It was early morning in the town of Welcome; the cold gray dawn of a
fall morning, with a brisk breeze, which caused the livery-stable keeper
to slap his hands violently against his thigh, as he watered a team of
horses at the trough in front of the stable.
On the rough porch of a saloon a swamper swept away an accumulation of
playing-cards, cigarette-butts, and other litter of a gambling-house and
saloon. The cards slithered away in the breeze like autumn leaves. From
a blacksmith shop came the musical clank of a hammer on anvil, as the
smithy tuned up for his morning task.
Two cowboys came from the doorway of a small hotel, pausing for a moment
on the edge of the sidewalk, before crossing the street toward a cafe.
They walked with the peculiar rolling gait of men who wear high-heeled
boots, their elbows held closely to their sides, as is the habit of men
who spend most of their lives in the saddle.
One cowboy was well over six feet tall, thin, angular. His features were
heavily lined, nose rather large, wide mouth, and gray eyes. The other
cowboy was less than six feet tall, broad of shoulder, with a square
face, out of which beamed a pair of blue eyes, now slightly clouded with
sleep. His face was grin-wrinkled and his eyes were nested in a mass of
tiny lines, caused from their owner’s propensity for seeing the funny
side of life.
The tall one was “Hashknife” Hartley, and the other was “Sleepy”
Stevens, strangers to Welcome town.
“The wind she blow, pretty soon we have snow, and what will poor robin
do then, poor thing?” grinned Sleepy.
“Yu-u-uh betcha!” grunted Hashknife. “She’s gettin’ a long ways north
for summer clothes.”
They entered the restaurant and sat down. Just behind them came Bill
Warren, former dealer for Angel McCoy at Red Arrow. Warren nodded to
them and sat down at their table.
“Been dealin’ all night,” he said briskly. “Some fellers never know when
to quit playin’. Strangers here, ain’t yuh?”
“Came in late last night,” said Hashknife.
“Goin’ to stay?”
“Prob’ly not.”
They ceased the conversation long enough to order their breakfast.
“Do they play pretty heavy around here?” asked Sleepy.
“Well, pretty good. Welcome ain’t as good as Red Arrow, but we get a
pretty fair play here. I’ve only been here a few days. I’m from Red
Arrow. That’s northwest of here, less than twenty miles. Pretty good
place.”
“Good play up there, eh?”
“You bet. Say, you boys don’t happen to be lookin’ for an investment, do
yuh?”
“All depends,” said Hashknife seriously.
“I see. Well, what made me ask was the fact that there’s a bargain in
Red Arrow. Feller by the name of McCoy has kinda broke his pick up
there. Owns the Eagle Saloon and gamblin’-house. Pulled a funny deal on
his own father, and aced him out of a lot of money. Queered his own
game. Fact. I hear he’s had to close the place. And he sure had a big
play.”
“Would he sell cheap?” asked Hashknife, attacking his ham and eggs.
“I’ll bet he would. Somewhat of a fool, this McCoy. His father is a
tough old gunman, and they never got along. Oh, it’s a salty place up
there. Some lone wolf held up the train the other night and got away
with a fortune.”
“They did, eh?”
Hashknife paused and stared at Warren. Sleepy snorted softly, gazing
disconsolately at his platter of food.
“Yuh bet they did,” said Warren. “One man pulled it all alone. Broke the
train at Curlew Spur, took the engine and express car up the track a
ways and blew the safe. I don’t know how much he got, but they say he
got plenty.”
“Prob’ly,” nodded Hashknife, stirring his coffee with the handle of his
knife.
“And they won’t catch him,” declared Warren. “Too many places to
hide--and one man don’t talk, except to himself.”
“Prob’ly not,” said Hashknife absently.
“But that Eagle Saloon would be a mint if it was run right. Angel McCoy
is all through. The fixtures are all first-class, and I could help
yuh--yuh know what I mean. I know most everybody up there.
“Me and Angel always got along good. He had to turn me loose, because
business was pretty bad. Not that I care a damn about Angel. He’s salty.
His old man ain’t very well liked either. Got a bad reputation. Him and
Angel never got along, And there’s a girl--sister of Angel’s. Name’s
Lila. She just got back from school, I understand. She’s about twenty
years old. I ain’t never met the lady, but I can say she’s a mighty
pretty girl. I heard a rumor that she wasn’t Angel’s sister, and that
she just found out that old Rance ain’t her father. Anyway, she had quit
the ranch and was livin’ in town when I left there. They say Angel is
stuck on her, but she’d be a fool to marry him. He’s crooked; and it
don’t pay to play crooked in that town. Them cattlemen sabe poker, and
they sure declare an open season on yuh the first time yuh make a
break.”
“Pretty near time for the fall roundup, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Sure. If you go up there, look into that proposition. I’ll bet you
could buy Angel out for a song. He’s all through in that country.”
They finished their breakfast and walked out to the main street of
Welcome.
“Well, we might as well start, I suppose,” said Sleepy dolefully.
“Start where?”
“Don’t try to be funny, Hashknife. Yore neck stretched a foot when he
mentioned that holdup.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Oh, yeah,” mimicked Sleepy. “Now, don’t tell me you’re interested in
their fall roundup.”
“With twenty dollars between us--I ought to.”
“And you talkin’ about investin’ in a saloon.”
“I didn’t. He asked me if we was lookin’ over the place, and I intimated
we was interested enough to invest what we had in a payin’ proposition.
He didn’t need to know we had only twenty dollars, did he? And yuh learn
a lot more about conditions if they think you’ve got money.”
“That may be true, but just the same I don’t know of any good reason why
we should go to Red Arrow. It’s only a little range, Hashknife. It won’t
be long before the old snow will be cuttin’ across this country, and
it’ll shore catch two unworthy punchers with thin seats in their pants,
if them two punchers don’t do somethin’. We started out for Arizona, if
yuh remember. It’s summer down there, cowboy. I want to read about my
snow this winter. And as far as that train robbery is concerned--nobody
got hurt.”
Hashknife leaned against a post and rolled a cigarette, a half-smile on
his thin lips, as he glanced at the serious face of Sleepy Stevens.
“Sleepy, I’m goin’ to foller you this time. You’ve always trailed my
bets, and for once in our lives I’m goin’ to foller you. Head for
Arizona, cowboy; and I’ll rub knees with yuh. C’mon.”
“My God!” exclaimed Sleepy. “I’ll betcha you’re sick. Don’tcha feel
kinda faint? Any spots in front of yore eyes? Kinda ache all over? No?”
“I feel normal,” grinned Hashknife.
“Yuh shore don’t act it. Huh! Well, mebby I’m dreamin’. After while I’ll
wake up and find myself bein’ shot at by somebody you’re trailin’. Let’s
go, before yuh suffer a relapse.”
They went down to the livery stable, where an unkempt, sleepy-eyed
stable-man met them. He squinted at Hashknife, spat violently, and
glanced back along the row of stalls.
“We’re pullin’ out,” said Hashknife. “What’s our bill?”
“Oh, about fo’ bits. Say”--he squinted at Hashknife--“one of you fellers
was a-ridin’ a tall, gray bronc, wasn’t yuh?”
“I ride him,” said Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Well, I shore wondered about it. Seemed to me I remembered yuh
did, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t like to say too much, but I’m plumb
scared that somebody got color-blind early this mornin’.”
“What do yuh mean?” asked Hashknife quickly.
“C’mere and take a look.”
He led them farther down the stable, halting behind Sleepy’s sorrel
gelding. On the left was an empty stall and on the right stood a
rough-looking, dark bay horse, with one cropped ear and a hammer-head.
It turned and looked at the men, an evil glint in its eyes.
“That’s where yore gray stood,” declared the stable-man. “I put yore
broncs together. Early this mornin’ I heard somebody ride in and put up
a horse. I didn’t git up. Folks usually take care of their own bronc at
that time in the mornin’. But when I got up I didn’t find no extra horse
in here, and when I went to feed ’em, I shore noticed that yore horse
has turned color quite a bit.”
“That’s not my horse,” said Hashknife.
“Shore it ain’t. And it’s lame, too. Picked up a stone. I dug it out a
while ago and filled the place with some axle-grease.”
“What’s the brand on it?”
“Half-Box R.”
“Who owns that brand?”
“Feller by the name of Reimer--Butch Reimer. His ranch is about eight
miles from here, between here and Red Arrer. Yuh can’t tell who owns the
horse now, of course.”
“He’d probably know who owns it,” said Sleepy.
“Prob’ly might.”
“What kind of a feller?” asked Hashknife.
“Plumb forked, Butch is, and he hires a forked crew. Honest, as far as I
know, though. That ain’t such a bad animal, at that. Betcha he’d stand a
lot.”
“Betcha he’d give a lot, too,” smiled Hashknife. “Is he too lame to
travel?”
“Might be. Be all right t’morrow.”
Hashknife and Sleepy went outside, sat down on the sidewalk and
considered the situation. While Hashknife voiced no complaint, Sleepy
knew that the tall cowboy would go through fire to get that gray horse
back again.
“We’ll wait until that bronc is able to travel, Sleepy. One more day
won’t make nor break us.”
“You mean to say you’d pull out and leave some danged thief to own
Ghost?”
“Well, it--it can’t be helped, Sleepy. It would take a long time to hunt
down a horse-thief in this country. We’ll rest up until tomorrow and
then head for Arizona.”
“We will like hell! We’ll head for the Half-Box R ranch and find out who
owns that crowbait.”
Hashknife smiled thoughtfully at Sleepy. “You ain’t just tryin’ to play
the game back at me, are yuh?”
“Not a bit.”
“Well, I’m really glad, Sleepy. It’s time we quit foolin’ around. We’re
gettin’ old, me and you; kinda mellow. Why, a few years ago, I’d ’a’
started out after that horse-thief on foot. But I’m slowin’ up, I tell
yuh.”
“Yea-a-ah, I’ll betcha. You’ll prob’ly kiss him when we find him. Trade
yore gun for a cane, grandpa. Let’s go and get us a drink.”
Welcome was a smaller town than Red Arrow, and it did not take the
stable-man long to spread the news that somebody had stolen a horse from
one of the strange cowboys.
A number of people went down to look at the Half-Box R horse, but none
of them seemed to be able to tell who owned it. Butch Reimer was well
known in Welcome, and as far as Hashknife was able to find out, he bore
a fairly good reputation as a cattleman.
The thief had been thoughtful enough to take his own saddle, which was
something for Hashknife to be thankful for, as his saddle had been made
to order. There was no further news of the robbery, although they heard
several people discussing it during the day.
They spent the day playing pool, which was a favorite diversion with
both of them. During one of the games Sleepy grew thoughtful, which was
unusual with him.
“I was thinkin’ about that big robbery,” he said, when they were in
their room that night. “They ought to pay a good reward for the return
of that much money.”
Hashknife’s indifference nettled Sleepy.
“Oh, ... all right!” he snorted. “For once in our misguided lives, let’s
show a little sense.”
“I’m with yuh--if I never see the back of my neck.”
“Then you’re a changed man,” declared Sleepy.
“Gettin’ old, I reckon.”
Hashknife stretched wearily, but his thin lips were smiling as he
stripped off his thin, much-washed blue shirt, disclosing a lean,
muscular torso. He had long arms, big hands; and his muscles rippled
under his bronzed skin, as he snapped his arms back and forth in short
arm punches which would have floored a man.
His waist was narrow, hips long and lean, and with his high-heeled boots
off he moved with the grace of a cat.
Sleepy watched him admiringly.
“Too bad yuh didn’t take up prize-fightin’, Hashknife.”
“Yeah, I suppose,” smiled Hashknife. “How about you?”
“I don’t think fast enough.”
“And I’d probably sit down to think, durin’ a fight.”
“I’ll bet yuh would. If somebody mentioned a mystery, it’s a cinch you’d
forget what yuh was doin’, Hashknife.”
“It’s a failin’, I suppose. Ho-o-o-hum! We better hit the hay if we’re
startin’ early.”
And Sleepy knew that it was not a job at the roundup that was calling
Hashknife. The moment the gambler had mentioned the train robbery Sleepy
knew what would happen. He had been Hashknife’s partner long enough to
know the inner workings of that long cowboy’s mind, and he knew the
mention of that holdup to Hashknife was like a spur to a bronco.
It meant a chance to pit his mind against crime and criminals; not so
much because he disliked criminals, but because of the dangerous game.
Hashknife had never studied psychology, nor had he ever tried to analyze
crime. Born of poor parents--his father had been an itinerant minister
in the Milk River country, in Montana--he had had little schooling. At
an early age he had started out to make his own way in the world,
working as a cowboy, the only profession he knew.
But he had a receptive mind, and in the years that followed he had
picked up a varied education, absorbing the things that are often
overlooked by other men, more fortunate in their earlier years; studying
human nature, but always analyzing things. He wanted to know the why of
everything.
Drifting one day to the ranch, the brand of which gave him his nickname,
he met Dave Stevens, another wandering cowboy, who became “Sleepy”
because he seemed always wide awake, and these two mounted their horses
one day, strapped on their war-bags and bed-rolls, and started out to
see the other side of the hill.
And since that day they had seen many ranges and the other side of many
hills; but there were always more ranges ahead--more hills to cross. It
had not been a profitable partnership as far as money was concerned.
Right now they had less money than they had the day they left the old
Hashknife ranch; but behind them were memories that money could not buy;
memories of people who prayed that some day these two cowboys might come
back and help enjoy the happiness their work had wrought.
Life had made them fatalists. Death had struck at them many times, but
missed. Sometimes it was very close. They both bore scars of conflict,
and they fully realized the danger of their work; realized that some day
the pendulum of fortune might swing the wrong way.
In many localities they were marked men. Their reputation was well
known, and among those who worked outside the law, they were spoken of
as something to be avoided. Neither of them was a split-second gunman,
nor were they of the dead-shot variety; but many times had they walked
out of a powder-smoke haze unscathed, while gun-men had to be carried
out feet-first.