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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78602 ***
+
+                       A WHIZZER ON WILLER CRICK
+
+                            By W. C. Tuttle
+
+ Author of “Alias Whispering White,” “Hashknife--Philanthropist,” etc.
+
+
+The longer I inhabits this vale of tears, the more I believe in the
+saying, “Honesty is the Best Policy.” A feller may get awful lonesome
+and all that, but he don’t have to wear his holster tied down and take
+his drink with his back to the bar.
+
+I don’t want you to get the idea that me and “Hashknife” Hartley are bad
+_hombres_, ’cause we ain’t--not so awful. We don’t make a practice of
+throwing rocks at cripples and we haven’t a single mortgage on anybody’s
+old homestead.
+
+Taking it by and large, there ain’t many folks who can point their
+finger at “Sleepy” Stevens and Hashknife Hartley and say--
+
+“You’re wanted some place.”
+
+But at that it don’t take many pointed fingers to make you feel that
+you should have growed up according to the Golden Rule, went to
+Sunday-school more than one week before Christmas and educated yourself
+to be a harness drummer or a hotel clerk.
+
+Hashknife is just a long, thin, angular, hatchet-faced _hombre_ with a
+perpetual grin on his face. Some time or other he’s been red-headed and
+freckled, but the desert sun, Dakota blizzards and Montana alkali has
+faded it until he’s just a roan. I won’t brag about myself, ’cause I’m
+telling the story. _Sabe?_
+
+I found an old newspaper one day when me and Hashknife are working for
+the Triangle A outfit over on the Flathead.
+
+I’m digging under a bunk after a short piece of rope when I unearths
+this old sheet, and something thereon seems to catch my eye.
+
+It shows some pictures of bucking broncs and fellers bull-dogging
+steers, and the center picture shows a silver-mounted saddle, all
+scrolled up with fancy jiggers. The top of the page shows this line:
+
+                         WHERE DID THEY GO?
+                    RIDERS BUCK OUT OF SIGHT AND
+                        LEAVE COVETED TROPHY
+
+I takes the paper out where Hashknife is putting a new _hondo_ on his
+rope and sets down beside him. His cigaret sizzles his mustache before
+he gets through reading it, and then he nods his head and goes back to
+work.
+
+“She must ’a’ been some hull,” I observes.
+
+“Yeah. Cost a hundred and eighty bucks, Sleepy. Saddle-maker told me
+that he didn’t make a cent on it. You’ve got to pay big for all that
+fancy scroll stuff, and there must be a heap of silver in all them
+ornyments.”
+
+“Nobody knows where they went,” says I. “Just bucked out.”
+
+Hashknife scratches his nose and peers at that _hondo_.
+
+“Thank ----! What folks don’t know won’t hurt ’em, Sleepy.”
+
+Just to wise you up a little, I’m going to let you in on a little
+happenstance. The towns of Yolo and Pecos ain’t far apart. Yolo is the
+county seat, the same of which is the place where the sheriff holds
+forth. Pecos holds such a wayward reputation that the sheriff stations
+a deputy there to keep as much peace as he can get his hands on to.
+
+A feller inhabits Yolo for a few days--feller who rides a pinto
+horse. He’s wishful to buck a game of chance, but soon finds out that
+they’re cinch games. He rises in his wrath and proclaims he’s been
+gypped by said crooked pastime. Naturally there’s a few interested
+parties who objects to having their morals paraded, and they rises to
+the occasion--too late.
+
+The rider of a calico bronc relieves ’em of their visible supply of
+worldly goods, exchanges lead compliments with the sheriff and fades
+out of Yolo with the sheriff on his trail.
+
+Simultaneously a rider of a calico horse goes into a bank in Pecos and
+takes what’s in sight without leaving any security, and he fades out
+with the festive deputy in pursuit.
+
+Now, these pinto riders don’t know each other, but they meets in the
+mesquite, asks and answers a few questions, sends a few hunks of lead
+on their back trails, and fades down a coulée while the over-anxious
+sheriff and his hired killer lays out there in the brush and heaves
+lead at each other.
+
+It’s natural that the sheriff holds a grudge against them two after a
+dirty trick like that. In due course of time them two bad, bad men gets
+rid of their pinto broncs and decides to go the straight and narrow way.
+They works honest-like to get enough money to buy a pair of horses and
+gets them lifted from the corral the first time they rides to the town
+of Wisdom. Said thieving operation leaves them on foot, and they casts
+around for another chance to be good--if possible.
+
+The town of Pemberton is pulling off a round-up show; so me and
+Hashknife ships our rigs up there. Hashknife can ride anything you
+can cinch a hull on to, and what he can’t ride he turns over to me.
+Uh-huh, I sure can ride.
+
+If my head was as educated to the twists of business as my legs are to
+the twists of a bronco I’d be packing the Standard Oil company for a
+pocket-piece.
+
+Me and Hashknife circulates around until we finds an Easterner who is
+willing to pay two hundred and fifty dollars for the prize saddle, and
+then we enters the bucking contest. It is supposed to be for the
+world’s championship, the same of which she ain’t--not by several good
+riders who are too poor to come that far.
+
+Anyway, they handed us some regular outlaw broncs, and we got all the
+jolts that buckaroos are heir to, and the crowd seems to appreciate it
+a heap.
+
+Things goes along for three days with a lot of perfectly good riders
+dragging their saddles back to the stable. The top riders are getting
+fewer and fewer and the broncs tougher and tougher, until we sudden-like
+realizes that we’re all that’s left.
+
+Hashknife and Sleepy rides for the championship. It don’t make no
+difference who wins, ’cause we splits that two hundred and fifty anyway.
+
+They decides to have us ride the finals together. Hashknife draws El
+Diablo, a roan outlaw from Wyoming, and I gets Gray Wolf, a
+hammer-headed man-eater from Idaho. They’re a educated pair, if you
+asks me. They’ve got just one idea in their empty heads, and that is
+to have nothing on their backs but hair.
+
+It takes four men to keep Gray Wolf’s feet on the ground long enough to
+cinch the hull--even with a blind over his eyes. Hashknife’s helpers are
+having the same kinda trouble.
+
+We’re saddling in front of the grand stand, where the crowd can see all
+the fun. I steps in beside my animal, slips my foot into the stirrup,
+and for a moment I looks at the crowd.
+
+Man, I plumb forgot that I was going to ride for the championship. I
+swung into that saddle all humped up, catches that other stirrup,
+yanks the blind and slams the spurs into Wolf before he has a chance
+to get set.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+He just makes one whale of a hop, and lights running. I seen Hashknife
+go high and handsome, and then my animal bucks right into him. Lucky for
+us that neither horse went down. As we came together I yelps one word at
+Hashknife, and then set my spurs into that gray outlaw.
+
+I don’t know what the crowd thought. Gray Wolf sailed across the rail
+of that race-track like a bird, took a slant at the outside fence and
+tore down about fifteen feet of it. The boards are still in the air
+when I looks back, and here is Hashknife right at my heels, and that
+Diablo animal is running like its namesake was hanging on to its
+tail.
+
+There’s one nice thing about an outlaw bronc--he don’t quit. We just set
+there and rode. It took about five miles for either bronc to grab a deep
+breath, and then they just grabbed it and started all over again.
+
+We must be about ten miles from Pemberton before we stopped. There ain’t
+nobody behind us. It would take airships to find us in that hump-backed
+country, so we relaxes on the backs of the two worst horses in the
+world--supposed to be--and rolled smokes.
+
+“You sure it was him?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“Think I don’t know that long, stoop-shouldered, wolf-faced _hombre_?”
+
+“Well, well!” says Hashknife. “Who’d a thunk he’d be there? But I reckon
+it’s a good place to look if you’re hunting for some certain puncher,
+Sleepy. Did he know you?”
+
+“Well, he didn’t wave at me--if that’s what you mean. He was right in
+the front row, and I seen him stand up to let somebody pass.”
+
+“Quite a ways from Yolo,” observes Hashknife. “Yes, sir, she’s quite
+some ways. I don’t know how we ever made our getaway on these buckers.
+Ordinary-like we’d still be in that arena, wishful but ashamed to pull
+leather. I reckon it’s just luck that we got a pair of outlaws that
+felt it was their day to race instead of buck.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” says I. “Come what may, Hashknife, we’re horse-thieves, and
+may the Lord have mercy or our luck hold out.”
+
+“Amen. Where do we go now?”
+
+“Well,” says I, “they tells me in school that a straight line is the
+shortest distance between two points. Pemberton is due west; so if we
+goes due east we will eventually arrive at the longest distance from
+Pemberton, which contradicts the theory, but which is a glaring fact.
+What do you think?”
+
+“My ----, don’t ask me, professor. We better cinch up a little, ’cause
+these broncs are liable to get back to their original ideas, and I ain’t
+no pe-destrian--me.”
+
+Hashknife is musical. When he’s thinking deep-like he often raises his
+voice in song, which goes like this:
+
+    Everybod-e-e-e loves a little lo-o-o-vin’,
+    Little bit o’ lovin’ is fine.
+    To a poor cowboy in a cactus lan’
+    Little bit o’ lovin’ is simply gran’.
+    Chasin’ dogies, bustin’ broncs,
+    Drinkin’ up his money in honkatonks;
+    To a tough ol’ rooster, no good a-tall,
+    Little bit o’ lovin’ is heaven, that’s all.
+
+“Lot of truth in that song, Sleepy,” says he. “Love keeps everybody
+moving, old-timer.”
+
+“All but two of us, Hashknife. Love let out that contract to the sheriff
+of Yolo.”
+
+“That’s true, Sleepy, but love laughs at blacksmiths, you know.”
+
+“Locksmiths, Hashknife. I reckon love laughs at punchers, too. She sure
+always gives me the merry ha, ha. You ought to get married, Hashknife.
+You’re homely as ----, but you’ve got a face that nobody ever gets tired
+of. Yes, sir, that face of yours can be looked upon and mistaken for
+lots of things.
+
+“Now, if you was married, Hashknife, and the sheriff showed up at your
+teepee, he’d say:
+
+“‘If there ain’t Hashknife, the son-of-a-gun! Married, too! Well, well!
+He can’t take a drink without asking his wife. She’s packing his Bull
+Durham and lets him have half enough cigarettes, and she won’t let him
+have enough money at one time to set into a four-bit jack-pot game.
+
+“‘He’d be tickled to death to have me arrest him, but I won’t. Naw, sir.
+Dawgone him, he’s got to suffer for his sins.’”
+
+“As a prophet, Sleepy, you’re a total loss,” says he. “Never mind my
+face, ol’-timer. I ain’t pretty to look upon, but I’ve sure got a heart
+in my bosom.”
+
+“According to the laws of anatomy,” I admits; “but females don’t hanker
+to marry a man just because his insides are all in their proper places.
+You’ve got gall on your liver, too, Hashknife, and she shows a lot more
+externally than your heart does.”
+
+“All right; all right, Sleepy. You knows so danged much about physiology
+that I wonders why you ain’t a doctor with a diplomy on the wall instead
+of being a common puncher with a price on your head.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+We points east until midnight, and then stakes out our broncs and
+grabs a little sleep. The next day about noon we hits a ranch. There
+ain’t nobody there but the Chink cook, but he’s plenty for our needs.
+He’s one good cook, you bet your life, and he don’t roll his eyes
+when me and Hashknife consumes eight eggs per each and a pound or two
+of ham.
+
+“John,” says Hashknife when we’re filled, “where do we come to if we
+rides straight up that way?”
+
+The Chink considers it for a minute.
+
+“Maybeso you find Willow Cleek lange. Bimeby you find Wind Liver lange.
+Too far, I no _sabe_.”
+
+“Wind River range good place, John?”
+
+“Pletty good, you _sabe_? Willow Cleek dam bad!”
+
+“Willow Creek bad, eh? What’s the matter--rustler?”
+
+“Maybeso. Evelybody clousin. You _sabe_? Maybeso bloodah, sistah,
+clousin. All ’lated. You _sabe_? No good.”
+
+“All related, John?”
+
+“Betcha life! Allee time fam’ly fight. Too much clousin, dam bad!”
+
+“All same Chinamen; eh, John?” grins Hashknife.
+
+“Allee same ----!” grunts the Chink, which shows he’s range broke.
+“China boy maybeso have plenty sistah, bloodah, clousin, yessah. China
+boy no hate ’lation. China boy he say:
+
+“‘I please hope you make plenty money. I plenty glad you get litch.’
+Yessah, you betchum.
+
+“Willow Cleek he say--
+
+“‘Go to ----! I hope you get lynch fo’ stealum cow.’”
+
+“How about outsiders, John?” I asks. “No relation folks?”
+
+“Ver’ bad place. You _sabe_? No ’lation--last quick. Evelybody makeum
+hard to catch. You _sabe_? Dam bad lange, you betchum.”
+
+“Much obliged, John,” says Hashknife.
+
+“All lite, you fin’ out. Goo’-by.”
+
+“My gosh!” grunts Hashknife as we rides away. “Don’t never tell me that
+a Chink can’t read human nature. He knowed there wasn’t no use warning
+me and you.”
+
+“We ain’t got no use for Willow Creek, Hashknife.”
+
+“Sure not, Sleepy, but she must be some queer layout. Any time a
+Chinaman opines a place to be _hyas cultus_, she must be worse and
+more of it.”
+
+We cuts across the hills until about four o’clock, when we strikes a
+road. Just about that time we meets a saddled bronc with reins dragging,
+and we sets there and watches it swing around us; never offering to stop
+it. All to once our ears gets this salutation:
+
+“Of all the ignorant, imbecilic know-nothing punchers I ever seen,
+you’re the worst. Why in thunder don’t one of you imitation punchers
+hang a rope on that animal?”
+
+We looks up. She’s standing in the middle of the road, a hand on each
+hip, and glares at us. She’s a frail-looking little maid, with a big mop
+of gold-colored hair and a freckled nose. Man, I’ve seen blue eyes in my
+time, but they’re all faded looking beside hers.
+
+Mad? Holy mackinaw, that girl is madder than a bob-cat with its tail
+caught in a trap.
+
+“Your hoss?” asks Hashknife. “Belongs to you?”
+
+“Do you see any other animal around here?” she snaps. “What in the name
+of ossified owls do you think I was yelling about? If that don’t answer
+your question, Mister Long-Legs, I’ll add this much--y-e-s! Now, if
+you’re too lazy to toss a rope----”
+
+“How’d he get away from you?” asks Hashknife, shaking out his loop.
+
+“I was playing the piano and left the parlor door open,” says she; and
+all you’ve got to do is look at them blue eyes to know she’s telling the
+truth.
+
+“Wait!” says she, “Maybe you’d like to know more. My name is Glory and
+the horse’s name is Beans, and I’m seventeen and Beans is six, and the
+saddle was bought in Ranger. I’ve got a sister who married a preacher,
+and my pa came from Missouri, and ma is originally a Swede, and Beans
+was bought from ‘One-Eyed’ Olson, and if you don’t get busy he’ll be
+back home before you get your mouth shut.”
+
+She stops all out of breath.
+
+“My ----!” grunts Hashknife, “My ----! Yes’m.”
+
+Hashknife is a good roper. That long boy can heave the hemp as far
+as the best of ’em, but Diablo ain’t educated to no rope, and when
+Hashknife drops the loop over that runaway bronc Diablo won’t stay
+right end to.
+
+No, sir, that fool outlaw whirls right around and went the other way,
+which is against all rules. It was a good rope. She sure seen her duty
+and done it right. Hashknife’s latigo busted, and he sets up there in
+the air with nothing between his legs but the saddle.
+
+He comes to earth in a tangle of mesquite, and Beans gets stopped so
+quick he turns a flip-flop. I drops my loop on Diablo as he comes
+past, and when the rope tightens I gets treated to some of the
+fanciest bucking I ever experienced. Gray Wolf came back to life and
+done just what the Pemberton audience figured he’d do.
+
+I reckon he’d be bucking yet, but the rope got looped around his front
+legs, and we comes down in a heap. Anyway we stay with Diablo, and when
+I got back to the road I finds Hashknife setting there on a rock, with
+his head in his hands.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“What became of the lady fair?” I asks.
+
+Hashknife squints at me and points off up the road.
+
+“She--she said to tell you it was worth paying to see. Said we ought to
+lose our ropes and join P. T. Barnum, Sleepy.”
+
+“Yeah?” says I. “Wonder if she knows that Barnum is dead?”
+
+“Is he?”
+
+Hashknife gawps at me and scratches his head.
+
+“Well, I reckon maybe she does, Sleepy. Daw-w-gone!”
+
+We fixes Hashknife’s latigo and pilgrims on up the road. Hashknife acts
+a heap thoughtful.
+
+“I never in all my danged life----”
+
+“Neither did I,” says I, and Hashknife grins.
+
+“Rampagin’ little bob-cat.”
+
+“Name’s Glory. Pa’s from Missouri; ma’s a Swede.”
+
+“Keeps Beans in the parlor,” adds Hashknife. “Lucky bronc.”
+
+Then Hashknife bursts into song:
+
+    “Chasin’ dogies, bustin’ broncs,
+    Drinkin’ up his money in the honkatonks;
+    Tough ol’ rooster, no good a-tall----
+
+“Say, Sleepy, that love thing is mighty queer. She’s a heap like
+electricity. You don’t know what it looks like or where it comes from,
+but she sure can jolt ---- out of a feller. There’s the first signpost
+I’ve seen since I left Kansas.”
+
+It’s an old board dangling on a drunken post at the forks of the road.
+The words are partly faded out, but she’s still readable.
+
+                 THERE IS A CLICK ON WILLER CRICK
+                   THE WORST IN ALL THIS NASHUN.
+                   THE HITE OF THEIR AMBISHUN-IS
+                    TO BEAT THEIR OWN RELASHUN.
+
+“Hashknife,” says I, “we are at the turning of the ways. Yonder lieth
+the road to Willer Crick; ahead of us lies the road to ---- knows where.
+The Chink warned us.”
+
+Hashknife reads the poem over again.
+
+“She speaks fluently of ‘their own relation,’ Sleepy. Being as me and
+you ain’t blood brothers to the ‘click’, maybe--What do you think?”
+
+“Anyway,” says I, “the Stevenses never did believe in signs, and taking
+advice from a Chink never was our motto.”
+
+“Pshaw! Your folks and mine belongs to the same church, Sleepy.”
+
+Some gentle buckaroos leave their six-guns hanging in the barn or the
+house when they goes out to ride buckers, but me and Hashknife never
+imitated that dangerous custom; therefore we’re still heeled.
+
+Hashknife packs a .41 Colt on his hip and a .45 derringer in his vest
+pocket, but I takes a chance with a ordinary .44 Colt on my hip. I
+carried a bowie-knife once, but I was always afraid I’d cut myself,
+or that somebody’d take it away from me and start carving, so I threw
+it in the river.
+
+I chides Hashknife a heap over that derringer. Little two-barreled
+cannon, which is liable to knock a finger off when it roars. I don’t
+like ’em.
+
+Me and Hashknife are just ordinary shots. I never seen but two punchers
+that was what you’d call good shots. A prospector killed one of ’em with
+a pick handle, and the other shot himself accidental.
+
+We comes to a ranch-house pretty soon. A feller is setting on the steps,
+cleaning a rifle; so we went on. Willer Crick ain’t what you’d designate
+as being a land of milk and honey.
+
+Away back in the dim and distant past she got shook up and pawed over by
+a mighty power, which left her hump-backed to a startling degree. She’s
+a place that’s had her ups and downs, and it don’t take no scientist to
+point out that fact.
+
+“’Pears to me that I hears shots,” observes Hashknife, stopping his
+bronc. “There she goes again!”
+
+“Hashknife,” says I, “you’re getting nervous like a old widder woman.
+Ain’t folks got a right to shoot?”
+
+“I--I reckon they has, Sleepy. Oh, sure. Just wondered--that’s all.”
+
+We rides down around a curve, and ahead of us we sees a ranch-house.
+She’s sort of a tumble-down affair with a swaybacked roof. Taking it
+by and large, she needs a heap of fixing to be up-to-date in any
+respect.
+
+We’re beginning to feel the pangs of hunger, so we swings off the main
+road, goes through the open gate and rides up to the house. There’s
+something beside the steps, sort of like a heap of clothes; so we rides
+up closer.
+
+“Holy henhawks!” grunts Hashknife. “Corpse!”
+
+It’s a human being and Hashknife wasn’t shooting very wide when he
+pronounced it a corpse. It’s an old feller with white hair and whiskers,
+and he’s laying there sort of doubled up over a Winchester. There’s a
+dozen empty shells scattered around, which shows that he threw some lead
+before he quit. Hashknife tears open his shirt and feels of his heart.
+
+“Flickerin’,” pronounces Hashknife. “Let’s take him in out of the sun.”
+
+The inside of the house is on a par with the outside. We lays the old
+feller on a worn-out sofy, and then rustles some water. He appears to
+have stopped a lot o’ lead, but after we sluices him a little he opens
+his eyes.
+
+He stares at us for a few seconds, and then he busts loose. Talk about
+profanity! Man, he could sure handle it proper. Make a feller sort of
+feel queer to hear a man, skidding West as fast as his heart can pump
+blood out of bullet-holes, cursing like a mule-skinner. Sure he was
+conscious.
+
+“Who in ---- are you?” he asks when his supply of words seems to run
+short.
+
+We tells him who we are, an’ he actually grins.
+
+“Find me a pencil and paper,” he croaks. “---- me if I don’t get even!
+Kill me for my money--will they! ---- murderers!”
+
+“Who shot you?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“None of your ---- business! Find me that paper and pencil! I can’t
+live long, but I’ll stick long enough to get ---- good and even with
+Albright.”
+
+I rustled a sheet of paper and a pencil, and handed him a book to hold
+it on.
+
+“Now hold me up, so I can write, ----it!”
+
+He sure wrote a wabbly hand. He asks us to spell our names for him, and
+he chuckles to himself as he writes.
+
+Once I thought the old boy was gone. He dropped the pencil, but I gave
+it to him and he cursed his weak fingers. He managed to sign a name at
+the bottom, and then dumped book and all off his lap.
+
+“They lose!” he whispers. “I don’t know you fellers, but by ---- I’ve
+got to chance it! I wouldn’t die fast enough to suit ’em; so they----”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+“Well,” says Hashknife soft-like, “he didn’t suffer none. Barring his
+tongue, I wouldn’t mind having him for a gran’paw. He sure had the
+constitution of a grizzly.”
+
+Hashknife picks up the paper and squints at it. It reads:
+
+    To anybody concerned:
+
+    I hereby states that everything I own in this world is hereby
+    given to Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens. This means
+    everything.
+
+    I don’t want anybody but them to get anything that belongs to me.
+
+                                            Yours very truly,
+                                                Ebenezer O. Godfrey.
+
+Me and Hashknife walks to the door and looks around. A magpie cackles
+from the tumble-down corral, and from the side of the hill comes the
+whistle of a prairie-dog.
+
+“Well, Ebenezer,” says Hashknife, “we don’t see nothing, but we’ll take
+it. Ain’t it queer, Sleepy?”
+
+“Queer as the egg of a whangobbler,” says I. “We’ve got something that
+ain’t visible, Hashknife.”
+
+A wagon and a pair of mismated horses comes drifting along through the
+dust and stops at the gate. Two men climb down from the seat and come
+up towards us. They’re a tough-looking pair of barber-boycotters.
+
+“Ol’ Godfrey around?” asks one of ’em.
+
+Hashknife looks ’em over and then motions inside.
+
+“Ain’t sick, is he?” asks the other feller.
+
+“Not now,” says Hashknife.
+
+The two men looks over the remains and then at us.
+
+“I don’t know who done it,” states Hashknife. “We rode in just after the
+show was over.”
+
+“Did he say who done it?”
+
+“Told me it was none of my ---- business.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” nods the taller one. “He’d jist about say that.”
+
+And then he turns to the other.
+
+“I reckon Pete and Al will inherit this place, Ab, but as per usual
+there will be several folks to consider.”
+
+“Worth anything?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“Considerable,” nods the one called Ab. “Got a few cows and he owns a
+copper-mine, the same of which ain’t so bad. I’d take the copper fer
+mine.”
+
+“I’ve got a little paper here,” says Hashknife. “You _sabe_ the old
+man’s writing?”
+
+He folds it so all they can see is the signature.
+
+“That’s the old man’s John Hancock,” nods Ab. “Know it any old place.
+What’s the idea, stranger?”
+
+Hashknife holds it while they peruses same, which takes ’em quite some
+time.
+
+“Well, I’ll be ----!” snorts the tall one, scratching his head. “I
+reckon she’s all right, proper and O. K., and nobody can dispute the
+le-gality, but----”
+
+“But what?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“You fellers are strangers, ain’t you?” asks Ab. “Yeah, I sure reckon
+you are. I’m Ab Wheeler, and this party is Al Bassett. We’re distant
+relations of ol’ Godfrey--very distant. We’re a heap wise to this
+locality, and, speaking in our wisdom, I’d say to you boys: Get on
+your broncs and drift. Just tear up that letter and forgit it. You’d
+never be able to work this place.”
+
+“Maybe we can sell it,” suggests Hashknife.
+
+“Sell ----! Nobody but a Willer Cricker would consider such a thing, and
+Willer Crick ain’t got brains enough to do any considerin’.”
+
+“Then you figures we’ve inherited a white elephant, eh?” I asks.
+
+“Elephant!” snorts Bassett. “Boys, you’ve got a menagerie. You looks
+like two nice, honest boys, and we don’t want to see you drift into
+trouble. Naw, sir. You jist mosey along, and me and Ab will see that
+the old man gets planted proper, and then let the Willer Crickers
+fight it out.”
+
+“I’ve always hankered to own a cow,” says Hashknife innocent-like. “I
+never had no playthings like that.”
+
+“I’m just loco over copper,” says I. “All my life I’ve wanted to dig
+something shiny out of rocks. Seems funny that we both gets just what
+we’ve always wanted, Hashknife.”
+
+“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Bassett, “You boys are sure funny. You’ll likely
+do well. If you see Jim Wells over on the Wind River range you tell him
+I said to give you both jobs.”
+
+“According to society,” says Hashknife, like he was letting ’em in a
+big secret, “folks always leaves a card when they comes calling. Willer
+Crick needs better social manners, gents; so next time you come--bring
+your cards.”
+
+“You’re funnin’, ain’t you?” asks Wheeler. “Sure you are. If I was you
+I’d leave.”
+
+“We’ll hook onto the next cyclone that comes along,” grins Hashknife.
+“In the mean time you might tell folks about the old man. We’ll wait
+until tomorrow morning, and if somebody don’t claim the remains we’ll
+plant him out in the front yard.”
+
+Bassett scratches his head, and the two of ’em walks out of the door.
+
+“Well,” says Bassett, “all I’ve got to say is this: You ain’t showing
+much sense.”
+
+“We ought to do well here then,” grins Hashknife.
+
+We watches ’em get in the wagon and drift along. Hashknife examines that
+Winchester and stands it up by the door.
+
+“Lot of shells in there on the clock-shelf,” says I.
+
+“Uh-huh. Single-shot rifle in the kitchen. Reckon she’s a .45-70,
+too, Sleepy. We’ve inherited something; you know it? From what I can
+gather--we’re going to start a scandal.”
+
+“You want to be a puncher or a miner, Hashknife?”
+
+“I don’t know yet. ’Pears to me that two husky babies like me and you
+ought to handle between us what the old man handled alone. Don’t you
+think we ought to do well?”
+
+“See what he got, Hashknife.”
+
+“That’s so--but he was a relation, Sleepy. Let’s pesticate around a
+little and see what we’ve inherited.”
+
+There’s a bunk-house down the hill from the house. About fifty feet
+behind that is an old stable, and built alongside of the stable is the
+main corral. There’s a couple of harness-marked roans hanging around the
+stable, and a decrepit bay mare is nosing around the corral. The animals
+all branded with a Bar O on the right shoulder.
+
+There’s four bunks in the bunk-house, but no bedding, so we carries a
+supply down from the house. We turned our broncs into the corral and
+fed ’em some loose hay, and then we cooked us a meal.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+We covered the body with an old sheet, and then takes the two rifles
+down to the bunk-house. We swamped out the place until she’s habitable,
+and then sets down on the steps to enjoy a smoke. The sun has gone down
+and Nature seems at rest.
+
+Hashknife leans over to give me a light off his match, when--_Zee!_
+_Plop!_ A bullet slams into the log just behind him. It’s a danged
+good thing he leaned over.
+
+I’d say that we hurried within, but another bullet knocked a hunk of mud
+from between the logs before we got under cover. Hashknife pumps a shell
+into that Winchester, while I loads up the old Springfield.
+
+“Our coming has been advertised,” opines Hashknife, poking out a pane of
+glass in the window. “If that bushwhacker----”
+
+Another bullet rammed into a log, and Hashknife’s rifle cracked.
+
+“You better get your head down!” chuckles Hashknife. “That feller almost
+drew a harp that time, Sleepy.”
+
+_Zam!_ A bullet came through an end window and threw splinters out of
+the wall. I slips over and peers out. A feller rises up out of the
+brush and makes a break to get the woodshed between him and us. He’s
+about fifty feet to run, and he sure hurried.
+
+I knocked out part of the window and led him about three feet. I don’t
+_sabe_ that old cannon; so I shoots low. I reckon it took about all the
+sole off one boot, ’cause it knocks the feet out from under him, and he
+lit on his belly.
+
+Lucky for him he falls into a low place, and all I can see is the bottom
+end of his suspenders and the seat of his pants. He had time to get a
+better place, but he didn’t know I was shooting a single-shot rifle.
+
+“Get him?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“Made him stumble. How you coming?”
+
+“My pro-te-jay is silent. Maybe I hit him.”
+
+_Zing!_ I turns to see Hashknife dancing a jig and rubbing his nose.
+
+“You didn’t hit him very hard,” says I.
+
+“No, dang it! Got my nose full of slivers. Never mind my man, Sleepy;
+you keep your fat head down!”
+
+I lines up my sights and gets jolted. Man, that gun kicked!
+
+“Get him?”
+
+“Never mind me, feller. Tend to your own knitting,” and I shoots again.
+
+“What you shooting at?” he yelps, “Ain’tcha got more sense than to waste
+shells thataway, Sleepy? Why don’t he shoot back?”
+
+“Got him hypnotized. Hope the ladies stay away.”
+
+“What has the ladies--” begins Hashknife, and then stops to shoot a
+couple of times, “--got to do with it?”
+
+“Because,” says I, “I’ve not only cut his suspenders, but I’ve plumb
+ruined the seat of his panties.”
+
+I turns to shoot again, but my man has turned gopher and dug himself
+in. Me and Hashknife sticks to our posts until it gets too dark to
+shoot, but the attack is over. I reckon that Willer Crick has began
+to respect us a little.
+
+We hangs saddle-blankets over the windows and plays seven-up until we
+got tired, with two Colts, a derringer and two rifles on the table.
+
+Hashknife is the first one to wake up in the morning.
+
+“Wake up, Sleepy!” he grunts, kicking me in the ribs. “We’ve got
+company.”
+
+Some feller’s voice is high-pitched and quarrelsome, and we can hear
+somebody swear pious-like. We slips into our boots and peeks out.
+There’s three wagons in the yard, and half a dozen saddle animals are
+tied to the fence.
+
+A tall, pious-looking _hombre_ wearing a long black coat detaches
+himself from the main herd and comes down our way.
+
+“Shake your gun loose, Sleepy,” advises Hashknife. “Sometimes them pious
+cloaks covers plenty of hardware.”
+
+I swings the door open.
+
+“Mornin’,” says he. “You fellers named Hartley and Stevens?”
+
+“Said to be such,” admits Hashknife.
+
+“I’m Sol Vane. I sort of does the lawin’ fer Willer Crick, and it has
+come to my ears that you two has peculiarly inherited the Bar O outfit.”
+
+“Yeah?” drawls Hashknife. “You hear things quick.”
+
+“Uh-huh. Would you mind showing me the paper, which is purported to be
+the last will and testyment of Godfrey?”
+
+“Purported ----!” snaps Hashknife. “No, I don’t mind letting you see
+it.”
+
+Sol Vane spells it all out and hands it back.
+
+“All upright and legal?” I asks.
+
+He scratches his chin and peers off across the hills.
+
+“Uh-huh, I reckon she’s able to hold in court but fer one thing.”
+
+“What does that happen to be?” asks Hashknife. “Here’s the will, and up
+there in the ranch-house is the body of the man who wrote it.”
+
+“Nope,” says Sol Vane serious-like. “The body ain’t there--that’s the
+---- of it.”
+
+“Ain’t there?” gasps Hashknife. “Ain’t there?”
+
+Sol Vane shakes his head.
+
+“We’d admire to know where it is.”
+
+Me and Hashknife horns right through the crowd on the steps and goes
+inside. There is the sofy, but the body is gone. Even the dirty sheet
+is gone.
+
+An old pelican who ain’t got no front teeth cackles like a hen and
+enjoys himself a lot.
+
+“That’s ---- queer!” snorts Hashknife, and then he turns to the crowd.
+
+“Say, Bassett, you and Wheeler saw the body yesterday.”
+
+“Naw, sir,” lies Bassett. “We jist took your word for it.”
+
+“Didn’t think you’d lie about----” begins Wheeler, but Hashknife whirled
+and looked at him, and Wheeler stopped.
+
+“Seems to me there ain’t nothing to argue about,” states a rat-faced
+young feller who looks like he needs a entire new set of brains to
+make him even half-witted. “Uncle Eb’s gone out on the range some’ers,
+I reckon.”
+
+“Sure,” adds another of the same type, only this one has had his nose
+busted and the tip of it points at his off ear. “He’ll show up pretty
+soon.”
+
+“What’s your name?” asks Hashknife, looking at the rat-faced one.
+
+“Godfrey--Pete Godfrey. Whatcha want to know fer?”
+
+“Your name’s Albright, ain’t it?” asks Hashknife, looking at
+Broken-Nose.
+
+“How’d you know?” he grins.
+
+“He said he’d get even with you,” grins Hashknife.
+
+“Who did?”
+
+“Ebenezer Godfrey.”
+
+The crowd stares at us and then at them two. I’m nervous. There’s too
+much hardware on that bunch. Pete Godfrey sort of crosses his feet and
+leans against the wall, and I happens to look at his feet.
+
+“Better get them boots half-soled, Pete,” says I, pointing at ’em. “A
+.45-70 sure does harrow a man’s material sole as well as his spiritual
+one.”
+
+I misjudged Pete. He flattens against the wall and streaks for his
+gun. Dang the luck, I was scratching my chin when I made the remark,
+and wasn’t looking for no gun-play.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+My hand hadn’t dropped halfway to my gun when my ear-drums almost got
+busted, and I sees Pete drop his gun and stagger against the wall
+hanging on to his arm.
+
+I turns my head and there is Hashknife with that little derringer in his
+hand and a grin on his face.
+
+“Sleepy,” says he slow-like, “if I ever hear you say one word against
+that little cannon of mine I’ll throw it away and let you take the
+consequences.”
+
+Pete looks like his stummick hurt him a heap. He stares at that little
+two-barreled thing and licks his lips. The crowd seemed too shocked to
+do anything but stare.
+
+“Everybody outside,” says Hashknife, and they went out like they was
+trained to it.
+
+“Now, folks,” says Hashknife, “there has been enough dirty work done
+around here. I think I know who shot the old man, but that ain’t proof.
+We’re his heirs--me and Stevens. I can’t see why in ---- anybody would
+steal the corpse.
+
+“Sol Vane, you say you’re a lawyer. Does this affect the will in any
+way?”
+
+“We-e-e-ll,” drawls Sol, “I’m ’fraid she does. ’Pears to me that you
+and your pardner are the only ones what have seen the de-ceased, and
+you’ve got to prove that the old man is dead before you can collect
+on the will. Right now your will ain’t worth nothin’.”
+
+That old toothless walloper cackles again, and Willer Crick began to
+move on. Some of ’em fixes Pete’s arm, and then him and Albright rode
+away together. Sol Vane watches everybody ride away and then he leads
+his horse up to the porch.
+
+“You fellers better take a little advice from Sol Vane,” says he. “I’d
+advise you to move on. You must ’a’ been mistook about that corpse, and
+even if you wasn’t----,” Sol’s voice sinks to a whisper--“there might be
+some what has the opinion that maybe you fellers had a hand in--you know
+what I mean?
+
+“Trouble means business for Sol Vane, but he ain’t no hand to see young
+fellers git into trouble when he can steer ’em right. What does you
+think?”
+
+Me and Hashknife looks at him, and then at each other.
+
+“Any other questions you’d like to ask?” says Hashknife.
+
+“Yeah,” nods Sol. “I’d like to have you tell me where I can git me one
+of them vest-pocket guns like yours. They’re sure dingers. You hit Pete
+in the arm and it shook him plumb to his heels.”
+
+“I don’t know where you can get one,” says Hashknife. “I had a hard time
+getting this one. Lot of fellers in my country carried ’em, but I had to
+kill seven men to find the caliber I wanted.”
+
+“Seven?” says Sol thoughtful-like. “Huh! Well, don’t say I didn’t warn
+you.”
+
+We watched him ride away, all humped up in his saddle.
+
+“Did all seven of them men have derringers, Hashknife?”
+
+“Shucks! If you can’t run a whizzer one way, Sleepy, run it another. I
+didn’t want to tell him I got that gun in a pawn shop in Frisco. If it
+ever comes to a show-down, Sleepy, kill Sol Vane first, ’cause he’s the
+brains of the outfit.”
+
+“Well,” says the voice of a mockingbird behind us, “are you fellers too
+scared to run or has somebody swiped your gentle little ponies?”
+
+Leaning against the side of the porch is Glory. She was sort of grinning
+at us with them big blue eyes, while she slaps the side of her skirt
+with the barrel of a Winchester carbine.
+
+“Heavenly angels!” gasps Hashknife. “Howdy!”
+
+“Still wearing your mouth open, I see,” says she, walking around and
+setting down with us. “I came over to see the remains.”
+
+“Whose--Godfrey’s?” I asks.
+
+“Nope--yours. Willer Crick decided that the best thing to do was to hang
+you both on that old cottonwood down there.”
+
+“My ----!” gasps Hashknife. “You--you came over to see our remains?
+Sorry to disappoint you, ma’am.”
+
+“Don’t mention it,” says she sad-like, and then:
+
+“See that magpie down on that corral post? Watch.”
+
+She cuddles the butt of that gun to her cheek, and Mister Magpie fades
+to a handful of dirty feathers. She yanks another shell into the
+chamber, slips one out of her pocket and crams it into the magazine.
+
+Hashknife looks at me and draws a deep breath. She’s the first female
+we ever seen that could shoot straight and also have foresight enough
+to refill the magazine.
+
+“How does it happen that you wasn’t here with the crowd?” asks
+Hashknife.
+
+“Maybe it was because I--I couldn’t do any good here.”
+
+“You missed seeing Pete Godfrey get his arm drilled,” says I.
+
+She sets up straight and stared at me.
+
+“You dud-drilled his arm?”
+
+“Not me--Hashknife.”
+
+“Why in the name of ---- didn’t you----”
+
+The little spitfire glares at Hashknife like he’d done her a injury.
+
+“Now, I--I---- Why did you want me to kill him?” stammers Hashknife.
+“You got anything against him, ma’am?”
+
+“Ye-yes! I’ve gug-got to marry him--darn it!”
+
+“Oh-h-h-h-h!” gasps Hashknife. “Is that all?”
+
+“That rat-faced--” I begins, and then asks her pardon.
+
+“Go ahead,” says she. “When you get through saying mean things about him
+I’ll start in. I know more about him than you do.”
+
+We sets there like three buzzards and contemplates the landscape.
+
+“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says she weary-like.
+
+“Ever try sleeping for it?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“If you had to think about marrying Pete Godfrey--” says she slow-like,
+and I changes the subject.
+
+“Was you related to old man Godfrey?”
+
+“Kinda. My father was a cousin to his stepson’s brother-in-law, or
+something like that.”
+
+“My ----!” grunts Hashknife. “That’s figuring pretty fine.”
+
+She nods and puckers up her forehead.
+
+“That’s easy beside some of the relationships around here. I’ve got too
+---- many relatives.”
+
+“Glory,” says Hashknife, “tell us about it. Me and Sleepy are a pair
+of rantankerous buckaroos, and we’re pizen mean--but we ain’t related
+to you.”
+
+“Thank--I mean, much obliged.”
+
+She seems to think things over for a while, and then:
+
+“Ignorance just about covers the whole thing. Years ago this range
+was settled by a bunch from Missouri, and they decided to make this
+a little kingdom of their own. They were ignorant, and in their
+ignorance they decided that as long as they’re all related they can
+keep outsiders away.
+
+“Naturally the ranches belong to the heirs, who marry into some other
+branch of the family, and this has been going on for so many years that
+nobody knows just what relation they are to anybody else.
+
+“I reckon I’ve got about as few relatives as anybody on the crick, being
+as pa sneaked outside when he was young and married a Swede girl. They
+almost lynched pa.”
+
+Glory giggled and dug holes in the dirt with the butt of her rifle.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Pa killed two of the worst kickers, and the rest let him alone. He
+shows on the records as having killed two of his cousins, one uncle,
+a half-brother and a brother-in-law, but he really only downed two
+men. That shows how we’re related.”
+
+“My ----!” grunts Hashknife. “If a feller only had one shell he could
+kill a generation. Go ahead. Get down to Pete Godfrey.”
+
+“Pete and Jim Albright are the nearest relation they can figure to
+Ebenezer Godfrey, so everybody agrees that they inherit this outfit.
+My pa and Pete’s pa figured out this marriage a long time ago, and
+all Willer Crick thinks it’s a cinch. Pete’s a little, ignorant,
+mean, crooked--Aw, rats! But I’ve got to marry him.”
+
+“You can leave here, can’t you?” I asks. “You don’t have to marry
+anybody you don’t want to.”
+
+“Where would I go? I’m not of age. I ain’t got enough education to make
+a living. Willer Crick don’t believe in education for women--or men
+either for that matter. Of course I won’t have to marry Pete until he
+comes into possession or part possession of this property, ’cause right
+now he can’t even support himself.”
+
+“Oh!” says Hashknife. “He’s got to own this ranch before you has to
+marry him, eh?”
+
+“Glory,” says I, “you’ll never be the blushing bride of Peter the Rat.
+This ranch belongs to us. _Sabe?_”
+
+“Yes,” says she, “when you find the body of Ebenezer Godfrey.”
+
+“How did you know it was missing?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“I thought it would be,” says she, “’cause I heard Sol Vane telling
+somebody that you’ve got to prove that a man is dead before you can
+claim his property, and if there ain’t no body you can’t make no
+claims.”
+
+“Ain’t you got no sensible relation?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“Sensible? You bet I have! I’ve got one uncle who had too many brains
+to stay around here. He hates Willer Crick and they hate him, ’cause
+he told ’em all where to head in at. He’s got money, and he told me
+that he’d give me five thousand dollars for a wedding present if I’d
+defy Willer Crick and marry an outsider.”
+
+“Well, ----’s bells!” yowls Hashknife. “Ain’t there nobody----”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+Glory shakes her head.
+
+“It would make things tough for pa, and--and---- Well, I reckon I’ll be
+going. I’ve got my horse tied in that thicket behind the cottonwoods.”
+
+“Sort of a front seat, eh?” says I.
+
+She gives me a queer look, and drops her rifle into the crook of her
+arm.
+
+“You saw what I done to that magpie, didn’t you?”
+
+And she walked down the hill and into the willows. A little later we
+seen her ride against the sky-line of the hills.
+
+“Hashknife,” says I, “that little kid was cached down there in the
+willows with that .32-40 and a lot of shells. Reckon it’s a good thing
+that Willer Crick changed its mind, eh?”
+
+“Daw-w-gone, I reckon it is, Sleepy. Wonder if she’d ’a’ picked Pete
+first? She’s a regular little son--uh--daughter-of-a-gun!
+Ev-v-v-v-v-erybody loves a little lo-o-o-o-vin’, little bit o’ lovin’
+is fine. To a po-o-o-o-r cowboy---- Say, Sleepy, I wonder if she likes
+music?”
+
+“She’ll hate ---- out of you if she does, Hashknife. Let’s get a little
+breakfast.”
+
+Ebenezer Godfrey must have been a nut on dynamite. It’s reasonable to
+suppose that any man who owns a mine will have some dynamite in his
+possession, but there ain’t no sense in a man owning half the visible
+supply of a county.
+
+He’s got dynamite in the barn, more in the kitchen and three fifty-pound
+boxes in the woodshed. Me and Hashknife looks it over and proceeds to
+get scared. Suppose somebody comes along and heaves a bullet into that
+mess? Then Hashknife rustles a pick and shovel.
+
+“Going prospecting?” I asks, and he hands me his regular grin.
+
+“Hook on to that pick, Sleepy. We’re going to put this stuff where it
+won’t spoil itself nor us.”
+
+Hashknife picks a place in the front yard, and we proceeds to dig. It
+requires some hole to plant seven boxes of that stuff, but we finally
+gets her all under the sod. I puts the tools back in the shed, and
+then I finds Hashknife with a saw and a hammer; acting like a regular
+carpenter.
+
+I sets down and watches him build a cross. Then he finds some tar and an
+old brush, and he paints on the cross:
+
+                        EBENEZER O. GODFREY. NOT
+                           DEAD BUT SLEEPING
+
+“You going to pack that cross while you hunts for the corpse?” I asks.
+
+Hashknife wrinkles his nose away from the smoke of his cigaret, and
+admires the lettering. Then I follers him out to where we planted the
+dynamite, and at one end of the mound he plants his cross. She sure
+looks like a regular grave.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+I don’t ask any more questions. We went over and set down on the porch
+to rest, when here comes more company. There’s Bassett, Jim Albright,
+Sol Vane and another feller we ain’t seen before.
+
+“I didn’t reckon you’d still be here,” says Sol, like he was plumb sorry
+for us. “We-all hoped you’d take good advice.”
+
+“Ain’t many human beings in the market for advice, Sol,” grins the
+stranger, a tall, big-footed _hombre_ with a lot of grin wrinkles
+around his eyes. I mentally wipes him out as a prospective target.
+
+“One of the rightful heirs is absent today,” states Sol, “but we’ve
+decided to take possession anyway. Mister Albright owns half of it.”
+
+“Yeah?” grins Hashknife. “Ain’tcha just a little mistaken? This ranch
+belongs to us.”
+
+“That paper don’t give you possession,” snaps Albright. “That won’t
+stand in no law court, ’cause you ain’t proved that the old man is
+dead. You better move on, if you asks me.”
+
+“Then what in ---- are you trying to take possession for?” asks
+Hashknife. “Can you prove he’s dead?”
+
+“Hm-m-m-m-m-m!” Sol Vane has throat trouble.
+
+“What you squattin’ here fer?” wails Albright. “You got any rights?”
+
+“Possession is nine points in the law, ain’t it, Sol? Anyway, I want to
+show you something.”
+
+Hashknife leads ’em out to the mound of dirt, and each of them spells
+out the epitaph.
+
+“That’s a lie!” howls Albright. “You never found the body----”
+
+“Well, well!” grins Hashknife. “You know there is a body?”
+
+Albright gulps and kicks a clod of dirt.
+
+“Somebody get a shovel,” says Sol. “We’ll see about this.”
+
+Hashknife straddles the grave and drops his hand down on the butt of his
+gun.
+
+“No diggin’, folks. The epitaph shows the contents. To all intents
+and purposes the body of the old man is planted here, and here he
+stays until you produces a corpse that looks more like him than this
+one. _Sabe?_”
+
+The stranger sort of grins, and darned if I don’t think he half-winked
+at me.
+
+“You mean that we can’t dig up this here body?” asks Sol.
+
+“For a lawyer,” says Hashknife, “you sure catch the meaning awful
+quick.”
+
+“Wh-where did you have the body hid?” asks Albright sort of weak-like,
+and Hashknife grins in his face.
+
+“We didn’t hide it, Albright, but we know who did.”
+
+“You’re bound to buck Willer Crick, are you?” asks Bassett. “You won’t
+listen to sense?”
+
+“When I hear some--yes!” snaps Hashknife.
+
+“We-e-e-e-e-ll,” drawls the stranger, “this ain’t getting us no place.
+These fellers seems to sort of have us on the fence.”
+
+“Aw ----!” roars Albright. “Part of this ranch belongs to me, and I’m
+going to have what’s mine!”
+
+“Has there been any investigation over the killing?” I asks.
+
+“No-o-o-o,” drawls Sol. “No, there ain’t yet, and I’d advise you fellers
+to move before it starts. Ain’t that good advice, Sillman?”
+
+The stranger scratches his chin and sort of nods.
+
+“Yeah, I reckon it won’t hurt ’em none, Sol, but as Glory always says:
+
+“‘A man is either a wise man or a fool, and neither will take advice.
+The wise man thinks he don’t need it, and the fool knows ---- well he
+don’t.’”
+
+“Girls get queer ideas,” says Sol. “I don’t like to see girls traipsin’
+around, packing a rifle and----”
+
+“Glory is my gal!” snaps Sillman. “I don’t need advice about her, Sol
+Vane.”
+
+“Don’t get touchy, Jim,” soothes Sol. “Everybody likes Glory.”
+
+“Aw ----!” snorts Albright. “We came here on business, and gets into a
+woman argument. Sol Vane thinks he’s a lawyer! Lawyer ----! Leave it to
+me and we’d settle this danged quick.”
+
+“That’s a fact,” grins Hashknife; “but you better keep your head down,
+Albright, ’cause a .45-70 makes a goshawful corpse.”
+
+They gets on their horses, grumbling among themselves, and we watches
+’em drift away up the road. As soon as they’re out of sight Hashknife
+races for the corral and throws his saddle on Diablo.
+
+“You stay here and watch the ranch, Sleepy,” he yelps at me, and him and
+that roan outlaw went down the hill and off up that gully like a streak,
+while I stands there with my mouth wide open.
+
+It’s about two hours later when Hashknife shows up. He’s got his big
+grin working overtime, and when he sees me he laughs out loud.
+
+“I knowed Albright was worried about that grave,” says he, “so I cut
+across country and watched him leave the rest of the bunch. He sorts
+of loafs along, with me keeping out of sight in the washouts.
+
+“Once he stops and watches things for quite a while and then points
+straight for an old prospect hole on the side of a hill. I’m where he
+can’t see me, so I shoots into the air. He swung his bronc the other
+way and rode plumb to the next ridge before he stopped.
+
+“He sets there for a long time and then starts back. I shoots again,
+and he sneaked over the hill. I got up on the hill and watched him
+disappear. He didn’t know who was around there, and he was afraid to
+make any bad breaks. _Sabe!_”
+
+“Well, Angel Face, what was it all about?” I asks.
+
+“Old Godfrey, you ignoranamous! Albright and somebody--likely
+Pete--swiped the corpse, and when we showed ’em that grave--blooey!
+He wanted to get away as soon as possible to see if we lied.
+
+“Sure, I found the body. They hid it ’way back in that old tunnel. I
+removed same, hung it on my bronc, and I’m betting that if they ever
+find it they’ll have to go some. Whoo-o-o-ee! I sure had some time,
+Sleepy.
+
+“Now he’ll sneak out there to see what we done, and when he don’t find
+the body---- Well, Sleepy, we may not be able to keep this danged
+outfit, but right now we’ve sure run a whizzer on Willer Crick.”
+
+“Glory’s paw ain’t a mean-looking _hombre_,” says I. “I thought that him
+and the law shark was going to have words.”
+
+“I reckon he can take care of himself, Sleepy. Mind staying here tonight
+and guarding the place? I’m going up to see Glory.”
+
+“Is that a fact?” says I. “Well, well! Ain’t it funny that we both gets
+the same idea at the same time?”
+
+“We can’t both go, Sleepy. Somebody has got to watch the place.”
+
+“All right,” says I. “We’ll cut cards.”
+
+Hashknife cut a jack and I got the seven of clubs. That pot-hooked card
+with the seven puppy-tracks always was a Joner to me.
+
+“God be with you, Hashknife,” says I. “But remember this: Me and you
+ain’t in no position to marry anybody. Neither one of us could buy a
+breakfast for a hummin’-bird, and also remember that we’re liable to
+have to mosey along any old time.”
+
+“Yeah, I know, Sleepy. Still, you’d never think to tell me that if you
+drawed the jack and me the seven.”
+
+I sets there on the porch and watched him drift away, and hopes I never
+see another seven of clubs.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+Then I glances out towards the gate and here comes Glory.
+
+Man, I kissed that seven-spot and put it in my hat.
+
+“Where’s your pardner?” she asks as she ties her bronc to the porch.
+
+“Said he was going to call on you. Left a while ago.”
+
+“On me? Ossified owls! Does he know where I live?”
+
+“I don’t reckon he does, but he’ll find it, Glory.”
+
+“Did he go up the road?”
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+“Saddle your horse quick!” she snaps. “He mustn’t go there! They’re--
+Willer Crick is holding a meeting at my home. Don’t you _sabe?_ They’re
+going to come down here and-- Say, are you going to get that horse or
+will I have to?”
+
+That fool Gray Wolf ties himself in a knot, and I has a hard time riding
+straight up with a loose Winchester in my hand, but I made it. I got him
+lined up the road and away we went.
+
+“Never pulled leather!” I yells at her proud-like.
+
+“Fool!” she shoots back at me. “Never take a chance unless you’re paid
+for it.”
+
+Right then I figures that she can boss me any time she wants to. No
+girl who rides like that, talks like that and can pick off a magpie at
+seventy yards is a clinging vine, but in this country--vines don’t do
+well a-tall.
+
+We hammered off up that road for about two miles, and then swung down a
+lane off the main road to a clump of trees. We slips off our broncs and
+ties ’em to the fence. We can see the dark outlines of the buildings,
+but there ain’t a light showing on that side.
+
+A loose bronc tries to pass us, but I threw my hat at it, and it swung
+in beside my horse. It’s Hashknife’s El Diablo.
+
+Then Glory led me in behind the main building. From there we can see a
+light through an open window.
+
+“I’ve done all I can,” says Glory. “Them folks in there are relatives of
+mine, but remember this: I didn’t pick ’em. Also remember, Willer Crick
+will shoot.”
+
+“Glory,” says I, “I’ll remember. Much obliged.”
+
+The window is only about waist high; so I gets almost as good a view as
+though I was inside. Reminds me of the big Injun councils that my dad
+used to tell me about. Hashknife is setting against the wall roped to a
+chair, and he sure shows signs of having made things unpleasant for
+somebody.
+
+Pete Godfrey is there with his arm in a sling, and he looks mad enough
+to do most anything. Sol Vane is doing the talking, which is the natural
+thing for a lawyer, I reckon.
+
+There is about twenty men in the place. Sillman is standing with his
+back against the door, smoking a long pipe.
+
+“I can’t see any reason fer taking a vote,” states Pete. “We’re all
+agreed on it anyway. It’s a dead open and shut that they killed the
+old man and hid his body. I moves that we surround the place, smoke
+the other killer out and hang ’em both.”
+
+Just then Albright comes in. He’s pale as a ghost, and I feels that
+he’s come straight from that prospect hole. He sees Hashknife and his
+lips curl like he was going to snap at him.
+
+“Well, what’s been said and done?” he asks.
+
+“We’ve decided to go after the other feller, Jim, and hang ’em both,”
+states Pete.
+
+“Now you’re beginning to show sense,” grins Albright. “What you waiting
+fer?”
+
+“Just a moment, boys,” says Sillman. “This ain’t a civilized way of
+doing things. This feller ain’t had no say a-tall. ’Pears to me we
+ought to hold some kind of a court.
+
+“All this talk of hanging ain’t no good unless a man’s guilty, and
+they sure never had no cause to kill old Eb. How could they kill him
+and still have a signed will?”
+
+“Likely scared the old man into it,” explains Sol Vane. “They just rode
+in, forced him to write it and then shot----”
+
+“Just a moment,” says I, and the bunch whirls towards the open window.
+
+They can’t see nothing but the muzzle of that .45-70.
+
+“Mister Sillman,” says I, “will you please cut my pardner loose? The
+rest of you stand plumb still.”
+
+They never made any move while Hashknife gets cut loose.
+
+He stretches his arms and grins at the crowd.
+
+“Sol,” says I, “give him back his derringer.”
+
+Poor Sol wanted to keep that little gun, but he also wanted to keep his
+being; so he handed it over.
+
+“I’ll take my Colt if you don’t mind, Bassett,” grins Hashknife, and
+Bassett gave it up like a little man.
+
+Then Hashknife turns to Albright.
+
+“You and Pete Godfrey had better hustle out of this country. Just as
+soon as I can get hold of a U. S. marshal I’m going to cinch you two
+for murder. _Sabe?_”
+
+“If you ain’t got no corpse--” begins Wheeler.
+
+“But I have,” crows Hashknife. “Ask Albright if I haven’t.”
+
+I had sort of eliminated Pete from the crowd, being as his right arm
+is in a sling, and I didn’t see him pull a gun with his left hand, but
+anyway he was slow and awkward with it and it gives me time to shift
+the muzzle of my gun.
+
+Honest to grandma, I didn’t aim to make no stage-play. I sure meant
+to cut him plumb in two, but the bullet hit the cylinder of Pete’s
+six-shooter, yanked it out of his hand and drove it square into
+Bassett’s stummick. Bassett dropped flat.
+
+Funny how a little thing like that will start things. Bassett don’t no
+more than hit the floor when Willer Crick takes a chance. I saw a flash
+of Hashknife’s hand, the roar of that derringer, and the oil lamp went
+out, and with the same flash I saw Sillman throw the door wide open.
+
+I dropped flat and let a handful of lead pass over me, and then I hopped
+up and raced for the horses. Hashknife whistled to me and we untied our
+animals while Willer Crick shot up their furniture.
+
+We sure rode high and handsome out of there. We went straight to the
+bunkhouse, where we got our blankets and the single-shot rifle and
+then we crossed the creek to the bunch of willows. We haven’t said a
+word yet, but when we gets our cigarets going I says:
+
+“Have a nice visit, Hashknife?”
+
+“Uh-huh. Nice folks, Sleepy. I reckon they hated to see me go. I had
+one ---- of a time. I saw Sillman ride down that lane yesterday; so I
+figured it to be his place down there. It was kinda dark when I rode
+up. There’s a feller in the yard, and I yells at him--
+
+“‘Is this Sillman’s place?’
+
+“Blooey! Somebody took a shot at me. Never touched me though, but I
+was setting loose in the saddle, and that fool bronc threw me over
+the fence. I sure got the wind all knocked out of me, and when I woke
+up I was swamped with Willer Crickers. How did you happen to come up
+there?”
+
+“Glory. She told me what was going on.”
+
+“Heavenly angels! She did? I--I’d admire to marry her.”
+
+“So would I, Hashknife, but me and you’ve got to forget all this love
+stuff.”
+
+We ain’t afraid what Willer Crick will do in the night, but we ain’t
+going to be in them buildings in the morning. We slept well. I dreams
+that I’m chasing that whole bunch across the hills with nothing but a
+handful of rocks, when all to once my blanket seems to shake out from
+under me, and I rolls into the brush.
+
+Rocks and gravel seems to rain all over me. I’m still half-dreaming; so
+I went hunting for more rocks to throw, when I hears Hashknife chuckling
+like a fool.
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+“Hashknife,” says I, “did you kick me off my blanket?”
+
+“Nope.”
+
+“Hit me with a rock?”
+
+“No-o-o-o-o.”
+
+“Well, somebody did--dang it!”
+
+It is just beginning to get daylight. Hashknife is setting there on his
+blanket, grinning like a fool.
+
+“Ha, ha, ha!” says I. “Funny, ain’t it?”
+
+“Come on, Sleepy. I think something has happened.”
+
+We crosses the gully and climbs up to the bunk-house.
+
+“Look at the house!” gasps Hashknife.
+
+“Every window is busted, and she seems sort of squeegeed. The roof is
+about three feet out of plumb, and she has a general look of distress.
+
+“When you gets through admirin’ the arky-tecture, you might come and
+take a look at this, Sleepy.”
+
+Where the dynamite had been buried is a hole about ten feet deep and
+fifteen feet across. We looks at it and then at each other.
+
+“My gosh!” says I. “They sure dug something up, Hashknife!”
+
+Hashknife is peering down towards the corral, and as I turns my head he
+says:
+
+“Holy horned-toads! Wouldja look at that, Sleepy!”
+
+I took one look and then we pilgrims down to the corral. The apparition
+is setting on the top pole of the fence, gazing into space. It used to
+be a man, but right now she don’t assay a trace. It’s still got on part
+of a pair of pants and one boot, but the rest of it is shucked clean and
+black as ink. It ain’t got a hair left on its head, but it still moves
+and has its being.
+
+“Thing,” says Hashknife, “who or what did you used to be?”
+
+“Sol Vane,” it croaks. “I--does--the--lawin’--fer--Willer--Crick.”
+
+“Uh-huh,” says Hashknife. “You sure look like you’d been mixed up in
+dirty business. Mind talking a little?”
+
+He shakes his singed head and then nods. He’s been hit so hard that he
+don’t _sabe_ things--much.
+
+“Who done the digging, Sol?”
+
+“Ju--Jim. Me and Pete looked on.”
+
+“You was looking for the corpse?”
+
+“Uh-huh.”
+
+“Where’s Pete and Jim?”
+
+Sol seems to consider the question, and then looks up at the sky.
+
+“Ain’t come down yet?”
+
+“I--never--seen--’em,” he admits. “Mebby--they--ain’t.”
+
+Just then Sillman rides into the place. We nods to him, but he’s too
+busy looking at Sol Vane. Pretty soon he grins and nods to us.
+
+“That grave had dynamite in it,” explains Hashknife. “The one in the
+front yard. Pete and Al and the lawyer of Willer Crick came down to
+dig up the body.”
+
+“Oh!” croaks Sol. “Al--must--’a’--picked--into--it.”
+
+“I found Pete’s hat up the road,” says Sillman. “That is, I found the
+brim.”
+
+“He likely got blowed right up through it,” says Hashknife, and then he
+turns to Sol. “Can you walk?”
+
+Sol thinks it over for a while and then nods.
+
+“Can you run?”
+
+“Mebby.”
+
+“All right,” grins Hashknife. “We’ll find out, Sol. See that rise in the
+road up there? I’m going to make allowances for your shocking condition;
+so I’ll count thirty. If you ain’t over that hump by that time--you’ll
+never get over. _Sabe?_ One--two----”
+
+“----!” grunts Sillman as Sol’s head disappears. “You gave him too
+danged much!”
+
+“Uh-huh,” admits Hashknife sad-like. “I only got to twenty-seven.”
+
+“Maybe it’s just as well,” says Sillman. “He’ll be able to tell the rest
+of the folks where Pete and Al went.”
+
+“If Willer Crick knowed ’em like they ought to--they don’t need to be
+told,” says I.
+
+Sillman nods and crooks one leg around his saddle-horn.
+
+“Willer Crick is sore this morning. They didn’t all see you go out that
+door, and they sure mingled some lead. Some of ’em are plumb sore at me
+for opening the door.”
+
+“They ought to give you thanks,” grins Hashknife, “’cause I’d have
+started a little cemetery myself if the door hadn’t been open.”
+
+“Yeah, that’s so, but Willer Crick only has one idea at a time. It sure
+put me in bad. The way she is with me is this: Everything I’ve got in
+the world is here. No outsider would give me a ’dobe dollar for what I
+own, and nobody on the crick would buy me out. Glory was going to marry
+Pete----”
+
+“That’s done busted off,” says Hashknife.
+
+“Yeah; but, figuring from the standpoint of Willer Crick, she’s got to
+marry up here, and the rest of ’em ain’t one hop better than Pete.”
+
+“We’ve met her,” nods Hashknife. “Nice little girl.”
+
+“She guided me to your place last night,” says I.
+
+Sillman stares at me and then grins.
+
+“Well, that makes it easier or harder. Here’s the proposition: You
+fellers ain’t the marrying kind, are you?”
+
+“Nope,” says I. “We can’t afford it.”
+
+“That’s good. Now I’ll tell you what I want one of you to do: But
+first I wants to tell you something: Bassett went after the sheriff
+this morning to investigate the killing of the old man.
+
+“Now, Willer Crick will sure swear you into the pen. _Sabe?_ You ain’t
+got as much chance as a celluloid dog chasing a asbestos cat through
+----. I’m telling this as a friend.
+
+“Glory is slated to marry some Willer Cricker, but if she happens to
+marry an outsider--well, I’ll likely have to kill somebody, but we’ll
+manage to wiggle along, I reckon.
+
+“My brother showed up last night. He’s got money and he hates Willer
+Crick up one side and down the other. Him and me has a talk about
+Glory. I told him about you boys, and here’s the proposition: He’ll
+give one of you five hundred dollars to marry Glory if you’ll agree
+to leave right away. _Sabe?_
+
+“That plumb ruins the chances for anybody here to marry her, and
+gives her an excuse to leave here. If I let her go outside with her
+uncle--well, Willer Crick would make life so danged miserable for me
+and the rest of the family---- But if she’s married they can’t say
+much. _Sabe?_”
+
+“What does--uh--Glory think?” asks Hashknife.
+
+“Naturally she bucks, but we’ve talked her into it. She don’t want to
+marry anybody she don’t love, and she says she don’t love either of you
+fellers.”
+
+“Five hundred!” says Hashknife thoughtful-like. “Well, which one of us
+will be the bridegroom, old-timer?”
+
+Sillman turns in his saddle and whistles like a steam-engine.
+
+“You talk it over with Glory,” says he. “She’s waiting over there.”
+
+                   *       *       *       *       *
+
+He pilgrims up to where the excavating had been done and gets off his
+horse. In a minute she shows up, coming over the same rise where Sol
+Vane had disappeared. She rides up to us and looks back at her pa.
+
+“Sol Vane told me about it,” says she, sort of shuddering. “Nothing
+left?”
+
+“Pete’s hat,” says Hashknife. “Your pa broke the news to us; so you
+might as well pick your choice.”
+
+She looks at the two of us and then busts out crying. Honest, I didn’t
+think her kind had a bawl in their system, but I reckon most women have.
+
+“Aw, ----!” groans Hashknife. “I--I wish all of Willer Crick had owned a
+pick and a desire to dig up corpses.”
+
+“You--you must think I’m a fool and pa’s a fool and----”
+
+“Me and Hashknife goes fifty-fifty with you,” says I. “Ain’t you got no
+choice?”
+
+She shakes her head and mops her eyes.
+
+“I’m the best lookin’,” says Hashknife, “but of course that don’t
+mean nothing, as you’re going to be a grass widder. I’ve got a lovin’
+disposition, too, but----shucks!”
+
+“The Stevenses are good folks,” says I.
+
+“Stevens is a good name.”
+
+“For a single-shot rifle,” says Hashknife.
+
+“We’ll cut cards,” says I. “Suit you, Glory?”
+
+She nods and I gets the old deck.
+
+“Ace high, deuce low?”
+
+Hashknife nods and cuts the ten of spades.
+
+“Ten-spot!” he grunts. “Dang the luck!”
+
+I takes my card between my first two fingers and sailed it straight for
+the bunkhouse door, where she sticks in a crack for all to see--that
+pot-hooked Joner, with seven puppy-tracks!
+
+“When does this marriage come off?” asks Hashknife when Sillman rides
+down to us.
+
+“Preacher is at my house by this time, I reckon. Gives you a few hours’
+start of the sheriff.”
+
+“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “if you don’t want to go along I’ll meet you
+at the forks of the road.”
+
+I stands there and watches ’em move off up the road, and then I slams
+the hull on to Gray Wolf. I took a canteen of water and some grub. We
+ain’t had no breakfast, but that don’t matter. That hammer-headed brute
+bucks plumb across the gully with me, but has to quit when he hits the
+steep going.
+
+I’m about half-way up that hill when I hears a yell. Two men, one on a
+roan and the other on a gray, are coming past the house. I recognizes
+Bassett, and I opines that the other is the sheriff.
+
+I sinks the spurs into Wolf, and I just beat a bullet over the top. I
+sure was glad I wasn’t on any ordinary bronc. That brute’s middle name
+was Run. They hung on well, but I kept ’em going too fast to shoot
+straight.
+
+I’m swinging along the side of a hill when I happens to see some riders
+cutting across to head me off. Appears to me that maybe some Willer
+Crickers were on their way to visit us. Anyway, they seemed pleased to
+see me.
+
+I swings off to the right and went down a hill at a mile-a-minute clip,
+turns sharp at the bottom and follers an old washout for a few hundred
+yards. Then I swings out and rides in behind a big pinnacle of rock. I
+climbs on to the rocks and gets ready to make mourners in Willer Crick.
+
+I sees Bassett and the sheriff angling down the side of the hill, going
+slow. Then I gets a glimpse of that other bunch. They’ve got around the
+butte and are coming up to cut in ahead of the sheriff and Bassett.
+
+All to once it strikes me about the color of them broncs. A gray and a
+roan--the same color as mine and Hashknife’s.
+
+It don’t no more than strike me when I hears a shot, and I sees Bassett
+go clawing out of his saddle. The sheriff’s bronc whirled sideways and
+went into the washout backwards, with its rider clawing like thunder to
+stay on.
+
+Things are quiet for a minute or two, and then I see two of them fellers
+sneak out of the mesquite and start for where the sheriff went down.
+
+_Whang! Whang!_ I sees one of them, I think it was Wheeler, go
+bow-legged all to once, and I sees the other feller’s hat flip off his
+head. They both fell back into the brush. That sheriff wasn’t hurt any
+to interfere with his shooting.
+
+I rolls me a cigaret and got my bronc. It wasn’t none of my business
+what they done to each other.
+
+I took my time after that. I rode a long ways around, ’cause I wasn’t
+sure where that road forked.
+
+I didn’t no more than reach that signboard when here comes Hashknife.
+Diablo is one mass of lather, and Hashknife is covered with dust. He
+stops his bronc and looks back.
+
+“How does she seem to be a Benedict?” I asks.
+
+Hashknife turns and looks at that sign.
+
+    THERE IS A CLICK ON WILLER CRICK
+    THE WORST IN ALL THIS NASHUN.
+    THE HITE OF THEIR AMBISHUN IS
+    TO BEAT THEIR OWN RELASHUN.
+
+“Sleepy,” says he, “that’s the truest poetry ever written.”
+
+“Being related, you ought to know.”
+
+Hashknife grins and looks back again.
+
+“Two cousins of Glory’s was to have been at the wedding, but they was
+late, I reckon. Anyway they held me up for that five hundred, Sleepy.
+Said they heard Sillman tell about it.”
+
+“What did you do, Hashknife?”
+
+“Nobody told ’em about that derringer, Sleepy. Handy little old weapon.”
+
+Hashknife slides off his bronc and kicks his boots against the post.
+
+“Cold feet?” I asks.
+
+“Cold ----! I’m shaking the dust of Willer Crick off my feet.”
+
+“Uh-huh, I see. But you can’t shake relationship, Hashknife.”
+
+He climbs back on his bronc, and we points up the road.
+
+“That’s true, Sleepy, but they ain’t no relation to me.”
+
+“Didn’t you marry her?”
+
+“No-o-o-o.”
+
+“Didn’t you get that five hundred dollars?”
+
+“No-o-o-o.”
+
+“Well, ----!”
+
+“Uncle Luke was in the yard, Sleepy,” he explains.
+
+“Oh-h-h-h-h!” says I. “I see. Well, well! Uncle Luke was in the yard,
+eh? That makes it seem different, Hashknife. My, my! What in ---- has
+Uncle Luke in the yard got to do with it?”
+
+“Uncle Luke is the sheriff of Yolo, Sleepy.”
+
+
+[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August 3, 1920 issue of
+Adventure magazine.]
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78602 ***