THICKER THAN WATER W. C. TUTTLE THICKER THAN WATER A Story of Hashknife Hartley HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY Boston and New York COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY THE BUTTERICK PUBLISHING COMPANY COPYRIGHT, 1927, BY WILBUR C. TUTTLE ALL RIGHTS RESERVED The Riverside Press CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. CONTENTS I. The Ace of Spades II. The Eagle Saloon III. Lila’s Departure IV. Chuckwalla Makes a Mistake V. Father and Son VI. Lila VII. Rance Wins Out VIII. The Overland Makes an Unexpected Stop IX. At the Circle Spade X. Scotty Gets an Earful of Dirt XI. A Horse Trade XII. The Half-Box R XIII. Two Suspects XIV. Rance’s Confession XV. Escape XVI. Lost--a Hat XVII. Kid Glover XVIII. Hashknife at Work XIX. Part of the Truth XX. Fire XXI. The Finish at the JML XXII. The Trail Again THICKER THAN WATER CHAPTER I--THE ACE OF SPADES The two men faced each other across the little table in the living-room of the Circle Spade ranch-house, in the light of a single oil lamp. The younger of the two men was Jack McCoy, known as “Angel,” while the other was Rance McCoy, his father, and owner of the Circle Spade ranch. Angel McCoy was rather tall, well muscled, with features as clean-cut as a cameo. His skin was almost as white as milk, his hair as black as jet, and he wore it long in front of his ears--a swinging curl of inky-black against his white cheek. His eyes were brown, shaded by sharpcut brows. There was no denying the fact that he was handsome. Just now he wore a white silk shirt, with a red handkerchief knotted around his throat, black trousers tucked into the tops of a pair of fancy, high-heeled boots--and about him was an odor of perfume. Rance McCoy’s appearance had nothing in common with his son’s. He was about fifty years of age, grizzled, hard-faced, with a skin the color of jerked venison. His eyes were gray, and there were scars on his face, which showed lighter than the rest of his skin; scars of many battles. Rance McCoy had been a fighter in his time. There were other scars, which did not show, where hot lead had scored him time and again. He was tough, was Rance McCoy; an old gunman, afraid of nothing--not even of his handsome son. “Well, all I can say is that you’ve got some damned queer ideas,” said Angel slowly. “Mebby I have,” said the old man. “No maybe about it,” said Angel sneeringly. “Lila is of age and I’m of age. If I want to marry her, it’s none of yore business.” “You think not? Well, everybody is entitled to an opinion. I’ve told yuh about me, Angel.” “Yeah, and I don’t think much of yuh.” Angel got to his feet and stood there, looking down at his father. “I knew all along that Lila wasn’t my sister,” he said slowly. The old man lifted a hand to fend the light from his eyes, as he looked up at his son. “Billy DuMond told yuh, Angel?”