This is a quit-claim deed for
my share of the darned thing.
Hashknife laughed softly as they rode on.
“Sounds interestin’, Sleepy. That feller had a sense of humor and it was
too much for him. Mebbe we’ll ride past here, headed the other way and
leave two more quit-claim deeds for the next lucky men.”
“Be —— lucky to ride past,” said Sleepy. “I have a feelin’ that Arapaho
City is a buzz-saw village.”
“Yore liver’s bad, Sleepy. This is a beautiful country. It ain’t
reasonable to suppose that a man could live amid such beauty and harbor
mean thoughts. Chirk up, cowboy. Who knows what is ahead of us? Mebby
they’ll send us to the Legislature. Mebby they’ll—”
Hashknife drew up his horse, lifted himself in his stirrups and scanned
the hills. Sleepy drew rein and squinted at Hashknife.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
It came again—the far-away echo of a rifle shot.
“Nothin’ but a rifle shot,” observed Sleepy. “If they’re shootin’ at us,
they’re sure doin’ it at long range. Probably somebody fussin’ with a
coyote.”
As they moved forward again they heard the echo of another shot.
“Three times and out,” laughed Hashknife, scanning the hills. “Anyway,
it sounds like we were entering civilization.”
They rode along the crooked, dusty highway where the brush grew close to
the wagon ruts, down through a wide swale and into a straight stretch of
road. About two hundred yards ahead they could see where the road turned
abruptly to the right at the point of a hill.
To the left and ahead was the broken ridge with a low saddle and farther
to the left were high pinnacles like spires of a great cathedral.
Suddenly a rider broke through the brush about a hundred yards ahead.
The road was not over twelve feet wide from brush to brush and the sun
was almost directly in the eyes of the two cowboys.
It was like a short flash of a motion picture. The horse lurched across
the road, the rider falling flat in the dust; nothing left except a
little dust cloud, plumped up from the sprawling figure of the man, and
the man himself, whose raiment blended well with the yellowish-gray
dust. The dust cloud disappeared and there was nothing except the man, a
hardly visible something, lying across the road. The horse had
disappeared so quickly that neither of the cowboys could have sworn to
its color or size.
“Don’t that beat ——?” queried Hashknife vacantly.
“Anyway,” said Sleepy dryly, “it at least runs a dead-heat. Jist about
what did happen, Hashknife?”
“I dunno. That danged sun was square in my eyes, but I think I seen a
horse cross the road, drop its rider and keep on goin’.”
“I’m glad that’s what you seen, Hashknife, ’cause that was my
impression. Mebby we better look a little closer, eh?”
They spurred their horses forward and were halfway to the prone figure
when Hashknife’s sombrero was almost jerked from his head. Came the
sharp crack of smokeless powder from the crest of the ridge and the two
cowpunchers instinctively whirled their horses to the right, crashing
them straight through the brush.
Nor did they pause to investigate. Sprawling low in their saddles,
protecting their faces as best they might from the whipping branches,
they rode at a headlong gallop, while bullets whispered around them as
Hank Ludden frantically worked the lever of his rifle at the top of the
ridge.
Luckily they struck down through a ravine before the old man could
reload his rifle, and in a few minutes they were again on the road, but
too far away for Ludden to see them.
* * * * *
“That’s what I’d call a —— of a reception,” panted Sleepy as they drew
rein and looked back, picking the pieces of broken limbs from their torn
shirts. Sleepy had a long streamer of clematis vine around his neck,
which made him look as if he had been roped. He threw it aside and
squinted at Hashknife who was examining the floppy brim of his sombrero
which had been torn by the bullet.
From off to their right came the _whang_ of another shot, and they
instinctively dodged.
“Aw, —— such a business!” snorted Sleepy disgustedly. “Let’s pull out,
cowboy. C’mon.”
“Yuh don’t have to coax me.” Hashknife roweled his horse and they headed
down the road at a stiff gallop.
They did not know that Hank Ludden was hot on their trail. He had shot
at Hashknife from the back of the gray horse, which shifted slightly as
he pulled the trigger, thereby causing Hank to miss by scant inches.
Hank had seen the rider fall from the horse and had decided that at
least one of the rustlers was down and out. But he was not satisfied
with one; so he swung his horse down the hill, angling over to the road,
trying to get another shot at the two who had escaped him again.
The road entered Arapaho City from the south, but Hashknife and Sleepy
did not enter boldly. An old road which led past some old ranch
buildings caught their fancy, and they circled the west side of the
town, coming in at the north end where they dismounted at a little-used
hitch-rack.
Casually they walked to the corner and surveyed the main street of
Arapaho City. Beside them was the Pekin Café from which savory odors
assailed their nostrils. On the opposite side of the street was the
Arapaho Livery and Feed Stable in front of which was a huge
water-trough, leaking badly and making a mud hole in the street.
Farther up the street, on the same side, was the blacksmith shop,
postoffice and a number of saloons. On the opposite side were signs
which proclaimed the Arapaho Hotel, Steve’s Chop House, Arapaho Stage
Office, Twisted River Mercantile Co., Deschamps Drug Co., Sheriff’s
Office.
The buildings and signs were weatherbeaten, gray with dust from the
street which billowed from the passing teams or riding horses. At the
south end of the town was a blasted old cottonwood, like a great,
gnarled hand, the forefinger pointing skyward.
A few wagon teams were tied at the hitch-racks, and a scattering of
saddle-horses nodded in the sun. A couple of mongrel dogs, as if by
mutual consent, met in the middle of the street, circled each other,
growling deeply, turned and went back to their respective shades as if
the fighting game was hardly worth while under the circumstances.
Near the front of the Twisted River Mercantile Store a small boy labored
at the handle of a creaking old pump to which was attached a hose. The
nozzle of the hose was held by a big man who industriously sprinkled the
street adjacent to the front of the store, doing a thorough job in spite
of the fact that the motive power’s shirt had parted company with its
pants and was in a fair way to complete exhaustion.
Hashknife and Sleepy grinned at each other and went into the Pekin Café
where a little old Chinaman grinned at them from the kitchen door,
bobbing his head violently.
He came up and motioned them to a table, after which he began in a
sing-song voice:
“Losa beef, losa po’k, veala stew, libba-bacon, ham a’ egg—w’at yo’
like, eh? Yo’ like soup? Soup velly good t’day.”
“Ham and eggs,” said Hashknife, and Sleepy nodded to the Chinaman to
bring him the same.
“Two ham a’ egg, eh? Yo’ want soup?”
“Is it compulsory?” asked Sleepy curiously.
“This time noodle.”
“No soup, Charley,” Sleepy grinned widely. “Too hot.”
“Velly good.”
As the Chinaman bustled away a man came in, glanced sharply at Hashknife
and Sleepy and sat down near the door. He was a big man, slightly gray,
with a heavily-lined face and sad-looking eyes. He wore a faded blue
shirt, overalls and high-heeled boots. His belt sagged from the weight
of his holstered gun, and the bottom of the holster was held down by a
whang-leather string which circled the man’s leg.
The Chinaman came bustling in, deposited knives and forks on the table,
and hurried over to the newcomer, who lifted his head and smiled slowly.
“Hello, She’iff,” said the Chinaman. “What yo’ like, eh? Got plenty good
soup.”
“Ham and eggs, I reckon.”
“Yessah. Egg ve’y good today.”
He bustled away and Hashknife studied the profile of the big man—Pete
Darcey, sheriff of Arapaho. As Hashknife studied the sheriff, he thought
of the quit-claim notice on the old sign board—
“This is a quit-claim deed for my share of the darned thing.”
Perhaps the job of being sheriff of Arapaho had drawn the lines of
sadness in this big man’s face, thought Hashknife. The sheriff’s hands
were on the table—big, powerful hands, fit to grip the big gun which
sagged at his hip.
The sheriff, after his first keen glance, had paid no attention to
Hashknife and Sleepy, but seemed to stare gloomily toward the sun-baked
street.
Some one was coming down the board sidewalk, his boots rattling heavily
on the loose boards. The sheriff shifted his gaze to Hank Ludden, who
flung the door open and stepped inside the place. He was breathing
heavily, carrying his hat in his hand.
“A kid at the pump told me you was here, Sheriff,” he said, leaning his
hands on the sheriff’s table as he recovered his breath. “I was at yore
office.” He looked back at the open door, took a deep breath and turned
to the sheriff.
“I connected with three rustlers at the old U6 ranch. They had a dozen
yearlin’s in the corral and was warmin’ their first iron. My horse
nickered and ruined things for me. They fogged out but—” Ludden paused
for another deep breath—“I nailed one of ’em out in that low saddle east
of the Pinnacle Rocks. He stuck to the saddle until he hit the road, and
then dropped.
“The other two tried to pick him up, but I drove ’em away, and I think
they headed for town. I had a dead bead on one of ’em, but my horse
moved and ruined it for me.”
The sheriff got to his feet and headed for the door, followed by Hank
Ludden, while Hashknife and Sleepy confined their attention to the
Chinaman who was bringing in their order.
The Chinaman glanced quickly at the backs of the two men who were going
out.
“Bring us each half of the sheriff’s order, Charley,” said Hashknife.
“He ain’t got time to eat now, and we can sure eat an extra egg apiece.”
“Yessah, velly good. She’iff go way quick, eh?”
“Somethin’ about cattle rustlers, Charley.”
“O-o-oh. Lustle cows, eh? Other man Hank Ludden, yo’ _sabe_? Velly good
man. I _sabe_ him long time.”
“Cattleman?” asked Hashknife.
“Yessah. Plenty cow one time. Mebbe not so much now.”
“Uh-huh. Sell all his cows, eh?”
“No sell much. Plenty cow get lost, yo’ _sabe_. Long time cow get lost.
No catchum lustler. Somebody name Hard Luck lanch. HL all same Hard
Luck, yo’ _sabe_? Hoo-o-o! Egg fry too —— much!”
The Chinaman turned and galloped toward the kitchen while Hashknife and
Sleepy squinted knowingly at each other and attacked their food.
“Had a dead bead on one of ’em, but the horse moved and spoiled it,”
muttered Hashknife, quoting Hank Ludden’s statement softly. “I’ll have
to buy that horse a bale of hay as a reward. So that’s the which of it,
eh? By golly, we sure were lucky to save our scalps today, pardner.”
“And tomorrow is another day,” said Sleepy meaningly, as he tried to
slide half an egg on the blade of his knife.
“That sheriff looks sad enough to do anythin’, and I don’t want to run
up against Hank Ludden, movin’ horse or no movin’ horse. This country
sure looks salty to me.”
The Chinaman came shuffling back, bearing the sheriff’s order which he
placed on their table.
“Is the sheriff a pretty good man, Charley?” asked Hashknife. He thought
there might be a chance to get some information from the Chinaman who
seemed inclined to gossip.
“Yessah, velly good man. Be she’iff long time.”
“Uh-huh. Hank Ludden good man, too, eh?”
“Yessah.”
“Good friend to sheriff?”
“Mebbe. I do’ know. ‘Lucky’ Joe marry Ludden daughter.”
“Thasso? Who is Lucky Joe?”
“Dep’ty she’iff.”
“Been married long time, Charley?”
“Fo’ five month. Ludden not like, I guess. Yo’ want mo’ coffee?”
“Yeah, I’ll have some more,” said Sleepy. “You make good coffee,
Charley.”
“Yessah. My name Pat Lee.”
“Irish?” queried Hashknife seriously.
“Yessah, all same Irish.”
He smiled blandly and headed for the kitchen.
“It’s a great country,” declared Hashknife. “They write a letter darin’
yuh to come, shoot at yuh when yuh arrive and name their Chinaman after
an Irish saint.”
“If we had any sense, we’d pull out right away,” said Sleepy. “The only
thing we can gain here is a tombstone.”
Hashknife grinned softly and shook his head.
“That’s for the Big Book to say, Sleepy. We don’t keep our own books, so
we don’t know what our balance is. We’ve started in by eatin’ the
sheriff’s meal. Who can say what will come next?”
* * * * *
When Hank Ludden and the sheriff left the restaurant they went straight
to the sheriff’s office. The sheriff took a rifle from his gun rack and
led the way to the livery stable where he kept his horses.
“No use takin’ anybody else, I reckon,” said the sheriff.
“Not much,” agreed Ludden. “Who were the two strangers in Pat’s place,
Pete?”
“Never seen ’em before in my life,” replied the sheriff, lifting his
saddle off a peg and throwing it on a roan horse which the stableman had
led out to him. “They were eatin’ in there when I came in.”