Part 3

I can hardly wait to see you. Just to think that I have never seen you since I was old enough to remember, but we will make that all up, daddy. I have just money enough to take me to Caldwell, and I am coming as fast as I can travel.

Since mother passed out I have felt entirely alone in the world, and even if you and mother could not be happy together, I am sure we can. Loads of love and a big hug very soon.

Your loving daughter, Jane.

P. S.--I will be with you in time to celebrate my eighteenth birthday.

Along the margin of the paper was written--

I am glad you liked the picture of myself, which I sent you, daddy.

Hashknife lifted his eyes from the paper and looked at Skelton, who was moving his lips slowly over the written words. Skelton straightened up and shook his head.

“I don’t _sabe_ that foreman stuff. Spot Easton never was foreman of the 88.”

“Has Lonesome Lee been nursin’ a sore arm?” asked Sleepy.

Skelton laughed shortly.

“’F he has, I never knowed it. That letter’s sure got me pawin’ m’ head. I never knowed that Lonesome Lee had a wife or daughter.”

“And,” added Hashknife meaningly, “Spot Easton was kind enough to want to meet her in Gunsight. He was also doin’ the writin’ for Lonesome, ’cause Lonesome had a sore arm.”

“Whatcha make of it, Hashknife?” asked Sleepy.

Hashknife pondered over the manufacture of a cigaret, and read the letter again before he spoke.

“’Pears to me that the lady done sent her picture, previous. Mebbe she’s pretty, which would attract Mister Easton. It also appears that Mister Easton has got old Lonesome Lee where the hair’s short and tender, and he’s kinda runnin’ Lonesome’s business.

“Accordin’ to signs, Mister Easton has lied to said lady, who thinks her paw is somebody. Paw ain’t got no nerve left to object, and Mister Easton has likely told him that he has invited this here daughter to live at the 88. Paw ain’t got the guts to howl against such things, and when he finds that the letter is from Boston he’s plumb shaky that it tells about daughter’s de-parture. Mister Easton naturally is wishful to know how his invite has worked out; which is the reason he grabbed at the letter. That’s how she looks to me.”

“’F that’s a fact, I sure as ---- feel sorry fer her,” stated Skelton sadly.

“Yuh might feel sorry for Lonesome, too,” said Hashknife. “He’s all shot to pieces with hooch, and he likely knows that she’s comin’ to find him.”

“Figurin’ she’s goin’ to be happy with him,” added Sleepy mournfully. “Comin’ to celebrate her eighteenth birthday. ----!”

Hashknife got to his feet and walked over to the open door, where he leaned against the casing and contemplated deeply. The sun had already dropped behind the hills, which looked like blue silhouettes, with silver trimmings. Far away on the skyline drifted a herd of cattle; their outlines blurred from the back-light of the sunset.

From below the long sheds came a string of cattle, heading for the water-hole opening on the brushy stream; bawling softly, as they followed the deeply-worn trail. Magpies chattered sleepily in the cottonwoods.

“Makes a feller wonder how a man can live in a land like this and hate anybody,” muttered Hashknife.

He turned to come back to the table, when--

_Ping-g-g--Whop!_

Skelton fell backward out of his chair, clawing at the coffee, which sprayed all over him. Sleepy threw himself sidewise out of line with the door, and from somewhere came the thin, whip-like report of a high-powered rifle.

Hashknife kicked the door shut and gawped at Skelton, who got to his feet, shook the coffee out of his eyes, and picked up the coffee-pot--or what remained of it.

The soft-nose bullet had hit it near the bottom and there was nothing much left to identify it as a coffee-pot, except the color and odor. Even the ceiling was dotted with coffee-grounds.

“Anybody hurt?” asked Hashknife.

Skelton gazed ruefully at the remains of the pot, and dug inside his collar after more grounds.

“----!” he snapped. “They didn’t miss us very far that time.”

“Common occurrence?” asked Hashknife.

“Periodical. Last week I was shakin’ some stuff out of a fry-pan outside, and they nailed the ol’ pan, dead-center. Wrenched ---- out of m’ wrist, too. Never even saw where the bullet came from. I dunno whether they’re hintin’ fer me to move, or missin’ their target.”

“Got ---- good eyes, if they shot at that pot,” grunted Hashknife, “’cause that rifle wasn’t closer than five hundred yards.”

“Cat-eyes,” added Sleepy. “Nobody could see into a house at this time of the day. That _hombre_ wasn’t aimin’ to spill our coffee, y’ betcha.”

“Got a rifle, Skelton?” This from Hashknife.

“Dang right I have.”

He walked over to one of the bunks and threw back the blankets. He ran his hand over them, dug under the straw-tick, and stepped back, looking curiously around.

“What do you know about that?” he grunted. “It ain’t there!”

“Are you sure?” asked Hashknife.

“Lemme think. It was there yeste’day, ’cause I took it out when I made the bed. I know danged well--no, I ’member leanin’ it agin’ the wall.”

He glanced around the room and shook his head.

“Don’t make a ---- bit of difference; it’s gone.”

“What kind was she?” asked Sleepy.

“Winchester.30-30.”

“That wasn’t it we found near the Swede, was it?”

“No-o-o--I’m ---- ’f I know whether it was or not. I never looked at it. Fact is, I never used it. I’m not worth a ---- with a rifle, but I sure do _sabe_ the old shotgun and buckshot, or a six-gun. Never liked that idea of shootin’ a man with a mushroom bullet.”

“Does kinda unravel a man,” Hashknife agreed. “When did you buy that .30-30?”

“I acquired it with this ---- ranch, along with the rest of the misery.”

Hashknife nodded slowly and considered the ceiling. A question had suddenly popped into his head and he wanted to consider it before speaking. The coffee-grounds were beginning to loosen from the ceiling, and some of them drifted into his eye. He dug them out thoughtfully and turning to Skelton said--

“You got any relations, Skelton?”

“Not a danged kin,” grinned Skelton. “One of my kind is e-nough, ain’t it?”

“’F you got killed,” suggested Hashkinfe, “who’d get this ranch?”

Skelton scratched his head violently.

“Never thought of that, Hartley. Why, I reckon the sheriff would sell it to the highest bidder. But who would bid on it--I dunno.

“Shucks!” Skelton added. “It must be somethin’ pers’nal. Nobody’d kill me to get a chance to buy this ---- ranch. That ain’t reasonable.”

“Human nature is a queer thing,” said Hashknife. “I knowed a feller who was sent to the penitentiary for stealin’ Christmas presents, which were goin’ to be given to him.”

“Why didn’t you add the fact that he knowed it?”

“I know when to quit lyin’,” said Hashknife gravely.

He got to his feet, went to the door, and peered out.

“Gets dark quick around here,” he said. “I reckon it’s plumb safe to saddle up now. That bushwhacker likely went away as soon as he fired that one shot.”

“Saddle up? What for, f’r gosh sake?”

Sleepy settled back comfortably in his chair.

“Me and you are goin’ to Caldwell.”

“What fer?”

“That inquest is tomorrow afternoon, Sleepy.”

“Oh, I see,” said Sleepy sarcastically. “’Fraid you’ll be late if you don’t start now?”

“You might put it thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “We’ll be back kinda late, Skelton, I reckon; so I’ll call m’ name when we come home.”

Skelton nodded dubiously and said:

“’S your own business, Hartley, and I reckon you can take care of yourself. I dunno what you got on your mind, but I wish you well.”

Hashknife grinned at Sleepy’s disgruntled way of pulling on his chaps, and went out of the door. Sleepy swore softly as he followed him.

* * * * *

Spot Easton was not in a happy frame of mind at all. His ear had swollen to twice its normal size and had assumed the shade of a pickled beet. It not only pained him, but it hurt his pride; he was not in the habit of getting the worst of a personal encounter.

The evening business of the War-Bonnet was beginning to be audible to Spot, who was sequestered in his little private room in the rear. A half-empty whisky bottle decorated the table beside him, and his jaws were clamped tightly over a badly frayed cigar, which smoked much from the wrong end. He jerked it out of his mouth, cursed and hurled it across the room where it continued to throw up a streamer of smoke.

Just then, without any warning, the door swung open and Lonesome Lee staggered in. The old man was gloriously drunk, but tried to brace up when he faced Easton.

“Sus-somebody said you wanted to shee me,” he muttered thickly.

“Yes; you lousy old bum!” snapped Easton, kicking a chair away from the table.

Lonesome eased himself shakily into the chair and sprawled weakly.

“Where’s that letter?” demanded Easton.

“Tha’ letter?” Lonesome grinned foolishly. “Wha’ letter?”

“The one you got today. The letter--oh, ----!”

Lonesome had emitted a long-drawn snore and his head sank slowly until his chin was buried in his collar.

Spot Easton shoved away from the table and, going over to Lonesome, proceeded to go through the old man’s pockets. He shook Lonesome, but the old man continued to snore loudly.

Spot caressed his aching ear, while he reviled Lonesome with every foul epithet his tongue could command. Tiring of that, he drank half of the remaining liquor, threw the bottle across the room, and sat down again.

Then came Jack Blue. He too was a privileged character and did not wait to knock on the door. He squinted at Lonesome and sat on the edge of the table.

“Why don’t you have Doc Clevis fix up yore ear?” he asked, noticing that Easton was fingering the sore organ.

“That ---- veterinary!” exploded Easton.

“Doc could take out the soreness.”

“I’m ---- if he could!” rasped Easton. “Only one thing’d take the soreness out of that ear, and that’s to notch a sight on that long-geared misfit that hit me.”

“He’s a fresh whippoorwill, all right,” admitted Blue. “Never seen anybody with the gall he’s got. Somebody’s due to make jerky out of his tongue.”

“Y’betcha,” agreed Easton, “and I’m him.”

Blue jerked his head toward the sleeping Lonesome----

“Did he have that letter, Spot?”

“Naw!”

“That puncher still got it?”

Spot looked very disconsolate, but did not answer.

“What was in it, do you reckon?”

“How’d I know?”

Blue gnawed off an enormous chew of tobacco and moved to a chair.

“’F he’s still got the letter I’ll git it for you tomorrow, Spot.”

“How?”

“Law requires that I search all prisoners, tha’s why.”

“Thasso?” Spot Easton grew interested. “You goin’ to put him in jail?”

“I sure as ---- am. More’n that, I’m goin’ to put the both of ’em in jail, along with old man Skelton.”

“How you goin’ to make it look right?”

Blue spat copiously and grinned at the ceiling.

“That was old Skelton’s rifle which they found beside the drunk Swede.”

“Skelton’s rifle? And he brought it to you?”

“Nope. I went past there yesterday and I dropped in to call on Skelton--knowin’ he was in town.”

“And swiped his rifle?”

“Uh-huh. Belonged to old Bill Wheeler, and she’s got a li’l 33 cut into the forearm. She’s a cinch to hang it onto Skelton, and I can hold them other two--easy.”

Easton laughed and got to his feet.

“You’re clever, Jake. Let’s go and get a drink.”

“I sure am.”

Blue was not adverse to applauding himself. Being a sheriff in Lodge-Pole county entailed too much danger for the remuneration; so nobody cared much about a sheriff’s morals--or methods.

Easton gazed approvingly upon the amount of activity within the four walls of the War-Bonnet, as he led the sheriff to the bar. The click of dice, the rattle of poker chips and the droning voices of dealers was sweet music to Easton’s ears.

A number of men were standing at the bar, but Easton and Blue ignored them. Two cowboys were shaking dice on the bar-top at Easton’s right hand.

“’At’s horse ’n horse,” declared one of them. “One flop, Sleepy.”

Easton shot a sidewise look at the speaker. It was the tall cowboy, who had hit him on the ear, standing elbow to elbow with him; intent on his dice shaking.

Easton slowly turned his head and looked at Blue, who was toying with his glass of liquor. The dice rattled.

“You’re stuck!” exclaimed Hashknife.

Easton jerked his head around and looked square into Hashknife’s face.

“How’s the ear?” asked Hashknife.

The question placed Easton in an embarrassing position. He could not see Hashknife’s right hand, and his own hands were on the bar. Blue squinted past Easton’s shoulder at Hashknife, and Hashknife grinned at him.

Sleepy leaned forward on the bar and craned his neck around Hashknife.

“I hope to die, if I ain’t terror-stricken!” he gasped. “We’ve been told that it’s fash’nable to be plumb scared of Mister Easton; so we turns pale, politely.”

Easton tore his eyes away from Hashknife’s grinning face and looked straight into the back-bar. His mind worked swiftly, but got nowhere. He was being insulted in his own house. Jake Blue leaned away from the bar, as if to move into the crowd, but Sleepy stepped around behind Hashknife and Blue leaned back against the bar.

“Where’s the old man--old Lonesome Lee?” asked Hashknife.

Easton turned quickly.

“What do you want of him?”

“Want to give him that letter,” explained Hashknife.

“Oh!” Easton’s grunt seemed to relieve him.

“’F he ain’t around here, mebbe you could take care of it for him, eh?”

“Sheriff’s nervous,” interrupted Sleepy. “’Pears to have a itch on his hip. Likely comes from a callous caused by packin’ such a heavy gun.”

Jake Blue scowled, but said nothing.

“I’ll give him the letter,” nodded Easton, trying to not appear too eager to be of service.

Hashknife’s concealed right hand flipped the letter to the bar in front of Easton and dropped back. Easton picked up the letter and started to put it in his vest-pocket, but Hashknife stopped him.

“Whoa, Blaze!”

Easton stared at him wonderingly, as Hashknife motioned for him to stop.

“Not in a vest-pocket, pardner. Put it in your side pants-pocket, if you don’t mind. That’s the only pocket where a tin-horn gambler don’t pack a derringer.”

Easton scowled and shoved the letter into the designated pocket. He wondered if this tall cowpuncher was a mind reader, and knew that he was going to use the letter as an excuse to get at the two-barreled derringer in his vest-pocket.

“’F you don’t stop hankerin’ t’ scratch--” Sleepy’s voice held a note of menace--“’f you don’t, I’m goin’ to get a piece of sandpaper and give you one good curryin’, Mister Sheriff. Ain’tcha ashamed to scratch thataway in comp’ny?”

“By ----, I’m tired of this!” wailed the exasperated Mr. Blue. “Who’re you, anyway, I’d like to know? What right you got to tell me when I can scratch and when I can’t?”

“I’m just teachin’ you how to act polite, ain’t I?” complained Sleepy. “Gee cripes, you sure do act peevish over learnin’ things. ’F I was you----”

“Don’t tease the li’l gent, Sleepy,” Hashknife said, chuckling. “His chilblains has likely extended up to his hips. You know how cold feet makes you itch.”

Hashknife kept his eyes on Easton, while talking direct to Sleepy, and he saw a flash of relief come over Easton’s face. A man had stepped in behind him, brushing against Hashknife’s right elbow, and Easton’s eyes had followed this man.

The conversation had been even lower than ordinary and had attracted no attention.

* * * * *

It all happened in a few seconds. As the man brushed Hashknife’s arm, Hashknife stepped quickly away from the bar; stepped away just in time to let Hagen, the ex-88 cowboy, crash into Easton.

Hagen had intended to bump Hashknife hard enough to knock him off his balance, but he had not expected Hashknife to move so quickly.

Easton whirled half-around and jammed his heels on to Jake Blue’s toes, while Hagen half-fell to his knees. Like a flash, Easton struck at Hashknife, and his bare knuckles came in contact with Hashknife’s heavy six-shooter.

Sleepy sprang in to prevent Blue from drawing a gun, and his knee caught Hagen just under the chin, knocking his head against the solid bar with a dull tunk! Easton’s right hand went out of commission and he stumbled awkwardly over Hagen’s legs, falling flat on the floor, while Sleepy pinned Blue’s arms in a bear-like hug, swung him up bodily and backed to the door. Hashknife backed swiftly out with him, covering the surprized crowd, which had no idea of what had been going on.

Once outside they went swiftly to the hitch-rack, with Sleepy still carrying the cursing sheriff.

“What’ll I do with him?” panted Sleepy. “I don’t want him.”

“Got his gun?” asked Hashknife.

“It’s back in the War-Bonnet.”

“Let him loose,” laughed Hashknife. “We ain’t collectin’ knick-knacks.”

Sheriff Blue sat down so heavily in the hard street that his tongue, for once, refused to function. Hashknife and Sleepy mounted swiftly and whirled back past the War-Bonnet, where men were crowding the doorway.

Spot Easton cursed bitterly as he saw them flash past the beams of yellow light, then he turned back to “Blondy” Hagen, who was still sitting in front of the bar, holding his head in his hands.

Easton’s right hand was deeply cut and swelling rapidly. He cursed it fluently and turned to see Jake Blue coming in, covered with dust, his face badly scratched.

Blue had nothing to say. Men crowded around them, wondering what had been the reason for the fight, but none of the three victims seemed inclined to explain things. Hagen got to his feet and started for the door.

“You!” gritted Easton bitterly.

Hagen scowled blackly and shouldered his way out of the door, where he turned and glared back at Easton.

“Aw! You be ----!” he snorted, and went away.

“It’s a large night,” said Blue inanely.

* * * * *

The coroner’s inquest over the remains of Quinin Quinn caused little excitement in Caldwell. The fact that Quinin was dead was enough in itself; who killed him, was merely conjectured and Lodge-Pole county felt that it would remain so, according to precedent.

The jury listened patiently to Hashknife, Sleepy and Skelton, while Doc Clevis, puffing with his own importance, crossquestioned them. Swede Sam was there, blank-faced over the whole thing, and all that Doc Clevis could get from him was:

“Ay dunno. Ay am de cook.”

Neither Easton nor Blondy Hagen was at the inquest, which was held at the doctor’s home. Sheriff Blue glared silently at the floor during the proceedings, looking at no one.

“Sheriff,” said Doc Clevis, turning away from Swede Sam, “you’ve got a little evidence to show the jury, ain’t you?”

Jake Blue looked straight at Hashknife for a moment and then he answered--

“Nope.”

“Why, I--I thought----”

Doc Clevis seemed surprized.

Blue shook his head.

“We-e-ll, I reckon that’s all--then,” said the doctor slowly, looking at Blue.

He turned to the jury and added--

“You can think this over now, and----”

“It ain’t goin’ to require much thinkin’,” said a raw-boned cattleman. “These two strangers tell a straight story, and Skelton sure never shot Quinn.”

“What about the Swede?” asked the doctor.

“I reckon the sheriff ought to apologize to him for puttin’ him in jail at all.”

Blue scowled, but said nothing.

“It’ll be the reg’lar verdict, Doc,” nodded one of the jury. “We finds that Quinin Quinn demises at the hands of a party, or parties, unknown. And,” he added, “that sure as ---- ain’t settin’ no new example around here.”

The jury nodded and got to their feet.

“You’re free, Swede,” grunted Blue savagely.

“Das goot,” nodded Swede Sam, getting to his feet. “Now Ay buy drink--for me.”

Blue hurriedly left the room ahead of the rest, and went straight to the War-Bonnet. Spot Easton was near the door evidently waiting for news, but Blue silently headed straight for the private room, and Easton followed him.

Blue flopped down in a chair and bit savagely into a plug of tobacco. His jaws fairly quivered as he spat out the twisted piece of metal--the trademark on the plug.

“Hook it on to ’em, Jake?” asked Easton, easing himself into a chair.

“Hook ----!” Blue’s vocal cords seemed to unhook with a bang.

“What do you mean, Jake? Didn’t the jury----?”

“To ---- with the jury! They turned the Swede loose and said that Quinn was killed by parties unknown; that’s what happened!”

“----!” grunted Easton. “I thought you was so ---- clever.”

“Thasso?”

Blue masticated rapidly as if trying to control his temper.

“How about that rifle?” asked Easton.

Blue spat explosively.

“You want to know, do you? So do I! I had that rifle in a rack in my office. I had three more rifles in that same rack. I went to git that rifle this mornin’ and----”

“It wasn’t there, eh?” interrupted Easton.

“You’re ---- right it wasn’t! Neither was the other three.”

“You’re clever,” admitted Easton. “Clever as ----! What did you leave----”

“Lemme alone!” snarled Blue. “Don’tcha ride me, Spot! If you thought of that, why didn’t you say so? You’re so danged smart that you always see mistakes after they happen.”

Easton made no reply to this, and a deep gloom seemed to pervade the little room: Blue chewed mechanically, his eyes closed, a picture of abject despair; while Easton considered his bandaged right hand, which ached badly. His knuckles still tingled from contact with that heavy gun.

“Hagen knows that tall jasper,” he volunteered.

“Yeah?”

Blue spat and leaned back.

“Name’s Hashknife. Hagen says he’s a fightin’ hound.”

“My ----!” exploded Blue. “D’ you need to be told?”

After another long period of silence Easton said--

“I’m goin’ to make a trip to Gunsight, Jake.”

“Thasso? Whatfer?”

“Business. Leavin’ pretty soon.”

Jake Blue got to his feet and walked to the door, where he turned and squinted at Easton.

“What in ---- do I care where you go? I’m gittin’ sick of havin’ eve’thing goin’ wrong all the time. If we’re goin’ to let that long-geared coyote run this country, let’s both go and give him room. We ain’t a ---- bit better off ’n we was.”

“Takes time, Jake.” Easton’s tone was conciliatory.

Blue masticated viciously.

“Where’s Doc goin’ to bury Quinn?”

“I dunno, but I think Doc’s goin’ to start a new graveyard with Quinn. Said he’d picked out a spot back of town. Is that Hashknife person still here?”

“---- him; I suppose so. If I was you I’d sneak out the back way, Spot--if you want to git away safe-like.”

Jake Blue slammed the door behind him and went down the big room, half-grinning to himself. At least it was some satisfaction to goad Spot Easton, who was losing prestige about as fast as possible. Easton’s reputation had been earned, but he seemed to be running into a series of hard-luck and mistakes. Jake Blue also felt that the god of luck had deserted him, but he blamed everybody except himself. He went out of the front door and ran into Doc Clevis.