I takes all the books and papers, and then I makes Cale get to his
feet and go down ahead of me. Our bullets sure have carved our
trade-marks in their furniture and walls. Willer Crick wails when
they see me with their books.
“Good stuff!” grunts Hashknife. “Now, maybe they’ll sign my little
paper.”
I never seen folks so anxious to sign anything. Hashknife held the
paper on the brim of his hat so that Sim Sellers can sign. I unloads
all them guns and then throws the whole works under the sidewalk,
where nobody can get one quick.
“Rope the books together so we can carry ’em, Sleepy,” says
Hashknife.
“Them is our records!” wails Sol.
“That’s why we need ’em,” grins Hashknife. “You and your council are
the only ones what can read and write, and I’m thinkin’ that your
law and records will make hy-iu readin’ for the county attorney.”
Willer Crick is stuck. They shuffles their feet and swallers hard.
“Your home-made law is a thing of the past,” observes Hashknife.
“I’ll send the sheriff in here after Cale Ames, and mebbe Cale won’t
be the only one he rounds up.”
I got the horses, while Hashknife holds the crowd. Hashknife takes
Buddy with him, while I take the law of Willer Crick. We starts
away, with the crowd watching us, but all to once they makes a dive
across the street toward the hitch-rack. I thinks they’re going to
try to foller us, but it comes to me in a flash that I seen two or
three rifles hanging to those saddles.
I seen a feller drop flat and slide under the sidewalk, and I know
it won’t take ’em long to get their guns loaded.
We ain’t over a hundred yards from the crowd, and I can see that we
can’t scatter ’em much with two guns. I yells at Hashknife to look
out. He turned in his saddle, keeping himself between Buddy and the
crowd. I saw him throw up his rifle and take deliberate aim. I was
trying to shift them books on to the horn of my saddle, so I could
shoot. A bullet splatted into the books, but before I could lift my
gun, Hashknife’s shot was echoed by a crash that shook up the whole
country.
I seen the front of that building jump off the ground and dissolve
into smoke.
“Come on, you law rustler!” yelps Hashknife.
I ducked a piece of two-by-four and set my spurs into that
hammer-headed gray. Hashknife had been lucky enough to send a bullet
into that box of giant caps under the fifty pounds of dynamite.
I looks back as we hammers down the road, but there ain’t a soul on
our trail. We swings across a high bridge over Willer Crick, and
Hashknife stops.
“Get a couple of heavy rocks, Sleepy,” says he. “Rope one on each
side of that bunch of books, and drop the whole works over the
side.”
“Ain’t yuh going to turn these over to the law?” I asks.
“No-o-o, I reckon not. I don’t believe in rubbin’ anybody raw.
They’ll never know but what we did, and we’ve sure amended the
constitution of Sol Vane and his bunch.”
We sunk their law in six feet of swift water and then rode on. About
half a mile from the forks of the road we swings around a curve and
almost runs over Al Bassett and another man. Bassett’s right arm is
out of commission and the other feller is kinda sick from too much
lead.
“They were sent after that old man,” says Buddy.
“It’s been a hard day for Willer Crick,” observes Hashknife.
Bassett can’t hang onto himself any longer. Hashknife takes off his
hat and holds it in his hand until Bassett stops.
“Sleepy,” says Hashknife, “did yuh ever hear the like. I wish I
could cuss like that. Bassett, you’re one of the fellers who was
sent down here to stop the old man, ain’t yuh? Did the mule kick yuh
or did the old man bite yuh?”
Bassett refuses to talk, and the other feller is too sick to
remember.
“A feller by the name of Poky Vane is tied up in Mitch Ames’ cabin,”
says Hashknife. “I reckon you’ll see that he gets loose.”
“Willer Crick will git you yet!” snarls Bassett.
“I refuse to argue,” grins Hashknife.
“Home won’t never seem the same to you fellers. _Adios._”
We left ’em there in the road.
“Why didn’t we take Cale Ames out with us, Hashknife?” I asks.
“Mebbe the sheriff won’t be able to find him.”
“It would be our word against a hundred, Sleepy. Me and you ain’t so
danged lily-white that a jury’d take our word against a hundred; and
besides, hangin’ ain’t half as bad as thinkin’ about it.”
At the forks of the road, where the old sign-board hangs, we found
the old preacher and Glory Sillman with a rifle.
“I had a escort,” says the old man, nodding at Glory. “She—she saw
that I got out safe.”
“She did,” nods Hashknife. “I seen that a mile or so ago.”
Glory starts to swing her horse around.
“I—I reckon I better be going back,” says she.
“You come wit’ us,” says Buddy. “We licked ’em.” Glory looks at
Buddy and then at Hashknife.
“I’m goin’ to adopt him,” says Hashknife. “Yuh might come with us,
Glory. There ain’t no more Willer Crick law to stop yuh now. The
trail’s wide open.”
Glory and Hashknife sets there and looks at each other. I looks at
the old man and he looks at me. I turns and points down the valley
and says to the old man:
“Do yuh see that peak ’way down there, old-timer?”
“I do. What about it, son?”
“I never climbed it in my life.”
“Well, well!” says he. “Ain’t that queer?”
We sets there like a pair of danged fools and admires that peak,
which don’t mean a thing to either of us.
“You comin’?” shrills Buddy, and we turns to see Hashknife and Glory
riding down the road side by side, while Buddy leans out past
Hashknife and yells at us.