Yours very truly,
Ebenezer O. Godfrey.
Me and Hashknife walks to the door and looks around. A magpie cackles
from the tumble-down corral, and from the side of the hill comes the
whistle of a prairie-dog.
“Well, Ebenezer,” says Hashknife, “we don’t see nothing, but we’ll take
it. Ain’t it queer, Sleepy?”
“Queer as the egg of a whangobbler,” says I. “We’ve got something that
ain’t visible, Hashknife.”
A wagon and a pair of mismated horses comes drifting along through the
dust and stops at the gate. Two men climb down from the seat and come
up towards us. They’re a tough-looking pair of barber-boycotters.
“Ol’ Godfrey around?” asks one of ’em.
Hashknife looks ’em over and then motions inside.
“Ain’t sick, is he?” asks the other feller.
“Not now,” says Hashknife.
The two men looks over the remains and then at us.
“I don’t know who done it,” states Hashknife. “We rode in just after the
show was over.”
“Did he say who done it?”
“Told me it was none of my ---- business.”
“Uh-huh,” nods the taller one. “He’d jist about say that.”
And then he turns to the other.
“I reckon Pete and Al will inherit this place, Ab, but as per usual
there will be several folks to consider.”
“Worth anything?” asks Hashknife.
“Considerable,” nods the one called Ab. “Got a few cows and he owns a
copper-mine, the same of which ain’t so bad. I’d take the copper fer
mine.”
“I’ve got a little paper here,” says Hashknife. “You _sabe_ the old
man’s writing?”
He folds it so all they can see is the signature.
“That’s the old man’s John Hancock,” nods Ab. “Know it any old place.
What’s the idea, stranger?”
Hashknife holds it while they peruses same, which takes ’em quite some
time.
“Well, I’ll be ----!” snorts the tall one, scratching his head. “I
reckon she’s all right, proper and O. K., and nobody can dispute the
le-gality, but----”
“But what?” asks Hashknife.
“You fellers are strangers, ain’t you?” asks Ab. “Yeah, I sure reckon
you are. I’m Ab Wheeler, and this party is Al Bassett. We’re distant
relations of ol’ Godfrey--very distant. We’re a heap wise to this
locality, and, speaking in our wisdom, I’d say to you boys: Get on
your broncs and drift. Just tear up that letter and forgit it. You’d
never be able to work this place.”
“Maybe we can sell it,” suggests Hashknife.
“Sell ----! Nobody but a Willer Cricker would consider such a thing, and
Willer Crick ain’t got brains enough to do any considerin’.”
“Then you figures we’ve inherited a white elephant, eh?” I asks.
“Elephant!” snorts Bassett. “Boys, you’ve got a menagerie. You looks
like two nice, honest boys, and we don’t want to see you drift into
trouble. Naw, sir. You jist mosey along, and me and Ab will see that
the old man gets planted proper, and then let the Willer Crickers
fight it out.”
“I’ve always hankered to own a cow,” says Hashknife innocent-like. “I
never had no playthings like that.”
“I’m just loco over copper,” says I. “All my life I’ve wanted to dig
something shiny out of rocks. Seems funny that we both gets just what
we’ve always wanted, Hashknife.”
“Haw! Haw! Haw!” roars Bassett, “You boys are sure funny. You’ll likely
do well. If you see Jim Wells over on the Wind River range you tell him
I said to give you both jobs.”
“According to society,” says Hashknife, like he was letting ’em in a
big secret, “folks always leaves a card when they comes calling. Willer
Crick needs better social manners, gents; so next time you come--bring
your cards.”
“You’re funnin’, ain’t you?” asks Wheeler. “Sure you are. If I was you
I’d leave.”
“We’ll hook onto the next cyclone that comes along,” grins Hashknife.
“In the mean time you might tell folks about the old man. We’ll wait
until tomorrow morning, and if somebody don’t claim the remains we’ll
plant him out in the front yard.”
Bassett scratches his head, and the two of ’em walks out of the door.
“Well,” says Bassett, “all I’ve got to say is this: You ain’t showing
much sense.”
“We ought to do well here then,” grins Hashknife.
We watches ’em get in the wagon and drift along. Hashknife examines that
Winchester and stands it up by the door.
“Lot of shells in there on the clock-shelf,” says I.
“Uh-huh. Single-shot rifle in the kitchen. Reckon she’s a .45-70,
too, Sleepy. We’ve inherited something; you know it? From what I can
gather--we’re going to start a scandal.”
“You want to be a puncher or a miner, Hashknife?”
“I don’t know yet. ’Pears to me that two husky babies like me and you
ought to handle between us what the old man handled alone. Don’t you
think we ought to do well?”
“See what he got, Hashknife.”
“That’s so--but he was a relation, Sleepy. Let’s pesticate around a
little and see what we’ve inherited.”
There’s a bunk-house down the hill from the house. About fifty feet
behind that is an old stable, and built alongside of the stable is the
main corral. There’s a couple of harness-marked roans hanging around the
stable, and a decrepit bay mare is nosing around the corral. The animals
all branded with a Bar O on the right shoulder.
There’s four bunks in the bunk-house, but no bedding, so we carries a
supply down from the house. We turned our broncs into the corral and
fed ’em some loose hay, and then we cooked us a meal.
* * * * *
We covered the body with an old sheet, and then takes the two rifles
down to the bunk-house. We swamped out the place until she’s habitable,
and then sets down on the steps to enjoy a smoke. The sun has gone down
and Nature seems at rest.
Hashknife leans over to give me a light off his match, when--_Zee!_
_Plop!_ A bullet slams into the log just behind him. It’s a danged
good thing he leaned over.
I’d say that we hurried within, but another bullet knocked a hunk of mud
from between the logs before we got under cover. Hashknife pumps a shell
into that Winchester, while I loads up the old Springfield.
“Our coming has been advertised,” opines Hashknife, poking out a pane of
glass in the window. “If that bushwhacker----”
Another bullet rammed into a log, and Hashknife’s rifle cracked.
“You better get your head down!” chuckles Hashknife. “That feller almost
drew a harp that time, Sleepy.”
_Zam!_ A bullet came through an end window and threw splinters out of
the wall. I slips over and peers out. A feller rises up out of the
brush and makes a break to get the woodshed between him and us. He’s
about fifty feet to run, and he sure hurried.
I knocked out part of the window and led him about three feet. I don’t
_sabe_ that old cannon; so I shoots low. I reckon it took about all the
sole off one boot, ’cause it knocks the feet out from under him, and he
lit on his belly.
Lucky for him he falls into a low place, and all I can see is the bottom
end of his suspenders and the seat of his pants. He had time to get a
better place, but he didn’t know I was shooting a single-shot rifle.
“Get him?” asks Hashknife.
“Made him stumble. How you coming?”
“My pro-te-jay is silent. Maybe I hit him.”
_Zing!_ I turns to see Hashknife dancing a jig and rubbing his nose.
“You didn’t hit him very hard,” says I.
“No, dang it! Got my nose full of slivers. Never mind my man, Sleepy;
you keep your fat head down!”