Hashknife--Wise, Humorous Adventurer of the
Open Range--Rides Over the Hill Again
“H-e-e-y! What the hell is the matter with this here thing?”
“Soapy” Weed’s voice began a deep bass, rising in a swift crescendo
until it hit a note far above the range of anything below a soprano.
Soapy stood in the middle of the AH bunk-house, full in the light of two
oil lamps. Balanced on the edge of a table was a packing-case which bore
the imprint of a popular mail-order house and at his feet was a smaller
case of the same kind.
Soapy’s stubby nose was beaded with perspiration and his blue eyes
were filled with anxiety. He was of medium height, weighing possibly
a hundred and fifty pounds. His hair was of a sandy hue and just now
it flared as though in a gale, attesting to the fact that Soapy had
shortly emerged through the neck band of a white, stiff-bosom shirt,
which was so new and so stiffly starched that the deed had only been
accomplished by a supreme effort.
Over the shirt he wore a glaringly new checked suit, the sleeves of
which came far above his wrists and the shoulders were far too narrow.
Both hands clutched with a death grip on the waist-band of the checked
trousers, which were inches and inches too large around the waist.
Seated on a bunk was “Cling” Heffner, a giant of a cowboy. He had
been nicknamed “Clinging Vine,” but this had been shortened to plain
“Cling.” He was slightly bald, square-faced, with a crooked nose and
huge mouth surrounded at each end by deep grin wrinkles--like a gash
in parenthesis.
He surveyed Soapy critically.
“Well--holee gee!” he breathed. “You don’t fit ’em, Soapy.”
“And is that all yuh can say?” asked Soapy wearily.
“It’s good-lookin’ cloth, Soapy. I never thought that there sample would
ever make up--”
“Oh, damn the cloth! Look at this, will yuh?”
Soapy tried to cross his arms, but the effort was futile. And when he
let loose of the waist-band his trousers fell to the floor. He leaned
forward and glared at Cling, making no effort to recover the trousers.
“Yuh need suspenders, Soapy.”
“Yea-a-a-ah?”
Soapy kicked the offending trousers against the door of the bunk-house,
and Cling grinned widely.
“You look like one of them there quail birds without any tail feathers,
Soapy; honest yuh do.”
“Do I?” Soapy was sarcastic. He leaned against the table and glared at
Cling. “You measured me for that suit, feller.”
[Illustration: “You measured me for that suit, feller, and yuh got them
figures down wrong”]
“I follered directions.”
“You did, like hell! Here’s what yuh done. I wear a thirty-nine coat
and a thirty-one waist-band. And dang you, Cling, yuh got them figures
down on the wrong blanks. Thirty-one coat! My God, that wouldn’t fit a
chickadee! And a horse ain’t over thirty-nine around the waist.”
“Some horses are, Soapy. Aw, don’t git hot. Lemme see them pants,
will yuh? I can take a tuck in the rear. What’s eight inches, anyway?
’S far as that’s concerned, yuh can gather it up inside yore belt. I
admit that the coat fits tight. Sa-a-ay! Eight inches will jist about
make it. We’ll take eight inches out of them pants and set it between
the shoulders of the coat. Git me a pair of shears and a needle.”
“Na-aa-a-aw! For God’s sake, Cling! You can’t do it. What do you know
about sewin’? I’m ruined.”
“Howsa hat?” asked Cling.
Soapy groaned and lifted a pearl-colored fedora from the smaller case,
gazing at it critically.
“Put her on, Soapy.”
Carefully and with both hands Soapy lifted up the hat and placed it atop
his head, where it sat without visible means of support, except gravity.
“Pull her down,” said Cling.
“Pull hell!” He reached up savagely, clutched the hat in his right hand
and flung it as far as the confines of the bunk-house would permit.
“I think you’ve swelled since we took yore measure,” said Cling
solemnly. “But if that hat’s a seven and three-eighths, I’ll eat it.”
Soapy sat down heavily on a bunk and held his head in his hands while
Cling proceeded to dress himself in a fairly new suit of robin’s egg
blue, which bagged so badly at the knees that it looked as though Cling
was getting ready to do a broad jump.
“You better shake a laig, Soapy,” said Cling, as he surveyed himself
in the cracked mirror. “You’ve got to go out to the IS ranch, yuh must
remember.”
“Yeah, I remember,” said Soapy, lifting a doleful face. “I also remember
that you took my measure for that dang suit, and yuh got me a thirty-one
coat and thirty-nine pants. What kind of a figure do they think I’ve
got? And a six and seven-eights hat! Cling, some day, I’m goin’ to kill
you.”
“I’m sorry,” drawled Cling sadly. “I’d hate to git killed by a friend,
’specially when I’ve got so much to live for. There’s two things I want
to do before I die, Soapy. One is to draw an inside royal flush, and the
other is to smash Tuck Hayward right square in the beak.
“I’ve done drawed about seven thousand dollars’ worth of them inside
royals in my life, and none of ’em took. If yuh crave hard enough,
I’ll let yuh wear that red necktie of mine, Soapy. It’s got soup on
the lower aidge, but yuh can button yore vest over it. Aw, cheer up,
pardner. Climb into yore raiment. Tell Yvonne that yore suit never
showed up.”
“She didn’t know I was gettin’ one.”
“Well, that’s fine. You look like hell in a fedory hat, anyway. Ain’t it
enough glory to take Yvonne LeClere to a dance, without addin’ a checked
suit? My God, she’s a pretty girl! Why, I’d--I’d take her to a dance if
I never had a thing to wear, Soapy.”
Soapy sighed deeply and began putting on the suit he had worn for Sunday
best for three years. Its original color had been black, but time and
lack of proper care had changed it to a sickly green. However, Soapy
retained the dress shirt and added a high collar, which caused him to
act as though he had a stiff neck. Added to this was the red tie, with
the soup spots on the lower “aidge.”
The tie immediately climbed to the upper edge of the collar and stayed
there, in spite of Soapy’s efforts to make it stay down.
“I shore look like hell!” snorted Soapy.
“Not as she has been propounded to me,” said Cling seriously. “Yuh look
a little stiff around the neck--tha’sall. Don’t set down hard or you’ll
slice yore ears off. Mebby after yuh sweat a little she’ll loosen up.
C’mon, we better get goin’.”
They went out to the stable and saddled their horses. Johnny Colburn and
“Slim” Benito, the cook at the AH, had already gone to Chongo. Old “Ace”
Hart, owner of the AH, was too old to care about attending a dance. It
was payday on all the ranches, and the boys of the AH always said that
Ace was so sorrowful on that day he must stay at home and hang crape on
himself.
Soapy and Cling mounted their horses and rode away toward Chongo town
but separated at the forks, Cling riding south across Silver River to
the town, while Soapy rode north to the IS ranch to bring Yvonne
LeClere to the dance.
The IS was located about four miles north of Chongo, while the AH was
about the same distance from town, slightly north of east. Soapy was
not in a good humor, due to the misfit of his new suit and hat. It had
taken him quite a while to accumulate that forty dollars which they
represented, as Soapy was not a frugal soul and forty a month does not
allow for much saving.
“She’s a total loss,” he told his horse. “Won’t even make good cleanin’
rags for a six-gun. If old P. T. Barnum was alive he’d shore pay a
whoppin’ salary to the man who could fit into that suit. Thirty-one coat
and thirty-nine pants! And a hat fit for a peanut! But that’s what yuh
get for lettin’ a waddy measure yuh.”
And then Soapy’s thoughts drifted away from the suit and centered on
Yvonne LeClere. He couldn’t for the life of him quite understand why
Yvonne should accept his invitation to the dance; why he was favored
above the rest. Soapy was not at all vain or egotistical. He could
look at himself in a mirror and see himself as others might see him.
He was neither handsome, graceful, intellectual nor wealthy; just a
forty-a-month cowboy trying to get along. He had known Yvonne before
her father sent her away to school, where she had stayed four years,
but they had never been intimate friends. She had been sort of a
wild kid, with big black eyes, red lips and a mop of unruly black
hair. She rode like a wild thing; rode any horse she could mount,
much to the amusement of old Frenchy LeClere, who swore great oaths
that Yvonne could ride better than any puncher in Silver River
Valley.
Old Frenchy was proud of Yvonne. His eyes always snapped when her name
was mentioned.
“She’s de LeClere blood,” he would declare, striking himself on his
broad chest. “Better man den Joe. Joe--well, she’s not so good. She’s
not bad boy--Joe; jus’ wild.”
Silver River Valley had its own opinion of Joe LeClere. Joe was five
years older than Yvonne, who was barely twenty. He was dark, with
black eyes and a cruel mouth. And he was wild, was Joe LeClere; wild
rider, wild drinker, wild gambler. He trailed with a wild crowd.
Frenchy LeClere did not remonstrate with Joe, because Joe was of age
now. But one day when Joe was eighteen his father knocked him down with
the neck-yoke of a wagon. After doctoring him back to consciousness he
said:
“W’en I say somet’ng, I mean no! No, she’s not yes. Nor she’s not
maybee. Me, I’m not like strike child wit’ feest; so I’m tak’ neck-yoke
and hit you so--hard, maybee you remember for t’ree year more that I am
boss. After dat I’m don’ give hell. You can’ go way and say I’m don’
raise you right, by God!”
And Joe had remembered to the best of his ability. In spite of his wild
blood, he had a lot of respect for his big, spade-bearded, white-haired
father. The neck-yoke probably did much to gain this respect.
Soapy rode in at the ranch-house and Frenchy LeClere met him at the
doorway, his broad figure back-lighted by a huge lamp on the table.
“Ho, ho, ho, ho!” he laughed rumblingly. “By gosh, ’ere’s de cowboy come
for you, Yvonne! Shak’ leg! Come in, Soapee. H’all polish up, eh?” He
slapped Soapy on the shoulder so hard that the cowboy half flinched.
“Hyah, Mr. LeClere!” he grinned.
The old man lifted his bushy brows and stared at Soapy.
“So-o-o? Mistaire LeClere, eh?”
“Gotta be polite,” grinned Soapy.
“Biccause you tak’ my girl to de dance, eh? You never mind be polite to
me; you be polite to her.”
“Shore thing, I will,” said Soapy seriously.
“Rest de feet, eh?” grinned Frenchy LeClere, indicating a chair.
Soapy sat down on the edge of the seat, while the old man sat down in an
ancient rocker, which creaked ominously under his weight.
“Joe at home?” asked Soapy after a silent moment. The old man frowned
slightly, but finally lifted his brows and looked at Soapy.
“She’s not here--no. Joe she’s spend mos’ time in town. I dunno,” he
shook his head sadly. “She’s h’all right biffore de railroad come to
Chongo. Railroad bring de gambler, de women. Mak’ new building, too.
Chongo grow beeg. I’m sorry. We ’ave de nice li’l town, h’everybody
happy; now she’s h’all go to hell, I’m guess.”
“I don’t like it myself,” said Soapy earnestly.
“Bimeby comes de barb-wire, nester, mebby sheep.”
“I’ll pull out ahead of that.”
“You are yo’ng; you can go some place. But I am old and I mus’ stay. I’m
t’ink Yvonne he’s coming now. You bring de buggy?”
“By golly, I never thought of it! I ain’t never taken--”
“Never min’; you tak’ my rig, Soapee. You talk wit’ Yvonne w’ile I’m
hitch up de horse.”
And before Soapy could protest against it, Frenchy went out through
the rear of the house. A moment later Yvonne came in. She stopped just
inside the room and smiled at the speechless Soapy.
She was wearing a flame-colored silk dress which fit her perfectly,
a black lace mantilla gracefully draped over her head and shoulders,
causing her to look more Spanish than French. Her big eyes sparkled
and her red lips parted to show a flash of white teeth as she smiled
at the dumbfounded cowboy.
“How do you like me?” she asked.
“My God!” breathed Soapy. “You--well, I’ll--hello, Yvonne.” He smiled
foolishly and blinked at her.
“Oh, hello, Soapy.”
“Gosh! I--say, I saw a picture once that looked just like you.”
“Yes? Where’s Father?”
“He’s--uh--say, Yvonne, I plumb forgot to bring a rig, and he--he’s gone
out to hitch up one.”
Yvonne laughed softly and crossed to an old mirror.
“You are not used to taking ladies to dances, eh?” she said, not turning
her head.
“I shore ain’t. Gosh, that’s a pretty dress, Yvonne. You’ll have all
them Chongo women green with envy. I--I--” he looked down at his
suit--“I ain’t--yuh see, I got a new suit today. Had her shipped
from Chicago. But Cling Heffner measured me for it and he shore got
the figures shifted. They sent me a thirty-one coat and thirty-nine
pants. What you think of that?”
Yvonne laughed with him and turned from the mirror.
“Never mind clothes,” she said. “You look fine.”
“I guess I don’t _look_ fine, but I shore feel fine. I reckon I know how
Cling would feel if he ever drawed a royal flush in the middle.”
“That’s luck,” she said.
“Shore--so is this.”
“What do you mean, Soapy?” She looked straight at him.
“Why, me gettin’ a chance to take you to a dance. I’ll bet there’s men
in Chongo that would give a leg to have my chance.”
Her eyes clouded a trifle and she turned back to the mirror.
“Don’t be foolish,” she said. “I--I didn’t want to go with any of the
men from Chongo. This is my first dance here since I came from school,
you know.”
[Illustration: “This is my first dance since I came from school”]
“Yeah, that’s right. Well, I shore had a horseshoe with me when I asked
yuh to go, Yvonne. By golly, you shore do look fine. If that danged suit
had only--”
“That’s Dad yelling that the rig is ready,” interrupted Yvonne. “We’ll
go out through the kitchen.”
They found Frenchy LeClere out there with the single rig, and he held
the horse while they got in the buggy.
“I’ll leave my bronc here,” said Soapy. “Thank yuh a lot, Mr. LeClere.”
“Have good time,” LeClere laughed as they drove away.
It was moonlight, but Soapy held the horse down to a walk. He was
conscious of the fact that he had eaten onions for his supper. The
buggy seat was small, which forced them to sit close together.
“I wish we was drivin’ to the moon,” said Soapy.
“To the moon? My, my! That is a long way, Soapy. Why, it would take a
million years to drive to the moon.”
“Time jist don’t mean nothin’ to me, Yvonne; I wish there was a road up
to it.”
* * * * *
For many years the town of Chongo had been a cow-town, drowsing away in
Silver River Valley; nothing more or less than a one-street village,
seemingly content to stay as it was, only growing more weather-beaten
each year.
Then came the railroad, a branch line, of course, to wind its way up
Silver River to Chongo town. And with the railroad came a change in
the county seat, bringing it to Chongo, which was in the center of
the county.
And simultaneous with the advent of the railroad came the silver
strike on Chongo Creek, twelve miles northeast of the town. All these
things caused Chongo to boom, and boom it did--to a certain point.
Came more saloons, two big gambling houses, honkatonks. A race-track
was built just outside the town, where the local cow-horses fought
for quarter-mile honors each Sunday. The stakes were usually
horse-for-horse, with betting as a side issue. In other words, the
winning horse won all the rest of the horses in the race.
Tuck Hayward was one of the big men of Chongo. He owned the Box 88
cow-outfit and the Silver Streak saloon and gambling-house. The
gambling-house had been built after the railroad started construction
and after Tuck had received the contract to furnish meat to the
railroad construction camps.
Frenchy LeClere had tried hard for this contract, but he did not
understand politics as well as Tuck; so Tuck got the contract and
laughed at Frenchy LeClere. All of which did not please Frenchy, whose
herds were dwindling slowly but surely from some unknown cause.
“Fat” McAllister, the sheriff, scouted the idea that some one was
stealing IS cattle, but the old man was insistent; and he thought he
knew more about it than the sheriff did. Frenchy appealed to the
Cattle Association and received considerable correspondence but no
action.
After the big silver strike on Chongo Creek Frenchy LeClere tried to get
the contract to furnish meats to the mines but found that Tuck Hayward
had already taken the contract and was killing his beef at the mines.
Tuck Hayward was a big man physically, inclined to stoutness, although
not yet forty years of age; cold-blooded in all his dealings, inclined
to bluff his way through life, hampered somewhat by a high-pitched voice
which did not blend well with the rest of his make-up.
His crew consisted of “Dunk” McLeod, Hal Cornes, Len Asher, Mike
Dalhart and “Kid” O’Neil. Asher and Cornes spent most of their time
at the Chongo camps, handling the butchering.
O’Neil was fairly new to Silver River Valley; a small, sinister-looking
person with thin, dark face, keen eyes, sharp nose and a mop of coarse
black hair. But the kid was a cow-hand of the first water, quiet and
unassuming, until full of liquor, when he became both loquacious and
dangerous. He had worked a while for Frenchy LeClere, but the old man
had fired him, and he had gone to work for the AH, only to start trouble
in a bunk-house poker-game and get fired again. Tuck Hayward took him on
at the Box 88, where he seemed to be getting along all right, after two
bad starts in the valley.
In Tuck Hayward’s private office at the rear of the Silver Streak sat
Hayward and Joe LeClere. It was a tiny office, barely large enough to
contain an old roll-top desk, a small, fire-proof safe and a couple of
chairs, besides Tuck’s big leather-covered swivel-chair.
The desk top was littered with silver ore samples, a half-empty bottle
of liquor and other odds and ends. Tuck was wearing a gray suit which
fitted him to the bursting point, a blue shirt and a scarlet tie, looped
through a huge ring, set with a five-carat yellow diamond.
There was nothing gaudy about Joe LeClere. He wore a black shirt of
coarse material, an old gray vest, over-alls tucked in the tops of his
boots, and on his knee rested a well-worn black sombrero. His cartridge
belt was studded with silver rivets, tarnished to blackness, and the
butt of an old single-action Colt protruded from his scarred holster.
Joe had been drinking but was not drunk, and his somber eyes studied the
big face of Tuck Hayward closely.
“Who’s bringin’ yore sister to the dance tonight, Joe?” asked Hayward.
“I dunno,” indifferently.
“Dunno, eh?”
“She never told me.” Joe was still indifferent.
“You knew I asked her to come with me?”
“So did Kid O’Neil.”
“The hell he did! How do yuh know that?”
Joe rubbed his nose reflectively.
“I heard him.”
“Yea-a-ah? You heard him, eh? What did she say?”
“’Bout the same thing she told you, I suppose.”
Hayward spat viciously and helped himself to a cigar from a box on the
desk. He did not offer one to Joe.
“You couldn’t expect her to go with you, Tuck,” said Joe softly. “You
and the old man--”
“Oh, to hell with the old man!”
“Well,” said Joe resignedly, and after a short reflection:
“Yuh couldn’t expect her to go with O’Neil. He got drunk the day she
came home from school and tried to kiss her. She slapped hell out of
him and when she got through the old man pitched him out on his
head.”
“I didn’t expect her to go with Kid O’Neil,” coldly.
“Did you expect her to go with you, Tuck?”
“Why in hell do yuh suppose I asked her, you damn fool?”
Joe laughed shortly and his right hand twitched just a trifle. Hayward
rolled the cigar between his lips reflectively.
“Joe, have you any idea how much money you owe me?”
Joe started slightly.
“I--I never figured on it much, Tuck.”
“Uh-huh; I didn’t think yuh had.”
Tuck reached in his desk and brought out a much-thumbed ledger, which
he perused thoughtfully. Then he closed it and put it back in the desk.
Joe’s eyes were uneasy and he began to realize that his credit had been
too good at the Silver Streak.
“You ain’t closin’ down on me, are yuh, Tuck?” he asked uneasily.
“Not yet; but you’ve got to go easy.”
“You can’t very well--” began Joe softly.
“Drop that, Joe!” Tuck’s voice had a dangerous ring.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” said Joe weakly.
“Yo’re damn right yuh didn’t. Don’t never pull anything like that again
on me. I’ll cut you off any old time I feel like it. You’d be a damn
sight better off if I did. You drink too much rot-gut, Joe. Taper off,
will yuh? I guess that’s all. Find out who brought yore sister to the
dance.”
“Oh, all right,” said Joe, getting to his feet. “I’ll let yuh know,
Tuck.”
He walked out into the gambling-room and came down past the long bar
where two bartenders were filling the wants of those present. Cling
Heffner was at the bar and Joe stopped beside him.
“Goin’ to the dance?” asked Joe, accepting Cling’s invitation to have a
drink.
“Might wiggle a hoof or two,” grinned Cling, “if I can git some girl to
dance with me.”
“Didn’t you bring a pardner, Cling?”
“Hell, no!”
“Rest of the boys in from the AH?”
“Johnny and Slim are around somewhere, I reckon. Soapy went out after
yore sister.”
“Soapy did?”
“Yeah--the lucky devil.”
Joe laughed shortly and motioned for the bartender to pass out the
glasses again.
“She’s shore an attractive girl,” said Cling.
“Seems to be the general opinion. Well, here’s how.”
Cling happened to be a fairly good two-fisted drinker; so they had
several rounds of the potent bar-whisky, which, added to what Joe had
already imbibed that evening, caused Joe to grow expansive.
“You folks lost any cattle?” asked Joe.
“Kind of a funny question, ain’t it?” inquired Cling.
“Funny?”
“Oh, I heard that the IS claims a steady loss. Fat Garnette was out and
talked with Hart about it. Fat don’t believe it. He says yore old man’s
full of prunes. Where would a rustler dispose of cattle? Yuh never could
ship stolen cattle out of here. Brand inspection is too close. Even a
butcher has got to produce a branded hide.”
“I know all about that, Cling. Well, here’s luck.”
As they finished their drink Kid O’Neil and Mike Dalhart came in,
evidently coming from the dance hall, because neither of them wore a
hat. They came to the bar and ordered their drinks, O’Neil standing
next to Joe LeClere.
“Aw, I’d forget it if I was you, Kid,” advised Dalhart, as he filled his
glass to the brim.
“Yeah, but I’m not goin’ to forget it,” growled the Kid. “I’m as good
as Soapy Weed, by God! She turned me down for that screw-nosed waddy,
didn’t she? And then she won’t dance with me. ‘Thank yuh kindly,’ says
she. Huh! No damn Canuck female can make a fool out of me, I’ll tell
yuh that, and I don’t care who knows it.”
The Kid swallowed his liquor at one gulp, slammed the glass on the bar
and turned toward Joe LeClere. He had spoken loud enough for Joe to
hear every word and now he scowled at Joe, as much as to invite him to
comment on his words.
Joe’s right hand was hanging at his side, his left elbow on the bar,
and without any shift of his body he brought up his fist in a sweeping
smash, landing it full on Kid O’Neil’s nose. The Kid’s face seemed to
flatten under the impact of the blow; then it jerked sideways, and Kid
O’Neil struck his chin on the bar as he promptly went to his knees on
the rail.
Joe sprang back, his numbed right hand dropping to the butt of his gun,
as Cling sprang between them, throwing one arm around Kid O’Neil’s
shoulders while with the other he removed the Kid’s gun from inside the
waist of his pants.
The Kid struggled to his feet, his face bathed in gore, trying to find
his gun, to stop the blood. The place was in an uproar for several
moments until Tuck Hayward arrived and took charge of the situation.
The bartender gave the Kid a towel. Hayward demanded an explanation of
the trouble and Cling told him what the Kid had said.
Hayward grunted angrily as Dalhart tried to alibi the Kid.
“His nose is busted,” said one of the cowboys. “Better get a doctor,
Tuck; he’s losin’ a lot of red ink.”
Some one went for the doctor and Cling took Joe outside.
“I could love yuh for pokin’ him, Joe,” said Cling, “but I’d honestly
advise yuh to go home. Dalhart is ready to lie for the Kid and the rest
of the Box 88 will back his play. I know you’ve got plenty nerve, Joe;
but yo’re badly outnumbered. I’ll tell Soapy about it and he can do as
he pleases.”
“I won’t run,” said Joe stubbornly.
“Nobody expects yuh to. Oh, do as yuh damn please about it, of course.
I’m not yore guardian. Only, the Kid is a bad hombre and he won’t forget
that punch.”
“I guess I’m kind of a damn fool,” said Joe bitterly. “I’m much obliged
to yuh, Cling, and I’m goin’ home. You tell Soapy I went home, will
yuh?”
“Shore, I’ll explain it all to him. I just want yuh to know I’ve got
a lot more respect for yuh since yuh hit that geezer, Joe. If you’d
cut loose from Tuck Hayward, yuh might do well before yuh die of old
age.”
“Well, I’ll see yuh later, Cling.”
“Shore. Good night.”
Cling went back to the saloon and gave the Kid’s gun to the bartender.
They had taken the Kid to the rear of the room, and as Cling passed the
gun across the bar the doctor came in. Some one directed him to the back
of the room and Cling followed.
Quite a crowd had gathered, but they made way for the doctor, who made
an examination and declared the Kid’s nose was broken badly. Hayward and
the doctor took the Kid to Tuck’s private office and locked the door.
The Kid was mad enough to bite the doctor but gritted his teeth and let
him bandage and tape until the doctor was satisfied that the nose would
eventually assume its former shape, although just now it resembled a
purple summer-squash, if there is such a vegetable.
Tuck paid the doctor his fee and let him out of the office, while the
Kid swore nasally and tried to smoke a cigaret.
“I’ll ged hib for thad,” he declared. “No dabd Canug cad hid me ad ged
away wid id.”
“You talk a lot,” sneered Hayward.
Some one knocked on the door. It was Dalhart, but Tuck did not let him
in.
“Joe pulled out for home,” said Dalhart.
“All right,” replied Tuck. “Let him go.”
“Pulled oud, eh?” grunted the Kid. He felt of his waist-band. “Where’s
my gud?”
Tuck reached inside the desk and drew out a Colt.
“Here’s one, O’Neil.”
“Thags.”
“Much good it’ll do yuh, though.”
“Thad so. You wadch. I’d goid oud and ged hib.”
The Kid got to his feet, shoving the gun inside his waist, while Tuck
opened the door. Nothing more was said. Tuck saw the Kid walk swiftly
down through the crowded room and through the front doorway. Then he
closed and locked the door again.
In the meantime Cling had gone over to the dance-hall where he had found
Soapy and told him what had happened. Soapy’s eyes snapped angrily.
“Let’s go over and finish the job,” he suggested. “No, I’m not exceptin’
_all_ of the Box 88.”
“Don’t cover too much territory,” grinned Cling. “Anyway, you ain’t got
no war with the Box 88. It was natural for Dalhart to back the Kid.”
“I suppose that’s right. C’mon over and ask Yvonne for a dance.”
Yvonne laughed and shook hands with Cling, accepting his invitation to
dance, while Soapy ducked away and headed for the Silver Streak. He was
almost to the front of the place when Kid O’Neil came out. Several men
were there, but Soapy paid no attention to them. He stepped in front of
the Kid, who stopped short.
“It was a lucky thing for you that it wasn’t me who heard what you said,
O’Neil. You got enough to stop yuh, I guess; but I want you to get this
straight. If you ever mention a certain lady again, I’ll pistol whip yuh
into hell in a hurry. You don’t hear with yore nose; so I guess yuh got
that straight. Yo’re a runty pup of a mangy coyote and if yuh wasn’t
already crippled in the face, I’d bend yuh so badly you’d talk behind
yore own back.”
But the Kid did not reply. His nose was one big ache--and he had
something else on his mind. So he turned and walked down toward the
Silver Streak hitch-rack. Soapy watched him for several moments and
then turned and went back to the dance-hall.
Soapy didn’t go back to the saloon again. He talked the matter over with
Cling and decided to follow Cling’s advice. Some of the Box 88 gang were
dancing but none of them paid any attention to Soapy.
An oyster supper was served in an adjoining hall at midnight and at
about three o’clock in the morning Soapy took Yvonne home. The moon
was low over the hills and a chill wind was blowing from the north.
“Still want to ride to the moon, Soapy?” asked Yvonne.
“Just as much as ever,” he laughed. “This shore has been my big night,
Yvonne. I never danced so many times in my whole life.”
“It has been a wonderful night. I hope Dad didn’t stay up to wait for
us. He’s always worried when I’m out.”
“Nothing could happen to yuh, Yvonne.”
“I know. But Dad isn’t so trustful of folks. He said he was glad you
were taking me to the dance.”
“Gosh, I didn’t know he liked me.”
“Maybe he don’t, Soapy, but he said you’d probably stay sober enough to
drive the horse back home.”
“Well, for gosh sake! Anyway, I never took a drink. Did you feel the
same way about it, Yvonne?”
“No, Soapy; I went with you because I wanted to.”
“Well, that kinda takes the sting out of what yore Dad said. Anyway,”
bravely, “I’m glad yuh let me go with yuh, no matter what the reason
was. I’m satisfied, Yvonne.”
“It’s nice of you to say that, Soapy.”
“It wasn’t nice; it was true. Most folks have to lie to say nice things.
And I meant what I said about the moon.”
They drove through the ford at Silver River and over the long mesa which
stretched far beyond the IS ranch. Half a mile from the ranch-house they
drove along a line of old cottonwoods where the moonlight filtered
through the foliage, silvering the hard-packed road.
Soapy helped Yvonne down at the front door and told her good night
before stabling the horse.
“Come over again soon, won’t you?” she asked.
“Try to keep me away, Yvonne.”
He stabled the horse and found his own animal in one of the stalls, the
saddle hanging on a convenient peg. In a few minutes he rode back past
the ranch-house and waved at a lighted window.
Soapy was in no hurry. He wanted to ride slowly and think it over;
wanted to poke along and dream. He knew there would be no work at the
AH that day. Old Ace Hart never expected any one to be on the job the
day after pay-day.
He was about half-way back along the cottonwoods when his roan horse
snorted suddenly, its ears pricked forward, and stopped. Soapy sat up
quickly, his eyes jerking to a focus, as he peered off to the right. It
seemed as though he could see a horse, its head down, standing there in
the shadow.
Quickly he dismounted to investigate. There was a horse with the
bridle-reins tangled about its feet. Soapy lighted a match and looked
at the animal. It was a stubby sorrel, wearing a stock-saddle and
bearing the Box 88 brand.
“That’s kinda darned funny!” exclaimed Soapy aloud. “What’s a Box 88
horse doin’ over here?”
He untangled the reins, and without any warning the horse jerked away
from him and went trotting down the road.
“Well, go to hell, if yuh don’t like my company,” laughed Soapy.
He started back to his horse, stumbled over something and almost fell
headlong in the weeds. It was something that felt soft under the
impact of his toe. Quickly he regained his balance and turned back.
He scratched another match, half-kneeling down to look, and the match
burned to his fingers.
Finally he got back to his feet, his knees shaking. He took off his hat,
put it back on--and took it off again.
“Good God!” he said--and it was a prayer, not profanity. “Kid O’Neil,
and he’s dead as a gimlet-handle. Somebody shot him from behind.”
[Illustration: Dead as a gimlet handle--_and he was shot from behind!_”]
Soapy walked back to his horse. He didn’t know what to do--he had never
seen many dead men. With shaking knees he mounted his horse, intending
to go and find the sheriff, but as he turned his head he saw the tiny
glimmer of a light at the IS ranch.
“He follered Joe LeClere,” said Soapy half-aloud. “Him and Joe fought it
out, and--” Then Soapy realized that the Kid had been shot from behind.
“My God, that’s plain murder! Joe LeClere--”
Soapy swallowed heavily as his hands groped for his cigaret papers. He
wanted inspiration and he wanted it badly. He knew that Kid O’Neil had
followed Joe, probably with the intention of getting even with Joe for
that smash in the nose. All of which was entirely ethical. An eye for
an eye. If Kid O’Neil had followed Joe out there and they had shot out
their grudge, leaving Joe as sole survivor, it would have been
perfectly all right. No jury would hesitate on such a verdict--that
is, no cow-town jury. But Kid O’Neil had been shot from behind!
Soapy slid off his horse and went back to the body. The big Colt gun
was still wedged between the Kid’s body and the waist of his pants.
Soapy drew it out. Not a shot had been fired. Soapy felt his dislike
for the Kid oozing away.
“Never had a chance,” he muttered. “Shot down like a dog. This is
shore a tough lay-out, and I wish Cling was here to tell me what to
do. They’ll hang Joe just as sure as God made little apples--if they
find the body here on the IS.”
Soapy looked back toward the ranch-house, but there were no lights in
it now. Suddenly he was filled with inspiration. He dropped the gun,
went over to his horse and led the animal to the body. Luckily he was
riding a gentle horse. Soapy didn’t usually ride gentle horses.
Kid O’Neil had been a small man, but to Soapy he now seemed as big as
the Cardiff Giant, and it was only through a supreme effort which left
Soapy weak-kneed and gasping for breath that he was able to place the
body across the saddle. He took his lariat and roped the body securely.
Soapy wasn’t going to take any chances on having to put the body on the
horse again.
The moon had faded out now and in the eastern sky was a decided hint
of the coming dawn. Soapy examined the lashings carefully and then
swung up behind the saddle. He had made up his mind to dump the body
along the road somewhere across Silver River and let the sheriff do
a lot of guessing as to who had killed the Kid.
But he reckoned without the roan, which had never been ridden double
before. As Soapy’s spurs rattled in against its flanks the startled
roan threw down its head, jerking the reins from Soapy’s hand, and
began pitching in a most approved fashion, but hampered somewhat by
the double burden.
Soapy’s first thought was of the corpse, which had not been lashed on
with the intention of withstanding a bucking contest, and at about
the fifth jump he slid off, hoping to run the animal into the trees
and get the reins again. But when Soapy hit the earth he stumbled and
went end over end while the roan headed straight down the road toward
Chongotown.
Soapy got to his feet and began running awkwardly down the road,
following the horse and its grisly burden. Soapy was not a fast runner
and the high heels of his shoes bothered him to a great extent. For a
while he ran on his toes and then he grabbed his hat in one hand and
began to gallop. But the roan also galloped, and its gallop was faster
than Soapy’s.
And in this manner they reached the crossing of Silver River--the horse
reaching there about a hundred yards ahead of Soapy and splashing
straight through the ford, while Soapy flopped down on a rock, cursing
the roan back to the first generation of all roan horses.
There was a decided rise on the road a quarter of a mile beyond the
river, and it was light enough for Soapy to see the roan top this rise,
still hurrying toward Chongo town.
“Soapy Weed, you shore raised hell,” wailed Soapy. “They say that dead
men tell no tales, but this one is tied on my horse with my rope. I
reckon I better walk home, pick up my thirty-thirty and head for the
hills.”
He limped up from the river and stopped at the top of the bank. The
moon had paled, but there was still a faint indication of it left in
the dawn.
“Moon,” said Soapy whimsically, “yo’re a long ways away from here, but
if there was a road up to yuh, I’d shore as hell start walkin’.”
But, in the absence of such a road, he turned and limped on toward the
AH ranch.
* * * * *
“Fat” Garnette had been so nicknamed because he most certainly was not.
He was over six feet tall, built like a bed-slat and swore he could hide
behind a six-by-six scantling. He had a long nose, weary-looking eyes
and a sense of humor. But his sense of humor did not include “Weary”
McMillan, his deputy.
Weary was fat, bow-legged and used hair-oil. Fat detested hair-oil while
Weary reveled in it. Weary didn’t have enough hair to bother plastering
it down, but plaster it he did. “Chuck” Haverty, the jailer, said that
if Weary paid as much attention to the inside of his head as he did to
the outside, he’d soon work himself up to a point where he’d be at least
half-witted.
Chuck Haverty was about sixty, with no hair at all, and did all his
chewing on two teeth which didn’t meet.
Weary had been to the dance and, inadvertently, to hear him tell it, had
imbibed too much liquor. He didn’t need to tell Fat about it because he
came in the rear of the office and proceeded to fall over Fat’s cot. The
fall shook the office so hard that a picture of “Washington Crossing the
Delaware” crashed down and the glass was shattered.
“Who the hell told you to charge?” asked Fat, sitting up in the dark.
Weary did not reply.
“Why in hell don’tcha light the lamp?” Fat demanded.
“Can’t,” gurgled Weary. “I’m layin’ on my hands. Whaz-zamatter, Fatty?”
Fat got up, lighted the lamp and extricated Weary, who was really
doubled up in such a way that he couldn’t use either hand. Weary sank
down in a chair, made a few ineffectual attempts to remove a boot, gave
up the idea with a gesture of despair and blinked owlishly at Fat, who
had crawled into bed again.
“Wha’ do yuh know ’bout Kid O’Neil gettin’ his nose busted?” asked
Weary. “How’s that for good work?”
“Suits me,” growled Fat, who knew all about it.
“O-o-oh, me too. Fine! Didja hear ’bout Soapy Weed?”
“What did he do?”
“Declared war on O’Neil. Met him in front of the Silver Streak and
told him if he ever spoke about Yvonne LeClere ag’in he’d fry his ears
in axle-grease and feed ’em to the buzzards. Oh, Soapy shore waxed
indign’t, as they say. Growed b’ligerent, in other words.”
“What did the Kid say?”
“He didn’t say. I reckon he had e-nough. Anyway, Tuck Hayward said that
he went home to rest his nose. He’ll shore salivate Joe LeClere, I’ll
betcha.”
“Oh, go to bed and stop yawpin’, Weary.”
“Oh, all right.”
Weary sighed deeply, stretched out and began snoring. Fat got up, threw
a blanket over him and went back to bed. It was daylight in Chongo town.
Fat tried to turn over and go to sleep again, but he could hear a chorus
of voices, argument, plenty of loud talk and profanity. The voices were
coming nearer, and then a heavy fist beat upon the door.
Fat rolled off his cot and went to the door, where he found Slim Benito,
the cook at the AH, Mike Dalhart, of the Box 88, Barney Johnson, keeper
of the Chongo livery-stable, Hansen, the blacksmith, and several others.
“Slide into yore pants, Fat,” ordered Johnson. “Kid O’Neil has been
murdered.”
“Kid O’Neil? How do yuh know? Where did he--”
“Yuh can’t come without no pants!” snorted Benito, shoving the sheriff
back. “Put on p-a-n-t-s, sheriff.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah. Jist a minute.”
In a few moments Fat was with them. They led him down beside the
livery-stable corral, where Soapy Weed’s roan was tied to the fence,
still bearing the body of Kid O’Neil.
“I found the horse there a few minutes ago,” said Johnson. “Nothin’ has
been touched, except that I tied him to the fence.”
Fat walked around the animal, examining the body. The roan was still
muddy from river water and dust.
“Soapy Weed’s roan, ain’t it?” asked Fat.
“The one he most always rode,” said Benito. “I dunno what one he rode
last night.”
“He drove old Frenchy LeClere’s single rig to town last night,” offered
Dalhart. “Probably left his roan at the IS.”
“Might as well take the body down to the coroner’s office just
thisaway,” decided Fat, beginning to untie the rope.
“Yuh can see he’s been murdered, can’t yuh?” asked Johnson. “Bullet went
in the back of his head and came out jist about the temple.”
“I reckon we can all see that far,” said Fat grimly.
They led the horse down to the coroner’s office and waited until one of
the men went to the doctor’s home and routed him out.
Old Doctor Plumley had been many years in the Silver River Valley and he
gave his decisions in short, snappy sentences.
“Killed instantly. Shot from behind. No question of its being murder.
Hold inquest tomorrow morning. Bring him in the office. Sheriff, keep
that horse, saddle and rope.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fat meekly, and led the animal back to his own stable
where there happened to be an empty stall.
Slim Benito went with the sheriff. He thought a lot of Soapy Weed and
he wanted to find out what the sheriff thought about the matter. But
the sheriff didn’t say.
Frenchy LeClere came to town and was greeted with the news. Nobody had
told him about the fight between Joe and Kid O’Neil until after he had
been told several times of the murder. He went down to see the sheriff
and to get a straight version of the whole trouble.
LeClere had been awake when Soapy had brought Yvonne home, and he swore
to the sheriff that he had heard no shots fired before or after Soapy
had left. But the sheriff had nothing to say. Fat worked on the theory
that it was better to keep your mouth shut and let people think you
might be dumb than to talk too much and let them be sure of it.
After LeClere left him the sheriff saddled his horse and headed for
the AH ranch, wondering what alibi Soapy would have. He was possibly
half a mile beyond the river ford when he met Soapy, who was coming
toward town, riding a blaze-faced sorrel.
The sheriff drew up and waited for Soapy, who tried to affect a
nonchalant air but failed miserably.
“I was just comin’ in to see yuh, Fat,” he said quickly.
“Yeah?” drawled the sheriff, sitting sideways in his saddle, his eyes
frankly curious now.
“Oh, shore,” said Soapy earnestly. “Early this mornin’ I was comin’
back from the IS ranch, headin’ back to town, and I found Kid O’Neil
down there by the river--dead.”
Soapy indicated “down there” by a sweep of his hand, which might have
included the river from its source to its mouth.
“You found him, eh?” queried the sheriff.
“Y’betcha!” Soapy had more confidence now. “Well, like I just said, I
found him down there on the rocks, dead as a gimlet-handle. I--I didn’t
want to leave him there, yuh see; so I roped him onto my bronc and piled
on behind him, but my roan wasn’t broke to ride double and I lit all
folded up, as yuh might say, while the damn horse went across the river
and headed for town.
“I shore didn’t want to get wet all over; so I walked back to the ranch,
got me a horse and was just comin’ in to tell yuh about it.”
Soapy was all out of breath when he finished. Fat looked him over
calmly.
“You know just where yuh found him, Soapy?”
“Oh, shore. It was--gosh, lemme see. It wasn’t daylight yet, but I--oh,
shore, I can find the place.”
“C’mon and show it to me.”
“Uh-huh.” Soapy wet his lips. Now he realized that he had let himself in
for something but he was game.
They rode back, and the sheriff’s quizzical eyes watched Soapy trying
to pick out the exact spot along a gravel bar. Finally Soapy decided
that this was the place. The old boulders were bleached white and the
gravel was clean.
“Right here’s where he was layin’, Fat.”
“Ain’t no blood around there,” said Fat.
“By golly, that’s right! Not a drop. Well, I--I’ll tell yuh somethin’,
Fat; he wasn’t bleedin’ when I found him.”
“Wasn’t, eh? Do yuh see any fox-tail around there?”
“Well, there ain’t any,” said Soapy wonderingly.
“Nope; there ain’t. That’s what makes it look funny. Yuh see, Kid
O’Neil’s clothes were stickin’ full of fox-tail tops. Looked like he
had been rolled in it.”
“Is that a fact?” Soapy had difficulty in clearing his throat. “Well,
well! Where’d he pick that up, do yuh suppose? I didn’t see none of it
on him at the time. Mebby the horse rolled with him.”
“Not likely, Soapy. You knew he’d been murdered, didn’t yuh?”
“I didn’t look very close, Fat.”
“Uh-huh. When yuh found the body, why didn’t yuh leave it where it was
and notify me?”
“Well, I--yuh see, I wasn’t exactly sure he was dead. I said to myself
that he ort to see a doctor; so I piled him on my bronc, and--”
“A while ago yuh knew he was dead, Soapy.”
“No, yuh see--but I was pretty well satisfied that he might be dead.”
Fat laughed softly and shook his head.
“Go ahead and tell the truth, Soapy.”
“I’m tellin’ you the truth.”
“Oh, all right. C’mon to town with me, Soapy; you’re under arrest. I’ll
take yore gun, if yuh don’t mind. Butt first.”
Soapy passed his gun to Fat and with a sinking heart he rode beside the
tall sheriff.
“You goin’ to slam me right into a cell?” asked Soapy as they rode in to
Chongo town.
“I’ve got to do it, Soapy; Kid O’Neil was murdered.”
“Mebby he got what was comin’ to him.”
“Mebby; but the law don’t allow for that.”
They rode down to the jail and Soapy was locked in a cell, after which
the sheriff stabled Soapy’s horse and went to visit the prosecuting
attorney. Frenchy LeClere was still in town, but he rode home as soon
as he heard of Soapy’s arrest. Before he left the coroner asked him to
bring Yvonne and Joe to the inquest, as they would be asked to testify.
After the sheriff and prosecutor had conferred over the matter the
sheriff proceeded to find every one who had seen the fight between
Joe and the Kid and all who had heard what Soapy had told the Kid,
and notified them to attend the inquest.
“Are you tryin’ to hang the murder on Soapy Weed?” asked Tuck Hayward
ponderously.
“I’m tryin’ to hang it on the guilty man,” retorted the sheriff. “And
not only that--I expect everybody to tell the truth at that inquest.”
“I’m not to testify, am I?”
“You’ll tell what you know about it, Tuck.”
“What I know won’t do yuh much good.”
“It ain’t of any interest what yuh know--it’s how much of it yuh tell.”
“I wonder just what yuh mean by that remark, Fat?”
“Oh, I’m just tryin’ to be smart, I suppose. I never had a murder case
before; so I’ve got to act smart.”
But after he had gone away Tuck Hayward scratched his head and wondered
just why the sheriff had said that.
“Oh, I’ll tell the truth,” he muttered. “Why not; it’s nothin’ to me.”
* * * * *
“We was just standin’ there at the bar havin’ a drink, and all to once
Joe LeClere smashes O’Neil in the nose. There wasn’t no reason for--”
“Yo’re a damn liar and you know it, Dalhart.”
Cling Heffner stood up and shook an accusing finger at Mike Dalhart,
who had been sworn as a witness. Dalhart got up from his chair, eyes
snapping.
“You can’t call me no liar, Heffner!”
“I done called yuh one, Dalhart.”
“Wait a minute,” begged the sheriff. “You can’t fight in here. Set down,
Cling. Dalhart is under oath.”
“Lot of good that does him. That geezer would lie with a Bible in both
hands and one in his mouth.”
The coroner rapped sharply on his desk with a carpenter’s hammer.
“Cease this wrangling. Let the witness proceed.”
“Just a moment, if you please,” said the prosecuting attorney, getting
to his feet. “Perhaps the witness does not know that there is such a
thing as perjury. You have sworn to tell the truth, Dalhart. If you
give false testimony and it can be proved, there is a severe penalty.”
“I ain’t lyin’,” wailed Dalhart. “You make Heffner keep his mouth shut,
will yuh? Or I’ll do it.”
“You couldn’t shut nothin’,” said Cling disgustedly. “If you want
trouble, just leave that chair and come on outside. Yore lyin’ testimony
won’t help the case any; so yuh might as well quit.”
“Sheriff, will you stop this bickering?” asked the coroner angrily.
“Are you goin’ to quit it, Cling?” asked Fat.
“When that ossified mud-cat quits lyin’--yes.”
“Are you goin’ to quit lyin’, Dalhart?”
“By God, I ain’t been lyin’!”
“Go ahead and testify--and you better not lie.”
The crowded court-room chuckled. It was a small room, crowded to
suffocation and with only a few chairs. Soapy sat with the sheriff
beside a table, at the end of which presided the coroner. The witness
stand was an old rocking-chair which had lost its rockers.
Frenchy LeClere, Joe and Yvonne were there. Some one had kindly provided
LeClere and Yvonne with chairs. They were very serious over the inquest
and kept their eyes on Soapy, who eyed Dalhart malevolently. The
testimony up to this point had not implicated Soapy in any way, as it
merely covered the trouble between Joe and Kid O’Neil.
“Then you claim that Joe LeClere had no cause to strike Kid O’Neil?”
asked the coroner.
“I never heard anythin’ said that would give a reason.”
“Tryin’ to alibi with his ears,” said Cling softly enough for every one
to hear.
Dalhart was dismissed and Tuck Hayward called to the stand.
Tuck didn’t see the fight nor did he seem to know what had started it.
He testified to the effect that he and the doctor took O’Neil to the
Silver Streak office, where the doctor repaired O’Neil’s nose.
“Did O’Neil tell you where he was goin’, when he left your office?”
asked the coroner.
“Yes,” said Hayward. “He said he was goin’ home.”
The room was silent for several moments, and then the coroner said:
“Did Kid O’Neil have a gun?”
“I don’t know,” lied Hayward. “I suppose he did.”
Cling was called to the stand and was able to remember just what O’Neil
had said about Yvonne.
“Did he mention her name, Heffner?”
“No, he didn’t. But he said, ‘That damn Canuck girl.’”
“You took O’Neil’s gun away, didn’t you?”
“Sure--and gave it to the bartender.”
“I’ve got the gun,” said the sheriff. “The bartender gave it to me
today.”
Cling was dismissed after testifying as to what time Soapy arrived at
the AH ranch after the dance, and Yvonne was called to the stand.
She knew nothing about the trouble between Joe and O’Neil nor that Soapy
had spoken harshly to O’Neil that night. She said that Soapy took her
home and she saw him ride away from the ranch-house.
“Did Kid O’Neil ask to take you to the dance?” queried the coroner.
Yvonne flushed quickly as she nodded her head.
“Yes, he asked me several days ago.”
“And you refused, of course?”
“Certainly.”
“Did any one else invite you to the dance?”
“Mr. Hayward.”
Tuck grinned sourly.
“Was Kid O’Neil angry because you refused him?” asked the coroner.
“I suppose he was.”
Yvonne was much relieved to have the coroner excuse her.
“Soapy Weed, do you wish to testify?” asked the coroner.
“Shore.”
“You are not obliged to testify, of course.”
“Tha’sall right,” grinned Soapy. “If I tell the same story often enough
I’ll get her down pat enough to believe it myself.”
Everybody laughed, except the LeClere family and Soapy. His story was
substantially the same that he had told the sheriff. He mentioned the
fact of the Kid’s clothes being full of fox-tail grass and that the
rocks did not have any blood on them.
“Did you see any gun on the person of O’Neil?”
“Nope. He was there in the tall grass and--”
Soapy stopped short, staring straight ahead.
“What _tall grass_?” asked the sheriff quickly.
“Tall grass?” echoed the coroner.
“I reckon that’s all my testimony,” said Soapy evenly.
He got out of the chair and sat down at the table. He had made a
dangerous slip, and as his eyes swept the faces in the room he realized
it fully.
The jury was out only about five minutes, and Soapy was led away to
stand trial for the murder of Kid O’Neil.
“Now, maybe you’ll tell the truth,” said the sheriff, as he snapped the
cell door shut.
“Damn it, I almost did!” snorted Soapy. “Didja ever hear the story of
the Good Samaritan, Fat?”
“No; what did he do?”
“Minded somebody else’s business and got away with it--the lucky stiff.”
“What’s that got to do with you, Soapy?”
“Nothin’, except that it goes to prove that lightnin’ ain’t the only
thing that don’t strike twice in the same place.”
“Oh, I think yo’re a damn fool, Soapy Weed.”
“_Think_ so? Hell, I know I am.”
* * * * *
The county buried Kid O’Neil in the little Chongo cemetery about a mile
from town, and there were no mourners. He had not been liked by anybody.
The sheriff, coroner, minister and several boys from the Box 88 were the
only ones at the cemetery.
The machinery of the law moves slowly in Silver River Valley, and
Soapy Weed would be obliged to languish in the jail for six weeks
before coming to trial. The boys from the AH visited him every few
days. Yvonne wanted to visit Soapy, but her father objected; so she
sent messages by Cling, which cheered Soapy, although he was sure
that those verbal messages were colored rather highly by Cling.
The sheriff was dubious about the guilt of Soapy Weed. He had a feeling
that Soapy knew something about the murder but was unwilling to tell.
The sheriff was not a detective.
This was the second murder since he had been elected; the first one
having passed into the limbo of forgotten things, it seemed. A cowboy
by the name of Charley McFee, working for the Box 88, had been found
dead about half-way between the Box 88 and Chongo. He had been shot
through the heart.
McFee had only been with the Box 88 two days. Evidence proved that McFee
had started for town alone. Dalhart, Cornes and McLeod had left the
ranch earlier in the evening, leaving McFee, Hayward and Joe LeClere at
the ranch. It seemed that Hayward and Joe had decided against going to
town and McFee had started alone.
Joe was not working for the Box 88, but had gone out there to sober up,
after a particularly violent spell of drinking, because he didn’t want
his father to find him. Hayward had just acquired the Silver Streak
saloon, where Joe got all his liquor, and perhaps he had felt a certain
responsibility.
At any rate, there was nothing to connect any one with the killing; so
it was forgotten, except to be recalled as a mystery when men talked of
killings.
* * * * *
About a week after the killing of Kid O’Neil two cowboys rode out of
the north, where there was neither road nor trail. Below them stretched
the valley of Silver River, a long, green strip of foliage marking the
course of the river, the lower valley fading away to a cobalt haze in
the far distance.
The going was rough and they traveled slowly, threading their way among
the greasewood and stunted firs. Finally they came out on a bare knoll
where they drew rein and proceeded to roll smokes.
One man was extremely tall, with rather a long face, lean cheek-bones,
slightly hooked nose and a wide mouth.
The other cowboy was much shorter, but wide of shoulder; his face was
blocky of contour and deeply graved with wrinkles, and he had wide blue
eyes which seemed to look upon the world with amusement.
A damp lock of hair hung down his forehead, and he shoved it aside
with his wrist as he leaned across to light his cigaret from the tall
cowboy’s match. The tall cowboy removed his sombrero, disclosing the
fact that he had slightly sandy hair and a pair of steady gray eyes.
Both men were dressed in range clothes. Their shirts showed signs of
many washings, the mufflers around their throats were mere strings
and their bat-wing chaps had seen much service. They wore battered
Stetsons, well-worn cartridge belts, sagging from the weight of heavy
Colt guns, and tied behind the cantle of their saddles were their
war-bags--the wardrobe trunks of the range country.
These two were “Hashknife” Hartley and “Sleepy” Stevens, wanderers of
the range; always looking for the other side of the next hill, finding
adventure without looking for it.
The tall one was Hashknife, christened “Henry” in his early infancy,
when his father rode the Milk River ranges, bringing the Gospel to
bunk-house and chuck-wagon; a range preacher who made it a life
mission to fit men to live rather than to die.
Sleepy hailed from Idaho. These two had met at the old Hashknife ranch,
and the wanderlust had driven them out together to go up and down the
land, sharing one another’s joys and woes. Always they had gone seeking
peace and had found war. Fate seemed to have thrown them into troublous
places and times, where they had ridden neck and neck with death,
winning by the proverbial eyelash, at times--but winning.
Together they had stepped out of smoke-fogged rooms, their ears dulled
from the crash of guns, and looked at one another in amazement. Death
had struck at them from beside the roads they had traveled, but always
their proverbial luck had saved them until they had become confirmed
fatalists.
And now they were heading down into Silver River Valley, which was the
other side of the hill they had just crossed. It was a strange country.
They had heard of it, heard of Chongo town; and now they were going to
include it among the places they had seen.
Hashknife rode a tall gray horse which he called Ghost, and Sleepy rode
a blue roan which he had lately acquired and which he had named Rattler,
possibly because of its habit of striking back at his leg.
“Big country down thataway,” observed Sleepy after they had smoked
silently for a while.
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“Big country, Sleepy. Ain’t she blue down there where she fades out?
Makes a feller kinda wonder what’s down there. It kinda reminds me of
Twisted River. See that smoke away off there to the left? I reckon
that’s the silver mines on Chongo Creek.”
“Smoke from the concentrators, I reckon. Pretty big camp, if they employ
around five hundred men.”
“Four big plants, Sleepy. Well, I reckon we might as well head for town.
Ought to be some roads down here if we keep goin’ long enough.”
Sleepy nodded, ground the lighted end of his cigaret against the knee of
his chaps and picked up his reins. Hashknife led the way down the side
of a small ravine, avoiding the heavy brush. At the bottom of the ravine
they struck a cowtrail, deeply rutted and ankle-deep in dust.
The trail wound around through the brush as it dropped lower and lower.
Suddenly Hashknife drew up his horse. They had come to the end of the
trail, it seemed, as it stopped against a barrier of solid brush.
“Brush corral,” said Hashknife, swinging his horse around to the left.
Ahead of them a cow bawled softly. The brush was not so heavy here and
the tall gray moved easily around the brush corral. Sleepy got a whiff
of wood smoke and was about to speak to Hashknife when the gray stepped
out through the brush into a small opening.
Sleepy was close behind, the blue roan crowding against the rump of
the gray, which had stopped short. Fifty feet ahead of Hashknife stood
a man. He had been bending over a little brush fire when the gray came
through the brush, but now he sprang across the fire, whirled and drew
a revolver, shooting almost from his hip.
It was so unexpected that Hashknife ducked as the bullet sang over
his head. Now the man straightened his arm and his second bullet
thudded into the swellfork of Hashknife’s saddle. Two inches higher
and Hashknife would have been a first-class casualty.
[Illustration: Two inches higher and Hashknife would have been a
first-class casualty]
Hashknife jerked sideways and drew his gun as the man whirled and darted
for the protecting fringe of brush, and at the crack of Hashknife’s
six-shooter the man went sprawling, his gun flying from his hand.
Sleepy spurred into the opening, gun in hand, and rode down on the man,
keeping him covered.
It was Joe LeClere. He sat up, squinting painfully at Sleepy, who was a
total stranger to him. Hashknife dismounted and picked up Joe’s gun.
“Kinda sudden, ain’t yuh, pardner?” he asked Joe.
“Aw, what the hell!” growled Joe sullenly.
“Hard as a picnic egg,” grinned Sleepy. “I’ll betcha he’s a killer in
his own home town.”
“Got yuh in the leg, eh?” said Hashknife, looking at Joe’s left leg,
where the crimson stain showed through his overalls just above his
boot-top. “Bone busted?”
“I don’t think so,” growled Joe. “Damn bullet knocked my leg loose and
tripped me.”
“Good thing it did; I might have shot again.”
Joe rubbed a wrist across his forehead reflectively. He was in a bad
position. Hashknife walked over to the brush corral, where eight head
of steers were slowly moving around. He read the brands on all of them
and noted that they were all wearing the mark of the Box 88. He came
back to the fire, where a short piece of half-inch iron rod lay beside
an old pair of pliers.
“Some artists use canvas and some use cow-hide,” said Hashknife. “This’n
was a cow-hider. I’ll betcha he was goin’ to do some pyrography on them
poor cows. How about it, feller?”
“Aw, go to hell!” grunted Joe.
“Run yore own errands,” said Hashknife bluntly. “Where’s yore bronco?”
Joe pointed to the west end of the corral, where his sorrel drowsed in
the shade. Joe’s rifle was there too, and Hashknife brought it back with
the horse.
“All set to do battle,” he grinned. “Can yuh get up?”
Joe got to his feet, but was unable to walk well. The bullet had passed
through the calf of his left leg and made a painful wound. He managed,
however, to mount the horse. Hashknife tied up the reins and put a rope
on the horse.
“I can handle my own horse,” growled Joe.
“Shore yuh can,” smiled Hashknife. “That’s why I ain’t goin’ to let yuh.
I’ve got quite a hobby of collectin’ rustlers and I take no chances.”
“I wasn’t rustlin’.”
“I see yuh wasn’t; but mebby the owners of them cows might like to know
what yuh really was doin’. Yo’re pretty young for this kinda work. And
workin’ alone too. Which is the shortest way to Chongo?”
Joe refused to offer any information. Hashknife mounted and led Joe’s
horse while Sleepy brought up the rear. They followed cattle trails
down across the hills for a couple of miles until they came in sight
of the IS ranch.
“This here jigger is losin’ plenty blood,” observed Sleepy. “We better
stop at that ranch and fix him up.”
“Yore motion carried unanimous,” nodded Hashknife, and swung in toward
the old ranch-buildings.
The loss of blood had weakened Joe to a point where he did not care to
protest, and he was clinging with both hands to the saddle-horn when
they pulled in past the corrals and rode up to the house.
Hashknife dismounted and stepped up on the porch just as Yvonne opened
the front door. He stopped short and looked at her in silence for
several moments. Then--
“Ma’am, we’re strangers here,” he said slowly. “We just had a run-in
with a potential cow-thief and had to drill him a little; so we stopped
to see if we can’t fix him up a little before we take him on to town.”
Yvonne stared at him, frowning slightly. “A cow-thief?” she said.
“Yes’m. Oh, he ain’t serious, but losin’ a little blood.”
Yvonne stepped out on the porch and looked at Joe and Sleepy. Joe’s
face was very white and he was not looking at her. She glanced quickly
at Hashknife and in a flash he understood. Except for the mouth, they
looked alike, Joe and Yvonne.
She went slowly down the steps and up to Joe.
“Joe, what is it?” she asked. “Tell me, Joe. My God, Joe, what have you
done?”
Hashknife and Sleepy exchanged quick glances. Yvonne turned to
Hashknife, tears in her eyes.
“What happened?” she asked. “Oh, don’t be afraid to tell me.”
Hashknife shut his lips tightly and walked past her to Joe.
“Let me help yuh off, pardner,” he said. “We’ve got to fix up that leg.”
He helped Joe off the saddle and half-carried him to the porch, where
he let Joe sit down. Carefully he removed Joe’s boot while Yvonne stood
over him, her hands clenched at her sides.
“Tell me about it,” she begged. “What did you say about him stealing
cows? Whose cows? Oh, can’t you talk? He’s my brother--don’t you
understand?”
“Will yuh get me some hot water and clean cloths?”
“Yes, I--I--” Yvonne stepped to the porch level, but stopped, looking
down the road. About two hundred yards away were a team and wagon,
coming toward the house.
“There’s Dad,” she said chokingly. “Oh, what will he say? Joe, can’t you
prove--”
“Put on some water,” said Hashknife, softly, “and let me do all the
tellin’.”
Joe groaned and leaned back on his elbows. Between his physical and
mental sufferings he was about to collapse. Old Frenchy LeClere drove
his team to the front of the house, sprang down and came quickly to
the porch, looking intently at Joe. He looked sharply at Hashknife as
he said:
“Somet’ing she’s gone wrong?”
Yvonne had come back to the doorway now.
“Accident,” said Hashknife slowly. “He was gettin’ a drink at a spring
back in the hills. He said he leaned his rifle against a rock and the
horse knocked it down. Lucky for him that the bullet only went through
his leg.”
Joe was staring at Hashknife, his jaw sagging, while Sleepy’s mouth
twisted to a grin and he began rolling a cigaret.
“By gosh, Joe, you mus’ be more careful!” exclaimed the old man.
He turned to Hashknife and held out his hand.
“I am LeClere,” he said. “Mos’ everybody she’s call me Frenchy. Joe,
she’s my son.”
“My name’s Hartley,” smiled Hashknife. “Pardner’s name is Stevens.”
“I’m glad you fin’ my boy,” LeClere told Hashknife thankfully. “You sure
no bone busted, eh?”
“No bones busted,” assured Hashknife.
“By gosh, she’s look w’ite, eh? You need bandage pretty bad, eh? I’m
hitch up de buggy and tak’ you to doctor.”
“Yore daughter is gettin’ us some hot water and bandages,” said
Hashknife. “We’ll fix him up and then take him to a doctor. It isn’t
bleedin’ much now.”
The old man hurried into the house.
“Thank yuh,” said Joe weakly. “That was square of yuh.”
“Try playin’ square yourself,” replied Hashknife. “You can’t beat that
game. I’d like to take you down and turn yuh over to the sheriff, but--”
Hashknife shook his head as Yvonne and the old man came out, bringing
the water and bandages.
Joe sagged back and shut his eyes while Hashknife cleaned the wound and
bound it up. The old man hitched up the single rig and drove up to the
porch as Hashknife finished.
“I’ll take him down,” offered Yvonne. “I’ve got to go to town, anyway,
Dad.”
The old man finally agreed and they helped Joe into the buggy.
“You come out see us sometime?” asked the old man.
“Shore,” grinned Hashknife.
“Good. Come soon. Yvonne, she’s a good cook.”
“Thank yuh, Mr. LeClere.”
Hashknife shook hands with him and he and Sleepy rode away beside the
buggy, the old man waving at them from the porch. After they were out of
sight he stabled Joe’s horse and came back to the porch, where Hashknife
had left Joe’s rifle, a thirty-thirty carbine.
He sat down on the porch, holding the gun in his hands. He had always
been rather particular about the condition of his guns, while Joe never
seemed to care what shape they were in. He levered out the cartridges,
counting them over. The gun was fully loaded. It seemed rather strange
that Joe should have put in a fresh cartridge after being shot. It
wouldn’t be the natural thing to do.
Then he threw open the action, stuffed the end of a white handkerchief
inside the breech and peered down the barrel. The bore was as bright as
polished silver. Slowly he put the handkerchief in his pocket and closed
the gun. For a long time he sat there with the rifle across his lap, the
cartridges in his closed right hand, which dangled over his knee, and
his eyes almost closed under his shaggy eyebrows.
“Somebody she’s lied,” he said half-aloud. “Yvonne she’s act funny; Joe
she’s not say much. I’m wonder how Joe get shot, eh?”
Finally he went into the house and put the gun away.
Hashknife and Sleepy did not go to the doctor’s office with Yvonne and
Joe, but headed for the livery-stable, where they put up their horses.
“Looks like a live town,” observed Sleepy, as they left the stable.
“Ought to be, with the biggest building in town devoted to gamblin’,”
said Hashknife.
As they stopped in front of the Silver Streak McLeod and Dalhart came
out. They merely glanced at the two strangers and went on up the street.
Hashknife looked after them for several moments, but finally he followed
Sleepy into the place.
An alert bartender was ready to supply their wants, and Hashknife asked
him whether he noticed the two men who had just gone out.
“That was Dunk McLeod and Mike Dalhart, both from the Box 88. McLeod is
the foreman for Hayward.”
“Who is this Hayward?” asked Hashknife.
“Owner of the Box 88. Also owns this Silver Streak place.”
“Oh, I see,” thoughtfully. More men came to be served; so the
conversation was not renewed. Sleepy hooked his elbows over the bar
and calmly surveyed the place.
“Dalhart and McLeod,” said Hashknife thoughtfully. “Does either name
sound familiar, Sleepy?”
“Not to me. I knowed a Dalhart down in Texas and I knowed a McLeod in
Idaho.”
“Well, I didn’t know either of ’em, but there was somethin’ about one
of them jiggers that was familiar. Probably mistaken, though. Quite a
place, eh?”
“Plenty de-vices for separation,” smiled Sleepy. “Roulette, chuck-luck,
stud, draw, craps, black-jack and slot-machines.”
Tuck Hayward and Fat Garnette came to the bar together. They were
discussing Soapy Weed and neither of them paid any attention to
Hashknife and Sleepy.
“You think Soapy is merely coverin’ up somebody?” asked Tuck.
“I shore do,” nodded the sheriff, and gave his order to the bartender.
“Who, for instance, Fat?”
“_Quien sabe?_”
“Joe LeClere?”
“I never said any names. Well, here’s down yore neck.”
“’S a go. Well, I dunno. Of course, Joe busted the Kid’s nose that night
and the Kid was crazy mad about it.”
“The Kid got what was comin’ to him, Tuck.”
“Sure, he did. And I’d hate to see Soapy hung for somethin’ he didn’t
do.”
“As far as that’s concerned, I don’t believe they can convict Soapy.
The prosecutin’ attorney don’t think so either, but he’ll shore try
hard. That coroner’s jury held him because his story went hay-wire.
Soapy’s hardheaded. I’ve tried to get him to slip me the truth, but
he won’t do it.”
“Is the old Frenchman still yellin’ about stolen cows?”
“Not lately,” smiled the sheriff.
Hayward laughed and left the bar. The sheriff glanced sharply at
Hashknife and Sleepy, realizing that they were strangers in Chongo.
“Howdy,” he said, nodding shortly.
“Pretty good,” said Hashknife. “Have a drink, sheriff?”
“Smoke a see-gar, stranger.”
He bit the end off a dried-out weed, tucked the end of it back beyond
his wisdom teeth and waited for them to finish.
“Just get in?” he inquired.
“Fifteen minutes ago. Rode over from Keeling.”
“Hell of a hard ride, wasn’t it?”
“Somethin’ of about that denomination. Wasn’t that Hayward with you a
few minutes ago?”
“Yeah, that was him.”
“Owns a big outfit?”
“The Box 88 is a pretty fair layout.”
“I wonder how he’s fixed for punchers?”
“Never heard him say. He lost one a week ago.”
“Quit?”
“Murdered.”
“Yeah?” Hashknife looked at the insignia of office on the sheriff’s
vest. “Makes it kinda tough for you, eh?”
“Oh, I dunno. We’re holdin’ a man for trial.”
“But you don’t believe he’s guilty.”
The sheriff looked keenly at Hashknife.
“How do yuh know that?”
“Heard yuh tell Hayward.”
“Oh, yea-a-ah, I forgot about that. Well, I’ve got to be movin’. See yuh
later.”
“Shore; so-long.”
Hashknife and Sleepy crossed the street to a store, where they met
Yvonne. She was carrying out some packages, and they helped her put
them in the buggy.
“How was the leg?” asked Hashknife.
“The doctor said it wasn’t dangerous. I will pick Joe up and take him
home on my way back. Oh, I don’t know how to thank you for lying about
that.”
Hashknife considered her gravely, but his gray eyes smiled as he said
softly:
“Ma’am, I’m not addicted to lyin’; so I just ask yuh to accept that as
the truth.”
“It is good of you,” she said. “You don’t know how good it was to hear
you tell Dad what you told him out there. It may be a lesson to Joe.”
“I shore hope so, ma’am.”
“My name is Yvonne LeClere, Mr. Hartley. Everybody calls me Yvonne.”
“That’s fine,” smiled the tall cowboy. “My friends call me Hashknife.”
He indicated Sleepy. “Call him Sleepy. He thinks he’s handsome and
bright, but he ain’t; so don’t take him seriously.”
Yvonne laughed and picked up the lines.
“I want to add to Dad’s invitation,” she said. “Come out to the ranch
and see us.”
“Yes’m, we shore will, Yvonne. Tell Joe to take care of the leg.”
“I shall tell him many things,” she said soberly.
“Not too much,” he warned. “This has been a hard day for him.”
They watched her drive down toward the doctor’s office, and she waved at
them as she turned the corner.
“Mamma mine!” exclaimed Sleepy. “That’s _some_ girl.”
Hashknife nodded slowly.
“I reckon she’ll do, Sleepy. Let’s go and fold ourselves around some
food and then get a room. I could sleep about ten hours and feel more
like a man.”
“Well, there won’t nobody have to rock me; that’s a cinch, Hashknife.
I don’t see how any punchers can work diligently with a girl like her
in the vicinity. I know I couldn’t.”
“Somebody has probably had an option on her for a long time, Sleepy.”
“I suppose,” sighed Sleepy. “Anyway, I’m not so hard-hit that I can’t
eat and sleep; so let’s me and you find where henfruit and hawg-leg
gets familiar. C’mon.”
* * * * *
“And then he said--who played that jack? You, Soapy? Come to father.
That gives me game. He said he leaned his gun against a rock and laid
down to get a drink---- No, it’s Chuck’s deal. I dealt last time. He
leaned his gun against the rock and when he laid down to get a drink,
his horse---- You bid two? Betcha you’ve got the ace, deuce. Pass.
“Well, the horse knocked the gun down and it went off and the bullet
went plumb through his left leg. You bid three, Chuck? Bid ’em high
and sleep in the street, eh?”
Weary McMillan grinned and leaned back against the wall of the cell,
waiting for Chuck Haverty, the jailer, to lead. The latter and Weary
were having their daily game of pitch with Soapy Weed, and Weary had
brought the news of Joe LeClere’s accident.
“Who told yuh all this?” asked Soapy.
“Doc Plumley. Yvonne brought Joe in yesterday to have his leg dressed.”
“Didja see her, Weary?” asked Soapy.
“Nope. Gimme low, game. You go back two-bits, Chuck. Don’t never depend
on a five-spot bein’ low in a three-handed game, pardner. It was kinda
luck for Joe that them two strange punchers came along and heard the
shot. They helped Joe to the ranch. Didja see ’em, Chuck?”
“I seen ’em,” nodded Chuck, digging up a quarter, which he placed under
the cigar box containing their chips.
“I got to talkin’ with the tall one,” said Weary. “Said his name was
Hartley. I think the other is Stevens. Pretty salty-lookin’ pair of
geezers, them two. If I was lookin’ for trouble, I don’t reckon I’d
choose the tall one. Yore deal, Soapy. All I need is two points to
take the _dinero_.”
“Sluff to me, Chuck,” said Soapy.
“Like hell!” wailed Chuck. “You only need two points. I’m the one to
sluff to, ’cause I need five. You sluffed a ten to Weary that time,
tryin’ to set me, when I’m low man. If you hadn’t been a prisoner,
I’d ’a’ poked yuh in the snoot.”
“There’s some advantage in bein’ a prisoner, Chuck. But I’d much rather
be free and take a chance on you pokin’ me.”
“Then why don’tcha tell the truth and get out?” asked Weary. “Yo’re an
awful sucker, accordin’ to me. You never killed Kid O’Neil no more than
I did.”
“They’re goin’ to try me for it, Weary.”
“Shore. And a damn fool cow-jury might hang yuh too.”
“That kinda ruins my game, Weary. What are yuh biddin’?”
“I’ll chance a couple.”
“With the ace, deuce, probably,” sighed Chuck. “I’ll shoot the whole
works--four.”
“And get set higher than a kite,” grunted Soapy.