HASHKNIFE AND SLEEPY
Along a sandy road, which leads northward from Cañonville, came two
cowboys that afternoon. They were not traveling fast, because of the
fact that both horses were footsore and weary. The fact of the matter
was, they were cowboy “tourists,” heading south for the winter.
The one on the tall, gray horse whistled unmusically between his teeth
and surveyed the landscape through a pair of level, gray eyes. He was
tall, thin, with a long, rather serious face, generous nose and a wide
mouth. His well-worn Stetson was tilted forward over his gray eyes,
shading his face from the western sun. He wore a pale blue shirt, a
nondescript vest, which was little more than a drape on each side of his
chest, and a pair of batwing chaps. Around his waist was a weathered,
hand made cartridge belt, supporting an old holster, from which
protruded the black handle of a big Colt gun. His boots were extra high
of heel and his spurs had been dulled until there was little left except
a circle of steel.
The other man was shorter, broader of shoulder, with a deep-lined,
grin-wrinkled face, out of which looked a pair of innocent blue eyes.
The shorter man rode a chunky sorrel, which was forced to single foot in
order to keep up with the swinging walk of the tall gray.
Their raiment was about the same, their riding rigs much alike.
“Ain’t seen a cow for forty miles, Hashknife,” said Sleepy Stevens, the
short one of the two, breaking a long silence.
Hashknife Hartley turned in his saddle and smiled at Sleepy.
“Mebbe it’s a lucky thing for the cows, cowboy. Any cow that could live
in the country we’ve gone through would have to imagine a lot. But we
didn’t come lookin’ for cows—we came for the climate.”
“Shore,” admitted Sleepy.
“And this is climate.”
“In the daytime,” admitted Sleepy. “Last night I dang near froze. When
we hit a town, I’m goin’ to have at a reg’lar bed. Didn’t that shepherd
tell us it was only twenty miles to Cañonville?”
“Sheepherder’s miles, Sleepy.”
“I reckon that’s right.”
They rode in over the hill and saw the town of Cañonville ahead of them.
“That’s her,” proclaimed Hashknife. “The first thing on my program is to
wrap m’self around about four eggs and a couple slices of a hawg’s hind
leg.”
“Yea, brother. And set on somethin’ besides a saddle or a cactus. Man,
I’m plumb rode out. When we talked about comin’ to Arizona for the
winter, I took a look at a map, and I seen a couple of two inch squares,
pink and orange, which represented what we has to cover in order to
reach this here destination.
“It looked easy, Hashknife. There wasn’t a danged thing difficult
lookin’ about it—no hills, no cactus, no sand; jist pink and orange. And
only two inches of it. I’d like to meet the jigger that drew the map I
looked at.”
Hashknife smiled and shook his head.
“We shore earned a rest in a sunny land, Sleepy. I’ll bet these broncs
will be glad to lean up agin a load of oats. They wasn’t raised to
browse off a Spanish dagger.”
* * * * *
Cañonville looked exactly like several of the Arizona towns they had
passed—a typical Arizona cow town on a railroad. Many of the buildings
were of adobe, the rest weathered frame, with false fronts.
They rode straight to the livery stable, where they put up their horses,
and then they went hunting a restaurant. It was there that they met Noah
Evans, the deputy sheriff, humped in a chair, as he waited for his meal
to be served.
He gave Hashknife and Sleepy a sharp glance, noted their general
appearance and nodded a welcome. Noah needed someone with whom to talk,
and a stranger was a boon. Hashknife and Sleepy slid into chairs across
the table from Noah and gave their order to the waiter.
“Jist got in, didn’t you?” asked Noah.
“Not fifteen minutes ago,” said Hashknife. “How’s everythin’ down here?”
“Kind of a broad question, stranger.”
“Crime, for instance.”
Hashknife had noticed the badge of office on Noah’s shirt bosom.
“Crime? Huh! Ain’t none,” gloomily. “Ain’t been none since me and Lem
Sheeley’s been runnin’ the office.”
“Lem’s the sheriff, eh?”
“Y’betcha. And he’s a dinger, too. Was a dinger,” he corrected himself
sadly.
“Somebody plant him?”
“Na-a-aw! You see—” Noah rested his skinny elbows on the table and
considered the sugar bowl thoughtfully. “I figure a sheriff ort to be
heart whole and fancy free. Otherwise he ain’t capable.”
“Fell in love, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“Accordin’ to all signs of the Zodiac, he has. I’m here in town, runnin’
the office, while he lollygags. By gosh, I hope t’ be my own boss some
day.”
“And if you was, you’d be out to see the same girl, eh?”
Noah looked up quickly, and his ears grew red.
“How do you make that out, stranger?”
“Observation. If it wasn’t true, you wouldn’t give a damn where he was.”
“Uh-huh.”
The waiter deposited Noah’s food in front of him, and the conversation
lagged for a few minutes. Their orders came along, and the three men
busied themselves with the meal.
“Goin’ to stay around here?” asked Noah.
“Dunno yet,” replied Hashknife. “We’re down here to spend the winter,
but we’ve got to hit a cow country, where we can get work.”
“Uh-huh. From up north, eh? I used to punch cows up in the Milk River
country. Used to be around Pendleton, Umatilla, and then I was over in
Idaho.”
“We’ve been up in that country,” nodded Hashknife. “I was born over on
the Milk River.”
“Thasso? What’s the name?”
“Hartley.”
“Hartley, eh? Any relation to Jim Hartley, of the Bar 77 outfit?”
“I guess so; he’s my brother.”
“Well, I’ll be darned! Why me and old Jim—say! Your dad was a preacher
up in that country. Rode an old white horse and packed the gospel. No, I
didn’t know him, but I heard a lot about him. They said he was the only
preacher they ever had that didn’t try to convert somebody. Wasn’t
tryin’ to show folks how to die; he showed ’em how to live straight. And
you’re Jim’s brother! You’re Hennery, ain’t you? I’ve heard him tell
about you. My name’s Evans—Noah Evans.”
They shook hands solemnly, and Hashknife introduced him to Sleepy.
“Well, well!” marveled Noah explosively. “She’s a small world, gents. I
ain’t seen Jim Hartley for three or four years. Spent a winter up there,
and I ain’t thawed out yet. Wish it was jist before dinner; I’d shore
like to buy you both a drink.”
“We’ll be here just before supper,” grinned Sleepy.
“You betcha.”
* * * * *
They finished their meal, and Noah invited them to come down to the
office, where he talked with Hashknife about the Milk River country,
naming over people whom Hashknife remembered, although it had been many
years since he had been home.
While they were talking, Lem Sheeley rode in. Noah lost no time in
introducing the two cowboys to the sheriff.
“Hear anythin’ of young Lane?” asked Noah.
Lem shook his head wearily.
“Nothin’, Noah. Probably out in the hills. Didn’t see anythin’ of the
old man, so I reckon he’s out there, too.”
“How about the girl?”
“She’s home.”
Lem tried to act indifferent.
“Alone?” asked Noah.
“No-o-o.”
“Well, who in hell is with her?”
Lem slowly rolled a cigaret, as he told about Rex Morgan and his
experiences. Hashknife leaned forward on his chair and absorbed every
word of it, while Sleepy scowled over his cigaret, sighing wearily.
Lem told them of Old Man Lane’s discovering Spike Cahill and Bert Roddy,
fighting in the dark, and Noah seemed greatly amused over that incident.
Knowing that Hashknife did not know of the incidents that led up to
this, Noah explained about the coming of the nester family, the
persecutions by the 6X6 and of the killing of Ben Leach.
“And this young feller says his name is Morgan, eh?” queried Noah. “I
wonder if he’s any relation to Pete or Dave.”
“I dunno.” Lem shook his head. “Bunty Smith says he’s loco, but I don’t
see anythin’ wrong with him, except that he talks like a dictionary and
ain’t never been out in the sun very much. Didja ever see this?”
He took the Colt from inside his shirt and placed it on the table in
front of Noah, who examined it quickly.
“That’s Pete Morgan’s gun, Lem. I’d know it by them handles. Spike
Cahill shaped ’em for him. Said he’d make me a pair like ’em as soon as
he got time. That was a year ago, which leads me to believe Spike has
been pretty darned busy. Where’d you get it, Lem?”
“I picked it up in Lane’s corral this mornin’.”
“Oh-ho-o-o-o! So old Pete went over to clean up on Old Man Lane and lost
his gun. I’d keep it, if I was you, Lem. Serves him right.”
“Pete Morgan and Old Man Lane had a fight in Mesa City yesterday, and
Pete knocked him down. They tell me that the old man drawed a deadline
against the 6X6. He tried to draw a gun on Pete, but Joe Cave blocked
him. I reckon he’d have killed Pete.”
“By golly, they’ll monkey with that old buzz saw until he does kill some
of ’em. You ort to go and have a talk with that 6X6, Lem.”
“That would do a devil of a lot of good.”
“Tough outfit?” asked Hashknife.
“No tougher than the rest, I don’t suppose. But Peter Morgan has kinda
bossed things around the Mesa City country, until his punchers think
they can do just as they please. This nester shore slipped one over on
old Pete, when he homesteaded that place. I dunno yet why Pete didn’t
have somebody homestead it for him. I reckon it was because Pete thought
he could keep anybody off, anyway. He’s shore scared a lot of nesters
off that side of the road. But Lane was jist as tough as Pete; so he’s
still there.”
“With his son hidin’ out,” added Noah sadly.
“And the rest of the country givin’ us hell because we don’t smoke him
out,” sighed Lem.
* * * * *
“What kind of a feller was this Leach?” asked Hashknife.
“Tough _hombre_,” replied Noah. “We figure he got what he went lookin’
for.”
“The only bad move Lane made was to take Ben’s gun and horse,” said the
sheriff. “I reckon he was just drunk enough to take ’em. Kind of an
Injun idea; kill ’em and take everythin’.”
Sleepy was humped up in a chair, looking sadly at Hashknife. Sleepy knew
what this would mean. Hashknife was leaning forward, an eager expression
in his gray eyes, his long, lean fingers caressing the knees of his worn
chaps. Gone were all the signs of weariness, despite the long journey.
Fate had again thrown Hashknife and Sleepy into a troubled range.
“This young Lane ain’t got Injun blood, has he?” asked Hashknife.
“No-o-o,” drawled Lem, “but he was drunk enough to be a fool that day.
He probably knew we’d be on his trail, so he heeled himself with Ben’s
gun and horse. Me and Noah was at his ranch when he came home, and he
said he had fixed one of the 6X6 gang.”
“And when the 6X6 gang came after him, he wasn’t in the house,” added
Noah. “Must ’a’ went straight through the house, cut out through the
hills and picked up Ben’s horse, ’cause he left his own bronc at the
corral.”
“If it was self-defense, why didn’t he give himself up to the law?”
asked Hashknife.
“Because he’s a nester,” said Lem quickly. “He had an idea that the law
wouldn’t give an even break.”
“I can understand that,” agreed Hashknife. “And since the killin’, the
6X6 has been hangin’ around the nester’s place at night, eh?”
“Y’betcha. They want young Lane. And Peter Morgan backs their play,
Hartley. Some day him and Old Man Lane will meet for a showdown.”
“And what kind of a girl is this nester’s daughter?”
“She’s all right,” said Lem slowly. “Square as a dollar.”
“And no shrinkin’ violet,” added Noah.
“Is Peter Morgan a married man?”
“No.”
“What did Ben Leach and young Lane fight about?”
“I dunno. I heard that Ben called him a dirty nester. Mebbe it was
mostly liquor. But Ben had no right to follow him, unless he was
prepared to shoot. The 6X6 contend that Lane saw him comin’ and
bushwhacked him. Can’t prove it. Ben got a bullet through his head. I
dunno what Lane’s story would be, but he’s got a good chance to prove
self-defense.”
“Looks thataway,” admitted Hashknife. “I reckon we better get us a room
at the hotel, Sleepy.”
“I’ll go along,” declared Noah. “I know the jigger who runs the hotel
and I’ll see that he gives you a good room. Some of ’em has got cracked
pitchers in, you see.”
They secured the room and spent an hour or two looking over the little
town, after which they drifted back to the sheriff’s office. Lem
stretched out on a cot and snored audibly, while Noah talked Milk River
with Hashknife.