It was about noon when Hashknife and Sleepy awoke. Hashknife had slept
well for the first time in several nights, but was still crippled. They
dressed and went into the street. The stagedriver, Olsen, had slept in
the same room with them, but had managed to dress without awakening
them.
There was nothing pretentious about Pinnacle. In fact there was little
excuse for its existence, except as an outfitting point for the
Greenhorn Mines. The buildings were mostly of adobe, and none of them
more than one story.
On the west side of the street were a blacksmith shop, stage station,
post-office, two saloons, and a restaurant, while on the opposite side
were two saloons, two stores, a hotel, and an assay office.
One of these saloons was the Greenback, which boasted a full assortment
of gambling paraphernalia, a small dance-hall, and enough “girls” to
make things interesting for the lonely miners or cowpunchers.
There were no sidewalks in Pinnacle. The more pretentious of the
buildings had porches or wooden awnings, supported by rough posts, and
practically every building had a long hitch-rack in front, making almost
a continual railing on each side of the street.
Hashknife and Sleepy found the sheriff, Lon Pelley, in the one café, and
he made room for them at his table, after introducing himself. Their
names meant nothing to the sheriff, who asked them for an account of the
holdup and shooting. He had already had a talk with the stagedriver.
“Got any idea who this young feller is?” asked Hashknife, after he had
told what they knew about it.
The sheriff shook his head quickly.
“I dunno who he is. The doctor says he’s goin’ to live. He’s conscious
now.”
“How much of a haul did they make, Sheriff?”
“Dunno that either. The way bills of the express company were in the
treasure box, so they got the whole works. I don’t reckon anybody’ll
know until the express company checks up on it.”
“What gits me,” observed Sleepy, “is why they shot that young feller. He
didn’t reach for no gun.”
“Didn’t, eh?”
“Hell, no! His hands were still in the air when he fell. It was a dirty
deal, I tell yuh.”
“Don’t tell,” cautioned the sheriff. “Pinnacle is a place where folks
with soft voices live longer than yelpers. No offense, my friend--just
be cautious; _sabe_?”
“Thanks,” grunted Sleepy, and attacked his ham and eggs.
“This ain’t the county seat, is it?” asked Hashknife.
“This place?” The sheriff grinned. “Caliente is the county seat. Me and
my deputy been back in the Greenhorn country on a case. Don’t get in
here very often. Pinnacle ain’t favorable to sheriffs.”
A man came in and looked owlishly around. He was as tall as Hashknife,
with a long, thin face, wispy mustache, which grew heavier on one side
than the other, faded blond hair, and a nose that had been, at some
time, knocked slightly out of plumb with the rest of his features.
He goggled at the sheriff, grinned widely, and pointed at him with a
shaking finger.
“There y’are, li’l angel,” he gurgled. “Hol’ still, now.”
He came slowly across the room and almost fell over the table in seating
himself. The sheriff grunted disgustedly, and it irritated the tall one.
“Ain’t I good enough t’ set here?” he asked indignantly. “Whazza matter
’ith me, I’d crave t’ know. Yesshir, I’d crave a li’l information, tha’s
what I’d crave.”
“Yo’re goin’ to crave a punch in the nose, if yuh don’t sober up,”
declared the sheriff.
“Thasso?”
The tall one looked drunkenly at Hashknife and Sleepy. Satisfied with
his inspection he turned back to the sheriff.
“My God, Lonnie, yuh wouldn’t jump on to me, wouldja?” he asked
tearfully. “I’m one of yore mos’ val’able friends. I’d do anythin’ for
you, Lonnie--you sawed-off, bat-eared, bug-headed cross between
a--Lonnie, I like you, and yore cruel words cuts me to the quick, that’s
what they do.”
“Yeah, I’ll betcha.”
The sheriff turned and introduced his deputy, “Cloudy” Day, to Hashknife
and Sleepy.
“He ain’t worth a damn to me,” declared the sheriff. “I dunno how I
stand for him. He keeps sober in Caliente, ’cause he’s got a wife that
whales hell out of him for drinkin’; but when he gits up here he forgets
her.”
“Noshir.” Cloudy shook his head. “Ain’t true. I defy myshelf to get that
drunk, and I ain’t curshed with a big mem’ry. My wife is a shister of
our estimable sheriff, and”--Cloudy grinned widely--“if he didn’t give
me a job, he’d have to board both of us; so he makes me earn m’ keep.”
“Lot of truth in that, too,” agreed the sheriff.
They left Cloudy trying to decide what to eat, and went to the Greenback
Saloon. A few miners had come in from the camp at Greenhorn and were
trying to beat one of the roulette wheels, but outside of that there was
little going on there.
Ike Marsh was at the bar, talking to Faro Lanning, the owner of the
Greenback. Lanning was a typical gambler, even to the waxed black
mustache and the diamond horseshoe in his shirt bosom. He nodded to the
sheriff, gave Hashknife and Sleepy a sharp glance, and turned back to
the bar.
After the trio passed, he turned again and looked quizzically at
Hashknife’s limping gait. Further back in the room, Torres and Garcia
sat at a little table, Garcia asleep, while Torres perused a Mexican
newspaper. At sight of Hashknife and Sleepy, Torres tapped Garcia on the
ankle with the toe of his polished boot, and the half-breed looked
quickly around.
The sheriff wandered over to the roulette wheel, while Hashknife and
Sleepy sat down at a table. A man came in from the rear, and passed them
on his way to the bar; a portly, well-dressed Chinaman. He gave them a
keen glance, as he passed, and went to the bar.
“No pokah today, Faro?” he asked, smiling broadly.
“Hello, Lee.”
Faro removed his cigar and motioned the Chinaman to have a drink with
him.
“No poker,” he replied. “Nobody wants to play, I guess.”
Torres and Garcia left their table and came past the bar, heading for
the front door.
“Want to play pokah, Torres?” asked the Chinaman.
“Not today,” said the Mexican with hardly an accent. “Little too early,
anyway. Later, perhaps.”
They went on outside, and Faro and the Chinaman turned back to their
drinks.
“What do yuh think of this place?” asked Sleepy.
“Kinda peculiar,” smiled Hashknife softly. “Them two at the bar are
wonderin’ who we are, and that flashy-lookin’ Mexican woke his pardner
up to take a look at us.
“I’ve got a hunch that a Sunday School wouldn’t do very much business in
Pinnacle, Sleepy; but that ain’t none of our business. I reckon we’ll
saddle up and hunt for them hot springs pretty soon. That stagedriver
scared a lot of rheumatism out of me last night, but most of it’s comin’
back.”
The sheriff left the roulette game and came back to them.
“Do you know where the hot springs are?” asked Sleepy.
“Hot springs? You mean the ones out at the Hawkworth ranch?”
“That’s the ones.”
“Yeah, I can tell yuh how to get there. It’s only two miles. Do you know
Big Medicine Hawkworth?”
“Never heard of him until last night,” replied Hashknife. “They tell us
the water is good for rheumatism.”
“Yeah? Well, I suppose it is. Big Medicine is a queer sort of a jigger.
He don’t hardly leave the ranch. Ain’t been out of Hawk Hole for
twenty-five years, they tell me. Mebbe he’ll let yuh bathe in his hot
water, and mebbe he won’t.
“He owns most of Hawk Hole, yuh see. Owns about all the water, and
nobody can range cattle here, except him. Had kind of a little kingdom
of his own, until the Greenhorn Mines opened up and made an excuse for
this town.
“Some of the boys say that the Hawkworth ranch is haunted. The old house
creaks all over, and there’s black cats by the dozen, so they tell me. I
dunno anythin’ about it. I do know that he’s got three cowpunchers
that’ll fight anythin’. That was one of ’em at the bar when we come in.
Name’s Ike Marsh.”
“Ain’t there any other cattle ranches in here?” asked Hashknife.
“Not in the Hole. East of here is the K-10 outfit. They’re runnin’
cattle in the hills. ‘Baldy’ Kern owns it. Baldy has six punchers with
his outfit, and they ain’t shrinkin’ vi’lets, but he keeps his stock out
of the Hole. Hawkworth don’t seem to be tryin’ to get rich. Ever’ so
often he runs a few head of stock out to Caliente, sells ’em to a buyer
there, and that’s all.
“I reckon he’s satisfied to set at home and kinda let the world alone.
’Tsall right, if yuh like it thataway. Ho hum-m-m-m”--he yawned
widely--“I reckon I’ll find Cloudy and start for home. Long ways to
Caliente. If yuh want to go to Hawkworth’s ranch, ride out the same way
yuh came in last night. About a quarter of a mile out of town, take the
road to the left.”
The sheriff drifted away, and Hashknife and Sleepy went outside. An old,
dilapidated buckboard, drawn by two gray horses, came into the street
and drew up in front of a store. In it were Lucy and Wanna. Torres and
Garcia were just coming out of the store as they drove up to the
hitch-rack, and Torres hurried out to tie the horses for them.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy sauntered down the street, passing the hitch-rack
and getting their first glance at the feminine members of the Hawkworth
household. Hashknife looked sharply at the older woman. He was familiar
with the tribes of the Northwest, and it seemed homelike to see a
familiar face again.
Torres was talking to Wanna, who turned away from him and looked at
Hashknife. He had seen many half-breed girls, but none so pretty as
Wanna Hawkworth. Lucy spoke sharply to the girl and started for the
store; but Torres laughed and tried to detain Wanna.
“Let her go,” said Torres not unpleasantly. “It’s been a long time since
I had a chance to talk to you, Wanna.”
“You no talk now,” said Lucy flatly. “Come, Wanna.” The girl started to
walk around Torres, but the Mexican again blocked her. He seemed so
persistent in forcing his attentions upon her that Hashknife stopped and
walked toward them. The girl looked at Hashknife, who limped up within a
few feet of Torres.
Garcia had halted near the end of the hitch-rack, rolling a cigarette,
and evidently enjoying the scene--until Sleepy moved in beside him,
resting one arm on the top pole of the rack and squinting into the
half-breed Apache’s face.
Torres turned his head and looked at Hashknife, and as he did so, Wanna
stepped past him and hurried to join her mother. Torres’ face flushed
slightly, and his eyes narrowed.
“I just wondered,” said Hashknife slowly, half-apologetically, “if you
had a match, pardner.”
Torres’ hand went to his pocket, but came away empty. He realized that
Hashknife did not want a match. He turned his head and looked at Garcia,
who was scowling at Sleepy.
“You want a match, eh?” said Torres slowly. “My friend, I am very sorry,
but I have none.”
“Thassall right,” said Hashknife. “Much obliged just the same.”
He walked past Torres and went into the store, followed by Sleepy, who
was grinning widely. Torres scowled heavily and looked at Garcia.
“Who are these men?” demanded Torres in Spanish.
“How should I know?” replied Garcia heavily. “I did not speak to the pig
who grins only with his mouth.”
“They are strangers here,” mused Torres. “Last night they came on the
stage.”
“This morning,” corrected Garcia. “They were talking with the sheriff,
who is also a fool.”
“A fool is one who thinks that others do not have brains,” rebuked
Torres. “A wise man overrates his opponent.”
This was a trifle beyond the mentality of Garcia, but he nodded
violently, being of an agreeable disposition.
Hashknife and Sleepy went into the general store, where Lucy and Wanna
were at a counter buying groceries. The girl glanced sharply at them,
but the old squaw gazed upon them frankly. She realized that they had
saved Wanna from an embarrassing situation, and she was grateful.
“_Klahowya_,” said Hashknife, smiling.
The old squaw opened her mouth twice before she replied with the same
word. It was the universal greeting used by both whites and Indians
where she had been raised, and it had been many years since she had
heard it spoken.
For several moments she seemed deep in thought Then--
“_Mah-sie_,” she said softly.
It had been difficult for her to remember “Thank you” in that language.
Hashknife smiled and shook his head. Wanna was staring at him now. She
did not understand the language. Hashknife and Sleepy purchased some
tobacco and left the store, going over to the stage stable, where their
horses had been put up.
“You made a hit with the old squaw,” grinned Sleepy. “By golly, she sure
grinned a heap. But, honest to grandma, didja ever see a prettier
half-breed girl, Hashknife?”
“For once in my life, I’ve got to agree with yuh,” grinned Hashknife.
“She’s pretty. It seems kinda funny to see a _klooch_ from the Northwest
down in this country. She’s as far away from home as we are, and she’s
been away a long time, too. It took her a long time to remember the
jargon. I reckon she’s a Nez Percé or a Nespelem. Mebbe Flathead.”
“Somethin’ like that,” agreed Sleepy as they saddled. “Anyway, that
_tenas kloochman_ shore is pretty. A reg’lar Minnehaha Laughin’ Water.”
Hashknife turned from fastening a _latigo_ and squinted at his partner.
“Aw, I know my loop’s draggin’,” grinned Sleepy. “Yuh don’t need to
chide me, tall feller. Dang yuh, can’t I admire beauty if I want to?
I’ve got eyes and a heart.”
“Yeah,” drawled Hashknife. “When they passed around eyes and hearts yuh
robbed the platter, but when the brains came you was all filled up. Git
yore thoughts off beauty and kinda concentrate on my rheumatism. That’s
what we came here for.”
“That’s right, Hashknife. We’ve got to get you cured up, even if the
pretty girls do show up to take my mind off yore aches.”
They led their horses back to the street through the alley between the
stage station and the post-office. Torres was standing between them and
the door of the post-office, looking intently at the door. He did not
hear the two men and horses come out of the alley.
Three riders were coming in from the east, their horses drifting along
slowly. Then the post-office door opened and Wanna came out, followed
closely by Lucy. With an exaggerated bow, Torres swept off his sombrero.
Lucy grasped Wanna by the arm, as if to turn her in the opposite
direction, but Torres stepped in quickly and spoke to them.
His attitude was entirely apologetic, but his words were probably not,
judging from the expression on the old squaw’s face. Hashknife dropped
his reins, and in three long strides had reached Torres. His right hand
caught the slack seat of Torres’ trousers, while his left twisted into
the gorgeous silk muffler.
Torres ripped out an expressive Spanish oath, as his hands tried to draw
a weapon, but Hashknife swung him aloft, whirled on his heels and fairly
ran to the blacksmith shop, a short distance away, where the worthy
smith was fitting shoes on a bad horse, and dumped the luckless Mexican
headfirst into a very dirty slack tub.
This tub was made from a half-barrel, and was nearly full of inky water.
The three riders whirled their horses up to the front of the shop and
fairly fell out of their saddles. Sleepy had dropped the two sets of
reins and was at the door of the shop ahead of the three men, as if to
stop them from any interference.
The immersion of Torres seemed of great satisfaction to the blacksmith,
whose buffalo-horn-like mustaches jiggled convulsively in a paroxysm of
silent mirth. Hashknife knew just about how long a human being might
safely be immersed; so he kept Torres under for the full limit, while
the three riders, blocked from an entrance by Sleepy, who was willing to
forego the pleasure of watching the ducking to prevent interference,
grinned widely.
Torres was far from being gaudy when Hashknife drew him out,
half-drowned, and sat him against the forge to recover. Several other
men, attracted by those at the entrance, came to see what was going on.
Faro Lanning was one of these.
Torres’ chin, which dripped dirty water and iron particles, was buried
in the bosom of a once-ornate silk shirt, but now a dirty brown, as he
wheezed audibly to draw air into his lungs. He was far from dead, but
too watersoaked to care what went on around him.
Hashknife walked back to the door. The three riders looked him over
critically, but said nothing.
“What was the matter?” asked Lanning, jerking his thumb in the general
direction of Torres.
Hashknife squinted thoughtfully at Torres and back at Lanning.
“He forgot, I reckon.”
“Forgot what?”
“Forgot that I asked him for a match.”
* * * * *
Lanning scowled after Hashknife and Sleepy, who were heading for their
horses, and turned to the three men who had ridden in.
“Do you know what it was all about?” he asked.
“No-o-o,” drawled one of the men. “We didn’t see that anythin’ was
wrong, until this tall puncher had Torres in both hands and was packin’
him like a flag. He shore is deliberate, that feller. Haw, haw, haw,
haw!”
Torres managed to get back to his feet and was clinging to the anvil.
His eyes were red from the dirty water, and he was altogether mad, but
his lips shut firmly as he looked at the crowd in front of the wide
doorway.
“Kinda looks like it was goin’ to be a wet season,” remarked the smaller
of the three cowboys humorously.
He was a thin-faced, sallow-looking person, and as he removed his big
hat to wipe the perspiration from the sweatband, he exposed a head which
was totally bald. The sallow skin of his head seemed to be stretched so
tightly over his skull that it wrinkled slightly in the back of his
neck, and there was a red circle around it, marking the line of his hat.
Taking him all in all, “Baldy” Kern was not a beautiful object. His
teeth were bad, his boots bulged from bunions, and he did not conceal
the fact that the law was something that concerned him not.
The other two cowboys laughed raucously at his witticism. Perhaps they
were amused; perhaps they laughed because Baldy Kern had laughed. At any
rate, Torres’ eyes flashed angrily as he lurched past them and out into
the street, where he stopped and looked around, looking for the man who
had almost drowned him.
Both Hashknife and Sleepy were already heading for the Hawkworth ranch,
and the two men were just driving away from the hitch-rack farther up
the street and across. Torres flapped his wet arms dismally and went
stumbling across toward the Greenback Saloon.
“Who are them two strange punchers?” asked Kern.
Lanning did not know any more than Kern did, but he said: “I dunno. They
spent a lot of time with the sheriff, if that means anything to you,
Kern.”
After delivering this veiled information, Lanning went back up the
street, leaving Kern to think it over.
“Didja hear about the holdup last night?” asked the blacksmith.
Kern looked up quickly. “What holdup?”
“Stage. Three men stuck her up back on the grades and swiped the
treasure box. They shot a feller, too, a passenger. Didn’t kill him.”
“Who is he?” asked Kern.
“I dunno, Baldy. Stranger around here. Them two punchers was on the
stage. Wounded man is down at the doctor’s house.”
Kern squinted thoughtfully over this information.
Then----
“How much of a haul did they git?”
“I dunno.”
It seemed a stock phrase with the blacksmith.
“Who was drivin’ the stage--Olsen?”
“Yeah.”
“Why did they shoot this stranger?”
“I dunno. Somebody said he went for his gun, but one of them punchers
said it was a lie, that his hands were still in the air when he went
down.”
“Kinda queer,” said Kern thoughtfully.
He shrugged his thin shoulders and went back to his horse. They crossed
to the Greenback Saloon hitch-rack, and the blacksmith went back to
work, grinning to himself. He did not like Torres.
Sleepy wore a wide grin as they rode away from Pinnacle, but Hashknife’s
face was serious. The incident had not seemed as humorous to him as it
had to Sleepy.
“I ain’t laughin’ at that gaudy Mexican’s bath,” explained Sleepy. “I’m
grinnin’ to think that you even forgot to limp.”
“Eh?” Hashknife looked up quickly and a grin twisted his lips. “By
golly, that’s right, Sleepy. I plumb forgot to limp. And that only goes
to show that most of these diseases are all in yore head. I was plumb
lame until I seen that feller tryin’ to talk to the women, and then I
forgot all about it. Right now it’s commencin’ to hurt me, ’cause I’m
thinkin’ about it.”
“You sure gave that Mexican a coolin’-off, cowboy. He jist sizzled. I
didn’t see it all, ’cause them three fellers rode up kinda fast, and I
thought mebbe they was goin’ to try and stop yuh. I dunno why it
is”--Sleepy’s tone changed and he became mournful--“it seems like when
there’s any heroin’ to be done I have to hold the horses.”
Hashknife laughed, as he sifted a cigarette paper full of Durham.
“I wasn’t tryin’ to be a hero, Sleepy.”
“You don’t have to try”--mournfully--“it jist comes kinda natural for
you to do things like that. If I had tried it, I’d probably stubbed my
toe before I got to him. Mebbe I’d ’a’ got a few inches of steel in my
anatomy and had to kill him.”
“Mebbe I’ll get a few inches of his steel yet,” mused Hashknife. “He
don’t look like a feller that would take a baptisin’ in a slack tub and
jist grin.”
“Mebbe yuh will, tall feller. Life’s a queer thing, ain’t it? Here we
come into this country to try and soak out a case of rheumatism; jist a
harmless occupation. The first thing we do is to run into a holdup and a
shootin’ scrape.”
“Well, that’s all right, Sleepy.”
“No, it ain’t.” Sleepy spoke with conviction. “It ain’t noways all
right. I can see yore nose twitchin’ and yore ears hang down like the
ears of a pointer dog or a bloodhound. It ain’t all right, I tell yuh.
It ain’t none of our business.”
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “what about it?”
Sleepy sighed and shifted himself.
“What about it? Hashknife, you know danged well what about it. Ever
since I can remember, me and you have been gettin’ off to just this kind
of a start. Trouble hunts us, I tell yuh.”
“And you shake hands with it like it was a long-lost brother,” grinned
Hashknife. “If yo’re born to be hung, you’ll never choke to death on a
fishbone, Sleepy.”
“All right,” nodded Sleepy. “Just the same, I wish we wasn’t here. Mebbe
we can get the aches soaked out of you before they start heavin’ lead at
us. We don’t _sabe_ these folks down here. Likely got a lot of smart
gunmen, too.”
“Well, old pessimist, we won’t even stop at the Hawkworth ranch,”
decided Hashknife seriously. “If yo’re so scared of trouble, we’ll go
right on. My rheumatism is a lot better, yuh know.”
“No, we won’t. We’re goin’ to get yuh fixed up, if we have to throw lead
at every man in Hawk Hole. Just what do yuh reckon is wrong around
here?”
Hashknife grinned under the shade of his wide sombrero and shook his
head. He knew that Sleepy was not afraid of anything, and that he merely
wanted an alibi to point back to, in case they got into serious trouble.
* * * * *
But Sleepy was right when he said that wherever they went trouble
followed them. It seemed that Fate sent them from range to range to
straighten out trouble. Time after time they brought peace to troubled
cattle land, but they did not stay to enjoy the fruits of their labors.
Something urged them to go on and on, always looking for the other side
of the hill, and on the other side of the hill they found more trouble.
And in spite of the fact that they deplored their calling, both of them
enjoyed it. They would not stay and enjoy the peace which they had
brought. Always they rode on, looking for a place to settle down, where
they might buy a little cattle outfit and live out their lives in peace;
the end of the rainbow, which never would be found.
They were top-hand cowboys in every respect; gunmen, if you please,
although neither of them could split a second on the draw, nor hit a
dollar at forty paces. In fact they deplored their slowness with a gun,
and assured each other that some day they would meet a regular gunman
who would make them wish they had never worn a weapon.
It was Hashknife’s brain that worked out their problems. He was able to
see details that an ordinary man would miss, and he had an uncanny way
of piecing things together until he was able to weave a net around a
criminal that nothing could break.
Sleepy’s mind did not travel fast enough to keep up with Hashknife, but
he had an instinct that told him when to be ready for trouble to break;
so between the two they had come practically unscathed from many a gun
battle, where the souls of men had gone to their Maker with the reek of
powder smoke on them.
All these things had made them fatalists, and to believe as Hashknife
had said: “If yo’re born to be hung, you’ll never choke to death on a
fishbone, Sleepy.”
This was their belief, ingrained from many incidents, which proved their
point--to them, at least.