stopped rainin’ enough for us to go on to town? We don’t want to miss that train, Hashknife.”

“Joe Rich was the sheriff,” said Honey, as an afterthought. “But he resigned the mornin’ after he got drunk. They made a sheriff out of his deputy. Jim Wheeler knocked Joe down that mornin’, but Joe didn’t do anythin’, they say.”

“And it hadn’t ought to take long to fix that bridge,” said Sleepy. “This rain would put the fire out.”

“What kind of a jigger was this Joe Rich?” asked Hashknife curiously.

“Jist salt of the earth, Hartley.”

“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “And got so drunk he forgot to get married, eh?”

“Yeah, that’s true,” sighed Honey. “I dunno why he did; and he never said.”

“Didn’t have no quarrel with the girl?”

“⸺, no! Aw, it was to be a big marriage. I was to be best man. My ⸺, I almost crippled myself for life, tryin’ to wear number six shoes.”

“You come eat now?” asked Wong Lee.

Honey sat down with them. Sleepy looked gloomily at Hashknife and reminded him gently that sugar was for the coffee, and not for the eggs.

Hashknife chuckled, but sobered quickly. The rain still pattered on the old roof and dripped off the eaves. It was warm in the kitchen.

“Five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” mused Hashknife, stirring his coffee with a fork. He had used the same fork to dip sugar from the bowl and did not seem to realize that it had all leaked out.

Sleepy knew the symptoms and groaned inwardly. Years of association with Hashknife had taught Sleepy to recognize the sudden moods of the tall cowboy. Trouble and mystery affected Hashknife as the scent of upland fowl affects a pointer.

Hashknife, in the days of his callow youth, had been known as George. His father, an itinerant minister in the Milk River country and head of a big family, had had little time or money to do more than just let this boy grow up. As soon as he was able to sit in a saddle he lived with the cowboys and became one of them.

Blessed with a balanced mind, possibly inherited from his father, who surely needed a balanced mind to make both ends meet, the boy struck out for himself, absorbing all kinds of knowledge, studying human nature. Eventually he drifted to the ranch, which gave him his nickname, and here he met the grinning Sleepy Stevens, whose baptismal name was David.

From the Hashknife ranch their trail led to many places. Soldiers of fortune they became, although Hashknife referred to themselves as cowpunchers of disaster. From the wide lands of Alberta to the Mexican Border they had left their mark. They did not stay long in any place, unless fate decreed that a certain time must elapse before their work was finished. And then they would go on, possibly poorer in pocket. Their life had made them fatalists, had made them very human. To salve their own consciences they declared that they were looking for the right spot to settle down; a place to live out the rest of their life in peaceable pursuits.

But down in their hearts they knew that this place did not exist. They wanted to see the other side of the hill. Hashknife’s brain rebelled against a mystery. It seemed to challenge him to combat. Where range detectives had failed utterly because they were unable to see beyond actual facts, Hashknife’s analytical mind had enabled him to build up chains of evidence that had cleared up mystery after mystery.

But solving mysteries was not a business with them. They did not pose as detectives. It merely happened that fate threw them into contact with these things. Sleepy’s mind did not function with any more rapidity than that of any average man, but he was blessed with a vast sense of humor, bulldog tenacity and a faculty for using a gun when a gun was most needed.

Whether it was merely a pose or not, Sleepy always tried to prevent Hashknife from getting interested in these mysteries of the range country. He argued often and loud, but to no avail. But once started, Sleepy worked as diligently as Hashknife. Neither of them were wizards with their guns. No amount of persuasion would induce them to compete with others in marksmanship, nor did they ever practise drawing a gun.

“Leave that to the gun-men,” Hashknife had said. “We’re not gun-men.”

Which was something that many men would take great pains to disprove, along the back-trail of Hashknife and Sleepy.

And right now, while he ate heavily of the HJ food, Sleepy Stevens knew he was being dragged into the whirlpool of the Tumbling River range. He could tell by the twitch of Hashknife’s nose, by the calculating squint of his gray eyes; and if that was not enough—Hashknife was cutting a biscuit with a knife and fork.

“Five thousand is a lot of money for the HJ to lose,” agreed Honey. “Take that along with the seven thousand owin’ to the Pinnacle City bank and it jist about nails the HJ hide to the floor and leaves it there to starve.”

“Was Jim Wheeler a sickly man?” asked Hashknife.

“Sickly? Not a bit; he was built like a bull.”

“Drink much?”

“Hardly ever took a drink.”

“Ride a bad horse?”

“Been ridin’ the same one three years, and it never made a bobble. Jim’s broncscratchin’ days was over, Hartley.”