“You two!”
“Yes’m,” says I. “Same old two of us ma’am.”
Just then a little kid comes out beside Glory. He’s a little,
round-eyed shaver, and he’s been crying dirty tears or has been
crying tears on a dirty face, ’cause he sure is streaked.
“That’s his kid,” says Hashknife, kinda whispering.
“Whose kid?” asks Glory, but before Hashknife can answer her the old
man comes out.
He brushes his hand across his eyes and stares at us.
“Yuh beat us up here, grampaw,” smiles Hashknife.
“Yes,” says he. “I—I reckon I did.”
Then he puts his hand on Glory’s arm and says to her:
“Girl, I want to thank yuh for your kindness to her. She tol’ me
some of it. Yuh see, she never wrote to me and I never knew how
things was. I decided to come, yuh see.”
“You’re welcome,” says Glory thoughtful-like.
“Seven year and a few months,” says the old man, like he was talking
to himself. “Me wonderin’ why she don’t write, and—and it’s a long
ways to Arizony—on a mule.”
“Woman sick?” asks Hashknife.
“Not now,” says Glory sad-like. “Maybe she’s better off, I don’t
know. Anything is better than livin’ here like she had to live.”
“Where’s her husband?” asks Hashknife, like he didn’t know.
“Gone to town,” says Glory. “He—he was going to try and get some
medicine.”
“Ain’t yuh got no doctor?” I asks.
“Yes, but——”
“He wouldn’t come?” asks Hashknife, and Glory shakes her head.
“She was my daughter,” says the old man, and then he says to Glory,
“Will yuh come in with me and he’p me a little?”
The little kid looks at us and then follers them inside. Me and
Hashknife looks at each other. We’re kinda hard-boiled, but it’s
getting under our hides a little.
Then we hears voices out by the gate, and here comes a lot of men.
We figures it’s the council coming to notify Eph’s wife. It ain’t
right to feel thataway, but I’m kinda glad she wasn’t able to hear
what they has to say. Hashknife touches me and I steps around the
corner with him.
This gang trails around to the back door and we hears one of ’em
speak to Glory. The old man must ’a’ come to the door, ’cause we
hears somebody ask Glory who the old man is. The old man starts to
talk, but one of the gang says:
“We jist wants to say that Eph got killed today.”
We hears Glory say:
“Eph Sillman?” kinda strained-like.
“Uh-huh.”
“Dad, is this true?” asks Glory, but we don’t hear Jim Sillman
answer.
“What or who killed him?” asks Glory.
“Nobody seems to know,” says a voice. “He’s layin’ up there in front
of the store. Bassett heard the shot and so did several more folks.
Bassett says that two fellers rode through town today, and he’s dead
certain that they’re them same two cowboys what tried to steal the
Godfrey place. Them two is likely the ones what done it.”
“They better not show up around this country,” states a voice. “I’m
lookin’ fer them two, y’betcha.”
Hashknife pinches me on the arm.
“That’s one of the fellers what tried to hold me up for the five
hundred dollars I never got. I reckon I shot high.”
“Eph went to see if he could get a little medicine,” says Glory, and
her voice is high pitched. Then she adds, “But it wouldn’t ’a’ done
any good.”
“Did—did she die?” asks Jim Sillman.
“She was my daughter,” says the old man. “My daughter.”
“This here e-state will need considerin’,” says a voice.
“My gosh, there’s Sol Vane!” gasps Hashknife.
“How about the kid?” asks some one.
“He don’t count,” declares another. “He’s the brat of a outlander.
Mebbe we better look around fer them two gun-fighters.”
“I’m lookin’ fer ’em, y’betcha,” states the feller who has promised
to dance our hair. “All I needs is one look.”
Hashknife steps away from the side of the building and around the
corner, with me on his heels. The folks are grouped in kind of a
half-circle around the doorway. Glory and the old man are on the
steps, with the kid between ’em. On the left side of the doorway is
Jim Sillman. Standing at the rear of the half-circle, looking like a
turkey gobbler in a flock of turkeys, stands Sol Vane, craning his
long, dirty neck and chewing a mouthful of tobacco that stretches
his face all out of shape. They turns and looks at us.
“Yuh might use up that one look right now,” says Hashknife.
The bunch kinda sway away from each other. One cinch, there’s never
any chance for pot-shooting on Willer Crick. I sees Sol Vane swaller
real hard and the bulge is gone from his skinny cheeks. The rest of
the bunch just seem to stare at us.
Hashknife has got his eyes on that big-talker, who is just about in
the center of the crowd. He’s sort of round-shouldered, fish-eyed
and looks like he ain’t been curried for a year. His eyes are flat,
if you know what I mean. They’re like the eyes they put in mounted
animals. He’s got a big gun hanging on his hip, but he ain’t made a
move toward it yet.
“You, I’m talkin’ to,” says Hashknife. “You dirty centipede. Set
your eyes on me, feller. I’m the hombre you spoke about. Reach for
your gun, you cross between a polecat and buzzard. Make good, can’t
yuh?”
I never seen Hashknife like that before. This is once that he ain’t
laughing. Maybe he knows that one shot will spill the whole works,
and the odds are all against us.
* * * * *
The feller licks his lips but don’t speak. His face looks kinda
funny—like he was scared to breathe. Hashknife walks up to him,
slow, but this feller don’t move. The rest of the crowd seems
hypnotized, but I wasn’t taking no chances. I sets the butt of my
.45 against my hip and waits for the break to come.
Hashknife takes this feller’s gun out of its holster and tries to
make him take it in his hand, but all this feller does is look like
a dog that has been caught doing wrong. Hashknife takes the feller’s
belt off, takes him by the shoulder and turns him around.
“Go home,” says Hashknife kinda hoarse-like. “Go home and be glad
you’re alive.” I never seen anything like it. That feller walked
away, kinda slouching, and Hashknife turned back to face the bunch.
It was Hashknife’s face and eyes that froze that bad _hombre_. He
was hypnotized, but the minute Hashknife turned his back this feller
came to. He swung sideways, grabbed his vest and flashed another
gun.
I was looking for just that. He was about fifty feet from me, but I
took a chance and shot twice.
Man, I was just in time. His bullet cut the dirt at Hashknife’s
feet. He looks down at his pistol and then kinda tosses it away from
him, like he was all through with it, and then turned as though he
was going away—but he didn’t. I glances at the bunch and then at
Hashknife, who was facing them with a gun in his hand.
“Hashknife,” says I, “you do take the worst chances. These Willer
Crick rattlers has more than one set of fangs. Little more and that
Alaska trip would ’a’ been all off.”
“You’re the little snake-hunter, Sleepy,” he grins. “Much obliged.”
Then he faces the bunch and they’re sure one uneasy crowd. Me
downin’ that feller don’t mean nothin’ to them—much. Hashknife
glances from face to face, and finally looks straight at Sillman.
“Eph Sillman was your son, wasn’t he?”
Sillman don’t speak: just shifts his feet.
“That dead woman in there was your daughter-in-law, Sillman. You
folks denied her a doctor and then yuh killed her husband when he
was man enough to try and get medicine for her. We seen that
killin’. Bassett and three other men saw it; now yuh tried to throw
the deadwood on me and Stevens.”
“You fellers try your dangdest to stir up trouble, don’t yuh?” wails
Sol Vane. “I didn’t think you’d ever come back here, I didn’t.”
“I came back to see if your hair growed out, Sol,” says Hashknife.
“If yuh want another hair cut, I’ll bury the dynamite.”
Nobody had a word to say, but finally Sol Vane spoke—“The feller
you gunned up over there is Lem Sellers. He’s a brother to Sim
Sellers.”
“I don’t care if he’s his own uncle and brother-in-law,” says
Hashknife. “Who is Sim Sellers?”
“Head of the council,” says Sol, like he’d sprung something on us.
“Sim’s the head man of Willer Crick.”
“I hope he’s got more guts than Lem,” says Hashknife. “I like to do
my own killin’.”
Just then that little kid kinda sneaks up beside Hashknife and
Hashknife looks down at him. The little feller looks up at Hashknife
with them big eyes, and then he just slips in closer, like a pup
does when he likes yuh.
“Come here, Buddy,” says Glory, but Buddy’s hanging on to a rosette
on Hashknife’s chaps and don’t even look at her.
“Buddy kinda inherits this ranch, don’t he?” I asks.
“That’s a question,” says Sol Vane. “A question for the council to
decide.”
“And they’ve already decided,” says Glory.
Hashknife looks down at Buddy and then at the bunch of men.
“The kid’s goin’ to get a square deal, ain’t he, Sillman? He’s your
grandson.”
The men all looked at Sillman, but Sillman don’t speak.
“Your grandpaw’s goin’ to see that you gets a square deal, Buddy,”
says Hashknife, patting the kid on the head.
One of the men kinda snickers and then turns away.
“Who’s goin’ to keep the kid now?” I asks. “His family ain’t in no
shape to take care of him.”
Sol Vane clears his throat. The son-of-a-gun looks like a gobbler
with something stuck in his neck.
“Well that’s a question. He ain’t a Sillman and he ain’t nothin’
else—much. It’s a question, I reckon. Nobody on the Crick is
beholdin’ to his folks that I knows on.”
Sol Vane swallers hard and begins to chaw again.
“He’s your kid, Sillman,” says Hashknife soft-like.
“I’d like to—” begins Glory, but Sillman stops her.
Then he says to Hashknife:
“Hartley, you ain’t got no business hornin’ in like this. Willer
Crick can handle its own affairs, and Willer Crick will decide what
is to become of the kid.”
“And you’re his gran’paw,” says Hashknife, “gran’paw to a nice
little harmless kid like this. And you say that Willer Crick will
tend to him. Why—” Hashknife teeters on his toes and hooks his
thumb over the belt above his gun—“why, you herd of mangy curs! You
pack of gutter pups! Go ahead, you chinless maverick—reach for your
gun! No? Then listen to me, you lousy cowards! You, Sillman! I
thought you was an inch or two above this carrion, but you ain’t.
You’re all alike. You’ve married your own relations until your
brains are warped and shrunk so badly that you ain’t above eatin’
your own kind. The cannibal will protect its own blood, but you
coyotes won’t.”
Them Willer Crickers never made a false move. Maybe they’d ’a’
nailed us, bein’ about five to one and all armed, but we’d ’a’ sure
give the buzzards a feed, and them men knowed we would.
“I wish,” says Hashknife, “I wish I had education enough to tell
folks what I think of yuh. There’s a lot of words I don’t know, dang
the luck.”
The old man steps down from the doorway and moves in beside
Hashknife.
“Brother,” says he, “you’ve done well. If I can help yuh out in any
way, I’d be plumb willin’. I’m a preacher of the gospel, but there
is times when a good cuss word does come in handy.”
“Are yuh through?” asks Sillman meek-like.
“No, I ain’t!” snaps Hashknife. “I’ve got to think of somethin’ new
to call yuh. Ain’t there nothin’ I can say that will make yuh mad?
Ain’t yuh got enough decency left to accept a insult?”
“Mebbe,” says Sol Vane, “mebbe you’ll find out—later.”
“Thanks,” says Hashknife dry-like. “I’m glad to have somethin’ to
look forward to. I had a open, runnin’ shot at you once, Sol, and I
was fool enough to shoot low. Next time I’m goin’ to cut you off
above the collar.”
“You cain’t threaten me, Hartley!”
“I ain’t threatenin’ yuh. No, you buzzard, I’m statin’ a fact.”
“There’s fifty men on Willer Crick,” states another one of the
bunch.
“Pass the word,” says Hashknife. “There’s just that much difference
between us and you. Me and Sleepy are square shooters and we’d love
to have yuh come and bring all your friends. Only twenty-five
apiece. Sleepy, there don’t seem to be much chance for us to get
action here.”
“Who’s goin’ to take the kid?” I asks.
“I am,” says Hashknife. “He’s too good to live with Willer
Crickers.”
“He, he, he,” cackles Sol Vane. “He, he, he.”
“Sol Vane, you’re goin’ to choke to death some day,” states
Hashknife. “Right in the middle of one of them laughs you’re goin’
to quit seein’ the funny side of serious things. Now, you
snake-hunters, pick up that would-be assassin and drift. I don’t
want him clutterin’ up the scenery. Tell your friends that we’re
receivin’ company at any time.”
They files past us and picks up Lem Seller. I don’t reckon Lem’s
plumb dead, but he ain’t in no shape to help himself much. They
loads him up and drifts, while me and Hashknife and the little kid
stands there and watches ’em go.
* * * * *
Glory is inside the house. After they drifts out of sight I steps up
to the door and peers inside. I see Glory standing by the front
window. Then she turns and leans a Winchester rifle against the
wall. Hashknife looks over my shoulder and sees her place the gun,
and then he looks at me kinda queer-like.
Glory wasn’t takin’ no chances on Willer Crick smoking us up. The
little kid hangs on to Hashknife.
“I like you,” says the little jigger, looking up at Hashknife.
“Well, for gosh sakes!” gasps Hashknife. “Whatcha know about that.
Buddy, me and you are goin’ to bunk together for quite a spell.”
“You play wit’ me?” he asks.
“Well, my gosh!” says Hashknife foolish-like. “Well, whatcha know
about that?”
“Brother,” says the old man, “was you serious about takin’ Buddy?”
“You’re a preacher,” says Hashknife, “and I admire preachers a heap,
but just you try takin’ him away from me. Ain’t nobody sayin’ I
can’t take him, is there?”
Glory looks at Hashknife and then down at the kid.
“I’m glad for Buddy,” says she.
“Buddy glad,” says the kid.
“Well, my gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Don’t this beat —— and high
water?”
Willer Crick never made no foolish breaks when we went up with Eph
Sillman’s old wagon and team and brought Eph’s body back with us. Me
and Hashknife went up there and took it—that’s all. They’d moved
him off behind the sidewalk and put a old blanket over him. The
store was closed and there wasn’t man, woman nor child in sight.
Glory said they wouldn’t bury him, and I reckon she was right. Me
and Hashknife dug two graves and Hashknife built two boxes. It’s
awful to have to plant folks thataway, but we done our dangdest to
make it look right.
The old man kind a broke down over the sermon, which was natural,
and Hashknife finished it up. Glory was there. It was her brother,
and I reckon she thought a lot of him. Buddy didn’t know what it
meant, but he bawled anyway, which made a real pleasant party all
the way around. I reckon the old man was kinda loco over it all,
’cause he went out, got on his mule and pulled his freight.
Glory didn’t have much to say after it was over. She kissed the kid,
and then got on her horse.
“I ain’t had much chance to talk to you two,” says she, “but I want
you both to know I’m obliged to you. Maybe they won’t let me see you
again, but I hope you’ll take Buddy and get away—which I know you
won’t do.”
“Glory Sillman,” says Hashknife, “you’re welcome—and we won’t.”
She smiled at us and rode away, and we stood there with our hats in
our hands, like a pair of fools until she’s out of sight.
“Well,” says I, “we’ve met Willer Crick.”
“Not all, Sleepy; there’s forty more, so they say. Glory left her
rifle. It’s standin’ in there, and hangin’ to it is a belt plumb
full of shells. She likely didn’t know we had a pair of rifles.”
“She did,” says I, “but she wanted to have an extra one here when
she showed up.”
We cooks supper, but neither of us has any appetite. Buddy wants to
get on Hashknife’s knee all the time, and Hashknife ain’t got no
conversation in his system, except, “My gosh!” They’ve got the house
fixed up kinda nice inside. There ain’t much furniture, but it’s
clean, which is something in Willer Crick.
“Don’t yuh never have no little boys to play with?” I asks.
“Li’l boys?” says Buddy, “I’m li’l boy.”
“This country ain’t human, Sleepy,” says Hashknife. “This here
family must ’a’ been ignored complete, the same of which would drive
anybody loco. Honest, I thought Jim Sillman was half-human, but he
ain’t. Glory’s a humdinger, but she’s sure handicapped. Think of
these _hombres_ spyin’ on her to see if she ever comes to see her
sister-in-law. Ain’t they the meanest, sneakinest bunch of pariah
dogs yuh ever seen? It ain’t hard to see who slammed that bullet
into Tug Wilson. Too bad she shot high.”
I’m leaning against one of the front windows, looking down the road,
and I sees a man coming. It’s almost dark, but I _sabe_ that
pelican.
“Here comes Sol Vane,” says I.
He rides up to the front gate, gets off his horse, takes out a white
rag. I opens the front door.
“Can yuh see me?” he asks, waving the rag.
“Come ahead,” I yells back at him, and he shuffles up to the door.
“I packed a flag,” says he, masticating real fast and looking at
Hashknife with the kid on his lap, “I ain’t got no gun on me.”
“Yuh didn’t need to deprive yourself of a gun,” says Hashknife.
“I ain’t comin’ to talk mean,” explains Sol. “We held a council
uptown, and I just comes down here to let yuh know some of the
things we argued out.
“Some was in favor of bustin’ down here and puttin’ yuh on the run,
but I’m plumb in favor of goin’ kinda soft.”
Sol grins and takes a fresh chew.
“They wasn’t hard to convince that your way was the best, was they?”
I asks.
“I does the lawin’ fer Willer Crick, and they accepts my
judgment—mostly. I comes to talk to yuh about th’ brat.”
“Boy, yuh mean,” says Hashknife. “In speakin’ of this offspring,
Sol, use the boy’s name or just speak of him as ‘the boy.’”
The little jigger knows that Hashknife is sticking up for him, I can
see that, and he kinda leans back against Hashknife.
“This here ranch,” says Sol, “belongs to—well, I reckon it’s a
question. Jim Sillman owns part of it and the rest of it’s to be
settled by the council.”
“Meanin’ that Buddy gets gipped out of his ranch, eh?” asks
Hashknife.
“Under the circumstances, the br—Buddy don’t own nothin’. His folks
was just suffered to kinda live here.”
“Suffered,” nods Hashknife. “Go ahead.”
“I reckon that’s all.”
“All for you,” amends Hashknife, “but I ain’t started yet. For one
thing, Sol Vane, I’m goin’ to do this: I’m goin’ to the county seat,
find a regular lawyer and make Willer Crick jump over the moon. I’m
goin’ to see that this here baby gets a square deal and I’m goin’
to——”
“Now, now,” grunts Sol Vane. “Don’t git excited. Willer Crick ain’t
goin’ to beat nobody out of nothin’—not if they owns anythin’,
y’understand.”
“This here Buddy is exhibit A,” says Hashknife. “Willer Crick took
away his folks but they don’t take away nothin’ more. This ranch
ain’t much, but it’ll be somethin’ for him to live on.”
Hashknife gets up and steps over beside Sol Vane.
“You tell your —— council that Buddy owns this ranch, will yuh?”
“’Pears to me,” says Sol, “that you’re kinda anxious to—the kid
bein’ a minor and you grabbin’ him thataway, it kinda looks like you
was sort of——”
Sol Vane made one awful mistake when he hinted that Hashknife was
trying to feather his own nest. I seen Hashknife swing his body
sideways, and Sol Vane landed flat on his face on the little dirt
walk. It was a beautiful smash. We stands there and watches him
twitch back to life, like one of them animated toy things. He
managed to get to his feet and start for the gate, but ran into a
tree and fell down again.
Then he got up and found his horse, but he didn’t take time to
mount; just went staggering down the road, leading the horse.
“Good!” says Buddy, and his eyes were like saucers. “Sol Vane bad
mans, my daddy says.”
“My gosh!” gasps Hashknife. “Did yuh hear that? He said it was good.
This feller ain’t no Willer Cricker, y’betcha.”
* * * * *
Not bein’ wishful to take any chances of a night attack, the three
of us slept in the open. We took bedding from the house and rolled
up under the trees. Buddy thought it was a picnic. The next morning
we finds a notice on the front door, which reads: