Hashknife and Sleepy trailed that single horse track almost through to
the east side of the range before they happened to discover that there
was also a man’s track in the old road. They were on the down slope into
Willow Valley when Hashknife dismounted, scratched another match and
found the mark of a boot sole in some soft ground. It was not the mark
of a cowboy boot.
“He’s prob’ly leadin’ his horse,” suggested Sleepy; and Hashknife agreed
that this was probable.
Then they came to the point where the road was no more. It seemed to
reach a spot where the old ruts fanned out in every direction,
obliterated within a few yards. Here they lost the tracks in the dark,
and decided to wait until daylight. Neither of them knew anything about
the Valley, and they were very sure that Bill McGill knew no more than
they.
“All I want to do is to catch the darn’ fool and give him his money and
horse,” said Hashknife. “After that, I’m all through with Bill McGill.”
Daylight revealed no signs of habitation, and they spent several hours
trying to trail Bill’s tracks. Once they found them near an old
waterhole, where the spoor showed that Bill drank from a trickle of
water in a cow track. There were several white faced steers at the hole,
and Hashknife wondered how Bill had fared with them. Range cattle are a
dangerous proposition to a man on foot, and there was no sign of Bill’s
horse near the spring.
Near the spring grew a gnarled old cottonwood, and it was here that
Sleepy found Bill’s hat, which he tied to his saddle.
“I’ll betcha them pale faced steers chased Willyum up that tree, and he
was so scared when he got down that he forgot his hat.”
Hashknife examined the ground beneath the tree for hoof marks, thinking
that Bill might have tied his horse to the tree before he got his drink,
but there were only fresh cow tracks.
“Bill’s on foot, I’ll betcha,” he decided. “Horse prob’ly dumped him
off.”
“And with all these range stock scattered around here,” said Sleepy,
“he’ll have plenty footrace practise before he finds a house.”
They headed east, following down the draws, looking everywhere for Bill;
but they did not find any more trace of him. Then they struck the HN
ranch just before Uncle Hoddy got home from the SP. Aunt Ida was sitting
on the porch of the rambling old ranch-house, hymn book in hand.
Caliente and Piute were sitting on the corral fence, and Chris Halvorsen
was squatted in the shade of a wagon near the stable.
They all knew that Aunt Ida had come home without Uncle Hoddy, and that
meant they were all in for services in case they got near the house. The
two strange cowboys rode in at the big gate and up to the porch. Aunt
Ida looked them over severely as they removed their hats.
“Howdy, ma’am.” Hashknife smiled. “You ain’t seen a young man limpin’
around here minus a hat, have you?”
Aunt Ida shook her head slowly. She did not understand what he meant.
“We lost one like that,” said Sleepy. “What ranch is this, ma’am?”
“This is the HN.”
“Are you the boss?” asked Hashknife. Aunt Ida shut her lips tightly for
a moment or two.
“I am.”
“Uh-huh—I thought you was. Which way is the nearest town?”
She pointed east.
“Take the road out past the stable. It leads directly to Willow Wells.”
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.”
At this particular moment Uncle Hoddy rode past the stable. He was
mounted on a scraggly roan. Aunt Ida got to her feet, watching him. He
rode in through the wide gate, stopped and looked from the stable to the
house. Then he reined his horse toward the house and came up to the two
cowboys.
“Howdy?” said Hashknife.
Uncle Hoddy squinted at Hashknife, shifted his eyes quickly to Aunt Ida
and replied—
“Not so very good, I guess.”
“Get off that horse and come in here,” ordered Aunt Ida.
The old man sighed deeply, shook one foot loose from his stirrup,
started to dismount, but changed his mind.
“Nope,” he said defiantly. “I don’t reckon I will.”
“Won’t you?”
“I won’t! I tell you I’ve been thinkin’ a lot. When a man’s as old as I
am, he’s old enough to know what he wants to do. You go right ahead and
rant about it if you want to.”
“And right in front of strangers,” wailed Aunt Ida, who felt herself
slipping.
“Then you go in the house,” advised Uncle Hoddy. “I never picked this
time and place f’r my declaration of independence. You started it.”
He turned to the two cowboys, his face very determined.
“I’ve been temperanced for over thirty years, gents. Every time I get a
few drinks I’m lectured to death. Ma’s a Ladies’ Aider. She’s got the
worst damn’ case of ingrown religion you ever heard about, and her
particular mission on earth is to fight whisky. Know what I mean? Well,
the war is over. Hoddy Noon has done turned like a worm. I own this
ranch and I do as I please, datin’ from right now. What can I do for
you, boys?”
The comedy of the situation choked Hashknife; but the tragedy kept back
his smile. Aunt Ida was staring at Hoddy, her lips twitching. It was the
war of the rebellion, and she saw her forces scattered. She knew Hoddy
Noon to be a very determined man who had let her run roughshod over him
all these years, as far as his thirst was concerned.
“Ma,” he said gently, “you go in the house—you’re whipped.”
She turned slowly and went into the house, leaving her hymnal on the
railing of the porch. There was no triumph in the old man’s face—only
determination.
“We just stopped to inquire the way to Willow Wells,” said Hashknife.
The old rancher pointed past the stable.
“That’s the road out there. Better git down and wait fer meal-time.”
“Thanks,” smiled Hashknife, “but we’ll be travelin’. My name’s Hartley,
and my pardner’s name is Stevens.”
“Mine’s Noon,” said the old man. “Hoddy Noon. I own this HN ranch—and I
boss it, too.”
“I’ll betcha. Well, we’ll mebbe see you again, Mr. Noon.”
“Shore. Come out any time.”
They left the place and headed for Willow Wells.
“You’ve just watched a tragedy,” said Hashknife.
Sleepy nodded slowly.
“I wanted to laugh, but I couldn’t.”
“The turning of the worm,” smiled Hashknife. “I’ve heard of it, but this
was an actual demonstration. They’ll be a lot happier, and he won’t get
thirsty near so often.”
* * * * *
They rode to Willow Wells and stabled the three horses. Their main
object was to get a big meal and they found it in the little restaurant
next door to the War Paint. Filled with food once more, they naturally
gravitated to the sheriff’s office, seeking information of Bill McGill.
Pink Lowry was there, but he had not seen the boy. Hashknife explained
how they had lost Bill, and Pink was interested. He knew the hotel
keeper at Cinnabar.
“He’s out of our jurisdiction,” Pink told Hashknife. “He ought to be put
in jail for that job. Hundred and fifty for a bronc! No wonder you
suspected him of crooked work. What do you reckon became of your
friend?”
“That’s what we’re wonderin’. I’ve got four hundred and fifty dollars of
his money.”
“He sure must be a friend.”
“Well, he’s a trustin’ soul, that’s a cinch.”
They were standing in the doorway, when two of the Diamond R cowboys
rode in, accompanied by a rider who was a stranger to Pink. Hashknife
looked quickly at Sleepy, who was watching the riders as they dismounted
at the War Paint. The third man was the pseudo sheriff of High Grade,
whom the other two men had designated as Lee.
“That’s Buck Haskell and Barney East of the Diamond R, but I dunno the
other feller,” said Pink. Sleepy had recognized him, and his brows
lifted with amusement.
Dud Evans, the sheriff, came from the War Paint, and Pink introduced him
to Hashknife and Sleepy. Pink explained what had happened to them at
Cinnabar, and the sheriff seemed to derive a certain amount of amusement
from the story. But he had not seen or heard anything of Bill McGill.
They decided to stay long enough to give Bill a chance to show up and
collect his money, and the sheriff assured them that if Bill did not
appear within a day or so they would go hunting for him.
It was about an hour later when Hank Blue and Jerry Dole came to town
from the SP, on their way out of the Valley. Hank told Pink that he and
Jerry had quit their jobs, and Pink told Hashknife about it.
“There’s a chance for you two to grab jobs, Hartley. Pelliser is a fine
feller to work for and he’s got a good outfit. Feed fine, and he’s no
slave driver. Bosses his own outfit, too. No women, except his daughter,
and she’s fine.”
“We could use a couple of jobs,” admitted Hashknife. “Of course, we
might not stay more than a few months. We never stay anywhere longer
than that.”
“Why not?” asked Pink, not intending to be curious.
“Because when the Lord built this land, He put two sides to every hill,
and He constructed us so we could only see one side at a time.”
“I don’t quite _sabe_ your idea,” admitted Pink.
“The other side of the hill. Didn’t you ever wonder what’s on the other
side?”
“I never was much of a hand to wonder about things.”
“Then you’ve missed a lot out of life, pardner.”
Pink grinned widely as he looked Hashknife over, wondering what this
tall, lean faced cowboy with the level gray eyes had ever discovered on
the other side of the hill.
“You never laid up much of a bankroll, didja, Hartley?”
Hashknife jingled a few silver dollars in his pocket.
“Enough for today—who can tell about tomorrow? What is tomorrow? Ain’t
it the other side of a hill? There’s lotsa hills in the life of a man,
Lowry. Some of ’em are just bumps.”
“Yeah, I suppose that’s true. But don’tcha ever expect to settle down?”
“Who knows what a man may do?”
“I’d want a home.”
“I’d like to have one,” said Sleepy wistfully.
“Be fine,” nodded Hashknife. “We could come back every couple years for
a few days rest.”
“If we happened to be in that part of the country,” Sleepy smiled.
“Well, what do you get out of life?” asked Pink. “I don’t see your
idea.”
“It’s somethin’ like a little poem a feller up in Wyomin’ wrote. I
remember a couple verses, which go like this:
“There’s a hill ahead,
But the land beyond
Stretches we know not where.
But there’re trails we know,
So ahead we go,
To see what’s over there.
“We may find peace,
Or we might find war,
Desert or fertile plain;
But whatever we find,
We’ll leave it behind,
And head for a hill again.”
“I reckon I know what you mean.” Pink laughed. “But I’d rather marry and
settle down. There’s no money in ramblin’ around.”
“Not a cent,” admitted Hashknife. “If you want money, stick to the job.”
“Didn’t you ever figure what’s to become of you when you git old?”
“Used to. But me and Sleepy will never get old. Somebody will kill both
of us before we’re gray.”
“What business are you in, Hartley?”
“Everybody’s.”
Which was very true, in a way. Hashknife Hartley, christened Henry, was
born in Montana; on the Milk River, to be exact. His father was an
itinerant preacher, blessed with a big family. So big, in fact, that
Henry started to work at a tender age, in order to reduce expenses.
Life had given him many hard knocks before he became a tophand. He had
drifted into the Southwest, finally working on the big ranch which gave
him his nickname. Here he had met Sleepy Dave Stevens, who hailed from
Idaho, and together they started out to see the other side of the hill.
Their trails had led from Canada to Mexico. At times they worked for the
law and with the law, and on their back trails their name was anathema
to those who worked outside the law. Marked men, were these two.
Sleepy did not do much thinking. He laughed his way along, playing the
game for the love of it until Hashknife told him that the end of the
trail was near. That meant that if fate were kind, they would soon head
for another hill.
It was not a remunerative occupation. They had less money now than they
had that first day they rode away together. Their needs were few, and
they did not want to be thanked for what they did. Fate had thrown them
into Willow Valley, but there was no work for them to do, no mystery to
be solved.
It was late in the afternoon when Steve Pelliser came to Willow Wells.
Dud Evans ran into him in a store, and during their conversation Dud
told him that he had heard about Hank and Jerry quitting their jobs.
“Leaves you short handed, don’t it?” asked the sheriff.
“Sure does—but I’ll get along. Good men are scarce around here.”
“There’s a couple of strange cowboys in town. I dunno anythin’ about
’em, but they’ll prob’ly be lookin’ for a job.”
“Strangers, eh? I dunno, Dud; I’m kinda particular.”
“Well, you might talk to ’em. They seem all right. Got mixed up with
some sort of a dude over at Cinnabar and lost track of him. Feller named
McGill, or somethin’ like that.”
“Good Lord, he’s out at my place! Mary and One Hop have him in bed out
there, doctorin’ him for sunburn and blisters. Hank and Jerry and Uncle
Hoddy found him between here and the ranch. Mebbe we better tell these
boys where he is.”
They found Hashknife, Sleepy and Pink at the War Paint, playing pool.
The sheriff introduced Pelliser to the two cowboys and told them about
Bill McGill.
“Well, that’s great,” laughed Hashknife. “I’m shore glad he fell into
good hands.”
“Is he one of your outfit?” asked Steve.
“No, he ain’t part of any outfit—he’s a lone wolf,” said Hashknife. “He
loaned me four hundred and fifty dollars, and I want to give it back to
him. I’ve also got a horse that belongs to him.”
“He _loaned_ you four hundred and fifty dollars, and you’re huntin’ for
him to give it back?”
“Shore—and I want to give him his horse.”
“Are you two boys lookin’ for jobs?”
Hashknife grinned slowly, examining the tip of his cue carefully.
“Well,” he said finally, “we might work a while, Mr. Pelliser. Just at
present our finances ain’t a burden to us. When do we start?”
“You’re already started.” Pelliser grinned. “Get your horses and go out
to the ranch with me.”
“All right—shore.”
“And just what else do you know about this sunburned McGill?”
“Not enough to talk about it. He’ll prob’ly tell you as soon as his fire
dies down. Queer sort of a jigger, Bill is. William Allen McGill, if I
remember rightly, and he talks like he had swallowed a dictionary. But
you’ll like Bill. Wait’ll we shoot out this game and we’ll be with you
as thick as horseflies in May. Your shot, Pink.”