Blackie turned and shot a malevolent glance at Hashknife as he walked
outside without saying a word. Farley watched him go out through the
door and turned to Hashknife.
“What happened, Hartley?”
“Lemme tell it,” begged Sufferin’. “My ----, don’t let a story like that
git ruined in the tellin’.”
“Go ahead,” grinned Farley. “You won’t dare to lie, ’cause a lot of yuh
all seen the same thing.”
Sufferin’ grinned and launched into his story, which lost nothing in
the telling. Farley listened closely, thoughtfully. He knew Blackie
Dahl fairly well. In fact he had tried at odd times to catch Blackie
stealing cattle, but failed.
“He’s a bad boy,” agreed Farley, after Sufferin’ had finished. “Also it
isn’t good policy to merely disarm a man like Blackie. It’s like takin’
a fang out of a rattler.”
“I hardly ever kill a man, unless I have to,” said Sleepy dryly. “Of
course, sometimes yuh have to work on ’em the second time, but that’s
all right. It kinda makes yuh feel that yuh didn’t act too hasty.”
“Um-m-m!” Farley squinted at Sleepy, whose face was as innocent of guile
as that of a year-old baby.
“I’ll buy a drink,” stated Slim Cole. “By golly, I will. And I’ll buy a
lemonade for Dad Parker.”
“Well,” laughed Dad, “I might have taken a lemonade with Blackie and
saved all this trouble. But I won’t quarrel with you, Slim.”
“Don’tcha try it,” said Slim seriously. “I’m no fool.”
“I’ll do my best,” laughed the bartender. “I know that yuh put lemons
and water in it. These here fancy drinks sure do puzzle me.”
“Cliff didn’t come in, did he?” asked Slim. Dad Parker shook his head.
“He prob’ly don’t know we had a holdup,” grinned Slim. “He pulled out
about an hour too soon.”
“Did he?” The old man squinted thoughtfully at the backbar. “What time
was the holdup, Slim?”
“About four o’clock.”
“Vint Roche missed it, too,” offered Sufferin’. “He left ahead of Cliff.
Vint was ahead of the game, but Cliff had his reg’lar luck. If Vint had
stayed the Trey of Spades would have been a couple hundred better off.”
“Here’s the lemonade,” grinned the bartender. “Them lemons has been here
a year or so, but I s’pose they’re all right.”
“Thanks,” muttered the old man. He was more interested in wondering
where Cliff had been from three o’clock in the morning until about
eleven.
“Didja hear about our church?” asked Sufferin’.
“What church?” queried Buck.
“The old Chuck Luck saloon is to be reformed,” laughed Slim. “Lot of
the old jiggers around here was tryin’ to take up a collection to
build a church; so I--yeah, they came to me first. They always come
to a saloon to get money to build a church--so I thought I’d get off
cheaper by lettin’ ’em have the old saloon building.
“They’re fixin’ it up. I let ’em have some chairs and donated enough
to buy song books. That preacher Jones ain’t such a bad sort of a
jigger. He lets my soul alone. He wanted to make a deacon out of me.”
Slim laughed. “I offered to put in a roulette wheel and give him a
percentage. We’re still deadlocked on our trade.”
“What denomination is he?” asked Hashknife.
“What does that mean?” queried Sufferin’.
“Is he Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, or what?”
“I dunno,” said Sufferin’ seriously. “He packs a Bible, if that’s
anythin’ to go on.”
“And he sure can read it,” declared “Hunky” Smith. “I heard him rasslin’
with it over at the Box M. They had quite a meetin’ over there. Jimmy
Delaney sung a song. By golly, that feller sure can sing. He married old
Flint Moore’s daughter, yuh know.”
“The minister is all right,” said Dad Parker softly. “We need him in the
Thunder range. I’m glad we’re goin’ to have a church in Oxbow, Slim. A
little Gospel won’t hurt any of us.”
“A little won’t,” admitted Sufferin’. “It’s like delirium tremens, Dad.
A little shot of it will make yuh look at things different; but too much
is plumb liable to collywobble yuh.”
“Where did you get that idea, Sufferin’?” asked Dad.
“From my Pa.” Sufferin’s nose twitched violently. “Pa was a good man,
I’d have yuh know. When he drank whisky he kept two distilleries workin’
nights; when he fought, he never knowed when he was licked; and when he
got religion, he got all there was. And when he died--” Sufferin’ wiped
away a tear--“they found a Bible inside his shirt-front. There was three
bullets stickin’ into that Bible.”
“Was he in the war?” asked Hunky.
“A private one,” nodded Sufferin’. “It was him agin’ three deputy
sheriffs and a U. S. marshal. Yuh see, Pa was always tryin’ things
out. He didn’t believe everythin’ he heard or read.
“He wanted to prove things for himself. A preacher told him that anybody
would suffer if they broke the Ten Commandments. Pa wanted to be sure
about this; so he picked out the eighth one and broke it all to thunder.
From the looks of Pa when they brought him in, the preacher had the
right hunch.”
Sufferin’ was so serious that his listeners did not smile, although
several of them, including Hashknife and Sleepy, had very moist eyes
and aching belt-lines.
Hashknife, Sleepy and Dad Parker crossed to the store and made their
purchases. There was no sign of Blackie Dahl. The old man was very
thoughtful on the way back to the ranch.
“Blackie is a bad man,” he told them. “It seems that he has pretty much
had his own way, and this incident is not going to set well on his mind.
Just be as careful as you can.”
“Dontcha worry about him,” smiled Hashknife. “He won’t be so cocky next
time. Shootin’ that six-gun out of his hand made us kinda ace-high with
him.” Hashknife turned and looked at Sleepy. “Just where did yuh aim to
hit him, Sleepy?”
“Somewhere between the belt and the chin,” chuckled Sleepy. “I come dang
near pullin’ what yuh call a ‘fox-pass.’ I’m like Buck--I’m shootin’
low.”
“Do you mean to say that you did not deliberately shoot that gun out of
his hand?” demanded Dad Parker.
“Give me more credit than that,” laughed Sleepy. “There wasn’t no time
for fancy work. I aimed to cut him off about at the lower vest-pocket.
Any old time I shoot, yuh can bet all yore roll that I’m shootin’ to
kill.”
“Blackie ain’t noways slow on gettin’ his gun,” observed Hashknife. “I
didn’t look for him to do it, but yuh never can tell about his type. And
he ain’t exactly a coward. Peculiar sort of a jasper, I’d say. Didja
notice the look he gave me when I kinda connected him with the Trey of
Spades?”
“I did,” nodded Sleepy. “He sure throwed a lot of hate into that look.
Mebbe he is the Trey of Spades, at that.”
“What kind of a feller is the sheriff?” asked Hashknife.
“Salt of the earth,” replied Dad Parker. “Jud Farley is one white man.
Buck Hardy is pretty much of a danged fool, but he’s as honest as the
day is long. They’re both old timers in the Thunder country. Jud isn’t
what you’d call a thinkin’ sheriff, but he tries as hard as the next
man.”
“Have you any idea who the Trey of Spades is?”
“Not the slightest. From his work, I would say that he is an experienced
hand at the game. He has never made a false move yet. His hauls have not
been big, but big enough to make folks uneasy. No, I do not think it is
any one who belongs around here.”
“Prob’ly don’t,” agreed Hashknife thoughtfully. “I sure hope not,
anyway.”
“Why do you say that, Hartley?”
“’Cause it ain’t nice to think of home folks runnin’ their neck into a
noose.”
They rode on to the Maverick ranch, put up their horses and were shown
their bunkhouse quarters by Harmony.
“Yuh won’t have much chance to loaf around,” informed Harmony. “Nothin’
but work around here. Seems like I have it all to do, too. Some day I’m
goin’ to start right off across the hills and not quit runnin’ ’till I
git so ---- far away from a cow ranch that all I’ll ever see of a cow
is a pitcher of one on a condensed milk can.”
“Ain’t this a good outfit to work for?” laughed Hashknife.
“Good? Is any of ’em good, I ask yuh? I s’pose that Dad Parker is as
good as any to work for. It don’t make much difference who yuh cook
for. You’ve got a ---- of a job anyway yuh look at it.”
“Miss Parker helps yuh, don’t she?”
“Milly? Help? Yeah.” Harmony spat dryly and turned to the door. “She
makes doughnuts. Vincent Roche likes doughnuts. I’ll be ---- if I’d
make ’em for him.”
“Well,” laughed Hashknife, “I think we’re goin’ to like it around here.
It’s quiet, harmless and the food is fair.”
“Fair, eh? Quiet, harmless, ----! Say, how did you fellers happen to
come along and land jobs here?”
“Just happened.” Hashknife stretched out on a bunk and squinted up at
the ceiling.
“Uh-huh. I heard Cliff talkin’ to Milly after yuh left. He kinda opined
that mebbe yuh was sent in here.”
“Sent in here? What for, Harmony?”
“Well, the sheriff ain’t been able to catch the Trey of Spades.”
Hashknife laughed and shook his head violently.
“Nothin’ like that, Harmony. We’re just a pair of driftin’ cowpunchers,
tha’sall. The Trey of Spades don’t bother us, and as long as he lets us
alone, we’ll let him alone.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ to pump yuh,” reminded Harmony.
“You got any idea who he is?” asked Sleepy.
“Prob’ly.” Harmony grinned and hitched up his belt. “I mostly always
do have an idea on things--wrong ideas. If I ever do hit it right I’ll
quit cookin’ and buy me a tin star. I seen in a magazine where I can
become a detective for a dollar and six-bits, includin’ star. All I’ve
got to have is a gun and a clever mind.”
“Yuh could buy a second-hand gun,” grinned Sleepy.
“That’d make me mechanically perfect,” sighed Harmony. “But I’d still be
a ---- of a good cook.”
* * * * *
For the next few days Hashknife and Sleepy were busy. The home corrals
were in a bad state of repair and the line fences had been neglected for
months. Dad Parker gave them a free hand. Cliff gave them no assistance.
In fact he spent little time at the ranch, and it was hinted that Cliff
was “stuck” on a dance-hall girl in Oxbow, who was known as the
“Countess.”
“And if that ain’t ----, I’ll eat m’ shirt,” declared Harmony
confidentially. “Cliff’s fi-nan-seer is comin’ to visit the ranch in
a few days. She’s a dinger of a girl, too. Name’s Dorothy Clement.
“She was here last summer for a couple months. Her and Milly used to
go to school together. Cliff got stuck on her last summer and Milly
told me that they was goin’ to git married this fall. That’s why Dad
helped Cliff to git a start. Done him a ---- of a lot of good, didn’t
it? Blowed in everythin’ he owned, and now he’s stuck on a dance-hall
skirt. Life’s a ---- of a queer deal, any old way yuh look at it.”
“We’re all queer,” declared Hashknife.
“Well, I run kinda true to form,” stated Harmony seriously. “I’m a ----
fool all the time.”
“Yo’re just a human bein’,” laughed Hashknife. “Mebbe yo’re a little
more human than some of ’em, Harmony. What kind of a feller is this
Vincent Roche?”
“That’s a question, Hartley. Vint is a wild ridin’, high-rollin’ sort of
a jigger. The Diamond V ain’t makin’ no money, but Vint is sure spendin’
a-plenty. His dad left the ranch to him, and he’s made a monkey out of
it.
“I’m plumb scared to death that Milly is goin’ to marry him. He’s one of
them doughnut eaters and wears plenty of vi’let perfume. But don’tcha
ever get the idea that Vint ain’t hard-boiled. Cliff was all right until
he got to trailin’ with Vint. ’Course he wasn’t no mamma’s angel child
before--but tryin’ to keep up with Vint--” Harmony shook his head sadly.
“Well, Cliff is seven kinds of a ---- fool, tha’sall.”
“I ain’t seen the preacher around here since Cliff bawled him out,”
observed Sleepy.
“Aw, that egg!” Harmony’s nose wrinkled disgustedly. “He’s stuck on
Milly, too. I’ve seen that comin’ on for quite a while, but it wasn’t
none of my business. He may go to heaven when he dies, but he won’t
git far on this earth.”
“Do you know Blackie Dahl?” asked Hashknife.
“Yuh danged right! He’s a tough jigger, Blackie is. Dad told me what
happened down at the Cheyenne, and I can say that you was plumb lucky.
Blackie’s sudden, y’betcha. And you take my advice--look out fer him.”
Hashknife promised that they would follow his advice, and started for
the bunkhouse when Mildred called to them from the front porch. Dad had
just come in with the mail, but was not with her.
“Somethin’ we can do, ma’am?” asked Hashknife.
“Come and sit down here on the porch,” said Mildred, and they accepted
her invitation. She had a letter in her hand which she had been reading,
and there was a worried expression on her face. She hesitated about
opening the conversation.
“I just had a letter.” She indicated the one she held. “Dad just
brought it from Oxbow, and it is from the girl that Cliff is engaged
to marry. She is coming here to spend a month--and Cliff is in town,
drunk. Dad tried to get him to come home, but it was no use.
“Dorothy Clements--that is her name--will arrive in Oxbow about five
o’clock today, and she expects Cliff to meet her at the train. She
thinks that Cliff is an angel.”
Mildred got to her feet and walked to the edge of the porch with the
letter clutched tightly in both hands.
“Oh, it is just too bad! Dorothy is a lovely girl. I can’t bear to
tell her what has happened to Cliff--but she will have to know. Dad
is all broke up over it. Cliff is killing Dad by inches, but Dad says
nothing.”
“Yeah, it sure is too bad,” agreed Hashknife softly. “But it might all
come out in the wash, ma’am. Do yuh want us to go down and bring her in
from Oxbow?”
“Would you?” Quickly. “Dad and I could go, but there is too much danger
of us running into Cliff. You know what he is like when he is drunk. He
would be sure to suspect that Dorothy was coming in tonight, because he
knows that she is coming soon.”
“Won’t it look kinda queer to her to not see any of the family there to
meet her?”
“Yes, I suppose it will. But I--I----”
“You go along with us,” suggested Hashknife. “We can give Cliff a bum
steer. Leave it to me and Sleepy, will yuh, ma’am?”
“Yes, I will, mister,” mimicking Hashknife’s expression. “Why don’t you
call me Milly, like everyone else does? I hate to be called ‘ma’am.’ I
won’t mind calling you Hashknife and Sleepy. Harmony told me that you
were a couple of non-pa-reels. I don’t know what he meant, but it was
quite a lot for Harmony to say about anyone.”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed as they got to their feet.
“All right, Milly,” said Hashknife seriously. “The carriage will be
ready any old time yuh say. We’ll hitch that roan team to the
spring-wagon, and I’ll betcha Miss Dorothy won’t miss anybody until
she gets her breath back ag’in.”
“All right, Hashknife. Better put in some robes, because it will be cool
riding home.”
An hour later they drove the half-wild team up to the front of the
house, and Sleepy swung to their bits until Mildred was into the seat.
Then he swung them around and managed to climb into the rear of the
wagon as Hashknife drove them through the gate on the run, swinging
into the main road on two wheels, and heading for Oxbow in a cloud of
dust.
* * * * *
Cliff Parker’s future had assumed an indigo tint. There was a sour
taste of liquor in his mouth, as he leaned against the Cheyenne bar
and considered everything in general. The aproned bartender was openly
sympathetic and also philosophic.
“They’re all alike,” he told Cliff. “The Countess wasn’t no exception,
son. She accepted your money, loved yuh accordingly and then transferred
her attentions. I dunno what she can see about Blackie Dahl--but wimmin
are queer cattle. Aw, cheer up, Cliff. There’s lots of wimmin’. I’ve
been in love lotsa times.”
“Oh, go to ----!” groaned Cliff.
“Hit hard,” observed the bartender to himself, and then to Cliff: “Why
don’tcha go home and sober up? You’ve been drunk for a week. Next
thing yuh know you’ll be seein’ little red devils with green hats and
goggle-eyes. Grab on to yourself.”
Cliff shoved away from the bar, spat viciously and searched his pockets
for tobacco and cigarette papers.
“You hadn’t ought to hold no bad feelin’s toward Blackie.” Thus the
bartender thoughtfully. “He never took her away from yuh--she just
went.”
“Yeah, she just went,” nodded Cliff dryly. “She’s straight as a string,
but she didn’t play square. I don’t sabe her. She don’t drink, smoke nor
swear.”
“But she sure can sing,” said the bartender. “That’s all Slim hired her
for. By golly, she sure don’t have nothin’ to do with anybody, unless
she wants to. Next thing we know she’ll be snaggin’ the preacher. Ha,
ha, ha! I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“Aw, shut up!” Cliff resented this accusation. He hated the minister.
“She’s over in the Rodeo restaurant, eatin’ with Blackie,” continued
the bartender. “Prob’ly fried oysters.” That was the bartender’s idea
of something out of the ordinary.
Cliff walked outside and leaned against the doorway. It had been an
effort for him to keep his hands off the loquacious bartender. He
realized for the first time that he was making a fool of himself,
bringing disgrace upon his father and sister.
It seemed weeks since he had been home and he wondered, in a detached
sort of a way, if every one was all right. His mouth was dry and his
throat ached.
“I’m in awful shape,” he told himself. “Kinda jiggly all over. I wonder
if that bartender--aw, to ---- with the red devils!”
He squinted across the street at the Rodeo restaurant. What was it
the bartender had said, he wondered? Wasn’t it something about fried
oysters?
“When did I eat last?” he asked himself. He couldn’t remember.
Then he swung away from the building and crossed the street toward the
restaurant. As he stepped up on the wooden sidewalk the Countess came
out, followed by Blackie Dahl.
The Countess was not of the approved type of dance-hall girl. She was
slightly above medium height, slender, graceful. Her face was well
modeled, and chemicals had had nothing to do with the tinting of her
dark auburn hair.
She was well dressed, with none of the artificial colors and bangles
of the honkatonk, and there were no lines of dissipation in her creamy
complexion. There was a half-smile on her lips, as she listened to
Blackie Dahl who was shutting the door behind them.
Cliff glanced at her, in a detached sort of a way, and almost bumped
into Blackie, who tried to step around Cliff to join her. But he did
not watch his step, and stumbled over Cliff’s foot, taking a header
square into a porch post.
He threw out both hands to save himself, but his head hit the post a
resounding whack. An ordinary man would have been knocked unconscious,
but Blackie Dahl was no ordinary man--so far as thickness of skull was
concerned.
He swore dazedly, got to his feet quickly, and, with only one instinct
left--to walk--he strode boldly into a hitch-rack, a few feet away, and
was knocked flat on his back.
The Countess did not look at Cliff, who leaned against the café door
and gazed seriously upon Blackie’s acrobatics, but there were tears
on her cheeks, as she started across the street alone.
Blackie managed to get to his feet, but he was too dazed to understand
what had happened to him. He could see the Countess going away from him;
so he followed her, or as near as he could, with his erratic course.
“If he was tryin’ to entertain her, he’s loco,” declared Cliff to
himself. “She didn’t even wait to see if he got up.”
Then he turned and went into the restaurant.
Five miles of dirt road had taken most of the ambition out of the
roan team, and they were willing to stop at a side-street hitch-rack.
Hashknife and Sleepy went to the depot with Mildred, where they found
that the train was several hours late.
“Isn’t that bad luck!” exclaimed Mildred impatiently. “If we stay here
very long, Cliff will surely find us or see that team.”
“Don’t yuh worry about that,” grinned Hashknife. “We’ll take care of
Cliff for yuh.”
The depot agent came back to the window and looked out at them. He had
been in charge of the Oxbow station for years and knew every one.
“Miss Parker, why don’tcha go upstairs and visit with my wife until
train time?” he asked. “She don’t have a lot of company, and she’ll
be tickled to have you. Supper is almost ready, I think.”
“Oh, that would be just lovely,” agreed Mildred.
“You bet it would,” agreed the agent, laughing. “Come on and I’ll go up
with you.”
“That’s sure a swell idea,” grinned Hashknife, patting her on the
shoulder. “You go ahead and don’t worry about anythin’. Me and Sleepy
will be here when the train comes.”
They left the depot and walked up the street to the Cheyenne, where
they ran into Blackie Dahl. Blackie was cold sober, and one of his
eyes had assumed a purple shade. He merely nodded to them and walked
away. The bartender grinned covertly and set out the glasses.
“I dunno who done it to him, but I think it was Cliff Parker.”
“What did they fight over?” grinned Hashknife.
“Mebbe it was the Countess, I dunno. Cliff left here and I think he went
over to the Rodeo restaurant, where Blackie and the Countess was eatin’
oysters, prob’ly. Anyway, it was only a little while until the Countess
comes in and goes back toward the dance-hall, with Blackie trailin’ her.
He’s sure owl-eyed.”
“Where is Cliff now?” asked Hashknife.
“Gosh, I dunno.”
“Is he drunk?”
“Not so very. He’s kinda got a hang-over. If he don’t brace up he’s
goin’ to see things, don’tcha know it? A young feller like him can’t
gurgle hooch forever without annexin’ a few queer animals. But he
ain’t the kind yuh can advise. Have another on the house--the boss
ain’t here.”
They accepted the invitation and strolled around the place. The
Cheyenne was quite an institution. The bar-room was about fifty feet
long by twenty-five feet wide, adjoining the gambling room, which
was of the same proportions, with a wide, arched doorway connecting
the two rooms. At the rear was the dance-hall, which was about fifty
by thirty, with a small stage built across the right-hand end. Wide
doorways opened from both the bar-room and the gambling room.
The appointments were not elegant, but they were substantial. Slim Cole
drew the business of Thunder range, and his games were on the square.
Over the bar was this caption:
_WE ARE NOT IN THIS BUSINESS FOR YOUR HEALTH_
And in a huge frame in the gambling room was this statement:
YOUR HOME AND BUSINESS FIRST
_We don’t Want Money with Tear Drops on its Trail_
“Slim Cole is honest, anyway,” mused Hashknife, as they looked at the
framed warning. “‘Tear drops on its trail.’ By golly, there’s a lot of
it, Sleepy.”
Some one was playing the piano in the dance-hall, and as they strolled
over there a woman began singing. They halted in the big doorway and
listened. It was the Countess. A lanky, pasty-faced young man was at
the piano, playing her accompaniment.
“She can sing,” muttered Hashknife. “That ain’t no honkatonk voice,
Sleepy.”
Slim Cole had come through the gambling room and halted beside them.
“That’s the Countess,” he said softly. “Her stuff is too danged good for
these half-drunk punchers. The rest of the girls just whoop or screech
their songs, and they make a big hit.”
“She’s pretty, too,” declared Sleepy.
“Yeah, she sure is,” grinned Slim. “But don’t never get the idea that
she’s anythin’ but a singer.”
“She kinda hooked Cliff Parker, didn’t she?” queried Hashknife.
“He blew a lot of money on her, if that means anythin’. She keeps ’em
off at arm-length and they blow all their money on her. Of course,” Slim
grinned, “she’s an asset to my business, even if she does call me Mister
Cole.”
“I s’pose,” said Hashknife softly. “Listen!”
The piano was playing softly, and the clear contralto voice was lifted
in an old love song, “The Sweetest Story Ever Told.”
The place was silent now, except for the soft voice of the singer.
“Tell me that you love me.
Whisper softly, sweetly, as of old.
Tell me that you love me,
For that’s the sweetest story ever told.”
The singer’s voice died away. Again came the whirr of the roulette
wheel, the soft clatter of poker-chips. Hashknife and Sleepy turned
away and walked back toward the bar with Slim Cole.
“When it comes to women--I pass,” said Hashknife softly. “That one
has the voice of an angel. I’m kinda hard-boiled myself, but she had
me takin’ a deep breath. She’s broke Cliff Parker and a lot more, I
reckon. A gold digger with a voice of gold. A honkatonk singer, when
she might be--well, anythin’.”
“Yore loop’s draggin’,” warned Sleepy softly.
“Yeah, that’s a fact,” admitted Hashknife, and Slim laughed.
“I reckon a woman wouldn’t fool you much, Hartley.”