Chapter II: Part 2

“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.]