by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “Hidden Blood,” “The Lovable Liar,” etc.
The little cow town of Calumet drowsed beneath a summer sun; a peaceful
little village of false-fronted, unpainted, frame buildings, many
hitch-racks, sparsely populated with nodding saddle horses, and little
ambition to be anything but a cow town.
The streets were narrow, dusty; the sidewalks of warped boards clattered
like unmusical xylophones beneath the tread of the booted cowboys, most
of whom had draped themselves ungracefully in tilted chairs in front of
the Ten Bar saloon.
It was shady in front of the Ten Bar, and there was always a possibility
of somebody inviting them to have a drink. From the open door of the
saloon came the cool odors of stale beer and the voices of a couple of
seven-up players arguing over whether it was ethical or not for a man to
turn three jacks in one game.
Two riders appeared at the north end of the street coming into town,
their tired horses poking through the dust, shuffling wearily. The
leading rider was well over six feet tall, bronzed and gaunt, his
wrinkled shirt-tail flapping in the vagrant breeze, attesting to the
fact that he had been long in the saddle and had hunched his shoulders
many times.
The face beneath his big sombrero was thin, bony, heavily-lined. The
nose was generous, the mouth wide, serious; the eyes set in a mass of
grin wrinkles which belied the seriousness of the rest of his face.
The other cowboy was of medium build, bow-legged enough to fit a horse
perfectly, and with a great breadth of shoulder. His face was as bronzed
as that of his companion. Perhaps his features were a trifle more
regular, just as serious, and his wide blue eyes with their innocent
expression were out of accord with the rest of the man.
Their raiment was nondescript. The wind and dust of the dim trails had
scoured and faded all the color from their shirts, their bat-winged
chaps were worn and wrinkled, and their sombreros were flopping and
shapeless.
Their arrival caused the siesta-loving cowboys to lift their weary heads
and give a little heed to the new arrivals. One of the cowboys tilted
forward, the front legs of his chair clattering to the sidewalk.
“I’ll be a derned liar, if it ain’t ‘Hashknife’ Hartley and ‘Sleepy’
Stevens!” he exclaimed. He got to his feet and leaned against a porch
post.
“Yee-e-e-e-o-o-ow! Cowboys in town!” he yelped.
Hashknife Hartley’s lips twisted in a wide smile, as he swung his horse
up to a hitch-rack, and threw one of his long legs in a sweeping curve,
almost hitting Sleepy Stevens who had ridden in close beside him.
He whipped his tie rope around the top pole of the rack, jerked the knot
tight, yawned widely and walked stiff-legged toward the Ten Bar saloon
with Sleepy, the bow-legged one, following.
“Hyah, Hashknife,” greeted one of the cowboys, while the rest of them
grinned widely and got to their feet.
“H’lo, Eddie, yuh old son of a gun! How are yuh, Omaha. By golly, if
there ain’t ol’ Pep’mint!”
They shook hands violently with Hashknife and fell upon Sleepy, _en
masse_, while he blinked at them vacantly and begged Hashknife to
introduce him.
“They’re yore friends, Hashknife. Make me used to ’em.”
“Same old frozen-faced son of a gun, eh?” laughed one of the boys,
slapping Sleepy on the back.
“My ——, yore etiquette is plumb homemade,” said Sleepy indignantly. “Oh,
well, I’ll shake hands with yuh, but you’ll excuse me if I don’t call
yuh by name. He-e-ey! What in —— do yuh think my hand is, anyway? Think
it’s a fringed decoration I’m wearin’ on the end of my arm? Yo’re
goshawful vociferous for strangers.”
Sleepy flexed his fingers and glared at them. Slowly a smile spread
across his face as he looked at each in turn.
“I’ve met you boys somewheres, ain’t I?” he asked.
“We ain’t never been nowhere,” denied Peppermint Poole.
“No,” Sleepy shook his head slowly, “I’m wrong. Thought for a minute I
knowed yuh, but yore faces looked kinda familiar. Lemme see.” Sleepy
squinted thoughtfully for a moment. Then, “Aw, I know now. I seen some
pictures in a Sheep-Dip ad, and they looked so much like you
gents—you’ll pardon me, I’m sure.”
One of the cowboys made a dash at Sleepy, who eluded him and went in the
saloon, followed by the rest of the crowd. Sleepy leaned on the far end
of the bar while the rest of them stopped about midway.
“How long have you been away, Hashknife?” asked one of the boys, eying
Sleepy, who was watching in the back-bar mirror for the first move.
“Six months,” Hashknife removed his sombrero and wiped his face. “We
left here early in March.”
“I thought yuh did. Old man Sibley has been askin’ about yuh every time
I seen him and wonderin’ if yuh was comin’ back.”
“What does he want?” asked Hashknife.
“I dunno, unless he’s got some mail for yuh. Why don’tcha ask yore
friend to have a drink with us, Hashknife?”
“He ain’t no friend of mine.”
“Am I supposed to cry about it?” asked Sleepy seriously.
“He ain’t in love, is he?” asked one of the cowboys.
“Most always,” grinned Hashknife. “But this time he ain’t. Sleepy thinks
it’s cute to act thataway. What’s new in this country?”
“Nothin’. Thinkin’ of stayin’ a while, Hashknife?”
“Not under the circumstances, Pep’mint. Well, here’s a swift death,
gents.”
They drank deeply and clattered their glasses back on the bar, while
Sleepy grabbed the bar bottle, lowered it an inch and told the bartender
to take it out of Hashknife’s money.
Then he came up to the bar and shook hands seriously with each of the
cowboys, telling each of them that he was glad to make their
acquaintance. Amicable relationships being restored, Hashknife decided
to visit the postmaster and see if any mail was waiting for him.
Letters seldom reached Hashknife and Sleepy because they were
continually on the move. Only in rare cases did they spend more than a
month in any one place; usually less. Both of them were top-hand
cowboys, capable of taking entire charge of any cattle outfit, their
services always in demand. Yet they drifted hither and yon, seeking what
they might find on the other side of the hill.
* * * * *
They would solemnly swear that they were looking for a peaceful range
where they might settle down and live out the rest of their days; a
range where all men were living at peace with other men; where honesty
prevailed and where a quick draw was unknown.
But fate and itching feet sent them into lands where there was little
peace. Perhaps it was only the keen mind of Hashknife Hartley, the
fighting ability of them both which brought peace to a troubled range.
They were fatalists, these two. To them all things were written in the
Big Book, and they themselves only instruments of the moving finger that
wrote their destiny.
“If there’s pneumonia written after yore name, it’s one cinch yuh won’t
never get killed with a bullet.”
Thus Hashknife, accompanied by a violent nod of agreement from Sleepy.
The belief gave them confidence and the feeling that being in the right
somehow gave them a decided advantage against a criminal.
Neither of them could split a second on the draw. There was nothing
uncanny about their ability to draw a six-gun, nor were they of the
dead-shot variety. The West knew many gunmen who were swifter, more
accurate than these two. Yet these two lived unscathed. In sporting
parlance it might be said that these two men got the “breaks” of the
game, but were able to make the breaks for themselves.
They left the Ten Bar saloon and crossed to the little postoffice, where
they shook hands with the old postmaster.
“I ’lowed yuh’d come back,” he told them. “I’ve got a letter fer you,
Hashknife. Darned thing came in April. Didn’t know where to catch yuh,
so I kept it agin’ the day you’d come back t’ Calumet.”
“Must be pretty stale by this time,” smiled Hashknife as the old man
handed him the letter.
He squinted at the postmark.
“Arapaho City, eh. Huh! Wonder who I know in Arapaho City?”
“Yuh might find out the answer inside,” murmured Sleepy. “It prob’ly
wasn’t intended as a puzzle.”
Hashknife squinted sidewise at Sleepy, who registered innocence of any
sarcasm. Hashknife drew out the letter and studied it closely. Several
times he read it through before putting it back in the envelope.
“I reckon I better have a package of Durham, Mr. Sibley,” he said as he
put the letter in his hip pocket and leaned on the counter where the
postmaster kept his little stock of candy.
“Yuh better mix me up two-bits’ worth of candy, while yo’re at it. Them
choc’lets look kinda faded, don’t they?”
“Don’t keep well in this climate, Hashknife. They’re jist as good as
ever, but they look weak. Eat ’em in the dark and you’d never know they
was mulatters.”
Hashknife paid for his tobacco and candy, and they wandered outside,
where Hashknife reached in the bag, picked out a lopsided chocolate
cream and offered it to Sleepy.
“What was in that letter?” demanded Sleepy. “Aw, to —— with that kind of
candy!”
“That letter? Oh, yeah. Say, that was kinda queer. Read it.”
He handed the letter to Sleepy, sat down on the edge of the sidewalk and
began making inroads on his bag of candy.
The letter was written on a piece of cheap tablet paper with a soft lead
pencil, undated, unsigned. It read:
SIR: We know you are coming to run the HL ranch and you better
not because you ain’t needed here and your helth will be in
dainger if you come here as we have got you spoted. Take warning
by this and stay away from around hear.
Sleepy folded up the letter and slid it in the envelope, after which he
shoved the letter back in Hashknife’s pocket and helped himself from
Hashknife’s bag of candy.
“Where’s Arapaho City?” he asked indifferently.
Hashknife shook his head. His mouth was too full of candy just then. In
a little while he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and got to
his feet.
“I was kinda candy hungry,” he said slowly. “But it don’t take more ’n a
ton of that kinda stuff to cure me. What do yuh think of that billy-doo,
Sleepy?”
“I dunno. Darned thing was written back in April. Mebby it was
somebody’s idea of a joke.”
“Mm-m-m-m. Let’s go down and talk with the sheriff.”
“Well, all right. Whatcha goin’ to do? Make a complaint?”
“He might know where Arapaho City is, Sleepy.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, I sure hope he don’t. You ain’t takin’ that letter
serious-like, are yuh, cowboy?”
“Not too serious, pardner. But it don’t look like a joke. Who would take
the trouble to warn me not to go to the HL ranch when I never even heard
of it? I’m just curious.”
“They tell about a cat that got curious.”
“Askin’ won’t get anybody killed.”
“Not if yuh stop at askin’. But I know you, dang yuh.”
Hashknife grinned thoughtfully as he headed for the sheriff’s office.
They knew Abe Gleason, the sheriff, and his greeting was not at all
assumed.
“Come in, yuh darned pair of tumbleweeds!” he yelled, when the partners
squinted in past the open door. “By golly, I’m shore pleased to see yuh
both. How are yuh?”
They shook hands joyfully and the big sheriff grinned from ear to ear.
“Long time we no see yuh, Abe,” said Hashknife, tilting a chair back
against the wall. “How’s crime in this country?”
“Not a crime, Hashknife. We ain’t had an arrest nor a complaint for six
months. Tell me what you’ve been doin’ since last March. By golly, yuh
don’t look like you’d lost many meals.”
“We’ve been eatin’,” grinned Sleepy. “Crime is kinda playin’ out
everywhere, Abe. Looks as if me and Hashknife will have to settle down
at last.”
“It won’t hurt yuh none. By golly, from what I can hear, you two jiggers
has made life easy for a lot of sheriffs in six months. Now, what’s on
yore mind, Hashknife?”
Hashknife looked up from rolling a cigaret and squinted at the sheriff.
“Where’s Arapaho City, Abe?”
“Arapaho City? About ninety miles northwest of here. Up in the Twisted
River country. It’s plumb away from everybody and everythin’, but she’s
one good cattle country, they tell me. I ain’t never been up there, but
that’s where she is, Hashknife.”
“Twisted River country, eh? Have you got a brand register, Abe?”
The sheriff produced the required article, and it did not take Hashknife
long to find that the HL outfit was owned by Henry Ludden. It was a
combined initial brand, the right side of the H making the main stem of
the L.
“Has there been any trouble up in that country?” asked Hashknife,
placing the book on the sheriff’s desk.
“Not that I know anythin’ about, Hashknife. We’re a long ways from
Arapaho City. I don’t even know the sheriff of that county, but I know
his name—Pete Darcey. You aimin’ to go up thataway?”
“If it’s a good cattle country, Abe. Me and Sleepy are on the lookout
for a ranch. We’re tired of bein’ what yuh call tumbleweeds.”
“Well, I suppose a feller does kinda want somethin’ for himself after he
gets old enough to have a little sense. But why dontcha buy somethin’
around here? We’ve got just as good range here as they have in Twisted
River.”
“I reckon that’s all true,” nodded Hashknife seriously. “But I got a
letter from a feller up in that country today and he kinda intimates
that there’s somethin’ goin’ on up in that country, and a feller kinda
likes to get in on the ground floor, Abe.”
“Oh, sure. Didn’t tell yuh what kind of a deal it was, did he?”
“No-o-o-o, he didn’t. But he said he’d be expectin’ me.”
Hashknife got to his feet and yawned widely.
“I reckon we’ll stable our broncs, Sleepy, and get us each a good sleep.
See yuh later, Abe. We won’t leave until tomorrow.”
“By golly, you two are just like drops of quicksilver. Yuh won’t stay
put nowhere.”
“I know it, Abe. But we’ve got to go. This feller is waitin’ for us.”
As they walked back toward the hitch-rack, Sleepy squinted at Hashknife
and shook his head wearily.
“Goin’ to get in on the ground floor, eh? More likely get six feet under
the ground. Feller waitin’ for yuh with a proposition. My ——, don’tcha
realize that letter was written in April, and this is the latter part of
August?”
“That’s all true, Sleepy. But some men do have the dangdest amount of
patience.”
* * * * *
It was four days after Hashknife and Sleepy had entered Calumet that
Hank Ludden rode through the Twisted River hills astride a rangy gray
horse. He might have posed for a painting of an old Indian scout as he
rode along, carrying a Winchester rifle in the crook of his left arm,
peering keenly from beneath the brim of his floppy sombrero.
Ludden was a big man, but stooped with age. His long, gray locks
straggled from under his hat and mingled with the heavy beard. His nose
was slightly hooked and his keen gray eyes were almost hidden beneath
jutting eyebrows, which were large enough to make a mustache for an
ordinary man.
His arms were long and powerful and his gnarled, heavily veined hands
showed great strength. He rode easily in the saddle, guiding his gray
horse in and out among the clumps of greasewood and sage without visible
effort.
He rode down through a sandy, dry watercourse, disturbing the siesta of
several head of cattle, which had been drowsing in the shade of some
cottonwoods, and drew up to squint at the brands.
After a few moments of inspection he rode on, heading for a rocky ridge
which would give him a view of the surrounding country. The neutral
colors of his faded clothes and the gray horse caused them to blend into
the general scheme of the landscape, making them almost invisible at a
short distance.
Ludden seemed to know where he was going. He rode almost to the top of
the ridge, where he drew up and dismounted. The ride had evidently made
him a trifle stiff, as he leaned his rifle against a rock and stretched
his muscles.
He had dropped his reins, but now he studied the gray inquiringly.
“Goin’ to stay there, Ghost? If I had a rope I’d tie yuh. Know danged
well you’d bust a rein, if I tied yuh with one. Oh well, I reckon yuh
won’t go far.”
He picked up his rifle and went on up the slope, glancing back at the
gray which was standing still, its ears forward, watching its master.
Ludden had never been quite successful in teaching Ghost to stand still
with only the dropped reins.
Ludden angled along the ridge, being quite careful not to expose himself
on the skyline, and came in behind a granite outcropping. He did not
know that the gray horse was picking its way along behind him, stepping
occasionally on the reins, but wise enough to lift its foot from the
rein before going ahead.
The old man crawled slowly to the top of the granite pile where he
peered over the edge. Below him the hill sloped sharply, heavily covered
with brush, down to an open swale or clearing which had once been the
site of a ranch-house. One of the old buildings, or rather a part of it,
was still standing at the far side of the clearing.
Almost in the center of the clearing was a tumble-down pole corral, and
it was on this corral that Ludden fixed his eyes. Inside the enclosure
were several head of young stock milling around, looking for an exit,
while just outside the corral gate were two men bending over a red
yearling while the third man stood a little apart, holding a tight rope
on the animal. A few feet away a tiny fire blazed, almost smokeless in
the thin air.
Ludden’s brows drew down over his eyes, and his gnarled fingers gripped
the rifle tightly.
“—— yuh, I knowed I’d find yuh if I kept at it!” he gritted to himself.
“It took me a long time and a lot of trips. I wish I could git down
there among yuh.”
He scanned the hillside, looking for a possible chance to sneak up on
them. They were at least two hundred yards away, and it was impossible
for Ludden to identify them. Their horses were in the brush to the left
of the corral, too well hidden for Ludden to distinguish their colors.
He began to realize that the odds were in favor of the rustlers. Even if
he did sneak in on them, three men are hard to handle. He knew they
would kill him with no more compunction than they would show a
rattlesnake.
He studied them closely, trying to note some action, some mannerism
which might enable him to identify them. But he was looking down at
them, almost a bird’s-eye view, which made it more difficult for him.
One of the men walked over, placed some more wood on the fire and
appeared to be examining the branding-iron. Ludden scanned the
surrounding country, looking for more stock.
“They’re just startin’,” he told himself. “Iron ain’t quite ready yet
for the first one, and there’s a dozen more in the corral. I’ll take it
easy, and mebby I can drop down close enough to identify some of ’em.”
He eased back slightly and reached toward his hip pocket for his
tobacco. Came the shrill nicker of a horse, and he whirled around to see
Ghost standing full at the top of the ridge fifty feet away, reins
dragging, as he bugled his call to the rustler’s horses.
“You —— fool!” Ludden’s angry snort was almost loud enough for the
rustlers to hear.
They had heard the gray horse and could see against the skyline that the
horse was carrying a saddle. Ludden turned and lifted his rifle. Two of
the men had crawled swiftly through the corral fence, darted among the
frightened cattle and were going out the other side before Ludden could
see just what had become of them.
The third one was running past the left side of the corral, going toward
the horses when Ludden fired.
The bullet struck just beyond the running man, and he jumped like a
frightened rabbit.
As Ludden levered in another cartridge the two men sprang across the
open space between corral and the brush, leaving the old man swearing
bitterly and searching the brush with eager eyes, his finger caressing
the trigger of his 30-30.
He knew that they could not mount their horses without exposing
themselves above the brushtop. So he crouched in the rocks, waiting for
their next move. He felt sure that the three men were down there in the
brush, waiting for him to expose his hiding place.
He cursed the gray horse which still posed on the ridge and waited
patiently. Ten minutes passed without any sign of the rustlers.
Ludden squinted back at the gray and noticed that it was watching far to
the left of where the horses had been. Suddenly the old man realized
what had been done. Instead of mounting their horses, the rustlers had
led them away, keeping to an old trail where the brush grew high enough
to mask their passing.
* * * * *
He sprang to his feet and ran up the ridge, passing the gray, which
snorted and moved aside. On up the rocky ridge ran the old man, almost
out of breath, swearing at himself for letting them outwit him. About a
hundred and fifty yards up the ridge beyond the horse he stopped and
dropped to one knee.
Three riders were traveling away from him, going out of another swale.
It was evident that these men had led their horses over into this swale,
knowing that the point of the hill had cut off the view of the man who
had shot at them, and were mounted and making their getaway complete.
It was a long shot. Carefully the old man twisted up the peep-sight,
estimating rapidly.
“Five hundred yards,” he muttered. “Rather be over than under. Movin’
target at five hundred.”
He cuddled the butt of the rifle against his cheek, took a quick aim and
squeezed the trigger. The hills flung back the clattering echoes of the
rifle shot, and the three riders flared out fan-wise. It was evident
that the bullet struck close to them.
The rifle spoke again, and the left-hand rider was almost unseated when
the bullet hummed off the ground under his horse’s nose.
“Shootin’ low,” muttered Ludden, adjusting his sight. “Make it six
hundred.”
The riders were spreading farther apart now, and almost to the skyline
of the low saddle in the hills. Ludden sprawled on the ground, resting
the rifle across a stunted greasewood. This time he was more careful.
The rider was bearing to the left. The ivory bead completely covered
horse and rider at that distance.
Then he swung the bead slightly to the left, squeezing the trigger as he
swung the sight. Quickly he lifted his head and peered across the wide
swale.
For a moment he thought he had knocked the man out of his saddle. The
horse whirled and stopped, while the man recovered, straightened up in
his saddle and went on over the ridge. But he swayed in his saddle,
humped over, until at that distance he looked like a pack on the horse
instead of a human being.
“By ——, I got one of ’em!” exclaimed Ludden. He got to his feet and ran
back to the gray horse which snorted wildly, but allowed the old man to
catch him easily.
He mounted and sent the gray down the hill on a stiff gallop. It was
dangerously steep and brushy, but Hank Ludden cared nothing for this. He
fixed his eyes on the low saddle in the hills where that humpbacked
rider had disappeared and let Ghost worry about the footing.
They crashed down through the heavy brush at the bottom, lurched over
the bank of a washout and headed for the top of the swale. Ghost was a
willing runner in spite of the fact that his rider was a heavy man.
Ludden kept a close watch on the skyline, thinking that the other two
riders might ambush him at the crest of the hill, but there was no sign
of them. He gained the top and drew rein, his eyes sweeping the hills
ahead.
To the left and below him he could see part of the road which led toward
Arapaho City. The gray was blowing heavily from the uphill run, and the
old man eased himself in his saddle, wiping some blood off his face from
the scratch of a greasewood limb.
Then he caught a glimpse of a rider, going slowly toward the road.
Ludden lifted his rifle, but lowered it again. He had no way of being
sure that this was one of the rustlers, as the brush obstructed his
view.
“I can see him plain when he reaches the road,” he told himself. “Mebbe
I better swing farther to the left.”
He turned his horse around, dropped below the skyline and galloped to
the left, intending to come back to the crest about two hundred yards
farther along the hill.
* * * * *
Hashknife and Sleepy had made no record time in covering the distance
between Calumet and Arapaho City. It was a sparsely settled region they
had traversed and the ranches were few and far between, but they carried
enough food for their meager wants.
“That feller has been waitin’ since April,” said Hashknife, “so a few
extra days won’t worry him none.”
And so they had dawdled through the hills, enjoying the sun, admiring
the stars until they struck a dusty road, winding in and out of the
hills. And near where they struck the road they also found a
weatherbeaten sign, pointing north—