Chapter II: Part 2

“I said that, didn’t I? Well, that goes as she lays. Somebody on Willer Crick has got Buddy, and I’m goin’ to start in at the foot and work my way up, and I’m goin’ to git that kid if I have to fill —— with Willer Crickers.”

Glory nods like she knowed Hashknife meant it.

“Loan me a horse and saddle?” I asks.

“No,” says Glory, “I won’t loan you a horse, but there’s several out in the corral and there’s a couple of saddles hanging in the shed. I can’t stop you from taking what you want, can I?”

Me and Hashknife starts for the corral.

“That roan out there can run all day,” yells Glory. “He don’t look it, but he’s the best bronc in this country.”

“I hate to take things like this by force,” says Hashknife serious-like. “It ain’t right to intimidate a lady thataway.”

“You’re a pair of brutes,” says Glory. “Pick on somebody your own size.”

* * * * *

I don’t know whether Glory was kidding about that bronc or not. It bucked over the corral fence with me, bucked for half a mile faster than Hashknife’s animal could run. After that it was a pretty good animal. We headed straight for town.

“Willer Crick will be looking for us, Hashknife,” says I.

“I hope so, Sleepy. I hopes they forms a holler square and hauls out their cannon.”

“Mebbe,” says I, “mebbe we ought to let Willer Crick dispose of their own business. They ain’t got no sense, but maybe they’ll give the kid a square deal, if we give ’em a chance.”

“Maybe the devil could skate—if he had ice—but we know he ain’t.”

There’s at least twenty-five saddled horses in town, but not a person in sight as we swung down the street, but as we swung past the store a man came out. He gave us one look and then started for the outside stairs of the town hall. He showed speed, but not enough. Hashknife jumped his bronc across the sidewalk and into that feller, just short of the bottom step.

The bronc’s shoulder hit that feller, and he went spinning away like a tumble-weed in a wind; then Hashknife’s bronc hit the flimsy railing of the stairs and went down. Out of the tangle comes Hashknife and he’s got his Winchester. The bronc gets to its feet and limps away, while Hashknife runs along the side of the building and around to the front.

“Get off and under cover, you danged fool!” he yelps at me. “Willer Crick is all upstairs!”

I jumps my horse out of line with the windows and gets off. I hears somebody yelp a question, and then I follers Hashknife across the street, where we ducks in behind that old shed. I reckon that Willer Crick was too excited to take a shot at us when we went across the street.

Extending out from the side of the shed is a pile of old lumber, which we proceeds to get behind. It’s about three feet high and ten feet long. Between us and the other side of the street is the tie-rack, full of saddle-horses.

The feller who got knocked down is crawling out of sight behind the saloon, and Hashknife’s bronc is just wandering around between the saloon and the store.

“There’s our bay horse,” says I, pointing at the tie-rack.

Then a bullet dusted the top of the lumber pile and sent some splinters into my face.

“Keep low,” advises Hashknife. “They’re a-shooting from the windows. We’ve got to be careful that we don’t hit Buddy.”

* * * * *

Then Willer Crick starts in to make a lead mine out of our lumber pile, but them old boards sure do stop bullets. One feller gets cocky and looks out of the door. I lifts his hat and I think a part of his scalp, cause he yelps like a bee had stung him.

“Don’t shoot until you’re sure,” grins Hashknife. “We can’t take any chances of hittin’ our little jigger.”

“Think a lot of that kid, don’t yuh,” says I.

“’Thout a doubt in the world, Sleepy.”

“It ain’t noways reasonable for you to adopt him,” says I.

Hashknife recovers his hat, with a hole in the crown, and nudges in closer to the lumber pile, while Willer Crick sifted lead across the street.

“Nobody wants him but me, Sleepy, and I ain’t goin’ to let the little jigger go to no orphing home, y’betcha. Maybe I ain’t no fittin’ person to bring up a kid, but—oh, oh-h-h!”

Hashknife slips his rifle-barrel into a slot between two boards and then twists over almost on his shoulder, in order to look down the sights. A feller has slipped out of the doorway, thinking that we didn’t dare to expose ourselves enough to shoot.

Hashknife’s rifle cracked, and the feller’s feet slipped and he sat down hard. I don’t know where it hit him, but it made him either brave or sick, ’cause he just sets there, until a arm sticks out of the door and hauls him back inside. Then the shooting seemed to ease up.

“What do you fellers want?” yells a voice.

“This is a —— of a time to ask questions!” yells Hashknife. “Don’t stop shootin’ on our account.”

Just then a bullet nicked a piece of meat off the point of my jaw, and splatted into the wood beside my head. Before we can move, another bullet hit Hashknife’s hat.

“Behind us!” I yelps. “Look out!”

Hashknife flips off his hat and yanks his gun out of the slot.

“Look out yourself! That son-of-a-gun I knocked down has circled us.”

Willer Crick woke up to the fact that something is wrong, and they sure hammered our fort.

Zowie! A bullet spinged off my rifle-barrel and almost knocked it out of my hands.

“Watch the hall,” says I. “I’ll tend to our neighbor before he spoils our Alaska trip for good.”

I crawls in behind the old shed. Behind us is nothing but mesquite brush, which don’t make very good cover, especially for the first fifty yards.

Willer Crick is still trying to annihilate that pile of lumber, so I takes a chance and crawls like a snake. None of ’em seen me and I reached the heavy brush in safety. I hears this feller shoot again, and all to once I see him. He ain’t over fifty feet from me. There’s kind of a high piece of ground, with some rocks on it and a lot of mesquite clumps.

He’s having quite a nice time all by his lonesome and ain’t expecting visitors. He has to lift up real high to send his lead anywhere near Hashknife. He’s shooting one of them old 1876 models of Winchester, the kind we calls “grasshopper” action.

He rises up on his toes, squints down the sights, but seems to kinda get dissatisfied and relaxes. I could almost throw my gun and hit him, and shooting him thataway would be murder; so I waits until he lines up his sights again and then I slams a bullet into the loading-gate of his rifle.

I reckon a .45-70 hits kinda hard, cause it knocked him loose from that gun and he sat down hard. Some of the busted mechanism must ’a’ dented the primer of one of the shells in the magazine, ’cause that rifle sure raised —— for a few seconds. The owner of the gun wagged his head and looks down at the barrel of my rifle, which was poking into his belt.

“Get up!” says I.

He got up kinda slow-like, shaking his head and then he grabbed for his six-gun. I’m too close to him to shoot with the rifle, so I uppercuts him under the chin with the barrel, and he lost interest in everything.

I took his belt and six-gun back with me. Willer Crick seen me as I came back, but they must ’a’ hurried their aim. I got back to the shed, with my eyes, ears and nose full of dirt and a hole in my sleeve. Hashknife is doubled up, covering the doorway from that slot in the lumber pile.

“You’re a fine friend,” says I. “You let ’em all come to the window and shoot at me.”

“They had Buddy with ’em, Sleepy. Dang it, I was afraid to shoot.”

Somebody yells at Hashknife, but I don’t hear what he said.

“No yuh don’t,” answers Hashknife. “You let us have Buddy and we’ll call it square.”

Hashknife motions for me to stay behind the shed. I seen him settle down and line up his rifle again. He lifts his head and says:

“Sleepy, for ——’s sake, look! He’s usin’ Buddy for a shield. The rotten coward!”

I jumps to the corner of the building and looks. There’s a big feller coming down the stairs, with Buddy held in front of him. He’s got his arms wrapped around the kid, and there ain’t a chance in the world for us to shoot him.

“Take that bay hoss, Sim,” yells a voice from the hall. “He can outrun anythin’ around here.”

“He, he, he!” cackles Sol Vane. “He, he, he!”

Hashknife empties his rifle through the windows of the hall and Sol quit laughing.

“Yuh can’t git the best of Sim Sellers,” whoops a voice.

Sim comes on to the horses, which are plumb nervous. One of ’em ripped its bridle loose and went down the street and another threw itself, trying to get loose. Sellers is kinda between us and the windows, which stops their shooting.

“Don’t get scared, Buddy,” says Hashknife.

“I ain’t,” shrills Buddy. “Betcha I ain’t.”

“Sim,” says Hashknife, “you better think up a prayer, ’cause you’re goin’ to need one —— bad.”

* * * * *

Sellers cursed us and carried Buddy in close to that bay horse, which has anchored itself with its left side against the tie-rack and refuses to budge. It’s easy enough to use a kid for a shield against bullets, but it’s another thing to get on to a scared bronc with the kid in your arms and still keep covered.

Willer Crick are liable to hit Sellers if they shoot at us, so we takes things easy.

“You’re in a hole, Sim,” says Hashknife. “One bad move and you’re a goner.”

“You’ll have to get on Injun side,” says I, “and that bronc will sure love you for that.”

Sim Sellers sure is up against it. I reckon he seen what he was up against—seen that he had to take a chance; so he threw Buddy into the saddle, intending, I reckon, to throw himself sideways on that bronc and make a getaway like an Injun, but Hashknife was looking for that move.

As Buddy went into the saddle it left Sim’s legs exposed under the bronc’s belly. Hashknife shot twice with his six-shooter and Sim went down, like something had cut his legs out from under him. The horse plunged against the rack, throwing Buddy between us and the hitch-rack, but he lit on his hands and knees.

“Come a-runnin’, Buddy!” yells Hashknife, and if you ever seen a rabbit, that kid sure imitated one.

He dived around the corner of that lumber pile and landed between us, where he sets and puffs the wind back into his lungs.

“Hurt yuh any?” asks Hashknife.

“Na-a-a-w! Sim Sellers like to busted my ribs, though. Did yuh kill him?”

“Cut him loose from the ground,” says Hashknife, watching the windows.

“Set still, Sim. Don’t forget that both ends of yuh are exposed now.”

Sim Sellers is setting there in the dust, with a pair of legs that don’t seem to work.

“They stole me,” says Buddy. “After you left me with the horses, Mitch Ames and ‘Poky’ Vane swiped me. I kicked Mitch in the knee and he swore he’d kill me. He brought me here. Say, they’re goin’ to kill you—honest. They ain’t goin’ to let you tell the sheriff on Cale Ames. They sent men to get the old man.”

“Where were they goin’ to take you, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.

“Me dunno,” Buddy shakes his head. “Sim Sellers says he’s takin’ me where you fellers never will find me.”

“Hey!” yells a voice from the hall, which we recognizes as belonging to Sol Vane. “Can yuh hear me?”

“If yuh don’t yell too loud,” answers Hashknife.

“Now listen; that shed beside you is containin’ about five hundred pounds of dinnamite, caps and fuses. Come out and hold up your hands or we’ll shoot into it until we blows yuh up. Do yuh hear that?”

Me and Hashknife looks at each other. It’s a good bluff. I don’t care a whoop who says nay, I’m here to state that dynamite might go off under them conditions. Some of them hombres are shooting .50-110 rifles, which carries a explosive bullet, and that might make things plumb audible around us.

“Talk to ’em, Sleepy,” grunts Hashknife. “Keep talking, for ——’s sake!”

“You mean, you’d blow us up, Sol?” I asks, as Hashknife slides past me and gets against the building.

“He, he, he! Think we’d let ye off after what you’ve done? Naw, sir, your goin’ to git all that’s comin’ to yuh. When I give the word we start shootin’.”

Of course they never thought that we had a chance to sneak away into the mesquite, and if they did they knew we’d never leave on foot as long as there’s a chance to get horses.

“We’re willin’ to go now,” says I. Hashknife rips one of the boards loose and crawls inside.

“Ready to go, are yuh?” chuckles Sol Vane. “Jist try startin’, will yuh. There’s twenty rifles ready to give yuh a sendoff.”

“Think I ought to put Sim Sellers out of his misery?” I asks.

Sim Sellers quits crawling and looks back at me. He thought we had forgot him.

“Throw away your gun!” I yells at him, and he threw it away.

“Well, what have yuh got to say?” yells Sol Vane.

“Give me a chance to think it over.”

“Two minutes,” says Sol. “Two minutes will be all.”

“That’s enough,” grunts Hashknife, forcing his way out past the loose board.

He’s got a fifty-pound box of dynamite in his arms, a box of blasting caps and a coil of fuse.

“Whatcha goin’ to do?” I asks.

“Give ’em a taste of their own medicine, Sleepy. When I get around the corner here start shooting. Empty your rifle and then empty mine. _Sabe?_ Fan them windows to a fare-thee-well, and I’ll do the rest. Buddy, keep down low. Ready?”

* * * * *

I takes both rifles, nods to him and starts throwing lead. I sure did send hot hunks of sudden death into that place. I emptied both rifles and then sent six shots from the .45 I borrowed out in the mesquite.

Two or three shots was all that answered, but they never came towards me.

“Good work, Sleepy,” yells Hashknife.

I slammed shells into the loading-gates of them two rifles and then took a look. Hashknife is flat up against the front of that building, and is fussing with a fuse.

I hears a bunch of argument in the hall, and I takes a snap-shot at somebody who got too close at the window.

“Keep ’em back, Sleepy,” yells Hashknife, cheerful-like, reeling out fuse from the box of dynamite.

“Sol Vane!” he yells.

“That’s me,” squeaks Sol.

“I’ve got fifty pounds of dynamite against the front of your building, Sol. There’s a two-minute fuse on a loaded stick, and the box of powder is settin’ on a box of primers. I can either fire the fuse or shoot the primers. If you fire a shot toward that shed I’ll upset Willer Crick. Do you _sabe_?”

There ain’t a word said for a while, and then Sol says—

“You—what do yuh want us to do?”

“I want you to bring down every gun up there, Sol. Load up and bring ’em all down here and lay ’em in the street.”

“Like —— he will!” roars a voice.

“You’ll never get my guns!”

“Nor mine!” howls another.

“Better do it,” advises Sellers. “He’s got just what he says he has.”

“I’m countin’ to ten,” states Hashknife. “Countin’ in my own rapid way, Sol.”

“I’m comin’,” says Sol. “For gosh sakes give me a little time.”

Sol Vane looked like a hardware store when he made that first trip. I never seen so many guns outside the army. He lays ’em in the street and then goes back for more. It took him four trips to bring ’em.

“Now what?” he whines.

“Have ’em all come down, one at a time,” says Hashknife, and then he yells over at me: “Watch ’em, Sleepy. If they look like they’re holdin’ out on us, don’t give ’em a chance.”

“I’m particular,” I yells back. “Send ’em down, Mr. Lawyer.”

Then they begins to file out and down the stairs. Sol lines ’em up in the street, and they sure are a sore crowd. Finally they quit coming.

“Is that all?” asks Hashknife.

“That’s all of ’em,” says Sol.

I starts to get up, but Buddy grabs me by the belt and yanks so hard that we both went over backwards. With his heels in the air, Buddy yelps—

“Mitch Ames and Cale Ames ain’t out yet!”

That’s all that saved us, I reckon. I rolled over, shoved my rifle across the lumber pile and took a snap-shot at Cale Ames, as he threw down on Hashknife from one of the windows. I seen Cale’s gun fall outside and he fell down past the window-sill. Hashknife jumps back around the corner and covers the crowd with his six-shooter.

I reckon that Mitch Ames figured that Hashknife would explode that dynamite, and he also figured that we wouldn’t let him surrender; so he ran out of the door, and vaulted over the top of the railing. I ain’t no wing shot with a rifle, but Mitch Ames didn’t get up after he hit the ground.

“Got him!” I yells at Hashknife.

Buddy follers me out into the street and we meets Hashknife near the crowd.

“Sol,” says Hashknife, “I ought to kill you for lyin’. If it hadn’t been for Buddy your scheme would ’a’ worked. I reckon them Ameses are your best shots, eh?”

Sol masticates real fast for a while, and then says—

“What do yuh want now?”

“Watch ’em, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife.

Hashknife takes a sheet of paper and a pencil from his pocket and holds the paper against the side of the building, while he writes. He finally finishes and goes over to Sol Vane and hands him the paper.

“Have your council sign that, Sol; and then you put your name at the bottom.”

“What is it?” asks Sillman.

“To whom it may concern,” reads Sol Vane kinda slow-like. “The undersigned hereby declares that Buddy Sillman is sole owner of the ranch where his folks lived and he owns everything on that ranch. His dad’s name was Eph Sillman and he was killed by Cale Ames on June 3, when Eph was trying to get medicine for his sick wife.

“We also admits that the folks of Willer Crick wouldn’t let Eph Sillman have a doctor for his wife and that they ain’t no better than murderers, ’cause she died. We hereby agree to see that the ranch is run right and the money turned over to Buddy. We hereby agree to abolish all our old laws and live like the rest of the world. We hereby sign our names.”

“You’re crazy!” wails Sim Sellers from where he sets in the street. “We’ll never sign that.”

The rest of ’em shake their heads.

“Yuh can’t get away with nothin’ like that,” says Sol. “We aims to live as we please. Yuh can’t set there and keep us rounded up forever.”

“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “go up into the hall and see if yuh can’t find some Willer Crick records.”

* * * * *

They has that room fixed up like a court-room, with kind of a place for the judges and all that kind of thing. Cale Ames is setting on the floor near a window, holding onto the side of his head. I looked him over for weapons, but he’s harmless.

On the judge’s desk is a pile of books and papers. I takes a look at the biggest book, and it’s labeled—

THE LAW

I takes all the books and papers, and then I makes Cale get to his feet and go down ahead of me. Our bullets sure have carved our trade-marks in their furniture and walls. Willer Crick wails when they see me with their books.

“Good stuff!” grunts Hashknife. “Now, maybe they’ll sign my little paper.”

I never seen folks so anxious to sign anything. Hashknife held the paper on the brim of his hat so that Sim Sellers can sign. I unloads all them guns and then throws the whole works under the sidewalk, where nobody can get one quick.

“Rope the books together so we can carry ’em, Sleepy,” says Hashknife.

“Them is our records!” wails Sol.

“That’s why we need ’em,” grins Hashknife. “You and your council are the only ones what can read and write, and I’m thinkin’ that your law and records will make hy-iu readin’ for the county attorney.”

Willer Crick is stuck. They shuffles their feet and swallers hard.

“Your home-made law is a thing of the past,” observes Hashknife. “I’ll send the sheriff in here after Cale Ames, and mebbe Cale won’t be the only one he rounds up.”

I got the horses, while Hashknife holds the crowd. Hashknife takes Buddy with him, while I take the law of Willer Crick. We starts away, with the crowd watching us, but all to once they makes a dive across the street toward the hitch-rack. I thinks they’re going to try to foller us, but it comes to me in a flash that I seen two or three rifles hanging to those saddles.

I seen a feller drop flat and slide under the sidewalk, and I know it won’t take ’em long to get their guns loaded.

We ain’t over a hundred yards from the crowd, and I can see that we can’t scatter ’em much with two guns. I yells at Hashknife to look out. He turned in his saddle, keeping himself between Buddy and the crowd. I saw him throw up his rifle and take deliberate aim. I was trying to shift them books on to the horn of my saddle, so I could shoot. A bullet splatted into the books, but before I could lift my gun, Hashknife’s shot was echoed by a crash that shook up the whole country.

I seen the front of that building jump off the ground and dissolve into smoke.

“Come on, you law rustler!” yelps Hashknife.

I ducked a piece of two-by-four and set my spurs into that hammer-headed gray. Hashknife had been lucky enough to send a bullet into that box of giant caps under the fifty pounds of dynamite.

I looks back as we hammers down the road, but there ain’t a soul on our trail. We swings across a high bridge over Willer Crick, and Hashknife stops.

“Get a couple of heavy rocks, Sleepy,” says he. “Rope one on each side of that bunch of books, and drop the whole works over the side.”

“Ain’t yuh going to turn these over to the law?” I asks.

“No-o-o, I reckon not. I don’t believe in rubbin’ anybody raw. They’ll never know but what we did, and we’ve sure amended the constitution of Sol Vane and his bunch.”

We sunk their law in six feet of swift water and then rode on. About half a mile from the forks of the road we swings around a curve and almost runs over Al Bassett and another man. Bassett’s right arm is out of commission and the other feller is kinda sick from too much lead.

“They were sent after that old man,” says Buddy.

“It’s been a hard day for Willer Crick,” observes Hashknife.

Bassett can’t hang onto himself any longer. Hashknife takes off his hat and holds it in his hand until Bassett stops.

“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “did yuh ever hear the like. I wish I could cuss like that. Bassett, you’re one of the fellers who was sent down here to stop the old man, ain’t yuh? Did the mule kick yuh or did the old man bite yuh?”

Bassett refuses to talk, and the other feller is too sick to remember.

“A feller by the name of Poky Vane is tied up in Mitch Ames’ cabin,” says Hashknife. “I reckon you’ll see that he gets loose.”

“Willer Crick will git you yet!” snarls Bassett.

“I refuse to argue,” grins Hashknife.

“Home won’t never seem the same to you fellers. _Adios._”

We left ’em there in the road.

“Why didn’t we take Cale Ames out with us, Hashknife?” I asks. “Mebbe the sheriff won’t be able to find him.”

“It would be our word against a hundred, Sleepy. Me and you ain’t so danged lily-white that a jury’d take our word against a hundred; and besides, hangin’ ain’t half as bad as thinkin’ about it.”

At the forks of the road, where the old sign-board hangs, we found the old preacher and Glory Sillman with a rifle.

“I had a escort,” says the old man, nodding at Glory. “She—she saw that I got out safe.”

“She did,” nods Hashknife. “I seen that a mile or so ago.”

Glory starts to swing her horse around.

“I—I reckon I better be going back,” says she.

“You come wit’ us,” says Buddy. “We licked ’em.” Glory looks at Buddy and then at Hashknife.

“I’m goin’ to adopt him,” says Hashknife. “Yuh might come with us, Glory. There ain’t no more Willer Crick law to stop yuh now. The trail’s wide open.”

Glory and Hashknife sets there and looks at each other. I looks at the old man and he looks at me. I turns and points down the valley and says to the old man:

“Do yuh see that peak ’way down there, old-timer?”

“I do. What about it, son?”

“I never climbed it in my life.”

“Well, well!” says he. “Ain’t that queer?”

We sets there like a pair of danged fools and admires that peak, which don’t mean a thing to either of us.

“You comin’?” shrills Buddy, and we turns to see Hashknife and Glory riding down the road side by side, while Buddy leans out past Hashknife and yells at us.

The old man looks at me and says—

“Son, if you’ll ride slow, mebbe I can make my mule keep up.”

I turns in my saddle, grabs that old sign and tears it off the tree, after which I throws it into the brush. Then I turns back to the old man.

“I ain’t in no hurry, ’cause I know I’ll never get there anyway,” says I.

“Where?” he asks.

“Alaska.”

Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the September 3, 1921 issue of Adventure magazine.]