The sheriff said, “Hello, Jim.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That’s what _he_ thought–mebbe,” said Bailey.

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

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

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

“Cleaned it out, eh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course, I do.”

“We’re chasin’ one,” said Hashknife.

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

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

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

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

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