The Trey of Spades
By W. C. Tuttle
Author of “The Dead-Line,” “Just for a Laugh,” etc.
“This looks like the place, ‘Sleepy.’ In all my years, this is the
first time I ever seen just the place to settle down. Look at the wide
places, cowboy. Away over there is the river, cuttin’ almost down the
center of it. Them green cañons are showing plenty of water, and look
at the feed.”
“Hashknife” Hartley lifted his lean head, as he swung one long arm in
an arc, encompassing the length and breadth of the Thunder rangeland.
Sleepy Stevens, his companion, humped in his saddle, rolling a
cigarette.
“Feast yore eyes upon her, cowboy,” urged Hashknife seriously. “She’s
the range of our dreams. No fences and danged few ranches. If it was
made to order it couldn’t hit closer to what we’ve wanted.”
“Gimme a match,” said Sleepy indifferently.
Hashknife fumbled for a match, but did not take his eyes off the
panorama before him. Behind them and on both sides stretched the Thunder
Mountains, half-encompassing a rolling range that only ended in a hazy
distance--hundreds of square miles of rolling hills, small valleys,
dotted with cottonwoods and live-oaks; an ideal cattle range. Far away,
in the middle distance, the Bitter River pursued its irregular course; a
green thread that split the land in twain.
“Yuh ought to give me a match with a head on it,” complained Sleepy.
Hashknife turned in his saddle and squinted at him. There was a hint
of reproach in Hashknife’s thin face, as he produced another match
and handed it to Sleepy.
They were unlike, these two. Hashknife was well over six feet in
height, bony, angular, with long arms and generous-sized feet. His face
was bony, nose long, mouth large. The hair that showed from under his
back-tilted sombrero was of the neutral shade. His eyes were gray-blue
and set in a network of wrinkles.
Sleepy was of medium height, rather heavy of build. His face was blocky,
and wrinkled from the weather and an over-developed sense of humor. Both
men were dressed in well-worn cowboy clothes. Their horses looked weary,
thankful for the siesta in the shade of the cliffs behind them.
“They don’t put enough ---- on their matches these days,” complained
Sleepy as he barely managed to ignite his cigarette and puffed
contentedly.
“Yuh ought to be glad we can find somethin’ without too much ---- on
it,” grinned Hashknife, turning back to his survey of the landscape.
“I reckon that’s right,” agreed Sleepy. “Kinda pretty view from here,
ain’t it?”
“Kinda!” Hashknife snorted aloud and turned his head. “My gosh, that’s
the place we’ve been dreamin’ about----”
“Who’s been dreamin’ about?” demanded Sleepy indignantly. “Don’tcha mix
me up in that dream, Hashknife. The only ones I ever have are a dream
about me bein’ at a dance without nothin’ on but a pair of socks. Huh!
By golly, I’m the only danged view that ever shows up in my dreams.”
“You ain’t got no imagination, Sleepy.”
“The ---- I ain’t! Don’t it take imagination to think yo’re at a dance
without nothin’ on but----”
“I don’t mean that kind of imagination, Sleepy.”
“Oh, you mean the mild kind, eh? Well, I dunno about me. Prob’ly I do go
a little too strong. The last dream I had----”
“Sleepy, I feel that this is the place we’ve hankered for. Right here
is the place where we can speak about, when folks asks us where our
home is. There’s peace down there, cowboy.”
Hashknife’s eyes were soft and speculative as he turned to Sleepy and
motioned toward the country below them.
“God A’mighty made that country for cowpunchers, Sleepy. He sure knowed
what they needed. And if they ever bring barb-wire into that paradise
it’ll make the angels weep. Me and you will go down into her and we’ll
find a little spot for ourselves.
“Mebbe we can buy out a small brand down there. We don’t need much, do
we? We’ll start small, cowboy--and we’ll never get so big that we’ll
forget that we stopped here to live peaceful. We’ve got enough money to
give us a start.”
Sleepy squinted at Hashknife and turned away to look out over the
sun-swept hills. He slowly cleared his throat, shifted in his saddle
and looked at Hashknife.
“Me and you never had a home, Hashknife,” Sleepy’s voice was wistful.
“We never had a place to speak about when folks asked us where we was
from. All our lives we’ve just been driftin’ along, singin’ our song.
And it ain’t always been easy travelin’, cowboy. The old boy with the
scythe has just barely missed us on several occasions, and it sure
seems like he’s swingin’ closer every time.
“Down there it looks good, Hashknife. It sure looks like a land of milk
and honey; a land that’s so filled with peace that the coyotes have
filed off their teeth and learned to eat grass. It looks like all of
that, and more--but any old time yuh think it’s like it looks--yo’re
cockeyed and crazy.”
“Thasso?” Hashknife smiled softly.
“Thasso?” mimicked Sleepy. “Yo’re danged right it’s so. Me and you have
always looked for a peaceful range. Hashknife, it’s like lookin’ for the
end of the rainbow. There ain’t no such animile. No range is peaceful.”
“I dunno about that,” Hashknife shifted in his saddle and picked up his
reins. “Anyway, a man can make his own peace.”
“Even if he has to make it with a six-gun, eh?”
“All peace is brought about through battle, Sleepy.”
“Sounds fine,” Sleepy gathered up his reins and settled in his saddle.
“I’ll make yuh a proposition, Hashknife. We’ll go down into this
country, find us the right kind of a place, if we can, and settle
down.
“If there ain’t no ready-made peace, we’ll make some for ourselves. But
right here and now, we’ll both agree to let other people’s troubles
alone. To ---- with the whole gang, eh? We’ll fight for our own from now
on. Is that a go?”
“Well,” said Hashknife slowly, the corners of his mouth twitching
slightly, “that’s a good idea. It won’t hurt us none to agree to mind
our own business. I’m in favor of it. All my life I’ve been hornin’
into other people’s business, and it’ll be kind of a relief to know
that I’m handlin’ my own troubles.”
Sleepy grinned softly, as they rode off down the ridge, heading for the
lower ranges, going into an unknown land. Far beyond the green ribbon of
the Bitter River a tiny thread of smoke showed the passing of a railroad
train, heading toward Oxbow, the county seat.
Lower and lower they went down across the rolling hills. Range cattle
stared wide-eyed at them, or raced away through the brushy coulées,
wild as deer.
“Fat as butter,” observed Hashknife. “Box M brand, mostly.”
“Betcha it gets colder’n ---- in the winter,” said the pessimistic
Sleepy.
“Mebbe we can buy us some skates,” suggested Hashknife.
They both laughed as they swung around the head of a brushy coulée and
angled down through a thicket of greasewood. Hashknife, who was in the
lead, suddenly drew rein. A horseman had ridden across the coulée
below them, riding low in his saddle and flogging his horse at a stiff
gallop.
It was only a glimpse and the rider was gone.
“What do yuh make of that?” wondered Hashknife. “I’ll say that he was
hurryin’.”
“Kinda racin’ for a train or trainin’ for a race,” grinned Sleepy.
“Mebbe he was cuttin’ around some stock. That brush is so tall that
yuh couldn’t see his horse.”
“Couldn’t even see much of the man,” smiled Hashknife, as he urged his
horse ahead.
The heavier growth of greasewood forced them to swing lower into the
coulée, and they managed to angle their way to the left at a point
approximately where the rider had entered the coulée. An overhanging
branch swept Sleepy’s hat off his head and he swore softly as he
dismounted to recover it.
Hashknife rode on slowly to the edge of the thicket, where he drew rein
and turned to look back at Sleepy. A moment later something struck the
fork of his saddle a terrific blow. The horse swung sidewise and from
beyond them came the spang of a high-powered rifle.
Hashknife flung himself sidewise out of the saddle and crashed down into
the greasewood.
Sleepy had not mounted, and now he came running low in the cover,
six-shooter in his hand.
“Hashknife!” he called softly. “Hashknife, you ---- fool, why don’tcha
answer me?”
“Gimme a chance,” grunted Hashknife. “I’m all tangled up in this darned
brush.”
“What did it hit?” asked Sleepy, his voice showing relief. “I heard the
bullet hit somethin’, Hashknife.”
“Hit my saddle, I reckon. Can yuh see anybody?”
“Yuh don’t hear me shootin’, do yuh? Which way did it come from?”
“The way we was pointin’. Keep yore danged head down, can’tcha? I’ve
got seven feet of greasewood up one leg of my pants, dang the luck. How
in ---- am I goin’ to get loose, Sleepy? I can’t bend her over so I can
slide loose from it.”
“Jump seven feet in the air,” chuckled Sleepy.
“I’ll prob’ly do that, if the bushwhacker discovers me in this
condition.”
“Take yore knife and slit the leg of yore pants, Hashknife.”
“Yeah--and I ain’t got no other pants.”
Came a burst of soft profanity and a sigh of relief. After several
moments:
“Cut it off with my knife.”
“Yore leg?”
“Naw--the greasewood. Seen anybody yet?”
“No such luck. My trigger-finger has gone to sleep. C’mon and help me
look for ’em. This is yore peaceful land, Hashknife. Milk and honey!”
Hashknife came crawling out of the brush. His face was badly scratched
in several places and one sleeve of his shirt was ripped from cuff to
shoulder, but otherwise he was all right. His horse had swung around
and moved to lower ground, where it managed to tangle the reins in a
bush.
Hashknife examined his six-shooter carefully and squinted speculatively
at the brush around them.
“Goin’ to set here and wait for ’em?” queried Sleepy, who wanted action.
“Debatable question, Sleepy. I figure that they thought they were
shootin’ at the gent we seen foggin’ across the coulée. If we had showed
any sense a-tall we wouldn’t ’a’ crossed his trail. The question is
this: Was he right or wrong?”
“What do yuh mean?”
“Just wonderin’ whether we ought to help him or not. Question of
persecution or prosecution.”
Sleepy wrinkled his nose disgustedly.
“There yuh go,” he declared. “A while ago we agreed to let the troubles
of others alone.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” nodded Hashknife. “I suppose we ought to sneak out
and get away the best we can regardless.”
“They dang near killed yuh,” reminded Sleepy, who did not like the idea
of sneaking away from trouble.
They had been talking softly, but their ears had been alert for the
least noise. There was nothing foolhardy about either of them, neither
were they the least excited over the fact that a bullet had narrowly
missed killing one of them.
The fact that it had missed was sufficient for them. Several years in
the worst ranges of the west and southwest had made them confirmed
fatalists; caused them to look upon death as something that would not
come to them until their “time” had arrived, and resolved to meet it
with a grin.
Just beyond them and to the left the hill was covered with a growth of
greasewood, showing here and there a cropping of granite. A loose rock
bumped down through the brush, dislodged by some one or something. They
looked quickly at each other and Hashknife shook his head slowly.
“Too careless,” he whispered. “Watch the other side.”
They snuggled lower, paying little attention to the side of the hill,
and were rewarded by seeing the stealthy approach of a man, who was
worming his way through the greasewood with the skill of a savage.
He was going slowly, weaving his way along. The heavy thicket behind
which they crouched prevented him from seeing them. Now another rock
came rolling down the side of the hill, but this time they heard the
unmistakable sound of the rock being thrown onto the hillside from a
distance.
Hashknife grinned and held his gun in a position to cover the approach
of the man, who was almost into them now, while Sleepy kept an eye on a
possible approach from the hillside. Then the man crawled into the
opening, about ten feet from them, and turned his head to look into the
muzzle of Hashknife’s gun.
The man was of medium height and weight, grizzled, with a heavily lined,
bronzed face and a pair of steady gray eyes. In his right hand he held a
heavy Colt revolver. For a moment his eyes held a startled expression,
which quickly changed to one of evident relief. His hand relaxed from
around his gun and he lifted himself to a sitting position.
“Kinda nice weather for this time of year,” said Hashknife pleasantly.
The man nodded and glanced back on his trail.
“Yeah, it is,” he agreed. He lifted his left hand and rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. “There seems to have been a mistake made.”
“Does kinda seem thataway,” agreed Hashknife. “At least it had us
wonderin’ what it was all about.”
“Um-m-m.” The man’s face widened into a grin.
“Yuh might as well call the rest of ’em in,” said Hashknife. “They’ll
get sore arms from throwin’ rocks onto that side hill.”
The man turned, disclosing a sheriff’s shield on the lapel of his vest,
and called loudly:
“Hey! Buck! Come on in!”
“Aw-w right,” called a voice. “Comin’ right along, Jud.”
“Yo’re the sheriff, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“Yeah. My name’s Farley--Jud Farley.”
“Mine’s Hartley,” grinned Hashknife. “This here curio with me is Sleepy
Stevens. My friends call me Hashknife.”
“Glad to meetcha,” nodded Farley, as a tall, raw-boned, sandy-haired
man came clawing his way through to them. He looked at Farley and
glanced quickly at Hashknife, who still held his gun in position.
Farley’s gun was lying on the ground, and this seemed to greatly
concern the newcomer.
“Tha’sall right, Buck,” assured Farley. “My hand got tired. Buck, meet
Mister Hartley and Mister Stevens. Folks, this is Buck Hardy, my deputy.
Buck, do yore little bow.”
“Aw, what the ----!” growled Buck.
Hashknife laughed and shoved his gun back into its holster. This action
seemed to relieve Buck, who almost smiled as he put away his own gun and
reached for the makings of a cigarette.
“One of you fellers almost got me,” declared Hashknife. “The bullet tore
half of my saddle-fork loose.”
“That was me,” said Buck slowly. “I dunno what’s got into me lately.
’Pears like I’m shootin’ too low all the time.”
He said it with such sincerity that Hashknife laughed outright, and
Farley’s eyes twinkled with laughter.
“Buck’s a good shot,” offered Farley.
“I used to be,” admitted Buck.
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I’m glad it happened now instead of the
used-to-was. That shootin’ was too good to suit me. But you haven’t
said just why yuh shot at me.”
“Yuh didn’t happen to be gunnin’ after the jasper that rode through here
a while ago, did yuh?” queried Sleepy.
“Did you see him?” Thus Farley quickly.
“Just about. He wasn’t paradin’ to any extent.”
“What color horse was he ridin’?”
“We didn’t see,” said Hashknife. “We were up the coulée a little ways
and just got a glimpse. This brush hid the horse, and the man didn’t
go slow enough for us to see what he did look like.”
“He was the whippoorwill we were after,” stated Farley, and added
disconsolately, “By this time he’s erased himself plumb off the map.”
“Who was he?” asked Sleepy.
Farley smiled sadly and shook his head.
“Pardner, I’d sure give a lot to know.”
“He’s a ---- fool!” snorted Buck indignantly. “Any man that does what
he’s done and wants folks to know that he’s the jigger that done
it--he’s plumb crazy, tha’sall.”
“We call him ‘The Trey of Spades,’” said Farley slowly. “That’s his
trade-mark.”
“Trade-mark?” queried Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. He’s a lone bandit--and a slick one, Hartley. This is the
nearest we’ve come to gettin’ him. About four o’clock this mornin’ he
went into the Cheyenne gambling room in Oxbow and stuck up the crowd.
There was only seven men in there. He sure cleaned up a nice piece of
change.
“He backed out of there, but at the doorway he took a playin’-card out
of his pocket and flipped it back at ’em. It was the trey of spades. Me
and Buck was just ridin’ in from a trip to Snake Creek, and we hit Oxbow
just about the time that this was goin’ on.
“We seen this feller break for his horse. Somebody yelps that the
Cheyenne has been held up; so me and Buck takes out after this feller.
It was bright moonlight, and we sure runs him ragged, but we can’t stop
him. Can’t tell the color of his horse either. Back about two miles from
here he holes up in the brush and we think we’ve got him dead to rights,
but he foxes us and gets away.
“Buck gets a glimpse of him foggin’ out; so we slides right after him.
We’re pretty close behind him, and we’ve got a hunch that he hived up
here again; so yuh can’t hardly blame us for takin’ a shot at yuh.”
“Sure looked to me like he was lookin’ over his back-track,” said Buck.
“I dunno what’s wrong with me, anyway. By golly, I used to be able to
hit a tomatter-can at that distance. Gotta fix them sights, I reckon.”
“Yuh don’t need to on my account,” grinned Hashknife.
Farley picked up his gun and shoved it into his holster.
“Well, Buck, I reckon we might as well ride along and see what we can
see,” he observed. “This is just another time when we didn’t get the
game.”
“I s’pose so--dang the luck.” Buck yawned widely.
“Which way is the town from here?” asked Hashknife.
Farley pointed west:
“Out thataway about ten miles, I reckon. About three miles from here
you’ll hit the road that leads past Maverick ranch. Keep goin’ straight
ahead and you’ll hit Oxbow.”
Hashknife and Sleepy mounted and rode out past where the sheriff and
deputy were preparing to circle the coulée. Buck looked with gloomy
eyes upon the havoc caused by his bullet upon Hashknife’s saddle.
“Mebbe,” he said hopefully, “that bullet hit a limb and was deflected.
It could happen, yuh know.”
“Anybody would think that yo’re sorry to miss me,” observed Hashknife.
“No-o-o, it ain’t so much that as it is gittin’ to feel that yore
shootin’ is gittin’ bad. I used to shoot pretty good.”
“C’mon, Buck,” laughed Farley, and then to Hashknife, “Hope we’ll see
yuh ag’in, Hartley--both of yuh.”
“Y’betcha,” nodded Hashknife. “We’ll be around here for a while, I
reckon.”
“This here land of milk and honey,” scoffed Sleepy, as they rode away.
“A land of peace, Hashknife. I’ll bet there’s more real ---- to the
square inch around here than any place we’ve ever hit.”
“Well, it won’t affect us,” laughed Hashknife. “Yuh must remember that
we’re goin’ to mind our own business from now on.”
* * * * *
Old “Dad” Parker sat on the front porch of the Maverick ranch house
and looked with gloomy eyes at the rider who was coming past the
house, heading toward the bunkhouse. The rider was Cliff Parker, Dad’s
twenty-seven year old son, a wild young blade.
Just now his clothes were disheveled, dusty, and his seat in the saddle
was none too secure. In fact, Cliff Parker was drunk--disgracefully
drunk. He half-fell from his horse in front of the bunkhouse, staggered
inside and slammed the door.
Old Dad shook his head painfully and squinted off across the hills, his
old eyes misty with sorrow. In his younger days, Dad Parker had been a
powerful man, but now he was a gaunt, old man, with a mop of white hair,
a deeply-lined face; an old, old man at sixty.
As he settled back in his chair a girl came to the doorway. She was a
slender, capable-looking girl, attractive of features and with a wealth
of soft, brown hair. There was a smudge of charcoal dust on her cheek,
and her arms, bare to the elbow, bore evidences of contact with the
flour barrel.
“I’ve been making some doughnuts, Dad,” she offered, with a smile.
“Harmony said they wouldn’t be worth anything, but they look good.”
The old man nodded without looking at her. She studied him for several
moments, her eyes shifting toward the bunkhouse, where Cliff’s horse
stood.
“Cliff came home?” she asked softly, but he did not reply. Slowly she
shook her head and a look of unutterable sadness came into her fine
eyes, as she stepped out behind old Dad and put her hands on his
shoulders.
“Some day he will quit it, Dad,” she said softly. “Cliff’s only a kid.”
“He’s almost thirty, Milly.” Dad Parker’s voice was husky. “He’s old
enough to know better. Every time he goes to town he gets drunk. He’s
gettin’ a bad reputation for drinkin’ and gamblin’.”
“Yes, that is true,” nodded the girl. “He loses more than is good for
him.”
“His cattle are all gone,” said the old man. “He sold the last ten head
a week ago, and I suppose the money is all gone.”
The girl turned away. She knew that Cliff had also sold four horses
during the past week, which left him with only one, his favorite riding
horse. Mildred Parker was not at all like her brother. Their mother was
of French descent, impulsive, hot-blooded; and Cliff had inherited his
wild traits from her side of the family. Mildred was twenty-three.
As she turned away she saw two strange horsemen swing off the main
road and ride toward the house. It was Hashknife and Sleepy. Dad
Parker watched them indifferently, as they rode up close to the porch
and lifted their hats to the girl.
Their smile was contagious and Mildred found herself smiling back at
them.
“We just stopped,” said Hashknife rather lamely. “We might say we
stopped for a drink of water, or to ask the way to Oxbow--but we know
the way, and we ain’t dry. We stopped, tha’sall.”
Mildred laughed with them. There was something so straightforward about
the lean-faced cowpuncher that she liked him instinctively.
“This is the Maverick ranch, ain’t it?” queried Sleepy.
“This is the Maverick ranch,” replied Dad Parker. “Get off and rest your
feet, gentlemen.”
“We didn’t aim to stop,” protested Hashknife, “and I don’t reckon we
will.” But he was half-way off his horse as he finished. They dropped
their reins and came up the steps.
“My name is Parker.” The old man had got to his feet and held out his
hand. “Folks call me Dad. This is my daughter.”
Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy, and Mildred brought some chairs
from the living-room.
“We just can’t stay long enough to set down,” protested Hashknife. “No,
ma’am--honest to gosh.”
“Running away from some one?” asked Dad, a twinkle in his eye.
Hashknife laughed and fumbled for the makings of a smoke.
“No, not that. We’re kinda stubborn when it comes to runnin’ away. Nope,
we just didn’t want to bother yuh.”
“You haven’t had any dinner, have you?” asked Mildred.
“Dinner?” Hashknife looked up quickly.
“Yes, ma’am. We couldn’t eat a thing, thankin’ yuh just the same.”
Hashknife turned to the old man and Mildred looked inquiringly at
Sleepy, who stared at her for a moment. It was a look of understanding,
but to make it more expressive, Sleepy reached down and cinched up his
belt another notch.
Mildred laughed softly and turned into the house, while Sleepy wrinkled
his nose joyously and rolled a cigarette. He was hungry, and he knew
that Hashknife was half-starved.
“This is the first time we ever got into this range,” offered Hashknife.
“It sure looks good.”
“It is good,” declared the old man. “It’s hard to beat the old Thunder
range, Hartley. We’ve got everythin’ here.”
“Even to sheriffs that shoot on sight,” said Sleepy.
Dad Parker turned and stared at Sleepy.
“I didn’t quite get that.”
“Well, they do,” declared Sleepy. “One took a shot at Hashknife and tore
half the fork off his saddle.”
Hashknife laughed and hastened to explain the incident. Dad Parker
listened closely until Hashknife had finished.
“That was a close call, Hartley,” he said slowly. “And it was not a
pleasant introduction to our country. You say this bandit held up the
crowd in the Cheyenne this mornin’?”
“That’s what the sheriff told us.”
“And sooner or later Jud Farley will get him,” declared Dad Parker.
“Farley is a good man. This bandit will leave his card once too often.”
“Is he a rustler, too?” queried Hashknife.
“Not yet. He confines his robberies to hard cash. As yet he has made
no big hauls, but he seems to have nerve enough to pull off any kind
of a job.”
“Any suspicion of who he is?”
“No. He laughs behind his mask, talks like a man suffering from a heavy
cold, and rides like the ----. He has never been seen in the daylight;
so no one knows the color of his horse.”
“Kinda interestin’,” mused Hashknife aloud. “I like his idea of
identifyin’ himself with a playin’-card. It’s like somethin’ yuh read
about.”
“He probably read about it.” Thus Dad Parker dryly. “There’s a washbench
around by the kitchen door, if you feel like takin’ a wash. I think that
‘Harmony’ has about prepared the dinner.”
“A little wash won’t hurt us,” laughed Hashknife, getting to his feet. A
rider was turning in from the road, and as he neared the porch he waved
at the old man, who motioned for Hashknife and Sleepy to wait.
The man rode up and dismounted. He was a man of possibly forty years of
age, with a pale, esthetic face, deeply set, dark eyes and a sensitive
mouth. From his garb it was plain to see that he was of the clergy,
although he wore a sombrero hat and high-heeled boots.
As he removed his sombrero he disclosed a partly bald head above his
high forehead. His horse was a decrepit gray, which had long ago
outlived its usefulness on a cattle range, and his riding rig was of
the poorest.
“Get down, minister,” said Dad Parker pleasantly. “You are just in time
for dinner.”
“Perhaps,” the minister smiled, “perhaps I timed it, Mr. Parker.”
Dad laughed and indicated Hashknife and Sleepy.
“This is Mr. Hartley and Mr. Stevens, two newcomers to this country.
Gentlemen, shake hands with the Reverend Jones, the man who rides on
his church.”
Hashknife laughed as he shook hands with the minister.
“I never knowed one to ride a church before,” said Hashknife.
“Perhaps Mr. Parker is right, at that,” said the minister. “In this
country a horse is more valuable than a pulpit.”
He shook hands with Sleepy, who made a wry face after the minister had
turned away. Mildred came out and greeted the minister warmly.
“We will set another place at the table,” she said, as she turned and
went back into the house.
Hashknife and Sleepy went to the washbench near the kitchen door and
began their ablutions. Mildred was in the kitchen, talking to some
one, whose voice immediately rose to a higher pitch.
“Well, my ----, who next! What do they think this is--a caf-fay?
Preacher, eh? Ten Commandments and an appetite! Mebbe he’ll expect a
yaller-legged hen, won’t he? By grab, I don’t do nothin’ around here,
except work. Somebody always showin’ up at meal time. I wisht I had a
job herdin’ sheep!”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Thus Mildred’s voice sorrowfully.
“Yuh don’t need to! Don’t waste sympathy on a cook. They’re the lowest
order of humanity. Put a plug hat on one and he’s still so low he could
walk under a snake. What does he drink--except liquor?”
“Tea, I think.” Laughing.
“Tea? Aw right. Give’m skim milk. I know that jigger. He’ll want to ask
the blessin’, won’t he? Thank the Lord for somethin’ that I cooked, eh?
That’s all the thanks I git. If I saved his life he’d thank me through
somebody else, I s’pose.”
Came the banging of pans, as the cook vented his further displeasure on
the utensils. Hashknife laughed joyously.
“That’s Harmony.”
“A human bein’,” Sleepy spluttered through the towel. “I’m for Harmony.
Didja notice that preacher’s grip? Just like takin’ hold of a dead fish.
By golly, I was afraid to let go of his hand for fear it would fall in
the dirt.”
The cook came outside and looked at them. He was a short, heavily built
man, with grizzled hair, wrinkled face and a walrus mustache. He glared
balefully at the two cowpunchers for several moments before a grin
overspread his face.
“Jist tryin’ to figure out which one of yuh was a preacher,” he said
huskily. “Milly said we had comp’ny, but didn’t say how many, yuh see.
Then she edged in on me and said that the preacher had arrived.”
“Yo’re Harmony, ain’t yuh?” asked Hashknife.
“Yeah,” Harmony spat viciously. “I’m the best ---- cook in the
county. Harmony Hobbs, that’s me. A disciple of peace and a promoter
of brotherly love. I’ll have harmony, if I have to bang ---- out of
everythin’ and everybody to git it. Howdy!”
They shook hands gravely and Hashknife introduced himself and Sleepy.
“Hashknife Hartley, eh? Didja git that name from the old Hashknife
outfit?”
“Uh-huh.”
“By ----! Say, it’s a small world, Hartley. Didja ever know ‘Saleratus’
Smalley, who used to cook for that outfit?”
“I sure did,” laughed Hashknife. “Did you know him?”
“No, but I knowed a man that did. It’s sure a small world, ain’t it.”
“Yeah, it ain’t very big,” laughed Hashknife.
“Uh-huh. Well, well! You sneak around to the front and come in with the
main herd, gents. Dinner is get-at-able, right now. And don’t forget to
bow yore heads.”
They laughed and went around to the porch, where the minister was
talking to Mildred and Dad Parker. Harmony’s gong sounded its
announcement and Dad Parker motioned them all into the dining room,
where they sat down at the big table.
Harmony bustled around, placing food on the table, while they all waited
for the minister to begin. Even Harmony stopped at the doorway, obeying
some hereditary impulse, in spite of the fact that he outwardly detested
ministers.
As they bowed their heads and the minister’s voice began in sonorous
tones to invoke a blessing upon the food, there came the scrape of a
boot heel on the threshold of the dining room and a soft laugh of
derision.
Every one looked up quickly. Half-way inside the doorway stood Cliff
Parker, a dark, thin-faced youth, handsome in spite of his lines of
dissipation. His black, curly hair was in disorder, and there was a
smear of blood on his cheek from a recent cut. Around his throat was a
scarlet muffler, the ends swaying down over the front of an ornamented
vest. He was still wearing a pair of heavy, bat-winged, beautifully
stamped chaps, and around his waist was a heavy belt and holstered
gun. His feet were encased in a pair of high-priced, extra-high-heeled
boots.
He was still half-drunk, wholly sarcastic, reckless. As he encountered
his father’s rebuking glance he laughed softly and glanced around the
table. Harmony swore softly to himself, but it was audible to every
one.
“More Sunday school, eh?” Cliff’s voice was as vibrant as a harp string.
“The Reverend Jones is with us again. This makes three times in a little
over a week, don’t it?”
“Cliff!” Dad Parker started to his feet. “What is the matter with you,
son?”
Cliff laughed nastily and rocked slowly on the balls of his feet. His
eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips. The minister was looking at him
wonderingly, and Hashknife was inclined to feel sorry for him.
“---- psalm singer!” sneered Cliff angrily. “Ridin’ all over the
country, preachin’ hell-fire and brimstone--and gettin’ free meals. I
suppose it’s a fair trade, though.”
“Cliff, be still!” warned his father hoarsely. “Don’t forget what you
are and where you are. The minister is my guest.”
“You can have him,” Cliff laughed and leaned back against the wall. “You
think he’s comin’ here to save our souls, don’t yuh? Souls, ----! He’s
got a different reason than that, Dad.”
The minister’s face had gone a shade more pale and his eyes shot
sidewise at Mildred, who was gripping the table-cloth as she stared
at her brother. It was a plain inference that the minister was coming
there to see Mildred, and Hashknife knew from the minister’s actions
that Cliff was not far wrong in his suspicions.
“What do you mean, Cliff?” Dad Parker spoke softly now. He knew that
there was no use antagonizing Cliff in his present frame of mind.
“Mean?” Cliff laughed. “Do you think that the sky-pilot is droppin’ in
here so often just to see you--or me? Do yuh think that our souls mean
anythin’ to him? Mebbe you can stand for a Gospel shark in the family,
but I can’t.”
“Cliff!” Mildred’s face flushed angrily, as she got to her feet. “Cliff,
you have no right to say such things!”
“Is that so?” Cliff turned angrily on her. “If you don’t sabe
him--you’re kinda dense, Milly. I figured him out a long time ago.”
The Reverend Mr. Jones got slowly to his feet and turned to Cliff. He
had recovered his composure now.
“I am sorry you feel as you do,” he said slowly. “There is no use in
telling you that you are mistaken, because you have made up your mind
as to certain things.” He turned to Dad Parker. “Mr. Parker, I am more
sorry than I can say, and I sincerely hope that this will not affect
our friendship.”
“No, don’t go--yet,” begged the old man. “This is not a thing that
can----”
“Please.” The minister gave a gesture of impatience. “It is only an
unpleasant situation that might be relieved by my absence. I will say
good afternoon, and be on my way.”
He nodded to those at the table, turned and went out through the open
door, leaving Dad Parker facing his erring son.
“Well, go ahead and explode, Dad,” said Cliff airily.
“Explode?” Dad Parker considered his offspring. “No,” he said slowly. “I
am not goin’ to explode.”
“That’s good,” Cliff turned his head and looked at Harmony, whose
mustache was jerking spasmodically. “What are you cryin’ about,
Harmony?”
“Huh?” Harmony looked up quickly, “Who the ----’s cryin’?”
“Then yuh was laughin’,” declared Cliff. “You ought to be ashamed of
yourself--laughin’ at a preacher.”
“Cliff, we still have guests--strangers,” warned Mildred.
“I seen ’em,” nodded Cliff, shifting his eyes to Hashknife and Sleepy.
“I’m not apologizing to anybody today. Anyway, they don’t look like the
kind of people yuh can apologize to and make ’em believe it; so I won’t
try.”
“We’re not askin’ for an apology,” said Hashknife.
“That’s thoughtful of yuh,” said Cliff sarcastically, as he turned and
walked out of the room. They heard him clump down the porch steps and
walk away from the house.
“I don’t know just what to say,” Dad Parker turned back to his chair and
looked at his guests.
“Then don’t try,” said Hashknife softly. “Whether yore son is right or
wrong, he spoke his little piece in public. Now, let’s forget it.”
“I’m goin’ to thank you for that, Hartley,” said the old man, as he sat
down. “I can’t understand Cliff.”
“Well, he had no right to say what he did,” declared Mildred warmly. “I
think he owes me an apology.”
“I think these are among the best biscuits I ever ate,” said Hashknife
seriously, “and that coffee would make any man leave home and hunt for
a job on the Maverick ranch.”
Mildred was forced to smile at Harmony who beamed upon Hashknife and
hurried away for another supply of biscuits and more coffee.
“I dunno why yuh specify any certain thing on this table,” stated
Sleepy. “’S far as I can see, it’s the best line-up of reg’lar food
we’ve surrounded in a long time.”
“I’m glad you like it,” said Mildred.
“Like it,” grinned Sleepy, “----, I love it!”
Sleepy’s inelegant compliment brought a general laugh and the former
unpleasant incident was shelved for the time. They finished their meal
and went out on to the porch. Cliff was in front of the bunkhouse,
talking to another man who was sitting on the steps, holding the reins
of his horse. The animal was a tall bay horse of racy build, and the
sun sparkled on an ornate saddle of black leather and silver.
“Fancy lookin’ outfit,” observed Sleepy, as they sat down to enjoy a
smoke.
Dad Parker frowned slightly, as he nodded and said:
“That is Vincent Roche, owner of the Diamond V ranch. His place is about
twelve miles west of here.”
“Rides a runnin’ horse,” observed Hashknife admiringly.
“Yes, he is a little particular,” agreed Dad. “That saddle was made for
him in Mexico City, and the horse cost a big sum. Roche is a plunger. I
can’t admire his style, but there is no question of his nerve or
ability.”
“Mebbe yore son is tryin’ to imitate him,” suggested Hashknife.
“That is the whole trouble,” said the old man sadly. “Roche and Cliff
are altogether too friendly. Here he comes now.”
Hashknife and Sleepy studied the man as he walked up toward them. He
was well dressed, athletic looking, with a free swing to his stride.
Except for a weak chin, Vincent Roche was a handsome man. His eyes
were cool, calculating, widely spaced; his forehead was broad. His
ears seemed to be fitted snugly to the sides of his head, and there
was a well-groomed look to his closely-cropped brown hair.
“Hello, Mr. Parker,” he called pleasantly, as he came up to them and
held out his hand.
“Hello, Vincent.”
The old man was cordial enough, as they shook hands. He introduced
Hashknife and Sleepy, and Roche accepted the introduction in an
indifferent manner.
“Hear the old Cheyenne was held up this mornin’,” said Roche, smiling.
“The Trey of Spades keeps up his deadly work, it seems.”
“They’ll get him one of these days,” declared Dad Parker. “He can only
last so long, Vincent.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Roche seemed thoughtful. “I suppose it all depends
on how long he keeps workin’, but you can’t expect him to quit, as long
as things come easy.”
“Easy come, easy go,” quoted the old man. “He will keep it up too long,
Vincent. They always do.”
“Well,” Roche laughed, “I suppose it is unlawful to say so, but I hope
he keeps goin’ for a while. He’s a sport. It takes a lot of nerve to
stick up a saloonful of men. And I kinda like his idea of a trade-mark,
it keeps him from being identified with the common herd. Is Mildred in
the house?”
Without waiting for an answer Roche brushed past them and went into the
house, where he began talking to Mildred. Dad Parker sat down and they
resumed their smoking.
“This is a pretty big range, ain’t it?” asked Hashknife.
“Yes, pretty big,” replied Parker. “Lots of beef shipped out of here.
Oxbow is the big shipping point. Quite a lot of horses shipped out of
here, too; and they’re worth money now.”
“I wonder where we might get jobs,” said Hashknife. “It looks like a
good range, and we’d kinda like to work a while and look it over.”
“With an idea of going into the business?”
“Possibly.”
“I don’t know. There’s the Box M southeast of here. They run a lot of
cattle. Old ‘Flint’ Moore owns the place. Feller by the name of Delaney
is foreman. There’s ranches scattered all across the county, and any of
’em might need a good man or two.”
“I--” he hesitated for a moment--“I might use a couple myself.”
“You mean that you need two men?” asked Sleepy quickly.
“I might.”
“Dad, I reckon you’ve had two punchers move right in on yuh.” Thus
Hashknife seriously.
“Well, I suppose it’s all right,” Dad Parker grew thoughtful. “I
really can use two men. I’ve only used one extra man up to this time.
‘Honey’ Davis quit me to go to work for Roche the other day. I ain’t
worth nothin’ in the saddle any more, and Cliff--well, you see how it
is. Yes, I guess you are hired, if you want the jobs.”
“And all the time you’ve been talkin’, we’ve been on yore payroll,” said
Sleepy wonderingly. “Hashknife, we better hit for Oxbow and load up on
tobacco, ’cause we’ve got a job.”
“Forty a month and food,” said the old man.
“The forty don’t interest me,” grinned Sleepy, “but the food does.
C’mon, Hashknife. We don’t want to be late for supper.”
* * * * *
The sheriff and his deputy gave up the chase after an hour more of
searching for further trace of the bandit, and rode back to Oxbow. The
sheriff, in spite of several failures, was confident of ultimately
putting the Trey of Spades behind the cell doors of his little jail.
But Buck, the deputy, was not so optimistic.
“My shootin’ is goin’ back on me,” he complained. “Can’t make out why
I didn’t salivate that skinny jigger. I’ve got to do better than that,
Jud.”
“Oh shut up!” snapped Farley. “Be danged glad yuh don’t have the blood
of an innocent man on yore hands.”
“How do I know he’s innocent, Jud?”
“Hm-m-m!” Jud Farley wrinkled his brow in thought.
“There ain’t nothin’ to show that one of ’em ain’t the Trey of Spades,”
continued Buck. “We don’t know ’em. They sure showed up there at a queer
time, dontcha know it? How do we know that the Trey of Spades ain’t a
stranger in this country? We don’t. By grab, mebbe I missed nailin’ him
to the mast.”
“I don’t think so, Buck,” replied Farley.
“That horse never showed any signs of runnin’.”
“Thasso? Say, didja ever stop to think we didn’t get a look at the other
horse--not close to? That animal was back there in the brush. By golly,
you’ve got to use yore brains in this kind of a job.”
“Foresight, not hindsight, Buck,” smiled Farley. “The time to have
thought of that was when we were there. It’s too late now.”
“Well, gimme credit for thinkin’ when I did,” requested Buck.
“All right. Better late than never, I suppose.”
“I ain’t supposed to do it all,” muttered Buck. “I’m only the deputy,
yuh must remember.”
“You try rememberin’ it, too,” retorted Farley dryly, and Buck was
squelched sufficiently to keep still for a while.
Oxbow was mildly interested in the return of the sheriff, although no
one was surprised to see him come back without a prisoner. “Slim” Cole,
owner of the Cheyenne, was volubly profane. The Trey of Spades had taken
about five hundred dollars from Slim and he was very peevish.
In fact he was so peevish that he kicked Shy, the three-legged black
cat, which was supposed to be the mascot of the Cheyenne gambling house.
“You’re goin’ to have bad luck for that, Slim,” declared “Sufferin’”
Stockton, who dealt faro for the house. He was so nicknamed because
of the many ailments that beset him, most of them being caused from
perusing a medical book.
“The ---- I am!” snorted Slim. “Goin’ to have, am I? Say, Sufferin’,
you’re about ten hours late on your prognosticatin’. I’ve had my hard
luck.”
“Kickin’ a three-legged cat won’t help yuh none, that’s a dead immortal
cinch.”
Slim glared across the table at Sufferin’ and said--
“Just where abouts in ---- do you feel bad?”
“Liver. Spots in front of my eyes, short breath. Kinda ----”
“Yesterday yuh had symptoms of tuberculosis. The day before that yuh had
an ulcerated tooth and a double-headed carbuncle.”
“All right--” Sufferin’ grew sad--“mebbe I did. By grab, yuh don’t get
no sympathy, no matter what yuh get, around here.”
“Know what you’ll have tomorrow, Sufferin’?”
“Feller never knows from one day to the other, Slim.”
“You’re goin’ to have blisters on your feet--from runnin’--if yuh don’t
quit diagnosin’ yourself. You make me sick.”
“Your liver is out of kilter, too,” declared Sufferin’. “Late hours and
liquor.”
“Hey! You gamblin’-house dudes! C’mon up and have a drink of yore own
liquor.”
“Blackie” Dahl had come in during Slim and Sufferin’s argument and
yelped at them from the bar. Blackie was a regular contributor to
the Cheyenne’s exchequer, and too wild-eyed in his actions to brook
a refusal to drink.
Blackie was wild, irresponsible, quick to anger. He owned the
D Bar outfit and a chronic thirst. His was one of those little
“starve-to-death” places, as they were known, and it was hinted that
Blackie’s herd was composed of, and supported by, mavericks--unbranded
calves.
Blackie was well named. His hair was as black as the proverbial raven’s
wing, and he wore it long. His face was thin, evil, and his brown eyes
were always bloodshot. There was nothing refined about Blackie Dahl. He
boasted that his loop was wide.
“It’s all grist that comes to my mill,” he declared. “If it ain’t
accordin’ to Hoyle--let ’em stop me.”
The inhabitants of the Cheyenne responded with alacrity and Blackie
snorted contentedly, as they lined up at the bar.
“What’s all this talk about the Trey of Spades?” he asked Slim, who
explained about the holdup.
“After I left here, eh? Knew too much to show up while I was here. I’d
’a’ sure shot the rest of the deck loose from him. Roche was here,
wasn’t he?”
“He left here about two o’clock,” volunteered Sufferin’.
“Loser, as usual, eh?”
“Roche broke about even last night,” said Slim. “Cliff Parker lost about
two hundred. I reckon he left about an hour after Roche left.”
“And the Trey of Spades comes along and takes the whole pot, eh?”
Blackie laughed delightedly. “That whippoorwill is a dinger. I’m for
him, by----!”
“Wait’ll he nicks you for a wad,” said Sufferin’.
“Me? Ha, ha, ha, ha! Wait’ll he does, Sufferin’. He knows who to fool
with. What did he look like?”
“Had two legs, two arms,” said Sufferin’, checking them off on his
fingers.
“Yeah, and he had a head, too!” snorted Blackie angrily. “You jug-heads
didn’t even take a good look at him. It was like takin’ candy from a
baby!”
Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker were coming in and those at the bar
ceased their conversation. Dad Parker had decided to ride to town with
them. He spoke to those at the bar.
“C’mon and have a drink, Parker,” invited Blackie.
“Thanks, Dahl,” smiled Dad, “but you know I neither drink nor smoke.”
“Yuh don’t, eh?” Blackie’s lips curled in a sneer. He knew that Dad
Parker did not drink, and that it was through no ill-feeling that he
declined, but Blackie’s brain was slightly warped from too much
liquor. “C’mon and have a drink, I said!” he snorted angrily, as the
old man started toward the rear of the room. Dad Parker turned and
looked at Blackie, a smile on his lips.
“Thank you just the same, Blackie--I do not drink.”
“You just think yuh don’t,” Blackie surged away from the bar and
advanced toward the old man, grasping him by the lapel of his coat.
“When I say ‘drink’, they drink, Parker. C’mon!”
“Aw, he don’t drink, Blackie,” said Slim, crossing to them and trying to
persuade Blackie to desist. “Don’t do that. He’s an old man.”
“Yea-a-ah?” Blackie whirled on Slim, his eyes blazing. “Where do you git
in on this, Slim? You mind yore own ---- business, will yuh? I asked him
to drink with me, and he’ll sure drink. C’mon, you old bible-back!”
“He don’t drink, pardner.” Hashknife spoke clearly, a half-smile on his
lips.
Blackie whirled and looked at Hashknife closely. For several moments he
considered these two strange cowpunchers, as if wondering that any one
would interrupt his pleasure. Then he came slowly toward Hashknife,
squinting quizzically at him.
Hashknife’s lips smiled, but his eyes were serious. He did not retreat;
so Blackie stopped a few feet away, where he glanced questioningly
around at those at the bar. His gaze came back to Hashknife and he
licked his lips delightedly as he said--
“I didn’t quite git what you said, feller.”
Hashknife looked steadily into Blackie’s eyes, which wavered slightly.
“Yo’re a liar,” said Hashknife softly.
Blackie’s right hand jerked nervously, but he did not reach for his gun.
There was something in those level eyes that told him to wait a while.
“That’s a fightin’ word,” he said hoarsely.
“That’s why I used it.”
“Oh!” It was more than Blackie could understand. He shifted his feet
nervously.
“That’s why you used it, eh?”
“Yeah, I thought you was lookin’ for trouble.”
“Thought so, didja?”
“At first. Now, I know you want a chance to run.”
“Oh, the ---- I do?” Blackie fairly bristled.
“Right now you wish I wasn’t here.”
“Well, you’ve got some ---- queer ideas, feller.”
“Mebbe I have. I’ve met yore kind before. Yo’re all kinda hard to
insult. In fact I don’t think it can be done.”
“Yeah? Are you tryin’ to insult me?”
“Spit on his boots,” advised Sleepy dryly. “Mebbe he’ll sabe that.”
“Who the ---- are you?” growled Blackie.
“I’m the guy that cleans up the mess after the big feller gets through,”
grinned Sleepy.
“_Tough hombres,_ eh?” Blackie laughed. “If you came to Oxbow lookin’
for trouble, I reckon yuh can find it.”
“I don’t think so.” Hashknife shook his head and half-turned toward
the bar. As he turned away Blackie’s right hand flashed to his gun,
which seemed to fairly hop from the holster to meet him. But before
it could swing level, Sleepy’s gun jarred the whole room and Blackie
staggered sidewise, his gun falling to the floor.
Blackie stumbled into a table, caught himself with one hand and swore
viciously as he tried to find out how badly he was hurt. The bullet had
ripped across the front of his chaps and smashed against his six-shooter
between the cylinder and the butt. It had taken a chunk out of Blackie’s
second finger and the shock had numbed his hand and wrist.
“You dirty coyote!” Sleepy walked over to Blackie, who cringed back
against the table. “I’ve got a good notion to bend this gun over yore
empty head and collect bounty on yore ears. You’d be a bad man--behind
a bush.”
“That was a dirty trick,” agreed Slim. “And I think that Blackie got
off cheap. By golly, that was straight shootin’ if anybody stops to
ask yuh.”
Blackie scowled and stepped away from the table. He had nothing to say.
He was shocked sober now. His finger was bleeding badly and he looked
curiously at it.
“Better bind it up,” advised Hashknife. “The bone ain’t busted, is it?”
Blackie shook his head.
“No, it’s all right.”
Jud Farley and Buck Hardy came cautiously into the place and looked
around.
“Heard some shootin’,” stated Farley, squinting at Blackie’s bleeding
finger. “Didn’t know but mebbe the Trey of Spades had showed up again.”