His error to fi-i-i-ind,
And the cowboys all said, ‘Old Bill’s goin’ blind.’
So to save him from blindness-s-s,
They was kind—you’ll agree-e-e-e,
They hung Old Bill up on a wha-a-ang-doo-o-dle tree-e-e.
“And that,” said Sleepy, “is probably different than even Caruso could
have sung it.”
“Anyway,” said Hashknife seriously, “the sentiment is there. I may not
sing very pretty, but I sure get rid of my song.”
“I was just wonderin’,” observed Jack, “just wonderin’ where you are
headin’ for, Hartley.”
“I dunno,” confessed Hashknife. “I kinda wanted to get out to Turkey
Track sidin’ without goin’ around by the road.”
“Yeah, yuh can do that, but we’ll probably have to swim the river.”
“Thassall right,” laughed Sleepy.
“This is Saturday.”
“We should have gone east from town,” said Jack. “Instead of comin’
out here, crossin’ the river at the bridge, we should have followed
the railroad track. It wouldn’t be very easy travelin’, but we
wouldn’t have to cross the river.”
“That’s right,” agreed Hashknife, “but everybody would have known
where we was headin’. Yuh see, Hartwell, I like to fool folks. It’s a
lot of fun, don’tcha know it? And it’s kept me and Sleepy from lookin’
up at the daisy roots.”
“Like when yuh fell down a while ago, eh?”
“Probably. I didn’t want to down either of them jiggers. Right now
they’re worth more alive than dead, for my purpose. And they think I’m
dead or badly hurt—which makes it much better. I dunno which one of
’em fired the shot. I heard the bullet hit the building about twenty
feet ahead of me.”
They crossed Slow Elk Creek near its mouth and came to the river,
where they swam their horses across. From there it was only a short
distance to Turkey Track siding, where they dismounted, tied their
horses to the corral fence and sat down to have a smoke.
To the north they could see the timbered curves of Deer Creek, to the
north and west the wide sweep of the Lo Lo range. To the north and
east was the narrow, timbered valley, through which came the railroad
from Medicine Tree, and beyond. Just across the river from them, about
a mile and a half away, was the Turkey Track ranch, on the west bank
of Deer Creek.
Hashknife seemed very thoughtful, as he scanned the country. He
squinted toward the hazy outline of the main divide, where the break
of Kiopo Pass was barely visible, and at the narrow valley to the
northeast.
“Did yuh live here before the railroad came, Hartwell?” he asked.
“Yeah,” nodded Jack. “It hasn’t been here over six years.”
“Uh-huh. Where did the cattlemen market their stock before they had
the railroad?”
“Mostly in Medicine Tree. That was before the sheep got control of
Sunland Basin. We used to take some big drives out of this valley.”
“Over Kiopo Pass?”
“Mostly. A few tried takin’ stock out through where the railroad goes
now, but it was a pretty hard drive. The railroad had to blast their
way in through solid rock and travel miles to gain a few hundred
yards. Of course yuh could take stock out, but most of ’em would have
their heels worn off before they hit Sunland. We’ve never been afraid
of sheep comin’ in that way.”
“Any station or town between here and Medicine Tree?”
“Not until you get into Sunland Basin. Between here and there is a
wilderness. Good grazin’ land though. But the snow piles up too deep
in there for any one to use it, except in summer; and in the spring it
catches the drainage from both sides and comes —— a-whoopin’ down Lo
Lo.”
Hashknife squinted sidewise at Jack.
“You worryin’ about yore wife?”
“Well, my ——, wouldn’t you?”
Jack got to his feet and leaned against the corral.
“I s’pose I would, Jack. Let’s go over and strike the Turkey Track
cook for somethin’ to eat.”
“Fine,” grinned Sleepy. “Mebbe we’ll see Curt and Spiers. I’d give a
lot to see the look on their faces when they see you.”
“Well, don’t get so danged interested in their faces that yuh forget
their hands. Them two sidewinders are liable to strike before they
rattle.”
“And they’re not friends of mine,” added Jack.
“What kind of a whipporwill is this Allison?” asked Hashknife as they
mounted and rode toward the river crossing.
“I’d hate to say,” replied Jack. “If somebody had asked me a week ago
what I thought of Curt and Steil, I’d probably have said that they
were as good as the average.”
“Naturally. They tell me that you’ve had quite a lot of —— handed to
yuh, Jack. I never got the story direct, yuh know.”
“And you probably never will, Hartley. I’m not complainin’. I went
into it with both eyes open, yuh know. Mebbe I was all wrong, I dunno.
Dad is a hard man, and he tried to teach me to hate. Mother is just
the opposite, so she taught the opposite.
“Lovin’ got me some happiness and a lot of pure ——, but it kept me
from turnin’ killer, Hartley. I’m the only one who knows what the
last—well, the last hundred years—meant to me. It does seem that long.
I’ve stood insults that would make a cotton tail fight a grizzly bear.
They’ve called me a yellow skunk—a sheep lover—and I never even
reached for my gun.”
“How about yuh now, Jack?”
“Now?” Jack laughed harshly. “I’ve got my war paint on. It’s a
showdown from now on. If you hadn’t showed up when you did, I was
goin’ to start in on Curt and Steil. I haven’t forgotten the draw.
There’s only one man in the country that can beat me, and that is Slim
De Larimore.”
“He’s fast, is he?” asked Hashknife.
“Just like a flash. Wears his gun kinda in front of his thigh, carries
his hand behind his holster, and his draw is just like lifting his
empty hand. I’ve seen some gunmen, but he’s got ’em all beat.”
“Is he a good shot?”
“I don’t know; never seen him shoot. Very likely is though.”
Hashknife smiled seriously and rubbed his nose. It was a sure sign
that he was pleased. Sleepy watched him and grinned.
They rode in at the Turkey Track and dismounted. There was no sign of
life around the place, except the Chinese cook who answered their
knock.
“Hyah, John,” grinned Hashknife pleasantly. “How’s chances for a
little food?”
“I do’ no,” replied the Celestial. “Boss no heah.”
“Thassall right. You round up a little food for us.”
“Mm-m-m.”
John was not so sure. Then:
“You come in, eh? I make you li’l glub.”
They filed into the living room and sat down, while the Chinaman got
busy with his fire. The Turkey Track living room was not an attractive
place; it was more like a bunk house. There were three beds, badly
tumbled, a few chairs, a littered table, a scattered lot of playing
cards and a ragged carpet, plentifully littered with ashes and cigaret
butts.
The Chinaman was busily rattling his utensils and singing in a weak,
high-pitched voice. Hashknife stepped over to the door, leaned against
the wall and watched him. Suddenly he leaned forward, squinting toward
the stove, and spoke softly—
“What’s the matter, John?”
The Chinaman was putting some wood into the fire-box, but turned and
looked at Hashknife.
“W’at yo’ say?” he asked, blandly.
“About that wood,” said Hashknife slowly. “Yuh can’t burn green wood,
John.”
“No _sabe_.”
The Chinaman looked at the stick of green cottonwood in his hand.
“Too green,” said Hashknife. “Use dry wood.”
“No _sabe_.”
The Chinaman started to put the green wood into the stove, but
Hashknife strode across to him, took the stick off the fire and tossed
it out through the open door. Then he picked out some dry wood from
the box beside the stove and stuffed it into the fire-box.
“That burns fine,” smiled Hashknife.
The Chinaman’s face did not change expression, and he went back to his
pots and pans. Jack and Sleepy had come to the doorway, watching
Hashknife, who walked back into the living room with them.
“What was the idea?” queried Sleepy in a whisper.
Hashknife grinned seriously.
“That Chink knows that green wood don’t make a good fire.”
“Wanted smoke, eh?”
“That’s the way it struck me.”
“Wanted to send up a signal?” asked Jack.
“Might be. Yuh never can tell.”
Hashknife walked back to the doorway and watched the Chinaman finish
the cooking of the meal. He did not trust the cook. They ate the meal,
but kept one eye on the Chinaman. Hashknife tried to draw him into
conversation, but the Chinaman hid behind his “No _sabe_.”
When they had finished, Hashknife walked over to the stove, filled the
fire-box with pitch-pine wood and went out into the yard, where he
picked up the green stick. The Chinaman watched him put it into the
stove, shut the fire-box door and sit down again.
“Whasamalla you?” asked the Chinaman. “Yo’ say no can do——”
“Can do now,” grinned Hashknife. “Plenty good smoke, eh?”
“No _sabe_.”
The Chinaman shook his head violently.
“Nobody asked yuh to,” said Hashknife, getting to his feet.
The three cowboys went outside, mounted their horses and rode away. A
heavy smoke was curling up from the stove pipe, a smoke that would be
visible for a long way. Hashknife chuckled joyfully.
“Slim De Larimore will probably see that smoke, and come a-whoopin’.
It’s probably the signal that will bring ’em in from the dead-line, in
case any strangers are around the ranch, and the Chink will get merry
—— from his boss. So we’ll just step off a piece and watch the
effects.”
As soon as they were well out of sight from the ranch, they rode into
a brushy coulée, dismounted and sneaked to the crest, where they could
get almost a bird’s-eye view of the ranch house. The heavy smoke no
longer rolled from the stove pipe, evidence that the Chinaman had
removed the green fuel.
It was about half an hour later when two riders approached the ranch
from the east. They rode boldly up to the house and dismounted.
“I’m bettin’ that the smoke signal didn’t bring them in,” said
Hashknife, but added, “unless the signal means that everythin’ is all
right. They busted right in, didn’t they? Recognize the horses, Jack?”
“Not at this distance, Hartley. One of ’em is a light buckskin and the
other is a rangy-lookin’ gray. They don’t belong to the Turkey Track,
that’s a cinch. Honey Wier rides a gray, but that man wasn’t Honey
Wier. And I don’t know of anybody in Lo Lo that rides a light
buckskin. There they come out again.”
The two men had left the house and came out to their horses. The
Chinaman was with them, and the three grouped together for several
minutes before the two mounted and rode away. It looked as if they
were going to ride past, which would give the three cowboys a chance
to see who they were, but they turned and rode southwest, going down
through a brushy swale and disappearing into the heavy cover.
“What’s down that way?” asked Hashknife.
Jack squinted thoughtfully for a moment, “Well, I dunno. There ain’t
nothin’ much. Looks like they were heading for the forks of Slow Elk
and the river. Maybe they’re goin’ to Totem City. Just above where we
crossed Slow Elk, there’s an old shack and a corral. Anyway, there
used to be. An old coyote hunter used it a couple years ago.”
“An old shack, eh?”
“Yeah. Probably fallen down by this time. It’s down there in a coulée,
kinda out of the way, if it ain’t fallen down.”
“We’ll take a look at her,” said Hashknife, starting back to the
horses. “In this game yuh can’t afford to overlook anythin’.”
They mounted and followed Jack down through the timbered draw, which
opened on to brushy hillsides.
“Take it easy,” advised Hashknife. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“What do you expect to find down there?” asked Jack.
“Yuh never can tell, pardner. Just lead us in the slickest way.”
It was about two miles from where they had mounted to where Jack led
them over the crest of a broken ridge and pointed toward the brushy
bottom below them.
“Yuh can see the top of the old shack, Hartley.”
“And that ain’t all,” said Hashknife quickly. “Get down!”
They slid out of their saddles and forced the horses to move further
back. Through the screen of trees they could see part of the old
corral, where two men were working with horses. It was impossible to
see just what was going on, but a few minutes later two men rode down
the coulée, mounted on a black and bay horse.
The two men did not seem in any hurry; neither did they act in a
suspicious manner.
“Recognize them horses?” asked Hashknife.
“Nope,” Jack shook his head. “Lots of bays and blacks in this country.
I wonder if it’s the same two men.”
“I think it is, Jack. Anyway, we’ll soon find out.”
They mounted and rode down at the rear of the shack, where they slid
to the ground and approached the shack. In the little corral stood a
light buckskin and a gray horse sweat-stained, leg-weary. The door of
the shack was unlocked and there was no one inside.
Of furnishings there were none; but on the floor were nine bed rolls,
spread, just as they had been when nine men got out of bed and left
them. Hashknife grinned at the amazement in Jack’s face, and led them
outside. They went to the corral and looked at the two horses. On the
right shoulder of each animal was the mark of the JN outfit.
“More of the Jack Noonan stock, eh?” said Sleepy curiously.
“Yeah.” Hashknife nodded seriously. “Been ridden to a frazzle, too.
Well, this is worth findin’, gents.”
“But what does it all mean?” queried Jack. “I don’t _sabe_ it”
“C’mon,” ordered Hashknife, heading back to the horses. “We don’t want
to be spotted here in this coulée.”
They rode back to higher ground, where they drew rein and scanned the
country. Not a living thing moved in that wide expanse of rangeland.
“Have you any idea what it means?” asked Jack.
“Haven’t you?”
Hashknife seemed surprised.
“Not much, Hartley.”
“Let me ask you an easy question, Jack. In all our travels today—and
we’ve covered a lot of territory—how many head of cattle have you
seen?”
Jack looked at Hashknife and his eyes swept the hills in a bewildered
sort of way.
“Why, I—by golly, I don’t remember that we seen any. Say, that’s
funny! I wondered what was wrong.”
“I didn’t see any either,” added Sleepy.
“Neither did I,” said Hashknife, mimicking Sleepy. “Because there
ain’t any to be seen.”
“But where in —— have they gone?” demanded Jack.
“Mebbe they’ve gone where the woodbine twineth and the cuckoo calleth
for its mate. But they haven’t!” Hashknife’s jaw snapped shut. “Lo Lo
Valley has been buncoed, Jack. While every cattleman and cowpuncher
have cooled their heels on a dead-line against sheep, rustlers have
cleaned out their cattle.”
“My ——!” exploded Jack. “Do you think so, Hartley?”
“I know so. Me and Sleepy cut their trail the night we came here, and
they killed a horse under me. We’ve seen ’em since then. It looks like
this Jack Noonan has brought his gang from Sunland Basin over here to
take advantage of the sheep invasions, and by grab, he’s sure makin’ a
cleanup.”
“What’ll we do?” asked Jack helplessly. “There’s a gang of ’em to
contend with.”
“And they know danged well that they won’t dare to desert the
dead-line,” said Hashknife. “Jack, this bunch of cow thieves have got
Lo Lo Valley by the neck.”
“By ——, they sure have!”
“But, of course—” Hashknife grinned over his cigaret—“it ain’t as
though us three were losin’ anythin’. Me and Sleepy ain’t got no
interests here, and they’ve handed you so much —— that they can’t
expect you to break yore neck to help ’em out. So—” Hashknife
scratched a match and puffed on his cigaret—“So we’ll just step aside
and let ’em find it out to their sorrow.
“They’ve kinda handed me and Sleepy the worst of it, too. We’ve been
accused of all kinds of things since we showed up here. They even
wanted to hang us, I reckon. And, takin’ it all in all, we don’t owe
’em anythin’—none of us, eh, Jack?”
Jack squinted thoughtfully and looked away across the hills. Hashknife
and Sleepy exchanged a quick glance and waited for Jack to speak.
Finally he turned to Hashknife.
“I suppose yo’re right,” he said slowly. “They’ve kinda given you two
the worst of it, and I know how you feel about it. You ain’t got no
interests here—nothin’ to care about—so it’s all right. But with me—”
Jack looked away for a moment, and back at them, with a wistful,
apologetic smile—“Yuh see, I was raised here, and these are my
people.”
Just that and nothing more. He had explained in a few words. Hashknife
nodded slowly, a serious expression in his gray eyes. Then he suddenly
held out his hand to Jack.
“You —— kid!” he said seriously as they shook hands.
“You don’t blame me, do yuh?” asked Jack wonderingly.
“Blame yuh?” Hashknife laughed, joyfully. “I just been wonderin’ if
you was worth helpin’, Hartwell—and yuh are. Let’s go!”
* * * * *
Marsh Hartwell leaned against a rear wheel of the chuck wagon in Six
Mile gulch and looked moodily at Honey Wier and Chet Spiers, who were
seated on the ground, cutting sticks of dynamite into proper lengths
for their purpose.
Grouped around them were old Sam Hodges, Cliff Vane, Frank Hall and
Bill Brownlee, each man with a cup of coffee in his hand. The chuck
wagon had been shoved into the brush, until only the rear end was
visible, and the little clearing in which it stood was so well masked
by brush that it would not be visible from fifty yards away on any
side.
“How about that for a bomb?” asked Honey Wier, holding up a bundle of
short pieces of dynamite, from which a five-inch fuse projected. “That
ought to make a mutton stew, eh?”
“That’s the ticket,” nodded Vane. “We’ll give every man a load of ’em,
and we’ll blow all the —— sheep back into Sunland in one night. How do
you like the idea, Marsh?”
Marsh Hartwell lifted his head,
“I don’t like it, Cliff. Perhaps it’s the only thing to do, but I
don’t like the idea.”
“Sure it’s the only thing to do,” insisted Vane. “We can’t spend the
rest of our lives around here, waitin’ for Eph King to start ahead. My
idea is to start an offensive. With dynamite, we can bust up the whole
works, scatter the sheep—mebbe capture King again. Anyway, we’ll make
’em so sick of Lo Lo Valley that they’ll be willin’ to get out with a
whole skin.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” agreed old Sam slowly. “A lot of fool cowpunchers
will probably get killed with their own bombs, too.”
“The idea is to bust straight through to the sheep camp, ain’t it?”
asked Frank Hall.
“That’s it,” replied Vane. “We’ll wreck everythin’ between here and
there, too. Make up all our bombs here and distribute ’em all along
the line. We’ll draw Slim and his men over to this side of Slow Elk,
and that’ll give us about twenty men to throw dynamite. Oh, we’ll show
Eph King the way back to Sunland, y’betcha.”
“Well, I wish you’d help make bombs and not brag so —— much,”
complained Honey Wier. “Me and Chet can’t make ’em all.”
“Don’t bite the caps into the fuse,” advised Hodges. “Pinch ’em in
with the point of your knife, Honey.”
“Aw, that’s too slow. I ain’t never bit too short on one yet.”
“And yuh never will—except just once. Yo’re only allowed one mistake,
cowboy.”
“And that’s the truth,” nodded Chet. “I knowed a feller that was
bitin’ caps on to fuses, and he caught the end of one between his back
teeth.”
“Hurt him much?” queried Honey.
“Hurt him? It drove his legs into hard ground up to his knees and his
hat didn’t come down until the next day.”
“Loan me yore knife,” said Honey seriously. “I’m scared I might git my
arches busted down.”
A horseman was coming in through the narrow trail, and they waited for
him to come into the clearing. It was Abe Allison. He dismounted and
helped himself to some coffee.
“Glad yuh showed up, Abe,” said Vane. “Saves us a trip down to yore
end of the line.”
“Yeah?” Allison blew on the hot coffee. “What for?”
“To tell Slim what we’re goin’ to do, and have him bring all you
fellers up this side of Slow Elk. Tonight we’re goin’ to bust our way
through the sheep and settle everythin’.”
“How?”
“Here’s how,” laughed Honey Wier, holding up a bomb. “We’re goin’ to
shake the old hills, Abie.”
“Dynamite?”
“Y’betcha,” replied Vane.
Abe shook his head nervously.
“I’m scared of that stuff. Yuh never can tell what she’s goin’ to do.
It ain’t noways reliable, I tell yuh.”
“Aw, ——, it won’t hurt yuh,” said Honey Wier, carefully poking the
point of his knife through the copper detonator to secure it to the
fuse. “All yuh got to do is to touch off the fuse, wait a second or
two, to see that she’s fizzin’ properly, and then heave it as far as
yuh can toward the sheep.”
“And what’ll them sheepherders be doin’ all this time?”
“Shootin’ at yuh, of course,” laughed Chet. “But they can’t shoot
straight in the dark.”
“Prob’ly kill a few of us,” observed Honey sadly. “But, as has been
wisely said: There is no diligence without great labor. I read that in
my copy book when I went to school. I dunno what in —— diligence is,
do you, Chet?”
“Killin’ sheepherders. Diligence is a Latin sayin’. D-i-l is the same
as ‘kill’; _sabe_? I-g-e-n-c-e is what the Lats used to call a
shepherd. I used to talk it kinda good, but I’ve forgot a lot of it.”
“You used to live with ’em didn’t yuh, Chet?” asked Vane.
“Yeah,” nodded Chet seriously. “I’m a blood brother of that tribe.
Say, this dynamite is gettin’ sticky.”
“That’s the nitroglycerin thawin’ out,” said Brownlee. “I dare either
of you fellers to clap yore hands.”
“Yeah, and I’m goin’ to get out of here,” Allison mounted his horse.
“Shall I tell Slim, Marsh?”
“Yeah, yuh can tell him what we’re goin’ to do. Mebbe it would be
better for him to show up here about nine o’clock tonight. We won’t
take a very wide swath the first time. It might be that we’ll have to
attack more than once.”
“All right.”
Allison glanced apprehensively at the pile of fused bombs beside Honey
Wier, swung his horse around and rode quickly away.
“By golly, I’d like to throw one behind him in the brush,” grinned
Honey. “He’d die of fright. I’ll betcha Abie Allison ain’t goin’ to be
worth a lot to us. How danged many of these things will we need?”
“Ought to have about ten for each man,” said Vane.
“Yeah?” Honey counted what they had already made. There were ten. “All
right, gents, I’ve made mine, so step up and help yourself.”
“Aw, you’re doin’ fine, Honey,” applauded Vane. “Keep right on. I
never did see better bunches of dynamite in my life. I was just sayin’
to myself, ‘Honey Wier sure does sabe how to make up them bombs.’”
“You talk to yourself quite a lot, I know that,” grinned Honey. “You
keep it up for a while, and you’ll prob’ly go into the sheep business
yourself, Cliff.”
“Here comes somebody else,” grunted Brownlee, whose ears had caught
the sound of approaching horsemen. “Several of ’em, too.”
The crowd around the chuck wagon moved apart and watched the trail,
where Hashknife, Sleepy and Jack were coming into view. No one spoke
to them, as they dismounted, but every one of the cattlemen’s faces
betrayed their astonishment. Jack walked around to his father and
glanced quickly at the circle of wondering faces.
“You can let yore guns alone,” said Jack slowly. “We’re not lookin’
for trouble —we’re bringin’ yuh some.”
“Bringin’ us some?” Marsh Hartwell spoke wonderingly.
“Yeah—bringin’ yuh some,” said Jack.
“Is it about Molly?”
Jack shook his head quickly,
“I don’t know where she is.”
He turned to Hashknife.
“You tell ’em about it, Hartley; it’s yore story, anyway.”
“It ain’t much to tell,” said Hashknife, “and only amounts to just
this: While all you cattlemen have been settin’ here on the dead-line,
waiting for the sheep to try and cross, somebody has been rustlin’
every danged head of cattle in this end of Lo Lo Valley, thassall.”
“What!”
Cliff Vane came toward Hashknife, his mouth half-open, a foolish
expression on his face.
“How do you know this?” demanded Marsh Hartwell harshly.
The men crowded closer, swearing softly, asking for proof.
“Oh, there’s proof enough,” said Jack.
“You can ride the hills all day between here and Totem City and never
see a head of stock. I tell you Hartley is right. We found where the
rustlers live. It’s in that old shack down in the coulée near the
mouth of Slow Elk. There’s nine bed rolls in that old shack.”
“Good ——!” exploded Marsh Hartwell.
“That’s why the sheep haven’t moved! Boys, it’s a game to loot Lo Lo
Valley. Eph King and his gang forced us to guard the dead-line, while
he stole all our cattle. The dirty thief!”
“Nine of ’em in that shack, eh?” gritted Vane. “Well, we’ll just go
down there and shoot —— out of ’em, eh? C’mon, boys.”
“Wait a minute,” said Marsh. “They won’t be there now.”
He turned to Hashknife, squinting at the serious-faced cowboy, as if
seeking to read his thoughts. Then,
“Hartley, yo’re on the square about this?”
Hashknife’s eyes narrowed, but his lips twisted slightly in a smile,
as he said:
“Hartwell, I’m tellin’ you my opinion. I might be wrong, but I’m not
lyin’.”