“Mister, do you know how to fly kites?”
One “Hashknife” Hartley, newcomer, sitting on the wooden sidewalk in
front of the Lobo Wells Hotel, lazily turned his head and looked at
little Larry Ayres, half hidden by a huge home-made kite, from which a
rag and string tail dragged several feet behind. The boy’s face was very
serious as he questioned the lean, lanky stranger, whose gray eyes were
hidden beneath the wide brim of his sombrero. “I can’t git it started,”
confessed the boy helplessly.
Hashknife’s lips parted in a wide, lazy grin.
“Pretty big kite for a small boy, don’tcha think, buddy?”
“I wanted her big. My name’s Larry, and I’ve got plenty of string.”
“Then yo’re all right--except for a start. Make it yourself?”
“Me and Minnie. Minnie’s Injun, and she don’t know beans about a kite.
But she made the paste and gave me a nickel for string. What I need is
help, right now.”
“That’s a common need,” grinned Hashknife, as he got up from his seat.
“I reckon yore need is as worthy as most; so we’ll fly the kite, Larry.
What’s the rest of yore name?”
“There’s some argument about that,” said Larry seriously, grasping the
kite in both hands and kicking the tail away from his feet. “We’ll go
out on the flat near my house, where we can get a run at it.” He led the
way, while the lanky cowboy followed him, grinning a little. There was
plenty of open country, but of wind there was none, and after a few
ineffectual trials they decided that kite-flying was a failure.
“Yuh need wind,” explained Hashknife.
“Yeah, that’s right,” agreed Larry. “We don’t get much wind about here.
What’s yore name?”
“My name is Hartley, Larry. Why did you say there was an argument about
yore name?”
“Because my real dad went to jail for a long time, and my other dad was
named Prentice. But my name is Ayres, just the same. Do you know Len
Ayres? He was a bank robber--but he ain’t now.”
“Oh, I see,” nodded Hashknife thoughtfully. “But yo’re still livin’ with
yore other dad, ain’t yuh?”
“I’m still stayin’ at his place. But he’s drunk. He’s the cashier of the
bank.”
“Oh, yeah--and he’s drunk, eh? Not so good for a bank cashier, is it,
Larry?”
“I guess not. He didn’t used to drink at all, but now he’s drunk all the
time. Me and Minnie keep away from him, ’cause he swears at us. He’s got
a gun, too.”
“Lookin’ for trouble, eh?” smiled Hashknife.
“I dunno. Minnie says he’s got trouble inside. What does she mean by
that?”
“He ain’t sick, is he, Larry?”
“He never had any doctor.”
“Uh-huh,” thoughtfully. “Well, Larry, I reckon the kite ain’t a
success.”
“I guess we better wait for a wind, Mr. Hartley.”
Larry leaned the kite against a fence post and walked back to the main
street with Hashknife, where they met Breezy Hill, the deputy sheriff.
Larry managed the introduction very well, and the two men grinned at
each other as they shook hands.
“We been tryin’ to fly a kite, Breezy,” explained Larry.
Breezy grinned. “That’s shore fun. I ’member once down in southern
Kansas, when me and another feller flew a kite. He made it out of
half-inch hardwood strips, covered it with rawhide, and hooked on a
hundred and fifty feet of half-inch rope. Then I tied off on my
saddle-horn and went straight into the wind. I got my right arm broke
and lost a sixty-dollar saddle. Ho, ho, ho! They have _wind_ in Kansas!”
“I wish we had wind here,” sighed Larry.
“Well, I came here to git out of it,” laughed Breezy.
They walked down towards the livery stable, where Sleepy Stevens had
gone to see that the stableman had taken good care of their horses, and
found him near the wide front door. Hashknife introduced him to Breezy.
Sleepy Stevens was of medium height, broad of shoulder, with rather a
blocky face, deeply lined with grin-wrinkles, and with wide,
innocent-appearing blue eyes.
The raiment of both Hashknife and Sleepy were typical of the south-west
ranges. Overalls tucked in the tops of high-heeled boots, thin, faded
shirts, stringy vests, well-worn silk neckerchiefs and Stetson hats,
more or less weathered. Both men wore holstered guns, sagging heavily
from their belts, which had seen so much service that they fitted
perfectly to the curve of hip and thigh.
There was nothing ornamental about their garments. Neither man was
inclined to ornaments, and even their heavy Colt guns bore handmade
plain wood handles.
As the three men and the boy were talking, Amos Baggs, driving a livery
rig, turned his horse in through the open doorway. The Lobo Wells
lawyer’s chin was set at a belligerent angle as his weak eyes glanced at
the group at the doorway, but he did not speak until after he had turned
the rig over to the stable keeper and came back to the doorway. He
ignored Hashknife and Sleepy, speaking directly to Breezy, who seemed
rather amused.
“I’ve been out to the Box S,” he told Breezy. “Went out to see Miss
Singer, who is my client, as you know, Hill. She wasn’t there, and I was
ordered off the place by Whispering Taylor and that other old skunk,
Sailor Jones. They threatened me with a gun.”
“Ye-ah-ah?” drawled Breezy, evidently unimpressed. “With a gun, eh? Yuh
know,” reflectively, “either one of them old jiggers will shoot. They
say that Sailor killed several men down in the Panhandle, and Whisperin’
had so many notches in his gun that it ruined the balance of it and he
had to throw it away.”
“That has nothing whatever to do with this case,” said the lawyer.
“Merely proves that you was wise in comin’ away, Baggs.”
“It may seem funny to you,” said Baggs angrily, “but to me there was
little humour in the situation. I have a perfect right to visit that
ranch. I handled the affairs of Harmony Singer, and I have been retained
by Miss Singer in an advisory capacity. I shall advise her to discharge
those two men at once, and I shall force the sheriff’s office to give me
protection. This is a fine state of affairs for a civilised community.”
“You shore must have run into a hell of a lot of grief out there,”
grinned Breezy, “but I’d hate to see the old fellers lose their jobs.
They’d jist about massacree yuh, Baggs. You couldn’t have ’em put in
jail for tellin’ yuh a few things, but if you get ’em fired--you better
go on a vacation.”
“I refuse to be bullied!”
“Go ahead. Anyway, you better tell yore troubles to Ben Dillon, ’cause
he’s the sheriff. I’m jist his hired man, and I ain’t supposed to know
anythin’. He’d tell yuh his opinion.”
Baggs snorted angrily and went up the street, mopping his almost bald
head with a gaudy handkerchief, while Breezy chuckled out loud.
“Ben’ll tell him his opinion all right. Ben hates Baggs, and he likes
them two old codgers.”
“Baggs is a lawyer, eh?” asked Hashknife.
“Oh, shore. Used to be prosecutin’ attorney of this county. He done some
lawin’ for old Harmony Singer, who owned the Box S. Old Harmony up and
died from bein’ dragged by a horse, and he left everythin’ to his niece.
I guess she hired Baggs to handle her lawin’.”
“Was the place worth much?”
“Oh, shore. The Box S is a good layout.”
“Is the girl runnin’ it?”
“I reckon she is, with the help of Len Ayres and them two old jiggers
that made Baggs so uncomfortable.”
“Len Ayres is my father,” said Larry.
“Yeah, that’s right, Larry,” agreed Breezy. He turned to Hashknife. “I’m
gettin’ hungry, and I hate to eat alone; will you boys join me?”
“I reckon we can eat,” grinned Hashknife, and they walked up to a
restaurant, where Larry left them.
Breezy was rightly named. He loved to talk, and during the hour he spent
in the restaurant with Hashknife and Sleepy, he gave them a résumé of
Lobo Wells for the past five years. He talked until even the bland-faced
Chinese waiter wondered what it was all about, because cowboys usually
bolted their food and finished in haste.
“And nobody ever did find Len Ayres’s cache, eh?” queried Hashknife.
“If they did, they never told anybody. Why, even after Len’s wife
married Prentice and sold Len’s old ranch, they tore up the floors and
dug all around the place. I reckon they had an idea he cached the money
near home. He’s back again now, and he’s the only one who knows where it
is.”
“I suppose the sheriff is keepin’ a watch on Ayres, eh?”
“He’d have a swell chance, Hartley,” Breezy said.
“Yeah, that’s true. Not a chance in a million.”
“And Charley Prentice drank himself out of a job since Len came back.
Hardly ever took a drink before. Now he’s lost his job,” the deputy
added.
“Scared that Ayres might kill him for what he done?”
“Looks thataway. Took to booze like a calf to milk. Makes it tough on
the kid. But at that, I’ll betcha the kid would quit Prentice any time
to go with Len.”
Hashknife nodded. “And you say that Amos Baggs was the prosecutor who
sent Ayres to the pen?”
“Shore was.”
“Who was the sheriff--the same one you work for?”
“No-o-o. Harry Cole was sheriff then. He owns the Oasis Saloon and
Gamblin’ Palace. His term ran out the followin’ year after Len went over
the road.”
“Uh-huh. And Prentice was cashier of the bank when Len Ayres robbed it,
eh?”
“Y’betcha. And then he turned around and married the wife of the man who
robbed him. Kinda funny, eh?”
“Funny to us, I suppose,” said Hashknife slowly. “Fate is a queer
thing.”
“Are you one of them fellers who believes that everythin’ is cut out for
people?” Breezy asked. “That it don’t make no difference how careful yuh
are, nor how wise yuh are?”
“Somethin’ like that,” nodded the tall cowboy. “There’s a Big Book
somewhere with it all written down. On that book is the things yuh are
to do and how yuh finish. You can’t dodge it, Hill.”
“Yuh mean that yuh can’t help bein’ what yuh are and doin’ what yuh do,
Hartley?”
“You shore can’t.”
“Hm-m-m-m,” thoughtfully. “It seems to me that when yuh feel thataway
about life, yuh can forgive folks for what they do.”
“Why not?”
“Well, that’s kinda human, Hartley. But from what I’ve seen and heard in
my life, yore lodge ain’t got a hell of a big membership. Let’s go over
and meet Ben Dillon. He’s hawg-fat and he ain’t so awful smart, but he’s
human enough and lazy enough to forgive anybody. If you boys are lookin’
for jobs, I’ll see Silver Prescott for yuh. He owns the JP outfit, and
he’s a good man.
“And there’s Oscar Knight’s OK outfit. He don’t use so many men as
Silver Jim does, but he’s plumb white man. Of course, the Box S is out
of the question, unless Baggs manages to git them two old men fired,
which I hope he don’t. It wouldn’t be the Box S without them two old
terriers. Whisperin’ Taylor does the cookin’, while Sailor Jones cuts
the wood, does the horse wranglin’, and helps with the ridin’. And there
ain’t a minute when they’re together that they don’t quarrel. But lemme
tell yuh this much--don’t pick on one of ’em when the other is in
hearin’ distance.”
Hashknife and Sleepy laughed, as the three walked across the street to
the sheriff’s little office.
Ben Dillon did not prove as communicative as Breezy Hill. While being
good-natured and friendly, Dillon was inclined to be just a little
reserved with strangers. Breezy explained that Hashknife and Sleepy were
looking for jobs with some outfit, which seemed reasonable to the
sheriff.
It was late in the evening when Hashknife and Sleepy got their first
chance to see the notorious Len Ayres. They were in the Oasis Saloon
playing a game of pool when Len came in. Breezy was in the game and
pointed Len out to them as he stopped near the bar, looking the room
over.
Hashknife was more interested in Charley Prentice, although he did not
know who Prentice was. The ex-cashier was standing at the bar where he
had imbibed considerable whisky, and his extreme nervousness had
attracted Hashknife.
His eyes seemed dilated and he continually fussed at his sleeves, rubbed
his chin, and otherwise gave evidence that his nerves were in a bad way.
Hashknife decided that this man was on the verge of delirium tremens,
and would bear watching. His clothes were wrinkled, his collar dirty and
he had not shaved recently. He left the bar and came down toward the
pool table, walking rather unsteadily and acting as though he didn’t
know what to do next. Hashknife was in the act of making a shot, but
lifted his cue and looked at Prentice, who was so close that he
interfered with the cue.
Hashknife was about to speak to him when he noticed that Prentice was
staring at Len Ayres, who was watching a poker game. For the space of
possibly five seconds Prentice looked at Len Ayres, and then, without
any warning, slipped a hand in his coat pocket, quickly drew out a heavy
Colt revolver, snapped back the hammer and pointed the gun at Len’s
back.