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diff --git a/78644-0.txt b/78644-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2289355 --- /dev/null +++ b/78644-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2411 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78644 *** + + “HASHKNIFE”--PHILANTHROPIST + + W. C. Tuttle + + Author of “Ike Harper’s Historical Holiday,” + “When the Pilgrims Hit Piperock,” etc. + + +I don’t know who “Toothpick” Thompson was or is, but he must ’a’ been a +miserable sort of a whippoorwill to incur the enmity of a smiling soul +like “Hashknife” Hartley. + +Hashknife is what you’d call a lovable character with a purpose in +life, said purpose being the finding of said Toothpick. With this one +exception Hashknife loves everybody, but packs his gun handy for those +who might misconstrue his devotion. + +Hashknife never did tell me what Toothpick done to him, but it must +’a’ been something gosh-awful. I can get a rise out of Hashknife any +old time by asking him for a toothpick, but he never has said what he +intended doing to this splinter-named individual. + +“Going to hang his hide on the fence?” I asks. + +“Whatcha reckon I’m going to do--kiss him?” + +I’ve got so I keeps my eyes open for anybody which might fit the +description, which consists of a he-human, a heap generous from end +to end, but skimpy in circumference. Added description don’t help +much, ’cause Hashknife is likely prejudiced and anyway nobody’d print +it. I never antagonizes Hashknife and I never intentionally starts +any argument, but at times I foolishly makes some sort of a remark, +and this is what happens: + +“Aw shucks, ‘Sleepy,’ you’ve got the wrong idea entirely. Romance means +meeting some female, making love to her by the old mill-stream, and +eventually marrying her. + +“I know, I know, cowboy; you’re thinking of the days men wore iron +panties and went around with a cant-hook in one hand and a skewer in the +other. Uh-huh--sure. They was on the prod most of the time according to +books, but you’ve got to figure that they had to do a little work once +in a while. + +“Yeah, they was romantic, Sleepy, but they must ’a’ had toothache, +bald heads and corns the same as me and you. You never reads no tales +of cow-land wherein the buckaroo is ever troubled with them ailments +or has to get up at five o’clock in the Winter to shovel hay at a lot +of bawling cows. Romance is a great thing, Sleepy, but yuh can’t be +hungry or broke and be romantic at the same time.” + +Hashknife gasps with delight over that discourse. I marvels exceedingly +that any human being can hold its breath so long. + +“Hashknife,” says I, “Bill Bryan never had anything on you except his +platform. I wasn’t kicking about there not being any romance left, but +I was just remarking that nothing ever happens to us. Honest, we’re +getting in one awful rut.” + +Hashknife reins in his bronc and stares at me. + +“Oh, yeah. Well, well. Me and you just got the powder-smoke out of our +noses, and here you goes yelping about being in a rut. What would you +advise?” + +“No advice. I was just hoping that something would happen to +us--something we ain’t to blame for. _Sabe?_” + +“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. You’d like to have this grade slide off into the +river or have a rattlesnake rise up and bite you or----” + +_P’wee! P’wee-e-e-e-e!_ + +One of them bullets makes a merry-go-round out of my hat, and the other +one makes Hashknife grab his nose. + +_P’wee-e-e-e-e-e! Splat!_ + +Another one flattens on a rock behind us as we whirled our broncs off +the road into a willow thicket. Then we hit the ground with our rifles +in our hands and stares at each other. + +“Somebody must ’a’ heard you, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “You talk too +loud. Keep your head down.” + +“Take care of your own head,” says I. “I never hired you as a +head-guard.” + +We sneaks in behind some rocks and brush, and takes a look across the +river. I reckon we’ve been there half an hour when we sees two men on a +rock across the river. They appears to be a heap interested in the spot +where we left our broncs. After a while one of ’em takes a shot in that +direction. + +Just then Hashknife’s rifle cracks. I seen the shooter stumble to his +knees, and his rifle comes skyhootin’ plumb down into the river. The +other feller ducks down and hauls his incapacitated friend out of +sight. + +“Whatcha laying there with a gun for, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife. “All you +had to do was line up on the other feller and we’d got ’em both.” + +“Sure,” says I, “and then we’d have to go over there and nurse ’em to +some town. As it is one takes care of the other and we ain’t under +obligations to nobody.” + +“My ----!” he grunts. “You sure do look into the future. Won’t shoot a +man ’cause you’re too lazy to bury him. My, my, you’ve got a heart.” + +Then we sneaked back to our broncs and went on. We ain’t got no more +idea of where we’re going than a Piegan has of the pyramids. + +Me and him goes along until circumstances causes us to stop, and then +we eventually goes on again. We can ride anything you can hook a hull +on to or rope to a certain extent, and are so danged peaceful that +we’re willing to cut one cinch off our saddles when we ride into a +single-rig country. + +Soldiers of fortune? Naw, sir, cow-punchers of disaster. Fortune never +smiled at us. At times she’s busted out laughing when we’ve doubled on +our trail and left some anxious sheriff barking up a tree, but otherwise +she’s had her back turned to us. + +Right now our combined wealth won’t total over seventeen dollars. We’ve +got two Winchesters, a .41 and a .44 Colt, and Hashknife packs a .44 +derringer in his vest pocket. + +Under us we’ve got two jug-headed broncs and two good saddles. My +bronc’s name is Gray Wolf and Hashknife’s was christened El Diablo. +Their mission in life is to pile somebody. + +Our consciences are clear--enough to suit us, and we’ve got sense enough +to go inside when it rains. + +“Regular town,” observes Hashknife as we tops a hill and gets a look +at the settlement below us. “Got a main street, hitch-racks, houses, +et cettery. Somebody’s wagon must ’a’ broke down here and so they +decided to start a town. + +“Court-house, jail and lots of saloons. Cause and effect, Sleepy. I see +a café-sign, cowboy.” + +“Bar 80 on shoulder and Cross L on the hip,” says I as we drift past two +broncs at a rack. “Where did we hear anything about the Bar 80?” + +“Wasn’t it the Bar 80 that Pete McCool bragged so much about? Said it +was the toughest outfit that Gawd ever let live. Remember it, don’tcha, +Sleepy?” + +“Uh, huh. Betcha forty dollars that this is Badger City. According to +Pete, New York is a deserted sheep-camp beside Badger City.” + +“She’s that same li’l’ place,” agrees Hashknife as we swings down. “I +see the name on the bank window. Let’s see if their eggs are fresh.” +We leaves our broncs and starts for the door. + + * * * * * + +Two fellers comes out of the hash-house as we starts in. One of ’em is a +tall individual with the longest mustache I ever seen. He packs his gun +almost to his knee and he’s got hair an inch long on his wrist. + +The other one is a pig-headed-looking _hombre_ with little round eyes +and a little belly that sort of folds over the band of his pants. He’s +wearing store clothes and a hard hat, but you don’t notice him so much +as you do his watch-chain, which is made of twenty-dollar gold-pieces +linked together. I counts ten of ’em, and his coat must hide that many +more. + +They steps to one side and stares at us. I never had anybody stare at me +so hard before. We walks right past ’em and lands at the nearest table. + +We glances outside and see them two meet another feller in the middle +of the street. This third person starts talking with both hands, but +the tall feller grabs him by the arm and the three of ’em crosses the +street. + +“What do you think, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife. + +“About four hundred and fifty dollars.” + +“Where?” + +“In that watch-chain.” + +“I didn’t figure that, Sleepy. I was watching the tall feller’s hands. +Honest to gosh, they itched to grab a gun.” + +“Hunting boogers, eh?” says I. “Looking for tiger’s teeth in a canary. +Some of these days, Hashknife, you’ll get bit by a chickadee.” + +Just then a feller comes out of the kitchen to take our order. He’s a +meek-looking _hombre_ with a long lock of hair hanging down over his +forehead, and an ancient cigaret is glued to the corner of his lower +lip. He takes a look all around and then comes over to us. + +“Pardner,” says Hashknife, “can you deliver us about two dollars’ worth +of ham and eggs?” + +“And fried spuds and coffee?” I adds. + +“Yeah,” says he. “Uh-huh; sure.” + +“Confirmed three times,” grins Hashknife. “Hurry it along, will you?” + +“Yeah,” says he, brushing back the hair. “Uh-huh, sure.” + +“Man of few words--all meaning the same,” says Hashknife. + +He delivers us the feed and then ducks back into the kitchen. He comes +out in time to collect, and Hashknife asks him who the feller with the +gaudy chain is. + +“That’s Abe Spooner, the prosecuting attorney, and the other one is Bill +Ells, the sheriff. I hope they both die before their time comes.” + +He shuffles back to the kitchen, and me and Hashknife looks at each +other. + +“My ----!” says Hashknife. “This is awful! Abe Spooner and Bill Ells! +Well, well!” + +“You know who they are?” + +“No, but they must be awful, Sleepy. They’ve scared the cook.” + +“You scared?” + +“Y’ betcha. Got a notion to sneak out the back way and run like ----! +You scared too, Sleepy?” + +“Yeah--scared I won’t inherit that chain.” + +Somehow them two _hombres_ seems to be waiting for us in that saloon. +The sheriff is leaning against the bar, while the prosecutor sets on a +card-table sort of fussing with his watch-chain nervous-like. + +A couple of punchers are playing pool, and a third one--the feller who +met them out in the street--is trying to make a little yellow dog do +tricks. This last puncher is about seven-eighths drunk. + +Me and Hashknife braces up to the bar and calls for cigars. We took +hooch in a strange town just once; now we takes cigars. + +“Nice weather we’re having,” says Hashknife pleasant-like. + +“Up to now,” admits the sheriff. + +He don’t look bad to me. Any time yuh find a _hombre_ who ties his +holster down--well, anyway, they don’t live long. + +“Dang fool dawg won’t do nothin’!” complains the puncher, flopping his +arms nervous-like. “Want to show him off and he won’t do a darn thing. +Teached that dawg myself. Want to see him play dead?” + +“Shut up!” snaps the sheriff. “Dog’s got more sense than you have.” + +“Thasso?” + +The puncher gets woolly. + +“Well, well! Let’s have a drink. Still got money left and more where +that comes from; eh, sheriff?” + +“Shut up!” howls the sheriff, yanking him around and shoving him out on +the sidewalk. + +They has a few words and then the puncher weaves back across the street. +Then the sheriff comes back in. + +“My, you sure know how to razoo a feller, don’tcha?” applauds Hashknife. +“You’re the sheriff, ain’tcha?” + +“I am. Why?” + +“Nothing much, but being as you’re the sheriff I thought maybe you’d +like to know that somebody shoots at me and my pardner as we rides up +the road.” + +“Did, eh?” + +The sheriff shows interest and so does Spooner. + +“Somebody shot at you?” asks Spooner wondering-like. + +“Right at us,” grins Hashknife. “Whatcha know about that?” + +“Did you--uh--see either of them?” asks Spooner. + +“Did I say it was two men? Now, maybe I did.” + +Spooner swallers hard and scratches his chin. + +“Seen ’em both,” nods Hashknife, plastering down the loose wrapper on +his cigar. “Shot one. Left the other intact to bring in the body. Funny +thing; you know it? Feller ought to know how to shoot before he tries +such didoes as that, don’tcha think?” + +“You telling me the truth?” asks the sheriff. + +Hashknife grins into his eyes for a moment and then half-turns away. I +knew what was coming ’cause I’ve seen it before--a pivot punch. + +It caught the sheriff at the butt of his left ear, and for the next +half-minute that sheriff was as dead to the world as if he had spent +seven million years in a cemetery. + +Spooner almost falls off the table, and the two pool-players stops their +game sudden-like. + +“He doubted my word,” says Hashknife, rubbing his knuckles. “He didn’t +show good judgment.” + +I was watching things--me. I seen the bartender, who is standing sort +of behind Hashknife, reverse a bottle in his hand, and my bullet sure +ruined one good quart of corn-juice. + +“Aw-w-w-w-w-w!” wails the bartender, wiping his eyes. “Whatcha do that +for?” + +“Put your hands on the bar,” says I. “Next time you might remember that +the top end of a bottle is the neck--not the handle.” + + * * * * * + +The sheriff heaves a big sigh and then sets up. He moves his head like +one of them mechanical doll things, and then he squints up at us. Man, +I hankered for a chance to tie his mustache behind his neck. He sort of +masticates slow-like, and gets to his feet. + +“You ... hit ... me?” he asks, gawping at Hashknife. + +“Yeah. It pains me to have my word doubted.” + +“I didn’t doubt your word, stranger.” + +“My, I’m glad,” says Hashknife. + +“Honest I am. I sure accepts your apology, and I feels that we’re going +to get along fine. I ain’t never had a sheriff for a friend. + +“I kinda like your friend here--this one with the visible watch-chain. +Name’s Spooner, ain’t it? Nice name. What does he do for a living?” + +“I am the prosecuting attorney,” says Spooner. + +“Well, well! I thought you owned the mint. I apologize--to the mint.” + +“You looking for trouble?” asks the sheriff. “’Cause if you are----” + +“I should say not,” says Hashknife. “Not us. Me and Sleepy are two +little doves setting on an olive-branch. Live and let live, say we. + +“Yuh see, Sleepy just busted that bottle on general principles. He’s so +strong for temperance that he just has to bust booze.” + +“Yeah?” says the sheriff, feeling of his jaw. “Yeah?” + +He walks to the door and looks back. + +“About a mile below here,” says Hashknife. “They was across the river.” + +The sheriff grunts something and walks out, and behind him goes Spooner, +looking back all the way. One of the punchers puts down his cue and +walks over to us. + +“Gents,” says he, “I’ll buy. I never seen anything better in my life. I +just needed one ball to beat ‘Slim,’ and when you hit Ells I picked up +the ball and put it in my own pocket. I’ll buy you a drink and a cigar +for your pardner.” + +“I’ve backslid,” says I, “so we’ll cancel the cigar.” + +“Something with ‘U. S. Revenue’ stamped on the cork,” says Hashknife, +“and I’ll open it myself.” + +“You’re the doctor,” says the bartender. + +“I ain’t suspicious, you understand,” grins Hashknife, “but I’ve got to +stick in this vale of tears a while. You know a _hombre_ by the name of +Toothpick Thompson?” + +The bartender shakes his head, and so does the two punchers. + +“Never heard of him,” says one of the boys. “I’m Al Stingle, and this is +Slim Smith. The best thing Slim does is play pool.” + +“You skin me every danged time,” complains Slim. + +“Me and Slim works for the Cross L outfit. In fact we’re about all that +is left of the outfit; ain’t we, Slim?” + +“That’s awful true,” nods Slim sad-like. “Wouldn’t be surprized to +wake up any morning and find that we’ve been stolen. Cows just sort +of e-vaporate--why not punchers?” + +“That tells it,” nods Al. “E-vaporation. You fellers looking for jobs?” + +“Know anything about the Bar 80?” asks Hashknife. + +“Bar 80?” asks Slim. “Oh, yeah, we know something about ’em. It ain’t +Bar 80 no more--it’s the JHE outfit. About a year ago they changes the +brand.” + +“Anything wrong about that?” asks Hashknife. + +“----, no. They lets us alone and we lets them alone, but they don’t +get any love-notes from us, being as they’re the snake-hunters what +sent Shorty Blewett to the pen. Didn’t know Shorty, did you? No? Well, +they grabbed Shorty and sent him up for five years--on JHE evidence.” + +“Shorty worked with you fellers?” + +“Uh-huh. Shorty got a idea he could find out how the cows were being +rustled, and he--well, the darn fool got caught.” + +“That’s what they said,” corrects Al. “Shorty wasn’t no rustler. It was +a dirty deal, if you asks me.” + +“Where did they get the idea for the JHE brand?” + +“Eastern outfit, I reckon. Brill is supposed to own it.” + +“Brill?” asks Hashknife. + +“Yeah. He’s a cowman all right,” says Slim. “They brands all the Bar 80 +stuff over again. Me and Al has a couple of Bar 80 saddle-horses.” + +“Cross L loses a lot of stock?” asks Hashknife. + +“About all they’ve got,” says Slim. “Every month is like a hard Winter. +The old man--Jack Older, our boss--has lost about thirty-five hundred +head. + +“I’d ’a’ killed somebody a long time ago if it belonged to me. Why, he’s +just set around and let somebody annex all his wealth. How the ---- it’s +done I dunno, but she’s being done, stranger.” + +“Anybody else losing stock?” + +“Yeah. The Lazy U has lost about all they owned, and the JHE has been +hoodled out of a lot. It’s some system, I’d tell a man.” + +“Whatcha reckon them fellers shot at us for?” asks Hashknife. + +“Told anybody you was coming?” asks Slim. + +“Didn’t know it ourselves.” + +“This is one peculiar country,” admits Al. “If I was you I’d look out +a little when you’re around the sheriff. I know you fellers are plumb +weaned from milk, but Ells is a bad _hombre_ to cross.” + +“How about Spooner?” I asks. + +“Coyote,” grins Al. “Never packs a gun. Only thing that saves him. Run +out to the Cross L and visit us. Old man likes company--the kind you +don’t have to keep your gun handy for. So-long.” + +“Now,” says Hashknife, “I wonder what that feller over in that doorway +is staring at us for? Lordy, a side-show would coin money in a place +like this, where they gawps so hard at an ordinary he-man. Now he’s +coming over to see us. Maybe he’s nearsighted, Sleepy.” + + * * * * * + +The feller is a tall, rangy-looking _hombre_ with mouse-colored hair +and a slight limp in his left hind leg. He pilgrims up in front of us +and stares at Hashknife. + +“Howdy,” says Hashknife. “Nice weather.” + +“Uh-huh. You wishin’ to get jobs?” + +“Have to wish for ’em?” asks Hashknife innocent-like. + +The feller fingers his chin and glances across the street. + +“I need a couple of good men. I own the JHE outfit.” + +“All of it?” + +“I said I was the owner.” + +“I’m kinda hard of hearing,” says Hashknife. “Didn’t that used to was +the Bar 80?” + +“Uh-huh.” + +“Whatcha say your name was--is?” + +“My name is Brill.” + +“Brill? Used to be a feller down Pecos way by that name. You related to +him?” + +“I don’t know--for sure.” + +“You don’t know much of anything for sure--do yuh?” + +He stares at Hashknife, and I can see Brill’s ears get red. + +“I reckon you don’t want them jobs,” says he soft-like. + +“Not if we has to wish for them. Didja ever hear the story about the +old couple and the fairy? The old lady was having a hard time trying +to make the old coffee-mill work. Fairy shows up and tells ’em she’ll +grant three wishes. The old lady ain’t very far-sighted; so she up and +wishes for a new coffee-mill. + +“That makes the old man sore as ---- to think of wasting one whole wish, +and he up and says: + +“‘That’s a ---- of a wish! I wish you had it hanging on the end of your +nose!’ + +“See what he done? Well, they had to use up the third wish to get that +coffee-mill loose.” + +“What has a fairy-tale got to do with me?” asks Brill. + +“Thisaway,” explains Hashknife. “Somebody--it wasn’t no fairy--says to +you-- + +“‘I wish you to give them two pelicans some jobs on the JHE.’ + +“That’s one wish. _Sabe?_ Then you asks us to wish for them jobs, which +accounts for wish number two. + +“Now supposing we all gets our wish? There’s still one wish coming, +ain’t there? + +“Sure is, and I want to tell you this: Me or you or your fairy-friend is +going to use up that third wish--wishing to ---- that they hadn’t never +wished. See what I mean?” + +“I sure don’t,” states Brill. “Do you or don’t you want them jobs?” + +“We ain’t wishing today, Mister Brill.” + +“Of course you _sabe_ your own business,” says he, making a toothpick +out of a match and picking his yellow teeth. That toothpick makes +Hashknife sore. + +“Do we?” he snaps. “Well, by the horns on the moon, we never came to +this hay-wire hamlet to ask anybody about it. I reckon we’ll wiggle +along in spite of our business.” + +“In spite of it,” nods Brill. “Some business is a handicap.” + +“Not when she’s your own and you mind it!” snaps Hashknife. + +We seen Spooner just inside the door of the building across the street +as Brill went inside. + +“I hope you’re getting satisfaction, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “It +appears that things are happening--things we never started. Beginning +to feel romantic, cowboy. What do you think?” + +“I think I’d like to play a game of pool to settle my nerves.” + +We plays a few games, but it ain’t much fun when you’ve got to keep one +eye on a hostile bartender and the other on a pool-ball, so we finally +decides to stable our broncs and find a place to hive up. We meets the +sheriff at the door, and he steps to one side to let us out. + +“Still here, eh?” says he, trying to appear friendly. + +“Yeah,” admits Hashknife. “We can’t deny it, sheriff.” + +“Figure on staying long?” + +“Let me see.” + +Hashknife counts on his fingers. + +“July, August, September, October, Nov-- Election is in November, ain’t +it?” + +“Going to run for office?” + +“No-o-o-o-o, I just wants to vote for a candidate.” + +“Who?” + +“The man who runs against you.” + +“Say, what in ---- are you driving at?” he snaps. “Seems to me that +you’re mixing into things that don’t concern you. You can’t run this +town. _Sabe?_” + +“Naw, sir,” grins Hashknife. “You’ve got the wrong idea. She don’t need +running, but she sure does need cleaning. Whatcha want us to go to work +for the JHE for?” + +“Whatcha talking about?” + +He glares at us and hooks his thumbs into his belt. + +“What do I know about the JHE and your jobs?” + +“Some mustache,” says I, thinking out loud. “What do you do when you +want to eat? Pin ’em to your ears?” + +“None of your ---- business! If I was you I’d drift real sudden.” + +“You would,” nods Hashknife; “but we ain’t that kind of whippoorwills. +There ain’t no hay-wire about us. Let’s go and see what the stage drug +in.” + +There’s a crowd around the stage. The sheriff horns right in behind us, +and everybody seems to be talking at once. There’s a wounded man and a +tale of how some bushwhacker shot from the top of the hill. They gets a +doctor and fusses over him. + +“Going along nice as you please when somebody shoots down at us and Sam +keels over,” explains the driver. + +“Shooting from above you?” asks Hashknife, turning away from looking at +the wounded man. + +“Said so, didn’t I? I seen the smoke from his gun.” + +“Must ’a’ had a long-barreled gun with a crook at the end,” grins +Hashknife. + +“What do you mean?” asks the driver mean-like. + +“Bullet went in low and comes out high. You should have said you was on +top of the hill and the bushwhacker was below.” + +“Sheriff, will you herd this crowd outside?” asks the doctor. “I can’t +do a danged thing with all this shoving around.” + +There’s plenty of talk out there on the sidewalk, but the driver sort of +shuts up since Hashknife called him. The wounded man ain’t very popular, +being as he’s sort of a gunman. + +“Going after the bushwhacker, sheriff?” asks somebody. + +The sheriff is looking at me and Hashknife, and don’t answer the +question. Pretty soon he jerks his head sideways and starts up the +sidewalk, and we saunters along behind him. + +We walks into his office, and he nods toward a pair of chairs. We places +’em against the wall and ain’t no more than got seated when here comes +Spooner. He peers back up the street and eases himself into a chair. + + * * * * * + +The sheriff fusses with some papers for a while, and then-- + +“How much?” + +“How much what?” asks Hashknife, looking up from rolling a smoke. + +“Every man has a price.” + +“Yeah? Suppose you go ahead and talk a little.” + +“Don’t say too much,” advises Spooner. + +“Of course we know who shot Sam Peele.” + +“Sure we do,” nods Spooner. + +“You can’t pay me for it,” grins Hashknife. “I sell no scalps.” + +“Who in ---- wants to pay you for it?” grunts the sheriff. “My ----, you +two get on my nerves! What’s it worth to you fellers to get out and stay +out?” + +“Oh,” says Hashknife, glancing at me. “What’s it worth to you?” + +“I’m buying--not selling,” says the sheriff. “Of course if the price is +too high----” + +“Wait a minute,” says Spooner, getting to his feet as the sheriff starts +to finish. “There ain’t no use of anybody going off half-cocked. Now the +question is this: How much is Crosby paying you? Or does your pay come +from somebody else?” + +“Whatcha want to know for?” asks Hashknife. + +“If you don’t know the ante you can’t raise it, can you?” + +“Got any certain price in mind?” I asks. + +“No,” says the sheriff. “We didn’t figure on----” + +“Talk it over,” advises Hashknife. “We’ll stable our broncs and maybe by +that time you’ll be able to talk without swallering all the time.” + +We walks out of there and strolls up the sidewalk. + +“I hope your romantic soul is getting satisfaction, cowboy,” says +Hashknife. “I’d sure hate to sell out to them two, but if the price +is right I reckon we better.” + +“Sell out what, Hashknife?” + +“Nothing. We ain’t got nothing, have we? Well, if the price is right +we’ll sell out--tha’s all.” + +Just then a girl comes out of a store ahead of us and starts up the +street. She’s got a lot of bundles in her arms and seems in a hurry. + +The puncher who had been trying to make his dog do tricks is just tying +his bronc to a rack, but when he sees her he steps up on the walk in +front of her. She sort of draws away and tries to walk around him, but +he seems to want to talk to her. + +“Wait a minute, can’t you?” he asks, taking hold of her arm. + +Man, she let one hand loose from her packages and slapped him a dandy. +She started to run, but he grabbed her again and she lost her packages. + +Somebody across the street laughs out loud, and I sort of estimate how +high to hold to cut off his belt-buckle when Hashknife collides with +Mister Puncher. I know that said puncher went to the Land of Nod in one +blaze of glory, ’cause Hashknife hit me once by mistake. + +Then Hashknife proceeds to pick him up by the heels and drags him over +to a hitch-rack, where he takes the feller’s rope and hangs him upside +down. There he hangs, sleeping sweetly, with his soles pointing at the +sky. The population seems to sort of gather around wondering-like, and +gazes upon this painless lynching. + +One feller--a gambler by his raiment--steps up and says: + +“What has Ben done now?” + +Hashknife ignores the question and takes off his hat to the girl. + +“Ma’am, may I walk home with you?” he asks. + +“No, I hardly think so,” says she. “I live about five miles out.” + +Somebody sort of snickers and then shuts up sudden-like when Hashknife +turns. Then he turns back to the girl and picks up her bundles. + +“I thank you just the same,” says she. “You are very kind.” + +“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “I don’t reckon anybody’s going to +bother you again.” + +“Just the same I thank you,” says she, and we stood there and watched +her climb into a buggy and pull out of town. + +Then we turns back to the crowd. Bennie has woke up and is protesting +considerable. The sheriff and Spooner are there, acting like they wished +an explanation. + +“Mind telling what you done that to Bennie for?” asks the sheriff. + +“If that upside-down drunken pup is Bennie I’ll say this much: He got +too fresh with a lady,” answers Hashknife. + +“Who was the lady?” asks the sheriff. + +“Crosby’s girl,” says somebody, “Molly Crosby.” + +“I never done a danged thing!” wails Bennie. “Ain’t somebody going to +let me loose?” + +“I will,” says the sheriff, but Hashknife steps right into him. + +“Better reflect,” says Hashknife. “I ain’t never heard of angels with +flowing mustaches like yours, but so help me ----, if you let him loose +until I tell you to there will be something new for Saint Peter to pass +upon.” + +A lot of the folks seem shocked, but they don’t lose their presence of +mind enough to not get out of the line of possible fire. Hashknife has +got more lines on his face than an ancient Siwash when he sets his poker +face to work, and the sheriff steps back. + +“You running this town?” he asks, sort of twitching his fingers. + +“No-o-o-o-o. No, I ain’t running nothing--not even my legs. I tied that +_hombre_ upside down because I figured he had more brains in his feet +than in his head and some of ’em might trickle down. _Sabe?_” + +Hashknife is a clever sort of a person, but plumb lax about small +details. For instance, he forgot to take Bennie’s gun away from him. + +I ain’t clever. I don’t look ahead and get all worried to ---- over what +might happen, but I sure do appear to be animated in the immediate +present. I hated to shoot at a man when he is standing on his shoulders, +but what was there to do? A sidewinder ain’t no object of pity just +because somebody is standing on its tail, is it? Answer--no. That is why +I shot right at the spot between Bennie’s eyes. + +I’m a rotten shot. Yeah, I missed. That bullet hit into the dust right +at Bennie’s ear, and the spray of dust and gravel spoiled him for +anything except the sense of touch for twenty minutes. + +Bennie dropped his gun and grabbed his eyes, and I turned just as +Hashknife’s derringer explodes. I saw a puncher sort of leaning over, +rubbing his wrist and staring down at his gun on the ground. + +“Hoss liniment is good for it,” says Hashknife. “I’ve done that to so +many persons that I know the remedy. I really don’t want anybody to +fool with Bennie. _Sabe?_” + +“You’re going a little too far,” says the sheriff. “That man you tied to +the rack is Ben Lober, foreman of the JHE outfit.” + +“Pshaw,” says Hashknife contrite-like. “I apologize--to the rack.” + +“Why don’t you arrest him?” asks the gambler person. + +“None of your danged business! I’ll run my own office.” + +“Sure you will,” admits Hashknife. “Just like a coyote running a poultry +business.” + +The sheriff stares at Hashknife and Hashknife stares right back at him +while the crowd sort of slides back and waits for the killing. I reckon +that Ells ain’t noways used to Hashknife’s kind. + + * * * * * +“The party is over,” says Hashknife sweet-like, “and I’ll let anybody +cut Bennie down.” + +“Leave him there!” snaps Ells, turning on his heel. “He’s been getting +too danged smart lately, anyway.” + +The crowd sort of melts away, talking to themselves, and then we sort of +takes notice of the puncher with the bum wrist. + +“Pick it up,” grins Hashknife, pointing at the gun. “It won’t bite yuh.” + +“Much obliged,” says he. “I don’t know how in ---- you done it, +stranger, but I sure knows how she feels. You slammed that bullet right +in between the cylinder and the barrel, and danged near busted my wrist. +Betcha you drove my wrist-bones back an inch. Some shooting.” + +“Glad you appreciates it,” grins Hashknife. “You a friend of Bennie’s?” + +“Well, I reckon I thought I was. I ain’t now.” + +“Working for the JHE?” + +“Got fired yesterday.” + +“Know anything about old man Crosby?” + +“Uh-huh. Runs the Lazy U. Sort of a religious old coot. Trusts his +daughter and the Lord. Wonder why Spooner didn’t have nothing to say, +being as he’s sort of shining around Molly Crosby.” + +“Know anything about Shorty Blewett?” + +“Little. Hear he was going with Molly, but they sent him up for +rustling.” + +“Much obliged. Now, about that Lazy U brand: Is she sort of a little +stirrup-looking U, laying on her side, with the points sticking north +on a cow going south?” + +“Well----” the puncher scratches his head and grins--“well, I reckon +she just about answers that description. Yes, sir, she’s that kind of +a mark.” + +“Thanks,” nods Hashknife, and I follers him off down the street, +listening to Bennie’s gentle voice raised in spasmodic profanity. + +“Hashknife,” says I, “was you kidding that poor devil?” + +“She wasn’t such a bad-looking lady, Sleepy,” says he, looking +straight ahead. “Kinda nice, I’d say. Lot of sense, y’ betcha. Slapped +Bennie right in the egg-chute. Yeah, I’d say she ain’t no frail little +blossom.” + +“All right,” says I; “don’t answer my questions. You ignore my questions +all the time in spite of the fact that I saves your life. You didn’t +show a lick of sense, Hashknife, when you forgot Bennie’s gun thataway.” + +“Great men all make mistakes, Sleepy. Didja just aim to dust him?” + +“Did you shoot at that feller’s gun, Hashknife?” + +“Think I’m crazy?” + +“No,” says I, “and I don’t care to have you wish insanity on me either.” + +I sees Spooner come angling across the street toward the sheriff’s +office and we sort of catches a signal to foller him in. + +“You ---- fool, are you going in there?” I asks. “Ain’cha got no sense?” + +“Sure have and am, Sleepy. Come on.” + +They was waiting for us, and we places our chairs against the wall, +facing the door. + +“Thought it over?” asks Ells soft-like. + +“Kinda,” admits Hashknife. “You’re talking.” + +Spooner leans toward us and whispers-- + +“How about five hundred?” + +Hashknife puckers up his lips and then shakes his head. + +“Apiece,” says Ells. “We ain’t pikers.” + +“Pocket money,” says Hashknife. “You know what it means.” + +Ells drums on his table for a moment and then turns to Spooner. + +“Think we can raise the ante, Spooner?” + +“If they’ll leave right now we’ll make it--one--thousand--apiece.” + +“That’s a regular bet,” says Hashknife. “We’ll call yuh.” + +“I’ll get it,” says Spooner nervous-like. “You set right here.” + +He pilgrims out, and the three of us sets there waiting. After a while +Ells says-- + +“What guarantee have we got that you’ll stay away?” + +“Oh, yeah,” says Hashknife. “The guarantee. Not any, sheriff, except +that we play a square game--in a square game. Me and my pardner +plays our cards off the top of the deck until we finds that it ain’t +customary.” + +“The doctor don’t think that Sam Peele will pull through.” + +“We don’t know him,” says Hashknife, “so his demise don’t irritate us +none.” + +“Funny thing,” says Ells, “but I don’t know your names.” + +“That’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “You’re going to pay cash, ain’t +yuh?” + +Just then Spooner edges inside and walks over to the table. A couple of +punchers rides past, going out of town, and Spooner turns until they’re +out of sight. Then he digs inside his coat and hauls out two bundles. + +“Thousand in each bunch,” says he. “Count ’em.” + +“Your word is good,” says Hashknife. “Make any difference which way we +leave town?” + +“Better go the way you came,” says Ells. “The JHE is the other way, and +maybe somebody turned Bennie loose by this time.” + +We didn’t even tell them good-by. We shook the dust of Badger City off +our feet as fast as possible. + +“John D. Vanderbilt,” says I, as we tops the first rise, “what +in ---- did we have that was worth a thousand dollars?” + +Hashknife swings off the road and leads me up a little coulée for a +hundred yards off the road. Then he turns in his saddle and grins at me. + +“Darned if I know, cowboy. Ain’t it romantic? But I know this much: They +don’t intend to let us enjoy it.” + +“Is that so? We’ve got it, ain’t we? Why won’t we enjoy it?” + +“I didn’t say we wouldn’t enjoy it, Sleepy; I said they didn’t intend to +let us. You don’t look ahead none. Didja see them two punchers what rode +out of town when Spooner came in?” + +“Uh-huh. Where’s the cloud effect?” + +“Down the road. Spooner and Ells ain’t giving away two thousand dollars. +If we went down there we’d stand as much show as a celluloid dog chasing +an asbestos cat through ----. One of ’em is Bennie Lober.” + +“What will we do--cut across the hills?” + +“Safest thing to do, Sleepy, but I hate to do it. Let’s hide out here +until Spooner and Ells ride past.” + +“What makes you think----” + +“Cinch. Spooner has got to have some reason for drawing two thousand. +Reckon he said he was going to buy cows or something. _Sabe?_ We holds +him up. Sheriff is with him and plugs us proper. Sheriff takes the +responsibility off the bushwhackers.” + +“Too far-fetched,” says I. “You’ve got the imagination of a hop-head.” + +“Yeah? Here comes Ells and Spooner.” + +They swings past us and off down the road, and then Hashknife leads back +to the road and points toward town. + +“We ain’t left nothing,” says I. “Why go back?” + +“To leave something, Sleepy,” he grins. “Going to put two thousand in +the bank.” + +“In ... the ... bank? Us?” + +“Yeah. Romantic, don’t you think?” + +“Romantic ----! Insanity! Absolutely the craziest idea I ever heard.” + + * * * * * + +There ain’t no use arguing with him. He’s good-hearted up to a certain +point, and after that he begins to get childish. + +He knowed how to transact the business; so I gave him my bundle. It was +a sad affair for me. + +Then we just got on to our broncs as the sheriff, the prosecutor and +the other two ride in. Man, you’d ’a’ thought we’d just robbed the +bank instead of putting money in it. Questions and answers were null +and void. + +Their first offering of lead seemed to connect with Gray Wolf and he +dropped like a log. I lit flat on my back in the dust, but I got my +Winchester loose as I turned over, and proceeded to crawl close to my +supine bronc. + +I seen Hashknife fading out in a cloud of dust, and then I organizes +for action. One of the punchers has got inside a saloon across the +street, another is behind a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop on +the same side of the street. + +I seen Spooner duck down at the end of the board sidewalk, but I +can’t see anything of the sheriff. A bullet cuts a nice crease across +the fender of my saddle, and it makes me sore. I picks on that wagon +first, and the man behind just stands for five shots, after which he +crawls behind the shop, dragging one leg. + +Spooner can’t do no shooting without exposing himself; so I transfers +my affections to the saloon window, where the other feller is shooting +at me. I sure fanned that palace of sin a-plenty. + +I busted every window in the front of the place and then I proceeds to +cut my initials in the front door. All I’ve got left is the period when +I sees Spooner duck low and try to make a sneak. + +I had only one shell left in the gun, and when I cut loose I seen +Spooner do a high-dive on his head. + +“Hope I didn’t ruin that watch-chain,” says I out loud, and a voice +behind me says---- + +“Lay down that gun!” + +It’s Brill. He sneaked up on me from the rear. I crawls away from my +rifle and unhooks my belt. + +“Got him, Bill,” says Brill, and then Ells comes across the street. + +He glares at me and then at Brill. + +“I’d have killed him,” says he mean-like, “but you beat me to it.” + +“You’re a nice little sheriff,” says I. “They ought to trade your jail +for a cemetery.” + +“Where did the other one go?” asks Brill. + +“Got away!” snaps Ells. “We’ll get him, too.” + +Badger City sure comes down to escort me to durance vile. My, they sure +was brave and bold to take a chance thataway. They not only hoodled me +to jail, but they abused me considerable. + +“What was the matter, sheriff?” asks a feller who looks like he might +have been inside that saloon. + +“Held up Spooner and took two thousand dollars. This is one of the +fellers who bushed Sam Peele.” + +“Spooner’s got a creased head,” states somebody, “and Ben Lober’s got a +busted leg.” + +“That gray bronc is up again,” informs another. “Got creased. Whatcha +want done with him, sheriff?” + +“Put him in my corral, Ed.” + +They hustles me into a cell, and then the sheriff herds everybody +outside. He comes over to the bars and glares at me. + +“Where is that money?” he asks. + +“In the bank.” + +“In the bank?” + +He looks foolish-like at me, and I nods. + +“Give me the book!” + +“Whatcha think I am--a schoolhouse?” + +Just then Spooner comes in. Two other fellers tries to horn in, but the +sheriff orders ’em out. + +Spooner is a sorry-looking fat man. He’s got a big muffler tied around +his head, and his face is plumb gory. + +“Get ’em both, Ells?” he asks, holding his head with both hands. + +“Just one. You better see a doctor.” + +“Oh, ---- the doctor!” he groans. “Where is the money? The boys are +talking of a lynching, and I hoped we had ’em both. Where’s the money, +I asked you?” + +“What boys?” + +“What’s the difference? I asked about the money, Bill.” + +Just then comes a plaintive sort of a voice from near the door: + +“Money ain’t everything, Spooner. Feller hadn’t ought to get to loving +money so much that he forgets to square-deal his feller men. It sure is +a nice thing to give away your money, but you spoils the whole thing +when you tries to commit murder to get it back.” + +I sees Spooner and the sheriff whirl around, and then their hands go up +slow. + +“Two Y’s in a row,” says Hashknife’s voice. “Where’s my pardner?” + +“In the little coop on the left,” says I. “Locked up like a gate.” + +“Unlock it,” orders Hashknife, “and don’t look so bilious, sheriff.” + +It sure wrenched their souls to see me walk out of there, and it hurt a +lot worse when I took away their guns. + +“You’ll never get away,” says Ells, and Hashknife grins. + +“Thasso? Well, well! Sleepy, we’ll take their hats, and that drunken +gang won’t never know us.” + +“That hat cost me twenty-five dollars,” wails Ells. “You----” + +“Aw, shut up!” yelps Hashknife. “Get into that cell--both of yuh!” + +Hashknife takes the keys and locks the cell door. + +“There’s going to be a lynching tonight,” says I. “Them uncurried wolves +are going to get lit up proper-like and then they’re going to come down +here.” + +“Haw! Haw! Haw!” chuckles Hashknife. “Shall we stay and see the fun?” + +“Nope. The fun will come in the morning when they discovers their +mistake.” + +“Gents,” says Spooner, “upon my word of honor----” + +“My ----!” gasps Hashknife. “Wouldn’t that rasp yuh? Honor! Where is +your bronc, Sleepy?” + +“In the sheriff’s corral. You get him, will you? You look like Ells in +that hat.” + +Then Ells began to curse me and Spooner begins to plead. Spooner was +willing to do anything or promise anything if I’d let him out, but +Ells cursed me and my ancestors from the beginning of time. + +Then Spooner chides Ells for crabbing his chance of touching my heart, +and then they lays off me and practises on each other. I’m danged if I +know which is on top when Hashknife yells at me, but I didn’t have no +bets down anyway. + + * * * * * + +We threw the keys into the corral and rode out of town, Hashknife’s new +hat flopping in the wind, and mine--that hard-boiled thing--skidding +around from ear to ear. + +“Where are we going now?” I asks as Badger City fades out of view. + +“Where? I’ve got a idea, Sleepy.” + +“Oh, yeah?” + +“Uh-huh. Going to bust up a cow outfit.” + +“Well, that’s a nice thought, Hashknife. You sure do think of sweet +things to do, cowboy. Puts two thousand in the bank in a town where +we don’t never dare to go, locks the court-house inside the jail and +then opines to bust up a cow outfit.” + +“Yeah, she is a little romantic, ain’t it?” + +“Romantic? Good night and fare thee well! What’s the idea, Hashknife?” + +“Case of getting sore, Sleepy. Don’t never let your angry passions rise. +You likely won’t, ’cause you ain’t got no imagination, which ain’t +nothing against you. _Sabe?_ I’ve got lots of imagination; therefore I +gets mad easy. + +“Yeah, I’m awful mad. I’m so danged mad that I turns phil--phil-- What’s +a feller called what does things for folks without getting paid for it?” + +“A ---- fool.” + +“So classified, Sleepy, but knowed socially as a +phil--phil--an--thro--fist.” + +“A rose by any other name don’t lose its smell,” says I. + +“All right, cowboy. Now this here Crosby person has been getting the +worst of it, ain’t he? Ain’t the Cross L been getting a dirty deal, +too? The JHE loses cows, and one perfectly good puncher gets sent up +for rustling. + +“Now it’s a cinch that one puncher never done it all, Sleepy. Them +cows just sort of e-vaporates as it were. Funny conditions confront +us, cowboy--very funny.” + +“Ha, ha, ha!” says I. “Very funny. We sold nothing for two thousand +dollars and put the money where we don’t dare go after it. Yeah, it’s +sure funny.” + +We jogs along in the gloom for a while and then Hashknife says: + +“There’s a light over there, Sleepy, and like as not it’s Crosby’s +place. We want to see him.” + +“Lead on, McBluff, and I’ll be danged if I’ll be first to yelp, ‘I’ve +got a plenty.’ That’s Shakespeare.” + +“Where’s he now, Sleepy?” + +“Been dead for years and years.” + +“Aw, that’s too ---- bad. Still, we’ve all got to go when our time +comes.” + +We rode into the yard of the ranch-house and dismounted. Somebody is +playing the organ, but they quits as soon as Hashknife knocks on the +door. + +Hashknife starts to knock again just as the door opens and leaves him +standing there with his fist upraised in Molly Crosby’s face. She +stares at us, and then the old man walks in behind her and looks over +her shoulder. + +“Come in, Spooner,” says the old man. “Howdy, Ells.” + +“My gosh!” grunts Hashknife. “Take off your hat, Sleepy.” + +“Well,” says Molly, “well, I--I----” + +“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “We borrowed their hats and forgot +to put our own on after we got through with ’em. Can we come in?” + +“I--I beg your pardon,” says Molly, “I forgot. Come right in.” + +Old man Crosby is a white-haired old gent with a resigned look on his +face like he didn’t have nothing to live for and was glad of it. + +“Daddy,” says Molly, pointing at Hashknife, “this is the gentleman who +hit Ben Lober.” + +“That’s nothing,” grins Hashknife. “Sleepy busted Bennie’s leg and +danged near scalped Spooner.” + +The old man stares at us and then at Molly. + +“Spooner?” he asks, looking back at Molly; but she didn’t seem excited. + +“Uh-huh,” says I. “We locked the sheriff and Mister Spooner in their own +jail, and then we wore their hats as sort of disguise.” + +“God be with you,” says the old man pious-like. “I don’t understand +it at all, but I suppose it is all right. I want to thank you for +protecting my little girl.” + +“Pshaw, she didn’t need much,” grins Hashknife. “She started the music +and I sung him to sleep.” + +“Have you had any supper?” asks Molly. + +“Not since dinner,” grins Hashknife, “but don’t you go to no +trouble----” + +Molly patted her old dad on the top of the head and went into the +kitchen, smiling back at us. The old man rubs his hands and sort of +relaxes. + +“What do you know about Spooner and Ells?” asks Hashknife. + +“Well, I don’t quite understand your question exactly,” says the old man +thoughtful-like. “Ells seems a capable officer, although he seems unable +to stop cattle-stealing. Spooner has a very good record as prosecutor, I +think.” + +“Convicted Shorty Blewett, didn’t he?” asks Hashknife soft-like, and the +old man nods. + +“Yes, he convicted Shorty. I dunno. Seems to me that there’s a lot of +difference between law and justice in this world.” + +“Amen,” says Hashknife. “This country ain’t what she used to be.” + +“This country?” + +The old man sets up straight and stares at Hashknife. + +“This country is going to the dogs!” + +“Yeah,” nods Hashknife. “I’ve heard ’em barking. Have you ever +considered getting outside help on this rustling proposition?” + +“I have. I’ve sent letters to the Cattlemen’s Association asking for +help, but they don’t even trouble about answering. I guess we’ll have +to work out our own salvation.” + +“Never answered, eh?” says Hashknife. “Why don’t all you fellers combine +and hire some good trailers?” + +“We might do that, but I don’t think it would help much. Our sheriff +has been doing all he can, but it’s a blind trail. There is absolutely +no trail.” + +“Does Spooner or Ells know you wanted to get help on it--outside help?” + +“No-o-o-o, I don’t----” + +“Daddy, you told Mister Spooner you were going to,” says Molly from the +doorway. “Don’t you remember?” + +“That’s right, Molly, I did. I guess I was a little discouraged that +day, and I told Spooner I was tired of a sheriff that rode circles all +day and did no good. Yes, I remember telling him I was going to get a +couple of detectives by the first of the month. I’d forgotten it.” + + * * * * * + +Hashknife looks at me and sort of nods. + +“What did Spooner say?” + +“Seemed pleased. Offered to help all he could. Spooner is----” + +“That was sure nice of him,” admits Hashknife. “Has anybody but the +sheriff ever investigated the rustling game around here?” + +Molly turns and walks back into the kitchen, and the old man seems to +get very thoughtful. Then he says soft-like---- + +“Shorty said he had an idea how it was being done, but----” + +“I know,” nods Hashknife. “They’re clever, but there’s such a thing as +being too danged clever. The JHE is the biggest outfit, ain’t it?” + +“Yes. It’s the old Bar 80 outfit. Brill is said to be the owner, but we +all know it is Eastern capital.” + +“Is it a bigger outfit now than it was as the old Bar 80?” + +“Oh, yes. The Bar 80 was just a small outfit--smaller than mine or the +Cross L.” + +“What kind of a feller is the Cross L owner?” + +“Fine. Me and Jim Older came to this country together, and from the +looks of things we’ll go broke together. You’d like Jim. Now would you +mind answering a few questions?” + +“Shoot.” + +“You aiming to go into the cow business?” + +“Nope. Don’t ask us what the trouble was in Badger City, ’cause we ain’t +so sure yet. Me and Sleepy ain’t so awful bad, and we’ll come out in the +wash. + +“Pshaw, we ain’t never introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Hartley, +knowed as Hashknife. My pardner is Sleepy Stevens, called Sleepy ’cause +he ain’t.” + +The old man seems to enjoy the introduction, and then he says: + +“Boys, I can’t believe you’re very bad. I can usually tell from a man’s +looks, and you don’t look bad.” + +“Know what I am?” grins Hashknife. “Know what they calls a feller who +does things for folks who never done nothing for him?” + +“I know,” nods Crosby. “I know what they usually calls him.” + +“Well, that’s me,” grins Hashknife. “In polite society they calls me a +phil-an-thro-fist. _Sabe?_ A phil-an-thro-fist is meek and mild until +you angers ’em to a certain extent, and then--look out. + +“I’m past that certain extent and going on up. I’m going to have +re-venge, or I’ll promise to go out in the hills and eat bunch-grass +with the rest of the jassacks.” + +“I dunno,” says the old man, shaking his head. “It’s Greek to me, but I +feel that my ignorance isn’t going to hinder you none.” + +We sets there silent for a long time. The old man acts sort of +thoughtful. I reckon me and Hashknife has used up about two cigarets +when the old man says: + +“Nope, I don’t reckon I _sabe_ your mission, young feller, but I ain’t +losing my appetite over it. I think Molly has supper ready.” + +She did, and I’d tell a man that Molly Crosby can cook rings around +anything that ever hit a kitchen. She could fry a dish-rag and make +it taste like a venison steak. + +She ain’t beautiful, Molly ain’t, except when she smiles. She’s kinda +sad-looking, but when she smiles she’d make the Queen of Sheba look +like an Aztec idol of mud. + +We’re almost through eating when somebody knocks on the door. Me and +Hashknife slips our guns loose under the table, but the visitor was a +stranger to us. + +He’s a man about as old as Crosby, thin as a whisper of wind, and he’s +got a big mop of white hair over a face that might belong to a poet. It +sure wasn’t a practical cow visage. + +Then we meets Jack Older of the Cross L. I looks at the faces of them +two and I can see where the rustlers have had a cinch. They’re about as +belligerent as a pair of snow-shoe rabbits. I ain’t no plaster saint, +but I’d as soon think of stealing from some widder women as them two. + +“I thought the sheriff was here,” says Older. “I saw his hat in the +other room and wondered at it, because Slim told me about some trouble +in town. + +“It seems that two fellows held up Spooner and took two thousand away +from him, and in the fracas Spooner was creased on the head and Ben +Lober was shot in the leg. They caught one of the outlaws. Art McFee +told Slim that it was the same two who shot Sam Peele. They’re going +to take the prisoner away from the sheriff tonight and hang him.” + +“My, my!” says Hashknife. “Ain’t that awful? The poo-o-o-o-o-o-r kid!” + +Molly burst out laughing, and Older looks foolish-like at us. + +“I’m the one they’re going to lynch,” says I. “We plead guilty to +shooting Sam Peele--leastwise we think we did--but we didn’t steal no +money. Badger City got the wrong hunch, and some of ’em paid for the +mistake.” + +“I don’t understand it, Jim,” says Crosby. “She’s some mixed. Ben Lober +tried to grab hold of Molly today and Mister Hartley knocked him down.” + +“And hung him up by the heels,” states Older. “Slim told me about it. +You hit the sheriff, too, didn’t you?” + +“Uh-huh,” admits Hashknife, rolling a smoke. “Seems like me and Sleepy +got off to a flying start in Badger City.” + +“Slim didn’t seem to know for sure,” says Older, “but Ben Lober was +jabbering something about detectives when they loaded him on to a +wagon.” + +“We’re phil-an-thro-fists--detectives with a reverse English,” grins +Hashknife. + +“I dunno,” says Older. “I sure don’t. Glad to meetcha just the same. +Slim and Al both said you looked like he-men.” + +“How many head of stock have you lost?” asks Hashknife. + +“Well----” Older rubs his mop of white hair--“I don’t know. I had +about two thousand head in the Spring, but Slim says it won’t total +five hundred now.” + +“Geemighty! Has the JHE lost that many too?” + +“I don’t know how many. Of course they’re a big outfit, and they don’t +confide in us small raisers very much.” + +“Not small raisers--big losers,” corrects Hashknife. “Don’t the sheriff +ever get any hunch about who does the dirty work?” + +“Does all he can, I reckon, but there is no clue. The stock just fades +out.” + +“Aren’t you afraid the sheriff will be after you?” asks Molly. “He might +come out here and----” + +“Not tonight, ma’am. They’ll have to dynamite the jail, I reckon,” and +then he turns to Crosby. + +“Get a sheet of paper and a pen.” + +Molly got the required articles and put them on the table. + +“Address that envelope to the Cattlemen’s Association at Helena. Fine. +Now fold up that sheet of paper, put it inside and seal it. + +“What time does the stage leave Badger City? Nine o’clock? All right, +Mister Crosby; you take the letter down and post it about eight.” + +“But there’s nothing inside it,” protests Crosby, staring at Hashknife. + +“It’s the things you can’t read that will worry you the most. We’ll +put our broncs back of the barn and sleep in the hay-loft. Good night, +folks.” + +Me and Hashknife argues up in that loft until he shoves some fox-tail +grass in my mouth, and then we goes to sleep. + + * * * * * + +The next morning we gets a big smile from Molly, along with ham and +eggs, and then Hashknife putters around the little blacksmith shop, +whistling some old honkatonk tune all the time. Then he takes me with +him for a ride. He ropes a sample of every brand on the range and +takes measurements. + +“If you wanted to tell me what you’re doing I’d listen,” says I. “I’m +plumb tired of asking questions and getting answered with a grin. For +gosh sake, can’t yuh do nothing but grin?” + +“Phil-an-thro-fists has to grin, Sleepy. Dog-gone it, that’s all they +get out of life. You ought to grin more--honest yuh had, cowboy. You’re +getting wrinkles like the Grand Cañon. Get joyful and sing a little, +can’t yuh?” + +“Now whatcha want to do--add all them figures and find out how much +leather it takes to make a envelope for a cow?” + +“Figures don’t lie, Sleepy.” + +“But liars do a lot of figuring, Hashknife. When do we go back and hold +up the bank for our money? I’ve got a hunch that this here country is +getting too brittle to hold us. Think the sheriff and prosecutor are +going to lay down under this kind of treatment?” + +“Can’t prognosticate a thing about mean folks like them, Sleepy. I’m +sure beginning to feel sorry for them. Honest to gosh, my heart bleeds +for them poor misguided officials, but like Fate I must go ahead. + +“Ever read that poem which was written by a feller whose name sounds +like an answer in Chinese? Something about the moving finger writes +and having written moves on. I don’t know the rest, Sleepy, but she +means that it’s all cut and dried, and it don’t make no difference +if your gun does stick. _Sabe?_” + +“I don’t,” says I. “I’m for him in that moving-on stuff, but the rest +of your discourse sounds like a gambler kissing a pocket-piece before +he sits into a game. I think you’re crazy if you asks me.” + +Hashknife don’t get sore. He just grins at me sort of superior-like, +which is worse than a cussing. Slim rides past that noon, and he seems +astonished to see us setting on the top pole of the corral. + +“Well, well!” says he, climbing up to us. “Never expected to see you +two out in plain sight. Don’t you know that the sheriff has a posse +after you? What do you mean by holding up the stage and then setting +out here in sight of all the world?” + +“Did we rob a stage?” asks Hashknife. + +“Verdict of the sheriff,” grins Slim. “That’s whatcha gets for busting +him on the jaw. Held up the stage at Dancing Fork and swiped the U. S. +mail. The driver says it was the same fellers who shot Sam Peele and +held up Spooner.” + +“We’re awful mean _hombres_, don’tcha think, Slim?” asks Hashknife. + +“Sure are,” grins Slim, rolling a smoke. “Ve-e-e-e-ry bad. Last night a +bunch went down to the jail to lynch a murderer. They sure took the jail +apart. Seems that Spooner and Ells put up a awful fight, but-- Say, it’s +funny. + +“They danged near choked Ells to death, and Spooner got a gun bent over +his head, but the murderer got away. Ells swears that he got away in the +fight, and now he’s sore as ---- at everybody concerned ’cause this same +_hombre_ helped to rob the stage. + +“Lober was on the stage, too, and swears it was you. They tried to take +him out in a wagon, but it rode too rough.” + +“Reckon they’ll come out here?” I asks. + +“Yeah. I heard some of ’em speak about it. Sheriff told ’em that Crosby +was a old friend of one of you; so I came out ahead. Crosby is a friend +of mine, and Molly is one hy-iu little lady, y’betcha.” + +“Spooner’s kinda shining around Molly, ain’t he?” asks Hashknife. + +“Trying to,” admits Slim, and just then Al Stingle rides in. + +“Better get down,” says he. “Visitors coming.” + +We climbs down and the four of us walks down to the house. Molly and her +dad meets us at the door, and I can see that they know what’s coming. + +“Let me talk to them, boys,” says the old man. “I know what they want, +but I also know you never held up the stage.” + +“Did they believe you when you said that Shorty wasn’t a rustler?” asks +Hashknife soft-like. “Did they?” + +Molly’s face gets a shade whiter and she steps back against the door +when Hashknife asks that. The old man glances at her and shakes his +head. + +“Wh-what do you know about Shorty?” she whispers. “What----” + +“Very little--but enough,” says Hashknife. “Maybe I know more than that. +Now you folks just stand here and let ’em ride up. They’ll naturally be +ready for trouble and sort of hard to handle, but pretty soon they +relaxes and it’s hard to get up speed again. Me and Sleepy will be just +around the corner until such relaxation takes place.” + +He shoves me around the corner and we stands there flat against the +wall. Believe me, I gets as thin as a cigaret-paper. + +In about a minute we hears the bunch ride into the yard. Crosby calls +Ells by name, and I hears Brill say something to Slim and get a short +answer. + +“Is the Lazy U in the habit of harboring outlaws?” asks Crosby. + +“No,” says Ells, “but they said something about going to work for you.” + +Al Stingle laughs and then says-- + +“Since when did stage-robbers tell the sheriff where they were going to +look for work?” + +Several men seem to laugh out loud, and the tension is gone. + +“Well, he----” begins Ells, and just then Hashknife steps out with me +right at his side. + +Neither of us has a gun in our hands. Hashknife seems to be fumbling in +his vest pocket for something. + +That posse just sets there with their mouths open. Reminds me of a horse +caught flat-footed when the barrier went up. + +“You----” begins Ells, staring at us, and then he stops. + +“They wouldn’t be looking for jobs,” says Hashknife slow-like. “Outlaws +never look for jobs, but they might hold office.” + +“Whatcha mean?” snaps Ells. “I arrest you----” + +“When?” interrupts Hashknife, grinning. “Easy--everybody. This ain’t +no killing matter--yet. I know what the stage-driver said and I know +what Lober said and I know who told ’em to say it.” + +“Who?” asks one of the posse. + +“Just a minute!” snaps Ells. “I want to get this straight. Appears to +me that somebody is mistaken--maybe. Crosby, do you know where these +boys were this morning?” + +“What time?” asks Molly. + +“About nine-thirty.” + +“Right here. Mister Hartley was working in the blacksmith shop and +Mister Stevens was sitting on that bench cleaning his gun. I think +Mister Hartley was working on a branding-iron.” + +“Branding-iron?” asks the sheriff. + +“Slickest thing you ever seen,” nods Hashknife. “Going to make a lot of +alleged cowmen set up and take notice.” + +“Well, ----!” swears Brill, easing himself in the saddle. “All this fuss +for nothing, eh?” + +Ells says something under his breath and swings his horse around. + +“Sorry to have troubled you,” says he, and we stands there and watches +that posse ride away down the road. + +“MY ----!” grunts Slim, staring at Hashknife. “Did you hypnotize ’em? +Think of Bill Ells standing for anything like that! Escaped prisoner +and all that, and he just says, ‘Sorry to have troubled you.’” + +“Miss Crosby’s alibi changed their minds,” grins Hashknife. + +“Like ---- it did!” snorts Al. “Looks to me like they was wishful to +grab any old chance to drift home, like the feller who caught the +bob-cat and didn’t know how to let loose.” + +“I don’t _sabe_ it at all,” complains Crosby. “It ain’t reasonable.” + +“It sure ain’t,” I agrees. “I almost had heart-failure when Miss Crosby +mentioned me cleaning my gun. I just realized that I plumb forgot to +put the shells back in, and I could see ’em shining on the bench where +I left ’em.” + +“Sleepy, Sleepy, you’ll be the death of us both some day,” says +Hashknife. “Always forgetting. You’d ’a’ looked fine standing there +snapping an empty gun, wouldn’t you?” + +“Aw, we had ’em buffaloed anyway. They was plumb leary of that +derringer.” + +“That’s sure plumb nice,” grins Hashknife. “Yes, sir, that’s elegant. +Notice me fumbling in my vest pocket? I forgot I put it in my pants +pocket when I was blacksmithing. I reckon there’s a Providence that +looks after or over idiots and phil-an-thro-fists.” + +“Aw, ----!” grunts Al, waving his arms. “It’s all loco. What would +anybody rob that mail for anyway? Nothing but reading-matter.” + +“And not much of that,” grins Hashknife. + +“Well, I’m going home,” states Slim. “I hankered for excitement and all +I got was a beg-your-pardon. My ----, I never saw so much politeness in +my whole life. Come on, Al.” + +We watches ’em ride away and then sets down on the porch with Molly and +her dad. + +“Ells never even asked for his hat,” says Molly. + +“Ma’am, that _hombre_ has got so much in his mind right now that he +don’t feel the need of a cover for it,” grins Hashknife, and just then +Older rides in. + +“Was that a posse that just left here?” he asks. + +“No,” says Hashknife; “that was a social organization. Glad you came +over, ’cause I reckon the time is ripe to do something. Why don’t you +combine with the Lazy U? Make one good outfit.” + +“Combine? What do you mean?” + +“To squeeze out the rustlers. You fellers has got to do something to +bust up their party, ain’t you?” + +Crosby and Older looks at each other and then at Hashknife. + +“Just how and why?” asks Older. “Why are you interested, and how would a +combination of our outfits stop the rustling?” + +“I ain’t interested--I’m mad; and I’ll put myself out to bring sorrow to +their wickiup. Here is the first move: Write a letter to the Cattlemen’s +Association asking that the Lazy U and Cross L brands be canceled and +that the O Cross B be registered to cover both former brands. Older and +Crosby. _Sabe?_ Brand on left hip, same as the old ones.” + +The two old pelicans takes it under advisement silently, and after a +while Molly steps in and says-- + +“I’d take a chance, dad.” + +“Wish I knew more about it,” says Older. “I hate to----” + +“Columbus wished the same thing,” grins Hashknife, “but he went ahead +and they built a monument for him. He took a chance.” + +“All right,” says Older. “We haven’t much to lose. Crosby, you write the +letter and I’ll post it.” + +“In Divide,” says Hashknife. + +“Why not in Badger?” asks Older. + +“Too many hold-ups. This letter goes through.” + +“I think I begin to see,” says Crosby slow-like. “That blank----” + +“You’ve got it,” grins Hashknife. “Go ahead and write.” + +We sets down on the porch and smokes a while. Molly is fussing with some +of that fancy-work stuff, and pretty soon she says sort of soft-like: + +“You spoke about Shorty Blewett a while ago. Do you believe him guilty?” + +“Nope,” says Hashknife. “Almost a cinch. What kind of a _hombre_ was +he?” + +“Well----” Molly sort of bows her head over her work--“well, we were to +be married this month.” + +“Excuse me all to ----,” says Hashknife sober-like, and then he stares +off across the hills for a while. “You--you ain’t turned against him +none, have you, ma’am?” + +She shakes her head and smiles at something away off in the direction of +Deer Lodge, and then goes into the house. + +“See that smile, Sleepy?” whispers Hashknife. “Cowboy, she’s all +woman. Somewhere up that horse-thief’s e-eventuality is a poor devil +in a suit, numbered like a box-car, and that smile was for him. He’ll +get it too, cowboy. Cement and steel and distance can’t stop a smile +like that. Likely she prays for him, too. + +“I wish somebody’d love me like that. She just sets here, waiting and +waiting and smiling thataway, and up there in the pen is a feller, who +is just a number, and-- Whatcha been doing, Sleepy--peeling onions?” + +“Go to ----!” says I. “I’ve got a cold.” + +“Yeah, so have I. Reckon I’ll have to get Shorty turned loose.” + +“Sure. All you’ve got to do is to walk up, knock on the door and say, +‘Let Shorty Blewett out, please,’ and out he comes.” + +“Maybe you ain’t so danged far off at that, Sleepy. Reckon I’ll go and +finish up that iron. Want to see a regular blacksmith working?” + +I sets in the doorway while he builds a fire, and then has to listen to +him sing his everlasting song about poor Toothpick. It goes like this: + + “Oh, Toothpick Thompson was a son-of-a-gun, + Git along, my little dogie, git along. + He’ll meet the undertaker ’fore I git done, + Git along, my little dogie, git along. + Though the trail is rough and the cactus sharp, + An’ the cold wind blows through my ragged tarp, + He’s due to shovel coal or twang a harp, + Git along, my little dogie, git along.” + +It don’t sound just like that though. You’ve got to frame your own tune +and sort of sing it through your nose mournful-like, sort of hanging on +to the words “along” until you’re out of breath. She’s some effective. + +He drones out the last line and then slaps the iron into the slack-tub. + +“I’m some brainy cuss, Sleepy,” says he. “You ought to brag about me a +little.” + +“Yeah? You sure ain’t asthmatic in your own behalf, Hashknife. You sure +can talk above a whisper, but you has too many secrets. You won’t tell +me a danged thing, will you? No, of course not. + +“I follers you just like a sheep. When you say, ‘Shoot,’ I shoot. I’m +weaned and rope-broke, Hashknife, and able to take nourishment without +getting the colic, and still you won’t tell me anything.” + +He holds up the cooled iron and admires it a heap. + +“Latest style on the Wind River range, cowboy. Artistic, eh?” + +“Got the letter written, and Older has left for Divide,” says Crosby +from the doorway. + +“Good. Me and Sleepy are going over to the JHE, and likely from there to +Badger City. We may be late getting back.” + +I follers him--as usual. Molly waves at us from the house, and I feels +that she’s wishing us good luck. We need all we can get, I reckon. + +“Now,” says I, “I want to know something, Hashknife. Why are we going to +the JHE, and do we go in sorrow or in anger? We’ve got all our guns, and +what I want to know is this: Do we use ’em?” + +“She all depends. Did you ever see a feller packing a extra wheel on +his automobile? Well, he ain’t figuring on trouble, but he’s ready in +case something busts. _Sabe?_” + +“Thanks,” says I. “You sure do give things away. Sometime you’ll bust +out and tell me why you hunts for Toothpick.” + +“Why, Sleepy, ain’t I never told you?” + +“Not yet.” + +“Well, well! You’ve got a surprize coming, cowboy.” + +“Yeah--coming.” + + * * * * * + +Mister Brill wasn’t looking for us. He was cinching a saddle on a rangy +roan when we rode up, and had his back toward us. He acts cautious, +letting go of that latigo, and then turns slow-like. + +“What do you want?” he asks. + +“Mostly everything,” says Hashknife. + +“Meaning,” says Brill, sort of easing one hand toward his middle. + +I sees Brill’s hand stop and then start coming up, and then I glances at +Hashknife, whose right hand is resting on his thigh, and the gun in that +hand is covering Brill’s anatomy. + +“Ease your gun loose and drop it over the fence,” orders Hashknife. + +Brill don’t hesitate. + +“How long have you owned the JHE outfit?” + +“None of your----” + +“Aw, be polite,” grins Hashknife. “Take that saddle off, ’cause you +ain’t going no place, and then lead us up to the house, where we can +be comfortable. Geemighty, but you’re shy on hospitality.” + +Brill acts like he was sore at somebody, but he does as he’s ordered. + +We all sets down and then Hashknife says---- + +“Brill, you knowed Shorty Blewett?” + +“Knowed him--yes.” + +“What was he sent up for?” + +“Venting a JHE and running a Cross L.” + +“Who caught him at it?” + +“Me and Ben Lober.” + +“Good. Lober’s in the hospital, but he’ll be willing to talk. Now----” + +“What’s the idea?” snarls Brill. “What right you got----” + +“Relax,” advises Hashknife. “You’re under a strain. Trying to make us +think you’re mad at us, eh? + +“Brill, I’m the best friend you’ve got. I’m going to do something for +you.” + +“What’s that?” + +“Let you make your getaway. Set still! You’ve got the penitentiary +staring you right in the eyes, and you dang well know it. How much of +the JHE stock do you own?” + +He stares at us and wets his lips. He sure is a weak sister. + +“Why--what----” he begins mumbling, but Hashknife slides a sheet of +paper and a pencil in front of him, and he stares at the writing stuff. + +“Move up close to the table, Brill. That’s fine. Now I want you to take +hold of that pencil. _Sabe?_ Fine. + +“Now start in the upper left-hand corner of that sheet of paper. Ready? +Good. + +“Now, write us the true story of how Shorty was framed. Tell us all +about it, Brill. Use all the names and dates, and don’t get worried, +’cause nobody’s going to hurt you--unless you get cramps in your +fingers.” + +“I’ll be ---- if I do!” he howls. “You ain’t----” + +“Penmanship or penitentiary!” snaps Hashknife. + +“You’re bluffing! If you think for a second that you can bluff----” + +Hashknife takes the pencil out of Brill’s fingers and makes a few +little figures at the top of the sheet. Brill stares at ’em and then +at Hashknife. + +“Think I’m bluffing?” grins Hashknife, and Brill licks his lips. + +He stares at the wall for a moment and then starts writing. It took him +about half an hour to finish, and then he flips the pencil on the table. + +“That’s all I know,” says he weary-like, “so help me God!” + +Hashknife folds up the paper and puts it in his pocket. + +“How much do we owe you for your share of the ranch, Brill?” + +He tears up several cigaret-papers trying to roll a smoke, and the first +puff sort of strangles him. + +“I--I-- You don’t owe me nothing. I own my own horse and rig--that’s +all.” + +“Give you two hundred and fifty,” says Hashknife, hauling out the +check-book. “Shall I make it out to Brill or Jack McKee?” + +Brill dropped his cigaret and stared at Hashknife. + +“Knowed you all along,” grins Hashknife. “You was the key of the whole +thing, McKee. Funny; eh? Key and McKee. + +“Figured out a brand myself. Cross L and Lazy U are going to combine and +call it the O Cross B. How’s that?” + +He revolves it in his mind for a moment and then grins. + +“Well--fine. Me and you ought to have-- Huh. + +“Well, I’m much obliged to yuh, old-timer. That check looks better with +Brill on it. Thanks. Reckon I’ll drift.” + +We watched him saddle up and climb his bronc. Then he turns back. + +“Wasn’t you trailing a _hombre_ named Toothpick Thompson? Thought I +remembered it. Wish you all kinds of luck. _Adios_.” + +“Was he a friend of yours, Hashknife--this Brill?” + +“No-o-o-o, I don’t reckon so. He didn’t know me though. I knowed him by +reputation as the slickest hair-brander in the Southwest, and they tell +me he is some wise _hombre_ on brand combinations. + +“One night me and three of the boys from the Hashknife outfit caught him +hair-branding a filly by the light of a camp-fire. The filly was loco, +so we tied him on her back and headed him into the Mohave Desert dressed +in a undershirt.” + +“He knowed Toothpick Thompson?” + +“Maybe--I don’t know. Lot of the boys knowed I was trailing Toothpick.” + +We got our broncs and Hashknife headed straight for the Lazy U instead +of to Badger, and I follered--as usual. We walked right into the house +and there is Abe Spooner, big as life, talking to Molly and the old +gent. Spooner is a bit flustrated, but Hashknife shakes his hand like +he was his pal. + +“This sure is luck,” laughs Hashknife. “Sure saves us trouble. Tell +you what I want you to do, Spooner; I want you to put into motion the +machinery which will release Shorty Blewett from the pen.” + +“You ... do?” says Spooner with his mouth wide open like a gasping fish. + +“Uh-huh. You see, Spooner, he wasn’t guilty. No, sir, he wasn’t guilty +at all. Ain’t that funny? Don’t your heart bleed for a innocent man +thataway?” + +“I--I--I don’t know----” + +“Indigestion?” asks Hashknife. “You ought to chaw your food more. Set +down and rest a little. Brill passed out this afternoon, and he left a +little confession.” + +“Brill ... passed ... out?” gasps Spooner. “He--he----” + +“Uh-huh. Owned the JHE, didn’t he, Spooner?” + +“Ye--yes--that is, I think so.” + +“I bought him out,” says Hashknife. + +“Spooner, have you any idea of how much JHE stock is on this range?” + +“Why--why--no.” + +“Well, I reckon I got a bargain, anyway. How soon can you get Shorty out +of the pen?” + +Spooner wets his lips and starts to get up. + +“I don’t know. I--I’ll have to see the sheriff--and----” + +“Well, we’ll go with you. Brill mentioned him, too. Said something about +Lober being----” + +“That’s a lie!” snaps Spooner. “Brill lied----” + +“About what?” asks Hashknife. + +“That--that-- I’ve got to go.” + +Spooner grabs his hat and starts for the door, and we’re right on his +heels. I caught Molly’s eye as we went out, and she looks like a person +who wants to be joyful but is plumb afraid. + +Spooner acts plumb tongue-tied and his eyes are wild, but I reckon he’d +forgot he owned a gun--if he had one at all. Me and Hashknife rides one +on each side of him, and we fogs off down that road like we was going to +a dance. + +Gray Wolf and Diablo sure can run, but they has to lay down and go some +to keep up with Spooner’s little brown mare. We skids around a hair-pin +curve, going like a bat out of ----, and all to once we tangles with +another rider and his pack-animal. + +Me and Gray Wolf and that pack-horse all went off the grade in a tangle. +Gray Wolf was a born acrobat, and somehow he manages to hit on his feet +at the bottom. I got skinned up a little, but I slides my rifle loose +and climbs back up to the road. + +Spooner is leaning against a tree, trying to pump wind back into his +lungs and work the lever of Hashknife’s Winchester, neither of which +seems to work properly. In the middle of the road stands the sheriff, +gore running down his homely face, and acts a heap like he was trying +to line his sights on Hashknife, who is down behind the sheriff’s +horse, sort of tangled up. + +“Look out, Bill!” screams Spooner when I climb over into the road. + +Ells whirls toward me and I felt the wind of his bullet whisper past my +ear. He didn’t feel the wind of mine. He just seems to sort of teeter +forward on his toes, and then buckled backward to the dirt. + +I hears another shot and glances sideways in time to see Spooner slump +down on his hands and knees and slide flat on his face. + + * * * * * + +Hashknife drags himself out from under the dead bronc and rubs his chin. + +“There goes their old court-house ring, Sleepy,” says he, grinning. “We +met the enemy and they are ours.” + +I turned Spooner over and hauled him into the shade, and then we did the +same for Ells. Spooner blinks up at us and sort of remembers things. +Tears appear in his little eyes, and he tries to beg. + +“Shut up!” snaps Hashknife. “Save your wind, feller.” + +“I don’t want to die!” wails Spooner. “Don’t let me die!” + +“He can’t last long,” says Hashknife. “But I don’t care much.” + +“Don’t say that,” begs Spooner. “I’ll do anything--anything--hear me?” + +Funny what a bullet will do to a man, ain’t it? + +“If you lie to me I’ll let you die like a coyote,” says Hashknife, and +Spooner blinks hard. + +“You hired two men to kill us as we rode in, didn’t you?” + +Spooner groans and twists, but nods his head. Hashknife tears a check +out of his book, turns it face down on the book and digs out his pencil. +Then he props Spooner against a rock and hands him the stuff. + +“Write out a bill of sale to Crosby & Older for the JHE outfit. Mark it +‘Paid in Full.’ _Sabe?_” + +Spooner stares at Hashknife, and he seems to get convulsions. + +“Go ahead,” advises Hashknife. “The sooner you do it the sooner you’ll +get to a doctor.” + +“Bill of sale?” he whispers. “Who are you to-- What do I get?” + +“You get help or--a harp. Decide quick.” + +Spooner wet that bill of sale with bitter tears, but his life’s blood +was worth a lot to him, and he signed it all proper-like. + +“Did Ells have any interest in this?” asks Hashknife. + +“Let him answer,” says I. “He’s woke up.” + +We has to shake him quite a lot before he gets his _sabe_ back, and +Hashknife wipes the blood out of his eyes before he can see. He reads +the bill of sale sort of dazed-like and then squints at us. Hashknife +hands him the pencil. + +“Right below Spooner’s signature, Ells,” grins Hashknife, and Ells +scrawls it like a man in his sleep. + +Then he stares at poor Spooner. + +“Much obliged,” says Hashknife. “The sheriff’s bronc is dead, I reckon, +but Spooner’s will carry double. I’d advise the border--fast.” + +“What are you talking about?” wails Spooner. “I need a doctor!” + +“Like ---- you do,” whoops Hashknife. “You need a jeweler.” + +He reaches down and picks out Spooner’s watch-chain. In the middle on +the string of gold-pieces is one with a big lead slug partly wrapped +in a twenty. + +“That .44 slug busted into your stummick and upset your nervous system,” +whoops Hashknife. “Ells’ head was so danged hard that Sleepy’s bullet +just skidded. You fellers ain’t hurt--you’re simply shocked.” + +Ells and Spooner stares at each other and then weaves to their feet. We +threw their guns over the grade, and Hashknife watched ’em until I got +Gray Wolf and their pack-animal back to the road. Then they both got on +Spooner’s mare and started away. + +I reckon I know how they felt, giving up everything thataway. + +“Thy sins have found thee out,” grins Hashknife. “I hope mine never find +me in.” + +“Now,” says I, “you Egyptian Spinks, speak up and tell your little +bunkie the secret. How did you know they rustled them cows?” + +Hashknife rolls a smoke and leans back. + +“McKee. As soon as I seen that pelican I says to myself, ‘Brands is the +answer.’ I got to wondering why they changed the old Bar 80 to JHE.” + +Hashknife takes a stick and makes a Cross L in the dust. Then he makes a +Lazy U. + +“See them two brands, Sleepy? Now watch.” + +He makes an E out of the L, and draws a J ahead of it. Then he grins at +me. + +“See how they made a JHE out of Cross L without any trouble? Now, all +you have to do is to finish up that Lazy U into an E, and add the J Bar +to make it JHE. _Sabe?_ + +“Now if these pelicans had made any yelps about making good I was going +to rebrand everything on the range with the O Cross B, the same of which +fits right over the top of the JHE. _Sabe?_” + + + CROSS L ..... [L brand] ........ [JHE brand] + LAZY U ...... [U brand] ........ [JE brand] + J H E ....... [JE brand] ....... [JHE brand] + O CROSS B ...................... [O+B brand] + +“Hashknife,” says I, “don’t teach me any more. That’s penitentiary +bait.” + +“Uh-huh. I suppose I ought to ’a’ sent Spooner and Ells to the pen, but +what’s the use of doing that? I wouldn’t pen up a coyote.” + +Just then a wagon comes rattling around the curve, and in it is +Older, Crosby and Molly. They stares at the dead bronc and then at +us. Hashknife grins and hands them the bill of sale, and they sure +gets interested. + +“Wh-what does it mean?” stutters Crosby. “Everything on the JHE?” + +“Uh-huh. That ain’t all either. I’ve got a confession that will bring +Shorty Blewett out of the pen--whiter than snow.” + +Molly sort of sways in her seat and stares at him. + +“Absolutely, ma’am,” grins Hashknife. “Soon as I can find a judge.” + +“Oh!” says she, and that’s all. + +I reckon there are times when a person’s tongue gets handcuffed. + +“Let’s go, folks,” says Hashknife. “We’ve got to see the judge.” + +We looked back after we got started, and sees Molly setting there in the +bumpy old wagon with her hands folded in her lap, but she wasn’t feeling +the jolts of that old dead-ex wagon. + +Old Judge Stevens was plumb receptive. The whole gang of us enters his +office, and after he reads that confession he goes straight up. + +“Get him out?” he howls. “Will I? Of all the rotten deals----” + +“Come on, Sleepy,” says Hashknife, taking me by the sleeve. “Let’s get +out before the old coot dies from apoplexy.” + +Crosby grabbed us at the door and he’s trembly all over. + +“Where you going?” he asks. “Me and Older want you to take third +interest in the new outfit. No, no, you can’t refuse! Why, man alive, +we’ve----” + +“Just a minute,” grins Hashknife. “Me and Sleepy has got to see a man.” + +We manages to get away before he kissed us, and then we met the man. He +asked us what we’d have, and we told him. We bathed our souls in it, and +we grew light-hearted and gay. + +“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “we’ve got seventeen hundred dollars and a +third interest in a cow outfit. Do we settle down to a ripe old age?” + +“And give up our hunt for Toothpick Thompson, Hashknife?” + +We looks at each other and both shakes our heads at the same time. + +“Tell you what we’ll do: We’ll give Molly and her feeance seven hundred +and fifty to start housekeeping on, eh? Fine! A thousand is plenty for +us.” + +We talked to the man again, and later on we finds Molly and her dad and +Older. Hashknife makes an elaborate bow, forgets the speech we framed +up, but gives Molly the check. He orates in favor of giving Molly and +her man the third interest and keeping the cow outfit in the family. + +I starts in where Hashknife left off and talked so danged fast that they +can’t refuse. Molly kissed both of us, and I think I kissed Older and +Crosby. Hashknife says I did, but I don’t remember kissing Older. + +Next thing I remember is meeting the restaurant person with the long +lock of hair and ancient cigaret. + +“The sheriff sloped,” says he. “Hope he never comes back.” + +“Whyfore he sloped?” I asks. + +“Shot a feller who didn’t have no gun. I hope they catch him and hang +the son-of-a-rooster. Know what he done--him and Spooner? They arrested +Shorty Blewett just when he was going to pay me the seventeen dollars he +owed me.” + +“Who did he shoot?” asks Hashknife. + +“Brill. Betcha the JHE outfit will make him hard to catch.” + +“Kill him?” + +“Not dead. They sent him to Divide on a buckboard. Brill took a few +drinks and met the sheriff. Nobody knows why Ells shot him, but Brill +was unarmed and--that’s bad business. The sheriff packed a horse and +lit out.” + +Hashknife writes him out a check for seventeen, and we both shakes hands +with the feller. Then we went on. In the saloon where we had our first +run-in with Ells the bartender sets ’em up to us and acts real friendly. + +“Got a note for you,” says he, handing Hashknife a slip of paper. “Brill +wrote it after he was shot. Said to slip it to the tall one.” + +Hashknife leans against the bar and reads it over several times. Then he +digs down inside his shirt and pulls out a little buckskin sack, which +he turns around and around in his fingers. Pretty soon he says: + +“Sleepy, will you take this and give it to Molly? Tell her it’s a +Christmas present to her and Shorty from Hashknife Hartley. Tha’s all, +cowboy.” + +Molly didn’t know what to say, and I went away before she said it. I had +to hunt all over town to find Hashknife, and then I meets him coming out +of the bank. We gets on our broncs and as usual I follers Hashknife out +of town. + +We rides along quite a while in silence and then Hashknife starts +singing, “If I ne-e-e-e-ver had ’a’ met you, I ne-e-e-e-ver would ’a’ +loved you, git along my little dogie, git along my little dearie----” + +“Did you get that thousand dollars, Hashknife?” I asks. + +“Minus seventeen dollars,” says he. “No, but it’s safe, Sleepy.” + +“Where?” + +“In a church.” + +“Go ahead and talk.” + +“I was in the bank to get it, Sleepy. Little old coot comes jigging in, +and lays down a dollar and eighty cents. Funny little coot, Sleepy, with +eyes like a tired dog. Says to the cashier---- + +“‘Here is a little more--very little; but each cent brings us nearer to +a church in Badger City.’ + +“You building a church?” I asks, and he smiles--not grins, Sleepy--and +says---- + +“‘We are not building yet, brother, but we have hopes.’ + +“I hands him the check and says to him---- + +“‘If every dollar brings a hope, pardner, have nine hundred and +eighty-three hopes on us.’” + +We drifts along for a while, and then Hashknife turns to me. + +“Sleepy, you ain’t sore, are you?” + +“Yeah, I am; sore that we gave two hundred and fifty to Brill when the +church business is so hopeless. I ain’t asking much, Hashknife, but I’d +admire to know what that present was which I gave Molly?” + +“A bullet, Sleepy--just a old lead bullet.” + +“Merry Christmas,” says I. “You’re a regular Santa Claus.” + +“Once upon a time,” says Hashknife, “there was two jiggers, who--well, +one of them says public-like---- + +“‘I’m going to shoot Hashknife Hartley.’ + +“Hashknife rises up on his hind legs and orates-- + +“‘If you do I’ll dig out the bullet and make you eat it if I have to +foller you the rest of my life.’ + +“That was the bullet, Sleepy. I didn’t make good.” + +We rides along for a while, and then Hashknife turns in his saddle and +hands me back the note which the bartender had given him. It read: + + DER SIR--Shorty Blewett is a nice feller, but maybe you + like to know he is Toothpik Tomson just the same but + diferent name. Yours truly, BRILL. + +I stares at Hashknife’s homely, sober face, and all to once he breaks +into a big grin. + +“Aw, I ain’t mad at nobody, Sleepy. She’s a great old world.” + +“Uh-huh, and few of us ever get out of it alive, Hashknife.” + +“Yeah, that’s a fact, cowboy, but she helps a lot if we can help here +and grin when we leave for the hereafter--ho, hum-m-m-m-m. Git along +my little dogie, git along my little dogie; we’re going to Montana on +the old Lo-Lo trail.” + +And that was whatever. + + +[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the July 18, 1920 issue of +Adventure magazine.] + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 78644 *** |