Chapter V: Bill Mcgill Finds Two Friends

It was not a very big hay mow, and there was not much hay in it. The sun beat down upon the old pine roof, and within the loft it must have been well over a hundred degrees Fahrenheit, with not a breath of air stirring. Two men were in the stable below, and their voices were plainly audible through the wide cracks of the loft.

Suddenly the hay was agitated, lifted up in one spot, fell away to disclose the head and part of the shoulders of a man. Some of the hay was still balanced on the top of his head, giving him a rakish appearance.

His face was long and serious, with high cheekbones, generous nose and a wide lipped mouth. His gray eyes, still filled with sleep, were mildly curious as he listened to the voices below. Without turning his head, he reached out a long arm, gently touched another hump of hay, and another man sat up. This one was wide eyed in a moment. His face was broad, full of grin wrinkles, the eyes so blue that they appeared black in that dim light. He rubbed his nose violently to keep from sneezing, blinked sleepily and looked inquiringly at the back of the other man.

Then he heard the voices down below.

“Oh, he’s a mamma’s child if you ever seen one, Lee. Talks like a damn’ dictionary.”

“Yeah?” The last voice was harsh. “Well, what’s the game?”

“Here’s the idea. Me and Ed runs into this jigger last night. Got off the stage here by mistake, I reckon. Anyway, he wanted to buy a horse and saddle. Me, I’ve got a bronc I want to git rid of, if the price is right, _sabe_? It’s an extra I’m usin’. Well, I done sold him this bronc and a saddle for a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Last night my reg’lar bronc got kicked and busted a front leg. I’m here on foot, unless you help me out. This tenderfoot don’t _sabe_ nothin’. Me and Ed will keep out of sight. When this pink faced kid starts to take that horse and saddle from the stable here, you grab him. Tell him you’re the sheriff, _sabe_? Tell him that this is a stolen horse. He’ll scare awful easy. Give it to him plenty.

“If he wants to buy himself off, take the money. You know how to work it, Lee. He’ll jump at a chance to git away clean, and he’ll grab the next stage out of here, damn’ glad to make a getaway.”

The harsh voiced man laughed with evident amusement.

“Has this tender person got any more money?”

“Listen! He’s got a roll that would choke a horse. No lyin’, he has.”

“What else do you know about him?”

“Not a thing. It’s eight o’clock now, and he’ll be pullin’ out soon. I’ll get Ed and we’ll hide out until you finish with him.”

“Suppose he don’t scare?”

“Aw, hell! Wait’ll you see him.”

“All right. Wait a minute. Where’d you and Ed git that bronc?”

“That’s our business. He’s over there in that last stall—that blue roan with the AHK on his left shoulder. He belongs a long ways from here, so you don’t need to worry.”

“Oh, all right. That’s a good lookin’ gray in there. Who owns him?”

“Belongs to a couple punchers that came here last night. They’re over in the hotel. I dunno who they are. Well, I’ll get Ed and hide out.”

“Hop to it. But if that feller don’t loosen up, what do I get?”

“I’ll give you twenty-five of the money I got from him.”

“All right. I’ll go in the saloon and watch from there. You two keep out of sight.”

Up in the hay mow the thin faced man turned his head slowly and looked at his companion. A grin overspread both faces as they got up cautiously. The thin faced one was well over six feet tall, slender, with large, muscular hands. The other was several inches shorter, powerfully built, broad of shoulder. They dug their hats out of the hay, shook off the few straws that still clung to them and went cautiously over to the square hole in the floor where the top of a ladder projected.

Both men wore overalls tucked into the tops of their high heel boots, faded shirts, nondescript vests, and both wore cartridge belts and holstered guns, which they had evidently not removed before going to sleep in the hay.

“Gits pretty hot around here,” observed the shorter one as they climbed down the ladder.

“Yeah, it does; but we saved the price of a room. That’s worth some discomfort.”

They walked the length of the stable, looking at the horses. The blue roan in the last stall was a good looking animal, and it was a fairly good saddle that hung on a peg behind the stall.

The tall one stepped in beside the lanky gray, which nuzzled at him affectionately, and patted the animal. The other man stepped into the adjoining stall and looked over the chunky, blaze-faced bay. Then they went to the doorway of the stable.

Just ahead of them was the back door of the hotel, an old two-story structure, warped, uninviting. A little way to the left was the back door of the only saloon in the place. Several beer kegs were balanced drunkenly one on top of another and a pile of broken bottles littered the back yard.

Across the road from the front of the two buildings was a store and postoffice combined. There were a few dwelling shacks scattered around, but these three buildings constituted the business section of the settlement of High Grade, a boom town twenty or more years ago, which refused to die out entirely when the mines failed to materialize.

* * * * *

The two cowboys walked around on the right side of the hotel and sat down in the shade. They were not visible from any part of the town. A yellow dog of indeterminate breed came around the corner, looked them over, decided that they were all right and curled up with them. They were evidently on the restaurant side of the hotel, as there was a strong odor of frying bacon and boiling coffee.

A door slammed shut and they heard the creak of boots on the old wooden porch, as a man came around to their side from the front. Then they got their first glimpse of the tenderfoot. He was tender; there was no denying that fact. He wore a stiff brimmed sombrero, which did not fit him well, white silk shirt, riding breeches and laced boots, which had been highly polished. In one hand he carried a suitcase, bulging on both sides. The two punchers looked at him, but he ignored them as he went past. The yellow dog opened one eye, looked at the stranger, closed the eye as if winking at the two cowboys and went back to sleep.

The man went around the corner, heading for the stable. They heard the back door of the saloon slam shut, and the tall one grinned softly as he got to his feet. They edged along the building and peered around the corner. The tenderfoot had already entered the stable, but they arrived in time to see a square-built cowboy, wearing wide chaps and a high crown sombrero, just pass through the door.

“There goes the sheriff,” said the tall one. “C’mon.”

Swiftly they crossed the yard and stopped near the open door. They could hear the two men talking, but their voices were not audible until they came back closer to the door.

“But I tell you,” insisted the tenderfoot, “that I purchased this animal in good faith, Sheriff.”

“That’s for a jury to decide, young feller. You know what they do to a horsethief in this country, don’tcha?”

“Why, I—I—yes, I believe so.”

“Can you prove where you got this horse?”

“From two men.”

“Got a bill of sale?”

“No, I—I didn’t think—”

“That’s where you lose. This horse was stolen, and I’ve been trailin’ the thief for a week. I find you here, claimin’ ownership. There’s nothin’ for me to do except to take you back with me. That there horse was worth a lot of money. You’ll be lucky to git off with twenty years in the pen.”

“But what can I do? My goodness, I—well, I didn’t know. Won’t you believe me when I say I bought the horse from two men?”

“In my business, we never believe a horsethief.”

“Well, what can I do to make it all right? Honestly, I never stole this horse, Sheriff. Why, I never stole anything in my life.”

“That’s for the judge and jury to decide. As I said before, this here horse was a great fav’rite with the man who owned him. He told me the other day he wouldn’t take less’n five hundred dollars for him.”

“Would he—listen, can’t we fix this up? I’d pay what the horse is worth rather than to—”

“And let you go free, eh?”

“Why not? I’d pay for the horse.”

“Yea-a-ah, that _might_ be all right. Yeah, I might be able to fix it up that-away, but I’ve been at quite an expense myself and—”

“Well, I haven’t much more money, but I’d—”

“It’s cost me at least fifty dollars to make this trip, young man.”

“Horse feed must be kinda high around here, ain’t it?”

The pseudo-sheriff jerked around quickly. The tenderfoot had his billfold in his hand, staring at the two cowboys who had entered the stable. The tall one leaned against the partition of a stall, his thumbs hooked over his belt, a grin on his wide lips.

“What’s the idea?” queried the hard faced cowboy who had impersonated the sheriff.

“Are you claimin’ that AHK roan back there?”

The man was stuck. He looked back toward the stall, trying to think what to say, wondering how much they had heard.

“And jist what county are you sheriff of?” asked the tall man.

The tenderfoot looked blankly around. He started to put the billfold in his pocket, but drew it out again.

“Might as well put up your money, pardner,” said the tall one.

“Just what is your business?” asked the cowboy harshly.

“Lookin’ for _lost_ horses,” said the tall one coldly. He shifted his eyes to the tenderfoot. “This man said he was a sheriff, didn’t he? He accused you of stealin’ that blue roan horse, didn’t he?”

“But I bought the horse.”

“Shore you did. Now, here’s what you do. Walk out of here real fast. Go around the hotel, cross the street and set down in front of the postoffice, look up and down the street—but stay there.”

“I—I don’t understand what you mean.”

“That don’t make any difference, sonny—do as you’re told.”

“Oh, all right.”

* * * * *

The tenderfoot walked out and hurried away. The tall man’s right hand slipped from his belt, jerked up quickly, and the pseudo-sheriff was looking down the muzzle of a big six-shooter. The shorter one stepped in quickly and removed the man’s gun from its holster.

“What kind of a damn’ holdup is this?” he wailed, stepping back against the end of the stall.

“Back into the stall,” commanded the tall one. “Yeah—back in there.”

He obeyed, and the shorter puncher stepped in with him, his gun muzzle jammed against the man’s ribs. The tall man walked quickly to the door, peered out and then stepped aside, flattening himself against the wall. A moment later two men came in, chuckling.

“Lee!” one of them called softly.

“He’s busy,” said the tall man behind them, and they turned to see the big gun covering them. “Turn around. Hands shoulder high. Fine! You boys know when you’re whipped.”

He threw their guns over into a manger, and his partner herded his captive out of the stall. The three men scowled at one another, each afraid to speak. The tall man turned to the first captive.

“Which one of these men stole that AHK roan?”

“I don’t know a thing about it.”

“You’re a liar. You knew this horse was stolen, and you knew which one stole it. Either come clean, or I’ll take all of you back with me.”

The other two men gasped. They were a nondescript pair of cowboys. One was anemic, with watery eyes and a pointed nose; the other was colorless, flat-chested, broken nosed and had a deformed ear.

“Well, I don’t know which it was,” said the man, deciding that it was best to protect his own interests.

“Lee didn’t have nothin’ to do with it,” said one of the men. “We bought the horse from a Injun.”

“You knew it was a stolen horse?”

“No. But the Injun sold it cheap.”

“Uh-huh. And you sold it to that tenderfoot for a hundred and fifty. Sold a horse you knew to be stolen.”

“You can’t prove it.” The statement sounded confident.

“That you sold it for that price?”

“No—that we stole it.”

“That’s up to the judge and jury. Anyway, I’m goin’ to take that horse back to its owner. Give me that hundred and fifty for the tenderfoot.”

The man who had it looked at the level gray eyes of the tall man and gave him the money.

“Who owns that sorrel in there?”

“That’s my bronc,” grunted the man who gave up the money.

“Lead him out and put the tenderfoot’s saddle on him.”

“What’s the idea?”

“Atonement, cowboy. You’re payin’ for your sins.”

Still a little mystified, the crooked cowboy did as he was told.

“Better get them guns out of the manger,” said the tall man to his partner. “They might forget their manners. Fine. Now, if you’ll keep the hole in your gun pointed at this trio, I’ll saddle our broncs.”

The tall man saddled their two horses, while the three crooks backed up against the stable wall, watching him gloomily as he led all four horses out of the stable.

“I don’t _sabe_ this,” complained the cowboy whose horse had been saddled.

“Are you takin’ me back with you?”

The tall man looked them over, a humorous twinkle in his eyes.

“That’s to be settled among yourselves. One man goes back, unless you agree that you’re both guilty. We’ll mark off this _hombre_ who tried to play sheriff, ’cause he had nothin’ to do with stealin’ the horse.”

The two horsethieves eyed each other wonderingly.

“Which one?” asked the tall cowboy.

“Well, you took the horse,” said the broken-nosed one, accusing his anemic partner.

“You’re a liar! Don’t try none of that!”

“Who’s a liar, you sheep herdin’ waddy?”

Partnerships were forgotten as they tore into each other. The bartender, the cook, a frowsy waiter, attracted by the uproar, came out to see what was going on. It was a good fight, except that neither man knew much about fighting. They stood toe to toe and slugged wildly, until neither man had more than strength enough to reel around and paw at the other. Finally the anemic one, summoning up all his strength, planted a solid punch on the broken nose’s sagging chin, scored a complete knockout, stumbled over his foe and went flat on his face in the dirt.

The tall cowboy turned to the remaining member of the trio.

“Get on the roan,” he ordered, and the man mounted the barebacked animal without any protest.

The cavalcade moved around past the hotel, while the bartender, cook and waiter wondered what it was all about. The tenderfoot was sitting on the sidewalk in front of the postoffice. He stared dumbly at the riders, and did not move until the tall one told him to mount the extra saddled horse. He managed to get aboard with his heavy valise, and the tall one motioned for them to go on.

“Where the hell do you think you’re takin’ me?” demanded the one who had tried to impersonate a sheriff.

“That all depends on how you act,” said the tall one seriously. “You know it’s against the law to impersonate a sheriff.”

“Aw, I was only jokin’ about that.”

“Was he jokin’ you?” asked the tall man.

“I—I hope he was. You know, he accused me of stealing the horse.”

“I guess he wasn’t jokin’. Didn’t he want you to pay five hundred more for the horse, and pay his expenses?”

“Yes, he did.”

“You’re the star witness in this case, pardner.”

* * * * *

They rode on up the sandy highway, where the sun beat down like a breath from a furnace. The tenderfoot rode awkwardly, trying to hold his suitcase on the horn of the saddle and balance himself at the same time. It was too warm for conversation. The prisoner humped on the barebacked horse, wondering what it was all about.

They were about six miles from town, when the tall one stopped.

“Get off,” he ordered the prisoner, who slid to the ground.

“I reckon the walk back on high heels is your sentence. Get goin’.”

The man gawped at him.

“What’s the idea?”

The tall one drew out a serviceable-looking six-shooter, rested it on the horn of his saddle and said:

“See that rise back there in the road? It’s about two hundred yards from here. Conservatively speakin’, you ought to be over that in thirty seconds, if you hurry. You can take your time from that on, but I shore want to see the last of you within the thirty seconds. I start countin’ right _now_!”

The cowboy did not stop to argue, but was running as fast as he could toward that hump in the road; and the last they saw of him he was still galloping, hat in hand. The tenderfoot, completely mystified, mopped his perspiring forehead and stared at the tall cowboy, who seemed filled with unholy mirth.

Finally it subsided, and the tall one handed him one hundred and fifty dollars in currency.

“That’s what you paid for a stolen horse, young feller. Mebbe the saddle was stolen, too. We’ll think it was, until somebody proves it wasn’t. Now, you’ve got a plenty good bronc, fair saddle and your money back. I’m no more of a sheriff than that feller was.”

He dismounted, took the hackamore off the blue roan, slapped the animal with his hat and sent it bolting off into the low hills.

“You are not a sheriff?” asked the tenderfoot.

“Not a chance,” grinning.

“And you saved me from those men?”

“Saved your money; they didn’t want you.”

“Well, for goodness’ sake! I don’t know what to say. My name is William Allen McGill.”

“Bill McGill, eh? How are you, Bill? My name’s Hartley. Folks call me Hashknife. My pardner’s name is Stevens—knowned as Sleepy.”

“Well, I’m surely glad to have met you both. But I do not understand why you did all this for me. How you knew what they were doing and—”

“Oh, that’s just our way of havin’ fun. It was fun, Bill. You missed the fight. You see, I sent you over there on the street so that them two cowboys would think you fell for this other feller’s game. Now, don’t feel bad about gettin’ that horse and saddle for nothin’. You earned ’em. What you better get is a war-bag instead of that valise. Tie your stuff behind your saddle, if you intend doin’ any cowboyin’ around here.”

“I really don’t intend doing any cowboyin’, you know.”

“Then what in hell didja buy a horse for?”

“Oh! Well, I wanted to get over to Willow Valley, and they told me I would need a horse.”

“Willow Valley, eh? That’s east of here, I think.”

“Have you ever been over there, Mr. Hartley?”

“No, I haven’t, Mr. McGill.”

William Allen McGill smiled.

“It does sound rather formal,” he said.

“Yeah, it does—in this country, Bill. Are you a drummer?”

“A what?”

“Peddler?” said Sleepy.

“Oh! No, I am not. You see—” William grew confidential—“I am going to Willow Valley— Did you ever hear of the Willow Valley Copper Company?”

“Never did,” replied Hashknife, rolling a cigaret.

“I hope I find it. You see, they might possibly tell me who I am.”

“Uh-hu-u-u-uh,” drawled Hashknife, pausing in the wetting of his cigarette to look at William.

“Do you have to be told?” queried Sleepy.

“Yes.”

“Well, you probably will be, if you don’t get rid of that valise and get you some clothes that fit the country.”

“I suppose that is right. When I left San Francisco I had little idea of what I would find out here. After what happened to me at that town—why, they nearly robbed me of all my money!”

“Not robbed you,” corrected Hashknife, lighting his cigarette. “Scared you out of it. Bill—” Hashknife leaned his elbow on the saddle horn and tilted his hat farther over his eyes—“you’re a innocent pilgrim in a hard land. Keep your money out of sight and don’t believe what cowboys tell you. Your pink complexion makes you fair bait for lotsa folks.”

“You say you’re goin’ to Willow Valley, tryin’ to find out who you are? That’s fine. I dunno anythin’ about Willow Valley, but I _sabe_ Arizona. My advice to you is to stop at the first town you meet and trade your clothes for somethin’ that looks like what we wear. Take off your hat and let the sun scorch you. It’ll hurt a-plenty, but you’ve got to lose that skin. And don’t talk too much until you learn to leave off _ing_ on every word that needs it, and learn to cuss. _Sabe_ what I mean?”

“But I do not intend staying out here.”

“Go your own way, brother,” said Hashknife, dismissing the subject.

“Oh, I didn’t want to hurt your feelings—” quickly—“but don’t you see, I don’t belong out here.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ll tell you why I came, if you care to hear it.”

“Is it funny?” asked Sleepy. “This sun is too damn’ hot to set here and listen to anythin’ worse than funny stories.”

“Shoot,” said Hashknife. “We’re listenin’.”

And William Allen McGill told them why he came to Arizona. It was quite a long story, as William told it, going somewhat into details.

“Well,” mused Hashknife, “you’ve shore got a dim trail to foller. The world is full of men named Ed. Twenty years ago, eh? Who knows where Ed is now? That copper stock might lead to somethin’. But it was prob’ly another of them defunct properties, dead for twenty years. You’d be in luck to find a man in Willow Valley who remembers such a thing. Again, it might still be in existence. Who knows?”

“That is exactly what I thought.”

“If I was you,” advised Sleepy, “I’d be content to pack the name of McGill and not dig too deep. You say the old doctor was a good old coot and respected by everybody. What better name would you want? What’s a name, anyway? Pick any one you want; change it when you feel the need. Lotsa good names have been vended and a new one run on in this country.”

But William shook his head.

“One would naturally like to know what kind of stock one comes from.”

“Yea-a-a-ah,” drawled Hashknife, “one would. Well, what’s your idea, Bill? Which way do you go to hit Willow Valley?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, the next town is Cinnabar. We’ll prob’ly stop there tonight, and you can find out how to get to Willow Valley. It’s only twenty miles.”

“That will suit me fine.”

“Feller,” said Sleepy, “since when did you ever ride a horse?”

“I never rode one before in my life.”

“Check!” grunted Hashknife. “The lad is honest. C’mon.”