
                       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.]
