Chapter I: Part 1

“HASHKNIFE”--PHILANTHROPIST

W. C. Tuttle

Author of “Ike Harper’s Historical Holiday,”
“When the Pilgrims Hit Piperock,” etc.

I don’t know who “Toothpick” Thompson was or is, but he must ’a’ been a miserable sort of a whippoorwill to incur the enmity of a smiling soul like “Hashknife” Hartley.

Hashknife is what you’d call a lovable character with a purpose in life, said purpose being the finding of said Toothpick. With this one exception Hashknife loves everybody, but packs his gun handy for those who might misconstrue his devotion.

Hashknife never did tell me what Toothpick done to him, but it must ’a’ been something gosh-awful. I can get a rise out of Hashknife any old time by asking him for a toothpick, but he never has said what he intended doing to this splinter-named individual.

“Going to hang his hide on the fence?” I asks.

“Whatcha reckon I’m going to do--kiss him?”

I’ve got so I keeps my eyes open for anybody which might fit the description, which consists of a he-human, a heap generous from end to end, but skimpy in circumference. Added description don’t help much, ’cause Hashknife is likely prejudiced and anyway nobody’d print it. I never antagonizes Hashknife and I never intentionally starts any argument, but at times I foolishly makes some sort of a remark, and this is what happens:

“Aw shucks, ‘Sleepy,’ you’ve got the wrong idea entirely. Romance means meeting some female, making love to her by the old mill-stream, and eventually marrying her.

“I know, I know, cowboy; you’re thinking of the days men wore iron panties and went around with a cant-hook in one hand and a skewer in the other. Uh-huh--sure. They was on the prod most of the time according to books, but you’ve got to figure that they had to do a little work once in a while.

“Yeah, they was romantic, Sleepy, but they must ’a’ had toothache, bald heads and corns the same as me and you. You never reads no tales of cow-land wherein the buckaroo is ever troubled with them ailments or has to get up at five o’clock in the Winter to shovel hay at a lot of bawling cows. Romance is a great thing, Sleepy, but yuh can’t be hungry or broke and be romantic at the same time.”

Hashknife gasps with delight over that discourse. I marvels exceedingly that any human being can hold its breath so long.

“Hashknife,” says I, “Bill Bryan never had anything on you except his platform. I wasn’t kicking about there not being any romance left, but I was just remarking that nothing ever happens to us. Honest, we’re getting in one awful rut.”

Hashknife reins in his bronc and stares at me.

“Oh, yeah. Well, well. Me and you just got the powder-smoke out of our noses, and here you goes yelping about being in a rut. What would you advise?”

“No advice. I was just hoping that something would happen to us--something we ain’t to blame for. _Sabe?_”

“Oh, yeah. Uh-huh. You’d like to have this grade slide off into the river or have a rattlesnake rise up and bite you or----”

_P’wee! P’wee-e-e-e-e!_

One of them bullets makes a merry-go-round out of my hat, and the other one makes Hashknife grab his nose.

_P’wee-e-e-e-e-e! Splat!_

Another one flattens on a rock behind us as we whirled our broncs off the road into a willow thicket. Then we hit the ground with our rifles in our hands and stares at each other.

“Somebody must ’a’ heard you, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “You talk too loud. Keep your head down.”

“Take care of your own head,” says I. “I never hired you as a head-guard.”

We sneaks in behind some rocks and brush, and takes a look across the river. I reckon we’ve been there half an hour when we sees two men on a rock across the river. They appears to be a heap interested in the spot where we left our broncs. After a while one of ’em takes a shot in that direction.

Just then Hashknife’s rifle cracks. I seen the shooter stumble to his knees, and his rifle comes skyhootin’ plumb down into the river. The other feller ducks down and hauls his incapacitated friend out of sight.

“Whatcha laying there with a gun for, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife. “All you had to do was line up on the other feller and we’d got ’em both.”

“Sure,” says I, “and then we’d have to go over there and nurse ’em to some town. As it is one takes care of the other and we ain’t under obligations to nobody.”

“My ----!” he grunts. “You sure do look into the future. Won’t shoot a man ’cause you’re too lazy to bury him. My, my, you’ve got a heart.”

Then we sneaked back to our broncs and went on. We ain’t got no more idea of where we’re going than a Piegan has of the pyramids.

Me and him goes along until circumstances causes us to stop, and then we eventually goes on again. We can ride anything you can hook a hull on to or rope to a certain extent, and are so danged peaceful that we’re willing to cut one cinch off our saddles when we ride into a single-rig country.

Soldiers of fortune? Naw, sir, cow-punchers of disaster. Fortune never smiled at us. At times she’s busted out laughing when we’ve doubled on our trail and left some anxious sheriff barking up a tree, but otherwise she’s had her back turned to us.

Right now our combined wealth won’t total over seventeen dollars. We’ve got two Winchesters, a .41 and a .44 Colt, and Hashknife packs a .44 derringer in his vest pocket.

Under us we’ve got two jug-headed broncs and two good saddles. My bronc’s name is Gray Wolf and Hashknife’s was christened El Diablo. Their mission in life is to pile somebody.

Our consciences are clear--enough to suit us, and we’ve got sense enough to go inside when it rains.

“Regular town,” observes Hashknife as we tops a hill and gets a look at the settlement below us. “Got a main street, hitch-racks, houses, et cettery. Somebody’s wagon must ’a’ broke down here and so they decided to start a town.

“Court-house, jail and lots of saloons. Cause and effect, Sleepy. I see a café-sign, cowboy.”

“Bar 80 on shoulder and Cross L on the hip,” says I as we drift past two broncs at a rack. “Where did we hear anything about the Bar 80?”

“Wasn’t it the Bar 80 that Pete McCool bragged so much about? Said it was the toughest outfit that Gawd ever let live. Remember it, don’tcha, Sleepy?”

“Uh, huh. Betcha forty dollars that this is Badger City. According to Pete, New York is a deserted sheep-camp beside Badger City.”

“She’s that same li’l’ place,” agrees Hashknife as we swings down. “I see the name on the bank window. Let’s see if their eggs are fresh.” We leaves our broncs and starts for the door.

* * * * *

Two fellers comes out of the hash-house as we starts in. One of ’em is a tall individual with the longest mustache I ever seen. He packs his gun almost to his knee and he’s got hair an inch long on his wrist.

The other one is a pig-headed-looking _hombre_ with little round eyes and a little belly that sort of folds over the band of his pants. He’s wearing store clothes and a hard hat, but you don’t notice him so much as you do his watch-chain, which is made of twenty-dollar gold-pieces linked together. I counts ten of ’em, and his coat must hide that many more.

They steps to one side and stares at us. I never had anybody stare at me so hard before. We walks right past ’em and lands at the nearest table.

We glances outside and see them two meet another feller in the middle of the street. This third person starts talking with both hands, but the tall feller grabs him by the arm and the three of ’em crosses the street.

“What do you think, Sleepy?” asks Hashknife.

“About four hundred and fifty dollars.”

“Where?”

“In that watch-chain.”

“I didn’t figure that, Sleepy. I was watching the tall feller’s hands. Honest to gosh, they itched to grab a gun.”

“Hunting boogers, eh?” says I. “Looking for tiger’s teeth in a canary. Some of these days, Hashknife, you’ll get bit by a chickadee.”

Just then a feller comes out of the kitchen to take our order. He’s a meek-looking _hombre_ with a long lock of hair hanging down over his forehead, and an ancient cigaret is glued to the corner of his lower lip. He takes a look all around and then comes over to us.

“Pardner,” says Hashknife, “can you deliver us about two dollars’ worth of ham and eggs?”

“And fried spuds and coffee?” I adds.

“Yeah,” says he. “Uh-huh; sure.”

“Confirmed three times,” grins Hashknife. “Hurry it along, will you?”

“Yeah,” says he, brushing back the hair. “Uh-huh, sure.”

“Man of few words--all meaning the same,” says Hashknife.

He delivers us the feed and then ducks back into the kitchen. He comes out in time to collect, and Hashknife asks him who the feller with the gaudy chain is.

“That’s Abe Spooner, the prosecuting attorney, and the other one is Bill Ells, the sheriff. I hope they both die before their time comes.”

He shuffles back to the kitchen, and me and Hashknife looks at each other.

“My ----!” says Hashknife. “This is awful! Abe Spooner and Bill Ells! Well, well!”

“You know who they are?”

“No, but they must be awful, Sleepy. They’ve scared the cook.”

“You scared?”

“Y’ betcha. Got a notion to sneak out the back way and run like ----! You scared too, Sleepy?”

“Yeah--scared I won’t inherit that chain.”

Somehow them two _hombres_ seems to be waiting for us in that saloon. The sheriff is leaning against the bar, while the prosecutor sets on a card-table sort of fussing with his watch-chain nervous-like.

A couple of punchers are playing pool, and a third one--the feller who met them out in the street--is trying to make a little yellow dog do tricks. This last puncher is about seven-eighths drunk.

Me and Hashknife braces up to the bar and calls for cigars. We took hooch in a strange town just once; now we takes cigars.

“Nice weather we’re having,” says Hashknife pleasant-like.

“Up to now,” admits the sheriff.

He don’t look bad to me. Any time yuh find a _hombre_ who ties his holster down--well, anyway, they don’t live long.

“Dang fool dawg won’t do nothin’!” complains the puncher, flopping his arms nervous-like. “Want to show him off and he won’t do a darn thing. Teached that dawg myself. Want to see him play dead?”

“Shut up!” snaps the sheriff. “Dog’s got more sense than you have.”

“Thasso?”

The puncher gets woolly.

“Well, well! Let’s have a drink. Still got money left and more where that comes from; eh, sheriff?”

“Shut up!” howls the sheriff, yanking him around and shoving him out on the sidewalk.

They has a few words and then the puncher weaves back across the street. Then the sheriff comes back in.

“My, you sure know how to razoo a feller, don’tcha?” applauds Hashknife. “You’re the sheriff, ain’tcha?”

“I am. Why?”

“Nothing much, but being as you’re the sheriff I thought maybe you’d like to know that somebody shoots at me and my pardner as we rides up the road.”

“Did, eh?”

The sheriff shows interest and so does Spooner.

“Somebody shot at you?” asks Spooner wondering-like.

“Right at us,” grins Hashknife. “Whatcha know about that?”

“Did you--uh--see either of them?” asks Spooner.

“Did I say it was two men? Now, maybe I did.”

Spooner swallers hard and scratches his chin.

“Seen ’em both,” nods Hashknife, plastering down the loose wrapper on his cigar. “Shot one. Left the other intact to bring in the body. Funny thing; you know it? Feller ought to know how to shoot before he tries such didoes as that, don’tcha think?”

“You telling me the truth?” asks the sheriff.

Hashknife grins into his eyes for a moment and then half-turns away. I knew what was coming ’cause I’ve seen it before--a pivot punch.

It caught the sheriff at the butt of his left ear, and for the next half-minute that sheriff was as dead to the world as if he had spent seven million years in a cemetery.

Spooner almost falls off the table, and the two pool-players stops their game sudden-like.

“He doubted my word,” says Hashknife, rubbing his knuckles. “He didn’t show good judgment.”

I was watching things--me. I seen the bartender, who is standing sort of behind Hashknife, reverse a bottle in his hand, and my bullet sure ruined one good quart of corn-juice.

“Aw-w-w-w-w-w!” wails the bartender, wiping his eyes. “Whatcha do that for?”

“Put your hands on the bar,” says I. “Next time you might remember that the top end of a bottle is the neck--not the handle.”

* * * * *

The sheriff heaves a big sigh and then sets up. He moves his head like one of them mechanical doll things, and then he squints up at us. Man, I hankered for a chance to tie his mustache behind his neck. He sort of masticates slow-like, and gets to his feet.

“You ... hit ... me?” he asks, gawping at Hashknife.

“Yeah. It pains me to have my word doubted.”

“I didn’t doubt your word, stranger.”

“My, I’m glad,” says Hashknife.

“Honest I am. I sure accepts your apology, and I feels that we’re going to get along fine. I ain’t never had a sheriff for a friend.

“I kinda like your friend here--this one with the visible watch-chain. Name’s Spooner, ain’t it? Nice name. What does he do for a living?”

“I am the prosecuting attorney,” says Spooner.

“Well, well! I thought you owned the mint. I apologize--to the mint.”

“You looking for trouble?” asks the sheriff. “’Cause if you are----”

“I should say not,” says Hashknife. “Not us. Me and Sleepy are two little doves setting on an olive-branch. Live and let live, say we.

“Yuh see, Sleepy just busted that bottle on general principles. He’s so strong for temperance that he just has to bust booze.”

“Yeah?” says the sheriff, feeling of his jaw. “Yeah?”

He walks to the door and looks back.

“About a mile below here,” says Hashknife. “They was across the river.”

The sheriff grunts something and walks out, and behind him goes Spooner, looking back all the way. One of the punchers puts down his cue and walks over to us.

“Gents,” says he, “I’ll buy. I never seen anything better in my life. I just needed one ball to beat ‘Slim,’ and when you hit Ells I picked up the ball and put it in my own pocket. I’ll buy you a drink and a cigar for your pardner.”

“I’ve backslid,” says I, “so we’ll cancel the cigar.”

“Something with ‘U. S. Revenue’ stamped on the cork,” says Hashknife, “and I’ll open it myself.”

“You’re the doctor,” says the bartender.

“I ain’t suspicious, you understand,” grins Hashknife, “but I’ve got to stick in this vale of tears a while. You know a _hombre_ by the name of Toothpick Thompson?”

The bartender shakes his head, and so does the two punchers.

“Never heard of him,” says one of the boys. “I’m Al Stingle, and this is Slim Smith. The best thing Slim does is play pool.”

“You skin me every danged time,” complains Slim.

“Me and Slim works for the Cross L outfit. In fact we’re about all that is left of the outfit; ain’t we, Slim?”

“That’s awful true,” nods Slim sad-like. “Wouldn’t be surprized to wake up any morning and find that we’ve been stolen. Cows just sort of e-vaporate--why not punchers?”

“That tells it,” nods Al. “E-vaporation. You fellers looking for jobs?”

“Know anything about the Bar 80?” asks Hashknife.

“Bar 80?” asks Slim. “Oh, yeah, we know something about ’em. It ain’t Bar 80 no more--it’s the JHE outfit. About a year ago they changes the brand.”

“Anything wrong about that?” asks Hashknife.

“----, no. They lets us alone and we lets them alone, but they don’t get any love-notes from us, being as they’re the snake-hunters what sent Shorty Blewett to the pen. Didn’t know Shorty, did you? No? Well, they grabbed Shorty and sent him up for five years--on JHE evidence.”

“Shorty worked with you fellers?”

“Uh-huh. Shorty got a idea he could find out how the cows were being rustled, and he--well, the darn fool got caught.”

“That’s what they said,” corrects Al. “Shorty wasn’t no rustler. It was a dirty deal, if you asks me.”

“Where did they get the idea for the JHE brand?”

“Eastern outfit, I reckon. Brill is supposed to own it.”

“Brill?” asks Hashknife.

“Yeah. He’s a cowman all right,” says Slim. “They brands all the Bar 80 stuff over again. Me and Al has a couple of Bar 80 saddle-horses.”

“Cross L loses a lot of stock?” asks Hashknife.

“About all they’ve got,” says Slim. “Every month is like a hard Winter. The old man--Jack Older, our boss--has lost about thirty-five hundred head.

“I’d ’a’ killed somebody a long time ago if it belonged to me. Why, he’s just set around and let somebody annex all his wealth. How the ---- it’s done I dunno, but she’s being done, stranger.”

“Anybody else losing stock?”

“Yeah. The Lazy U has lost about all they owned, and the JHE has been hoodled out of a lot. It’s some system, I’d tell a man.”

“Whatcha reckon them fellers shot at us for?” asks Hashknife.

“Told anybody you was coming?” asks Slim.

“Didn’t know it ourselves.”

“This is one peculiar country,” admits Al. “If I was you I’d look out a little when you’re around the sheriff. I know you fellers are plumb weaned from milk, but Ells is a bad _hombre_ to cross.”

“How about Spooner?” I asks.

“Coyote,” grins Al. “Never packs a gun. Only thing that saves him. Run out to the Cross L and visit us. Old man likes company--the kind you don’t have to keep your gun handy for. So-long.”

“Now,” says Hashknife, “I wonder what that feller over in that doorway is staring at us for? Lordy, a side-show would coin money in a place like this, where they gawps so hard at an ordinary he-man. Now he’s coming over to see us. Maybe he’s nearsighted, Sleepy.”

* * * * *

The feller is a tall, rangy-looking _hombre_ with mouse-colored hair and a slight limp in his left hind leg. He pilgrims up in front of us and stares at Hashknife.

“Howdy,” says Hashknife. “Nice weather.”

“Uh-huh. You wishin’ to get jobs?”

“Have to wish for ’em?” asks Hashknife innocent-like.

The feller fingers his chin and glances across the street.

“I need a couple of good men. I own the JHE outfit.”

“All of it?”

“I said I was the owner.”

“I’m kinda hard of hearing,” says Hashknife. “Didn’t that used to was the Bar 80?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Whatcha say your name was--is?”

“My name is Brill.”

“Brill? Used to be a feller down Pecos way by that name. You related to him?”

“I don’t know--for sure.”

“You don’t know much of anything for sure--do yuh?”

He stares at Hashknife, and I can see Brill’s ears get red.

“I reckon you don’t want them jobs,” says he soft-like.

“Not if we has to wish for them. Didja ever hear the story about the old couple and the fairy? The old lady was having a hard time trying to make the old coffee-mill work. Fairy shows up and tells ’em she’ll grant three wishes. The old lady ain’t very far-sighted; so she up and wishes for a new coffee-mill.

“That makes the old man sore as ---- to think of wasting one whole wish, and he up and says:

“‘That’s a ---- of a wish! I wish you had it hanging on the end of your nose!’

“See what he done? Well, they had to use up the third wish to get that coffee-mill loose.”

“What has a fairy-tale got to do with me?” asks Brill.

“Thisaway,” explains Hashknife. “Somebody--it wasn’t no fairy--says to you--

“‘I wish you to give them two pelicans some jobs on the JHE.’

“That’s one wish. _Sabe?_ Then you asks us to wish for them jobs, which accounts for wish number two.

“Now supposing we all gets our wish? There’s still one wish coming, ain’t there?

“Sure is, and I want to tell you this: Me or you or your fairy-friend is going to use up that third wish--wishing to ---- that they hadn’t never wished. See what I mean?”

“I sure don’t,” states Brill. “Do you or don’t you want them jobs?”

“We ain’t wishing today, Mister Brill.”

“Of course you _sabe_ your own business,” says he, making a toothpick out of a match and picking his yellow teeth. That toothpick makes Hashknife sore.

“Do we?” he snaps. “Well, by the horns on the moon, we never came to this hay-wire hamlet to ask anybody about it. I reckon we’ll wiggle along in spite of our business.”

“In spite of it,” nods Brill. “Some business is a handicap.”

“Not when she’s your own and you mind it!” snaps Hashknife.

We seen Spooner just inside the door of the building across the street as Brill went inside.

“I hope you’re getting satisfaction, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “It appears that things are happening--things we never started. Beginning to feel romantic, cowboy. What do you think?”

“I think I’d like to play a game of pool to settle my nerves.”

We plays a few games, but it ain’t much fun when you’ve got to keep one eye on a hostile bartender and the other on a pool-ball, so we finally decides to stable our broncs and find a place to hive up. We meets the sheriff at the door, and he steps to one side to let us out.

“Still here, eh?” says he, trying to appear friendly.

“Yeah,” admits Hashknife. “We can’t deny it, sheriff.”

“Figure on staying long?”

“Let me see.”

Hashknife counts on his fingers.

“July, August, September, October, Nov-- Election is in November, ain’t it?”

“Going to run for office?”

“No-o-o-o-o, I just wants to vote for a candidate.”

“Who?”

“The man who runs against you.”

“Say, what in ---- are you driving at?” he snaps. “Seems to me that you’re mixing into things that don’t concern you. You can’t run this town. _Sabe?_”

“Naw, sir,” grins Hashknife. “You’ve got the wrong idea. She don’t need running, but she sure does need cleaning. Whatcha want us to go to work for the JHE for?”

“Whatcha talking about?”

He glares at us and hooks his thumbs into his belt.

“What do I know about the JHE and your jobs?”

“Some mustache,” says I, thinking out loud. “What do you do when you want to eat? Pin ’em to your ears?”

“None of your ---- business! If I was you I’d drift real sudden.”

“You would,” nods Hashknife; “but we ain’t that kind of whippoorwills. There ain’t no hay-wire about us. Let’s go and see what the stage drug in.”

There’s a crowd around the stage. The sheriff horns right in behind us, and everybody seems to be talking at once. There’s a wounded man and a tale of how some bushwhacker shot from the top of the hill. They gets a doctor and fusses over him.

“Going along nice as you please when somebody shoots down at us and Sam keels over,” explains the driver.

“Shooting from above you?” asks Hashknife, turning away from looking at the wounded man.

“Said so, didn’t I? I seen the smoke from his gun.”

“Must ’a’ had a long-barreled gun with a crook at the end,” grins Hashknife.

“What do you mean?” asks the driver mean-like.

“Bullet went in low and comes out high. You should have said you was on top of the hill and the bushwhacker was below.”

“Sheriff, will you herd this crowd outside?” asks the doctor. “I can’t do a danged thing with all this shoving around.”

There’s plenty of talk out there on the sidewalk, but the driver sort of shuts up since Hashknife called him. The wounded man ain’t very popular, being as he’s sort of a gunman.

“Going after the bushwhacker, sheriff?” asks somebody.

The sheriff is looking at me and Hashknife, and don’t answer the question. Pretty soon he jerks his head sideways and starts up the sidewalk, and we saunters along behind him.

We walks into his office, and he nods toward a pair of chairs. We places ’em against the wall and ain’t no more than got seated when here comes Spooner. He peers back up the street and eases himself into a chair.

* * * * *

The sheriff fusses with some papers for a while, and then--

“How much?”

“How much what?” asks Hashknife, looking up from rolling a smoke.

“Every man has a price.”

“Yeah? Suppose you go ahead and talk a little.”

“Don’t say too much,” advises Spooner.

“Of course we know who shot Sam Peele.”

“Sure we do,” nods Spooner.

“You can’t pay me for it,” grins Hashknife. “I sell no scalps.”

“Who in ---- wants to pay you for it?” grunts the sheriff. “My ----, you two get on my nerves! What’s it worth to you fellers to get out and stay out?”

“Oh,” says Hashknife, glancing at me. “What’s it worth to you?”

“I’m buying--not selling,” says the sheriff. “Of course if the price is too high----”

“Wait a minute,” says Spooner, getting to his feet as the sheriff starts to finish. “There ain’t no use of anybody going off half-cocked. Now the question is this: How much is Crosby paying you? Or does your pay come from somebody else?”

“Whatcha want to know for?” asks Hashknife.

“If you don’t know the ante you can’t raise it, can you?”

“Got any certain price in mind?” I asks.

“No,” says the sheriff. “We didn’t figure on----”

“Talk it over,” advises Hashknife. “We’ll stable our broncs and maybe by that time you’ll be able to talk without swallering all the time.”

We walks out of there and strolls up the sidewalk.

“I hope your romantic soul is getting satisfaction, cowboy,” says Hashknife. “I’d sure hate to sell out to them two, but if the price is right I reckon we better.”

“Sell out what, Hashknife?”

“Nothing. We ain’t got nothing, have we? Well, if the price is right we’ll sell out--tha’s all.”

Just then a girl comes out of a store ahead of us and starts up the street. She’s got a lot of bundles in her arms and seems in a hurry.

The puncher who had been trying to make his dog do tricks is just tying his bronc to a rack, but when he sees her he steps up on the walk in front of her. She sort of draws away and tries to walk around him, but he seems to want to talk to her.

“Wait a minute, can’t you?” he asks, taking hold of her arm.

Man, she let one hand loose from her packages and slapped him a dandy. She started to run, but he grabbed her again and she lost her packages.

Somebody across the street laughs out loud, and I sort of estimate how high to hold to cut off his belt-buckle when Hashknife collides with Mister Puncher. I know that said puncher went to the Land of Nod in one blaze of glory, ’cause Hashknife hit me once by mistake.

Then Hashknife proceeds to pick him up by the heels and drags him over to a hitch-rack, where he takes the feller’s rope and hangs him upside down. There he hangs, sleeping sweetly, with his soles pointing at the sky. The population seems to sort of gather around wondering-like, and gazes upon this painless lynching.

One feller--a gambler by his raiment--steps up and says:

“What has Ben done now?”

Hashknife ignores the question and takes off his hat to the girl.

“Ma’am, may I walk home with you?” he asks.

“No, I hardly think so,” says she. “I live about five miles out.”

Somebody sort of snickers and then shuts up sudden-like when Hashknife turns. Then he turns back to the girl and picks up her bundles.

“I thank you just the same,” says she. “You are very kind.”

“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “I don’t reckon anybody’s going to bother you again.”

“Just the same I thank you,” says she, and we stood there and watched her climb into a buggy and pull out of town.

Then we turns back to the crowd. Bennie has woke up and is protesting considerable. The sheriff and Spooner are there, acting like they wished an explanation.

“Mind telling what you done that to Bennie for?” asks the sheriff.

“If that upside-down drunken pup is Bennie I’ll say this much: He got too fresh with a lady,” answers Hashknife.

“Who was the lady?” asks the sheriff.

“Crosby’s girl,” says somebody, “Molly Crosby.”

“I never done a danged thing!” wails Bennie. “Ain’t somebody going to let me loose?”

“I will,” says the sheriff, but Hashknife steps right into him.

“Better reflect,” says Hashknife. “I ain’t never heard of angels with flowing mustaches like yours, but so help me ----, if you let him loose until I tell you to there will be something new for Saint Peter to pass upon.”

A lot of the folks seem shocked, but they don’t lose their presence of mind enough to not get out of the line of possible fire. Hashknife has got more lines on his face than an ancient Siwash when he sets his poker face to work, and the sheriff steps back.

“You running this town?” he asks, sort of twitching his fingers.

“No-o-o-o-o. No, I ain’t running nothing--not even my legs. I tied that _hombre_ upside down because I figured he had more brains in his feet than in his head and some of ’em might trickle down. _Sabe?_”

Hashknife is a clever sort of a person, but plumb lax about small details. For instance, he forgot to take Bennie’s gun away from him.

I ain’t clever. I don’t look ahead and get all worried to ---- over what might happen, but I sure do appear to be animated in the immediate present. I hated to shoot at a man when he is standing on his shoulders, but what was there to do? A sidewinder ain’t no object of pity just because somebody is standing on its tail, is it? Answer--no. That is why I shot right at the spot between Bennie’s eyes.

I’m a rotten shot. Yeah, I missed. That bullet hit into the dust right at Bennie’s ear, and the spray of dust and gravel spoiled him for anything except the sense of touch for twenty minutes.

Bennie dropped his gun and grabbed his eyes, and I turned just as Hashknife’s derringer explodes. I saw a puncher sort of leaning over, rubbing his wrist and staring down at his gun on the ground.

“Hoss liniment is good for it,” says Hashknife. “I’ve done that to so many persons that I know the remedy. I really don’t want anybody to fool with Bennie. _Sabe?_”

“You’re going a little too far,” says the sheriff. “That man you tied to the rack is Ben Lober, foreman of the JHE outfit.”

“Pshaw,” says Hashknife contrite-like. “I apologize--to the rack.”

“Why don’t you arrest him?” asks the gambler person.

“None of your danged business! I’ll run my own office.”

“Sure you will,” admits Hashknife. “Just like a coyote running a poultry business.”

The sheriff stares at Hashknife and Hashknife stares right back at him while the crowd sort of slides back and waits for the killing. I reckon that Ells ain’t noways used to Hashknife’s kind.

* * * * * “The party is over,” says Hashknife sweet-like, “and I’ll let anybody cut Bennie down.”

“Leave him there!” snaps Ells, turning on his heel. “He’s been getting too danged smart lately, anyway.”

The crowd sort of melts away, talking to themselves, and then we sort of takes notice of the puncher with the bum wrist.

“Pick it up,” grins Hashknife, pointing at the gun. “It won’t bite yuh.”

“Much obliged,” says he. “I don’t know how in ---- you done it, stranger, but I sure knows how she feels. You slammed that bullet right in between the cylinder and the barrel, and danged near busted my wrist. Betcha you drove my wrist-bones back an inch. Some shooting.”

“Glad you appreciates it,” grins Hashknife. “You a friend of Bennie’s?”

“Well, I reckon I thought I was. I ain’t now.”

“Working for the JHE?”

“Got fired yesterday.”

“Know anything about old man Crosby?”

“Uh-huh. Runs the Lazy U. Sort of a religious old coot. Trusts his daughter and the Lord. Wonder why Spooner didn’t have nothing to say, being as he’s sort of shining around Molly Crosby.”

“Know anything about Shorty Blewett?”

“Little. Hear he was going with Molly, but they sent him up for rustling.”

“Much obliged. Now, about that Lazy U brand: Is she sort of a little stirrup-looking U, laying on her side, with the points sticking north on a cow going south?”

“Well----” the puncher scratches his head and grins--“well, I reckon she just about answers that description. Yes, sir, she’s that kind of a mark.”

“Thanks,” nods Hashknife, and I follers him off down the street, listening to Bennie’s gentle voice raised in spasmodic profanity.

“Hashknife,” says I, “was you kidding that poor devil?”

“She wasn’t such a bad-looking lady, Sleepy,” says he, looking straight ahead. “Kinda nice, I’d say. Lot of sense, y’ betcha. Slapped Bennie right in the egg-chute. Yeah, I’d say she ain’t no frail little blossom.”

“All right,” says I; “don’t answer my questions. You ignore my questions all the time in spite of the fact that I saves your life. You didn’t show a lick of sense, Hashknife, when you forgot Bennie’s gun thataway.”

“Great men all make mistakes, Sleepy. Didja just aim to dust him?”

“Did you shoot at that feller’s gun, Hashknife?”

“Think I’m crazy?”

“No,” says I, “and I don’t care to have you wish insanity on me either.”

I sees Spooner come angling across the street toward the sheriff’s office and we sort of catches a signal to foller him in.

“You ---- fool, are you going in there?” I asks. “Ain’cha got no sense?”

“Sure have and am, Sleepy. Come on.”

They was waiting for us, and we places our chairs against the wall, facing the door.

“Thought it over?” asks Ells soft-like.

“Kinda,” admits Hashknife. “You’re talking.”

Spooner leans toward us and whispers--

“How about five hundred?”

Hashknife puckers up his lips and then shakes his head.

“Apiece,” says Ells. “We ain’t pikers.”

“Pocket money,” says Hashknife. “You know what it means.”

Ells drums on his table for a moment and then turns to Spooner.

“Think we can raise the ante, Spooner?”

“If they’ll leave right now we’ll make it--one--thousand--apiece.”

“That’s a regular bet,” says Hashknife. “We’ll call yuh.”

“I’ll get it,” says Spooner nervous-like. “You set right here.”

He pilgrims out, and the three of us sets there waiting. After a while Ells says--

“What guarantee have we got that you’ll stay away?”

“Oh, yeah,” says Hashknife. “The guarantee. Not any, sheriff, except that we play a square game--in a square game. Me and my pardner plays our cards off the top of the deck until we finds that it ain’t customary.”

“The doctor don’t think that Sam Peele will pull through.”

“We don’t know him,” says Hashknife, “so his demise don’t irritate us none.”

“Funny thing,” says Ells, “but I don’t know your names.”

“That’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “You’re going to pay cash, ain’t yuh?”

Just then Spooner edges inside and walks over to the table. A couple of punchers rides past, going out of town, and Spooner turns until they’re out of sight. Then he digs inside his coat and hauls out two bundles.

“Thousand in each bunch,” says he. “Count ’em.”

“Your word is good,” says Hashknife. “Make any difference which way we leave town?”

“Better go the way you came,” says Ells. “The JHE is the other way, and maybe somebody turned Bennie loose by this time.”

We didn’t even tell them good-by. We shook the dust of Badger City off our feet as fast as possible.

“John D. Vanderbilt,” says I, as we tops the first rise, “what in ---- did we have that was worth a thousand dollars?”

Hashknife swings off the road and leads me up a little coulée for a hundred yards off the road. Then he turns in his saddle and grins at me.

“Darned if I know, cowboy. Ain’t it romantic? But I know this much: They don’t intend to let us enjoy it.”

“Is that so? We’ve got it, ain’t we? Why won’t we enjoy it?”

“I didn’t say we wouldn’t enjoy it, Sleepy; I said they didn’t intend to let us. You don’t look ahead none. Didja see them two punchers what rode out of town when Spooner came in?”

“Uh-huh. Where’s the cloud effect?”

“Down the road. Spooner and Ells ain’t giving away two thousand dollars. If we went down there we’d stand as much show as a celluloid dog chasing an asbestos cat through ----. One of ’em is Bennie Lober.”

“What will we do--cut across the hills?”

“Safest thing to do, Sleepy, but I hate to do it. Let’s hide out here until Spooner and Ells ride past.”

“What makes you think----”

“Cinch. Spooner has got to have some reason for drawing two thousand. Reckon he said he was going to buy cows or something. _Sabe?_ We holds him up. Sheriff is with him and plugs us proper. Sheriff takes the responsibility off the bushwhackers.”

“Too far-fetched,” says I. “You’ve got the imagination of a hop-head.”

“Yeah? Here comes Ells and Spooner.”

They swings past us and off down the road, and then Hashknife leads back to the road and points toward town.

“We ain’t left nothing,” says I. “Why go back?”

“To leave something, Sleepy,” he grins. “Going to put two thousand in the bank.”

“In ... the ... bank? Us?”

“Yeah. Romantic, don’t you think?”

“Romantic ----! Insanity! Absolutely the craziest idea I ever heard.”

* * * * *

There ain’t no use arguing with him. He’s good-hearted up to a certain point, and after that he begins to get childish.

He knowed how to transact the business; so I gave him my bundle. It was a sad affair for me.

Then we just got on to our broncs as the sheriff, the prosecutor and the other two ride in. Man, you’d ’a’ thought we’d just robbed the bank instead of putting money in it. Questions and answers were null and void.

Their first offering of lead seemed to connect with Gray Wolf and he dropped like a log. I lit flat on my back in the dust, but I got my Winchester loose as I turned over, and proceeded to crawl close to my supine bronc.

I seen Hashknife fading out in a cloud of dust, and then I organizes for action. One of the punchers has got inside a saloon across the street, another is behind a wagon in front of the blacksmith shop on the same side of the street.

I seen Spooner duck down at the end of the board sidewalk, but I can’t see anything of the sheriff. A bullet cuts a nice crease across the fender of my saddle, and it makes me sore. I picks on that wagon first, and the man behind just stands for five shots, after which he crawls behind the shop, dragging one leg.

Spooner can’t do no shooting without exposing himself; so I transfers my affections to the saloon window, where the other feller is shooting at me. I sure fanned that palace of sin a-plenty.

I busted every window in the front of the place and then I proceeds to cut my initials in the front door. All I’ve got left is the period when I sees Spooner duck low and try to make a sneak.

I had only one shell left in the gun, and when I cut loose I seen Spooner do a high-dive on his head.

“Hope I didn’t ruin that watch-chain,” says I out loud, and a voice behind me says----

“Lay down that gun!”

It’s Brill. He sneaked up on me from the rear. I crawls away from my rifle and unhooks my belt.

“Got him, Bill,” says Brill, and then Ells comes across the street.

He glares at me and then at Brill.

“I’d have killed him,” says he mean-like, “but you beat me to it.”

“You’re a nice little sheriff,” says I. “They ought to trade your jail for a cemetery.”

“Where did the other one go?” asks Brill.

“Got away!” snaps Ells. “We’ll get him, too.”

Badger City sure comes down to escort me to durance vile. My, they sure was brave and bold to take a chance thataway. They not only hoodled me to jail, but they abused me considerable.

“What was the matter, sheriff?” asks a feller who looks like he might have been inside that saloon.

“Held up Spooner and took two thousand dollars. This is one of the fellers who bushed Sam Peele.”

“Spooner’s got a creased head,” states somebody, “and Ben Lober’s got a busted leg.”

“That gray bronc is up again,” informs another. “Got creased. Whatcha want done with him, sheriff?”

“Put him in my corral, Ed.”

They hustles me into a cell, and then the sheriff herds everybody outside. He comes over to the bars and glares at me.

“Where is that money?” he asks.

“In the bank.”

“In the bank?”

He looks foolish-like at me, and I nods.

“Give me the book!”

“Whatcha think I am--a schoolhouse?”

Just then Spooner comes in. Two other fellers tries to horn in, but the sheriff orders ’em out.

Spooner is a sorry-looking fat man. He’s got a big muffler tied around his head, and his face is plumb gory.

“Get ’em both, Ells?” he asks, holding his head with both hands.

“Just one. You better see a doctor.”

“Oh, ---- the doctor!” he groans. “Where is the money? The boys are talking of a lynching, and I hoped we had ’em both. Where’s the money, I asked you?”

“What boys?”

“What’s the difference? I asked about the money, Bill.”

Just then comes a plaintive sort of a voice from near the door:

“Money ain’t everything, Spooner. Feller hadn’t ought to get to loving money so much that he forgets to square-deal his feller men. It sure is a nice thing to give away your money, but you spoils the whole thing when you tries to commit murder to get it back.”

I sees Spooner and the sheriff whirl around, and then their hands go up slow.

“Two Y’s in a row,” says Hashknife’s voice. “Where’s my pardner?”

“In the little coop on the left,” says I. “Locked up like a gate.”

“Unlock it,” orders Hashknife, “and don’t look so bilious, sheriff.”

It sure wrenched their souls to see me walk out of there, and it hurt a lot worse when I took away their guns.

“You’ll never get away,” says Ells, and Hashknife grins.

“Thasso? Well, well! Sleepy, we’ll take their hats, and that drunken gang won’t never know us.”

“That hat cost me twenty-five dollars,” wails Ells. “You----”

“Aw, shut up!” yelps Hashknife. “Get into that cell--both of yuh!”

Hashknife takes the keys and locks the cell door.

“There’s going to be a lynching tonight,” says I. “Them uncurried wolves are going to get lit up proper-like and then they’re going to come down here.”

“Haw! Haw! Haw!” chuckles Hashknife. “Shall we stay and see the fun?”

“Nope. The fun will come in the morning when they discovers their mistake.”

“Gents,” says Spooner, “upon my word of honor----”

“My ----!” gasps Hashknife. “Wouldn’t that rasp yuh? Honor! Where is your bronc, Sleepy?”

“In the sheriff’s corral. You get him, will you? You look like Ells in that hat.”

Then Ells began to curse me and Spooner begins to plead. Spooner was willing to do anything or promise anything if I’d let him out, but Ells cursed me and my ancestors from the beginning of time.

Then Spooner chides Ells for crabbing his chance of touching my heart, and then they lays off me and practises on each other. I’m danged if I know which is on top when Hashknife yells at me, but I didn’t have no bets down anyway.

* * * * *

We threw the keys into the corral and rode out of town, Hashknife’s new hat flopping in the wind, and mine--that hard-boiled thing--skidding around from ear to ear.

“Where are we going now?” I asks as Badger City fades out of view.

“Where? I’ve got a idea, Sleepy.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Uh-huh. Going to bust up a cow outfit.”

“Well, that’s a nice thought, Hashknife. You sure do think of sweet things to do, cowboy. Puts two thousand in the bank in a town where we don’t never dare to go, locks the court-house inside the jail and then opines to bust up a cow outfit.”

“Yeah, she is a little romantic, ain’t it?”

“Romantic? Good night and fare thee well! What’s the idea, Hashknife?”

“Case of getting sore, Sleepy. Don’t never let your angry passions rise. You likely won’t, ’cause you ain’t got no imagination, which ain’t nothing against you. _Sabe?_ I’ve got lots of imagination; therefore I gets mad easy.

“Yeah, I’m awful mad. I’m so danged mad that I turns phil--phil-- What’s a feller called what does things for folks without getting paid for it?”

“A ---- fool.”

“So classified, Sleepy, but knowed socially as a phil--phil--an--thro--fist.”

“A rose by any other name don’t lose its smell,” says I.

“All right, cowboy. Now this here Crosby person has been getting the worst of it, ain’t he? Ain’t the Cross L been getting a dirty deal, too? The JHE loses cows, and one perfectly good puncher gets sent up for rustling.

“Now it’s a cinch that one puncher never done it all, Sleepy. Them cows just sort of e-vaporates as it were. Funny conditions confront us, cowboy--very funny.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” says I. “Very funny. We sold nothing for two thousand dollars and put the money where we don’t dare go after it. Yeah, it’s sure funny.”

We jogs along in the gloom for a while and then Hashknife says:

“There’s a light over there, Sleepy, and like as not it’s Crosby’s place. We want to see him.”

“Lead on, McBluff, and I’ll be danged if I’ll be first to yelp, ‘I’ve got a plenty.’ That’s Shakespeare.”

“Where’s he now, Sleepy?”

“Been dead for years and years.”

“Aw, that’s too ---- bad. Still, we’ve all got to go when our time comes.”

We rode into the yard of the ranch-house and dismounted. Somebody is playing the organ, but they quits as soon as Hashknife knocks on the door.

Hashknife starts to knock again just as the door opens and leaves him standing there with his fist upraised in Molly Crosby’s face. She stares at us, and then the old man walks in behind her and looks over her shoulder.

“Come in, Spooner,” says the old man. “Howdy, Ells.”

“My gosh!” grunts Hashknife. “Take off your hat, Sleepy.”

“Well,” says Molly, “well, I--I----”

“Tha’s all right,” grins Hashknife. “We borrowed their hats and forgot to put our own on after we got through with ’em. Can we come in?”

“I--I beg your pardon,” says Molly, “I forgot. Come right in.”

Old man Crosby is a white-haired old gent with a resigned look on his face like he didn’t have nothing to live for and was glad of it.

“Daddy,” says Molly, pointing at Hashknife, “this is the gentleman who hit Ben Lober.”

“That’s nothing,” grins Hashknife. “Sleepy busted Bennie’s leg and danged near scalped Spooner.”

The old man stares at us and then at Molly.

“Spooner?” he asks, looking back at Molly; but she didn’t seem excited.

“Uh-huh,” says I. “We locked the sheriff and Mister Spooner in their own jail, and then we wore their hats as sort of disguise.”

“God be with you,” says the old man pious-like. “I don’t understand it at all, but I suppose it is all right. I want to thank you for protecting my little girl.”

“Pshaw, she didn’t need much,” grins Hashknife. “She started the music and I sung him to sleep.”

“Have you had any supper?” asks Molly.

“Not since dinner,” grins Hashknife, “but don’t you go to no trouble----”

Molly patted her old dad on the top of the head and went into the kitchen, smiling back at us. The old man rubs his hands and sort of relaxes.

“What do you know about Spooner and Ells?” asks Hashknife.

“Well, I don’t quite understand your question exactly,” says the old man thoughtful-like. “Ells seems a capable officer, although he seems unable to stop cattle-stealing. Spooner has a very good record as prosecutor, I think.”

“Convicted Shorty Blewett, didn’t he?” asks Hashknife soft-like, and the old man nods.

“Yes, he convicted Shorty. I dunno. Seems to me that there’s a lot of difference between law and justice in this world.”

“Amen,” says Hashknife. “This country ain’t what she used to be.”

“This country?”

The old man sets up straight and stares at Hashknife.

“This country is going to the dogs!”

“Yeah,” nods Hashknife. “I’ve heard ’em barking. Have you ever considered getting outside help on this rustling proposition?”

“I have. I’ve sent letters to the Cattlemen’s Association asking for help, but they don’t even trouble about answering. I guess we’ll have to work out our own salvation.”

“Never answered, eh?” says Hashknife. “Why don’t all you fellers combine and hire some good trailers?”

“We might do that, but I don’t think it would help much. Our sheriff has been doing all he can, but it’s a blind trail. There is absolutely no trail.”

“Does Spooner or Ells know you wanted to get help on it--outside help?”

“No-o-o-o, I don’t----”

“Daddy, you told Mister Spooner you were going to,” says Molly from the doorway. “Don’t you remember?”

“That’s right, Molly, I did. I guess I was a little discouraged that day, and I told Spooner I was tired of a sheriff that rode circles all day and did no good. Yes, I remember telling him I was going to get a couple of detectives by the first of the month. I’d forgotten it.”

* * * * *

Hashknife looks at me and sort of nods.

“What did Spooner say?”

“Seemed pleased. Offered to help all he could. Spooner is----”

“That was sure nice of him,” admits Hashknife. “Has anybody but the sheriff ever investigated the rustling game around here?”

Molly turns and walks back into the kitchen, and the old man seems to get very thoughtful. Then he says soft-like----

“Shorty said he had an idea how it was being done, but----”

“I know,” nods Hashknife. “They’re clever, but there’s such a thing as being too danged clever. The JHE is the biggest outfit, ain’t it?”

“Yes. It’s the old Bar 80 outfit. Brill is said to be the owner, but we all know it is Eastern capital.”

“Is it a bigger outfit now than it was as the old Bar 80?”

“Oh, yes. The Bar 80 was just a small outfit--smaller than mine or the Cross L.”

“What kind of a feller is the Cross L owner?”

“Fine. Me and Jim Older came to this country together, and from the looks of things we’ll go broke together. You’d like Jim. Now would you mind answering a few questions?”

“Shoot.”

“You aiming to go into the cow business?”

“Nope. Don’t ask us what the trouble was in Badger City, ’cause we ain’t so sure yet. Me and Sleepy ain’t so awful bad, and we’ll come out in the wash.

“Pshaw, we ain’t never introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Hartley, knowed as Hashknife. My pardner is Sleepy Stevens, called Sleepy ’cause he ain’t.”

The old man seems to enjoy the introduction, and then he says:

“Boys, I can’t believe you’re very bad. I can usually tell from a man’s looks, and you don’t look bad.”

“Know what I am?” grins Hashknife. “Know what they calls a feller who does things for folks who never done nothing for him?”

“I know,” nods Crosby. “I know what they usually calls him.”

“Well, that’s me,” grins Hashknife. “In polite society they calls me a phil-an-thro-fist. _Sabe?_ A phil-an-thro-fist is meek and mild until you angers ’em to a certain extent, and then--look out.

“I’m past that certain extent and going on up. I’m going to have re-venge, or I’ll promise to go out in the hills and eat bunch-grass with the rest of the jassacks.”

“I dunno,” says the old man, shaking his head. “It’s Greek to me, but I feel that my ignorance isn’t going to hinder you none.”

We sets there silent for a long time. The old man acts sort of thoughtful. I reckon me and Hashknife has used up about two cigarets when the old man says: