“HASHKNIFE”—PHILANTHROPIST

By 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?”

“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.

About This Book

This work is believed to be in the public domain in the United States. Copyright status in other countries may vary; readers outside the US should verify the status in their own jurisdiction.

Originally published by The Ridgway Company in Adventure Magazine, July 18, 1920

Prepared by volunteers at BookCove (bookcove.net).