“Well,” observes Hashknife, “we’ll just about take that advice. Not
that Willer Crick is runnin’ any whizzer on us, Sleepy, but we’ve
got to kinda look out for this little Buddy, eh, Bud?”
“Betcha,” nods Buddy. “But we ain’t scared, are we?”
“It’s a wonder to me that this here kid ain’t cleaned up on that
bunch before this, Sleepy. He’s got plenty of nerve. Did yuh ever
shoot a gun, Buddy?”
“No, but I betcha I could.”
“He’s got it, Sleepy,” grins Hashknife. “Natcheral born terrier.
Let’s pack up.”
We saddled our broncs and packed up all the clothes we can for the
kid, which ain’t much. We took a little grub and then pulled out,
with the kid riding in front of Hashknife. We took Glory’s rifle and
belt with us, figuring on going past Sillman’s place and leaving it
there.
There’s another road angling off the one to town, and the kid tells
us that it goes past Glory’s place. We ain’t got nothin’ to take us
through town; so we swings off onto this road. About a mile farther
on Hashknife pulls up his horse and squints off down into a brushy
coulee.
“Sleepy, there’s the old’ man’s mule there, ain’t it?”
“It’s the mule all right; feeding around in the brush.”
We swings our horses around and rides along the edge of the coulee,
which leads down a deeper ravine.
“Anybody live around here—close, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.
“Mitch Ames lives down there,” says Buddy, pointing down the ravine.
“Fine!” grins Hashknife. “I dunno Mitch, but we’ll go down and see
him.”
“You seen him yesterday,” says Buddy. “He was to my house with them
men.”
“Oh, is that a fact? Well, he called on us, Buddy, and it ain’t no
more than fair that we calls on him. Sleepy, did yuh notice that the
mule was wearin’ a piece of pocket-rope. Likely broke loose.”
Mitch Ames’ cabin was cached away in that ravine, like he was scared
somebody would find it, but Buddy knowed right where it was. We
swung down the hill above it. Setting beside the cabin, tilted back
in a chair, is two men. One of the horses steps on a round rock and
sends it bumping down the hill and it hops into the bushes right
near ’em.
Jump? Man I’d say they jumped! One of ’em had a rifle across his
knee, and when he seen us he started to throw it to his shoulder,
but the other feller grabbed him and yanked him around the corner.
Me and Hashknife drops out of our saddles and slips our rifles
loose. We didn’t come there hunting for trouble, but if it showed up
we’d be ready.
“Buddy, you get down in the brush,” orders Hashknife, pointing to a
thick clump. “You get down low and wait for us.”
“Betcha,” says Buddy. “Me wait.”
The little jigger dives down into the brush like a rabbit and then
me and Hashknife separates a few feet apart and slips down to the
cabin—or rather toward the cabin, ’cause just about the time we hit
the flat ground a hunk of lead whispers so close to my head that I
heard what it said. We flops down and waits awhile.
The brush is kinda thick and we can only see one side of the cabin.
We lay there quite a while, but there ain’t no more shots. We kinda
snakes along until we works up beside the cabin, where we listens
for a while, but can’t hear a thing. Hashknife gets to his feet,
takes out his six-shooter for close work and walks to the door end
of the cabin, with me on his heels. The door is shut. Hashknife
gives it a kick and it swings open. Inside it is dark, being as
there’s only one window, and that dirty.
We steps inside, and looks around, and as soon as our eyes gets used
to the dusk we sees that there’s a man laying on the bed.
It’s the old preacher that rode the mule, and he’s sure hog-tied to
a fare-thee-well, and has a rag shoved between his teeth.
Hashknife takes out his knife and starts to cut the ropes, but stops
and listens. Then he jumps for the door, with me behind him.
“The horses!” gasps Hashknife. “I heard them rollin’ rocks. There
they go!”
Up over the peak of a hogback goes our two horses, with a man in
each saddle, and one of ’em is packing Buddy. Hashknife throws up
his .45-70 Winchester.
“Buddy’s on that bay!” I yelps. “Look out, Hashknife!”
* * * * *
The rifle cracked and the gray horse swung sideways as the bullet
fanned past its ear and the rider throws himself kinda sideways.
It’s only a jump more to get out of sight and the range is about two
hundred yards. I glances at Hashknife just as he shoots again.
I seen the rider of the gray horse slump sideways and go down on the
left side of the gray. I reckon he must ’a’ tangled in the reins,
’cause it swung the gray plumb around on the hogback and it stops
with its head down.
We went up there as fast as we could, but the bay horse and its two
riders were out in the breaks. That bay horse could outrun anything
in the cow-country, even packing weight; so we know it ain’t going
to do us any good to try and run him down with that hammer-headed
gray.
This feller has got one foot twisted in the stirrup and has the
reins twisted around his hand and elbow. That big bullet had lifted
part of his scalp and the top of his right ear, but he wasn’t dead.
“Worst shootin’ I’ve done in a age,” complains Hashknife. “Kinda had
buck-fever, I reckon. Shame to waste two shots thataway.”
We hung the feller over the saddle and went back down to the cabin,
where we cut the old man loose. It took him quite a while to
recognize us and also to get his vocal cords to working again.
“How did yuh happen to be in this shape, old-timer?” asks Hashknife.
He shakes his head.
“I don’t know, brother. I went to the town, after I left you, and
I—I asked a man where I could find the sheriff. He wanted to know
what I wanted him for and I said I wanted to talk to him on
business. I left there, and in a few minutes some men overtook me
and brought me here. They tied me up and left two men to guard me.
One of the men told me that if I ever seen the sheriff it would be
after the sheriff had died and joined me.”
We led the old man outside and showed him the wounded man.
“He’s the one what told me that,” says he. “What happened to him?”
“He stayed too long,” grins Hashknife. “We’ll tie him up in your
place.”
This hombre has commenced to talk to himself, so we ties him to the
bunk, where he won’t get loose for a while.
“You take the horse and round up the mule, Sleepy,” says Hashknife.
That wasn’t no job, being as the mule had sore feet. I took it back
to the cabin and turned it over to the old man. Me and Hashknife
doubles up on the bay horse and the three of us cut back to the main
road again.
About a mile or so farther on we comes to the Sillman ranch.
Hashknife points down the road and says to the old man:
“Keep on this road, pardner, until yuh come to the sign where we
first met yuh, then yuh turn to the left. Silverton is about twenty
miles.”
“I wants to thank yuh, son,” says he. “Wants to thank both of yuh
for what yuh done fer me. I’m gettin’ kinda old and so
forth—but——”
“A man ain’t no older than he feels,” says I.
“Then I’m a million. Got rheumatics and them ropes didn’t he’p it
none. _Adios._”
“Now,” says Hashknife, “I hope he gets out free of charge, ’cause I
ain’t got no more time to monkey with him.”
We swung into Sillman’s gate and rode up to the house. I reckon
Glory seen us ride into the place, ’cause she comes out the front
door to meet us and the first thing she says is—
“Where’s Buddy?”
It don’t take Hashknife long to tell her what happened to Buddy and
how we found the old preacher.
“Where’s your pa?” I asks.
“In town, I reckon. Council meeting called, I think. They met here
last night, but I didn’t get any chance to hear what was said.
They’re all suspicious of me. Sim Sellers wants me to be punished
for assisting Eph’s wife, and him and dad had a run-in over it. Sim
growled at me when they came and I told him that Lem was a growler
and look what he got.
“Sim ain’t no better than a savage, and he said he’d eat your heart
out if he got a chance. I told him he better get some extra teeth
’cause he might lose what he’s got. I thought that dad would give me
—— for sayin’ it, but he didn’t. He asked me where I left my
rifle, and I told him I left it in a good cause.”
“Glory,” says Hashknife, “do yuh know why I didn’t marry yuh that
time?”
“No, I—I don’t,” says Glory, turning red, “but it wouldn’t ’a’
worked any way, ’cause Willer Crick showed up in force. Me and Dad
and uncle Luke thought you seen ’em coming.”
“Your Uncle Luke was the sheriff of Yolo, wasn’t he, Glory?”
“He was once—yes.”
“When he was here?”
“No-o-o—not hardly. He got in bad with the Vigilantes down there.”
Hashknife looked at me and I looks at him, but neither of us says a
word. Then Glory says:
“What do you reckon they’ll do with poor Buddy? What did they steal
him for? Nobody wanted the little feller.”
“They want to get him away from me so there won’t be no heir to that
ranch,” says Hashknife. “They’re goin’ to hoodie that poor little
kid out of the way, Glory.”
Hashknife eases himself in his saddle and looks off across the
hills. “I never had nothin’ like him—nothin’ in my life. The little
jigger liked me, and kinda depended on me, I reckon. I said I was
goin’ to keep him, didn’t I?”
Hashknife turns and looks at us.
“I said that, didn’t I? Well, that goes as she lays. Somebody on
Willer Crick has got Buddy, and I’m goin’ to start in at the foot
and work my way up, and I’m goin’ to git that kid if I have to fill
—— with Willer Crickers.”
Glory nods like she knowed Hashknife meant it.
“Loan me a horse and saddle?” I asks.
“No,” says Glory, “I won’t loan you a horse, but there’s several out
in the corral and there’s a couple of saddles hanging in the shed. I
can’t stop you from taking what you want, can I?”
Me and Hashknife starts for the corral.
“That roan out there can run all day,” yells Glory. “He don’t look
it, but he’s the best bronc in this country.”
“I hate to take things like this by force,” says Hashknife
serious-like. “It ain’t right to intimidate a lady thataway.”
“You’re a pair of brutes,” says Glory. “Pick on somebody your own
size.”
* * * * *
I don’t know whether Glory was kidding about that bronc or not. It
bucked over the corral fence with me, bucked for half a mile faster
than Hashknife’s animal could run. After that it was a pretty good
animal. We headed straight for town.
“Willer Crick will be looking for us, Hashknife,” says I.
“I hope so, Sleepy. I hopes they forms a holler square and hauls out
their cannon.”
“Mebbe,” says I, “mebbe we ought to let Willer Crick dispose of
their own business. They ain’t got no sense, but maybe they’ll give
the kid a square deal, if we give ’em a chance.”
“Maybe the devil could skate—if he had ice—but we know he ain’t.”
There’s at least twenty-five saddled horses in town, but not a
person in sight as we swung down the street, but as we swung past
the store a man came out. He gave us one look and then started for
the outside stairs of the town hall. He showed speed, but not
enough. Hashknife jumped his bronc across the sidewalk and into that
feller, just short of the bottom step.
The bronc’s shoulder hit that feller, and he went spinning away like
a tumble-weed in a wind; then Hashknife’s bronc hit the flimsy
railing of the stairs and went down. Out of the tangle comes
Hashknife and he’s got his Winchester. The bronc gets to its feet
and limps away, while Hashknife runs along the side of the building
and around to the front.
“Get off and under cover, you danged fool!” he yelps at me. “Willer
Crick is all upstairs!”
I jumps my horse out of line with the windows and gets off. I hears
somebody yelp a question, and then I follers Hashknife across the
street, where we ducks in behind that old shed. I reckon that Willer
Crick was too excited to take a shot at us when we went across the
street.
Extending out from the side of the shed is a pile of old lumber,
which we proceeds to get behind. It’s about three feet high and ten
feet long. Between us and the other side of the street is the
tie-rack, full of saddle-horses.
The feller who got knocked down is crawling out of sight behind the
saloon, and Hashknife’s bronc is just wandering around between the
saloon and the store.
“There’s our bay horse,” says I, pointing at the tie-rack.
Then a bullet dusted the top of the lumber pile and sent some
splinters into my face.
“Keep low,” advises Hashknife. “They’re a-shooting from the windows.
We’ve got to be careful that we don’t hit Buddy.”
* * * * *
Then Willer Crick starts in to make a lead mine out of our lumber
pile, but them old boards sure do stop bullets. One feller gets
cocky and looks out of the door. I lifts his hat and I think a part
of his scalp, cause he yelps like a bee had stung him.
“Don’t shoot until you’re sure,” grins Hashknife. “We can’t take any
chances of hittin’ our little jigger.”
“Think a lot of that kid, don’t yuh,” says I.
“’Thout a doubt in the world, Sleepy.”
“It ain’t noways reasonable for you to adopt him,” says I.
Hashknife recovers his hat, with a hole in the crown, and nudges in
closer to the lumber pile, while Willer Crick sifted lead across the
street.
“Nobody wants him but me, Sleepy, and I ain’t goin’ to let the
little jigger go to no orphing home, y’betcha. Maybe I ain’t no
fittin’ person to bring up a kid, but—oh, oh-h-h!”
Hashknife slips his rifle-barrel into a slot between two boards and
then twists over almost on his shoulder, in order to look down the
sights. A feller has slipped out of the doorway, thinking that we
didn’t dare to expose ourselves enough to shoot.
Hashknife’s rifle cracked, and the feller’s feet slipped and he sat
down hard. I don’t know where it hit him, but it made him either
brave or sick, ’cause he just sets there, until a arm sticks out of
the door and hauls him back inside. Then the shooting seemed to ease
up.
“What do you fellers want?” yells a voice.
“This is a —— of a time to ask questions!” yells Hashknife. “Don’t
stop shootin’ on our account.”
Just then a bullet nicked a piece of meat off the point of my jaw,
and splatted into the wood beside my head. Before we can move,
another bullet hit Hashknife’s hat.
“Behind us!” I yelps. “Look out!”
Hashknife flips off his hat and yanks his gun out of the slot.
“Look out yourself! That son-of-a-gun I knocked down has circled
us.”
Willer Crick woke up to the fact that something is wrong, and they
sure hammered our fort.
Zowie! A bullet spinged off my rifle-barrel and almost knocked it
out of my hands.
“Watch the hall,” says I. “I’ll tend to our neighbor before he
spoils our Alaska trip for good.”
I crawls in behind the old shed. Behind us is nothing but mesquite
brush, which don’t make very good cover, especially for the first
fifty yards.
Willer Crick is still trying to annihilate that pile of lumber, so I
takes a chance and crawls like a snake. None of ’em seen me and I
reached the heavy brush in safety. I hears this feller shoot again,
and all to once I see him. He ain’t over fifty feet from me. There’s
kind of a high piece of ground, with some rocks on it and a lot of
mesquite clumps.
He’s having quite a nice time all by his lonesome and ain’t
expecting visitors. He has to lift up real high to send his lead
anywhere near Hashknife. He’s shooting one of them old 1876 models
of Winchester, the kind we calls “grasshopper” action.
He rises up on his toes, squints down the sights, but seems to kinda
get dissatisfied and relaxes. I could almost throw my gun and hit
him, and shooting him thataway would be murder; so I waits until he
lines up his sights again and then I slams a bullet into the
loading-gate of his rifle.
I reckon a .45-70 hits kinda hard, cause it knocked him loose from
that gun and he sat down hard. Some of the busted mechanism must ’a’
dented the primer of one of the shells in the magazine, ’cause that
rifle sure raised —— for a few seconds. The owner of the gun
wagged his head and looks down at the barrel of my rifle, which was
poking into his belt.
“Get up!” says I.
He got up kinda slow-like, shaking his head and then he grabbed for
his six-gun. I’m too close to him to shoot with the rifle, so I
uppercuts him under the chin with the barrel, and he lost interest
in everything.
I took his belt and six-gun back with me. Willer Crick seen me as I
came back, but they must ’a’ hurried their aim. I got back to the
shed, with my eyes, ears and nose full of dirt and a hole in my
sleeve. Hashknife is doubled up, covering the doorway from that slot
in the lumber pile.
“You’re a fine friend,” says I. “You let ’em all come to the window
and shoot at me.”
“They had Buddy with ’em, Sleepy. Dang it, I was afraid to shoot.”
Somebody yells at Hashknife, but I don’t hear what he said.
“No yuh don’t,” answers Hashknife. “You let us have Buddy and we’ll
call it square.”
Hashknife motions for me to stay behind the shed. I seen him settle
down and line up his rifle again. He lifts his head and says:
“Sleepy, for ——’s sake, look! He’s usin’ Buddy for a shield. The
rotten coward!”
I jumps to the corner of the building and looks. There’s a big
feller coming down the stairs, with Buddy held in front of him. He’s
got his arms wrapped around the kid, and there ain’t a chance in the
world for us to shoot him.
“Take that bay hoss, Sim,” yells a voice from the hall. “He can
outrun anythin’ around here.”
“He, he, he!” cackles Sol Vane. “He, he, he!”
Hashknife empties his rifle through the windows of the hall and Sol
quit laughing.
“Yuh can’t git the best of Sim Sellers,” whoops a voice.
Sim comes on to the horses, which are plumb nervous. One of ’em
ripped its bridle loose and went down the street and another threw
itself, trying to get loose. Sellers is kinda between us and the
windows, which stops their shooting.
“Don’t get scared, Buddy,” says Hashknife.
“I ain’t,” shrills Buddy. “Betcha I ain’t.”
“Sim,” says Hashknife, “you better think up a prayer, ’cause you’re
goin’ to need one —— bad.”
* * * * *
Sellers cursed us and carried Buddy in close to that bay horse,
which has anchored itself with its left side against the tie-rack
and refuses to budge. It’s easy enough to use a kid for a shield
against bullets, but it’s another thing to get on to a scared bronc
with the kid in your arms and still keep covered.
Willer Crick are liable to hit Sellers if they shoot at us, so we
takes things easy.
“You’re in a hole, Sim,” says Hashknife. “One bad move and you’re a
goner.”
“You’ll have to get on Injun side,” says I, “and that bronc will
sure love you for that.”
Sim Sellers sure is up against it. I reckon he seen what he was up
against—seen that he had to take a chance; so he threw Buddy into
the saddle, intending, I reckon, to throw himself sideways on that
bronc and make a getaway like an Injun, but Hashknife was looking
for that move.
As Buddy went into the saddle it left Sim’s legs exposed under the
bronc’s belly. Hashknife shot twice with his six-shooter and Sim
went down, like something had cut his legs out from under him. The
horse plunged against the rack, throwing Buddy between us and the
hitch-rack, but he lit on his hands and knees.
“Come a-runnin’, Buddy!” yells Hashknife, and if you ever seen a
rabbit, that kid sure imitated one.
He dived around the corner of that lumber pile and landed between
us, where he sets and puffs the wind back into his lungs.
“Hurt yuh any?” asks Hashknife.
“Na-a-a-w! Sim Sellers like to busted my ribs, though. Did yuh kill
him?”
“Cut him loose from the ground,” says Hashknife, watching the
windows.
“Set still, Sim. Don’t forget that both ends of yuh are exposed
now.”
Sim Sellers is setting there in the dust, with a pair of legs that
don’t seem to work.
“They stole me,” says Buddy. “After you left me with the horses,
Mitch Ames and ‘Poky’ Vane swiped me. I kicked Mitch in the knee and
he swore he’d kill me. He brought me here. Say, they’re goin’ to
kill you—honest. They ain’t goin’ to let you tell the sheriff on
Cale Ames. They sent men to get the old man.”
“Where were they goin’ to take you, Buddy?” asks Hashknife.
“Me dunno,” Buddy shakes his head. “Sim Sellers says he’s takin’ me
where you fellers never will find me.”
“Hey!” yells a voice from the hall, which we recognizes as belonging
to Sol Vane. “Can yuh hear me?”
“If yuh don’t yell too loud,” answers Hashknife.
“Now listen; that shed beside you is containin’ about five hundred
pounds of dinnamite, caps and fuses. Come out and hold up your hands
or we’ll shoot into it until we blows yuh up. Do yuh hear that?”
Me and Hashknife looks at each other. It’s a good bluff. I don’t
care a whoop who says nay, I’m here to state that dynamite might go
off under them conditions. Some of them hombres are shooting .50-110
rifles, which carries a explosive bullet, and that might make things
plumb audible around us.
“Talk to ’em, Sleepy,” grunts Hashknife. “Keep talking, for ——’s
sake!”
“You mean, you’d blow us up, Sol?” I asks, as Hashknife slides past
me and gets against the building.
“He, he, he! Think we’d let ye off after what you’ve done? Naw, sir,
your goin’ to git all that’s comin’ to yuh. When I give the word we
start shootin’.”
Of course they never thought that we had a chance to sneak away into
the mesquite, and if they did they knew we’d never leave on foot as
long as there’s a chance to get horses.
“We’re willin’ to go now,” says I. Hashknife rips one of the boards
loose and crawls inside.
“Ready to go, are yuh?” chuckles Sol Vane. “Jist try startin’, will
yuh. There’s twenty rifles ready to give yuh a sendoff.”
“Think I ought to put Sim Sellers out of his misery?” I asks.
Sim Sellers quits crawling and looks back at me. He thought we had
forgot him.
“Throw away your gun!” I yells at him, and he threw it away.
“Well, what have yuh got to say?” yells Sol Vane.
“Give me a chance to think it over.”
“Two minutes,” says Sol. “Two minutes will be all.”
“That’s enough,” grunts Hashknife, forcing his way out past the
loose board.
He’s got a fifty-pound box of dynamite in his arms, a box of
blasting caps and a coil of fuse.
“Whatcha goin’ to do?” I asks.
“Give ’em a taste of their own medicine, Sleepy. When I get around
the corner here start shooting. Empty your rifle and then empty
mine. _Sabe?_ Fan them windows to a fare-thee-well, and I’ll do the
rest. Buddy, keep down low. Ready?”
* * * * *
I takes both rifles, nods to him and starts throwing lead. I sure
did send hot hunks of sudden death into that place. I emptied both
rifles and then sent six shots from the .45 I borrowed out in the
mesquite.
Two or three shots was all that answered, but they never came
towards me.
“Good work, Sleepy,” yells Hashknife.
I slammed shells into the loading-gates of them two rifles and then
took a look. Hashknife is flat up against the front of that
building, and is fussing with a fuse.
I hears a bunch of argument in the hall, and I takes a snap-shot at
somebody who got too close at the window.
“Keep ’em back, Sleepy,” yells Hashknife, cheerful-like, reeling out
fuse from the box of dynamite.
“Sol Vane!” he yells.
“That’s me,” squeaks Sol.
“I’ve got fifty pounds of dynamite against the front of your
building, Sol. There’s a two-minute fuse on a loaded stick, and the
box of powder is settin’ on a box of primers. I can either fire the
fuse or shoot the primers. If you fire a shot toward that shed I’ll
upset Willer Crick. Do you _sabe_?”