The smoking-car creaked and groaned as the train swung slowly around one
of the many sharp curves in the Modoc country. From the engine came the
shrill whistle, sounding eerie and far away; from the wheels came the
_clickety-click_, _clickety-click_, caused by the rail-joints.
There were only two men in the smoker--“Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy”
Stevens. Hashknife sprawled his six-feet-plus in solid comfort, hunched
down so low that his coat hiked up around his ears and the lower part of
his lean face was hidden inside the unbuttoned collar.
Sleepy was also at ease, although he did not have as much length to
distribute. His booted feet were heel-hooked against the cushion of
the opposite seat, his nose slightly flattened against the window as
he stared out into the darkness.
Both men were dressed in range fashion. On the seat in front of them
rested a couple of cheap telescope valises, not at all bulged. In
fact, the sides were just a trifle sunken, which would indicate that
these two sons of the range were traveling light.
Hashknife’s right hand fumbled in the pocket of his faded vest and drew
out a conglomeration of matches, cigaret papers, a revolver cartridge
and a piece of string. He selected a paper, carefully replaced the other
impedimenta and glanced sidewise at Sleepy.
“Gimme yore Durham.”
Sleepy’s nose squeaked on the glass, as he turned his head.
“Why dontcha buy yuh some Durham once in a while?”
Hashknife looked with disapproval upon his partner.
“You ain’t refusin’ me yore Durham, are yuh, cowboy?”
Sleepy grunted complainingly, dug into a hip-pocket and drew out a sack
of the required brand.
“Yo’re always stingy,” observed Hashknife, helping himself from the
inverted sack, and spilling a goodly quantity into the wrinkles of his
shirt. “I always give you tobacco, don’t I? Answer me that, why don’t
yuh? Any old time I have tobacco----”
“Any old time yuh do!” snorted Sleepy, accepting the sack and shoving it
deep in his pocket.
Hashknife scratched a match and settled down to solid comfort again.
Sleepy humped over, searching under the seat for a much-thumbed
time-table, which he perused diligently for a while.
“The ---- fool that got up this here time-table must ’a’ knowed what he
meant; but I don’t,” he declared. “It says here for yuh to read up. Read
up, ----! It ain’t no ways----”
“He means for yuh to read up the page,” informed Hashknife.
“Didja think I thought he meant for me to read up the side of my boot? I
know what he meant.”
“Didja? When do we hit Modoc?”
Sleepy perused the page again.
“Up or down?” he asked.
“Which way are we goin’?”
“That’s why I complains,” explained Sleepy, throwing the offending
folder on the floor. “Nobody knows, except the _hombre_ that wrote
it--and he prob’ly didn’t want to go to Modoc.”
“Probably not,” agreed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that Modoc don’t care
what he thought, though.”
“I s’pose not.” Thus Sleepy wearily. “Mebbe Bud Daley won’t be a ----
bit glad to see us.”
“Yeah, he will,” said Hashknife. “Old Bud’s a good feller.”
“Was,” corrected Sleepy. “You ain’t heard from him lately.”
“Year ago last Christmas.”
“And this is September. Danged near two years.”
“That’s right. Time sure does gallop along.”
“And it wasn’t nothin’ but a Christmas card he sent yuh.”
“That’s all,” Hashknife yawned widely and threw away his cigaret. “But
it said he’d like to have us stop and see him some time, Sleepy--him and
May.”
“He had to be polite,” grinned Sleepy. “I wonder if May is as pretty as
she used to be? My golly, she sure was a dinger.”
“Wouldn’t change much in two years, or so. Yessir, she sure was pretty,
Sleepy. I’ve seen a lot of girls, but I’ll betcha that May Daley is the
prettiest. She was too pretty to be safe and sound.”
“M-m-m-m. I s’pose that Bud and her are gettin’ along like old married
folks. He prob’ly puts on his slippers at night, don’t play no poker,
has to sneak a drink and then eat cloves. Smokes a pipe out in the
woodshed and never says ----, except when he refers to a irrigation
project.
“How did he ever happen to go to this Modoc country, Hashknife? Didn’t
her folks live up here, or how was it?”
“I dunno about her folks, Sleepy. Bud met the owner of a cowranch up
here and he offers Bud a good job, I reckon. That’s the way it was
told to me. Bud never said how it comes. Anyway, it don’t make me no
never mind. As long as we’re passin’ Modoc, I thought we might as
well stop off to see him.”
“Sure; I’d like to see old Bud. He used to be a forked sort of a
puncher. Didja ever hear anythin’ about this Modoc range?”
Hashknife shook his head.
“Nope. It’s a big range, I reckon. There’s a lot of cows shipped out of
here. Remember them two painted broncs that Red Ellers had at Skyline?
They was branded with the Bow-Knot. Red called ’em the ‘Necktie’ broncs.
Them two was from Modoc. Red spoke about the range once in a while, but
I don’t remember much of his talk.”
They were silent for quite a while as the train lurched along through
the hills. Then:
“Hashknife, I wonder if me and you will ever settle down?”
“I dunno.” Hashknife smiled softly and rubbed his chin against the
collar of his shirt. “I s’pose so, Sleepy. I’m gettin’ kinda tired
of rammin’ around the country, hornin’ into other folks’ business.
Sometimes I wish I had a home, cowboy.”
“Mebbe we’ll hit a good range some day; a range where we’ll want to
settle down and take life easy. The years roll along, Sleepy. A
buckin’ bronc kinda makes me weary, and I’m gettin’ slow with a gun.
We’re bound to slow up, don’tcha know it? We try to kid ourselves
into thinkin’ that we’re just as fast as we was a few years ago, but
age sneaks along and takes the snap out of us. Pretty soon me and
you will buck up agin’ a tough deal and we’ll find that we’re just a
fraction of a second slow.”
Sleepy looked at Hashknife and laughed.
“All right, Methusalem; yo’re about ready for the bone-yard.”
Hashknife grinned and stretched in a wide yawn.
“All right. Anyway, I’m growin’ timid in my old age. Here comes the
brakeman, lightin’ his way with a lantern that don’t give no light.”
The brakeman came up the swaying aisle, grasping the backs of the seats,
and when almost to the two men, he opened his mouth and yelled--
“Moo-o-doc!”
Hashknife and Sleepy uncoupled quickly and grasped their valises. Came a
long-drawn wail from the locomotive, and the _clickety-clicks_ sounded
at longer intervals as the brake-shoes gripped softly on to the wheels
and slowly brought the train to a stop.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy were halfway to the doorway, when the train
stopped, with Hashknife in the lead. Suddenly he stopped and Sleepy
bumped into him. For a moment Hashknife held firm, then turned quickly
and shoved Sleepy out of the aisle and into a seat.
It was all done so quickly that Sleepy had no time to protest, and
found himself sitting down, with Hashknife beside him, while through
the doorway came two men. Sleepy blinked. One of the men was Bud Daley,
the man they were going to stop at Modoc to see, and he was linked by a
handcuff to the other man.
Then the train started on. The two men sat down a few seats ahead and
across the aisle from Hashknife and Sleepy, without paying any attention
to them. The two cowboys looked at each other, as if seeking an answer
to the question that was uppermost in their minds. Bud Daley had not
seen them. Just now he sat on the inside, looking straight ahead, saying
nothing.
The other man turned his head and looked at Hashknife and Sleepy. He
was a man of about forty years of age, hard-faced, keen of eye and
rather cruel of mouth. He merely glanced at them and turned back.
“Whatcha know about that?” whispered Sleepy.
“Bud has done had the deadwood put upon him, it seems.”
The train gained speed again. It was evident that there were many
curvings of the railroad on this side of Modoc, as the old coach
protested against the contortions; while the engineer shrilled an
almost constant warning.
They were possibly two miles out of Modoc when the train seemed to
shudder its whole length as the brakes were applied heavily. The windows
rattled and the doors banged loudly, while the whistle shrilled in short
blasts. Then the train ground to a lurching stop.
The man to whom Daley was linked leaned across and peered out of the
window. Sleepy flattened his face against the window and tried to see
something, but there was nothing but the dark.
“Prob’ly hit a cow,” said Hashknife.
“They sure can flag a train. I remember----”
Hashknife stopped and turned his head. Some one was coming down the
aisle from the rear of the train. And that someone was two masked men,
very business-like with their six-shooters.
“Don’t move, gents!”
The one in the lead spoke sharply. Bud Daley jerked around, as did the
man with him.
“Just take things easy,” he cautioned. “That’s what we’re aimin’ to do.”
He walked past Hashknife and Sleepy, past Daley and the other man and
turned, while his companion stayed farther back, guarding from the rear.
The man at the front took off his hat, disclosing the fact that the mask
covered his entire head.
“Now,” he said, “we will take up the collection. Just ante what you’ve
got and don’t hold out on the handsome gent. Remember that the man
behind yuh is lookin’ on, and don’t start nothin’.”
He held out his hat, and for the first time he seemed to notice that the
two men were linked together.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “What have we here, folks? This must be the
sheriff, takin’ a prisoner to the big corral. Bet there ain’t enough
money on the two of yuh to buy a breakfast for a hummin’-bird. Huh!
“Probably against the law, but I’m goin’ to ask the officer to turn his
man loose. Officer, have yuh got the key for that padlock?”
The officer squinted closely at him and was about to shake his head,
when the bandit continued:
“Go ahead and lie, if yuh want to; you’ll have to produce the key, just
the same.”
“All right,” grunted the officer, taking the key from his pocket.
“You’ve got the drop.”
He snapped the hand-cuff loose. The bandit motioned for Bud Daley to get
up, which he lost no time in doing.
“Beat it,” said the bandit. “I’ve done all I can for yuh.”
Swiftly Daley went to the door and swung off into the darkness. The
bandit laughed, stepped past the officer and faced Hashknife and Sleepy,
holding out his hat.
“Pardner,” grinned Hashknife, “you’ve sure picked a blank. We’ve got
what’s left of a pair of tickets, an appetite and nowhere in particular
to go.”
“Yeah?” The bandit glanced sidewise at the officer, who was sitting
rigidly in his seat.
“Broke, eh?” he asked.
“Bent all to thunder,” nodded Hashknife.
Swiftly the bandit reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of
silver, which he tossed to Hashknife.
“Breakfast stake, gents,” he laughed. “Sit just like yuh are and
everybody will have a pleasant evenin’.”
“Much obliged,” said Hashknife, “and we’re holdin’ firm.”
Swiftly the two bandits backed out of the car, shutting the door behind
them. Then the officer sprang to his feet, drew a gun and ran toward the
rear door; but there was no sign of the two bandits.
He came back cursing his luck, and went to the front door. From outside,
farther up the train, came a fusillade of shots. The officer stepped out
on the platform, but did not leave the car.
“What do yuh make of it, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.
“I dunno, cowboy. Let’s investigate.”
They found the officer on the steps, leaning out, looking toward the
front of the train. There was nothing to be seen. Then a man came
running back, carrying a lantern. It was the brakeman.
“They’re gone!” he yelled, as he came up to them. “Robbed every car,
cut loose the express car and engine and took ’em away. Did they come
into this car?”
“By ----, they sure did!” snorted the officer. “They took my prisoner
away from me.”
“Uh-huh,” nodded the brakeman, too excited to even care who the prisoner
might be. “They’ve done a good job of it, I guess. I’ve got to flag the
rear, or some darned freight will come along and ruin us.”
He trotted away up the track, his lantern bobbing in the dark.
“Got any idea who pulled the job?” asked Hashknife.
“No!” The officer was sore.
“You’re the sheriff, ain’t yuh?”
“Yeah.”
“Waitin’ for ’em to come back?”
“Waitin’ for who to come back?”
“The hold-up men,” said Hashknife innocently.
The sheriff grunted an unprintable word and dropped off the platform.
“Now yuh went and made him sore,” complained Sleepy. “And he’ll go away
and leave us here alone. You don’t show no judgment a-tall, Hashknife.”
The sheriff heard it, but did not turn his head. The conductor came on
to the platform and flashed his lantern into them.
“Did they collect back here, too?” he asked.
“They had it in mind,” grinned Hashknife. “But it wasn’t in the cards.
What did they do--swipe the express car?”
“They sure did,” said the conductor. “There must have been a bunch of
’em, because they worked all the cars at the same time. Some of the
bunch took the engine and express car, but the rest of them had their
horses handy and pulled out as soon as they had cleaned out the train.
It sure was a neat job.”
“Yeah, they knowed how to do it,” said Hashknife. “How far are we from
Modoc?”
“About two miles.” The conductor swung his lantern outward.
“Who is that out there?” he asked.
“That’s the sheriff,” explained Hashknife. “He’s lookin’ for ’em to come
back.”
The sheriff turned and climbed back onto the platform, where he glared
at Hashknife and turned to the conductor.
“I got on with a prisoner--a murderer,” he said coldly, “and that gang
turned him loose.”
“Got on at Modoc?” asked the conductor.
“Yeah.”
From down the track came the whistle of a locomotive. The conductor
swung down and ran toward the front of the train, as the engine came
backing around the curve, shoving the express car. There was a great
bobbing about of lanterns near the car, as the train jerked from the
jar of the coupling. Came a shrill blast of a whistle, and the train
began slowly backing toward Modoc.
The sheriff turned and went back into the car, followed by Hashknife and
Sleepy.
“Did you say that yore prisoner was a murderer?” asked Hashknife.
“What’s it to yuh?” Thus the sheriff sarcastic in his anger.
“Don’t antagonize him, I tell yuh,” warned Sleepy. “He’s the sheriff,
and he’s got a awful mad spell upon himself.”
“You think you’re smart, don’t yuh?” queried the sheriff.
“Well, mebbe I ain’t so smart,” said Sleepy seriously, “but I’m sure
cautious. As far back as we’ve ever traced our family tree, there has
been a cautious streak. Yessir, the old sap jist fairly oozes caution.
Now----”
“Aw, to ---- with your family tree!” snorted the sheriff.
“That’s what I always told pa. I don’t hold with no----”
“My ----!” breathed the sheriff wearily and moved away down the car.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged mirthful glances and secured their
valises. The train was backing into the depot at Modoc; so they swung
on to the platform and headed up the main street of the town. Neither
of them cared to stay there at the depot and hear a rehearsal of the
hold-up; and it would likely be a relief for the sheriff to know that
he was rid of their presence.
The main street of Modoc was not well-enough lighted for them to get
much of an idea of the town, but from the number of hitch-racks and the
general appearance of the street it appeared to be a well patronized
cow-town.
Most of the buildings were of the false-fronted variety, but here and
there a two-story frame building lifted its top a trifle above the
ordinary. It seemed that the business district was composed mostly of
saloons.
Out in front of one, which bore the title of Rest Ye All, a fat cowboy
was doing his little best to brace up the front of the place, while he
sang mournfully:
“I don’ wanna play in yore yard,
I don’ like you any mo-o-o-o-ore.
You’ll be sor-r-ree when you see me-e-e-e
Slidin’ dow-w-wn our cel-lur-r doo-o-o-or.
You can’t hol-ler dow-w-wn our rain bar’l,
You can’t climb our apple tree-e-e-e;
You can’t play in ow-w-wer yar-r-r-rd,
’Cause you won’t be good to me-e-e-e-e.”
Hashknife and Sleepy waited until he had finished and was still panting
from clinging quaveringly to the personal pronoun at the end of the
chorus.
“You’ve got a good voice, pardner,” said Hashknife.
“Y’betcha,” agreed the cowpuncher heartily. “Yuh like to hear me sing?”
“Nope. You’ve got a good voice--but not for singin’. Do yuh think this
saloon would fall down, if yuh moved away?”
The cowpuncher grunted, shoved himself away from the wall and grasped a
porch-post firmly with both arms.
“Now whatcha goin’ to do?” asked Sleepy.
“Sing. I’m sad, don’tcha know it? My ---- but I’m sad. And when I’m
sad--I seeng, thasall.”
“Oh, yo’re a seenger, are yuh?” laughed Hashknife. “Well, hop to it,
brother. Far be it from us to curtail yore sadness.”
“That’s real kind of yuh, I’m sure.”
The cowboy almost fell off the sidewalk in trying to bow his
appreciation, but Sleepy steadied him and helped him get a fresh grip
on the post.
Hashknife and Sleepy passed on into the saloon, while the puncher lifted
his voice in a wailing sort of a dirge, which bore a certain resemblance
to “When You and I Were Young, Maggie.”
The Rest Ye All was rather a pretentious place inside. A long, mahogany
bar extended down the left side, backed by an ornate but damaged mirror.
The walls were decorated with oil paintings of considerable merit,
mounted in gaudy frames. Even the lamps were decorative.
The barroom proper was about thirty feet long by twenty feet wide, with
an archway at the rear, which led to the gambling parlor. As Hashknife
and Sleepy stopped at the bar they caught a glimpse of several gaudily
dressed women in the rear room, and to their ears came the rattle of
poker-chips, the whir of a roulette-wheel, the soft voice of a dealer
at a stud table.
The pink-faced bartender, with a diamond horseshoe in his shirt front,
lifted his eyebrows in interrogation. Hashknife and Sleepy made known
their wants and drank silently.
“Yuh got quite a place here, pardner,” observed Hashknife.
“Yeap.” The bartender carefully polished the bar and replaced the
bottle.
“Swellest place this side of New York.”
“Coverin’ a lot of territory, ain’t yuh?” asked Sleepy.
“I’ve never been to New York,” grinned the bartender.
“You spent much time between here and there?” queried Hashknife.
“Nope. I’ve been as far East as Cheyenne.”
“Thasso? You must like to travel.”
At this time the fat cowboy came inside and weaved up to the bar, where
he goggled at Hashknife.
“I’m Sody Slavin,” he announced, and added, “And I’m sad within me.
They took m’ friend Bud Daley t’ prison, don’tcha know it? And all he
done was t’ kill a cashier and steal twenty thousand dollars. This
here country is gettin’ too antisheptic for me, by gosh.”
Hashknife squinted at Sleepy, who was making faces at himself in the
back bar mirror. Came the sound of excited voices outside, and the
sheriff came in, followed by several men. Sody squinted at the sheriff
and reached for him with both hands.
“Whazzamatter?” blurted Sody. “Where’s Bud?”
“Aw, go to ----!” snorted the sheriff, shoving Sody aside, and heading
for the back room.
Hashknife and Sleepy followed them into the gambling-room. Cleve Lavelle
was just coming in from the rear, and the sheriff went straight to him
with the news, blurting it loud enough for every one to hear.
Those at the games quit playing and crowded around, while the sheriff
told them what had taken place. But he only told of the cutting loose
of the express car and the loss of his prisoner.
“They robbed the passengers, too, didn’t they?” asked Hashknife.
The crowd turned their attention to Hashknife. Breed squinted at him and
shook his head.
“No. That brakeman got so excited that he thought everybody was robbed.
None of the passengers were molested, except me.”
“How much did they git?” queried a cowboy.
“Not much,” said the sheriff. “They dynamited the express safe, but
didn’t get much. The messenger said that it was empty.”
“And Bud Daley got away from yuh, eh?” chuckled another.
“Oh, hurray! Hurray!” whooped Sody, who had followed them in. “Hurray
f’r ol’ Bud.”
Sody’s enthusiasm drew a laugh from the crowd and lessened any sympathy
that might have gone to the sheriff.
“It seems to me that there ought to be more action and less talk,”
observed Hashknife. “A train robbery and an escaped murderer ought to
make a sheriff do somethin’ besides talk himself tired.”
Dug Breed squinted at Hashknife and Sleepy closely.
“Takin’ quite a lot of interest in this ain’t yuh?” asked Breed
sarcastically.
“Well,” Hashknife grinned softly, “I’m a citizen, and I kinda like t’
feel that I’m protected by the law.”
“You ain’t,” declared Sody seriously. “P’tect yourself, stranger. The
law means right, but she’s plumb flat-footed around here.”
Breed grunted angrily and looked around, as though wondering just what
reply to make. Hashknife grinned at Sody, who nodded owlishly and
essayed a few jig-steps.
“Who are these two men, Dug?” asked Lavelle.
“---- if I know!” snapped Breed. “They were on the train.”
“We’re just a couple of helpless mortals,” said Hashknife slowly. “We’re
lookin’ for a peaceful place, thasall. We finds that we ain’t safe on a
train; so we unloads here. Ain’t no objection to it, is there?”
“Not that I know of,” said Lavelle.
“Well, that’s nice of yuh, I’m sure,” said Hashknife. “We both thank
yuh. My pardner is kinda timid; so I does the talkin’.”
“Myah!” snorted Breed angrily, and turned his back on Hashknife.
“Goin’ to git up a posse, Dug?” asked a cowboy.
“Y’betcha.” Breed turned and walked swiftly back toward the barroom.
“Let’s go and find a hotel, Sleepy,” said Hashknife.
“Hotel, ----!” snorted Sody. “Git yore broncs and come out to the ranch
with me.”
“We ain’t got no broncs, Sody,” grinned Hashknife.
“Ain’tcha?” Sody took this under advisement. “I’ll git yuh some.”
“Not tonight,” said Hashknife. “We’ll hit the hay in a hotel tonight.”
“All right,” grudgingly. “I’ll see yuh ’morrow. Yo’re the kinda folks I
like, and you’ll like ol’ Jim Miller’s outfit. He’s got the JM outfit;
_sabe_?”
They talked outside and Sody pointed out the hotel down the street.
“Who’s the feller that the sheriff talked to back there in the saloon?”
asked Sleepy.
“Tha’s Cleve Lavelle.”
“Outside of his name, what is he?”
“Mos’ly everythin’,” said Sody. “Owns everythin’, almost. Owns the 76A
ranch, too.”
“Was Bud Daley a friend of yours?” asked Hashknife.
“Yo’re ---- right. Bud’s a dinger. And he’s loose, ain’t he? Tha’s fine,
y’betcha. Good ol’ Bud. I don’t like Dug Breed. He’s the sheriff. I’m
jist as pop’lar with him as a set of delirium tremens.”
“And they put the deadwood on Bud, did they?”
“Oh, pos’tively. Twelve good men and true said he was guilty. Uncle
Jimmy Miller and Cleve Lavelle hired the bes’ lawyers yuh ever seen,
but they cinched him. Bud wouldn’t talk. My ----, I can’t con-shee-ve
of anybody not talkin’, in a case like that. I’d talk so much and so
fast that the judge would never have a chance to pronounsh shentence.
That’s me--a man of many words.”
“The sheriff was takin’ him to the pen, wasn’t he?”
“Exactly. Oh, indeed he was, yessir. Bud was shentenced yesterday. They
gave him twenty years.”
“Who do yuh reckon took him away from the sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“Who? I dunno. I’ve got to do a lot of thinkin’ before I can shay
pos’tively. I’ll buy a drink.”
“Not tonight,” laughed Hashknife. “Do yuh think they’ll catch Bud
Daley?”
“I refuse to state.” Sody grew very wise and serious. “If Bud don’t want
to be caught, tha’s another matter en-tirely. Bud’s forked, don’tcha
know it? He’ll fight. Yessir, I kinda look for gore to be spilled before
they git ol’ Bud agin’.”
They shook hands with Sody and went on toward the hotel.
“What do yuh think of it, Hashknife?” queried Sleepy.
“Looks like Bud Daley had growed horns and a tail, Sleepy. But yuh never
can tell. We’ll sleep over it.”
“We ought to have stayed on that train,” said Sleepy. “The first thing
we know we’ll be sharpenin’ our horns agin’--and this don’t look like a
one-man proposition.”
* * * * *
There was little excitement in Modoc the next morning. The sheriff and
his posse, which consisted of Charley Morse, the deputy sheriff, “Monte”
Sells, foreman of the 76A ranch, Frank Asher, of the same outfit, and
Steve Harris, of the 4X, had not come back to town.
Hashknife and Sleepy ate breakfast late and ran into Sody Slavin at the
post office. Uncle Jimmy had come in with him, and Sody lost no time in
introducing Hashknife and Sleepy to him.
“Sody tells me that you was on the train last night when it was held
up,” said Uncle Jimmy.
“Yeah, we were there,” grinned Hashknife. “Yuh see, we were on our way
here to make Bud Daley a little visit. We came in by stage through the
Brant River country to Dixon; and found ourselves so close to Modoc
that we figured it would be kinda handy to drop off and see Bud.”
“Thasso? You knowed Bud before, eh?”
“Sure. We used to work with him. Tell us somethin’ about the trial, will
yuh?”
Uncle Jimmy related everything, according to the evidence, while the
four of them sat on the edge of the board sidewalk and dug their heels
into the dirt.
“There wasn’t a lot of evidence ag’in him,” explained Uncle Jimmy. “That
rosette off his chaps looked bad to the jury. Bud wouldn’t tell where he
was that night, and everybody knowed that Bud needed money. He jist sat
there and let ’em convict him, without even arguin’ about it.
“Me and Cleve Lavelle hired lawyers for him, but they didn’t help Bud
much, ’cause Bud wouldn’t talk. He jist didn’t seem to give a ----
what they done to him. Old Jordan has been doin’ his dangdest to find
out what Bud done with that money, but Bud won’t never tell.
“If he lives to serve that twenty years, he’ll have twenty thousand
dollars. Mebbe he looks at it thataway, I dunno. Didja ever know his
wife, Hartley?”
“Yeah. Knowed her before she married Bud. This must ’a’ been danged
tough for her.”
Uncle Jimmy nodded sadly.
“----, yes. May is salt of the earth.”
“They can’t take the ranch away from her, can they?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno. Anyway, it ain’t worth enough to battle about.”
“Bud wasn’t a success as a cattleman, eh?”
“He was doin’ all right until somebody stole all his cows.”
Hashknife’s eyes opened a trifle wider and he looked sidewise at the old
cattleman.
“Stole all his cows?”
“That’s what Bud says. He had a nice herd started. Bought out the old
Triangle outfit, about three miles west of here, and had it registered
as the Triangle D. Bud had a little money, but not enough; so he borrows
five thousand from Lavelle, who owns the Rest Ye All over across the
street.
“Bud always was a gambler; so he takes that borrowed money and tackles
the roulette. He sure was right that day, and he annexes ten thousand
from Lavelle. That gives him fifteen thousand, and he soaks it all into
cows.”
“Was Lavelle sore?” asked Hashknife.
“No. Lavelle is a gambler. Bud should ’a’ paid back that money right
then, but he didn’t. The round-up was about three weeks ago, and there
ain’t a Triangle D animal in the Modoc range.
“I don’t sabe it no more than anybody else does. A lot of ’em think that
Bud picked ’em up quietly and shoved the herd through the Crooked Cañon
country and over to Black Wells.”
“To keep from payin’ Lavelle that five thousand, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“Seems to be the idea,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “He even went and tried to
borrow ten thousand more from Lavelle, but didn’t git it.”
Hashknife laughed softly and shook his head.
“Our friend Bud has become a salty sort of a gent, it seems.”
“Could he drive his cows out of the country and not have it known?”
asked Sleepy.
“Could be done,” said Sody. “Bud’s place is kinda away by itself, and
right on the old trail to Black Wells. He could ’a’ worked easy-like,
bunched ’em in the hills back of his place and hammered ’em out at
night, and it wouldn’t take more than a few hours to put ’em well into
the Crooked Cañon country.”
“But,” demurred Hashknife, “if he sold ’em in Black Wells, it ought to
be easy to find it out.”
Uncle Jimmy spat viciously and shook his head.
“The only thing yuh ever find out in Black Wells is that it’s a ----
good place to keep yore mouth shut.”
“It’s a good place to dispose of stock,” grinned Sody. “They don’t even
look at brands.”
“Lavelle and Bud were good friends?”
“Well,” grinned Uncle Jimmy, “he loaned Bud five thousand dollars, and
then he paid half of his lawyer bill. I reckon that’s friendship, ain’t
it?”
“Kinda has the ear-marks,” smiled Hashknife. “Who do yuh reckon held up
the train and turned Bud loose?”
“More friendship,” laughed Sody. “Ol’ Bud was pop’lar.”
“Bud didn’t trail with train-robbers, did he?” asked Hashknife.
Uncle Jimmy squinted closely at Hashknife and placed a horny hand on
Hashknife’s knee.
“You ain’t pious, are yuh, Hartley?” he asked slowly.
Hashknife laughed and shook his head.
“Then don’t build yuh any glass houses and start throwin’ rocks.
Friendship is friendship, accordin’ to my way of lookin’ at it,
Hartley. I’ve heard that there was a ---- of a lot of bad folks in
the Modoc country--but there ain’t none of us that say a prayer
before we go to bed, ’cause we ain’t afraid of anybody shootin’ us
in our sleep.”
“I beg yore pardon, Jim Miller,” said Hashknife softly. “I reckon I
understand how it is.”
“Thasall right,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “You know how we stand now.”
“I’d like to see Mrs. Daley,” said Hashknife. “Yuh see, we came here to
see Bud, and we’d like to do what we can for his wife.”
“Mebbe we can get horses at the livery stable,” suggested Sleepy.
“Yuh can, but yuh won’t need to,” grinned Sody. “I dragged in a
couple of extra broncs with me this mornin’, and they’re over at the
hitch-rack, waitin’ for yuh.”
“You fellers kinda hypnotized Sody, didn’t yuh?” laughed Uncle Jimmy.
“He wouldn’t do that much for me. I remember----”
“No, yuh don’t,” interrupted Sody. “I’ve done a lot for you.”
Uncle Jimmy got to his feet and brushed off his knees.
“There ain’t no use arguin’ with yuh, Sody,” he declared. “You ain’t
noways changeable. I never did see anybody as set in their ways as
you are. I sure made a awful mistake when I made you foreman of the
JM outfit--I should ’a’ given it to yuh.”
“It ain’t too late,” grinned Sody. “But if yuh do I’ll fire yuh right
off the reel. I’d want capable men on my ranch.”
They went over to the hitch-rack and untied the horses. Sody had brought
a couple of hammer-headed, evil-eyed animals for Hashknife and Sleepy;
but he was not trying to play any tricks on them.
“They’ll likely buck a little,” he told them. “Mebbe they’ll buck more
than a little, but I didn’t want to insult yuh by bringin’ a couple of
rockin’-chairs for yuh.”
“If we git ditched, it’ll be all yore fault,” laughed Hashknife as he
swung aboard.
Neither animal made any effort to buck, and Sody nodded wisely.
“Yuh can’t fool a bronc,” he declared as they rode out of town. “Them
animals knowed right away that it wasn’t no use tryin’ to shuck you two
fellers; so they don’t waste their energy.”
“I reckon we’ll find Ma out at Bud’s place,” said Uncle Jimmy. “She
didn’t say she was goin’ out there, but she will.”
“Y’betcha,” nodded Sody. “Where there’s sufferin’, you’ll find Ma
Miller.”
* * * * *
It did not take them long to ride the three miles to the Triangle D
ranch-house. A sorrel buggy team was tied to the fence near the house,
and near the front porch was grouped a number of saddled horses.
“That’s Ma’s buggy team,” observed Sody, “and them broncs belong to the
sheriff’s posse. I c’n tell Dug Breed’s black animal.”
They rode up and dismounted, just as Breed and his posse came out of
the front door. Breed squinted hard at them, but did not say anything.
Ma Miller, a tall, raw-boned woman, followed them out.
Her jaw was set at a belligerent angle, and it was plain to be seen that
she was not at all in accord with the officers. She ignored Uncle Jimmy
and the rest and centered her indignation upon Dug Breed and his men.
“Git off the ranch--the whole caboodle of yuh!” she ordered in a
masculine voice. “Dug Breed, you ain’t got the feelin’s of a coyote.
Trompin’ in like that! Didja expect to find Bud Daley here? You can’t
keep a man when yuh do git one.
“Anyway, you’re a sweet-lookin’ gang to be enforcin’ the law. Yeah,
I mean it, too. Monte Sells and Frank Asher! Steve Harris! Say, when
did you snake-hunters git a license to hunt criminals? If we had a
sheriff that’d uphold the law, you fellers would be huntin’ the high
places yourself.”
They were riding away, making faces at each other, and Ma turned
belligerently toward Uncle Jimmy and the others.
“You sure can tell ’em things, Ma,” laughed Sody. “Whooee! Meet Mister
Hartley and Mister Stevens, Ma. Gents, this is Ma Miller. Most men has
a better half, but Uncle Jimmy has a better seven-eighths.”
Ma grinned and shook hands with them.
“Ma, I’m sure glad to meet yuh,” laughed Hashknife. “Yo’re worth a lot
to a man whose eyes hankers for the home folks.”
“That’s a reg’lar speech,” laughed Ma Miller. “Didja say yore name was
Hartley?”
“Yes’m. Hashknife, to m’ friends.”
Mrs. Daley had come to the door and was staring at Hashknife. Her face
was tear-streaked and her eyes shadowed with sorrow, but she held out
both hands at the sight of Hashknife.
“I heard your name,” she said gladly. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you,
Hashknife. And there is Sleepy Stevens!”
Hashknife took both of her hands, while Sleepy crowded in to shake hands
with her.
“How in the world did you ever happen to come here?” she asked.
“We came here to visit yuh, Mrs. Daley.”
“When did you come?”
“We was on the train that Bud was on, and we seen him turned loose.”
Mrs. Daley looked away, her lips trembling.
“Then you know what has happened to us, Hashknife.”
“Y’betcha. We’ve heard a lot of the story.”
“Haven’t you heard all of it?”
Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“Nobody knows all of it, ma’am. Yuh see, the last chapter ain’t been
written yet.”
“By gosh, there’s a lot of sense in that, too!” exclaimed Ma Miller.
“May has been grievin’ her heart out; but she don’t know yet how it’s
goin’ to turn out.”
May smiled wistfully and shook her head.
“I don’t see how things can be better for us, Ma.”
“Well, they ain’t got Bud in no danged prison,” reminded Sody. “He’s got
a fightin’ chance.”
“Quit talkin’ about it,” grunted Uncle Jimmy.
“Anyway, I am awful glad to see you two boys,” smiled Mrs. Daley. “Bud
speaks about you so often.”
She turned to Ma Miller and took her by the hand.
“Ma, you’ll like these two men. Bud swears by both of them. He says
that Hashknife Hartley--no, I won’t repeat it--but it used to make me
jealous. He used to wonder what old Hashknife and Sleepy are doing
today, and wish that they would come along and advise him on certain
things.”
“I told yuh they was reg’lar folks,” Sody grinned at Uncle Jimmy
triumphantly. “By golly, I can pick ’em--drunk or sober.”
“Are you going to stay a while?” asked Mrs. Daley.
“Yuh never can tell about us,” smiled Hashknife. “We ain’t gentlemen
of leisure, but it kinda seems that we don’t stay put in one place
very long.”
“You don’t look like a pair of drifters,” observed Ma Miller.
“No, ma’am,” Hashknife shook his head. “We travel under our own power.”
“Bud used to say that they were the best cowpunchers in the world, but
they never punch cows,” said Mrs. Daley. “He said they were always too
busy to work.”
“What did he mean by that?” asked Sody.
Hashknife laughed and began rolling a cigaret.
“Yuh see, we’re kinda unlucky--me and Sleepy. Everywhere we go we
find somebody in a jam. We jist can’t mind our own business--somehow.
Personally, I’d like to settle down and grow old with the country;
but Sleepy can’t git over his childish ways; so I reckon we’ll--keep
movin’ along.”
“You won’t have much for yore old age, will yuh?” asked Uncle Jimmy.
“Yeah, we’ll have quite a lot,” smiled Hashknife. “It won’t be anythin’
that yuh can cash in at a bank. And when we die, we won’t leave nothin’
spendable. There ain’t nobody dependin’ on either one of us, except the
other.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Mrs. Daley softly. “Bud told me
some of the things you have done.”
“Likely magnified ’em,” grunted Sleepy. “Bud always did have a big
imagination. We’ve been lucky, thasall.”
“I hope it will never change,” said Ma Miller earnestly.
“It won’t, Ma--as long as we’re right,” said Hashknife. “Sometimes it’s
hard to be right. Humanity is a queer thing. We might do wrong through
friendship, through a wrong hunch, or believin’ a lie.”
“If yuh want jobs, I’ll give ’em to yuh,” stated Uncle Jimmy. “I ain’t
got a danged thing for yuh to do, but that ain’t goin’ to interest
nobody but me. Mebbe it’ll be worth it to have somebody for Sody to
argue with. He’ll leave me alone. Harry McKee won’t argue with him, and
Dinah Blewette stutters so bad that he ain’t got a chance in the world;
so Sody makes me miserable. If there’s anythin’ on earth that I hate,
it’s an argument.”
“Yeah, you do,” growled Sody. “You hate it like yuh hate fried chicken.
When you won’t argue--you’re in danged bad shape.”
“Thasso!” Uncle Jimmy bristled belligerently. “Lemme tell yuh somethin’,
you----”
“Jim Miller, don’t start it!” snapped Ma Miller. “My gosh, you two
gallinippers make me tired. Your arguments never have no beginnin’ nor
end. And anyway, this ain’t no time nor place for arguments.”
“He started it, Ma,” protested Uncle Jimmy. “He always starts ’em, if
yuh notice. All I done was to offer these two men jobs.”
“They never asked yuh for a job, Jim.”
“Didn’t they? I s’pose I’ve got to be asked, have I? Say, who owns the
JM ranch? Ain’t I got a right to offer a job without bein’ asked?”
“I’m the foreman,” reminded Sody.
“Are yuh?” Uncle Jimmy teetered on the balls of his feet and hooked his
thumbs over his cartridge belt. “You are, are yuh? That makes you quite
important, eh? Anybody’d think you was the Grand Exalted Ruler of the
Universe, Sody. I made yuh foreman, didn’t I? Anybody’d think you was
born thataway? You sure do wear yore honors lightly, fat feller. Well,
go ahead and hire ’em, why don’tcha?”
Sody turned and looked seriously at Hashknife and Sleepy.
“Did you fellers want a job on the JM ranch?” he asked.
Hashknife and Sleepy both shook their heads. Ma Miller threw back her
head and laughed, and even Mrs. Daley forgot her troubles long enough
to join in the merriment.
“That was a lot of talk wasted,” said Ma Miller, wiping her eyes with
her apron. “But that’s like Jim and Sody. I’ve been tryin’ to convince
May that she ought to come over to the JM and stay with us a while. She
can’t stay here alone.”
“By golly, she sure can have the JM, if she wants it,” said Uncle
Jimmy. “That’s her home. You come and live with us, May. Ma needs
somebody to argue with, don’tcha know it. Then she’d leave me alone.
I sure don’t git much peace in this world--and yuh never can tell
about the hereafter.”
Hashknife laughed and threw away his cigaret.
“Now that’s a good idea,” he said seriously. “Suppose Mrs. Daley goes up
to yore ranch and leaves us in charge here. We’ve got to have a place to
sleep, and I don’t like that hotel. We’ll run the ranch for a few days.”
“Why, you wouldn’t want to do that,” protested Mrs. Daley.
“Sure, we’d enjoy it,” said Sleepy enthusiastically. “We hate hotels.”
“But there’s nothing here to do.”
“_Esto buena_, as the Mexican says,” laughed Hashknife. “If we wanted
work, we’d ’a’ grabbed Uncle Jimmy’s offer.”
“Well,” said Mrs. Daley dubiously. “I don’t know. There isn’t a very big
stock of food in the house, and the----”
“Ne’ mind the food,” grinned Sleepy. “We’ll haul some out. If we see a
fat JM on the hill, we’ll eat steaks.”
“I’ll herd one down to yuh,” offered Uncle Jimmy. “Or yuh might beef a
76A. Lavelle wouldn’t miss one.”
Hashknife happened to be looking at Mrs. Daley and noticed the quick
flush that came to her white cheeks at the mention of Lavelle.
“Lavelle owns the 76A?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah,” nodded Uncle Jimmy. “He’s the he-hawk of this country. Two of
his men are in that sheriff’s posse, but I’ll betcha he’ll give ’em----
when he finds it out.”
“Mr. Lavelle has been very kind to us,” murmured Mrs. Daley.
“Well, I’m glad we’ve got a place to stay,” observed Hashknife, looking
around. “Yuh don’t mind if we keep them two broncs for a while, do yuh,
Uncle Jimmy?”
“I should say not. Keep ’em as long as yuh want ’em. If there’s anythin’
else on the JM that yuh want, come a-hootin’ and have at it. Ma, you and
May git yore stuff into the buggy. By golly, it’s goin’ to be fine to
have May back home ag’in. If Bud----”
Uncle Jimmy stopped and squinted toward the hills. The tears had come to
Mrs. Daley’s eyes again, but she turned and went into the house, while
Ma Miller glared at Uncle Jimmy before following her inside.
It did not take them long to pack up what clothing Mrs. Daley wanted to
take to the JM ranch, and they drove away down the dusty road. Uncle
Jimmy and Sody shook hands with Hashknife and Sleepy, promising to drop
in on them very soon.
“Bring yuh down a fat yearlin’ t’morrow,” promised Uncle Jimmy, “and
mebbe Sody’ll bring yuh a hatful of aigs.”
* * * * *
They went out through the rear gate and swung into the hills, cutting
across to the JM, which was about three miles to the North. Hashknife
and Sleepy locked the house, mounted their horses and headed back
toward town, itemizing the groceries they would need.
“Bacon,” said Sleepy. “What do yuh think of the proposition?”
“May’s prettier than she ever was,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “We
gotta have a few cans of tomatoes.”
“Ma’s a dinger, Hashknife. How about some beans?”
“Beans? Sure. Who do yuh reckon stole Bud’s cows? And matches. I never
did live in a place where there was enough matches. And Uncle Jimmy
ain’t no--Sleepy, don’t let me forget canned peaches. I love peaches.
How’s yore Durham?”
“Mine’s all right; how’s yours? You ought to buy some tobacco for
yourself, Hashknife. Honest, yuh ought to do that. And if you forget
bakin’-powder, I’ll massacree yuh. ’Member the time we-- Say, that
posse sure got told about themselves, didn’t they? Ma sure rattled
their skeletons for ’em.”
“And salt’n pepper,” added Hashknife. “I suppose that posse went back to
Modoc and got drunk.”
And so they enumerated jerkily all the way back to Modoc, filled with
joy at the prospect of doing their own cooking and of eating it.
To one who did not know Hashknife Hartley they might have classed him
with the average irresponsible cowboy, but back in his serious mind was
the germ of an idea.
Sleepy did not originate ideas. He was content to follow Hashknife’s
lead in all things; content to sit back and let the lanky one work
out the salvation of both. In many things, Sleepy Stevens was a
pessimist, an arguer, but open to conviction. He was outspoken in
his likes and dislikes, as was Hashknife, ready to do battle for a
friend, caring little for the future. Men had said that these two
were animated antidotes for range poison--a title which had caused
them much amusement.
Neither of them was a wizard with a six-shooter. In fact, their
marksmanship was criticized by both; but cold nerve had carried them
through some tough battles against men who were reputed to be lightning
on the draw.
Both of them were good average rifle-shots, although neither would
admit it. Sleepy loved trouble. His idea of bliss was to swap lead
with somebody. Not hand to hand swapping; but a battle in the hills,
long-range rifle-work. The _sping-g-g_ of a high-power bullet,
ricocheting off the rocks, was music to his ears.
But Sleepy was not blood-thirsty. It was all in a day’s work with both
of them. And their work had made them confirmed fatalists; confirmed
humorists. They had laughed at death, laughed at life.
“And why not?” Hashknife had questioned. “Nobody knows what life is.
Neither do they know what death means. When yuh see somethin’ that
yuh don’t know nor understand, ain’t it better to laugh than to cry
over it?”
Hashknife was partly right when he prophesied that the posse had gone
back to Modoc to get drunk. Breed and his deputy were cold sober, but
the others were having their fill at the Rest Ye All bar, while their
weary horses nodded at the hitch-rack.
Hashknife and Sleepy tied their horses at a rack in front of a general
merchandise store and were ordering their groceries, when Breed came in.
He watched them sack up their stuff and then followed them outside.
“Goin’ batchin’?” he asked.
Hashknife grinned and nodded, as he tied a sack behind the cantle of his
saddle.
“We’re goin’ to live at Bud Daley’s ranch for a while.”
“Oh, thasso?” The sheriff was interested. “You knew Bud, didn’t yuh?”
“Yeah, we used to know him pretty well.”
“His wife goin’ to stay there?”
“Nope. She’s gone out to the JM ranch. We’ll be there alone.”
“What’s the idea?”
Hashknife knotted a string and squinted at it critically before he said:
“Well, now I don’t reckon you could call it an idea, sheriff. We jist
got tired of the hotel, thasall.”
“Uh-huh.”
The sheriff scratched his chin thoughtfully. Naturally, he wanted all
the information possible. Bud Daley was still at large, and this might
be a scheme to get him a grub-stake. But it might not be an opportune
time to mention such a thing, he realized; so he nodded and walked
away.
Sleepy went to the hotel, paid their bill, took their valises and came
back to the horses. The half-broke bronchos objected to the valises,
but were soon convinced that this excess baggage was there to stay. Dug
Breed watched them ride away and grew thoughtful.
These two men rode well, he observed. They both wore guns, and their
guns and belts seemed more practical than ornamental.
“That tall jasper ain’t no man to fool with,” he mused. “I dunno about
the shorter one. I wish I knew what they are goin’ to do out there at
Bud’s ranch. They’re friends of Bud’s, that’s a cinch. But I can’t stop
’em. There’s no law against ’em living out there.”
Breed shook his head, rubbed some of the dust out of his sleepy eyes and
went across the street to the Rest Ye All.
* * * * *
The 76A ranch was located about five miles northeast of Modoc. Lavelle
had spent much money in making it the finest cattle-ranch in the
country, although he did not spend much of his time at the ranch-house.
A Chinese cook and a Chinese house boy had charge of the ranch-house,
while Monte Sells was in charge of the ranch.
While no one had objected openly there were many who did not exactly
care for Sells, “Red” Blair, Frank Asher, “Mesa” Caldwell and Brent
Allard, Lavelle’s cowpunchers. They were a hard-riding, hard-drinking
crew of men, who gave Lavelle back their salaries over the green
cloth, or drank it up over his polished bar.
Just now Red Blair and Brent Allard were enjoying a cigaret siesta in
the shade of a big cottonwood near the big red stable at the 76A. Red
was lying flat on his back, his sombrero half-across his face. Blair
was a big man, with high cheek-bones, eyes deeply set under bushy
brows and a flaming thatch of red hair.
Allard was a smaller man, colorless, tow-headed, but with a cruel mouth
and a deep knife scar along his right jaw-bone. His cigaret hung limply
from his lips as he humped over on his haunches and drew meaningless
patterns in the dirt with his forefinger.
“I’d jist like t’ know where Monte got his information,” he said
musingly.
Red Blair grunted and brushed a fly off his nose.
“He won’t tell,” continued Allard complainingly.
“---- the flies!” Red grunted angrily, and sat up slowly to reach for a
match.
“Wonder if the posse caught Bud Daley yet?”
Allard shook his head and spat disgustedly.
“I’d jist like to know who stuck up Dug Breed.”
“You ought to buy a dictionary,” said Red wearily.
“Why?”
“You want to know so ---- much.”
“Yeah?” Allard dug savagely at the dirt. “I don’t like to risk my neck
for nothin’, Red.”
“You didn’t risk yore neck.”
“Didn’t, eh? Aw, I know. You fellers think yuh can do anythin’ yuh want,
as long as yo’re workin’ for Cleve Lavelle. Sure. He makes the sheriff
and all that, and we’re perfectly safe. But Lavelle didn’t have nothin’
to do with this, yuh must remember.”
“He’d have somethin’ to say,” replied Red easily. “Yuh don’t see the
sheriff moseyin’ around here, do yuh? Dug Breed knows which side his
bread is buttered on, y’betcha.”
“Stick yore head in the sand like an ostrich,” grunted Allard. “That
bird ain’t the only animal that rams its head out of sight and thinks
nobody can see the rest of it.”
“Why don’tcha go back to Oklahoma?” queried Red. “You ain’t got the guts
of a canary-bird, Allard.”
Red got to his feet, slapped his hat on his head and squinted toward the
road.
“Here comes Monte and Frank,” he grunted, “and they’re ridin’ kinda
loose.”
Allard got up and they walked down to the corral where Monte Sells and
Frank Asher had dismounted. Both men had been drinking and were in a
joyful mood.
“We’ve been upholdin’ the law,” declared Asher, yanking the saddle off
his panting animal and almost upsetting himself.
“Yuh look like you’d been holdin’ up a saloon,” observed Red
caustically.
“Didja find Bud Daley?” asked Allard.
“Find ----!” snorted Monte angrily. “Breed led us all over the ----
hills in the dark. Mebbe he thought Bud would be carryin’ a lantern.”
“Yeah, and we went to Bud’s house,” laughed Asher. “Breed wanted to
search the place, didn’t he, Monte? Ma Miller was there. And what she
told Breed was a plenty. Man, she sure read his sign for him.”
“Read our epitaph, too,” laughed Monte. “Said we’d be high-tailin’ it a
long time ago, if we had an honest sheriff.”
“Wonder where Bud went,” said Allard.
“You better go down and join Breed,” snorted Monte. “He’s in the same
fix you are.”
“Did Breed give up the posse idea?” asked Red.
“As far as we’re concerned,” laughed Monte. “Lavelle was sore as a boil,
when he found that me and Frank was on the posse. Lavelle spent a lot of
money tryin’ to clear Bud; and he said he’d be ---- if he wanted his men
to help run him down in the hills.”
“Bud’s wife still at the ranch?” queried Red.
“She’s gone out to the JM,” said Asher. “Anyway, that’s what Breed
told us before we left. Couple of strange punchers goin’ to batch at
the Triangle D. Friends of Jim Miller, I reckon. They came out there
about the time that Ma Miller hoodled us out of the house.”
“Who are the strange punchers?” asked Red. “Didn’t yuh hear their
names?”
“Aw, Breed said that one of ’em was named Hartley, or somethin’ like
that. I don’t know whether that’s the name or not.”
Allard moved in a little closer, his lower lip sagging, as if his
half-smoked cigaret weighed pounds.
“Didja say ‘Hartley,’ Frank?”
“It was somethin’ like that, Brent. I didn’t pay much attention to the
name.”
“What kind of a lookin’ feller, Frank?”
“Tall, skinny geezer.”
“The other one was shorter? Kinda sad-faced and bow-legged?”
“That’s him.”
Allard brushed the cigaret off his lip and cleared his throat.
“That’s Hashknife Hartley and Sleepy Stevens, by ----! And I’m draggin’
m’self off this range right away.”
Monte Sells stared at Allard for a moment and broke into a laugh. Allard
was squinting into space, his lips shut tight.
“What’s the matter with you, Allard?” asked Monte. “You act like this
feller might be gunnin’ for yuh.”
Allard shook his head quickly.
“No, he ain’t gunnin’ for me, Monte. At least, I don’t think he is. But
he’s jist bad luck, thasall. I’ve seen his work--him and the bow-legged
one.”
“Why you ---- fool!” exploded Red angrily. “What can he do to you?”
“Not a ---- thing!” snapped Allard. “’Cause I ain’t goin’ to give him a
chance. I’m goin’ away--a long ways away.”
“Not a gut in his body,” declared Red inelegantly, pointing at Brent
Allard. “Runnin’ away from a spook.”
“Thasso?” Allard flushed indignantly. “I’ve got all I need to keep me
in a healthy condition, Red. And I’m goin’ to keep ’em, too. I wonder
what them two are doin’ around here.”
Monte laughed shortly and hitched up his belt.
“They’re just livin’ at the Triangle D, thasall.”
“No, that ain’t all,” declared Allard. “Jist livin’ ain’t all where
they’re concerned.”
“They were on the train the night of the hold-up,” volunteered Frank.
“Uh-huh-h-h,” said Allard triumphantly. “And you ---- fools think
they’re jist livin’ here, eh?”
“Detectives?” queried Red a trifle uneasily.
“Malignantly,” nodded Allard. “Hashknife Hartley can read yore mind, I
tell yuh.”
Monte laughed sarcastically and slapped Allard on the back.
“We’ll see that our minds are clear of all evil, when we meet him,
Brent. Don’t be a fool. Hartley is just a human bein’, ain’t he? Well,
I reckon we know how to deal with human bein’s, don’t we?”
“You said a heap,” laughed Red. “If that pelican monkeys around us,
we’ll sure clip his wings, eh, Monte?”
“Hop to it,” said Allard wearily. “But don’t ask me to help yuh. I’ve
warned yuh, thasall.”
Allard turned and walked toward the bunk-house, while the rest of the
cowboys looked after him, a laugh on their lips.
“Scared plumb stiff,” declared Monte.
“And,” observed Frank seriously, “it ain’t like Brent to get scared
thataway. He ain’t no coward, Monte.”
“That’s right,” muttered Red. “Brent’s no coward, but right now he’s
scared. Mebbe we better investigate this Hartley person. It’s better
to be safe than sorry, Monte.”
“That’s true enough, Red. If he’s here to find trouble, we’ll sure guide
him to plenty of it, won’t we?”
“Danged right. And we’ll label it in big letters, so he won’t make no
mistake. I’m kinda anxious to see this pair of whip-poor-wills, m’self.
If they’re dangerous, the sooner we find it out the better it will be
for all of us.”
“Mebbe they’ll be in town tonight,” grinned Monte widely. “If they’re
not, we know where they will be.”
“That’s my idea, too,” laughed Red.