“I do not believe I have ever met you.”
“Yes’m, yuh have,” he smiled. “Me and Sleepy was at your house in Frisco
not long ago. Yore pa introduced us.”
“Perhaps,” she nodded coldly, “but I do not remember you. Are you one of
the cowboys?”
“Well,” Hashknife scratched his head thoughtfully, “yuh might brand me
as such. I brought yuh in from Wolf Wells last night, if yuh remember.”
“Oh, you were the driver.”
She picked up the magazine and opened it before she looked at him and
said--
“Is there something I can do for you?”
Hashknife’s smile faded and he studied her for a moment.
“Yes’m, I was just kinda wonderin’, don’tcha know it?”
“Well?” Icily.
“Just kinda wonderin’ if it’s the fogs that make Frisco folks so
chilly.”
She looked questioningly at him, as if at a loss to know what he
meant; but he merely turned, put on his hat and walked back toward the
bunk-house.
“That was a ---- mean thing to say,” he chuckled to himself. “But she’s
prob’ly so high-toned that she’d have to have it explained to her.”
He went back to the corral and spent the rest of the morning hammering
lustily. The ringing of the triangle, as Quong announced the mid-day
meal, caused him to hang up his hammer and admire the collection of
bruises he had acquired.
Quong was standing just outside the kitchen, fanning himself with a
towel as Hashknife came striding across the yard, heading for the
wash-bench.
Suddenly he jolted hard in his stride and jerked sidewise. An angry
bee had buzzed past his head, or what had seemed to be a whizzer of
some sort; but the buzz was punctuated by a loud--
_Whap!_
Quong dropped his towel and jerked away, staring wildly at the
door-casing behind him, where a bullet had drilled a neat hole.
_Zee-e-e-e--blam!_
Then came the thin, far-away crack of a rifle. Quong fairly fell into
the kitchen, and Hashknife was right on his heels.
The second bullet had gone in through the doorway and had torn a gaping
hole in Quong’s big copper kettle on the stove, and the soup was spewing
out all over the hot griddles.
The room was filled with steam and odors of burning grease, plentifully
mixed with Celestial chatter that might be oaths or prayers.
Hashknife grasped a cloth and managed to fling the kettle outside. Miss
Lanpher came to the door from the dining-room, wondering at the turmoil.
She stared around, and Quong caught sight of her. He immediately began
bombarding her with pidgin-English, but Hashknife stopped him.
“Wait a minute, Quong,” and then to Miss Lanpher--
“Miss Lanpher, this is Quong, the cook. Quong, this is Miss Lanpher.”
Hashknife stepped gracefully back and motioned for Quong to continue,
but Quong had forgotten what to say, and turned back to his stove.
Miss Lanpher looked coldly at Hashknife and her eyebrows lifted a
trifle, as she said:
“That was very thoughtful of you, I am sure. But I have known Quong a
long time. I was here several weeks about a year ago.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, it was my mistake, ma’am.”
“Now, what happened in here, Mr. Hartley?”
“Well, Miss Lanpher, somebody took two shots at the cook and ventilated
the soup-pot. Nothin’ serious.”
“Took a shot at the cook?” she gasped. “Why--why how ridiculous!”
“Yes’m, I s’pose it was. Missed him both times, too.”
She called to Quong and he stopped wiping the stove long enough to turn
his head.
“Quong, did somebody shoot at you?”
He looked fearfully toward the door and nodded violently.
“Yessash, two time. I go way bimeby. Too ---- much shoot fo’ me. Soup
all gone; kittle busted. ----’s bells!”
“Quong!”
Hashknife laughed and went to the door, where he managed to retrieve
the punctured kettle with a broom-handle. He dumped out the soup-bone,
and with it came a battered piece of lead--the badly mushroomed bullet
that had busted up Quong’s soup.
Hashknife examined it closely and showed it to Quong.
“Looks like a thirty-thirty, Quong.”
Calibers meant nothing in Quong’s life, but he realized what that
bullet would have done to him. Hashknife showed it to Miss Lanpher,
but it failed to excite her in the least.
“Who would shoot at Quong?” she asked, as if she did not believe it at
all.
Quong turned quickly, a grin on his fat face.
“Mebbyso acclident. Somebody shoot clyote--bullet come heah. What you
t’ink?”
“Now that’s fine,” laughed Hashknife. “I’ll betcha that’s it, Quong. Too
bad it busted the kettle.”
“You mean that they were shooting at something else and the bullet
accidently came down here?” Thus Miss Lanpher, incredulously.
“There’s a lot of coyotes in the hills,” said Hashknife, evading the
direct question.
“There’s some wolves and a lot of pole-cats, too, ma’am. I wish--say,
Quong; has Trainor got a rifle here in the house?”
“Yessah. One rifle in room. I show you.”
Quong trotted out and came back in a minute with a Winchester 45-70,
which he handed to Hashknife, but Hashknife told him to take it back.
He had thought of going out into the hills and try to find the man who
had fired the two shots, but decided that it would be a hopeless search.
Hashknife also knew that those shots were fired at him and not at the
Chinese cook. He had been in line with Quong, who was in the shade and
probably not visible to the man behind the rifle. From the reports of
the gun, the man was shooting at extreme long range--and shooting only
too well to suit Hashknife.
“They’ll be dynamitin’ the bunk-house next,” mused Hashknife to himself,
as Quong prepared the meal. “I’ve been lucky so far--but can it last?”
Miss Lanpher had retired to the front of the house, so Hashknife ate
alone.
* * * * *
It was in the middle of the afternoon when Trainor, Mr. and Mrs. Lanpher
and Poco Saunders came back from town. Hashknife did not go up to the
house, but helped Poco unhitch the team. Poco was as uncommunicative as
ever.
As they came out of the stable, Trainor was hobbling toward them, but
stopped and called to Hashknife--
“What’s this I hear about somebody shootin’ at Quong?”
“Oh, that,” Hashknife laughed and looked back toward the hills, “I
reckon somebody was shootin’ at coyotes. They came darn near hittin’
the Chinaman, though. Lotsa folks are careless thataway.”
“Uh-huh,” Trainor grunted his unbelief. “Shootin’ kinda high, wasn’t
they, Hartley?”
“Kinda.”
“Say, do you really think they were shootin’ at coyotes?”
“Well,” smiled Hashknife, “that’s all a matter of opinion. Mebbe the
shooter felt thataway about it.”
“Uh-huh, I see what yuh mean.”
Trainor turned and went back to the house. Poco Saunders had heard the
conversation, and now he turned and went into the bunk-house ahead of
Hashknife, who shut the door and faced him.
Poco’s eyes narrowed, but he feigned not to notice Hashknife’s steady
gaze. Finally Hashknife said--
“Poco, I’ll trade talk with yuh.”
“Trade talk?” Poco did not seem to understand.
“Yeah. I was shot at twice this afternoon.”
“I had nothin’ to do with that, Hartley.”
“Why do yuh tie yore gun to yuh at night, Poco?”
Poco started slightly, but his face did not betray that he was caught
off his guard.
“Yore bunkie was shot from ambush, Poco,” continued Hashknife. “Are you
afraid of the same thing?”
Poco studied the question thoughtfully.
“Why should I be afraid?” he asked.
“I asked to trade talk--not to answer questions.”
“Why should I trade talk? I know nothin’.”
“All right.”
Hashknife turned to his bunk, but stopped.
“Why did Pinto Cassidy draw a dead-line between his place and the Circle
Cross?”
“I don’t know,” replied Poco; and Hashknife felt that he was telling the
truth.
“Are yuh afraid to talk about the rustlers who have been stealing stock
on this range, Poco?”
“Why talk about ’em?”
“Well, for one reason is this--they’ve killed three men from ambush
already.”
“Three? You don’t think that Ben Lanpher killed----”
Hashknife shook his head.
“Last night Jimmy, the half-breed, was shot in the arm, at the same spot
where Smoky Cole was killed.”
“He was?” Poco squinted thoughtfully, and Hashknife noticed that Poco’s
knuckles were white from their grip on his belt.
“Now, will yuh trade talk with me, Poco?”
But Poco shook his head slowly, his teeth shut tight.
“No, I can’t trade a talk, because I know nothin’.”
As Hashknife turned away, Buck Avery came in. He was half-drunk and was
carrying a bottle in his hand, which he put under his pillow.
“Hyah, cowboys!” he greeted them. “Help yourself to the liquor. Reg’lar
old poultry cocktail, that is. Six drinks and yuh lay. Hartley, yuh old
son-of-a-gun, don’t yuh never drink anythin’?”
But before Hashknife could reply, Trainor came to the door.
“Did you see old man Shappee, Buck?” he asked.
“Yeah; be right with yuh, Jim.”
Buck kicked off his chaps, joined Trainor and they went toward the house
together.
“Buck’s drinkin’ too much,” observed Poco. “He can’t let it alone when
he starts once. Trainor knows that, and he was a ---- fool to start Buck
off the other night.”
“Trainor ain’t picked another foreman yet, has he?” asked Hashknife
casually.
“Nope. Prob’ly pick Buck, though. Buck has been with him ever since he
took over the Circle Cross. Smoky and Buck came here together.”
“How long you been here, Poco?”
“ ’Bout a year. Me and Smoky worked together before.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to stay a year,” laughed Hashknife. “There’s too
much promiscuous shootin’ goin’ on around here to suit me. Everybody’s
scared to talk for fear they’re talkin’ to the person who is doin’ all
the dirty work. It’s a ---- of a country, thasall.”
“Yeah,” nodded Poco solemnly. “I reckon that about describes it,
Hartley.”
Hashknife went outside and sat down on a bench beside the door. Buck was
near the kitchen door, busy at the wash-bench and talking to Quong who
was standing in the doorway. Miss Lanpher was out in the front yard,
looking at a stunted rosebush, and Trainor was walking out to her.
She looked up, as he drew closer and seemed to be talking to her. For a
few moments she listened to him; and then walked past him and into the
house.
“He got froze up, too,” chuckled Hashknife aloud.
“He sure did,” agreed Poco, who had come to the door and noticed it.
“He’s stuck on her pretty bad, I reckon. Anyway, he was kinda hard
hit when she turned him down. I don’t see nothin’ to her m’self. Too
danged high-toned. Trainor’s a lot older than she is, and he ain’t so
---- handsome either.”
“If she wants beauty I might stand a chance,” laughed Hashknife.
“Yuh can’t any more than get turned down.”
“I’ve had mine, Poco.”
Trainor walked around to the kitchen door and began talking to Buck, who
threw his wash-pan of dirty water out on to the ground and slammed the
pan viciously onto the bench.
They both seemed angry, but talked in low tones. Finally Buck whirled
and came toward the bunk-house, swearing to himself. As he came up to
the door he looked back toward the house, where Trainor was standing,
looking toward them.
“I’ll drink when and where I ---- please!” snarled Buck, and went into
the bunk-house, where he piled up on his bed and went to sleep.
That Buck had no respect for Trainor’s authority was attested by the
fact that Buck drank at intervals all night, and dug a fresh quart of
liquor from beneath his straw tick the next morning.
He was incoherent in everything, except profanity, and refused to answer
the breakfast call. Trainor’s foot was much better, and he was jovial at
breakfast.
“Hartley, you will go with Lanpher and me today. We’re goin’ to look
over the range. Poco will drive the ladies to town.”
“Somebody ought to stay with Buck,” said Hashknife. “He’s in bad shape.”
“Let him sleep it off!” grated Trainor. “The fool won’t let whisky
alone; so he’s the one to suffer.”
They saddled their horses after breakfast and rode into the hills.
Lanpher was unused to the saddle and knew little about riding, which
handicapped them as far as speed was concerned.
They rode northeast almost to the main divide and swung around through
the breaks, giving Lanpher some idea of what he owned. He had little
to say, except in an undertone to Trainor. In fact, most of their
conversation was handled in such a way that Hashknife was excluded.
Hashknife kept his eyes open and studied the country. On this side
of the range there were few cattle of any brand, although there was
plenty of water and feed. Hashknife remarked about it, but Trainor
merely nodded and did not reply.